Rubies Among the Roses

by Vivian Conroy

  Bolingbrooke straightened up. His eyes flashed with impatience and anger. ‘Get to the point, man. What has happened here on my land?’

  ‘I wonder,’ Wadencourt continued as if he hadn’t heard his host, ‘if we can claim that the photos Vex shot were taken without your permission. Then we might stop him from using them. I doubt it can stop the whole publication, but it might delay it.’

  He rubbed his hands together. ‘That would be perfect. You do understand that you need my help?’

  At that moment the front door opened, and a young man was propelled through it.

  ‘Propelled’ was the right description as he didn’t walk on his own two feet but was sort of thrown inside by some invisible force. He stumbled, almost slipped over the carpet, and ended up bumping into Guinevere. He steadied himself with his hands on her shoulders. ‘Excuse me.’

  She looked up into two chocolate brown eyes. His suntanned face was sharp-edged and intelligent, crowned by lots of unruly curls. He wore a red polo shirt and neat beige trousers and had a camera around his neck. Not a small one like tourists carried but professional gear with a long lens.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said to her. ‘Sorry for the odd arrival, but I’m afraid there’s some misunderstanding.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Oliver’s voice boomed through the hallway. He had come in after the other man, rubbing his hands as if he was satisfied about a chore he had finished. ‘This louche type was trying to peek into windows and take photographs.’

  Wadencourt glared at Oliver. ‘That louche type as you call him is my photographer Max DeBurgh. An extremely bright lad who will help me locate the wedding goblet. The sooner we have it, the better. Or do you really want all of your gardens destroyed by an insane crowd rushing out here to dig?’

  ‘This island may be open to the public,’ Oliver said, ‘but we do have rules. Especially for the gardens. People aren’t even allowed to pick flowers, let alone to dig. Dig for what anyway?’

  Max laughed. ‘Haven’t you heard yet?’ He sized up Oliver. ‘Soon you’ll need help warding off people who are looking in places you don’t like them to look.’

  ‘I caught you soon enough,’ Oliver countered. His eyebrows were furrowed over his blue eyes. They could be warm and interested, but right now they were cold and condemning. He rocked back on his heels and put his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. As usual he wore trainers without socks. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

  ‘I just told you,’ Wadencourt said tightly, ‘that he’s with me. Your father has invited me to stay here. So Max is staying here as well.’

  Bolingbrooke lifted a hand. ‘Invited, invited … I only said that …’

  ‘You said that there was always room for me here, and I accept your offer of hospitality. Max, you carry up my bags.’ Wadencourt gestured at his photographer as if he was a butler who had to snap to attention. ‘What wonderful room will it be? In the tower maybe?’

  ‘Guinevere is already staying there,’ Oliver said. ‘There’s a perfectly good B&B near the harbour.’

  But his father shook his head. His voice sounded tired but resigned when he said, ‘Wadencourt is an old friend of mine, Oliver. He’s staying here. And if this chap is his photographer, he can stay here as well.’

  ‘So you know what they’re here for?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Not every detail …’ Bolingbrooke said slowly.

  ‘Not at all, you mean. You simplyinvite them in, not even knowing …’

  ‘This is my house.’ Bolingbrooke smiled, but the censure in his tone couldn’t be missed. ‘Please show them to their rooms, Guinevere. Gregory can have the room beside my library and the young chap can go into the one beside that. I’ll ask Cador to make some tea and sandwiches for us.’

  Eager to get the guests settled before Oliver could create more hostility, Guinevere gestured to the stairs. ‘Follow me please.’

  Wadencourt picked up his suitcases and smiled. ‘I know my way around here. I’ve stayed here before.’ His patronizing tone seemed to imply: long before you ever set foot here.

  Dolly whined as if she didn’t like his attitude.

  Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Cador can show the visitors where they are staying. Guinevere and I will see to the tea and the sandwiches. Come on.’ He walked off in the direction of the kitchens.

