Christina moved closer, peering over his shoulder:
Deed of Variation of the Family Trust – Schedule of Residual Chattels.
Her eye snagged on a line halfway down the page.
... including the loving cup (formerly listed under Protected Artefacts), henceforth to be treated as part of residual chattels, free of restriction or limitation.
Hamish stepped forward, took the page and read it. He looked up. ‘But ... Ma adores that cup. Always said it reminded her ofher father. Why on earth would she take it off the protected asset list?’
Christina winced; Hamish was asking the wrong question. He should be demanding to know why the loving cup was on the protected asset list to start with, not why his mother had removed it.
Ernest shrugged, the very image of harmless confusion. ‘People change their minds. Maybe she thought it was time to let it go.’ He took the document from Hamish, flipping it over, and tapping the ribbon. ‘Might want to mention this deed to Percy, eh? Bit of housekeeping. I’ll show it to Tim Hartwell, too.’
Guilt pricked Christina as understanding dawned. She had misjudged Ernest – he was acting in the family’s best interests after all. He’d put Flora in the home so that she couldn’t cling to the cup sentimentally, destroying the family’s best chance of solving their finance problems. That was why he’d tucked this deed of variation away until the decision was safely out of her hands. The theatrics around the key didn’t fool Christina. He just needed to draw the sons’ attention to the deed, so they’d consider selling the cup. He was protecting them all, making the hard choices no one else could make. Now the cup could be sold and the Pemberton fortune restored.
Hamish spoke. ‘Still seems odd about the cup. But if it’s all legal ...’
Hugo wandered in, holding a tumbler of something amber, and leaned in just in time to catch the end of the conversation.
‘What cup?’ he demanded.
‘The loving cup,’ Hamish said. ‘Apparently Ma removed it from the protected asset list.’
Hugo frowned. ‘Rubbish. That was the only bloody thing she ever made me promise not to drop.’ Hamish proffered the deed at him. ‘Well, bugger me,’ said Hugo, downing the last of his drink. ‘I’ll be sad to see it go. If we’re really selling off Ma’sspecial cup I need a decent snifter before noon.’
He turned and sauntered off down the corridor, whistling a warbly version of ‘Rule Britannia’.
Hamish passed the document to Christina; the document which could solve all the family’s problems, but only at the cost of removing a valuable and beautiful family heirloom. She reread the precise legal phrasing, gazed at Lady Flora’s swirling signature. Ernest reached out for the deed, asking casually, ‘Everything look all right?’
Everything looked perfect. But that’s what bothered her. Was ittooperfect?
Christina stood motionless, watching Ernest slide the deed back into the strongbox and lower the lid with deliberate care. He turned the key in the lock, one clean, final click that seemed to settle the air in the corridor. Without a word, he slipped the key into the pocket of his Barbour jacket, the gesture smooth and practised, as though its rightful place had always been with him rather than hidden in the box.
Could the deed be a forgery? And if it was, why?
Twenty-eight
Christina pushed open the door of the Smuggler’s Inn, letting in a wash of light and a gust of chilly sea air. The place was nearly empty, unsurprising for five o’clockon a Monday – just a handful of villagers, and Rose behind the bar, polishing a row of glasses with a tea towel.
‘Alright, love,’ Rose called out in her unmistakable south London rasp.
‘Fine thanks,’ Christina said, smoothing her wind-tousled hair and walking through to the back room, her thoughts in a tumult. Ernest had asked to meet; she guessed he would want to discuss the loving cup – how to maximise its value. She’d done her research, had figures, options. He’d be pleased with her. And then – then she could get him to promise to forget all about ‘the Great Matter’.
That variation deed niggled at her mind. Could it be a forgery? Should she confront him. No. Even if it was forged, his motive was honest: sell the cup, restore the family finances, bring Lady Flora back to her own home, where she belonged. Best not to rock the boat.
Ernest sat framed by a latticed window behind him. The light caught the sharp edges of his face, made sharper still by the steel beneath his charm. His clothes suggested deliberate care – not too polished, not too casual – but the way he swirled his glass of malt whisky said this was no social meeting.
‘Christina,’ he said, without standing. ‘Good of you to spare the time. You look windblown and wonderful.’
Rose set down a glass of white wine. ‘Your usual.’
Christina thanked her and picked it up, watching Ernest over the rim of her glass. She waited until they were alone again.
‘I’ve been doing some research ...’
‘I want the cup back in the Manor.’
She blinked. ‘What’s the hurry?’
