Читать книгу: «Rubies in the Roses»

Chapter One

‘Did we already catalogue this stack or didn’t we?’ Guinevere Evans scrunched up her face, studying the faded titles on the leather bands. The pile of books was on the floor, leaning against the leg of an old oak table. She sat beside it on her haunches, trying to remember whether she had held these books in her hands before the weekend.

Her perky dachshund Dolly came to stand by her side and touched the books one by one with her long nose as if to help her decide.

Somewhere over their heads a baritone voice said, ‘We can always do them again. New week, new try.’

Guinevere shook her head to herself. She liked order and consistency; but her employer – Lord Bolingbrooke, master of Cornisea Castle and owner of far too many books that needed cataloguing – liked to tackle the task in his very own way. He took a book down from a shelf, started to leaf through it, found some interesting passage, sank in a chair reading, or unearthed a scruffy notebook and took notes in his illegible spidery handwriting.

What the notes were for Guinevere didn’t know, except that Bolingbrooke planned to write a magnum opus about the castle’s history and he was collecting titbits to work into it.

Had been for many years.

‘Why don’t you put all of those books on the table here and we’ll have a look at them?’ Bolingbrooke suggested cheerfully. His unruly grey hair stood up from raking his fingers through it, and he had rolled up the sleeves of his crumpled blue shirt. He rubbed his hands together as if he couldn’t wait to dig in.

Guinevere shook her head. ‘We’ve already catalogued all the books on the table and I don’t want them to get confused with books that haven’t been done yet.’

Bolingbrooke cleared his throat.

Guinevere rose to her feet. She eyed the elderly gentleman with a suspicious look. He tried to avoid her gaze.

Dolly squeaked as if she wanted to say ‘oh, no!’

Guinevere looked at the table. Were there actually other books there that she didn’t remember? With a frown she picked up a volume with a bright blue cloth cover. ‘Sea monsters off the Cornish coast,’ she read aloud. ‘I haven’t seen this before the weekend.’

‘That might be because I took down some new books this morning.’ Bolingbrooke’s voice was soft as always when he was making an unwelcome statement. He took his time removing an imaginary speck of dust off his light grey trousers. ‘I was up early and saw some very interesting volumes on the top shelf. I put them over there.’ Bolingbrooke broadly indicated half the table’s length.

Guinevere exhaled slowly. ‘So we can start over?’

‘Well, I don’t want to say “start over”. That would be so negative. We did do a lot already.’

Guinevere shook her head while her eyes travelled across all the books. This way they’d be working until Christmas and still wouldn’t have covered even a fraction of what Bolingbrooke owned. Not just here in his library but also in other rooms of the castle where books sat on shelves, in trunks, or on the floor.

‘Hey, what’s that?’ Guinevere reached for a small volume with faded lettering on the leather binding. ‘A Cornish Treasure Island?’

Dolly yapped excitedly as she stood on her hind legs with her front legs against a chair to see better.

Guinevere opened the book and studied the map in the front, which depicted Cornisea marked up with various signs. Off the shore there was supposed to be a sunken pirate ship. On the island itself there was a note marking the whereabouts of a crown worn by one of the unhappy wives of Henry VIII and another note indicating the location of a chest full of gold coins taken from a rich merchant in a highway attack. She whistled. ‘If this is correct, it would be worthwhile to go around with a metal detector.’

‘Lots before you tried.’ Bolingbrooke shrugged. ‘Cornisea’s colourful history has always inspired people to make it the site of some adventure tale or rare object. If you study that book better, you’d learn that the sources for those markings are obscure historians or alleged world travellers like Marco Polo. Whether they ever really set foot here, or wrote up their tales from their comfortable beds at home, is completely unclear. But as long as it involves treasure, people believe it. I thought that if Oliver and you are serious about promoting the castle, you should have a look at it. Even if the actual objects aren’t here, the connections with Henry VIII or other royals might prove to be an attraction.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Guinevere kept her eyes on the volume in her hands, not quite sure what to think of Bolingbrooke’s sudden proposition. Was he being ironic, because he didn’t really believe in the castle’s potential as a tourist attraction?