  Bolingbrooke hitched a brow at Guinevere. ‘I have no idea what’s eating him these days. Must miss his tigers. But maybe you’d better go with him then and send Cador out here to help the guests get settled in.’

  Cador had already appeared, apparently notified by Oliver what was expected of him. With a straight back and impeccably soft footfall the butler went up the stairs ahead of the guests.

  Max was taking it all in with a keen interest and even gave Guinevere a cheeky wink.

  She flushed and hurried to the kitchens to help Oliver. Dolly ran after her, her ears flapping against her head.

  Oliver banged a kettle filled with water onto the antique stove. The old kitchens were Cador’s domain where he made coffee using a filter and cooked dinners based on century-old menus. Upstairs there was a pantry unit with coffee maker and facilities to create quick meals, but Cador never set foot there, considering it a too modern addition to the household. Oliver in turn rarely invaded the kitchens, but apparently he was now eager to escape the unwelcome visitors.

  Oliver rummaged through a cupboard for cups and plates, grousing, ‘The way he just walks in and thinks he owns this place!’

  ‘Do you know Gregory Wadencourt?’ Guinevere asked.

  Oliver shrugged. ‘What’s to know? He used to come here when I was a kid. Already had that patronizing way of talking to people. He believes he’s the only one who knows about history and archaeology.’

  ‘Your father mentioned something about him being into missing artefacts? I mean, lost treasures of the civilized world? That sounds fascinating.’ Guinevere leaned against the table. Dolly had spotted a basket in a corner and was sniffing around it. Her tail wagged as she explored further into another corner full of shadows and cobwebs.

  ‘Enigmatic is the better term.’ Oliver planted his feet apart and stared up at the kitchen’s tall ceiling. ‘Or elusive.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Oliver spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘It’s such a different topic from what Wadencourt used to be interested in. He was an archaeologist specializing in Roman finds. Tangible things that built him a solid scientific reputation. He was part of a team that excavated several old campsites around Britain and found interesting items that museums put on display. He also travelled to other Roman sites like in Germany and France. He used to quote Latin phrases to my brother and me. Whoever could translate it the best got a toffee.’

  ‘Sounds like someone who’s obsessed with his subject.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘Like the overbearing uncle you avoid at birthday parties because he can’t stop talking and in his eyes you’ll never grow up.’

  Guinevere tilted her head. ‘But if Wadencourt loved his Roman work so much, I don’t see why he changed to this missing objects business. It seems a lot less tangible and productive.’

  ‘Exactly. But there was less funding for what he wanted to do. He needed a boost to attract attention to his work. He wrote a bit about a coronet found at an abbey that might prove a lady from royal descent had taken vows as a nun there. He found a sponsor who wanted him to prove who she had been and he came up with a theory linking her to the Tudors. Some people believed him; others said he had made it all up, knowing it could never be proven either way. But it created waves for months.

  ‘Since then Wadencourt is always working that way, starting from an object that is mentioned in sources or has been recovered at some dig and then inventing a history for it. I call it inventing, because he can rarely support it with any real evidence. But people like the romanticism of it and gobble it up. He’s not a historian any more to my m
ind, but a storyteller like the brothers Grimm.’

  ‘And this wedding goblet he mentioned, do you have any idea what that is?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘No idea. But then Cornisea has featured in a lot of stories.’ He nodded at the book in her hand. ‘There might be something in there about it.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’ Guinevere seated herself on a chair and opened the book. The pages crackled as if they were too dry. ‘I’d better be careful with this.’ She put the book on the table and opened it again, this time in the back. ‘Ah, there’s an index here. I can see if it mentions a wedding goblet.’

  A clanging noise came from the corner. Dolly had overturned a stack of pans, the lids rolling away across the floor. ‘Don’t, girl,’ Guinevere called.

  Oliver was already with her to get the lids back in place. He gave the dachshund a little shove to send her to Guinevere. ‘Go see what the book says about the goblet, huh.’

