The Golden Cup

by Marcia Willett

  The sight of Bruno, standing in the great bow of the window and staring out to sea, filled her with an overwhelming relief. She waved to attract his attention and he raised a hand, turning back into the room as he came to meet her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Bruno had been expecting her. Ever since his telephone call to say that the letters were found he’d known that she must have been on tenterhooks but – more than that – he’d guessed that she’d be finding the deception much more difficult than even she had first imagined. He’d had all night to think about Mousie’s words: Joss will never be able to be natural with any of us from this time forward – and he wondered how she would react when he told her that Mousie knew the truth. Perhaps she had already guessed: once he’d had a moment to think about it he’d realized it could be the only solution although, for Joss’s sake, he’d invented the theory about Mutt’s cleaner finding them, not wanting to panic her until he knew the truth.

  ‘I haven’t found Goblin Market,’ she told him as soon as she entered the kitchen. ‘At least, it’s not in the bookcase in the parlour or on the shelves on the landing. I couldn’t bring myself to go into Mutt’s room. And I was afraid I might wake Mum …’

  She followed him into the sitting-room and sat down at the end of the table, wrapping her plaid more closely round her for comfort rather than warmth.

  ‘I have a feeling that it’ll be somewhere a little less obvious,’ he said calmly. ‘In the desk, perhaps, where the letters were?’

  ‘I looked there,’ she told him. ‘Very quickly because Mum kept coming in and out and then, when you telephoned, I was able to have a better chance. And now Dad’s arrived.’ She paused. ‘Where were the letters?’ she asked. ‘I couldn’t believe it.’

  He saw that she was in such a state of weariness and shock that her usual faculties had deserted her.

  ‘Mousie found them,’ he told her gently. ‘It had to be her, didn’t it, when you really think about it? Who else could have done it? She heard us talking about it when she came in and saw me bundle the stuff under the seat. Later on she remembered the scene and was afraid that the wrong person might discover whatever it was we were hiding.’ He looked compassionately at Joss’s scared face. ‘When she took them out they scattered all over the place and, without meaning to, she saw enough to puzzle her.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Joss pressed her fingers to her mouth.

  Bruno nodded. ‘Mousie was already … well, curious. You read in the letters that Mutt feared that Mousie knew something. The long and short of it is that she read the letters and now she knows the truth. And it doesn’t matter a damn to her,’ he added quickly. ‘Why should it? Oh, she feels irritated that she’s been taken in all for these years but, having read the letters, she understands Mutt’s dilemma and, as far as you and Emma are concerned, nothing’s changed at all.’

  ‘But everything’s changed,’ she cried almost angrily. ‘It’s crazy to say that.’

  ‘Look.’ He sat down at right angles to her. ‘Remember that nobody has lost out financially because of what Mutt did. On the contrary, she looked after Mousie and Rafe and kept the estate going when my grandfather died. As for me, Emma has been as close as any sister could have been, and a very good friend. Mutt probably saved my life out in India, she got me home, and between her and Emma they made up for the tragic loss I’d had. Think how lonely I would have been without them. They represented continuity and security. And you, Joss, have been as dear to me as any daughter I might have had. If it had been I who had been Mutt’s son would you feel differently about me now? Would you love me less or look upon me as a usurper? Do try not to see it purely in terms of blood and family ties.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she said miserably. ‘When Dad turned up this morning and started talking about the will before he’d been there two minutes I saw how different he is from all of you. I felt we were intruders, the three of us, sitting in the kitchen at Paradise as if it were already ours. And I thought about Mousie and Rafe … They’re such kindly people, teaching and nursing, making a difference in the community; a completely opposite approach to my father’s preoccupation with making money—’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ he interrupted. ‘Apart from the fact that the country needs people who generate wealth, let’s just think about this. To begin with Mousie and Rafe aren’t Trevannions. They descend from my grandmother’s side of the family. OK. That might make us relations but it doesn’t mean that because of some odd genetic quirk we’re all saints. What about Olivia and Joe? From what I gather, their views on making money are rather the same as Brer Fox’s, yet they’re Rafe’s children. You can’t just lump whole families together under the headings of good and bad. Your contribution and Emma’s – and certainly Mutt’s – to the Trevannion family has been just as positive as Mousie’s and Rafe’s. Who would have looked after me and the estate after Grandfather died if Mutt had simply dumped me here and disappeared? Probably some very distant Trevannion relative who’d never have let the cottages at such low rents or worried about us all staying together. Mutt kept us a family and looked after everybody the best way she could. And don’t forget that Olivia and Joe would be just as ready as Brer Fox to build a holiday complex down there in the cove if they thought it would make them some money; even if it meant dispossessing their own parents.’

