I step over the silk rope that cordons off the room during the tours. One of the tables has a collection of Meissen porcelain on it. I pick up the statues one by one and put them in the mahogany sideboard. As I work, I begin humming the new Kylie song that’s been playing on the radio constantly. Soon I’m in full voice. ‘I’m spinning around, move out of my way… I know ba ha ba hum you like it like this… I’m breaking it down, I’m not the same …’ I sing loudly.
A paper rustles.
‘Oh.’ Immediately I shut my mouth, flushing with embarrassment. I hadn’t noticed Mrs Fairchild sitting in the high-backed armchair in front of the fireplace.
‘Sorry to startle you, Alex.’ She stands up, her face unusually pale and drawn. There’s a piece of paper in her hand. She folds it quickly, stuffing it in the pocket of her cardigan.
‘Gosh no! I’m the one who should be sorry. Hope you haven’t gone deaf.’ I grin.
‘No.’ She doesn’t meet my eyes.
‘Um, is everything okay?’ I look down at the piece of paper – a letter maybe? – in her hand. I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t help wondering what it is that’s upset her.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she says too quickly, her smile following too slowly for it to be true. She glances at the empty vase on a table next to the sofa. ‘You’re meeting the wedding couple in here, right? Should I cut some dahlias for the vase or would you like white roses?’
‘Whatever you think is best.’
‘I’ll get to it.’ Immediately, she stands up and leaves the room.
How odd, I think, as I finish putting away the breakables.
*
When I’ve finished in the drawing room, I go to the café to sample the day’s leftovers (one of my favourite perks of the job). The lunchtime rush is over, and Edith and I sit in the staffroom and eat the day’s special – goat’s cheese and spinach quiche (too vegetarian for my liking) – and share a bottle of organic elderflower and lime pressé. When we’ve finished eating and chatting, I stand up, fingering the velvet bag holding the locket that’s still tucked away in my pocket. I’d completely forgotten to ask Mrs Fairchild about it when I saw her in the drawing room – she’d been so uncharacteristically upset that it slipped my mind.
‘I need to ask Mrs Fairchild a few things about the costume exhibition,’ I say to Edith as she heads back to the gift shop. I check my watch. ‘I’ve got another tour now, but if you see her, can you ask her to find me?’
‘Oh, I thought you knew,’ Edith says. ‘She left the house just before you came for lunch. She told me that she was off to visit a friend, and that she might be away for a few days.’
‘A few days?’ I sit forward, startled. Why didn’t she mention it to me?
‘Maybe I should have asked where she was going, but I didn’t want to pry,’ Edith says. ‘She seemed a little… off.’
‘I agree.’ My voice gives away my concern. Mrs Fairchild normally acts like a kind of surrogate grandmother to me and the whole staff. She’s always asking us if we’re okay, and if we’re going out somewhere, tells us to be safe. She’s normally so sunny – one of those people who never seems to have her feathers rustled. Until recently, that is. Lately, she’s been different– more guarded and evasive. In fact, I never would have suspected that she had a new romantic interest – not one that made her happy, at any rate. And the piece of paper that she put in her pocket? Was it a letter containing bad news? Like Edith, I don’t like to pry, but maybe I should have asked her if there was something I could do to help. In any case, it’s bad luck for me that she happened to go away just when I wanted to ask her about the jewelled bird. ‘Let me know if she rings,’ I say to Edith.
After that, bad luck seems to be the order of the day. On my next tour, an elderly woman takes ill in the billiard room. I move the others on and go to the gift shop for help. By the time I’m back with Marta, one of the other guides, the woman is sitting on one of the fragile needlepoint chairs, having helped herself to a large slug of brandy from the cut-crystal decanter next to the cue rack. She’s tipsy and loud as I escort her out to the coach, apparently having made a full recovery.
