‘What do you want to do ... go and fetch her?’
He ran his hand through his curls. ‘No. Not yet. I’ve been doing some research. Apparently, with dementia it’s better not to interfere with routines. I’ll find out where she is and visit her on my way to and from university. But after the auction, once we’ve got the funds, I’m going to insist she comes home, and we hire a private nurse.’
‘Let me know where Flora is staying ... so I can visit too.’
A flicker of worry crossed her face; she couldn’t shake the knowledge of the loving cup from her mind – Ernest’s plan for Flora seemed to connect to the auction in some way, but she couldn’t figure out how. Her expression seemed to reach him.
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ he asked, his voice lower now. ‘What else happened yesterday?’
She hesitated. Could she confide in Hamish? He had all the skills she needed – the academic connections, the scholarly reputation, the ability to authenticate historical pieces without raising suspicion. And, just now, she had glimpsed once more the man she fell in love with – protective, instinctively loyal. But then again, his mind was a fortress of historical integrity, complete with moral battlements she could never breach. She baulked at the thought of involving him in her plan. She tested the water. ‘You know that loving cup of your mother’s?’
‘Of course. It’s always been her favourite piece. She used to tell me stories about it when I was Elspeth’s age – claimed it had been in the family for centuries.’ He looked at her, his eyebrows tightening. ‘Ernest isn’t planning to include it in the auction, is he?’
‘The thing is, he asked me to restore it, and I’ve been examining it. I think it might be quite valuable. Historically significant,even.’
‘How historically significant?’ The question was casual, but she caught the sharpened interest in his voice and loved him for it. Most people would have asked how valuable the cup was.
She hesitated. If she told the truth, she risked triggering Ernest’s revenge. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she hedged. ‘The craftsmanship is exceptional. The maker’s mark suggests it could be quite special.’
‘Well, that’s easily sorted.’ Hamish’s academic instincts kicked in with characteristic efficiency. ‘Ask the auctioneers. Hartwell & Sons might not be Sotheby’s, but they’ll know enough to spot anything significant.’
Christina’s heart started racing. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not? If it’s important, surely, we should know?’
Her mind buzzed with all her reasons. Because if they confirm it’s a de Lamerie, they’ll examine all the silver closely. Because I’ve spent two years helping Ernest and Frank systematically defraud innocent people under the guise of ‘saving the family’ and I can’t bear to see the look in your eyes when you find out.
‘I just think ...’ she began, then stopped as her phone rang with blessed interruption.
‘Percyhere,’ came the familiar voice of the family solicitor, crisp with professional urgency. ‘I can’t reach Hamish or Hugo. Do you know where either of them are?’
‘Hamish is with me,’ she looked across at her husband.
‘I need to see one of them rather urgently.’
‘Need’, not ‘want’, and Percy never called at the weekend unless something was seriously wrong – or seriously important. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Are you free this afternoon?’
Over Elspeth’s head, Christina met Hamish’s eyes.
‘We’re out on a family walk,’ she said. ‘We could meet you afterwe drop Elspeth at drama rehearsal. Say five o’clock?’
‘Perfect. I’ll meet you in the Smuggler’s Inn.And Christina?’ Percy’s voice carried an odd note she couldn’t quite identify. ‘Don’t tell Ernest I’ve called.’
The line went dead, leaving Christina staring at her phone with a growing sense of dread. Around them, the April afternoon continued its gentle perfection –water trickling over stones, the sun gilding the path, and the warm air rich with the scent of spring flowers. Somewhere in the hedgerow, a breeze stirred the new leaves. Yet on her tongue lingered a bitter tang, the fear of a crisis drawing near.
Hamish’s historian’s eye for detail clearly caught her expression. ‘Everything all right?’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she lied, pocketing the phone and forcing a smile. ‘Just Percy being mysterious. Shall we head back? Elspeth needs to get ready for rehearsal.’
As they turned, Christina catalogued this moment – Hamish’s hand touching her shoulder, Elspeth racing ahead with her arms outstretched like an airplane, the sun turning everything golden. For the first time in weeks, she’d felt like they might actually make it through this. Like there might be a way back to being a proper family again.
But Percy’s urgent tone echoed in her ears, and beneath it all, the loving cup called to her from its hiding place in her workshop. A masterpiece worth millions.She heard Hamish laugh at something Elspeth had shouted back to them, and felt her heart break a little. It was such a rare, unguarded moment – him laughing, their daughter carefree, the three of them almost whole again. But even as it unfolded, she could feel its fragility. Whatever Percy had to tell them, whatever Ernest planned to do with the cup, this perfect moment was already cracking.
The Smuggler’s Inn crouched at the edge of Brambleton’s sandyshore like an old sailor nursing a secret.
Inside, the pub smelled of beer and wood smoke, and the wooden beams hummed with centuries of gossip.