  ‘Dad’s already thinking of it,’ she said sombrely. ‘I know he is. He was saying that he wanted to have a look at the will.’

  She sounded calmer, however, and Bruno watched her thoughtfully, trying to assess her state of mind, gathering up his courage.

  ‘Mousie thinks that Emma should know the truth,’ he said.

  She looked at him in distress, mutely shaking her head, but he sensed that she was too confused by this latest development to be quite so certain about it.

  ‘Her view is that the burden will be too heavy for you,’ he said, ‘and I think she’s right. She says that it’s not fair to you and that we are underestimating Emma. Mousie believes that if we were to show her the letters she’d understand, just as we have, and be able to come to terms with it all.’

  ‘I don’t agree. I think she’ll be gutted.’

  Yet her voice was less confident and it was clear that she’d begun to doubt her own judgement. As she weighed up all the complications he watched the inward struggle reflected on her face and decided on a different approach.

  ‘Seen George?’ he asked, almost as if he were changing the subject.

  ‘Oh.’ It was a cry almost of pain. ‘He came up to Paradise and told us that Penny and Tasha have gone back to New Zealand, and I simply couldn’t think of anything to say to him. Not just because Mum was there but because it was all different between us. It was impossible to respond to him in the old way. In the end Mum gave him some coffee and then he went out to split logs.’

  ‘“All different between us”,’ repeated Bruno thoughtfully. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yet you still don’t think that the truth should be told?’

  She stared at him almost fearfully. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last, ‘but, anyway, not until after the funeral. It would be so awful for Mum, dealing with Mutt’s not being here any more as well as the truth about who she is. Promise me that we’ll wait until then at least.’

  ‘OK.’ Bruno sighed, frustrated. ‘But it’s going to become very awkward if Emma finds the will and Brer Fox starts laying down the law. We must get hold of it first. Of course it might be with Mutt’s lawyer …’

  The telephone rang and he got up impatiently to answer it.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ The gravelly voice, matured by years of Sobranies and Scotch was unmistakable. ‘It’s me. Zoë. You’ll never guess where I am.’

  Bruno instinctively put his hand across the mouthpiece, thinking furiously. When he spoke to her, his voice was curt.

  ‘Wait a minute, will you? I’ve got someone with me. Hang on.’

  He placed the receiver beside the telephone and went back to the
sitting-room.

  ‘It’s Zoë,’ he told Joss. ‘Bloody awful timing but par for the course.’

  ‘I’ve got to go back, anyway.’ She got up at once. ‘They’ll all be wondering where I’ve gone and I have to see George.’

  She looked so intimidated by the prospect that he gave her a brief hug.

  ‘Courage,’ he said – and she smiled at him.

  ‘Thanks, Bruno,’ she said. ‘I wish you really were my uncle.’

  ‘Look, love,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter what the hell the labels are. Nothing has changed here.’

  She nodded, pulling her plaid about her, and he went with her to the door.

  ‘Shall I tell them you’ll be up later?’ she asked.

  He hesitated. ‘I’m not certain when,’ he warned, ‘but don’t worry. I’ll be there sometime this afternoon.’

  She nodded again, and went away, and he returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Do I hear a woman’s voice?’ Zoë sounded amused.

