‘Okay, boss.’ Edith’s face pinches into a rare frown.
*
That evening, I get a call from Tim. Hearing his voice sparks my adrenalin. ‘Just calling to check that everything’s okay,’ he says.
‘It’s fine.’ I smile down the phone, grateful for his concern.
‘And are you there alone, or has the Knicker King’s daughter returned home yet?’
‘Not yet. She’ll be home tomorrow. I’m not quite sure what I’m going to tell her.’
‘I understand. Anyway, I’m calling to see if you can meet me for a drink in London on Friday evening. I’d love to see you again.’
‘Friday…’ The years of being ‘out of the market’ dating-wise press heavily on my shoulders. Do I play hard-to-get? Tell him I’m busy? Before I can decide, I hear myself saying: ‘Friday would be fine.’
‘Great. I can meet you after court. I’ll text you where.’
‘Perfect.’ I hang up the phone feeling nervous, then stupidly excited, then nervous again.
I take the velvet bag with the locket out of my pocket where it seems to have taken up permanent residence, and undo the catch. ‘I’ll take you to London and have you looked at by a jeweller,’ I say as the bird pops up on its perch and begins its slow half-rotation. Its beak opens and closes on impossibly fine hinges like it has a secret to tell me. But try as I might, I can’t quite hear what it has to say.
- IV -
13th November 1940 – 12:17 a.m.
Just then, another ambulance roared up. Flea – who I’ve known all my life – jumped out.
‘What a goddamn mess!’ he yelled to his partner. ‘Looks like Jerry’s given this place a proper fuck up the backside.’
‘Shhh.’ I pointed down at the girl. ‘Mind your tongue, will you?’
‘Righto, Badger. Poor poppet.’ He patted the girl on the head, his gaze fixing on the jewelled locket in her hand. For a moment, his eyes seemed to sparkle with lust and the colours of the jewels. He looked away and glanced over at the body of the woman. ‘Shit Badger,’ he said, ‘it’s not her is it?’
I felt a barely controllable urge to punch him, as I nodded my head.
- Chapter 11 -
It seems that things are slowly getting back to normal when the next day, as I’m walking over to the house, Mrs Fairchild is getting out of a taxi.
‘Alex!’ she greets me with an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Mrs Fairchild. But you left so suddenly. I was worried.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Her brow creases. ‘It was a last minute thing – but I did let Edith know. I felt I needed to get some fresh air – away from here for a few days. So I went over Bath way to visit a friend.’
I pick up her overnight bag and carry it inside the house. We walk together through a series of doors and corridors that leads to her little private kitchen next to the staff room. ‘And did your uh… friend… have a nice time too?’
‘Of course.’ She ignores my insinuation. ‘My friend Marianne and her sister Gwen have a nice cottage in a village there. It’s always nice to catch up with the old crowd.’
‘I’m glad you had a nice time. When Edith told me you’d gone, I thought maybe it was with your new man. The one you mentioned …’
She chuckles. ‘Understood. But when you get to be my age, you don’t have to drive to Lover’s Lane for a fumble in the back of daddy’s car.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘Good. And anyway, I knew you’d be here to hold the fort.’
‘Um, yes. About that…’ I take a breath. ‘I’m afraid we had a slight hiccup while you were away.’
I go over to the writing desk and hand her the envelope addressed to her. Just for an instant, her calm expression cracks. She recovers quickly, but I can tell she’s doing a hell of an acting job trying to show that nothing’s wrong. If only I’d opened the envelope before giving it to her!
‘What’s this?’ Her hand quavers as she takes the envelope.
‘I’m not sure. Someone left it here for you after hours. And locked me in the loo while they were at it.’
‘No!’ Panic flashes on her face. ‘Are you okay, Alex?’
‘Yes, it was just weird. Whoever it was must have hidden in the stockroom until we closed. Luckily the alarm went off. Which reminds me – I need to show you how to use it.’
‘Yes, fine. I’m sorry you’ve had to…’ She turns away, clearly unsettled.
‘Mrs Fairchild?’ I speak quietly. ‘I can tell that something’s wrong. Please, I want to help.’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she says sharply.
