My mind is a maelstrom by the time I’m done reading. I draw out a little chart starting with Tsar Alexander III, father to both Nicholas and Michael:
Alexander III
Nicholas II Michael Alexandrovich
Marina (?) (1901 -1940)
Catherine Bolton (Fairchild) (1935 —)
Robin Fairchild (Hart) (1953 -1972)
I can’t bring myself to fill in the last blank as I stare at the family history I’ve made. Blood rushes to my head. I’ve no proof and I may never have any proof. But it’s all there in black and white. I recall telling my grandmother that we have to be brave – that some of the things we discover may be difficult. For me, this is one of them.
I hold up the locket and release the catch. ‘Are you sure about this?’ I ask, as the bird rotates and sings its song. Humming the melody that each time seems to stick in my head, I pick up my pen. Underneath ‘Robin’, I add my own name.
Alex Hart (1972 —)
Who, by some strange twist of fate and accident of birth, might just be a real Russian princess.
- Chapter 40 -
The irony is not lost on me – fate works in strange ways. I’m just about the last person on earth who wants to be a princess. And yet…
I tuck the locket and key inside my top and lock the papers in a drawer, smiling to myself as I imagine what Dad’s reaction would be. Disbelief, horror – he would probably disown me. Or at least make me buy every round down the pub for the rest of my natural life.
And then there’s Chris – at our last meeting, I’d assured him with hands on heart that I was a little nobody. Yet, history might have made a liar of me.
I pick up one of the large metal film canisters I brought down from the attic and turn it over. There’s a faded sticker on the bottom with something scribbled on it: R Copthorne 1940. Could this be the proof that will settle things one way or another, once and for all?
I have to find out, even if it means signing the death warrant for Mallow Court. I take out my mobile phone and scroll down to Chris’s details.
As unsettled as I feel, I’m happy for an excuse to call him again. Not to gloat, grovel or even to share confidences. But because he’s the one person I know who, in a shadowy corner of his workshop, has a reel-to-reel film projector. Whatever is on those films – if anything – we may as well face it together.
Fortunately, Chris answers his phone and we arrange a meeting the following evening. I feel dizzy with excitement and fear as I hang up the phone. I put the film canisters in a rucksack along with the newspaper article on the Russian spy, and hide the bag in my dirty clothes hamper just in case the ‘uninvited guest’ decides to come calling.
My giddy feeling is short-lived when I return to the main house to meet up with a wedding couple. As I’m about to enter the dining room, I overhear my grandmother, returned from her WI meeting, on the phone.
‘I’m sorry she isn’t cooperating, Alistair,’ she’s saying. ‘Alex just feels this very deeply – we all do.’
I know I shouldn’t listen in, but I can’t help it. I know she’s talking to the horrible estate agent whose emails I’ve tagged to go directly to my junk folder. I grit my teeth as she continues on.
‘But it’s… nice… that someone is interested in the house already.’ Her voice has a slight tremor in it. ‘You should definitely bring him round for a viewing while the roses are at their peak. Just… let me arrange it for a time when she’s out.’
Blood rushes to my head as she hangs up the phone. I hurry away down the corridor back towards the great hall. Somehow, since our last conversation, I’d deluded myself that something miraculous would happen. That I’d prove Frank Bolton’s innocence in time for her to call off this plan to sell the house. But I haven’t done so. In fact, I hold the evidence that mostly likely will prove his guilt.
I rush to the nearest window, fling it open, and breathe in the warm, fresh outside air. It’s a hot day, the sun is out, the garden is lovely, a group of visitors are disembarking from a coach. At this moment, everything seems right – running smoothly, like well-oiled clockwork. As Karen once said: ‘It’s practically running itself.’
But nothing can stave off the chill I feel in my heart. This time next year… will all this have come to an end?
- Chapter 41 -
As arranged, I get on the train to London the following evening. I’m still wearing the jewelled locket around my neck, tucked safely away inside my top. Whatever happens – whatever I discover on those film reels with Chris – the locket is part of it too. All day long I’ve felt the weight of destiny on my shoulders – that one way or another, I’m coming to the end of my quest.
