By the time she’d negotiated her way out of York and was feeling the rush of pleasure at being in open countryside, she began to allow her thoughts similar open rein now that she was hurtling towards Otto Schäfer. She was excited and daunted at once.
Uncharacteristically, she’d changed outfits three times and she was secretly glad she’d not had her full wardrobe at her disposal. Katerina had finally settled on the simplest outfit she could muster, which she knew probably echoed the publicity shots she’d seen of Audrey Hepburn in the forthcoming movie Charade, but this was Yorkshire and spring hadn’t fully found it yet. It felt cold enough to dress for the slopes. She had a furred hat to add to the ensemble if needed, but for now a patterned headscarf in a houndstooth design was her only elaboration to what was essentially a fine study in neutral. Close-fitted casual slacks were tucked into short boots and over this she wore a loose but heavy knitted cardigan that had a cape-like shape. It was last year’s design but it hid her figure and it was the warmest piece she could find in the few garments she had to choose from.
She pushed open the triangular window near the steering wheel for a moment and inhaled the sharp air as she steered the trusty Morris up the slow incline of the north Yorkshire moors. A small pang of regret caught in her throat that this wasn’t summer, when these vast tracts of moorland were a breathtaking landscape carpeted with the richly pink needles of tall heather. Oh, how she’d used to admire it. The moorland in that season could look like a prehistoric beast slumbering as the northern winds stirred its pink fur. She’d heard somewhere that almost all of the world’s heather moors were in Britain and most of those were in the northern half. An old farmer had once nodded sagely and remarked to her that a sheep could wander from Egton to Bilsdale without leaving the moor. She knew it had been meant to impress but she hadn’t known either of those places; nevertheless, she’d given a look of wonder that had him nodding still more and saying the best time to enjoy the moors was at dusk when the landscape deepened to purple. ‘Best honey from bees on the heather,’ he’d finished with a tap on the side of his nose before strolling off, a small terrier in close pursuit, from where she’d been picnicking around the Hole of Horcum.
She was in Levisham Beck now and about to pass that same spot where local legend had it that a giant scooped up a handful of earth to throw at his wife during an argument. She smiled as the deep cauldron known as the Hole of Horcum, with its green felt-like surface, came into view on her left.
She pulled onto the roadside to stretch her legs and emerged from the pleasant warmth she’d built up inside the Morris to gasp as the cold air hit her lungs. Hunching deeper into the scarf at her throat, she moved to stand at the edge of the valley. The heather, so resplendent in the warmer months, was now a scorched, rusted brown and she could pick out the bright anorak colours of walkers, like insects in the distance, moving along the tracks deep into the Hole of Horcum, or sketching out its rim. The sun had broken through the clouds and seemed to shine a pillar of light to the far left, directing her attention almost to the valley floor, where there was a tiny cottage. It looked so fairytale-like, bathed in light with its chimney puffing merrily, that for a moment Katerina wished that was her home, where Ruda Mayek would never find her.
Katerina glanced at her wristwatch. She was making good time. The meet was planned for noon at a tiny hotel only known to outsiders because in 1935 J Arthur Rank shot his first feature film there, Turn of the Tide, about warring fishing families. She’d made arrangements for them to have lunch at Wainwright’s Bar. By her estimation she would arrive at her destination of Robin Hood’s Bay with maybe half an hour to spare. It would give her time to loosen out her limbs on the beach and gather her thoughts in the process because right now her mind felt blank … and perhaps that was a blessing.
Just over an hour later she was sighing with pleasure at the familiar sight of stormy seas from the top of the hill where she parked the car. The road into the village she knew to be frighteningly narrow as well as steep; it wasn’t that she didn’t trust the Morris, more that she didn’t fancy her rusty skills were up to the challenge. Besides, the walk down would clear the miasma in her mind that was part fear about Mayek, part anticipation about Otto and part confusion about her feelings for Summerbee. If she was honest with herself, it was the last that was causing much of the bewilderment; she wanted him out of her thoughts, gone from her mind and her life. Yet the memory of that gentle gaze, the crooked hands that cupped her face so sweetly, the generous mouth that liked to smile and kissed with passion, wouldn’t allow her to forget him. The more she tried, the harder Edward clung. It made no sense. He had let her down; she wanted to hate him.