I take a step back. In the three years that I’ve known her, she’s never once raised her voice or spoken harshly to me.
Instantly, her face registers shock. ‘I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean to speak to you like that. It’s just – the idea of an “uninvited guest” here makes me nervous. You know I love having the house open to the public, and we’ve never really had any problems. But this… you could have been in danger.’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered you with it. I think it was just an isolated incident.’ At least, I hope so, I don’t add.
‘I’m so grateful that you were here to handle it,’ she says. ‘You’re doing a stellar job, Alex. As always.’ She slips the envelope into the pocket of her cardigan. ‘Now, I’ve really got to get on with the garden. I’ve been gone for nearly three days – the weeds must be having a field day – if you’ll excuse the pun.’ She walks over to the door and puts on her gardening clogs. It’s obvious that she’s not about to trust me with any confidences. I put my hand in my pocket and clasp the locket. The silver is warm and smooth, almost like a living thing.
‘I’ll let you get on,’ I say. ‘But there’s just one more thing.’ I pull out the locket, holding it up for her to see. ‘I found your note – and this.’
She stares at the locket like it’s a hypnotist’s crystal. Her blue eyes grow wide, her lids heavy. ‘Oh – that. I forgot I left it.’
She’s lying – I can tell. But why? I hold the locket out to her. ‘Do you want to take it? It’s a lovely piece.’
Her hand trembles as she reaches towards the locket but doesn’t take it. ‘No, I don’t want it,’ she says as she lowers her hand. ‘It’s just a trinket I’ve had ever since I was a girl. A child’s toy.’
‘Really? I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘I thought that… you might like to see it.’
‘Thanks.’ I ignore the sudden awkwardness. ‘If you tell me more about it, then I can do a write-up and put it in the exhibition along with your lovely clothing.’
‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘I mean… I don’t want it on display. It has sentimental value, but that’s all. My father gave it to me. It was just after the war. I don’t like to think about those times.’
‘I understand.’ Though I don’t, really. Why would she have put it with the costume exhibition things if she didn’t want it displayed? And the connection to the war… I glance at her through lowered lids and do the maths. It’s never really occurred to me that Mrs Fairchild must have been alive during the war. To me she’s always seemed more like late fifties than late sixties. I want to question her further, but her face seems distant and shuttered.
‘Anyway, maybe you can put it back in my jewellery box? Locked up.’
‘Of course.’ I feel a strange reluctance to let it go.
‘I’ll take it up now,’ I say, still lingering. ‘Though… I am going down to London on Friday to visit a friend. If you want, I could take it to a jeweller and get it cleaned. Maybe find someone who could tell me something about it?’
‘I think you’re wasting your time, but if you want to, then go ahead. I know of a man you can take it to – The Clockmaker – at Hatton Garden.’
‘The Clockmaker? Who’s that?’
‘Just ask anyone around there – they can direct you.’
‘Okay… but…’
She pretends not to hear me. ‘Now,’ she says briskly, moving to the door. ‘I really must be getting on.’ With a final glance at the silver locket in my hand, she purses her lips and goes outside.
- Chapter 12 -
Normally I’d say that whatever’s bothering Mrs Fairchild is none of my business. If she wants my help, she knows she can always ask. But the ‘uninvited guest’ has made things my concern. Mrs Fairchild has seemed preoccupied for a few weeks – even before the Churchley-Thursley wedding. I should have realised that something was wrong back when she asked me to sit with her in the evenings a few times. But I didn’t begin to worry until that day in the drawing room, when I saw her tucking away a piece of paper into her pocket. Was that related? Is she being blackmailed? The idea that Mrs Fairchild could ever have given anyone grounds for blackmail strikes me as ludicrous. But I also wonder why she left the jewelled locket for me to discover only to be so evasive when I asked about it. I enjoy a good mystery as much as the next person, but as I sit on the train to London, all the unanswered questions rattle worryingly inside my brain.