Or was he rather afraid that their scheme would prove to be so successful that his peace and quiet would be gone for ever?

A bell resounded from downstairs.

Bolingbrooke’s dogs Rufus and Nero sat up in front of the fireplace where they had been snoozing and started to bark. Their deep voices formed a threatening welcoming chorus for the unexpected visitor. People were usually a little taken aback when they realized a mastiff and a Great Dane guarded this ancient keep.

Dolly was the nice little girl in the company, being able to work her way just as easily into people’s hearts as she wormed herself into the castle’s every nook and cranny. But Guinevere knew she was really the boss over the bigger dogs who followed her lead on walks.

‘What’s that?’ Bolingbrooke bellowed. ‘Strangers at the gate? Are you expecting someone, Guinevere?’

‘No, not that I know of.’ A strange excitement coursed through her that it might be one of her friends from the theatre in London. She had worked there as costume designer before she had come here to Cornisea, for the summer only, as the theatre needed renovations and the cast had been forced to leave behind the place they thought of as home.

‘I’ll have a peek.’ Bolingbrooke hushed the dogs and left the room.

He didn’t have to open the front door himself, because he had a butler for that, a taciturn type named Cador, who could give Guinevere a start when he suddenly came upon her, moving through the castle noiselessly on his rubber soles. He seemed to be everywhere and see everything with his sharp blue eyes. Cador was supposed to politely dismiss unwanted visitors so Bolingbrooke didn’t have to deal with them. His lordship then hid in the landing waiting until the danger was averted.

Grinning to herself, Guinevere walked to the door, still holding the book about treasures in her hand. She could hear Bolingbrooke’s careful footfalls across the creaking floorboards to the head of the stairs. There he seemed to wait, peeking down into the hallway to discern who was calling on him. Soon he’d come galloping back to her and hide in his library, throwing the door shut and claiming he wasn’t at home. There were many people Bolingbrooke didn’t care to see when they came to ask about the castle’s future, about unpaid bills or about donations for charitable projects.

But now she heard a delighted cry, ‘Gregory! Old man.’ And Bolingbrooke’s heavy footfalls beat down the stairs.

Dolly beside Guinevere made a surprised sound. Guinevere said to her, ‘Yes, girl, apparently it’s someone Lord B. does want to see. Let’s have a look for ourselves who it is then.’

She snapped her fingers to tell Dolly to walk by her side instead of rushing ahead, and then she tiptoed to the stairs to look down into the hallway below. If it was an old friend of Bolingbrooke’s, she didn’t want to disturb their reunion.

A short rotund man stood in the middle of the hallway. He had apparently dropped two suitcases to the floor as they stood on either side of him. Bolingbrooke smacked his large hand down on the visitor’s shoulder hard enough to send the short man tottering on his feet.

But despite this rough welcome the visitor’s face was all smiles. ‘Is this a surprise or what?’

‘Indeed.’ Bolingbrooke grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. ‘How long has it been? Twenty years? Man, I wasn’t even sure you were still alive. No, that’s not true, I knew you were, because you wrote up those amusing articles.’

‘Amusing?’ his visitor repeated, his smiling features freezing. Even where Guinevere stood, she could sense indignation quivering through his posture.

‘Yes,’ Bolingbrooke continued unperturbed, laughing deep from his belly, ‘all those ideas about priceless artefacts that are hidden in old abbey ruins or remains of ancient keeps. You do know how to tell a tale.’

‘They’re not tales,’ his visitor said in a cold voice. ‘Those artefacts really exist.’

Guinevere cringed at how Bolingbrooke was antagonizing his guest within minutes of reuniting with him.