  ‘Joss,’ he answered briefly. ‘So where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Rock, darling.’ She sounded almost as surprised as he was. ‘Can you believe it? And at this time of the year too. I told you that Jilly and Tim bought a cottage here, remember? Apparently there were rumours of burst pipes during the cold spell so she’s driven down to check it out, although it’s quite warm here now. Anyway, London was dreary so I thought I’d go along for the ride. How about I come over for lunch?’

  Bruno closed his eyes in despair. His two worlds, the real and the imagined, had not only collided they’d crashed together with such force that they were now flying apart and disintegrating around him.

  ‘The timing isn’t good,’ he said with difficulty. ‘Mutt died in the early hours of Tuesday morning and … well, you can imagine the rest.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry.’ She sounded it too. ‘Fancy old Mutt gone! I had a lot of time for her, actually.’ A tiny pause. ‘When is the funeral?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ He felt edgy, suspicious. ‘Probably early next week. Emma’s down and Brer Fox has just arrived. There’s an awful lot to sort out.’

  ‘I’m not sure how long Jilly’s staying,’ her voice was thoughtful, ‘but I’d really like to see you, darling. Especially now. Look, I can be with you in half an hour and I won’t keep you long.’ A pause – then her voice altered. ‘Are you writing?’

  He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Are you kidding?’

  She chuckled. ‘Poor darling. Has reality kicked in? Never mind. We’ll have a drink together, don’t bother about the food. See you.’

  The line went dead and he cursed long and hard. Nellie, roused from slumber, stared up at him intelligently and waved her tail gently.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ he told her warningly. ‘No walks and no lunch either, if you’re not careful.’

  She came to him with her tongue lolling out, as if she laughed at him, and reluctantly he began to laugh too.

  ‘Everything’s gone crazy,’ he said, crouching down to stroke her, whilst she put a paw on his knee and licked his ear. ‘Today has been cancelled through lack of support. Bloody women!’

  She was unmoved by his expletive; continuing to butt her head gently against his shoulder until presently he relaxed and gave a great sigh.

  ‘OK,’ he said, standing up. ‘Your lunch first and Zoë’s afterwards. It’ll have to be soup for her, not that she’ll eat more than a teaspoonful. And what the hell does she want, anyway?’

  But Nellie was only interested in her own pressing need for food and, once he’d filled her bowl and put it down for her, Bruno went to the larder to find a bottle of wine that might suit the taste of his ex-wife.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  George wheeled the barrowful of logs round the side of the house and parked it beside Raymond’s BMW. He stood for a moment, admiring this latest model, and then tried the front door; the latch was still down. Leaving the barrow, he went back to the garden and came into the kitchen just as Emma appeared at the other door leading from the hall.

  ‘I can’t find it in the parlour,’ she was saying. ‘Only this parcel with Bruno’s name on it. Oh, hello, George. How are you getting on? George has been splitting logs for us,’ she said to Raymond. ‘Isn’t that kind of him? Are you ready for some more coffee after all that hard work?’

  She dropped the parcel on the table and went to wash up the mugs but George could see at once that Raymond was far more interested in the parcel than in the log-splitting, although he seemed hardly to glance at it. He murmured a greeting, smiled a brief acknowledgement of George’s labours, but all his concentration seemed directed towards the package. It was clear too that Emma was feeling slightly uncomfortable, as if George’s appearance was inconveniently timed. He wondered if he should make polite noises and disappear but something about Raymond’s fixed expression puzzled him. With a slight shifting of his elbow, which rested on the table, he’d moved the parcel closer, edging it right way up so that he could see the writing on it: it was Mutt’s writing. Even from where he was standing George could recognize it, although one of the words was in large capitals.

  ‘For Bruno James Trevannion. Personal and Private.’ And across the bottom was printed one word: ‘CONFIDENTIAL’.

