Chapter 21
Unable to get a reply from his phone, Cesca drove up to Silver Hill House to find Will walking the boundary wall of the gardens, head bowed as if looking for something.
‘Morning!’ she called, jogging to catch up from the main gates where she’d left her car.
His head whipped up. ‘Cesca!’ he replied. ‘I didn’t expect to see you today. Is there a problem?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she said. ‘Have you lost something?’
‘Me?’ He frowned.
‘You looked as if you were searching along the wall.’
‘Oh, Lord, no. I’m checking for damage to the brickwork. Well, I know there’s damage, but I’m checking to see if my walls will fall down this summer or whether they might hold until next. Some blasted boy racer lost control on the bend and ploughed into it last month but I haven’t had the time or money to do anything about it yet.’
‘Was it serious?’
‘I think he earned himself a surgical collar and a reduction in his no-claims bonus, but he survived. He fared better than my ancient wall anyway, but he was probably infinitely sturdier to begin with.’
Cesca couldn’t help a smile.
‘Are you alone?’ he asked, glancing towards where her car was parked. ‘Where’s your Dr Watson today?’
‘Kristofer? He’s not with me, no.’
‘Ah, good. I mean… I didn’t mean good, obviously, I simply meant good as in OK.’
‘I know what you meant,’ Cesca said, her smile widening. ‘Have you got five minutes to spare?’
‘Now?’
‘If you can manage it. If not I can arrange to come back—’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come inside or is this an interview that can be conducted at the roadside?’
‘I can come in,’ she said. ‘It might be helpful to sit somewhere a bit quieter and more private.’
She followed as he strode to the gate, digging in his pocket for the enormous bunch of keys that seemed to hold one for every door of his sprawling house. Unlocking the gate, he swung it open for her.
‘Would you like to bring your car in?’ he asked.
‘It would be a good idea, if only to make sure your boy racer doesn’t come back and write it off.’
She caught a brief smile as she climbed back into her car then parked it on the driveway. When she got out, he was already locking the gate behind them.
‘You can never be too careful,’ he said in answer to her raised eyebrows.
‘Do the villagers come over the hill with pitchforks and flaming torches often?’ she asked.
‘Not so often these days.’ He shot her that quick half-smile again. ‘But people are aware that Silver Hill House might have one or two antiques worth breaking in for. I don’t want to make it an easier target than it already is.’
‘That’s what I’ve come to see you about, actually,’ Cesca said as she followed him up the driveway. He branched off, and instead of aiming for the grand front entrance, led her to a discreet door at the side of the house.
‘I’m afraid you’ve quite lost me now,’ he replied, opening the door for her.
‘We’ve stumbled across an interesting development concerning the ring you showed me in the family portrait – the one that was also found with the other jewellery at Silver Hill Farm.’
‘So you believe it belongs to my family?’
‘I think it once belonged to your family. You said the thief was named Martin Frizzell?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Kristofer found a file online – a scanned diary entry from journals kept by a man named Samuel Smith around the time Martin Frizzell worked for your family. It was on some obscure history website documenting all sorts of ephemera from the Dorset and Hampshire area. But the point is the entry specifically mentions a case at the Dorchester courts where Frizzell was accused of the theft of a gold and ruby-inlaid ring. That sounds like yours, doesn’t it?’
By now they’d reached Will’s sitting room, and he gestured for her to take a seat.
‘So you have proof that the goods were stolen from Silver Hill House?’
‘Not exactly. It only mentions the ring, but I think the reason the case was documented by the diarist amongst all the dozens of cases he must have seen at the court that day was that the owner of the ring – one Lord Frampton – appeared during the proceedings. Frizzell had been claiming that the ring had been given to him by Lord Frampton, whom he’d been working for at the time of his arrest.’ She paused. ‘Lord Frampton corroborated his story. He told the court that he had indeed gifted the ring to Frizzell and it led to his release.’
Will stared at Cesca.
‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ she said. ‘It’s difficult to know how much faith we can place in the report, but it’s interesting, don’t you think?’
He shook his head. ‘I never imagined it was true.’
‘What was true? Did you know about this?’
‘It was an old family story… one of those tales that get exaggerated and distorted over time so that everyone tells it but nobody really believes it. The William Frampton of the painting was supposed to have fallen in love with one of the girls in his service. She became ill, and she needed a doctor. There was nothing he could do to help that wouldn’t provoke scandal. Even when her father – who was also in his service and who learned about the affair when she confessed it to him – begged for help. So the father stole one of William’s rings and tried to sell it to get the money for his daughter. He was caught and marched back to the house to be dealt with. The official version was that he stole much more than just the ring but he never confessed to the location of any of it.
‘But my grandmother said there was a different story, where William gifted the ring to the servant, recognising how desperate he’d been to save his daughter and knowing that the money it would sell for would buy her the medical care she needed.’
‘What about the rest of the missing jewellery?’
He stood up and made his way to an old drinks cabinet. Inside it was stashed a mini fridge and he pulled out two cans of cola. ‘Would you like one?’
Cesca smiled slightly. He was full of surprises. ‘Thanks,’ she said, reaching to take it from him. He cracked his own can open with a thoughtful expression.
