by Kate Hardy
A quick phone call to his office in Docklands established that yes, he was in, but he was in a meeting until one o’clock.
So far, so good; if she left the university now, she’d reach his office at just about the same time that his meeting finished and she could tackle him face to face.
His office was in part of an old wharf that had been converted; the yellow bricks had been cleaned until they sparkled and the arched windows were huge. Inside, the lobby was light and airy, and the reception area for Hugo’s architectural practice was gorgeous, filled with plants and overlooking the river.
‘Can I help you?’ the receptionist asked.
‘I’d like to see Hugo Grey,’ Alice said.
‘I’m afraid he’s in a meeting,’ the receptionist said. ‘Can anyone else help?’
‘Thank you, but I’m afraid it needs to be Hugo himself,’ Alice said. ‘I’m aware that his meeting’s scheduled to finish at one. That’s why I’m here now.’
The receptionist looked surprised that the scruffy woman in front of her appeared to possess organisational skills. Alice wished she’d worn her favourite T-shirt, the one with the slogan ‘Don’t judge a butterfly by its chrysalis’.
‘If his meeting overruns, I’ll wait,’ she said.
‘He might not be av—’
‘Oh, he’ll be available to see me,’ Alice cut in, very quietly. ‘Unless he’d prefer me to stand in the middle of this waiting area and explain to everyone within earshot why Hugo Grey is completely untrustworthy and they might be better off taking their business to a different practice of architects.’
The receptionist looked alarmed. ‘Please don’t do that. I’ll talk to his PA and see when he’ll be available. Would you mind waiting in the reception area?’
‘Thank you. I’m Dr Alice Walters and it’s about the butterfly house. And,’ she added, ‘it’s quite urgent.’
Three minutes after the receptionist had made the phone call, Hugo came downstairs, frowning.
‘Dr Walters? Why are you here?’
‘I think you know why.’ She folded her arms and glared at him.
‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he drawled.
‘So you’re a liar as well as a snake?’ She gave a humourless laugh. ‘I’m sure your clients will be interested to hear this.’
He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘We’re not going to discuss this here. Come up to my office.’ He looked over to the receptionist. ‘Thank you, Anjula. I’m sorry you’ve got tangled up in this.’
Guilt prickled its way across Alice’s skin. It wasn’t the receptionist’s fault that Hugo had behaved this way; and Alice hadn’t exactly been very nice to her. ‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said.
She followed Hugo up the stairs to his office, allowed him to usher her inside and close the door, and took the chair he offered her.
He sat down opposite her and folded his arms. ‘So what is all this about, Dr Walters?’
‘It’s about you pulling strings with your mates at the planning office, Mr Grey.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
She took the letter from her bag and slapped it down on his desk. ‘Just what you wanted to happen, I believe. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to learn that the council turned down the outline planning permission for the butterfly house—if you don’t know that already.’
‘That has nothing to do with me.’
She scoffed. ‘You seriously expect me to believe that?’
‘If a new building or a change of use doesn’t fall within the local planning authority’s development plan, then a project will be rejected,’ he informed her. ‘It has nothing to do with any objections that people might raise about the building or the change of use.’
Alice shook her head. ‘Rosemary would be so disappointed in you. She really wanted the butterfly house built and the house turned into an education centre, and you’re doing your very best to block it. And, just so you know, I’m not a gold-digger. I don’t care about money—what I care about is butterflies.’
* * *
The woman sitting in front of him wasn’t the sophisticated, brittle woman he’d met at the solicitor’s office, nor even the quiet, slightly shy woman from the funeral, Hugo thought. This woman glowed. Right from the top of her very messy hair down to her well-worn hiking boots.
For the first time since he’d known her, Alice Walters actually looked like a lepidopterist—like one of Rosemary’s hippy friends he remembered from his childhood. Mixed with a bit of Roman goddess. A pocket-sized one, with freckles on her snub nose.
She was still speaking. ‘Did you know that three-quarters of British butterflies are in decline, and the number of moths has gone down by a third in the last forty years?’
He didn’t.
‘They’re not just silly little flappy things that we don’t need to worry our pretty little heads about. Butterflies are important as pollinators—they don’t have the fur of a bee for the pollen to stick to, but they cover more ground than bees and that means greater diversity in the gene pool. They’re important in the food chain, both as prey and predator, and they’re important indicators of the health of the ecosystem. Butterflies and moths are fragile, so they react quickly to change, and if they vanish it’s an early indicator of problems in an area.’
This was way outside his area of expertise. But she was clearly both knowledgeable and passionate about her subject, and that passion drew him like a magnet. No way was he going to stop her speaking—even if she did have a few of her facts wrong about the planning application.
‘They’re important in teaching children about the natural world,’ she continued, ‘and the transformation during their life-cycle from egg to caterpillar to pupa to butterfly.’ She ticked the points off on her fingers. ‘And if nothing else they’re beautiful. Just look at the delight on a child’s face when they see butterflies in the garden or the park or the forest. We need all the beauty we can get in this world.’