But Bolingbrooke didn’t seem to sense the hostile atmosphere and continued seriously, ‘How many have you uncovered?’ He leaned over to his guest as if he wanted to exchange confidentialities with him. ‘How many? Not one, hmmm?’

His guest stood awkwardly, knotting his hands in front of him.

Bolingbrooke said, ‘Look. I understand what you’re trying to do. People love stories about treasures and the mysterious circumstances under which they were buried or got lost. Some knight who won loot in an epic battle and then hid it where his enemies couldn’t find it and who devised a map with clues for his successors to recover it. Only nobody could make sense of his clues again. Until you came along of course.’

His visitor’s round jovial face was tight with tension now. He spoke slowly and meticulously as if he was teaching a class. ‘My line of research is a very serious undertaking. The total value of artefacts that have gone missing through time runs in the billions of pounds. If only a few could be recovered, we would be looking at items that any museum in the world would be desperate to own.’

Bolingbrooke waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I believe you. You’re the expert in this field.’ He looked down on his visitor’s suitcases. ‘I say, you’ve just come back from travels?’

‘No, I’m here to stay with you.’

Bolingbrooke blinked. ‘With me? At Cornisea Castle?’

‘Well, I could find a room with some fisherman at those houses near the harbour.’ The short man gestured behind him with a fleshy hand. ‘But I had hoped for your hospitality.’

‘Of course. There’s always room for you here. But why are you in the region? What legendary item can be hidden around here?’

His visitor blinked at him in bewilderment at his ignorance. ‘The wedding goblet, of course.’

‘The what?’ Bolingbrooke asked.

Guinevere came down two more steps, and the creaking of a board made both men look up to her. Bolingbrooke waved at her to come all the way down. ‘Gregory, this is my new assistant Guinevere Evans. She’s helping me catalogue my book collection.’

Guinevere walked over and held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Gregory Wadencourt. Historian.’

Dolly circled Wadencourt’s feet and sniffed at his shoes and his suitcases. Her tail was trembling as if she detected exciting scents of the place where these well-worn travelling bags had been before. To be honest, Guinevere herself itched to know more about that. And about the alleged priceless artefacts the historian was hunting.

Wadencourt spotted the book in her other hand and hmmm-ed. ‘I see you’re interested in treasures.’

‘Oh, it’s quite a coincidence I’m carrying this with me. We happened to start on a new pile of books this morning, and this was on top of it.’

Wadencourt looked at Bolingbrooke. ‘A coincidence, hmmm?’

Bolingbrooke looked down and fidgeted with his watch’s band.

Guinevere studied him suspiciously. He had just seen some interesting books on the top shelf and taken them down, right? On the very morning his old friend, a treasure hunter, ended up here for a visit!

Wadencourt said, ‘Well, I can’t blame you for looking into it. I mean, you must realize what will happen now? As soon as the word gets out, people will be flocking here to look for it. Your island will be under siege.’

‘My island under siege?’ Bolingbrooke repeated. ‘Why?’

Wadencourt surveyed him. ‘You mean, you don’t know anything about it? I thought that man had been here.’

‘What man?’ Bolingbrooke asked, glancing at Guinevere.

She shrugged to indicate she didn’t know either.

Wadencourt gestured with both hands. ‘The gardening expert of course. Vex. The one who wrote the article.’

‘I don’t know any Vex. And what article?’

‘So Vex hasn’t been here.’ Wadencourt rubbed his chin and peered at Bolingbrooke as if trying to make sense of a conundrum. ‘Or at least he didn’t call on you during his visit. He must have walked about and investigated on his own. Took his photos to illustrate the article. After all, this island is freely accessible to the public. Anyone traipsing down that causeway at low tide can reach it and skulk about. Regrettable really. I wonder …’

Bolingbrooke straightened up. His eyes flashed with impatience and anger. ‘Get to the point, man. What has happened here on my land?’

