And she did. But not today. Not just before he went away. Not after last time.
Once he was gone, the silence pressed in. The workshop was warm, but her tea had gone cold. She pushed it aside and stared at the silver box in front of her. One more hallmark.
But her mind wasn’t on work anymore. She had a clock ticking in her ears – five days to the auction. Five days to stop Ernest slipping the cup into the auction and buying it for himself at a knockdown price. She needed proof he had forged that trust variation deed. How could she get that?
Twenty-nine
After a quiet meal, Christina curled up in an armchair, her feet propped on a stool, a mug of cocoa warming her hands. Cinnamon clung to the steam. From the kitchen, the scent of scrambled eggs still lingered. The fire had faded to a low orange glow, shadows wavering over a stack of history books. Outside, wind rasped in the hedgerow and the sea hissed in the distance.
Hamish’s words still played in her head – all that calm, infuriating advice about taking action. While eating supper, she’d concluded that he meant she should confronthim, push harder if she wanted Chase Lodge.
Her gaze drifted to the photo of the Lodge, propped against a stack of books. It looked like a second chance. She could just about see it with a new roof and lime-washed walls, Elspeth’s laughter drifting down the stairs. Hamish grumbling at manuscripts while the kettle boiled. She could always grow flowers in pots, position them where the trees didn’t block the light.
But no – that didn’t fit. He’d been clear: he didn’t want to move house, not unless it would make her happy. So, what was he really saying?
She stared into the fire, cocoa cooling in her hands. Was he telling her to confront Ernest? Should she tackle him about the deed – prove it was a fake and not just let it pass, like she so often did when things got difficult?
She took a sip and let the thought distil.
Then she heard a soft sound. Too soft. A mutedclick, or was it the wind?
Christina pushed herself upright.
Another sound – like wood straining, floorboards settling, or ... she froze, her ears straining.
There. A faint scuff on gravel, just outside the window. Someone was outside. Christina reached into her back pocket for her phone, scrabbled, clawed, but it wasn’t there. It must be in the shed.
The fire gave a hiss, flaring briefly.
Christina stood, setting her cocoa down, her heart thumping. She dashed to the fire and picked up the poker, raising it upright like a samurai warrior.
A shadow moved beyond the curtain. Then, an unmistakable sound – the softthockof something metallic sliding free.
The inner door opened. Her hands tightened round the poker.
‘Don’t scream,’ said a voice, gruff and familiar, low as a growl. ‘Wouldn’t do either of us any good.’
Frank. Ernest’s pitbull. He stepped inside as if invited, his coat damp, his face expressionless, as if carved from granite.
‘How–’ Christina’s voice faltered, but she didn’t loosen her grip on the poker.
Frank glanced at the door. ‘Spare key under the goose in the herb bed. You lot always think it’s clever. It isn’t.’
Christina took a step back. ‘You’re breaking in now, are you?’
‘Just popping by,’ Frank said, giving the room a once over like he’d never stopped his day job. ‘Nice wee place. You can put that down; I’m not here to cause trouble.’
She relaxed her grip, letting the poker fall to one side. ‘What do you want?’
He tilted his head. ‘You know what I want.’
Her heart pounding, she took a step backwards, feeling the heatof the fire against her legs.
‘The loving cup,’ he said.
‘Ernest already has it.’
‘Try again.’ he said smiling.
