The Little Shop of Hidden Treasures Part Two

by Holly Hepburn

  ‘You’re not,’ Hope assured her. ‘I’m sure you don’t misremember much.’

  Isobel sniffed. ‘Well, that’s true. Anyway, I’ll bid you good day.’

  She began to walk away. Hope almost called out after her, wanting to share the news of Ciaran’s find but, really, what was there to say? A few initials in Carter’s journal entries didn’t amount to much and she could imagine Isobel’s scathing response. But it felt rude to say nothing. ‘Bye,’ she called. ‘I hope your meeting goes well.’

  If Isobel heard, she gave no sign. Hope sighed and went back to her phone. So much for the idea that she and Ciaran might call on Isobel Lovelace again in the future if they had more questions. It looked very much like she wasn’t interested in talking, at least not to Hope.

  * * *

  Hope stood in the middle of High Petergate, her head tilted to one side as she gazed critically at the centre window of the Ever After Emporium. It was Friday afternoon, the weather showed no sign of breaking and Hope’s t-shirt was sticking to her back. But she didn’t mind that sweat was mingling with dust to create a grimy sheen on her skin, nor was she bothered that almost all of her nails were broken, because the Afternoon Tea at the Emporium window display was complete. And it looked even better in reality than it had in her head.

  ‘Wow!’ Iris said, crossing the road to stand next to Hope. ‘Are you sure you haven’t done this before? It’s amazing!’

  ‘You can thank Frances for that,’ Hope said, grimacing. ‘She’s the brains of the operation. I just shifted things around and made the tea.’

  Iris snorted. ‘I’ve been staring at the windows of the Emporium for years and they’ve never looked this good. And isn’t it supposed to be your day off?’

  Hope fanned her overheated cheeks. ‘It was the only day we could do it – Frances is away on holiday tomorrow.’

  ‘Hmmm. I’m just saying that you can’t get away with pretending you don’t deserve any credit,’ Iris said. ‘And I must say that collection of vases looks stunning. I’m half-tempted to buy them for my windows.’

  Hope smiled. The vases were a mismatched selection from the stockroom that she’d clustered together at various heights to create a tumbling display of artificial blooms, supplied and arranged by Iris. A crystal chandelier dangled above the white-clothed table, which was set for a sumptuous afternoon tea with an eclectic assortment of fine china and glassware. Two Rennie Macintosh chairs stood angled on either side of the table, as though the diners had temporarily left their feast and would be back at any moment. Hope had to admit she was pleased; the mixture of styles and eras shouldn’t have worked and yet somehow the result was magical. It was certainly catching the eyes of people walking along High Petergate; a small crowd was gathering on the pavement.

  Iris gave her a sideways glance. ‘Looks like you might have found your artistic calling,’ she said. ‘Welcome to the Dark Side.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Hope said, ruefully massaging her lower back. ‘I might not be able to move tomorrow. But if it helps some of the Emporium’s treasures to find new homes, then it will all have been worth it.’

  ‘Judging from this crowd, it definitely will,’ Iris agreed, then checked her watch. ‘Right, I’ve got deliveries to make. I’m going to see your Miss Lovelace, actually. She’s one of my regular customers, takes two bouquets of lilies and roses every Friday without fail.’

  Hope blinked in surprise. Of course – she’d noticed the scent of flowers in the air when she’d been to Isobel’s penthouse apartment and had admired the bouquet in the living room as they’d talked. Why hadn’t she guessed that the blooms came from Iris? And then an idea popped into her head – a way to soften Isobel’s attitude towards Hope and perhaps pave the way for another meeting.

  She turned to her friend with an optimistic smile. ‘It’s just possible you can do me a favour…’

  Chapter Three

  True to her prediction, Hope spent most of the weekend wincing as her aching muscles complained about the workout she’d put them through on Friday. She was almost glad when Ciaran called off their Saturday night date at the last minute. The soreness wasn’t enough to stop her from cycling over to her parents’ house for Sunday lunch but her pained expression was immediately picked up on by the rest of her family and it became a running joke for the rest of the afternoon. She’d even began to question the wisdom of going to her Monday evening belly dancing session with Iris but she knew her friend would be disappointed if she didn’t go. And really, could there be anything better than shimmying to relieve the tightness in her muscles?