  Dolly walked over and sat down at Guinevere’s feet, her head up, as if to listen to the story.

  Chapter Two

  Guinevere ran her finger down the entries under ‘w’ but saw no goblet. ‘Is everything known about Cornisea in this book?’

  ‘I have no idea. Probably not. The writer used his knowledge at the time the book went to print. Things might have changed afterwards. Or he might never had a full overview to begin with.’ Oliver straightened up and stretched. ‘How did you get your hands on that book anyway?’

  ‘Your father had put it out ready for cataloguing.’

  ‘Just this morning?’ Oliver froze mid-motion. The frown over his eyes told her he thought it unlikely that it had happened by coincidence.

  ‘Do you think your father knew that Wadencourt was coming?’ Guinevere asked.

  ‘If he did, he never mentioned it to me.’

  Guinevere frowned. ‘His surprise when he spotted Wadencourt in the hallway seemed genuine.’

  ‘You never know with my father.’ Oliver opened a cupboard and took out a bread container. ‘I hate to think he’s playing along with Wadencourt, whatever that old fox is up to now, just because my father believes it can save Cornisea.’

  ‘Well, a major find here of some rare artefact would bring in more tourists.’

  ‘Yes, and people would ruin everything like that photographer chap suggested. Dig up the gardens … You know what happened when the historical society started suggesting that medieval scoundrel Branok had hidden a gold stash on the island.’

  Guinevere stared down at the pages of the book in front of her. The recent events of murder and an excruciating investigation with wrongful accusations and painful revelations were still fresh in everybody’s mind. They had all hoped for some quiet time to recover.

  Wadencourt’s appearance and his insistence there was going to be a publication involving Cornisea Castle had changed all of that.

  She asked softly, ‘Do you still think about what happened?’

  ‘Nothing about a goblet in that book?’ Oliver said with emphasis. He turned his back on her and leaned on the sink, tension in his posture.

  It hurt Guinevere that he was deliberately ignoring her question but then again they had only met when she had come out to catalogue for his father. Even though she had felt like they had struck up a friendship, Oliver might not feel the same way.

  Or maybe his father was right and he missed his tigers. As a wildlife film-maker, Oliver travelled the world to record footage of animals on the brink of extinction or under serious threat from increasing human exploitation of their habitats. He probably wished he was in his hide waiting for some elephants to show up instead of here at Cornisea, where he was constantly at odds with his father about the castle’s future.

  Guinevere turned to the G in the index. ‘Here’s a mention of a goblet, with the designation: of Rose and Stars.’

  ‘Sounds poetical. Look it up, will you?’ Breaking into motion again, as if he wanted to shake off his sudden sad mood, Oliver grabbed a chunk of cheese and made slices to put on the sandwiches. Dolly came over to him to wait if a bite was forthcoming. Oliver looked down at her and shook his head. Dolly tilted hers and squeaked. She was used to people finding her adorable and caving. But Oliver stayed firm and focused on the sandwiches.

  Dolly yapped in indignation and returned to Guinevere, rubbing her head against her leg.

  ‘Let’s see what it says, girl.’ Guinevere leafed through the yellowing pages to find the number indicated in the index. A scent of dust and dampness rose into her nose. Maybe this book hadn’t been touched for decades. Excitement rushed through her at the idea there might be something interesting hidden between its fading covers. A revelation about an artefact actually here on Cornisea Island.

  ‘Here it is. The goblet of Rose and Stars. A bejewelled wedding goblet.’ She scanned the explanation to paraphrase for Oliver. ‘These goblets were made from silver and decorated with precious stones if the buyer could afford it. The buyer could be a land owner or a dignitary in a community.’

  ‘Or the lord of a castle,’ Oliver supplied, gesturing around him with the cheese rasp.

  Guinevere nodded. ‘Probably. The goblets were used at wedding ceremonies where both the groom and the bride drank from the goblet to symbolize their new life together. The goblet was kept in the family, passed on from generation to generation. This particular one got the designation of Rose and Stars because it was decorated with both rubies and diamonds.’