Locking up the Morris a little harder than she meant to because of her vexation at Edward had her looking around self-consciously in case people were watching her after slamming the car door. She needn’t have worried. Hers was the only parked car at the top and there was not a person to be spotted dodging behind net curtains in nearby cottages.
Dragging her gloves and scarf back on, she carefully moved down the familiar hill, past the soaring hulk of the grand Victorian seaside hotel built in the previous century to encourage holiday-makers, and onto the cobblestones of the street that led to a maze of even narrower lanes and into the village’s heart. In amongst the labyrinth were whitewashed fishing cottages – she recalled how delightful they looked in summer with small brightly painted doors and their windowboxes of overflowing blooms. For now, though, the decoration came from a few early daffodils, the tips of crocuses pushing through, and the spheres of translucent glass fishing floats, some in nets, some standing in neat piles near sheds. Thin sunlight helped their blueish-green to echo the colour of the sea they normally bobbed in and leak into the small hotchpotch of streets.
Robin Hood’s Bay was mostly deserted. She counted two locals doing some grocery shopping but she imagined the sensible ones were indoors and not far from the coal fire if they weren’t out at sea or working in nearby fields. Crab pots were stacked on most street corners, attesting to the lesser action of these weeks, and the single seaside novelty store that doubled as a sweetshop and news-agent had obviously grimly opted to open its doors through the early spring. It had a small offering in its window display of the popular, if curious, English confectionery known as seaside rock. They sat like sticks of dynamite in the familiar radioactive pink that tended to turn the tongues of its young consumers fuchsia. And then that sticky, vague rose colour, smelling of peppermint, that clung to clothes and fingers – oh, she remembered it well from years back. She nodded a greeting to the woman who stood at the shop threshold, inhaling the last drag on a cigarette that had burned to its butt.
‘Tide’s out,’ the woman said, taking in Katerina’s appearance.
So … she didn’t look like a beachcomber, but she’d done her best to dress down. Still, there was a glint in the woman’s eye that hinted towards a sneer.
‘I figured,’ she replied in a breezy tone. ‘I thought I’d take a walk around the rockpools,’ she added, deliberately accentuating her French accent but giving just enough information so that the shopkeeper understood she knew the region.
‘Mind you don’t slip,’ the woman said, seemingly determined to have the final and slightly sarcastic word at the helplessly fashionable boots she glanced down at.
Katerina smiled; they were her oldest pair, relegated to York. ‘I’ll be mindful,’ she said.
The wind wasn’t a gale and certainly not howling but it whistled with glee around the snaking ginnels – as they were known in this part of the world – and she suspected once she hit the slipway, she might feel the brisk force of the North Sea. Katerina arrived on the steepish angle of the boat ramp and that wind wanted to rip her silk scarf from her head. Tying it tighter still beneath her chin, she looked back at the tall Norman seawalls that had once fortified this region and felt the thrill of history seeping into her consciousness. This was her comfortable world, touching the deep past.
Above her the Bay Hotel stood out in whitewashed glory, black paint outlining its window frames and capped by a flint roof. It clung to the cliff edge, looking ready to topple over those seawalls at any moment, as houses had done in the past.
She turned away and cast her glance across the expanse of sand and glistening rockpools. There was only the barest hint of blue above; the sky looked as if it had been frightened to white, while low-hanging, smoke-coloured clouds hung like ghostly battleships. The cliff border curling around gave the impression of a brooding dog, selfishly enclosing the bay between its paws. One person stood amongst the rockpools, staring into their shallow waters where tiny sea creatures lurked and the world beyond the sea was reflected in their mirror surface. She was astonished that he was here first and recognised his shape immediately despite the overcoat and hat. Still tall and straight, he blended into the landscape not just in his charcoal garments but in the mood his lonely figure seemed to cut on the deserted beach.