He remembered being delighted by the butterflies in Rosemary’s garden, as a child. And, now he thought about it, there didn’t seem to be as many of them around as there had been when he was young.
But this woman was also accusing him of something he hadn’t done, and that wasn’t acceptable. ‘So you think it’s OK to march into my office and be rude to my team, without having a shred of evidence of what you’re accusing me of?’
‘In the solicitor’s office, you said you refused to build the butterfly house, meaning that the conditions of the will aren’t met and Rosemary’s house will have to be sold,’ she said. ‘And you’re an award-winning architect, so it’s obvious that any planner will take notice of what you have to say. If you put in an objection, it’ll carry more weight than a normal person’s.’
‘That isn’t how planning works,’ he said. ‘Did you take advice before you submitted the outline application?’
She folded her arms. ‘I might have an accent, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’
Interesting. She was chippy about her background? Then again, she’d been to Oxford. Having the wrong accent might’ve made things harder for her there.
‘So you took advice.’ He tried to make it sound like a statement rather than a question.
‘Yes.’
‘May I?’ He gestured to the envelope she’d slapped down on his desk.
‘Help yourself.’
The angry colour on her cheeks was subsiding, now. But she was still slightly pink and flustered, and Hugo had to stop himself wondering what she’d look like if she’d just been kissed. Would she be equally pink and flustered? Would her eyes glow with that same passion?
He forced himself to concentrate on reading the letter. Then he looked at her. ‘Judging by their objections, whoever you went to for advice on your application obviously didn’t explain
what you wanted clearly enough. Did you submit plans? Sketches? Anything to scale?’
‘It was an outline planning application. I was told it didn’t need anything like that.’
‘Sketches and plans would have helped. And a proper explanation.’ He looked at her. ‘You could talk to someone at the planning department and ask them if modifying your application would change their decision.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Are you offering to help me, now?’
‘I...’ He raked a hand through his hair. Yes and no. He could help her; he just wasn’t sure if he wanted to. ‘My great-aunt was lovely. She was kind, she was generous, and people took advantage of her.’
Her mouth opened in seeming outrage. ‘I wasn’t taking advantage of Rosemary. I’d never do that. Apart from the fact that I’m not the gold-digger you seem to think I am, she was my friend.’
‘Philip Hemingford introduced you to me as her business associate.’
‘I was her friend, too. I liked her. She was straightforward. She judged people on who they were.’
That chimed with him. But Alice also flustered him—and she made him angry when she added, ‘Rosemary mentioned her high-powered nephew. But you never seemed to be around.’
‘I had a six-month project in the wilds of Scotland. It’s not exactly easy to pop in to Notting Hill from several hundred miles away.’
‘What about after your project ended?’
‘I visited twice a week—obviously on days you weren’t there. But you’re welcome to check with her neighbours, if you want proof. Mondays and Thursdays, to be precise.’ He stared at her, challenging her to call his bluff. He’d enjoy seeing her back down and apologise, confronted with the proof.
She met his gaze head on, to make the point that he didn’t intimidate her.
It felt as if there should be a military drummer in the room, rat-tat-tatting a challenge.
Just when the tension reached screaming point, she inclined her head. ‘Your eulogy convinced me that you loved her.’
The quiet words took all the combat out of it. She was acknowledging that, even though she knew nothing about him, she could tell he’d loved his great-aunt.
Maybe it was his turn to make a concession. ‘And her neighbours knew you. Millie liked you; she didn’t have any time for Chantelle.’
She frowned. ‘Who was Chantelle?’
‘Someone who befriended Rosemary a few years ago, told her massive sob stories, and as a potter she fell in love with Rosemary’s William Moorcroft tea service—so my great-aunt gave it to her.’
‘What’s William Moorcroft?’ Alice looked mystified.
‘It’s Art Deco china. Pretty—and also worth a great deal of money.’ He took his phone from his pocket, did a quick search and then showed her a photograph.
She bit her lip. ‘Oh, no. I broke the handle off one of those cups, a couple of months ago. I glued it back on, but...’ Her eyes widened as she obviously noticed the auction price guide. ‘Oh, my God. I thought it was just a pretty cup and it was one of Rosemary’s favourites, so I mended it. I had no idea it was worth that sort of money. It should’ve been done by a proper specialist. I’m so sorry.’ She blew out a breath. ‘I’ll pay for a proper repair.’
And right at that moment Hugo knew that Alice Walters was absolutely genuine and he’d misjudged her. This wasn’t a woman who’d tried to inveigle his aunt into leaving the house to her so she could make lots of money. This was a woman who shared Rosemary’s love of butterflies and wanted to help her reach her dream. A woman who’d mended a cup she’d thought was worth only a couple of pounds rather than throwing it away, because it was his great-aunt’s favourite; and now she knew it was valuable she was offering to pay for a specialist repair.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘But Chantelle wasn’t the only one who took advantage of my great-aunt over the years, simply the last of them. There were a few others.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s a horrible thing to do. Betraying someone’s trust is just vile.’