The little towns blur by as the train speeds towards the capital. I clasp the velvet bag inside my pocket, wondering again about the locket. Personally, I’ve never been into wearing jewellery, and other than a few gifts for Mum over the years, I’ve never bought anything fancy or expensive. Even I, however, have heard of Hatton Garden – a street near Chancery Lane that’s the centre of the London jewellery and diamond trade.
I take the A to Z out of my handbag and check the map again. After I’m done at Hatton Garden, I’m supposed to meet up with Tim. My stomach does a little flip at the thought of going on a proper date – he’d texted me the name of a wine bar near the Crown Court. I’ve been ‘hiding away’ for so long, that I have no idea what to do or say. I’ll have to rely on the fact that he’s a barrister – he talks for a living In any case, I don’t have to worry about it for another four hours yet.
It hits home that I really ought to ‘get out more’ when the train pulls into Euston Station, and a sudden wave of panic rises up into my throat. I LOVE London, I remind myself. Every year when I was a girl, Dad and Mum used to take me to see a panto on the Saturday before Christmas. After the show, they’d take me to Hamleys. Jammed into the crush of Christmas shoppers, Dad would pull me aside and indoctrinate me with the shameful decadence of western culture, scoffing at the children fighting over Power Rangers and Cabbage Patch Dolls. Mum would secretly get lost in the crowd and sneak upstairs to buy me a Barbie doll or a stuffed toy. For me it was the best time of the year.
When I got older, Mum used to sometimes take me to Oxford Street to buy summer clothes, while Dad would skulk along behind regaling us with horror stories about how my denim shorts were probably made by five-year-old children in a Bangladeshi sweatshop, and that the manufacture of my trainers was contributing to the melting of the polar ice caps. Even so, I loved London, and secretly vowed that someday I’d have a little flat near the British Library. My dream was to spend my days reading books, my nights frequenting eclectic coffee houses, and my weekends visiting free museums and galleries. I came close when Karen offered to let me move in with her after she graduated uni. But by then I’d met Xavier and was bent on staying on at Oxford. By the time my relationship finally went balls up, Karen had moved into a vicarage in Essex. Which didn’t quite have the same appeal.
I grip my handbag tightly as I step off the train, my ears assaulted by the vast echo of sounds. Men and women wearing suits and carrying briefcases rush past me, and I deliberately slow down to let them pass. I buy a coffee and a pain au chocolat from a kiosk in the main station, and take the escalator down to the Tube. My eyes flick over posters for books, films, the new Tate Modern, and West End musicals, but for some reason all I can think about is Mrs Fairchild and the fact that when she was a girl, the Tube stations were used as air raid shelters. How awful it must it have been for people living back then – the rush of panic when the sirens began to wail, the frightful irritation of having to leave meals uneaten, valuables unattended; children pulled by the hand out of their homes without having used the toilet or finished their schoolwork. Grabbing the ugly, alien-looking gas masks down off the coat rack pegs, and rushing to the shelter, wearing bathrobes, hair curlers, slippers – whatever hour it happened to be.
I hug the right side of the escalator as a man clomps down the iron steps, clearly in a rush. How did people overcome the claustrophobia of the queue to get down the narrow stairs? Did their eyes gloss over the posters reminding that ‘loose lips sink ships’, ‘make do and mend’, and to always ‘keep calm and carry on’? And how did it feel – that peculiar mix of fear, boredom, and ‘Blitz Spirit’? I’ve seen films where people in the deep shelters bonded together – singing, knitting and sewing, playing with the children, all the while keeping a cool head, a stiff upper lip and that indomitable ‘never say die’ British mindset.
But how did it really feel – as the ground shook with the explosions topside, wondering if you’d have a home when you emerged, wondering if your cat made it, or the elderly neighbour who didn’t answer when you knocked? Maybe he was in the bath or maybe he’d gone out. Or maybe he had the wireless turned up so loud that he didn’t hear the sirens, and even now, his life had been snuffed out. And for a little girl like Catherine Fairchild – or Catherine Bolton as she was back then – the things she’d seen and endured must have caused deep, if well-disguised, scars.
My blood feels like ice water as a Northern Line train pulls up to the platform in front of me. I try to hang back, but the sheer volume of people propels me forward and I end up wedged between a Rastafarian and a pair of Japanese tourists, my nose in the armpit of a man in (none too fresh) workman’s overalls.