‘I wonder,’ Wadencourt continued as if he hadn’t heard his host, ‘if we can claim that the photos Vex shot were taken without your permission. Then we might stop him from using them. I doubt it can stop the whole publication, but it might delay it.’

He rubbed his hands together. ‘That would be perfect. You do understand that you need my help?’

At that moment the front door opened, and a young man was propelled through it.

‘Propelled’ was the right description as he didn’t walk on his own two feet but was sort of thrown inside by some invisible force. He stumbled, almost slipped over the carpet, and ended up bumping into Guinevere. He steadied himself with his hands on her shoulders. ‘Excuse me.’

She looked up into two chocolate brown eyes. His suntanned face was sharp-edged and intelligent, crowned by lots of unruly curls. He wore a red polo shirt and neat beige trousers and had a camera around his neck. Not a small one like tourists carried but professional gear with a long lens.

‘Hello there,’ he said to her. ‘Sorry for the odd arrival, but I’m afraid there’s some misunderstanding.’

‘Not at all.’ Oliver’s voice boomed through the hallway. He had come in after the other man, rubbing his hands as if he was satisfied about a chore he had finished. ‘This louche type was trying to peek into windows and take photographs.’

Wadencourt glared at Oliver. ‘That louche type as you call him is my photographer Max DeBurgh. An extremely bright lad who will help me locate the wedding goblet. The sooner we have it, the better. Or do you really want all of your gardens destroyed by an insane crowd rushing out here to dig?’

‘This island may be open to the public,’ Oliver said, ‘but we do have rules. Especially for the gardens. People aren’t even allowed to pick flowers, let alone to dig. Dig for what anyway?’

Max laughed. ‘Haven’t you heard yet?’ He sized up Oliver. ‘Soon you’ll need help warding off people who are looking in places you don’t like them to look.’

‘I caught you soon enough,’ Oliver countered. His eyebrows were furrowed over his blue eyes. They could be warm and interested, but right now they were cold and condemning. He rocked back on his heels and put his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. As usual he wore trainers without socks. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

‘I just told you,’ Wadencourt said tightly, ‘that he’s with me. Your father has invited me to stay here. So Max is staying here as well.’

Bolingbrooke lifted a hand. ‘Invited, invited … I only said that …’

‘You said that there was always room for me here, and I accept your offer of hospitality. Max, you carry up my bags.’ Wadencourt gestured at his photographer as if he was a butler who had to snap to attention. ‘What wonderful room will it be? In the tower maybe?’

‘Guinevere is already staying there,’ Oliver said. ‘There’s a perfectly good B&B near the harbour.’

But his father shook his head. His voice sounded tired but resigned when he said, ‘Wadencourt is an old friend of mine, Oliver. He’s staying here. And if this chap is his photographer, he can stay here as well.’

‘So you know what they’re here for?’ Oliver asked.

‘Not every detail …’ Bolingbrooke said slowly.

‘Not at all, you mean. You simplyinvite them in, not even knowing …’

‘This is my house.’ Bolingbrooke smiled, but the censure in his tone couldn’t be missed. ‘Please show them to their rooms, Guinevere. Gregory can have the room beside my library and the young chap can go into the one beside that. I’ll ask Cador to make some tea and sandwiches for us.’

Eager to get the guests settled before Oliver could create more hostility, Guinevere gestured to the stairs. ‘Follow me please.’

Wadencourt picked up his suitcases and smiled. ‘I know my way around here. I’ve stayed here before.’ His patronizing tone seemed to imply: long before you ever set foot here.

Dolly whined as if she didn’t like his attitude.

Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Cador can show the visitors where they are staying. Guinevere and I will see to the tea and the sandwiches. Come on.’ He walked off in the direction of the kitchens.

Bolingbrooke hitched a brow at Guinevere. ‘I have no idea what’s eating him these days. Must miss his tigers. But maybe you’d better go with him then and send Cador out here to help the guests get settled in.’

