FINDING SECRETS
Lauren Westwood
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
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About Finding Secrets
A country house, a precious jewelled locket, and a puzzle dating back to the London Blitz and Imperial Russia.
Alex Hart loves her dream job as manager of Mallow Court, a historic Elizabethan house, even if her friends think she needs to get out more. But a discovery in the pocket of an old coat – a jewelled mechanical locket shaped like a bird – changes everything, and Alex discovers that things are not as they seem.
From an old diary, to a handsome barrister, a mysterious clockmaker, and the darkest hours of the London Blitz, Alex must follow the trail of the jewelled bird to uncover the truth about the things she holds dearest – and someone is determined not to let sleeping dogs lie!
Only by finding the secrets of the past can Alex find the keys to her future – and her heart.
To Eve, Rose and Grace with love
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
About A Finding Secrets
Dedication
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part 2
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part 3
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part 4
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Part 5
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
Author’s note and acknowledgments
About Lauren Westwood
Also by Lauren Westwood
Preview
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
- I -
Diary of Hal ‘Badger’ Dawkins – 1940
London, 12th November 1940 11:30 p.m.
Tonight was the worst yet. Like the end of the world, except it doesn’t end, just keeps going. My ears are still ringing from the thunder of planes, the whine of the bombs, and the explosions that feel like they’re blowing my head apart. And the screams – the dreadful, dreadful screams.
We were called out to a terrace in Shoreditch – a few streets over from where I grew up. The big house at the top of Larkspur Gardens had suffered a direct hit. I felt a searing white-hot fear as we stopped in front of it and jumped out. Had the family escaped? Had she escaped?
There were several casualties in the street, blackened and burned. Damn’d Robbo, the photographer, was already on the scene, filming the rubble and carnage. We loaded the ambulance with casualties, and my partner sped off to the hospital. I stayed behind to tend the wounded.
I waved my fists at the planes as they flew off into the night. My throat was thick with ash and dust and the metallic tang of blood. Smoke curled up from the bombed house towards a make-believe heaven and a God that doesn’t exist.
But just then, the first snowflakes began to fall, pure and weightless from the sky. From under a heap of rubble, a child crawled out. Her face and hair were streaked black and she was shivering in a torn dress and thin coat. She looked up to the sky and stuck out her tongue, letting the white crystals melt there.
Like the world was still a beautiful place.
Part 1
‘…watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.’
Roald Dahl
- Chapter 1 -
Mallow Court, Buckinghamshire
May 2000
It’s the perfect day for a wedding. The wisteria twining around the arbour is in full bloom; the sprigs of white roses hand-tied with lavender silk ribbons have a hint of dew on their petals. The weather is warm with the slightest of breezes to ruffle the organza chair bows just so. High wisps of clouds decorate the sky like celestial confetti. There’s a steady hum of bees in the borders and an iridescent butterfly floats from flower to flower. Daisies and buttercups dot the field where the white and silver striped marquee has been erected amid grazing sheep.
Perfect.
Most importantly – from my perspective, at least – the posh Portaloos, the five-tier cake, and the sushi chef from Nobu all arrived early this morning right on schedule, followed by a whole lorryload of chilled Pol Roger. As Winston Churchill once said of his favourite tipple: ‘In victory, deserve it. In defeat, need it’ – and I’m going to make sure that it’s victory all the way. So it’s a good thing that when one little thing did go wrong – the vicar’s wife ringing yesterday to tell me that he’s come down with stomach flu – I managed to sort a replacement quickly; thus keeping everything done and dusted.
And perfect.
‘Fuck!’ The bride-to-be cups her manicured hand and lights another Marlboro Menthol Light, flicking the match into the peonies. She looks at me with pure venom. ‘You’ve ruined everything.’
I smile through my teeth. At this moment, Miss Heath-Churchley looks very little like her full-page soft-focus photo in Country Life that won her the ‘attentions’ of Mr Ernest –‘call-me-Ernie’ – Wright-Thursley. When she came round to the wedding fair, she showed me the laminated copy that she keeps in her holdall:
Miss Celestina Heath-Churchley of Albright House, West Sussex. Eldest Daughter of Charles August Heath-Churchley, OBE and Suzanna DuBois Heath-Churchley. Educated at Chichester Preparatory School and Cheltenham Ladies College with a degree in Equine Business Studies.
It’s literally kept me awake at night wondering how they’re going to hyphenate their surnames – try saying Churchley-Thursley five times fast. And do Heath and Wright just drop out of the equation forever? You’d think that as the manager of an elegant stately home open to the public, I’d know these things, but in this case I’m flummoxed.
‘The vicar deeply regrets that he has the stomach flu…’ I intone for the umpteenth time with growing futility. I lower my voice. ‘It’s lucky that I was able to find a replacement at such short notice. Your ceremony can proceed right on schedule.’ I force myself to smile.
