‘That is sad,’ I say. ‘But this description…’ I point to the passage, ‘sounds very promising. Do you think this bird could have been made by the House of Fabergé?’ My heart thumps harder against my ribs.
‘Maybe.’ His voice is measured, but his eyes have a cool fire in them. He’s excited too.
I turn to the next tabbed page. There’s no photo, but a block of text has been bracketed in the margin. I skim the passage – it’s all about notable forgeries and fakes of everything from Fabergé Easter eggs to jewels that belonged to the Romanovs.
‘Oh,’ I say, deflating. ‘You think it’s a fake, then?’
‘No, that’s not it.’ He flips through the book and his fingers accidently brush mine. There’s a palpable jolt of electricity between us. ‘It’s just that we can’t be certain, can we? Not without examining it thoroughly. We’d be looking for a mark, if there is one, and then we’d also need to establish its provenance.’
‘How would we do that?’
‘Well…’ he picks up the locket again and holds it close to his face, examining the enamel work and tiny jewelled forget-me-nots on the case. ‘It’s important to be able to trace the “story” of the piece. Who owned it, where it came from, how it ended up where it did.’
I exhale dejectedly. ‘That could be a problem. Like I said, I’m not sure Mrs Fairchild knows very much. It might have belonged to her mother, but then Frank Bolton reunited her with it in an orphanage.’
‘Frank Bolton?’
‘He was the owner of Mallow Court. He made his money in women’s knickers after the war. He adopted Catherine after she was orphaned in the Blitz.’ He’s clearly eager for any information I might have – and vice versa. But a seed of guilt has sprouted in my chest. Mrs Fairchild is in a fragile state, and my pumping her for information isn’t helping. She seemed reluctant to tell me that she was an orphan, and about her early memories. Then, she went into a state of shock, singing in another language, and fainting in front of a tour group. It doesn’t seem right that I share her confidences without her permission. ‘That’s really all I know,’ I finish.
‘The lack of provenance complicates matters. But if you like, I could examine the locket. Its internal workings are due a good cleaning and oiling anyway. What I did before was just a start. If I find a mark, then you can take it from there.’
‘And if there’s no mark?’
‘It’s still a fine piece of jewellery.’ He smiles.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘that sounds reasonable. So does that mean I have to umm… leave it with you?’
‘I assure you that I’m a consummate professional.’ He makes his voice sound extra-posh. ‘And I can give you a receipt for it that carries the weighty reputation of the Churchley & Sons name on the letterhead.’
‘Well in that case,’ I grin, ‘okay.’
‘Great. Now, if only I can find it.’
While he shuffles papers around on his desk looking for the letterhead, I have a nose around the workshop. The range of flotsam and jetsam extends well beyond just clocks. There are two RCA vinyl record turntables, a 1940s radio, and a reel-to-reel film projector like we had at primary school. ‘What are all these things?’ I ask. ‘Are you a collector?’
‘Not really,’ he says. ‘They’re broken bits I’ve picked up here and there. I’ve fixed most of them, but haven’t got round to selling them.’ He smiles wryly, giving me the distinct impression that he probably never will get around to it. ‘The truth is, I like to take things apart and put them back together. I can just about manage the electronics they made up to about the late 80s. After that, it’s more about computers than mechanics. Not my thing, I’m afraid.’
I laugh, realising that I haven’t spotted a laptop or even a clunky old desktop computer. There’s something unprepossessing – and quite charming, actually – about that fact. ‘Right,’ I say.
‘Ah, here it is, we’re in luck.’ He pulls out an engraved folder of rich cream letterhead with Churchley & Sons embossed in black cursive writing. He scribbles something on the paper, tears the sheet off, and hands it to me.
Without looking at it, I fold it and shove it in my bag. ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘and will you ring me when—’
We both jump as the telephone on his desk – circa 1980s, I’d guess, with a hard plastic receiver, push buttons, and a twisty cord – rings loudly. Chris looks at me apologetically.
‘Go ahead,’ I say.