By the time I emerge from the Tube at Chancery Lane, the evening rush of commuters is nearly ended and the warren of streets off Hatton Garden seems darker and more confusing than usual. I pass the odd shady-looking character lurking in a doorway, and a few drunken day traders in suits taking a shortcut to a back-alley pub. Eventually, I reach the marble monolith of Churchley & Sons Fine Art Auctioneers, glowing like a pale jewel underneath the street lights.
I suddenly wonder how many works of art auctioned off there had a dodgy past, regardless of their precious ‘provenance’. Art can be forged – so skilfully that even experts are fooled. So how much easier must it be to forge paperwork and records? I look up at the sky, imagining the terror of planes flying overhead, dropping their deadly cargo. How handy wars must be for people with criminal tendencies. But of ‘Flea’, ‘Badger’ or ‘Spider’, who was such a person?
The alleyway round the back is completely dark, but as I carry on towards the building, I hear the comforting noise of a thousand clocks, ticking together like a mechanical armada. The door is ajar, and behind it is a thin quadrilateral of light. As I approach, the door opens in front of me and Chris appears, his tall frame taking up most of the doorway. As the clocks tick on, time seems to float in a bubble around us. We stand there staring at each other for a long moment, and then he takes me in his arms and nuzzles his face into my hair.
‘Alex,’ he murmurs. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’
I stay there like that, breathing him in, enjoying the sense of peace and rightness that I feel when I’m with him. His heart beats against my chest, the locket sandwiched between us. He twines my hair and the chain of the locket through his fingers, as if it’s somehow part of me. The clocks begin to chime the hour, first one, and then another, and then all of them together making a right racket. We both laugh.
Holding my hand, he leads me down the corridor into the workshop. It’s the first time I’ve been here in the evening. At this hour, the shop is lit by all sorts of eclectic light fixtures – an old gas street light now wired for electricity, intricate brass Moroccan lanterns hung from the ceiling, a Tiffany glass desk lamp, a dusty crystal chandelier with half the bulbs missing. The grandfather clocks cast long shadows, and in the corner, I spot the projector.
‘I brought the entertainment,’ I say, taking the film canisters from my bag. ‘That is, assuming that works.’ I point to the projector.
‘I went out as soon as you phoned yesterday and got the missing part,’ he says. ‘It should be as good as new.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ I joke.
He laughs. ‘I also took the liberty of ordering a couple of pizzas. They should be here any minute.’
‘Great.’ I seem to have developed a knack for going on slightly odd ‘dates’.
A sheepish grin crosses his face. ‘And I thought we could drink this.’ He holds up a bottle of red Burgundy. ‘It’s from Dad’s cellar.’ He puts a finger to his lips.
‘I won’t tell,’ I whisper, realising that the bottle of wine is probably worth more than all my worldly goods put together As much as ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley and his aristo way of life is anathema to me, I have to admit that there are some perks to falling for the ‘black sheep’ of the family.
There’s a space cleared on one of the tables in t
he room that’s normally covered with tools and clockwork bits. It looks antique – oak with carved legs. He’s set around it a couple of French chairs with mismatched upholstery. ‘I found this table and the chairs in a skip,’ he says, noticing my interest. ‘I had to fix a few wobbles, glue some of the struts back on, and French polish the top, but I just can’t believe some of the things that people throw away!’
‘Beautiful,’ I say appreciatively, referring not just to the table, but also to his long, deft fingers as he removes the cork from the bottle and pours the wine into two cut-crystal glasses. We clink glasses and the wine goes down as smooth as butter. The pizzas arrive, and we eat them straight from the box, talking and laughing. Despite whatever we may be about to find out about our families and their past, I feel happy just being within him. There’s a definite something fizzing in the air between us. Every cell in my body is on high alert, just waiting for our fingers to touch as we both reach for the bottle to pour more wine, and I feel his leg brush against mine under the table.
