Ernest’s performance was excellent – breezy, artfully vague – but watching his face she noticed he was trying too hard to keep it relaxed. There was a beat too long before each answer, the faint gleam of calculation behind the boyish charm.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No idea.’
‘You’re a better liar when you’re in the estate office,’ she said.
‘And you’re less suspicious when you’ve got your nose in antique silver.’
Before she could press him, another voice cut through the hall. ‘What’s this Hamish tells me about a strongbox, eh?’ cried Hugo. ‘Let’s get the damn thing open.’ He swept in beside Hamish,Marmalade trailing behind, ears perked at the excitement. Hugo moved with his usual mix of dishevelled charm and theatrical timing – like an actor arriving late to his cue but determined to steal the scene anyway. His jacket collar was creased, his cravat unwinding, but for once his words were welcome.
‘I can’t find the key. But in any case, I thought it might fetch more if the contents are unknown,’ said Ernest.
‘A locked box? Don’t be absurd.’ Hugo didn’t bother to hide his disdain. ‘Buyers expect heritage, not guesswork. This isn’t some Victorian melodrama.’
‘There’s very little we can do about it.Que será, será,’ said Ernest.
‘Not true,’ said Hamish. ‘If you can’t find the key, I’d like to try and find another way in. Where is this box?’
Ernest looked over at Christina, then back at Hugo, and finally at Hamish. ‘Fine. It’s in the north corridor.’
As Ernest turned and led the way out of the hall, his shoulders just a little too straight, his steps too slow, she felt like he’d been waiting for this. Laying a trail, letting Percy stew, letting her poke. And now – now he could play the reluctant accomplice, dragged along by force.
Because Ernest never left things to chance. There must be something in that strongbox he didn’t want Percy to see but hedidwant the two brothers to see.What? And why now? If the missing tiara or torque reallywereinside, as protected assets, no one could legally sell them – so what was Ernest playing at? She couldn’t see the plan yet – but with Ernest, there was always a plan.
They followed Ernest, Hugo’s brogues striking the flagstones in step with Marmalade’s click clacking paws, while Hamish muttered about Tudor trunks. Christina’s mind whirred imagining what was in the box – she’d never touched a tiara, andshe would love to handle the torque, admire its craftmanship.
The corridor narrowed, the noise of the auction preparations receding as they moved away from the bustle. As they passed the drawing room, Hugo disappeared. Christina glanced at her watch – nearly noon.
The strongbox waited at the end of the north corridor, tucked into a recess in the panelling like it had grown there. Squat, square, and roughly the length of a suitcase, it looked heavy enough to snap a toe. Thick iron bands criss-crossed its darkened timber, each fixed with hand-forged rivets; age had softened the metal to a mottled grey brown. At its centre sat a worn brass escutcheon, its keyhole dark as a staring pupil.
‘Seventeenth century,’ Hamish murmured, crouching beside it. ‘Stuart, I’d say. Look at the ironwork, too uniform to be Tudor, and this style of rivet came in decades later.’ His voice had that familiar note of satisfaction he reserved for being right.
Christina watched him run a fingertip along the nearest iron band, his expression sharpening with curiosity. She knew that look; he wasn’t admiring the strongbox anymore; he was hunting for a way in.
He tested the lock first, gently, almost absently, then shifted his attention to the corners. He pressed along the seams, tapped the sides with his knuckles, pushed against a panel with the heel of his hand.
‘These old smiths loved a secondary catch ...’ he murmured, ‘sometimes a false panel.’
He leaned closer, brushing dust from the lid. Christina saw his posture change to alert, intent. He traced a small irregularity in the wood, pushed, then pulled. Something clicked. Christina jumped, her eyes darting from Hamish – his eyes wide – to Ernest, who didn’t so much as blink.
A sliver of panel slid free beneath Hamish’s thumb.
‘Well, would you look at that,’ said Ernest.
From the narrow cavity, Hamish withdrew a large iron key, worn smooth with centuries of handling.
Ernest took it crouched, slid the key in, and paused. ‘If this explodes, it’s been lovely knowing you all.’
The lock gave with a thick, metallicclunk. A hush fell between them. Even the draught seemed to wait.
Ernest opened the door, and three sets of eyes peered inside.
No silver glint. No glittering tiara.No torque. Just papers. Folders, curled at the edges, parchment browned with time and the scent of mildew. String-tied bundles of correspondence. A couple of account books.
Christina felt a jolt of disappointment. After all the secrecy, the missing key, the hope of hidden treasure ... just paperwork? Why would Ernest lock that away? But the feeling didn’t settle. It changed into curiosity. She stepped closer, reached inside, picking up some papers and scanning the spidery ink. ‘Estate records,’ she muttered. ‘Receipts, legal papers ...’
Ernest fished out a document tied with a thin pink ribbon. Carefully, he unfurled it, giving it the flourish of someone performing a card trick.
‘Ah’ he said lightly. ‘Here’s something interesting. A variation deed, signed by the old matriarch herself.’