Meanwhile, the wedding couple arrives (I discover that for the first time since I’ve been here, Mrs Fairchild left without putting fresh flowers in the drawing room) at the same moment the men come to install the security system. By the time I emerge from the drawing room after talking with the bride and groom-to-be, the security people have wreaked havoc – running wires and cables everywhere, creating trip hazards, and causing the mains circuit to overload. While they’re fixing it, none of the appliances in the café work, the credit card machine is down, and there are no lights in important places like the loos. Meanwhile, a couple comes in and takes a self-guided tour. No one manages to notice that they’ve got a great massive dog with them that leaves muddy footprints all over the carpeting.
‘Oh, but we thought country house meant “dog-friendly”,’ the woman says indignantly, when I ask the dog to leave.
‘You’re welcome to leave him outside,’ I say, my teeth clenched.
‘Obviously not – he’s a wolfhound with a pedigree.’
That word again. I give her my best cleaner/gift shop girl/little nobody insolent look, cross my arms, and shake my head.
The woman huffs, jerks the dog’s leash with one hand, her husband’s arm with the other, and storms out.
All of the little crises end up getting sorted, but the general chaos has thrown me off my game. I’m further thrown when the lead security man offers me his card and says, ‘Call me and let’s go for a beer’. I shove it in my pocket with a mumbled, ‘Thanks,’ and my hand touches the velvet bag with the locket inside.
As the security men drive away, I hold the silver locket in my hand, looking at the delicate lattice of forget-me-nots, seed pearls, and crystals on the case. I should take it to a jeweller to get it cleaned, and then add it to the costume exhibition. It must be from the 1950s – I’ve seen lots of costume jewellery at antique fairs with bright paste jewels. Granted, none were anywhere as delicate or exquisite as this. I decide to put it on the mannequin with the fit-and-flare wedding dress. Maybe Mrs Fairchild wore the locket for her wedding to George Fairchild? As soon as she’s back, I’ll have to remember to ask her.
After the house is closed to visitors for the day, the cleaning crew arrives. The other staff and I prepare the house for the night – drawing curtains, checking for any breakages, packaging up the leftover food to be dropped at a charity in the village. The other guides leave and Edith and I close up the gift shop, putting the day’s takings in the small safe we have in the back room. We chat amiably about the earlier tours and how nervous the wedding couple seemed. Sometimes that happens – couples come to the house and are awed by the surroundings, and talk to me as if I’m ‘to the manor born’. Despite my efforts to assure them that I’m not, this particular couple still seemed ill at ease and I’m fairly sure we won’t be seeing them again.
‘By the way,’ Edith says as I’m still thinking about the newly-weds-to-be, ‘there was a man here today – he acted kind of odd.’
‘Odd? What do you mean?’
She shrugs. ‘He’s been here before. I’ve noticed him once or twice.’
‘That’s not unusual, is it? Maybe he lives nearby.’
‘Maybe. It’s just that today I was helping a customer carry some pots of roses to the till from outside. I was gone for maybe thirty seconds – a minute at the most. And when I came back inside, he was in the stockroom.’
I frown. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘He said he was looking for the loos. Which might have made sense if he was a first-timer.’
‘And if there wasn’t a big sign pointing to the toilets,’ I add dryly. ‘Did you notice anything missing?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘That’s good. If you see him again, let me know.’
‘I will.’ She goes over to the display of old
rose bath products and rearranges a few things that have been moved.
‘What did he look like?’ I wipe the till area with a dust rag.
‘Who?’
‘The man you saw.’ A pair of dark eyes invade my thoughts, along with a flickering flame of hope.
‘Um, I don’t know really. He had lightish hair – white even. And his skin was really tanned – a bit wrinkly around the eyes. He was at least Mrs Fairchild’s age, maybe older – mid seventies maybe?’
‘Oh.’ Not him then. Disappointment oozes through me. ‘Do keep an eye out,’ I say. ‘Hopefully, the new alarm will help deter any funny business.’
We finish tidying up the shop and I go with Edith while she gets her handbag. We go through the stockroom: L-shaped with a tiny sink, a door that leads to the staffroom and then a longer section full of rows of shelving where we keep our stock. I practically trip over a stack of boxes that haven’t made it onto the shelves yet.
