Despite the faded grandeur of this room, the aspect and view through the windows meant it was still magnificent, and Harper felt her breath catch as she gazed around. It was enormous, with an elaborate stone fireplace big enough for her, and possibly Pip, to camp out in. A gilt mirror took up half the wall above it, and various ancient portraits filled the other walls. A huge couch dominated the space in front of the fire, a threadbare but clearly expensive Persian rug in front of it, oversized vases sitting on oversized tables and cabinets along the walls. Against one wall rested the only concession to modernity: a sixty-inch flatscreen TV and DVD player along with a bookshelf that was now filled with DVDs.
Harper glanced around, standing awkwardly next to Pip at the doorway. Will hadn’t asked them to sit, and she would no more plonk herself on the sofa here uninvited as she would perch on top of the Elgin Marbles at the British Museum.
It had the feel of one of those places she’d wandered with her parents as a child, those endless rooms in stuffy stately homes that they’d visited on wet weekends, complete with wax replicas of servants who had once worked there and the gentry that had died in the beds. But then, she supposed, this was exactly what she was proposing Will turn his own house into. Looking at it that way, maybe she’d rather live in a wreck than turn it into a living museum for bored kids to yawn their way around week in and week out.
‘You can come in,’ Will said with a faint smile. ‘And you have permission to speak.’
Harper forced the tension from her shoulders and tried to smile back. ‘I’m sorry… it’s just…’
‘Your house is so big,’ Pip said. ‘It’s hard to imagine you living here alone all the time.’
‘I like it,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’ll do anything to keep it.’
‘The jewellery,’ Harper said, taking a tentative step into the room, Pip following.
‘Yes.’ He crossed the room and pointed to a painting. ‘This is the first William Frampton. And this, on his finger… I think you may recognise it?’
Harper shook her head. ‘To be honest I don’t. I’m assuming it’s part of the haul?’
He nodded.
‘Only we didn’t look at it properly,’ Pip said. ‘Harper didn’t want to touch it, did you, Harper? Didn’t want anything to do with it.’
Will turned sharply to Harper. ‘Why not?’
Harper gave a vague shrug. ‘I don’t really know. I couldn’t bring myself to handle it. Something about it… felt like bad news.’
‘There was a story that it was cursed. Amongst the villagers after it had been stolen. Superstitious rubbish, of course.’
‘Obviously,’ Pip agreed. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd, though?’ she continued. ‘That the thief didn’t take his haul but left it buried on the farm?’
‘I suppose some misfortune must have befallen him and he abandoned it, or was prevented from retrieving it. As I said before, they were superstitious times. Perhaps he hoped the curse would be buried if the gold was.’
‘But you don’t believe any of it?’ Pip asked him.
‘Absolute poppycock. As far as I’m aware, generations of the Frampton family lived quite happily owning it with no disaster befalling them – at least, nothing that could be attributed directly to anything but life’s usual disasters.’
‘Say some of it was cursed—’ Pip began.
‘It isn’t,’ Will interrupted.
‘But say it was,’ Pip pressed. ‘Would that make any proceeds from the sale of it cursed too?’
Harper raised an eyebrow at her friend. She was usually the superstitious one, the one who was always slightly spooked by the thought of things she couldn’t see or understand. Pip was the pragmatist, the girl who rolled her sleeves up and got on with things, who walked under ladders and opened umbrellas indoors.
‘That’s a very abstract question,’ Will said, a tone of amusement in his voice.
Pip shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose any curse could make things worse for you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The softness in Will’s tone had gone as he eyed Pip keenly.
‘She only means the house…’ Harper put in awkwardly. ‘You need a lot of work here and I’m assuming that not having had it done means you can’t afford to. Pip means that, cursed or not, you’d probably risk it. We’re right, aren’t we? That’s why you came to see us? That’s why this find means so much to you?’
‘Ah…’ Will shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes now trained on the windows. ‘The direct approach. It’s always been my preferred negotiation tactic.’ He turned to look Harper squarely in the eye. ‘What is it you want?’