  Oliver whistled.

  Dolly pricked her ears up as if she couldn’t wait to learn more about something so rare.

  Guinevere read and paraphrased quickly, ‘It also had an engraved scene on a round emblem like part of the goblet depicting a couple drinking from a goblet. Its exact origins and age are unknown, but it’s taken to be medieval because of the clothing of the couple in the little scene. Oh, here – this is interesting.’

  Oliver turned to her and leaned against the sink. ‘What?’

  Guinevere ran her finger along the lines, taking in the detailed explanation before her. ‘The goblet is believed to have been stolen by a Lady Anne when she ran away from home to be with a man her parents didn’t approve of. They married, drank from the goblet, and then hid it somewhere in their keep.’

  Oliver looked at her. ‘And that particular goblet is supposed to be hidden here? Why Cornisea? It could have been any keep. And Cornwall has a few.’

  ‘I know.’ Guinevere studied the piece in front of her. ‘It doesn’t give any specific details as to who the parties involved were or what keep was meant. It’s more like a fairy-tale story: once upon a time there was a priceless goblet and a lady ran away with it.’

  ‘Right. I don’t believe for one moment that the goblet of Rose and Stars ever existed. Let alone that it can be found here.’ Oliver slammed some sandwiches together and stacked them on a plate.

  Guinevere stared down at the book, pursing her lips. ‘Wadencourt seems to believe that there is a connection between the goblet and Cornisea Island, or he wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Or he’s trying to make himself interesting again.’ Oliver poured the hot water into the teapot. ‘Almost done. We’d better go up and see that Father and dear Gregory haven’t killed each other yet.’

  Guinevere cringed at the word choice. ‘I thought they were friends.’

  ‘They were, but Wadencourt left here after a terrible row. I was just a kid so I have no idea what it was about. Later on it seemed they were on speaking terms again, but I have never found out what they fought about. My father has a great memory for injury.’

  Guinevere nodded. ‘Let me take the sandwiches; you take the tea.’

  She put the book on the tray beside the plate with sandwiches and left the kitchens.

  Dolly came after her, salivating at the idea of treats.

  On the way up Guinevere listened for any indication of a row: raised voices, a slamming door. But there was nothing.

  In t
he library she found Bolingbrooke alone. He was standing at the window, staring out across the sea that surrounded Cornisea on all sides with high tide. Rufus, his mastiff, was standing by his side, resting his big head against Bolingbrooke’s thigh.

  The dog usually went to his master when he sensed he was sad or distressed, so Guinevere wondered what it was about the reunion with Wadencourt that had shaken her employer. Had their old argument been personal? Was Bolingbrooke reflecting on a friendship he had once valued but lost?

  Bolingbrooke turned to her jerkily when he heard the thud of the tray on the table. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ His expression was pensive, even a little weary.

  Guinevere asked softly, ‘Did you know Mr Wadencourt was coming out here?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  The denial came a little too quickly. She narrowed her eyes, studying him. ‘So it was a pure coincidence that this book was waiting for me on top of the pile?’ She held up the volume called A Cornish Treasure Island from which she had paraphrased the information about the goblet of Rose and Stars for Oliver.

  Bolingbrooke smiled. ‘Those things happen in life.’

  Guinevere tilted her head. ‘Have you ever heard before about this goblet?’

  ‘I don’t even know what goblet he means.’ Bolingbrooke waved a hand. ‘I’m sure he’s let himself be dragged into some wild goose chase again. But he’s an old friend and I can’t … Oh, Gregory, do come in.’

  Guinevere swung round to the door where their guest was waiting on the threshold. He had taken off his coat and was now in his jacket with leather elbow patches, a pipe between his lips. He looked around. ‘Your library is almost bigger than mine.’

  Bolingbrooke hitched a brow at Guinevere because of the ‘almost’ but said with a charming smile, ‘You have to tell us about all your travels. Where were you last? Corfu?’