He goes over and picks up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Oh, hi, Sidney.’
I pretend to keep looking around, but I keep my eyes and ears on him.
‘Oh, that’s not good.’ He holds the receiver away from his ear a fraction. ‘No, sorry.’
The voice on the other end rises in pitch. It’s clearly a woman.
‘I’ll need to check,’ he says, hesitating.
More animated talk on the other end.
‘Okay, I hear you. I’ll leave here in about an hour. I should make the six o’clock ferry, depending on traffic.’
I resist the urge to cover my ears or walk out of the room. It’s like this phone call – and whoever the woman is that the Clockmaker will be ‘leaving in an hour’ to see – has broken the spell of this odd little world.
With a sigh, he hangs up the phone.
‘I’ll let you get on.’ I pick up my handbag, trying not to look at him, or the locket I’m leaving behind in his care.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a family thing at a friend’s place on the Isle of Wight. She’s worried about my dad and stepmum arriving before me, so I need to leave soon.’
‘Fine. You go. Um…’ I point to the locket. ‘Do you want me to bring it back another time?’
He looks wistfully at the silver lozenge. ‘I’ll put it in the safe,’ he says. ‘It will save you another trip.’
A bitter and unwelcome tang of disappointment floods my mouth. A woman ‘friend’ is removing this man from his clocks, to have a cosy little ‘family thing’ on the Isle of Wight. Undoubtedly in a huge Victorian retreat with a Grecian-shaped swimming pool, and its own private ballroom. And the jewelled bird, which had so fascinated him just minutes ago, will have to spend a night or two in the safe. And I… well – I’ll return to Mallow Court, curl up on my sofa with a glass of wine and a book, like I’ve done so many times before – like I’ve been happy doing so many times before. But now …
‘Fine, whatever,’ I wave my hand dismissively.
‘Okay then.’ He pushes his dark hair back, seemingly chastised by my brusqueness. ‘And of course, I’ll call you as soon as I have some results.’ He gives me a disarming smile that I don’t return. ‘To be honest, I’d rather be here working on it.’
‘I’m sure.’ I shrug.
The clocks begin to chime in unison as I turn to leave. The cacophony hurts my ears, and just like last time, I can’t wait to be gone.
- Chapter 16 -
As I walk to the Tube station, I keep thinking about ‘Sidney-from-the-Isle-of-Wight’. I could look her up in Country Life. There’s probably a lovely soft-focus full-page advert of an ‘eligible young lady’. Or maybe a ‘taken’ one. Perhaps there’s another Heath-Churchley wedding in the offing – maybe I should have tried to sell Mallow Court as a venue. The very thought makes me sick to my stomach.
On the Tube, I stare at the people around me, annoyed with myself. I have a perverse image of Christopher Heath-Churchley going up the walk to the pebble-dashed semi-in Abbots Langley. He’d be wearing jeans and a band T-shirt, stretching out his long legs as he sits in the yoga studio while Dad pours him a pot of green tea and Mum fusses over bringing him a plate of sausages cooked with kale. He and Dad would probably talk each other’s ears off. Until Dad learned of his pedigree. Then it would be ‘off with his head’. So the fact that it will never happen is just as well.
I then imagine Tim Edwards in the same situation. A champion of widows, orphans, and the underdog. Right up Dad’s street. Somehow, though, I
can’t see him sitting quite so easily in the yoga studio – it must be that each time I’ve seen him, he’s been wearing a suit. There’s something a bit too polished, almost too perfect about him. Still, it could happen, I think.
The train home is delayed, so I decide to get a coffee and bun. As I’m taking out my purse to pay, I find the receipt from Churchley & Sons that I’d stuck in my bag. I unfold it while I’m waiting. The writing is practically illegible, but I make out the words: Jewelled bird mechanical locket, possibly Russian late 19th Century.
A sense of excitement grips me. Could the locket really be a Fabergé? Part of me wishes that I’d shared with Chris everything I know – about Mrs Fairchild singing a song in a foreign language, almost like she was in a trance. Could the language be Russian? I think it could. But even so, surely, that must be a coincidence.