‘We don’t want anything,’ Harper said, glancing at Pip uncertainly. ‘It’s like I said before – we wanted to come and find out the rest of the story, what you were telling me at the farm. And I suppose we wanted to see where you lived… Though that’s more nosiness on our part than anything else…’ She gave a slight smile, and she saw Will’s expression relax.
‘If it’s a tour you want, I’m afraid that’s not something I do for members of the public.’
‘Could you do it for friends?’ Harper asked.
Will studied her for a moment, thought processes going on behind those dark eyes that he was not giving away.
‘Are we friends?’ he asked finally.
‘We could be. If you wanted,’ Harper replied.
He was silent again. But then he gave a short nod.
‘Follow me, and please take care on the rotten flooring in the west wing.’
* * *
Pip blew on a coffee, peering over the rim of her cup at Harper as they sat in the now empty tearoom. The sun had been setting as they drove home from Silver Hill House, and now the last of it blushed the sky above the treetops, flooding their glass room with rose-gold light.
‘What do you think?’
‘I want to believe him,’ Harper said slowly, swirling a biscotti into the foam on her cappuccino. ‘In fact, I quite like him.’
‘Like him?’ Pip raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m gay and even I could see he was a regular Mr Darcy.’
‘Not that kind of like,’ Harper chided with a faint smile.
‘Not even a bit?’
‘No. Besides, I’m engaged – remember?’
Pip took another sip of her drink. If she hadn’t known better, Harper would have thought it was to save her having to reply.
‘I think he seems decent,’ Harper continued. ‘And I think that although people see this privileged member of the elite, he’s not really that at all. I mean, he is… but that doesn’t mean he’s had a happy life. In fact, I think he’s had a shitty life, and he’s living alone in that rotting pile every day – no wonder he’s dour.’
‘There’s definitely a sense of humour bursting to break free,’ Pip said.
‘You’re right about that. It’s a shame; I feel sorry for him. I think he could have turned out very differently if life had dealt him a better hand.’
‘Does that mean we’re going to give him the money?’
‘If what he says is true, and it’s proved, then it will be his anyway. And it might not come to either of us yet. Nobody knows how it will go, and we still have to wait for Francesca’s report before we have the faintest inkling.’
‘It’s going to be very hard to prove ownership.’
‘Probably. But she has lots of resources at her disposal. I’m sure she does this sort of thing all the time. Probably have the report in a jiffy.’
‘You’re right.’ Pip let out a yawn and stretched her arms. ‘I’m too tired to worry about it right now. All we can do is wait to see what she turns up. I’m sure she’s got everything under control.’
Chapter 11
Dead ends. Every new clue turned up more questions than answers. Cesca tossed the document onto the desk and rubbed at her temples. Everyone was expecting her to have the answers, to have the information that would potentially change someone’s life – not to mention that it was her job to k
now this stuff. The coroner’s office was waiting for a report that she simply couldn’t finish. She was experienced, she was educated to the teeth and she was hardly a novice when it came to archaeological finds, but the projects she’d worked on before were different – often she’d been part of a team, involved in a large official dig with tons of academic resources and state-of-the-art equipment at her disposal. Since she’d been in post here at the museum, there’d been just her and Duncan – and usually a box of doughnuts – and precious little to investigate other than the odd clay pot unearthed by a local primary school.
The find at Silver Hill Farm was hugely complicated by the fact that much of the documentation that would have helped her was domestic – probably lost somewhere in the cavernous rooms of Silver Hill House – and, so far, Will hadn’t been able to find anything (or so he said, though she had to wonder how hard he’d tried). She had parish records, but they wouldn’t contain portable property details, sections of various local inventories, even order books for the suppliers to the Frampton family. None of it mentioned the precious jewels that had allegedly been stolen from Silver Hill House. The only mention of the alleged perpetrator she could find was his name on a list of servants and their pay: one Martin Frizzell of Cerne Hay village, forty-three years old, a widower of the parish. There was no way they could prove he was the thief, or that the gold had been stolen at all.