  The studio was wonderfully cool after the heat of summer outside and was already filled with the usual diverse assortment of dancers when Hope and Iris arrived just before eight. The class was popular, aimed at a mixed range of abilities and it never ceased to amaze Hope so many no-nonsense Yorkshire women were happy to dress in gauzy, jingling outfits and twirl along to music that called to mind images of palm-shaded Arabian courtyards rather than the higgledy-piggledy streets of York. Perhaps that was half the appeal, Hope thought, as she let the chatter and laughter wash over her – perhaps it was a chance to escape real life and pretend to be someone else for an hour every week. Or maybe it was the almost palpable sense of camaraderie in the room; there was no judgement here, no sideways glance at a less-than-washboard stomach. In this dance class, the belly was queen and the shape of your body mattered less than the way you moved it. Which was why most of Hope’s fellow dancers had more skin on show than they normally would, even in summer. It had taken Hope a while to summon up the confidence to wear her own yoga top to dance but now she barely gave it a thought.

  Iris nudged her. ‘Your window display has been getting a lot of love over the weekend. I had six corporate customers ask if I could recreate that flower arrangement for their premises, including Bells of York.’

  Hope gaped. Bells of York was probably the most upmarket hotel within the city walls. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Iris confirmed. ‘On a bigger scale, for their Palm Court. They said they loved the “faded decadence” aesthetic of the window display. You’d better set up an Instagram account, sharpish – you’re an influencer now.’

  ‘Wow,’ Hope said, with a small laugh at the suggestion she was in any way influential. ‘I had no idea it would make such a splash.’

  ‘I imagine Mr Young is over the moon,’ Iris went on. ‘The shop seemed busier than ever on Saturday.’

  ‘I guess I’ll find out tomorrow,’ Hope said. ‘But I’m glad it’s boosted your business too.’

  The florist nodded in satisfaction. ‘Oh, and I took the flowers you asked for to Isobel Lovelace. She seemed pleased.’

  Her words gave Hope the quiet pleasure of ticking off something that had been niggling at her for weeks; now she felt as though she had thanked Isobel properly for sharing some fairly unflattering aspects of her family’s behaviour to shine a light on the story of Elenor and the scarab beetle ring.

  ‘I’m really glad,’ Hope said. ‘Thanks for delivering them.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Iris replied. ‘She’s a strange one. I’ve been delivering her flowers for over a year now and I’ve never seen anyone there, other than the cleaner or someone else doing some kind of job. No family or friends.’

  Hope thought back to her visit to Isobel’s apartment. Had there been photographs on display? She didn’t think there had. ‘I’m not sure she has any family left. Nobody close, anyway.’

  Iris sighed. ‘That’s sad. I know she’s stinking rich and probably has connections all over the city but she seems pretty alone.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Maybe that’s how she likes it.’

  It was certainly true that Isobel had been prickly towards Hope and Ciaran, even unfriendly, but Hope had put it down to a touch of arrogance and the fact that they’d been intruding on her to discuss a subject that was clearly uncomfortable, even though Elenor Lovelace had been dead for almost a century. And yet now that Hop
e came to think about it, there had been a sense of solitude about Isobel. Whether it was something the elderly woman cultivated was anyone’s guess but Hope was glad all over again that she’d sent the flowers via Iris.

  A movement from the front of the studio caught her eye; Fleur had finished her conversation with Linda and was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that lined the wall, smiling at everyone in a way that signified she was ready to begin. ‘Good evening, everyone,’ she called, her smile as dazzling as ever. ‘I hope you’ve all had a wonderful weekend. I’m looking forward to dancing with you tonight.’