‘Otto.’ She murmured his name like a chant.
It was as though he heard her whisper in his mind and he turned, looking directly across the yards that separated them, and lifted a gloved hand. His features were lost behind a scarf and in the glum light of the day. She found herself helplessly on tiptoe, waving back enthusiastically; she was a teenager again. And then, hardly caring about the impression it might give to any onlookers, she began to run. It wasn’t a gallop but no one could mistake her eagerness, and her long stride covered the distance swiftly.
‘Be careful!’ she heard his lovely voice warning but she gave no heed and suddenly she was in his arms again, wrapping him tightly in a hug as though she were a long-lost child. ‘Oh, my darling Katerina,’ he said and they held their embrace without stirring, with the plaintive mew of gulls wheeling above them the only sound. Finally, he pulled her back to look upon her. ‘Look at you.’
‘Look at you,’ she echoed, lost for what to say in the moment. ‘New beard too! I didn’t want to disturb you; you looked at ease.’
‘I was. I was staring into that pool of water – its own little microcosm of life and activity.’
She smiled. ‘Shall we walk?’
‘Yes.’
She noted he didn’t let go of her hand.
‘Well, I don’t have to ask how you are. I can see you are every inch more beautiful than the last time I set eyes upon you.’
She sighed, self-consciously but privately delighted; his compliments mattered while few others did. ‘And you’re still the dashing doctor I recall … even more handsome with the grey at your ears.’
He grinned. ‘My wife calls it my debonair streak.’
She smiled, the reference to his wife not lost on her. ‘What do you think of this place?’
‘Wild, wonderful … wintry.’ He shivered to make her grin widen. ‘A lonely spot, typical of you.’
‘Oh, it’s beautiful in summer. We used to come here regularly for picnics. This beach can be quite crowded.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t convince me of that,’ he said. ‘Although I’ll agree, its beauty is raw and magnificent.’ He paused. ‘Did you visit Durham before you came here?’
She shook her head, without guilt, feeling the rush of pleasure at hearing his voice for real and not just in her mind as she read his birthday wishes or a rare letter. ‘No, I was in a hurry. Soon, though. Milena’s visiting at the moment.’
‘I thought I’d call in to the university on my way home.’
‘Good.’ She nodded. ‘It will be a lovely surprise.’
A silence settled around them that again only the hovering gulls could pierce. They walked in that peace until she sensed they both felt more comfortable.
‘This region is famed with fossil hunters. You’ll normally see them walking around with small hammers to crack open likely stones. You don’t even have to look too hard to turn one up that within its depths will house the skeleton of some ammonite from four hundred million years ago.’
‘Stop showing off,’ he said, his tone of wonder belying his words. ‘What is an ammonite?’
She laughed, full-throated, thrilled to impress him. ‘An extinct group of sea molluscs from the Devonian period. Just imagine something squid-like from a very long time ago.’
He grinned. ‘I’m presuming you’ve fossil-hunted with —’
‘Oh, many times,’ she interjected. ‘Actually, once we got past our fossil period, we moved into our Whitby jet period. We used to find bits of it on the beach … not any more.’
He frowned at her, amused.
‘Whitby jet,’ she repeated with emphasis on her dismayed tone at his ignorance, ‘is quite the find in these parts. They used to carve it into stunning pieces of jewellery – still do, but I think we’re past its heyday. The Victorians loved its black shiny depths for mourning jewellery. I have an exquisite brooch I’m particularly fond of.’
‘So it’s a gemstone?’
‘Fossilised wood, actually, compressed over millions of years and prized for its, well, its blackness. It’s particularly adored by jewellery designers for its lightness and smoothness, making it possible to shape into lavish designs that reflect as well as any mirror.’
‘Well, then, I must look for a piece made up. Nice present to take home. Our daughter Elke, who has recently turned twenty-one, only wears black at the moment.’