There were a million other jobs screaming for her attention too: everyday duties around the museum; queries about other finds; emails from various curators around the country needing her expertise on this find or that period; school teachers desperate for an hour’s respite in the form of a visit where they could dump their classes in the museum for an afternoon and make them someone else’s problem; questions from research students and historical authors; unanswered calls from planning departments wanting information on ancient land disputes. The list went on. Some of the things she ended up dealing with weren’t even in her jurisdiction, and many of them ended up going home with her at night. She wasn’t complaining – this was the job she’d worked for and dreamed of – but sometimes it just didn’t feel as Indiana Jones as she had imagined it would be. She used to sit and watch archaeology shows on TV with Paolo, point and laugh at the presenters as they leapt about in chunky jumpers hyperventilating about trenches and bits of Roman cow bones. Working in history for real was rarely like that, and she’d only laughed because she sometimes wished it were.
Reaching for the lamp, ready to switch it off and finally head home, her gaze fell on a yellow Post-it note left for her by Duncan earlier that day; a name and number hastily scribbled over a coffee-cup ring.
Kristofer Bakke. Local enthusiast. Wants to help with Silver Hill find.
In typical Duncan fashion, Cesca couldn’t make out whether the eight in the phone number was a six, or whether the one was a seven. She held it up to the lamp for a better look and then glanced at her watch. Just gone nine. If she phoned Mr Bakke now she might end up stuck with him for ages. Local enthusiasts tended to be very enthusiastic and it would be nice to get home from work before it was time to come back in again. She was tired and feeling overwhelmed right now, and she might agree to something that would look like a far worse idea in the morning. Accepting help from members of the public wasn’t ideal and was something she generally avoided. But sometimes they turned out to be little gems and God knew she needed a little gem right now. Perhaps Mr Bakke would be one of those. Then again, perhaps he would turn out to be an anorak-clad nutter.
Sticking the note to her computer monitor so she wouldn’t forget to reappraise the situation in the morning, she switched off her light and headed for home.
* * *
Harper was restocking a rack of locally made biscuits and sweets when Pip called her from the windows.
‘Shay’s just pulled up in his van. He’s early, isn’t he?’
Harper glanced up at the clock. It was barely seven. Though they’d gone to bed shortly after visiting Will Frampton the night before, Harper had still been bleary-eyed when the alarm had gone off that morning. She wasn’t much better now, and half wondered if she’d forgotten some arrangement she’d made with Shay.
‘A bit,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I don’t really know why he’s come over at this time of the morning, because he was here when Cesca told us we can’t do a lot of work to the foundations of the holiday lets until the museum has checked the rest of the ground for any more artefacts. Unless he has a very short memory.’
‘Or unless he’s come to sweep you off your feet and whisk you away to a surprise holiday in Barbados.’
Harper grinned. ‘Oh yeah, and leave you here alone to deal with the crowds of marauding tourists beating down our doors for scones and jam? Anyway, Shay might be many things, but hopeless romantic isn’t one of them.’
‘It’s one of the many reasons you love him,’ Pip teased.
‘Actually, it is. I don’t need romance at this point in my life – romance inevitably leads to boredom and resentment when the reality doesn’t live up to the dream. What I need is stability and a strong constitution, and my man has both of those qualities in bucketloads. Plus he has biceps that would shame Popeye. So you can stop your laughing and get mopping because I win.’
‘Yes, boss!’ Pip chuckled as Harper crossed to the conservatory doors to let Shay in. But Harper’s bright smile faded as he stepped over the threshold, his expression stony.
‘Morning!’ Pip called.
Shay grunted a reply before turning on Harper.
‘Please tell me you didn’t go up to see Frampton last night.’
‘Who told you that?’ Harper asked, her stomach lurching. She had no reason to be worried, and had no need to offer an explanation; what she did in her own time and who she visited was her business. So why did she suddenly feel so guilty?