‘I had assumed that the official version was the true one, and that the rest of the jewels had been taken with the ring.’
‘But it was all found with the ring at Silver Hill Farm,’ Cesca said. ‘So it must have been stolen at the same time. Unless this is a different ring to the one mentioned in the Dorchester account, though it seems unlikely there’d be two.’
‘I honestly have no idea what to make of it.’
‘The problem is, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to work out how I can prove that the rest of it is yours. We have a painting showing the ring, and this account, which only mentions the ring but none of the other jewellery. For all we know, the ring could have been gifted to someone who was a little bit of a canny magpie and somehow managed to stockpile a load of other precious trinkets that got buried with it. The whole lot could even have belonged to a passing dealer who’d bought the ring from the servant. We just don’t have enough to go on. That’s why I came over; I was sort of hoping you’d be able to shed some light on it.’
‘And I seem to have made it murkier,’ he said with a wry smile.
‘Kristofer is doing some more digging,’ Cesca said, sipping her drink. ‘Perhaps he’ll turn up more clues. And I’ve put in a request to go and see the find so I can take another good look at it. It’s being professionally cleaned at the moment; when it’s done there may be some identifying markers that will link it to your ancestors.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate your persistence in the matter. It must be tempting to declare it treasure trove and go through the usual channels to reward the finder.’
‘It would certainly be easier, but my conscie
nce wouldn’t allow it. I have to admit that if I don’t get somewhere with the investigation soon, however, it’ll have to go to a commission at the British Museum to decide and that will be completely out of my hands. But I won’t send it there unless I must – I’m too stubborn to give up on a mystery. Besides, a bit of me hopes we can prove it’s yours…’
Cesca stopped. Had she said too much? Probably, but it was out now and there was no taking it back.
‘I mean,’ she added hastily, ‘because I feel strongly that it would be instrumental in renovating Silver Hill House and, as you can imagine, preservation of our nation’s heritage is very important to me.’
‘Naturally.’
‘But,’ she said, collecting herself, ‘no more secrets. It doesn’t help when you hold information back.’
‘Absolutely. I am deeply sorry that I didn’t tell you this story before but I had no idea it would be important.’
‘Anything can be important.’
‘Of course. I’ll remember that.’
‘So…’ She raised her eyebrows and gave him a meaningful look. ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me that you didn’t think was important?’
‘The moment it springs to mind I will utter it.’
‘Good.’ Cesca held out her Coke can. ‘I’ll let you get on,’ she said, standing up as he took it from her.
He went to the door to open it for her, but then paused with his hand on the knob. ‘It’s probably highly irregular,’ he said, and for the first time since Cesca had met him he sounded… if she hadn’t known better, she’d have said he sounded nervous. ‘I expect there’s some professional code forbidding it…’ he continued, ‘but I’m about to cook my lunch, and there’s enough for two. That is, should you be peckish…’
He stopped talking and stared forlornly at her before he let out a breath that sounded as if he’d been holding it for hours.
‘It would be a good opportunity to discuss the case a bit more,’ she said, trying to sound cool and casual, but her pulse was suddenly racing at twice its usual speed. What was this? Was he asking her on a date? It seemed so unlikely, such an unexpected thing for him to do, and yet it was the most obvious explanation. ‘I’m sure in that capacity it would be acceptable.’
‘Marvellous,’ he said. ‘Would you care to keep me company in the kitchen while I make a start?’
‘Love to,’ she said, feeling slightly dazed as she followed him down the hall.
* * *
Hangover, sleep deprivation, no Pip, no Shay, and the busiest weekday the Silver Hill Tearoom had seen in weeks; it was no wonder Harper was feeling less than her best as she struggled to deal with the steady stream of customers. In fact, she’d had to close the petting zoo, something that she hated to do, but with nobody on hand for any emergency that might occur, it simply wasn’t safe to open it. Luckily, most of her customers today were adults who weren’t too distressed by the idea that they couldn’t nuzzle with Terence and his pals. In fact, plenty of them had noticed that she was working alone and had sweetly offered little moments of assistance, like clearing their tables themselves and leaving the debris on the counter for her and fetching their own teas as she set them out to bring over. Thank goodness there were still nice people in the world. But it was still hectic and by four o’clock Harper was ready to close. By rights she had another half hour to work, but as the tearoom gradually emptied, she didn’t see that she’d lose too much by sneaking off a little early.
It was as she went to the main doors with her keys that he walked in. She’d seen him wander across the car park, hands deep in the pockets of his combat trousers, a smile on his face as he spotted her through the glass.
‘Kristofer…’ Harper glanced behind him, expecting to see Cesca following. ‘You’re on your own today?’
‘Yes. I was hoping to talk to you. Do you have time?’
‘Well… I was just about to close actually.’
‘Oh.’
‘Only it’s been a hell of a day and I’m exhausted.’
His smile faded, and he looked ridiculously like a little boy who’d presented his crayoned work of art to the teacher to be told she was simply too busy to look at it.