I change to the Central Line at Tottenham Court Road, feeling like a hamster in a maze. The new train rumbles eastward, jostling me as it speeds up and slows down, with people pushing on and off. By the time it pulls into Chancery Lane, my whole body is in a cold sweat. I push my way off the train, trying to stay calm amid the crush of people. This shouldn’t be hard – everyone’s doing it. But away from the rarified atmosphere of Mallow Court, it’s like my insides are trying to claw their way out of my skin. I grasp the stair railing and pull myself upwards. No one looks at me or stops to ask if I’m okay. This is London, after all.
Finally, I manage to emerge from the stairs into a circle of grey-white sky. I breathe in the dense air of bus exhaust and cloying humidity, glad to be above ground again. I join the flow of pedestrians walking down Holborn towards the Inns of Court and the Sainsbury’s head office under construction at New Fetter Lane. The architecture in this part of London is a fascinating mix of Victorian, Gothic, brutalist, and modern office blocks. I cross the street (narrowly avoiding being mown down by a cyclist) and turn down the unassuming little lane that is one of the premier jewellery and diamond centres of the world.
I loosen my grip on my handbag a little. Displayed in each brightly lit shop window is a fortune in sparkling stones and finely crafted silver and gold jewellery. It’s doubtful anyone would bother trying to nick my bag in a place like this. The further I walk, the less I’m sure what I’m doing here – I see nothing that resembles the little ‘trinket’, as Mrs Fairchild called it, and I can imagine that most of the sales clerks in the shops I pass – all of them wearing expensive suits befitting a high-class clientele – would do little more than turn up their noses. There’s also no sign of any clockmaker.
Eventually I come to a shop that sells jewellery-making tools and findings. It looks less imposing than the retail jewellers, so I go inside. I browse the rows and rows of pliers and files, wax forms and chemicals, and even full-scale workbenches with skins underneath to catch tiny metal filings. At the back of the shop is a barred window with a sign advertising ‘Precious Metal Sales’. I go up to the window. An old man is reading the Racing Post while idly fingering an unlit cigar
ette.
‘Ca’ I help you, luv?’ he says.
‘I’m looking for The Clockmaker.’ Saying it makes me feel foolish. Of course he won’t know—
‘Oh, aye,’ He raises a busy white eyebrow.
‘You know who I’m talking about?’ I’m relieved that it isn’t a wild goose chase after all.
‘’Course, luv. It’s just arou’d the co’ner.’ He waves with his cigarette. ‘Little alleyway back o’ Churchley & Sons.’
The words suck away all sense of relief. Churchley & Sons. It can’t be the same Churchley as in my ill-fated wedding couple, can it? What terrible luck that would be.
‘You got that, luv?’
‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘Just around the corner. Thank you – you’ve been very helpful.’
‘Ta, luv.’
Feeling light-headed, I leave the shop and find that ‘arou’d the co’ner’ proves to be anything but ‘just’. I turn at the end of the block as he indicated and find myself in a warren of backstreets and alleyways that curve in odd directions. It doesn’t take long before I’m lost. I stop and ask a woman on the street, but she’s never heard of Churchley & Sons. My heart lifts in the hope that it doesn’t actually exist. I ask a man further down who’s sweeping the street in front of a hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop. ‘Just around the corner,’ he says, pointing back the way I came. My hopes plummet. ‘You can’t miss it.’
I can miss it, and do. I stop and ask another two people and end up practically back where I started. Then, I realise it’s been there all along right in front of me. Unlike the small shops along the street, it’s actually a huge facade of white marble taking up almost half of a block, looking more like a government ministry than a shop. The entrance is flanked by white pillars with a pediment on top, and the only sign is a brass plate saying ‘Churchley & Sons, Fine Art Auctioneers’ and a golden bell. It’s clear that the firm does not cater to riff-raff like me. I consider ringing the bell and running away – like we used to do as kids to uptight neighbours. But I spot the security cameras above the door and decide that I’ve had enough attention from the police lately.
Finding Secrets Page 8