The soon-to-be-previous Miss Heath-Churchley – or ‘Cee-Cee’, as her bridesmaids call her – glares down her nose at me, taking in my faux-suede jacket, indigo jeans, and biker boots. It’s as if she has a sixth sense that not only do I lack upper-class origins, I have no origins whatsoever. And as such, normally, I wouldn’t have a problem telling her exactly where to take her 200 guests, her horse-drawn carriage, her string quartet, harpist and dance band, her carb-free canapés, and he
r photographer from Tattler and stick them. But instead I take a deep breath and mentally repeat the old adage that ‘the customer is always right’. Because with a 400-year-old house that’s one of the finest examples of Elizabethan architecture in the South East, complete with glorious history, apocryphal royal visitors, and a huge annual maintenance bill, I have a responsibility to hold my tongue. Especially when ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley is paying an awfully big fee to hold his daughter’s wedding in the award-winning gardens.
‘A WOMAN vicar?’ she practically spits. ‘Who the fuck has a woman vicar? Couldn’t you at least find a real one?’
‘She’s a fully ordained member of the Church of England.’ I clench my teeth. ‘In fact, she’s a senior chaplain – the sick vicar’s boss.’
Which isn’t exactly true, but she doesn’t need to know that. Actually, the vicar is my friend Karen from uni who got her doctorate in theology, and then took holy orders because, in her words, ‘there are so many eligible men.’
‘But everyone will think I’m a lesbian!’ Cee-Cee moans.
‘Surely not,’ I reassure her. In fact, if the cringeworthy exploits her bridesmaids were recounting at breakfast are anything to go by, I know so. I try another tack: ‘And anyway, I understand that women vicars are quite the thing now. Madonna and Guy Ritchie already have one booked.’
‘Really?’ she immediately perks up.
‘Oh yes – haven’t you heard?’ I take care to make every one-syllable word sound like two.
‘No.’ She stamps out the cigarette with the toe of her white satin Manolo, obliterating it into the paper rose petals. ‘And where the fuck is Ernest?’
‘I haven’t seen him yet,’ I say. ‘Would you like me to ring the Golden Fleece and make sure he’s had his wake-up call?’
‘You’d better.’
‘And I believe the vicar would like to meet with you both before the ceremony. Get to know you.’
‘I bet she’s a lezzer,’ she pouts.
I want to laugh out loud, but in the interests of Daddy’s cheque, I bite my tongue and keep shtum.
‘Whatever.’ She raises three fingers in a ‘W’ shape. ‘I’m off to have a bath. There’d better be hot water.’ She turns and begins walking back to the coach house where she and her bridesmaids are staying. ‘And make sure my things are moved to the bridal chamber when I’m done,’ she says over her shoulder.
‘Of course,’ I say to her spray-tanned back. ‘Your highness,’ I add under my breath.
Catherine Fairchild, the owner of Mallow Court, warned me before the first wedding fair that most brides would want to be treated like royalty on their ‘special day’. Though Cee-Cee probably demands to be treated that way all the time. It’s not something I relate to – I was never the kind of girl who liked pink flouncy dresses and simpering Disney princesses. My socialist dad was proud of me for that, though sometimes Mum despaired. Every once in a while, she’d bring home a dressing up costume from the charity shop, only to find it later covered in mud and crumpled up in a ball in the corner of my room. I preferred being the pirate or the wizard, or – given my background – the communist revolutionary – in anything involving dressing up.
So it’s somewhat ironic that now I’m in charge of a stately home where I’m hoping we’ll eventually hold ten to twelve weddings a year. I’ve earmarked ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley’s deposit for some work to upgrade the guest facilities. And as Cee-Cee’s wedding is the first one being held at Mallow Court, it’s imperative that it goes off without a hitch. Looking on the bright side, if we can satisfy her, most of our future weddings should be a piece of cake.
With Cee-Cee off to perform her ablutions, I go to check on the marquee. Inside, ‘Mummy’ Heath-Churchley, the maid of honour, and two bridesmaids are sampling the chocolate fountain and a bottle of Pol Roger.
‘Has my stepson Christopher arrived yet?’ ‘Mummy’ H-C asks.
‘Not that I know of,’ I say. ‘I’ll look out for him.’ Not that I’ve a clue who he is – to me, one pedigreed toff looks the same as the next.
‘Mummy’ mutters a ‘thank you’ and pops the cork on another bottle. I take a final look around the marquee – everything looks shiny, polished, over-the-top and expensive. Feeling relieved that it’s all in order, I return to the main house. After dealing with the vicar crisis, I’m due a cup of tea and some toast. The cool yellow stone glows in the morning sun, the light reflecting off hundreds of higgledy-piggledy mullioned windows. In a past life, someone like me would have been, at best, a servant at a house like this. But thanks to a first-class degree in Medieval Studies from Oxford, a well-connected tutor, and being at the right place at the right time, I’m running the show. Most of the time, working here is a delight.