‘Does it matter? We live in a small community and people find stuff out. The point is – is it true? Did you go up there?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see—’
‘Why did you do that?’ he cut in. ‘I thought I’d told you—’
‘Whoa! Hang on there!’ Pip shouted from across the café. ‘There’s no need to go off on one! It’s got nothing to do with you…’
‘It’s got everything to do with me and you can keep your fat nose out!’ Shay growled.
‘Don’t talk to her like that!’ Harper cried.
Shay took Harper by the elbow and walked her out through the conservatory doors. Her breath rose in clouds into the chilled air of the early morning, the sharp drop in temperature making her shiver.
‘Why did you go up there?’ he asked, closing the door behind him to leave a scowling Pip watching them from inside.
‘Because I don’t like being told what to believe,’ she replied stubbornly. ‘I wanted to see for myself what kind of man he was and what his situation was.’
‘And he’s talked you into giving him the money?’
‘There is no money! Everyone is obsessed with money that doesn’t even exist!’
‘Not yet, but if he’s sniffing around then you can bet there’s a good chance there will be.’
‘As far as I can tell, he’s not the only one sniffing around at the first sign of a bit of cash.’
The muscles of Shay’s jaw tightened. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Why don’t you work it out?’
‘Me?’ He jabbed a finger into his own chest. ‘You think I’m after it?’
‘You seem more than a bit preoccupied with it.’
‘I’m looking out for you because you’re too stupid and gullible to look out for yourself!’
Harper folded her arms tight. Her tone was ice. ‘Stupid and gullible?’
‘You know I didn’t mean that.’
‘Then what did you mean?’
‘I meant… It doesn’t matter. This is stupid. What did you tell him?’
‘Will?’
‘Oh… Will, is it? Pally…’
/>
Harper clicked her tongue. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Two adults of the opposite sex can get along without it becoming sex you know.’
‘Fine… what did you tell him?’
‘None of your business.’ Harper held his gaze. Belligerence was only going to make things worse, but there was a part of her that wouldn’t back down. Not when she’d spent so many years before backing down to a man who’d used her natural tolerance only to stamp her further into the ground.
‘You told him he could have the money.’
‘There is no money!’ Harper cried. ‘For the love of God, get that into your head! And if there was any, the chances are it does belong to his family. In that case, yes, I would probably let him have it.’
‘I bet he was all charm and sob stories.’ Shay ground his toe into a heap of overturned soil. He looked up at Harper, his expression filled with a contempt she’d never witnessed before – contempt that was aimed at her. ‘He’s taking you for a mug.’
‘Why do you hate him so much?’
‘Do you want a list?’
‘I’d like a clue to be going on with. Because all I’m getting right now is rage and irrational dislike. They’re not traits that suit you.’
‘His dad was a waster, his mum is an inbred nutjob, his brother is in jail and he swans around the place like he owns the entire county. He has no time for the community and contributes nothing to it.’
‘And you hate him so much because of those things? Why are they affecting you so strongly? I haven’t heard anyone else talk about him like you do.’
‘Behind closed doors everyone hates him.’
Harper stared at Shay. There was something he wasn’t telling her, and she didn’t like it. Other locals might have stayed out of Will Frampton’s way, they might even have distrusted him, but she’d never heard anyone condemn him in the way Shay was. There had to be more to it. She’d spoken to Will twice now, and each time, though she found him to be somewhat aloof and awkward, she felt he was someone she could warm to in time, even be friends with. Whatever his family had been and done, they didn’t have to define him, and she felt that, in time, he might even believe that himself. Everyone had the right to be judged by their own actions, not those of others that they had no control over. Will wasn’t his brother, and he wasn’t his dad. Right now, the man she was engaged to repelled her more than the man he was telling her to be wary of, and that wasn’t good.
The Summer of Secrets: A feel-good romance novel perfect for holiday reading Page 9