I wait over an hour for the train together with all the other annoyed passengers. I use the time to phone Edith and ask how Mrs Fairchild is. Edith tells me that she seems to be recovered – eating and drinking normally – but has kept mainly to her room. The Mrs Fairchild I know never spends much time in her room, and I’m still troubled by what happened.
By the time I arrive back at Mallow Court, the house is closed for the day and all the staff have left. I let myself inside the main house and climb the stairs to Mrs Fairchild’s room. Her door is shut and I can just make out the sound of her heavy, even breathing. Disappointed, I decide not to wake her and return to my flat.
The red light on the message machine is flashing. For a second, hope soars in my chest. Has the Clockmaker discovered something else? But of course not – he’s with ‘Sidney’ – he’s probably on the train to Southampton right now. Except – silly me – of course he wouldn’t take the train. Instead, he’ll be driving down the M3 to the ferry in some fancy sports car – a Porsche, maybe – with the top down and the radio blasting Pink Floyd. My blood simmers with indignation. Chris Heath-Churchley – with his ripped jeans and band shirts – is a fraud.
Instead, it’s Tim. His deep voice vibrates a chord deep in my abdomen and I instantly feel a little bit better – quite a lot better, actually.
‘Hi Alex,’ he says, ‘I hope you’re well. Would you like to have dinner on Friday? Give me a ring when you can…’ The message clicks off.
‘Friday will be just fine,’ I say aloud. Funny how keen I now am to ‘get out more’.
I pick up the phone and ring Tim. It goes to voicemail, so I leave a message about Friday asking when and where. As soon as I hang up, I can hear Karen’s voice in my head haranguing me for not playing harder to get. But the ‘rules’ don’t interest me. Xavier and I never bothered with anything like rules. A memory rises to the surface: Xavier’s silky voice calling me his ‘amo’, running his fingers over my naked thigh as we made love al aire libre. But the memory brings the pain and anger flooding back – all the while we were engaged in ‘extracurricular activities’, Xavier’s wife Maria-Terese was at home in Argentina, getting the nursery ready for their firstborn child. Just as well that I’m shot of him.
I wrest my mind back to Tim. Admittedly, things feel a bit less ‘organic’ than they did with Xavier. But maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Thankfully, Tim rings back while I’m still stewing in my juices, and we make plans for Friday. He offers to come up to me (I’m relieved that he doesn’t suggest me meeting his gran again – which he must have realised was a bad idea). I volunteer to come to London instead. Let him deal with the awkwardness of putting me on a train – or not – at the end of the evening.
When we’ve hung up, I eat dinner and flip aimlessly through the channels on the television, feeling oddly restless at having a night in by myself. When I finally lie in bed and fall asleep, my dreams are marred by chocolate eyes, ticking clocks, and the key to something that is just out of reach.
- VI -
13th November 1940 – 12:30 a.m.
‘Come on, let’s get you inside. It’s not far.’
The girl got to her feet and staggered a few steps. I worried that I might have to carry her the whole way. Robbo came back, his camera slung over his shoulder.
‘You need help?’ he asked. ‘A lift somewhere?’
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘I’m taking her to a mate’s house. His landlady will look after her. It’s just down the road.’
Nodding, he tugged the strap on his camera. ‘Got some good footage tonight. Of you and your partners – our brave British ambulance crew.’
Something in the way he said it made my hackles rise. ‘Why bother?’ I snapped. ‘Who wants to see pictures of this shit?’
‘Someday, someone might.’ He walked off into the night.
The cold seared my skin as we walked together without speaking, her tiny hand in mine. I reran what I saw – Flea, bending over the body – putting something in his pocket. One thing for sure, he wasn’t just checking her pulse. I thought of the rumours I’d heard about the looting – kids stealing coins from the gas meters, thieves lifting military medals and anything else they could get their hands on. It was despicable. As if we weren’t all suffering enough. But I’ve known Flea since childhood – he’s an upstanding member of the ambulance crew – a public servant. I’d trust him with my life. Out here, in the horror and the chaos, the mind can play tricks on you. I must have seen wrong.