‘I suppose I could spare half an hour. I’ll be closed anyway and I’d only be drinking tea on my own so I might as well be drinking it with you.’
‘You’re sure it will be no trouble?’
‘No, of course not. Come on in and take a seat while I lock up.’
‘Why are you alone?’ he asked as he settled at a table.
‘Pip is in London… You remember last time you came and we had to rush you off – sorry about that, by the way – but she’d had some pretty earth-shattering news. She’s there now taking care of it.’
‘Not bad, I hope.’
‘No, quite good, I think. But she’s away for the whole week. I was supposed to have Shay helping out but he’s been called away on a building job so…’
‘Oh. Not good.’
‘Not good at all. I might have to try and get help from the village but I wouldn’t have been able to get it at short notice this morning. It might be difficult to get it for this week at all, and I’m banking on Pip being back next week, so I’m not sure it’s even worth it now.’
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
Harper shot him a grateful smile. ‘I don’t think so, though it’s sweet of you to offer. Most of it is stuff that you need to know how to do and by the time I’d shown you I could have done it myself.’ She untied her apron and draped it over the counter. ‘But I’m not doing anything more now until I’ve had a hot drink and a sit-down, so you’re more than welcome to join me for that. Although I might fall asleep in ten minutes so please don’t be offended if I start to snore at the table.’
He smiled. ‘I won’t.’
‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked, going to the sink.
‘I will drink either.’
‘And help yourself to a cake from the counter,’ she added as she placed cups on a tray. ‘They’re leftover and I’ll only have to throw them away if they don’t get eaten. In fact, help yourself to as many as you like.’
She heard the scrape of a chair and turned to find him already perusing the glass shelves. ‘They look so good,’ he said.
‘I get them from a bakery in a neighbouring village. It’s a bit further out but they deliver and really they’re far better than anything I could make.’
Harper bit back a grin as she saw him balance a chunk of carrot cake, a square of shortbread, a sugared doughnut and two cinnamon rolls onto his plate before taking them back to the table. Somebody liked cake. It all added to the bizarre and somewhat intriguing juxtaposition of this Herculean Adonis of a man who had the most adorable childlike sweetness about him. She took the last piece of shortbread for herself and placed it on the tray with the cups and a large teapot.
‘So,’ she began as she poured the tea, ‘what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘We didn’t have time to finish our talk,’ he said through a mouthful of doughnut. ‘I was hoping to learn more of what you know about the farm. Were you told anything of its history when you bought it? Have you found anything else strange since you arrived?’
‘To be honest, it’s all a bit dull. Sorry to disappoint you. There are no bumps in the night, no secret tunnels, no priest holes, not even an old abandoned rocking chair in the loft. The spookiest thing I can offer is a little colony of bats in the roof, which we’ve been told we have to leave well alone.’
‘I like bats,’ he said.
‘I must admit I quite like them too,’ Harper said. ‘Shay doesn’t – it drives him mad that he can’t get rid of them.’
‘Shay is your husband?’
‘Not yet. We’re engaged to be married.’
‘Congratulations.’
She waved his comment away, still too vexed about Shay’s disappearance that morning to acknowledge that any sort of congratulations were in order fo
r her upcoming nuptials. Not that she would have had time to talk anyway, but he hadn’t even bothered to phone or text to see how she was getting on.
‘Do you know how old the farm is?’ he asked.
‘The original sections of the building are very old, I think, certainly predating most of the other houses around here and a good deal of the structure of Silver Hill House, though they seem to have been connected for many years – at least by name if nothing else. I think Cesca said the farmhouse was standing when our infamous box was buried in the grounds, so I suppose whoever lived here might have known about it, even if they didn’t put it there.’
Kristofer rammed a large chunk of cinnamon roll into his mouth and reached into his trouser pocket for his leather-bound notebook and a pen.
‘Are you happy for me to take notes?’ he asked.
‘I don’t see why not. Cesca says you’re a writer.’
He looked up from his frantic scribbling. ‘Yes.’
‘So what’s your angle here, then? Is this for a news story, or are you just interested?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’d like to follow events as they unfold, and then perhaps I’ll write a novel based on them.’
‘You’re not going to put me in it, are you?’
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘Not if you don’t want me to. I can easily make any characters I want. Your story is just inspiration. I can manipulate the facts into fiction and nobody will know where the tale came from.’
‘Isn’t that what most newspaper stories do?’ Harper asked with a wry smile. ‘At least four of the journalists who came here to cover the find wrote that Pip and I were partners in more than the business sense, despite us telling them we weren’t. Some of them decided that I’d been born on the farm and almost all got mine or Pip’s name wrong. In the end, I just gave up reading the articles.’
‘They must have so many stories to write so quickly, I guess they get the facts mixed up.’
‘I suppose so. Have you ever written for a newspaper?’
‘I’d find journalism too constricting. I like my imagination to fly whenever and wherever it wants to, not to be told to go to this meeting or that parade or crime scene and write what is there. My stories steal into my brain and nest. They grow quietly in the darkness until they have beautiful wings and then I let them fly for all the world to see.’
The Summer of Secrets: A feel-good romance novel perfect for holiday reading Page 18