In a little under three years, I’ve helped Mrs Fairchild turn the huge Elizabethan mansion that her father renovated after the war into one of the top tourist destinations in the Home Counties. Between the well-scripted tours, the organic tea room, the gift shop featuring traditional crafts and the artisan beers of a local microbrewery, the adventure playground, corporate away days and now the weddings, we’re starting to turn a profit. And when the Churchley-Thursley wedding is finally over, I can turn my attentions back to my pet project – a ‘Clothing through the Ages’ exhibition to be held upstairs in the long gallery.
I’m almost at the kitchen door when suddenly an orange and black Smart car zips around the crescent drive and screeches to a halt in the disabled parking space, sending gravel flying into the delphiniums. A woman in a dark trouser suit and white shirt jumps out, strawberry blonde curls bouncing at her shoulders.
‘Karen!’ I say, relieved to have a real-life, flesh-and-blood vicar on site. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ I give her a warm hug. ‘Though…’ I say into her ear, ‘I’m not sure the bride is quite so chuffed.’
My friend waves her hand expansively. ‘Never mind that, Alex. First I’ve just got to tell you – I met the most amazing bloke last night.’
‘I thought you’d turned over a new leaf.’ I grimace. ‘What was it you said when you were ordained – “no more casual and meaningless encounters”? That you were going to live strictly “by the Bible”?’
‘Ahh, Alex.’ She uses her deep ‘sermon voice’. ‘This was neither casual nor meaningless. And it was definitely biblical – like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Probably more like Sodom and Gomorrah.’
‘Touché.’
‘The bride will be relieved to know you aren’t a lesbian though.’
‘What?’ Karen raises an eyebrow. ‘No – this was definitely a bloke. Big strapping lad. Built like a shire horse. Didn’t quite catch his name – Eddie, or Denny, or something.’ She shrugs.
‘And where did you meet this “big strapping lad whose name you didn’t quite catch”?’
‘At the pub in the village, of course.’ Her brow furrows. ‘The Golden Fleece? You know – you booked the room. Last night. Short notice.’
‘Yeah – sorry about that.’ Normally, I’d have invited Karen to stay with me, or at least put her up in the guest accommodation. But the coach house was occupied by the wedding party, and the shower in my flat is bust. The only other alternative was the pub in the village. Where the groom and his party are staying.
‘No matter. The night was a revelation. Let’s just say that the dog collar has many uses.’ She grins. ‘Though not all strictly sanctioned by the ecclesiastical texts.’
‘Karen!’ I laugh. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘Yes well…’ she checks her watch, ‘let’s get this show on the road. I should meet the bride and groom before I tie the noose for them…’ she winks, ‘I mean the knot.’
‘The groom isn’t here yet and the bride’s having a bath, so would you like a cuppa?’ I lead the way to the door to the house.
‘Isn’t there any champers?’ Karen frowns.
‘Well, yeesss…’
‘Come on Alex,’
she pulls my arm. ‘Let’s live a little.’
I allow myself to be dragged along a few steps before standing my ground. ‘Really, Karen, it wouldn’t look right, the vicar supping on a glass of bubbly… or two. Besides, I’ve got a few things—’
‘Hey you! Ms – what is it? Hart?’
I turn, cringing at the dulcet tones of Cee-Cee yelling at me from the door of the coach house. I mentally tick off everything that could be wrong: no hot water, a spider in the sink, new towels needed, bath gel the wrong scent…
‘Where the hell is Ernie?’ she whines. ‘You said he was staying at some grotty old pub. And now, he’s missing.’
‘Missing?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘I rang Ant. He went up and checked. He said he’s not in his room – his bed hasn’t been slept in.’
‘Oh.’ I swallow hard. ‘He’s… um…probably just on his way here.’
‘Ernie?’ Karen says, wide-eyed.
‘Is she the woman vicar?’ Cee-Cee frowns.
Before I can respond, a huge black SUV pulls up, driven by Ant, the groom’s best man. A half-dressed, dishevelled Ernie stumbles out of the passenger side holding an empty bottle of whisky.
‘Darling…’ he drawls, practically falling at the feet of Cee-Cee.
‘Where were you, dearest?’ she scolds in a little-girl voice. ‘How naughty you’ve been keeping me waiting. We’re supposed to meet the vicar.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘It’s… her.’
Cee-Cee looks at Karen, gesturing with her pearlescent nails.
Karen looks at Ernie.
Ernie looks at Karen. He lets out a little sputter.
Cee-Cee looks at Ernie…
Then Karen…
Then me.
Karen looks anywhere but at me.
‘Umm actually…’ Karen says, ‘we’ve met.’
Cee-Cee screams.
- Chapter 2 -
It takes over a year to plan a big society wedding. But it takes less than an afternoon to unwind one. Instead of ‘I do’s and church bells, Cee-Cee’s shrieks are the order of the day.
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