Hamish stared at the fire with the distant look of a don lost in some historical riddle. ‘You know,’ he murmured, ‘strongboxes like that were often built with inner compartments. False bottoms, hidden latches. Some Tudor examples even had poison pins – delightful bit of craftsmanship.’
Hope flared in Christina’s chest. ‘So, you’re saying, if it’s Tudor, there might be another way in?’
Hamish took a pull of his beer. ‘There just might, yes.’
‘We’ll drop by in the morning,’ she said. ‘Ernest must have the key ...’
‘In which case I will force him to open that box,’ interjected Hamish. ‘Or if he’s still “searching” for the key, I’ll try and break in.’
Christina met Hamish’s eyes. The look they shared belonged to another time – one where glances formed plans and fear never followed. She held it,unflinching.
Twenty-seven
Standing in the Manor’s entrance porch, Christina knelt to pinch a few weeds from the terracotta pots of tulips, their April colour flaring in the cool Devon light. She breathed in the damp, green scent rising from the borders she’d fussed over for nearly a decade, finally waking after their winter sleep. Beyond the porch, the south lawn unfurled in deliberate stripes, the first primroses flickering at its edges like tiny lanterns.
Out on the grass, a marquee billowed in the breeze, its white canvas heaving like a ship’s sail as men wrestled with the guy ropes. Next week, strangers would walk through these rooms and across these lawns, handling objects she’d created, buying histories she’d helped invent.
Christina strolled into the octagonal hall, trailing her hand along a tapestry fraying at the bottom corner. Morning light streamed in through the glazed cupola, illuminating the dust kicked up by the flurry of auction preparations. With the auction less than a week away, Hartwell & Sons were busy. The Manor echoed with the incongruous sounds of money being made on a Sunday: the swish of gloved hands moving paintings, the mutter of valuations, the clatter of ladders being propped against walls, the sharp cries of ‘careful with that!’
‘Morning, Christina.’
Tim approached, with the effortless poise of someone who knew precisely how well he wore his clothes. All crisp lines andsharp cheekbones, his jacket casually draped over one shoulder, a clipboard in hand as if he were born to organise things. His smile lingered a touch too long to be entirely innocent. ‘Good to see you again,’ he drawled. ‘I missed you at the champagne preview last night.’
Christina gave him a half-smile, already regretting the way she’d responded to his charm on Friday; it had been so refreshing to have someone notice her after those long three weeks without Hamish. But Hamish was home now, and she was determined to get their marriage back on track. Last night, while he collected Elspeth from Lady Penelope’s, she had roasted a chicken, and after dinner the family played Monopoly, tacitly choreographed to allow Elspeth to win. For the first time in three weeks, Christina had tucked her daughter in to bed and gone to sleep with both daughter and husband in the same house, albeit Hamish was in a different room. Elspeth hadn’t gone to bed until ten – by which point Hamish was already yawning – delaying the conversation her parents needed to have. Baby steps, she told herself, but at least in the right direction. This morning, Elspeth was at another drama rehearsal, but this afternoon the family would be reunited.
She blushed. ‘Have you met my husband? Lady Flora’s second son, Hamish ... Hamish this is Tim, he’s in charge of this little circus.’ She said it with a touch too much brightness.
Hamish blinked like a man roused from footnotes. ‘Hm? What’s that?’
Tim straightened. Just a touch. ‘Pleasure to meet you, sir.’
Hamish gave him a polite smile. ‘Yes, yes. Fine morning, isn’t it? You know, this hall was remodelled in 1789. Original floor tiles. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in the library.’
Tim gave Christina a quizzical look, and she offered him a shrug and a small smile that said,that’s my Hamish.Tim strode away.
A moment later, Ernest arrived, greeting her with a grin.
‘Our friends from Harrogate arealready twitchy, convinced I’ll muddle the Meissen with the Wedgwood. Can’t have the jumped-up Glaswegian lowering the tone of the heirlooms.’
‘You’ve done worse,’ she said, dryly.
He tapped his nose. ‘Allegedly.’
She watched him for a moment, trying to decide how direct to be. Then she said crisply, ‘Yesterday we met Percy for a drink, and he mentioned a strongbox with no key.’
Ernest tilted his head. ‘Did he now?’ He spread his hands and laughed, low and dismissive. ‘Lawyers, eh?’
She took a step closer. ‘Ernest. What’s in the box?’
He grinned. ‘A few cobwebs, I should think.’
‘Percy’s worried it might contain protected assets.’
At that, Ernest’s smile cooled. ‘Percy’s a lawyer. They worry for a living.’
‘He told us you are thinking of including it as a late addition. Where’s the key?’
The room bustled around them – the low rumble of voices, footsteps echoing off tiles, the occasional clang of something metal against the stone floor. But between the two of them, a small silence fell.