Cador had already appeared, apparently notified by Oliver what was expected of him. With a straight back and impeccably soft footfall the butler went up the stairs ahead of the guests.

Max was taking it all in with a keen interest and even gave Guinevere a cheeky wink.

She flushed and hurried to the kitchens to help Oliver. Dolly ran after her, her ears flapping against her head.

Oliver banged a kettle filled with water onto the antique stove. The old kitchens were Cador’s domain where he made coffee using a filter and cooked dinners based on century-old menus. Upstairs there was a pantry unit with coffee maker and facilities to create quick meals, but Cador never set foot there, considering it a too modern addition to the household. Oliver in turn rarely invaded the kitchens, but apparently he was now eager to escape the unwelcome visitors.

Oliver rummaged through a cupboard for cups and plates, grousing, ‘The way he just walks in and thinks he owns this place!’

‘Do you know Gregory Wadencourt?’ Guinevere asked.

Oliver shrugged. ‘What’s to know? He used to come here when I was a kid. Already had that patronizing way of talking to people. He believes he’s the only one who knows about history and archaeology.’

‘Your father mentioned something about him being into missing artefacts? I mean, lost treasures of the civilized world? That sounds fascinating.’ Guinevere leaned against the table. Dolly had spotted a basket in a corner and was sniffing around it. Her tail wagged as she explored further into another corner full of shadows and cobwebs.

‘Enigmatic is the better term.’ Oliver planted his feet apart and stared up at the kitchen’s tall ceiling. ‘Or elusive.’

‘How do you mean?’

Oliver spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘It’s such a different topic from what Wadencourt used to be interested in. He was an archaeologist specializing in Roman finds. Tangible things that built him a solid scientific reputation. He was part of a team that excavated several old campsites around Britain and found interesting items that museums put on display. He also travelled to other Roman sites like in Germany and France. He used to quote Latin phrases to my brother and me. Whoever could translate it the best got a toffee.’

‘Sounds like someone who’s obsessed with his subject.’

Oliver nodded. ‘Like the overbearing uncle you avoid at birthday parties because he can’t stop talking and in his eyes you’ll never grow up.’

Guinevere tilted her head. ‘But if Wadencourt loved his Roman work so much, I don’t see why he changed to this missing objects business. It seems a lot less tangible and productive.’

‘Exactly. But there was less funding for what he wanted to do. He needed a boost to attract attention to his work. He wrote a bit about a coronet found at an abbey that might prove a lady from royal descent had taken vows as a nun there. He found a sponsor who wanted him to prove who she had been and he came up with a theory linking her to the Tudors. Some people believed him; others said he had made it all up, knowing it could never be proven either way. But it created waves for months.

‘Since then Wadencourt is always working that way, starting from an object that is mentioned in sources or has been recovered at some dig and then inventing a history for it. I call it inventing, because he can rarely support it with any real evidence. But people like the romanticism of it and gobble it up. He’s not a historian any more to my mind, but a storyteller like the brothers Grimm.’

‘And this wedding goblet he mentioned, do you have any idea what that is?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘No idea. But then Cornisea has featured in a lot of stories.’ He nodded at the book in her hand. ‘There might be something in there about it.’

‘I’ll have a look.’ Guinevere seated herself on a chair and opened the book. The pages crackled as if they were too dry. ‘I’d better be careful with this.’ She put the book on the table and opened it again, this time in the back. ‘Ah, there’s an index here. I can see if it mentions a wedding goblet.’

A clanging noise came from the corner. Dolly had overturned a stack of pans, the lids rolling away across the floor. ‘Don’t, girl,’ Guinevere called.

Oliver was already with her to get the lids back in place. He gave the dachshund a little shove to send her to Guinevere. ‘Go see what the book says about the goblet, huh.’

Dolly walked over and sat down at Guinevere’s feet, her head up, as if to listen to the story.