  The unusual thing about it in George’s view was that it was wrapped like an old-fashioned package ready for the post. The brown paper was folded carefully round the object inside and then tied firmly with string. Very slowly Raymond turned the parcel over, his thick forefinger idly probing the knots, although he still wore an almost indifferent expression on his broad, handsome face as if he were brooding on something else entirely and the parcel was simply an object to fiddle with whilst he concentrated on this other problem – as one might tap with a pencil or doodle on a pad.

  Beside him, George felt Emma stiffen: waiting and watching, holding her breath. He realized with a little shock that she was actually prepared for Raymond to open the parcel and was bracing herself to prevent him from touching it. Instinctively, George went to fill the kettle. He smiled at Emma, glanced at Raymond, as if unaware of anything unusual.

  ‘I think I need a shot of caffeine after all that effort,’ he said – and thought he saw the faintest flicker of irritation pass across Raymond’s face. ‘Is Joss anywhere about? She might like some.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is.’ Emma had relaxed a little but was still distracted. ‘I’ll give a shout up the stairs.’

  ‘She went out.’ Raymond was very certain. ‘I heard the front door close, oh, half an hour ago, I should think. Perhaps she’s with the donkeys.’ He gave George a friendly glance. ‘Emma can make the coffee if you want to go and find her.’

  He was very easy, very relaxed, and George smiled back at him.

  ‘She might be anywhere,’ he answered, just as casually. ‘I expect she’ll be in soon.’

  Raymond nodded and shrugged – an up-to-you-chum gesture – and sat back a little in his chair, stretching his shoulders.

  George thought: I wouldn’t want to play poker with you, mate.

  He made the coffee, feeling Emma hovering beside him uncertainly, wondering if he were imagining the tension and that his suspicion was simply based on all the stories Joss had told him about her father’s business acuity. After all, why on earth should Raymond want to open a parcel addressed so clearly to Bruno? It suddenly occurred to George that it was possible that neither Bruno nor Emma knew what was in Mutt’s will and that Raymond, guessing that this was what the package contained, wanted to be ahead of the game. He felt a quickening of curiosity. It was more with a sense of mischievousness rather than any self-righteous intention that he sat down at the table and openly turned the parcel as if to read the writing for the first time, pulling it across the table.

  ‘For Bruno, I see,’ he said conversationally. ‘Did Mutt leave it for you to give to him?’

  Emma didn’t see Raymond’s swift upward look of warning.

  ‘It was in her
desk,’ she said, puzzled. ‘Odd really. It was actually right at the bottom of a folder containing Bruno’s school reports.’

  ‘Really?’ George was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Why were you reading his school reports? Bit late in the day, isn’t it?’ He chuckled at his own feeble joke. ‘I’ll take it down to him, if you like.’

  Raymond’s large square hand reached for the parcel slowly, as if George had drawn it to his attention and he too were now reading the writing for the first time. As he turned it, he moved it almost unobtrusively back to his own side of the table.

  ‘No need to bother,’ he said. ‘I expect he’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not a bother,’ answered George cheerfully, preparing for a little light-hearted contest with Joss’s father with a certain amount of pleasure. ‘I shall be going right past his door.’

  ‘You haven’t had your coffee yet.’ Raymond’s hands, now clasped together and resting on the parcel, looked chunky. He leaned forward so that his weight rested on his arms, his broad shoulders hunched. ‘There’s no hurry, after all.’

  George met his cold, blue-grey stare, sensed the weight and force of his personality, and was aware of an odd stirring of unease; the idea of a contest seemed suddenly foolish and he felt uncomfortable. He was glad to hear the kettle boil, to have an excuse to get up from the table to make the coffee, although Emma was already putting out the mugs and the milk.

  ‘Have you brought any logs in?’ she was asking him, obviously trying for a change of subject.

  ‘Not yet.’ He was feeling oddly humiliated, rather as he’d been as a small boy when Olivia and Joe outwitted him. He was convinced now that Raymond shouldn’t have the opportunity to examine the contents of the parcel, yet he was powerless to prevent him. He saw exactly what Joss meant when she’d talked about her father’s juggernaut tactics.