We finish the pizzas and he removes the boxes. ‘Let’s start the show,’ he says, standing up to get the projector ready.
‘I guess we should.’ Suddenly, I’m apprehensive. We’ve been having such a lovely time, but what might the films reveal to spoil everything? Am I ready to face whatever they contain?
He brings the bottle and our glasses and sets them down on a table next to a worn blue crushed-velvet sofa with a carved wooden frame.
‘Did you find that in a skip too?’ I indicate the sofa.
‘No.’ He smiles. ‘That’s a nineteenth-century Louis XV divan that once belonged to the Queen Mother at Sandringham.’
I punch him playfully in the arm. He grabs me and pulls me close, kissing me everywhere on my face except my lips. My whole body sizzles like a firework.
He touches a finger to my lips. ‘Hold that thought until later,’ he says, stepping back reluctantly. ‘Or else these film strips will never get watched.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ I sit down on the sofa and pour each of us another glass of wine.
Chris goes to the projector and flips it on. The fan begins to hum, and a bright light projects onto a white area on the wall opposite the sofa. He takes the first reel of film out of the canister and places it on the front reel, threading the loose end of cellulose through a smaller reel at the back. Finally, he flicks a switch on the wall and the other lights dim in the workshop.
‘Okay,’ he says, ‘ready to roll.’
‘Now or never.’ I take a sip of wine to strengthen my resolve.
The white wall flickers with black and grey lines as the projector continues to hum and click. Chris turns a few knobs, adjusting the focus. As the images begin to appear on the wall, he sits down beside me, his warm solidity a buffer against whatever might be coming.
The film is mostly shots of a family playing tennis in a garden, and having a picnic by the river. There’s no sound, but it’s obvious that they’re enjoying themselves, laughing and horsing around. The images then shift to another family by the seaside – playing cricket; building a sandcastle that gets washed away by a rogue wave. My heart begins to droop. As much as I’m glad there’s nothing incriminating, I’m also no closer to the truth. Are all the reels just someone’s home movies – people I don’t even recognise?
We watch the film to the end. The final frames are grainy and white. The images sputter out and the projector gives a high-pitched whine and seems to shut off.
‘It’s not broken, is it?’ I say, sitting forward.
Chris gives the stand a kick. It hums back to life. ‘All systems go,’ he assures me.
The next reel shows an urban street. A group of children are standing around a one-legged man playing an accordion. Two girls toss him money, and one boy seems to be jeering at him. The impromptu ‘concert’ continues. I snuggle closer to Chris on the sofa toying with the chain of the locket and the tiny gold key. If I’m not going to learn anything, then I may as well enjoy his company.
The reel ends with a group of uniformed men launching something large and metallic into the sky.
‘What is it, do you think?’ Chris asks, his hand distractingly caressing my leg.
I remember something I’d seen on TV. ‘I think it’s a barrage balloon. To ward off enemy planes.’
‘Ah. Clever girl.’ His hand moves higher.
By the end of the reel, I have very little appetite to watch anymore. But in an act of delicious torture, Chris gets up and puts on the next film.
This time, the frames are much darker – it must be night. There are a few shops in a terrace, and in the middle, a building that’s totally collapsed. Someone runs in front of the camera. I sit forward now, my attention on the screen. More people run into the frame and past where the cameraman’s standing. A woman desperately drags three children by the hand, chivvying them along. An old man limps swiftly by, carrying a cat in his arms. Then, a policeman goes past, herding stragglers. And then, the screen goes black – something has fallen from the sky obliterating everything. I gasp, certain that the film will end there. But a moment later, the images resume, shaky now and blurry with dust. A man is rolling on the ground, his coat on fire. There are dark objects on the ground – bodies. I concentrate on Chris’s hand on mine – sitting here now, I know I’m safe. But seeing the suffering before my eyes, I feel anything but.
‘We don’t have to watch this,’ Chris whispers.
