A fierce spark of hope flared in Christina’s mind. ‘Then you can tell Percy! You can say you didn’t sign the trust variation—’
But Flora’s eyes had already gone glassy. Her focus drifted towards the garden; her lips parted in a faraway smile. Christina’s heart stuttered.Not now, please don’t leave me now, Flora, just a few more minutes.She rose and crossed to the older woman.
Flora blinked, then patted Christina’s hand gently. ‘I’m sorry if I was unkind. All those years. You weren’t what I had hoped for him. But you ... you were what he needed.’
Christina could hardly breathe. She filed away the apology –the first she could remember from those haughty lips – but the truth, so close, had slipped away again.
‘Flora, please – did you sign the deed or not?’
A knock on the door punctuated their conversation. ‘Come in,’ said Flora imperiously.
Lou bustled in, carrying a small plastic tray. ‘Time for your tablets Flora.’
Flora pursed her lips, making Christina wonder if the matriarch was about to correct Lou for her informality.
‘Flora, did you sign the—’
‘You’ll have to speak to Percy about signatures,’ Flora said brightly, wafting a hand at Christina as if dismissing her. ‘Where’s my tea, I can’t be expected to manage without morning tea. And I don’t want it in that horrid pea-green china.’
Lou put her tray down on Flora’s flower arranging table, chatting away about the weather, and what was on the lunch menu.
For a moment, Christina sat processing what had just happened. Flora had known about her father. The knowledge should have been devastating, but it felt oddly liberating – like finally setting down a weight she’d been carrying for decades. More puzzling was Flora’s insistence that she had known the cup was valuable – she’d seemed genuinely lucid when she’d said it, before that strange moment when her eyes had gone distant and lost their focus and then the nurse had come in.
Christina pushed the thought away rose and gave Flora’s hand a grateful squeeze before leaving. She’d achieved what she’d come for even if that had landed on confused ears. Walking to her car, she reflected on Flora’s mumbled apology; however fleeting, that had been more than she’d ever expected to receive. She slid into the driver’s seat, pulled out her phone and dialled Percy.
‘Percy? Hi. It’s Christina. Can we meet?’
‘My office. Five o’clock?’
‘Yes, to the time, but I think I need a drink. Could we meet in the pub?’
She hung up, started the car, and headed for Brambleton.
Thirty-five
The door swung shut behind Christina, sealing her into the warmth and bustle of the Smuggler’s Inn. Despite the late afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows, candles flickered in storm jars on each table, and soft jazz played beneath the clink of glasses.
Christina smiled at a few acquaintances, her pulse surging as she wondered what Brambleton would make of her secret once the gossip mongers got hold of it. The thought made herwant to give them something worth talking about.
Behind the bar, Rose bustled about serving pints, but waved, ‘Your man’s in the corner,’ she called out cheerfully.
She found Percy near the bare fireplace. His pint sat half-finished, a neat leather folder beside it like a weapon waiting to be drawn. She hoped it contained the expert’s report. She would enjoy delivering that to Ernest – maybe on a silver salver. Gentlemanly as ever, Percy stood when she approached, ‘Christina,’ he said warmly. ‘Can I get you something? White wine? Gin and tonic?’
‘It’s Tina,’ she said firmly, surprising herself. ‘And I’d prefer a half of bitter, please.’
Percy’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he set down his drink and wandered off to the bar. When he returned with her drink and settled back into his seat, she scanned his expression. Calm, expectant, unreadable.
‘I don’t have good news for you,’ he said.
She let out a shaky breath. ‘Tell me?’
‘There’s been a delay. The handwriting expert’s gone down with norovirus, hasn’t been able to start work yet.’
Christina wrapped her hands around the glass of bitter, dark as treacle, its foam already settling, feeling its coolness seep into her palms. ‘Then we find someone else. Tonight.’ Her voice sharpened, cutting through the pub’s comfortable murmur. A couple at the next table glanced over. ‘We can’t afford to wait. What about Exeter University? They have an art history department? Or Bristol. There must be someone else. There’s still time.’
Percy leaned back, stroking his neat beard, reassessing her. ‘Perhaps. But it might be an idea to give me the cup, just in case?’ He lifted his glass, then added, ‘I can put it in our vault. Possession as they say ...’
Damn, why hadn’t she thought of that? She shook her head. ‘No can do. Hartwells have it now, with instructions to include it in the sale.’
