Clemmie swallowed, stealing a glance at Oliver, who nodded encouragingly. She took a deep breath and began to explain, her fingers tracing the edges of the old photographs she had carefully laid out on the polished wooden table. ‘We have evidence that the Earl didn’t simply vanish without a trace. He withdrew from public life entirely, assumed the name Arthur Rose, and settled down somewhere far from the prying eyes of society– Puffin Island, in fact. Arthur Rose was my great-great-grandfather.’
Bunny sat back in her chair, her fingers interlaced as she absorbed Clemmie’s words. A flicker of something, perhaps recognition or unease, passed across her face before she shared the next bit of information. ‘Étienne was a distant cousin of mine by marriage,’ she admitted, ‘and I grew up hearing the rumours around the Earl’s disappearance.’
Clemmie tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. ‘What kind of rumours?’
Bunny exhaled, as if bracing herself. ‘You have to understand, these stories have been passed down through generations. No one really knows what’s true and what’s simply embellishment. But from what I heard, the Earl lived by the coast for some time. Some even claimed he worked on a cruise ship, though that could just be whispers distorted over the years. People love a mystery, don’t they?’ She gave a small, knowing smile before continuing. ‘But there was always something about the way his name would come up in hushed tones, especially among those who had connections to the royal staff. It was asthough those who knew anything concrete didn’t dare say it outright.’
Clemmie exchanged a glance with Oliver, then reached for another photograph. ‘Look at this,’ she said, sliding it towards Bunny. ‘This is a photograph of him with Beatrice. And this one’—she placed a second image beside the first—‘is of him with Étienne. There’s no mistaking it. The Earl and Arthur Rose were the same person.’
Bunny studied the images, nodding slowly. ‘That does seem clear,’ she murmured. ‘But what else do you have?’
Clemmie hesitated for a fraction of a second before reaching into her bag and pulling out a battered old recipe book. ‘This,’ she said, flipping open to a specific page, ‘has a number written in it: 1705. The same number is sewn into an apron we found, and etched on the wardrobe door at Royalwood Cottage. But, to our knowledge, Beatrice had never been there. And yet…’
Bunny’s brow furrowed.
‘There were a number of letters, too, and one of them suggested that the Earl and my great-great-grandmother both had secrets.’
‘Interesting,’ replied Bunny.
‘Then there’s this, too.’ Clemmie retrieved another photograph from her collection and placed it before Bunny. ‘This is a picture of the kitchen on the Royal Yacht that was left untouched following Étienne’s death.’
Bunny picked up the photograph and studied it closely. ‘Now that is interesting,’ she said, tapping the image with her index finger. ‘Did Beatrice ever work on the Royal Yacht?’
Clemmie shook her head. ‘Not that we know of. Why?’
Bunny leaned back, a twinkle of intrigue in her eyes. ‘You see the recipe cabinets,’ she said, pointing to them in the photo. ‘The rumours I’ve heard suggest that these compartments were used to pass secret messages between the staff. Not recipes– notes.Love notes. Many an affair was conducted onboard back in the day.’
Oliver let out a low whistle. ‘Does that change anything?’
‘It does indeed,’ Bunny agreed. ‘Now, what was the number you found again?’
‘1705,’ Clemmie replied.
Bunny’s expression sharpened. Without hesitation, she pulled out her phone and dialled a number. A moment later, someone answered Bunny’s call. ‘Wilf, it’s me,’ she said without preamble. ‘Go to the drawing room and check the family tree chart,’ she instructed.
Clemmie exchanged a curious glance with Oliver, mouthing, ‘Who’s Wilf?’
Oliver whispered, ‘My grandfather.’
Bunny continued speaking into the phone. ‘I need you to check something for me. Étienne Dupont, his date of birth. Can you confirm it?’
There was a brief pause and then Bunny looked very pleased with herself. ‘I knew it,’ she murmured. ‘Seventeenth of May.’ She hung up the phone and turned back to Clemmie and Oliver. ‘My gut instinct was right. That number– 1705– is Étienne’s birthday.’
Clemmie’s mouth fell open. ‘Then that means…’
Bunny picked up the photograph of the royal compartment in the kitchen of the Royal Yacht. ‘My guess? One of those boxes holds all the answers,’ she said confidently. ‘And the combination to open it is 1705.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
As Clemmie and Oliver sped away from the grand hotel, there was non-stop chatter about the possibilities of what they were going to find.
‘Even if the Royal Yacht is still there, how exactly do we get on board?’
Without taking his eyes off the road, Oliver gave her a smile. ‘I’ve got that covered.’ As they approached the causeway leading to the island, he dialled a number, adopting a polished yet urgent tone. ‘Yes, hello, this is Oliver Lockwood, I believe I may have dropped a rather sentimental cufflink during my last visit aboard the yacht… Yes, quite, a family heirloom. Any chance I could come aboard for a quick look?’ There was a pause, then a polite but hesitant response on the other end. Oliver leaned into his charm. ‘I’d be ever so grateful. Wouldn’t want to trouble anyone, of course, but perhaps just a quick check? Your officer on duty could assist?’ There was another pause before Oliver ended the call with a satisfied nod. ‘We’re in,’ he said, throwing Clemmie a triumphant glance. ‘Now let’s just hope they don’t ask too many questions.’
When they arrived back on Puffin Island, they headed straight for Blue Water Bay and parked the car. ‘I’m actually shaking.’ Clemmie held out her hand to demonstrate.
‘My heart is beating fast. Are you ready?’