I shake my head. Whatever these films show – or don’t show – I know that I do need to watch them. That sixty years later, Chris and I are witnesses – maybe the only witnesses – to the last moments of these people’s lives.
The images flicker off and back on again. This time, the camera is in a moving vehicle, racing past burning and ruined buildings at breakneck speed. The image is jerky and dizzying. The vehicle stops. The camera follows as two men in paramedic uniforms come into view. The vehicle must be an ambulance.
One of the men turns towards the camera and I jump to my feet. ‘That’s Frank Bolton.’ I point at the fuzzy image.
‘Which one?’ Chris says.
‘The one with the sandy hair.’
I watch rapt as Frank Bolton goes over to a body writhing on the ground. He checks the pulse and shouts to his colleague. Together, the two men lift the casualty onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance. Then Frank and the other men seem to be having some kind of discussion – a disagreement, maybe. Frank points at the bombed-out terrace where there are other bodies lying. The other man shrugs and gets back into the driver’s seat. The ambulance roars off, leaving Frank and the cameraman. I perch back down on the edge of the sofa barely able to breathe. The camera stays put as Frank checks each body for a pulse. He looks back at the camera and shakes his head. Then he looks up at the sky. In the light of the burning buildings all around, something on the screen begins to glisten.
‘It’s snowing!’ Chris says. ‘Look.’
I watch as Frank signals for the camera to follow him. He’s clearly seen or heard something. Frank rushes towards something at the edge of the screen – a pile of debris. All of a sudden, a small girl crawls out from under the rubble, the building around her half-collapsed. She looks up at the sky and sticks out her tongue, catching the first snowflakes of winter.
‘It’s her – it’s Catherine!’ I stare at the flickering darkness, captivated and heartbroken by this moment of tragedy – and hope. Frank goes up to the girl, takes off his uniform jacket, and puts it around her shoulders. She points back to the rubble and Frank goes over to investigate. There’s someone lying there – a woman – her torso is partially obscured by a large timber that’s lying on top of her. The girl bends over her as Frank Bolton checks her pulse and shakes his head. There’s a long moment as the woman appears to speak to the girl and hands her something. The object flashes bright for a split second.
‘Look!’ I exclaim. ‘It’s the locket!’ I grip the lozenge-shaped piece of silver around m
y neck. Chris’s hand clasps over mine. The screen goes white with black and grey lines as the end of the film flicks around the turning reel.
For a long second, neither of us move. The cogs in my mind whirl trying to make sense of what I’ve seen. Frank Bolton – not Hal Dawkins – rescuing young Catherine. All there in flickering, irrefutable black and white. Chris rises from the sofa and rewinds the film reel. The fan continues to run noisily.
‘So what does it mean?’ he says.
‘I think it means that the diary entries are fakes.’ I stare at the white wall. ‘Either that, or everyone’s mistaken as to who kept the diary. My grandmother and Mrs Edwards said it was Hal Dawkins’s diary. But maybe they were wrong.’
‘What made them think that?’
‘An inscription inside the front cover. It said Diary of Hal “Badger” Dawkins.’ My brain hurts from trying to make sense of it all.
‘But we already know that there was funny business going on,’ Chris reminds me. ‘Whoever sent the entries could have engaged in a little “misdirection”.’
‘But why? I can’t see Sally Edwards doing it.’
‘We’d better watch the other reels,’ Chris says. ‘Maybe the film tells more of the story.’
‘Yes, let’s.’ I feel shaken to the core, but I have to see this through.
Chris puts on the next reel, and we both lean forward watching with rapt interest. The image is shaky and distant, as if the photographer was trying to stay out of sight. A person in a woman’s fur coat is climbing down a ladder. The light catches the flash of jewellery on her wrists and fingers.
A man steps out of the shadows. ‘Look!’ I grab Chris’s arm. The man goes up to the woman – they’re clearly arguing. A second later, the woman draws a blade.
Finding Secrets Page 28