There was something heartfelt about her words, and he wondered who’d betrayed her.
‘I had absolutely no idea about her will,’ Alice said. ‘When I got the solicitor’s letter, I thought maybe she might have left me some of Viola’s specimens for the university collection. I didn’t know she’d planned this. And, even though I love the idea of setting up a proper education centre and a butterfly house in Rosemary’s name, I do understand that you wouldn’t want all her estate going to a stranger.’
‘Technically, it goes to charity,’ he pointed out.
‘Whatever.’ She spread her hands. ‘What does matter, though, are Viola’s journals.’
‘The ones you took from the house,’ he said. He’d discovered that when he’d looked in the office.
‘I returned them to the solicitor, the next day, along with my key. And he gave me a receipt for them, if you’d like to see it.’ She paused. ‘You obviously know that Rosemary was having trouble with her hip.’
No, he hadn’t. His great-aunt was of the generation that just got on with things and didn’t make a fuss. She hadn’t mentioned a word about a problem with her hip.
‘That’s why she gave me a key—so she wouldn’t have to get up and limp to the front door to let me in every time I visited.’
And now he felt bad. Why hadn’t he known? Why hadn’t he noticed that Rosemary actually let him do things for her instead of being her usual fiercely independent self? He’d been so busy trying to keep himself looking like a functioning human being that he’d had tunnel vision, and it made him feel ashamed. Had the trouble with Rosemary’s hip had anything to do with her having a stroke?
‘I loved working on the journals with her,’ Alice continued softly. ‘You’ve no idea how amazing it is, seeing words that are nearly a couple of centuries old, and hardly anyone else has seen since they were written. Sketches and watercolours that are still as fresh as the day they were painted. And, best of all, to hear about the person who created those journals from someone who actually knew her when she was still alive.’
‘Actually, I do,’ he said.
She blinked. ‘You’ve seen the journals?’
‘When I was younger. I just liked the pictures of butterflies. I was too little at the time to try and work out what the handwriting said. But when I was a student I saw the original plans for the Kew Gardens palm houses and it made all the hairs stand up on my arms—so I’m guessing that’s how you felt about the journals.’
‘It is,’ she confirmed. ‘Viola Ferrers deserves her place in lepidopterist history. And Rosemary, too. She was a custodian. She kept Viola’s work safe, and the butterfly collection intact. Something that I think is worth sharing with the nation, the way Rosemary wanted it—starting with having Viola’s study restored to how it was, because it’s important for social history as well as scientific history.’
This wasn’t a gold-digger talking. At all.
Hugo saw this with clarity, now. Alice didn’t want the house for herself. She wanted it for the butterflies. She wanted it to make a difference.
‘I have a site meeting this afternoon,’ he said, ‘and I think this is a discussion that needs a bit longer than a lunch break.’
Hope bloomed on her face. ‘Are you saying you’re going to work with me instead of against me?’
He wasn’t promising anything. Not until he’d looked at everything properly. ‘I’m saying,’ he said, ‘that we should talk further. Are you available this evening?’
‘Yes.’
He liked the fact that she hadn’t tried to make him feel as if she was doing him a favour, claiming she’d have to shuffle things round to accommodate him. Clearly this project was important to her, and as far as she was concerned anything else could be moved. That was a good sign.
‘We should meet on neutral territory
,’ he said.
‘The obvious place,’ she said, ‘would be Rosemary’s house. Except neither of us has a key any more.’
Because he’d backed them both into a corner at the solicitor’s office, and he knew it. ‘OK. I’ll get one of the keys back. For today,’ he said. ‘Until we’ve talked. What time can you meet me there?’
‘Any time. I’m working on a paper this afternoon, so I can be flexible.’
‘Five-thirty, then?’ he suggested.
‘That works for me.’
He held out his hand to shake hers.
Big mistake.
Just like the last time he’d shaken her hand, every nerve-end in his skin felt electrified.
Given that she suddenly looked pink and flustered, did it affect her the same way? Though he couldn’t allow himself to think about that. This was about his great-aunt and the butterflies. Nothing else.
‘I’ll see you out,’ he said, and ushered her down to the reception area.
And why was it that he found himself watching her walk away? Why was it that he was starting to feel things he’d thought were damped down for ever?
This was a potential complication that neither of them needed. By the time he met her at his great-aunt’s house, he’d better have his head and his emotions completely back under control.
CHAPTER THREE
AS HUGO HAD agreed to meet her at Rosemary’s house, Alice hoped there might be a chance he was going to listen to her and have a proper discussion about the butterfly house instead of being the bull-headed, irritating man who’d judged her without examining the evidence properly. Which in turn meant that he might actually help her to fulfil her promise to Rosemary. If he agreed, then the money she’d raised so far in crowdfunding could be used for renovations, repairs and building the butterfly house, rather than the whole lot having to be used to buy the house itself.