‘I’m going to straighten this room up tomorrow,’ Edith says sheepishly. ‘And do the garden party display. I’ll come in early.’
‘No need,’ I say. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’
‘Okay.’ She smiles. ‘Thanks.’
‘You seeing Paul tonight?’ I ask out of politeness. Paul is Edith’s newish boyfriend who also happens to be a police officer. He pulled her over for a bust tail light, and the rest, as they say, is history.
She blushes to the roots of her dark brown hair. ‘Yes. He’s taking me to a new French restaurant in Oxford.’ She grins.
‘Bon temps! And have a drink for me.’
‘Thanks. I will.’ She glances at me hesitantly. ‘Um, Alex – should I ask him if he has any single friends?’
‘Please don’t.’ Not Edith as well! The last thing I need is to be set up on a blind date by my employee.
‘Okay, sorry.’
I sigh. ‘It’s fine. I’m just not in that place right now. I’m happy with things the way they are.’
‘Really? I know it’s none of my business, but sometimes you look—’
I hold up my hand. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Bored, I was going to say.’
‘Well, I guess that’s a patch on lonely or desperate, which is what Mrs Fairchild and everyone else seems to think.’
Edith shakes her head. ‘You’re a really cool person, Alex. You’ll never be desperate.’
‘Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.’ I take out the security man’s card and toss it discreetly in the drawer under the till, along with the cards from other workmen who have asked me out in the past. ‘And you know, I’ve got the costume exhibition to keep my busy.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I took a peek inside the long gallery. It’ll look great.’
‘I hope so. There’s still a lot to do.’
‘You’ll get there.’ Edith says. ‘Okay, well, I should get going. Have a good evening.’
‘Enjoy yourself. Oh, and I’d better show you how to set the new alarm.’
We walk together to the front entrance. The alarm box is hidden out of sight in the vestibule. Edith and I puzzle over the instructions and I type in the code to set it.
‘Okay, you’ve got 30 seconds to go out,’ I say.
‘Right. See you tomorrow.’
Edith goes out the door and closes it behind her. I turn off the alarm until I leave – otherwise I’m likely to forget and set it off when I go out the door. I go back through the house to the shop, pausing to flip through a book on medieval jewellery. The styles are completely different from the locket, but the quality and workmanship is of a similar standard. Is the jewelled bird really a piece of costume jewellery from the 50s, or could it be something else?
A noise from the stockroom startles me. Something must have fallen off a shelf. Irritation twists in my stomach. No matter how much I spend annually on pest control, even in summer, we never quite get rid of the mice.
I try to remember where the extra mousetraps are kept. In the cleaning cupboard most likely. I go back into the main part of the house. There’s a broom closet inset behind the panelling next to the disabled loo. But before I tackle the mouse issue, I need the toilet.
The disabled loo is a long, narrow space that used to be a wood store, located behind the main fireplace in the great hall. It’s painted a rich buttercream, and there’s a small shelf above the toilet with a crystal vase filled with a bouquet of fresh camellias and tulips from the garden. Even the loo brush has a period-looking ceramic handle, and isn’t what you’d call cheap.
I use the loo, wash my hands, and am off to find the mousetraps, set them, then get working on the costume write-ups. I go to the door and turn the knob.
Nothing happens.
- Chapter 8 -
Note to self: when using the disabled loo in a 400-year-old house, always make sure to remember your mobile phone. I try the knob again but it doesn’t move. This can’t be happening. The door locks from the inside with a wrought-iron bolt, which I didn’t bother to do up since I’m the only person here. There’s a keyhole on the outside and an extra key kept on top of the wooden door surround. Sloppy, I know, but it’s one of those things that’s always been that way. But there’s no one here who could have…
Outside the door, I hear the thud of retreating footsteps.
‘Hey!’ I cry. My heart leaps to my throat. I kneel down and check the keyhole. It’s dark – the key is stuck inside. The strange man Edith mentioned and the noise in the back of the stockroom takes on a whole new significance. Someone’s inside the house; someone followed me to the loo and locked me inside!