  As always, her warmth and enthusiasm rippled over the assembled women. They broke off whatever conversations they’d been having and started to move into their usual places. For Hope, that meant a spot at the back of the studio, where no one could see her mistakes. She’d come to appreciate that learning to belly dance was a gradual process, one where lengthening and strengthening the muscles and learning the right technique were just as important as remembering the steps – although it helped to avoid twirling left when everyone else was turning right, as Hope had discovered on several occasions.

  The teacher guided them through the usual stretching routine and reminded them to soften their knees as they began some gentle shimmies and hip lifts. Hope watched her own reflection dance; she was definitely getting better. Most of the other women were long-term students and it showed – their movements were smooth and controlled and graceful. Iris was one of the best, Hope thought, her gaze flicking towards her friend’s image in the mirror. Maybe with a few years of practice, she might aspire to be half as good. But none of them could hold a candle to Fleur, whose every move flowed effortlessly into the next. Hope could practice for a thousand years and she’d never come close to that level of skill. But, somehow, it didn’t matter – the joy of trying was enough.

  As always, the hour flew by and, before Hope knew it, Fleur was leading them through a nourishing warm down routine and thanking them for joining her.

  ‘And a quick reminder for those of you who’ve recently joined our class, we do encourage you to work towards showing off your belly dance skills to others. Our next showcase will be in the autumn and you are all invited to perform, whether solo or as part of a group dance.’

  Hope felt her smile freeze. Dancing in a studio among women she knew was one thing – getting up on a stage to perform in front of strangers was another entirely. Her gaze slid sideways to Iris. ‘Is it compulsory?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she replied evenly. ‘Fleur would never make you perform if you really didn’t want to.’

  ‘Great,’ Hope said with relief, her smile relaxing a little.

  ‘Although I have heard a genie dies every time someone refuses,’ Iris went on. ‘But it’s entirely up to you.’

  Hope couldn’t prevent a snort of laughter from escaping. ‘I think I can live with that.’

  Iris sighed. ‘Can you, though? What if a downtrodden, fairy-tale street thief rubs a magic lamp and nothing happens? All their hopes and dreams of untold riches and beautiful princesses could be ruined.’

  ‘Or a scheming Grand Vizier’s evil plan might be thwarted,’ Hope countered. ‘I could be saving the world. I’d certainly be saving myself a lot of embarrassment.’

  Her friend shook her head. ‘The showcase isn’t for ages yet. You might feel differently in a few months.’

  ‘Believe me, I won’t.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Iris replied. ‘And then I tried on one of the costumes and suddenly wild horses couldn’t keep me from dancing in public.’

  Hope gazed at her. Iris was curvy and bold, in both the way she dressed and the way she carried herself. Her dark hair, wide smile and dancing eyes demanded attention no matter what she was doing; Hope had no doubt that she would look sensational in the bright chiffon and glittering jewels of a traditional belly dancing outfit. Just as Hope, with her coppery curls and pale, freckled skin, would look utterly wrong – like a child caught dressing up in her mother’s finery. ‘But you can dance,’ she pointed out.

  ‘So can you,’ Iris said and raised her hand to forestall Hope’s objection. ‘Yes, you can. And you’re only going to get better.’

  But now something else was troubling Hope – something she hadn’t considered until Iris had mentioned it. ‘I can’t wear the costume.’ She gestured at her reflection in the mirror. ‘I don’t have the boobs, for a start.’

  At this, Iris pretended to roll her eyes. ‘Oh yes, it must be a terrible curse having the figure of a model,’ she said, with more than a hint of good-natured sarcasm. ‘Look around, Hope. None of us have perfect bodies, except Fleur who is basically a goddess. But I can tell you that none of these ladies let that stop them from dancing in the last showcase.’

  Hope didn’t need to look; the women around her ranged in age from mid-twenties to late fifties, of all shapes and sizes, but she could easily believe they were unfazed, were fearless and fabulous, in fact. Of course they wouldn’t shy away from showing off their dance skills, along with a considerable amount of skin. But it didn’t necessarily follow that Hope could do the same.

  ‘Just think about it,’ Iris said, before Hope could express her reservations. ‘Give it a month and see how you feel then.’

  She sounded so reasonable that Hope didn’t feel she could say no. ‘Okay. I’ll think about it.’

