Amy.
‘I’m telling you, I heard something, Hugo,’ Amy hissed, her voice wound tight. ‘Like a ... like a click. Or something brushing the wall. I’m going to turn on the light.’
A grunt. Then the telltale clink of ice against glass.
‘Oh, leave it,’ Hugo slurred. ‘That’ll wake Ernest, and you know how he gets if he doesn’t get his eight hours. If someone’s broken in, they won’t be skulking around the bloody servants’ hall.’
Christina stayed perfectly still, the thump of her pulse loud inher ears.
‘I’msureI heard something,’ Amy repeated.
A hiccup from Hugo – and then padding footsteps of a different kind. Slower. Softer. Four-legged.
Marmalade.
The dog shuffled into view, tail wagging in a lazy half-arc, nails clicking against the flagstones. He paused, nose in the air, then gave a curious sniff. He sniffed again. His ears perked slightly. He knew she was there. Oh God.
He ambled over, tail thudding gently against the wall, and sat – right in front of her, panting. In the darkness she could just make out his cloudy eyes looking up as if to sayhello, old friend. Then he dropped his muzzle and gave one of her boots a perfunctory lick.
Christina shut her eyes.
‘Marmalade?’ Amy called, footsteps halting. ‘Where have you gone?’
The dog wagged harder, and Christina gritted her teeth.Please, just go.She tried nudging him away with a foot, her heart pounding, but he sagged against her then rolled onto his back, feet aloft, as if waiting for her to scratch his tummy.
‘Marmalade ... I tell you, Hugo, he’s found someone.’
‘He’s probably smelled a mouse,’ Hugo muttered. ‘He’d bark if there was a stranger. Come on old boy, let’s go.’
Christina let her breath out gently as Marmalade rolled over, staggered to his feet, gave a long, theatrical yawn, and shuffled off down the corridor – tail still wagging – as if nothing at all was amiss.
Amy huffed. ‘He’s too old to be wandering around at night.’
‘So am I,’ Hugo replied. Ice clinked against the glass. ‘Let’s go. There’s nothing there.’
Their steps faded. The door closed.
Silence fell again.
Christina waited. She counted to thirty. Then rose slowly and crept back down the corridor. She gently shut the lid of the box and closed the padlock as softly as she could before retracing her steps, ears straining for any sound, and replacing the key in Ernest’s coat. At the back door, she paused again, ears cocked, before slipping outside, her heart beating fast against her ribcage.
The wind caught the edge of her coat ripping it open.She clutched it shut and jogged back down the slope, boots soft in the wet grass. Her breath fogged in the chilly air, the sea became louder, roiling in the distance.
Christina slid behind the wheel of the car and gently inched the door towards her, until the latch caught with a muted click. For a moment, she stayed still, breath shallow in her throat. Then, finally, she turned the key and eased the car forward, hands steadying on the wheel, as the driveway curved away from the house. In the rearview mirror, the Manor was already vanishing behind a veil of mist.
When it disappeared, she pulled over and cut the engine.
Her breath came out in a long stuttering gasp, and she realised how tightly she’d been holding herself.
She snapped on the overhead light – bright and harsh against the dark that had filled the car just moments earlier – and laid the document flat across her lap. She pulled a loupe from her pocket and looked closely. The signature –Flora Pemberton– didn’t look quite right. TheFand thePwere too narrow. They lacked the practiced flourish Flora always used, the sweeping top curves. This version was stiff.
Christina sat back, lowering the loupe, and read the prose.
“I, Flora Pemberton, confirm that the cup known as the Loving Cup has remained in my personal custody since 1993 ...”
Of course it read well. That was Ernest’s strength. Not thesignature – never that. But the words. The performance. The illusion of authenticity.
She remembered one of her first ‘Ernest commissions’, two years ago, a silver coffee pot ‘by’ Hester Bateman. She’d spent three nights hand-etching the fake maker’s mark, referencing photographs from her books, trying to replicate the slight irregularities that might have developed over 250 years of wear and polishing. Her fingers had ached for days afterward. But the result had been seamless.