I take a breath trying to rationalise the situation. Maybe it was just a straggler who stayed past closing time, and then wanted to create a distraction so they could leave. Maybe they didn’t know I couldn’t get out. But whoever it was would have had to know where the key was kept and deliberately put it in the lock. And he – I’m convinced it’s a he – must have discovered that Mrs Fairchild would be away and wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here. Is he planning to steal something – Mrs Fairchild’s things, or, God forbid, the V&A items? Or could it all be some kind of mistake …?
I press my ear to the door. The house is silent. I spend thirty seconds hammering on the door and shouting ‘help’, not because I expect anyone to come to my rescue, but because that’s what you do in these situations. I check to see if there’s anything I can use to do the old paper trick – push a piece of paper under the door, knock the key out onto it, and then gently draw the paper and key back under the door. A nice idea – except that I don’t have a piece of paper, and there’s no room under the door to draw the key through.
Giving up on being clever, I climb up onto the loo seat and analyse the small window set high in the wall. If I was some kind of Olympic gymnast or circus contortionist, I might be able to lever myself up and squeeze through, but then I’d have to somersault through the air to avoid ending up head first in the ‘old rose’ bushes underneath. Obviously a non-starter, but I’m running out of options. As much as I love Mallow Court, the thought of spending the night in the disabled loo while an intruder is running rampant is not a pleasant prospect.
I open the window, just to satisfy myself that it’s not a realistic means of escape. Immediately, there’s a loud shrieking sound. I cover my ears, but my whole head is ringing with the noise. It’s the new alarm. I thought I’d disabled it when Edith left, but I must have done something wrong. Though in this case, maybe it’s the best thing I could have done. The alarm is wired directly to the security company, and any trip should bring them here in force. I sit down on the loo lid and check my watch. According to the security contract, the response time is only twenty minutes. I put my hand in my pocket and grip the smooth case of the jewelled locket. The silver warms quickly against my skin. There are many valuable things from the V&A upstairs, but I’m glad I have the bird with me. Though I know nothing about it, I already feel an affinity to it.
The alarm stops wailing for a few se
conds, though my ears keep ringing. It starts up again, and then stops intermittently, and I feel like I’m locked in a cell being tortured. Eventually, the sound of a lone siren coming from outside jangles my thoughts. My rescue brigade has arrived! My body feels limp with relief. Maybe if it’s the same bloke from earlier, we can go for that beer. Anything to get out of here.
‘Help!’ I yell through the small window.
There’s no response, but all of a sudden I hear a loud thunk coming from the front of the house. I put my hand over my mouth, praying that they won’t do something overzealous like use a battering ram on the ancient oak door. The alarm shrieks again and then shuts off. I hear the sound of heavy footsteps.
‘In here,’ I call out. ‘I’m in here.’
There’s a burst of muffled voices, then something bumps against the door. The wood strains against the hinges. ‘There’s a key,’ I cry. ‘Just turn the key – you don’t need to break it down.’
The knob turns. I’m free.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say to the—
Oh.
I swallow hard. Three policemen in riot helmets and bullet-proof vests are standing before me, armed with night sticks.
‘Hi.’ I say. ‘I’m glad to see you’re taking our security so seriously.’
A fourth man, this one wearing a suit and tie, steps forward. He thrusts a battered ID into my face. Detective Inspector something-or-other. He holds up my handbag which I’d left by the door when Edith left. ‘Is this yours?’ he says sternly.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘My phone is just inside. If I’d had it, then I could have rung someone…’
‘And this?’ He holds up a brown envelope. ‘Catherine Bolton’ is scrawled across it in blue biro, the writing shaky and crab-like.
‘No, that’s not mine. It must be for Mrs Fairchild. Bolton’s her maiden name—’
‘Do you acknowledge that it was in plain sight on top of your handbag?’
Finding Secrets Page 6