  Iris grinned and patted her arm. ‘Good lass. Now let’s go and get a drink – I need an update on Professor Sex God.’

  ‘Iris!’ Hope said, half-laughing and half-embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t Iris me,’ her friend said, reaching for her shoes. ‘My dating app action is deader than Tutankhamun. Your love life is the only thing keeping me going.’

  Charlotte had claimed much the same thing, Hope recalled, although she’d cited being mum to a toddler as the reason for her nosiness. She sighed and gave Iris a level look. ‘Have I ever mentioned you’d get on well with my sister?’

  ‘No, but I’m looking forward to meeting her,’ Iris replied. ‘Your parents’ party is going to be all kinds of fun.’

  For a moment, Hope almost regretted asking Iris to take care of the flowers for the table displays; the thought of her friend and her sister joining forces to discuss her romantic encounters was terrifying. But it was far too late to back out now. She’d just have to hope their interest had died down by the time the party came round.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she said to Iris as the studio emptied out around them. ‘I’ll give you the latest Elenor news too.’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear it,’ Iris said, and winked. ‘Right after you dish the dirt on the professor.’

  Chapter Four

  There was a parcel awaiting Hope when she arrived at the Emporium on Wednesday morning.

  It was neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, and the handwritten label was addressed to Hope Henderson, C/O The Ever After Emporium.

  ‘Don’t ask who delivered it because I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Mr Young told her as he placed the package on the wooden counter. ‘It was on the doormat when I opened up this morning – they must have popped it through the letterbox overnight.’

  Hope frowned. Who on earth would send her a parcel at work? The only person she could think of was Will and he was more likely to visit when the shop was open and hand over whatever it was in person. But she wasn’t expecting anything from him. She wasn’t expecting anything from anyone.

  She lifted the package up and carefully turned it over. There was a faint thud as something shifted inside the wrapping: a box, perhaps. But there was really only one way to find out. Dropping her bag to the shop floor, Hope pulled at the string.

  The bow came apart easily, allowing her to slide the paper open to reveal a sturdy brown lidded box, a little larger than a paperback. No clue there, she surmised, rotating the box once more to look for labels. There were none. Pushing the discarded wrapping to one side, she placed the box back on the counter
and glanced up at Mr Young, who raised a questioning eyebrow but said nothing. So she lifted the lid to reveal a silica gel sachet resting on folds of soft white tissue paper.

  ‘Someone’s gone to a bit of trouble to preserve whatever this is,’ Mr Young remarked. ‘That looks like unbuffered tissue paper – acid free and not the kind of stuff you find in the supermarket.’

  Her curiosity now well and truly piqued, Hope gingerly pulled the leaves of tissue apart. She found a battered tan leather book inside, held together by a thick band of what looked like elastic. Yellowed bits of paper protruded from each end, as though it contained loose pages or additional notes, and she could just make out faint lines that looked a lot like handwriting. She hesitated for a moment, then dipped her hand into the box and lifted the book out.

  Hope knew immediately it was old. The leather was worn and cracked in places and she suspected it had lost some of its suppleness. ‘Maybe I should wear gloves,’ she said and glanced up to see Mr Young had produced a white cotton pair from underneath the counter. She put them on, picked the book up once more and stretched the band of elastic over the cover to open the pages within.

  It appeared to be a journal. Cautiously, she leafed through the loose sheets of paper, each one covered with tiny but immaculate handwriting. And then she reached the first page of the journal itself and the breath caught in her throat. Eyes wide, she stared at the words in disbelief. Elenor Lovelace – Egypt 1922.

  Her gloved finger traced the name even as her brain struggled to accept what she was seeing. And then she was turning the pages, squinting at the writing, praying it was what she thought it was.

  ‘It’s a diary,’ she breathed, transferring her wondering gaze to Mr Young. ‘Elenor’s diary from Egypt.’

  Her employer looked as flabbergasted as Hope felt. ‘Well, well, well. I fancy there’s only one person in York who could have given you something so precious. Is there a note?’