Christina eased the car onto the sweeping drive, flanked on either side by an avenue of ancient horse chestnuts. Hamish was at an off-site and was staying overnight. Elspeth was tucked up at school. The stars had aligned.
The tarmac glistened faintly with moisture. She took the first bend too fast – out of habit, not recklessness – the tyres sliding on the wet surface before she steadied them, her breath tight in her throat. A pair of deer – startled by her approach – froze at the treeline, then bounded soundlessly into shadows. The dark windows and steep gables of Brambleton Manor loomed ahead, silhouetted against the silvered night like a stately beast crouched on the crest of the hill.
She slowed the car. She could just make out the sheen of the lake below the hill, still and black, the water reflecting the moonlike a shard of polished steel.
Christina switched off the headlights and let the car roll to a hush. The engine ticked as it cooled. She scanned the house searching for fingers of light peeping out from the cracks in the shutters. Nothing. Good. She stepped out into the night, her boots slapping loudly against the damp tarmac before muffling in the grass. She had twisted her hair into a knot beneath a black beanie hat, and wore dark jeans, a thick navy jumper, and her old, waxed jacket – familiar armour that smelled of bonfire smoke and winter walks. The air was cool and alive with scent: cut grass mixed with the sharp greenness of nettles.
Her heart thudded – not from fear, but from something more coiled. Contained. A heat that had been simmering under the surface for too long. She wouldn’t flinch – not at the thought of Ernest’s voice, nor at Frank’s warnings; she wouldn’t let them manipulate her anymore.
The house towered ahead – its windows blank, its walls partially smothered by Virginia creeper like a haphazardly thrown rug. She shifted the canvas bag on her shoulder and moved around the side, past the wild tangle of rhododendrons, their leaves slick and leathery against her arm as she pushed through.
Ki-kok.
Her heart stopped, and then she jumped as a startled pheasant clattered from a tree branch where it had been roosting, flapping off into the night.
The back of the house looked so different to the elegant facade at the front. Weeds poked up through gaps in the pathway, gutters sagged, a drainpipe sat at an angle. The door was small, and dark with age, its rusted lock shadowy in the dim light.
She paused, crouched in the moon-shadow of the house, her breath sounding loud against the silence. Christina lifted the back door mat. No key. Damn. There must be one somewhere.
Where would Hugo keep a spare key? He was careless and lazy, but sentimental in small, stubborn ways; he clung to his odd little rituals and revelled in family heirlooms.
She started with the stone lion head by the steps, scrapping off the slick green fur of moss between the ears, her fingernails rasping over stone in the hope of metal. Nothing.
She tried underneath a rock that had slipped from the drystone wall – just damp grit beneath stone, then the old, rusted boot scraper, clawing through packed, sour-smelling mud. Still nothing.
Damn. Damn.Damn.
She paused, thinking. Her gaze drifted to the old lead water butt. She stepped closer, squatted, and slid her hand down the slimy, cold gap between metal and the wall.
Her fingertips struck something small, hard and cold.
Bless you, Hugo, she thought, a breath of relief lifting her chest.
She eased the key into the lock. The mechanism groaned in protest but turned. The door creaked open an inch – then another.
Cool air spilled out like secrets finally told.
Inside, the darkness was absolute. Christina shut the door behind her, wincing at the clicking noise, which sounded as loud as a drumbeat, then blinked rapidly, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
Hands outstretched, she felt her way along the wall until her fingers found the edge of the boot room door. She slipped inside, the familiar, slightly sweet smell of damp coats and wet dog towels greeting her. For a moment she stood still, pulse thudding, listening for any sound in the corridor.
Then she moved to the row of jackets. Ernest’s Barbour hung where it always did, on the last hook. Christina patted the pockets, first one, then the other, breath snagging in her throat. She felt something firm and slipped her hand inside.
Her fingers closed around something long and cold. A key.
She drew it out slowly, the faintest sliver of moonlight from the tiny window catching the metal. Only then did she realise she’d been holding her breath.
She stepped back outside, tiptoed her way to the north corridor and crept forward, slow and steady. Then her foot touched something on the floor, squat, and dark. The strongbox. Christina dropped to her knees and turned the key in the lock. The ‘click’ wasn’t loud, but to her ears it felt like a gunshot in the silence. She paused, but no sound came from beyond any of the closed doors in the corridor.
Her hand hovered over the piles of paper. Then she saw it in the gloom. A single sheet of thick cream paper.
Deed of Variation of the Family Trust – Schedule of Residual Chattels
This was it. The document that removed the loving cup from legal protection and placed it into Ernest’s grubby claws. She slipped it into her bag and reached to close the strongbox.
Then, she heard footsteps.
Christina stood and pressed herself flat against the wall, barely breathing. The corridor stretched ahead, unfamiliar in the dim light. A door creaked open at the far end, and an expensive floral scent filled the corridor.