‘Oh, she’ll love it. Visit one of the Hamond salons in Whitby, York, Leeds – that’s the most famous jet jeweller in these parts. Of course, jet is found in many places around the world, but they say the very best is sourced in England’s north. Queen Victoria made Whitby jet de rigueur in her court after her beloved Albert’s death.’
‘So, lots of reasons to choose this incredibly lonely place. I felt like I was travelling to the ends of the earth. No, I think I am at the end of the earth,’ he jested.
‘Yes, sorry. I was being cautious for a number of reasons, mostly out of respect for our pact.’
‘Thank you. You’ve always been understanding of my situation.’
‘I didn’t want you to feel trapped into obligation, but thank you for coming.’
‘How could I not? You’ve never asked before and on the phone you sounded frantic.’
‘I am.’
‘So …?’
‘Not yet. Let me just enjoy these happy moments with you again.’
He lifted her gloved hand and kissed it. ‘I’m always here for you, Katerina.’
She couldn’t look at him with damp eyes and wanted to hug him again and feel the comfort of his long arms around her but that would be unseemly. She couldn’t rely on the helpless teen of years gone. He had never been hers; she’d lived with the regret of her fascination for him for long enough now to know how not to dwell upon it.
‘So, why do they call this place Robin Hood’s Bay?’ He turned her so they could walk the length of the rocky beach away from the ramp.
Katerina was glad to let out the sudden tension with a laughing sigh. ‘I don’t think he was ever here, but some say he kept escape boats around these parts, although it’s surely too far north. Popular myth suggests that Robin Hood and Little John were involved in an archery tournament at Whitby and their arrows were shot so keenly they landed on Baytown’s beach.’
‘Nice story.’ He smiled. ‘Tell me about your work.’
She knew what he was doing and was grateful for his still impeccable ability for helping her to relax and he remained her favourite listener; even better than Daniel. He asked intelligent questions about her role at the Louvre and sounded impressed when he listened to the projects she’d been working on at the British Museum.
‘Your father would be so proud of you using all those skills he helped you to acquire in childhood.’ They were the right words; just enough praise with the perfect sentiment to make her feel for a moment that she was floating. And then, in typical Otto style, he didn’t allow the emotion to spill. ‘Shall we head back?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s lat
er than I thought. Yes, we’d better or we risk missing lunch.’
They turned and the small village made a picturesque back-drop with mainly terracotta and some slate-tiled rooftops stepped up the cliff. It was pretty despite being so grimly lit, although perhaps that was the charm … one of mystery. The village nestled within a natural dip of hills that looked like green velvet from this distance.
‘The guidebook told me this was a smuggler’s haven and I think I can see why,’ he ventured.
‘Oh, indeed. Many tunnels. Some of the houses have fake doors that connect to secret passageways. I’ve booked a table at the Bay Hotel in its bar. It’s been around since the late 1800s as a happy smugglers’ rest, no doubt. The local fare is wolf and chips.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Atlantic wolf-fish, which over the years has garnered the nickname of wolf, but the crab is great in this region too. And chips with everything, of course.’
‘Frites! My favourite,’ he admitted, dodging a pile of slimy, long-tentacled seaweed.
They reached the stones of the ramp and made the ascent up the slipway again and then a flight of stairs into the hotel itself, moving into a happy fug of warmth that the main bar had promised. A fire burnt with bright coals at one end and at the other the bar with its distinctive barrels beneath the counter enclosed what was a tiny and once again deserted space.
The fire guttered at the cold wind they brought in with them and Katerina had to dig in her bag for a handkerchief. She blew gently into it while Otto sniffed back on his runny nose. ‘Just us today?’ Katerina enquired of the woman behind the bar as a way of starting a conversation.
‘No one else around, love,’ the landlady said. ‘Wednesdays aren’t our busiest, anyway, outside of summer.’
‘So we can sit anywhere?’ Otto asked politely, and Katerina noted he was masking his German accent.
‘Wherever you like, love. Where are you folks from?’
‘France,’ Katerina said, to save Otto the guilt-ridden conversation she was sure he felt the pain of each time he moved through England.
The Pearl Thief Page 35