The snow had stopped completely by the time we reached the dark terrace of workmen’s cottages. In the kitchen window I could make out a tiny crack of light visible under the black-out curtains. I must remind Sadie to tape it up or else she’ll get a visit from the constable. But I was relieved to see the light. Good old Sadie – she could always be counted on for a late night supper of beans on toast and the kettle still warm. The girl would be safe here.
‘Here we are,’ I said. ‘Let’s go inside and have a hot drink and something to eat.’
It was as if she didn’t hear me. Her eyes were huge and glassy – like she was still back at the top of Larkspur Terrace, playing with a jewelled locket and catching snow on her tongue over her mother’s body.
As I untangled her hand from mine and adjusted the blanket on her shoulders, I firmly tucked the pendant on its silver chain into the neck of her dress. ‘Your mother would have wanted you to keep it safe,’ I said. ‘Best if it’s out of sight.’
- Chapter 17 -
Still half asleep the next morning, I crawl out from under the duvet and automatically reach for the jewelled locket, thinking it’s on my nightstand. I have a moment of panic when I discover it isn’t there. But of course I left it with Chris the Clockmaker, which leads me to unpleasant thoughts of ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley, ‘Cee-Cee’, and Sidney-from-the-Isle-of-Wight. But as the sun floods through the skylight, the clouds drift from my brain. What does any of that matter when the locket might turn out to be a Fabergé?! I don’t know much about jewellery, but that sounds very special.
When I’ve showered and dressed, I go to check on Mrs Fairchild before the day’s tours and visitors arrive. On my way to the house, I notice how the kitchen garden is awash with summer colour – sweet peas, calendulas, dahlia, peonies. There’s also sound everywhere – I didn’t know before I moved to ‘the country’ just how much noise there could be – pigeons cooing from the rafters, bees buzzing in the lavender, the ducks and geese by the river’s edge exchanging morning greetings, the crunch of my footsteps along the gravel path. Just before the door to the house, I stop. From beyond the hedge arch at the end I can hear the sound of thwack, thwack, thwack. I catch a glimpse of Mrs Fairchild’s wide brimmed hat in what is known as ‘the secret garden’. I’m relieved to see that she’s up and about, going about her gardening as usual.
‘Good morning,’ I call out loudly, as the scrolled iron gate screeches open.
The thwacking sound stops, and just for an instant, everything seems still – even the insects. Then she waves her shears at me from behind a topiary of a peacock.
‘Hello,’ she calls out. ‘Lovely m
orning. I’m just off to the garden centre to get some more aphid spray.’ She shakes her head and gestures around her at the beds of old roses that frame the edges of the garden. ‘These roses aren’t thanking me for taking a day off sick.’
I stand in the gateway under the clematis arch. ‘Are you feeling better, Mrs Fairchild? I was really worried about you.’
She sits down on an iron bench that’s turned green with lichen and pats the seat next to her. ‘I’m fine, Alex. Really.’
‘Good. It’s great to see you up and about.’ I sit down next to her, enjoying the sun on my face, the sound of the bees and the scent of the roses. But only for a second. I glance sideways at Mrs Fairchild, noticing that her face is still very pale.
‘I know it may not be the best time,’ I say, hesitating briefly, ‘but there are some things I’ve been wondering about. Some questions … um … that I wanted to ask you. When you’re up to it, I mean.’
She bows her head in a gesture I recognise – from when I did it myself in the police interview room. ‘Go on then,’ she says. I can tell that she’s keeping a stiff upper lip – literally. ‘You’re right. You deserve to know more. Go ahead – ask your questions.’ A cloud passes over her face. ‘Though, you may not like the answers.’
‘Maybe not.’ I brave a smile. ‘But you see, I feel responsible for what happened. When I showed you the locket, after I had it repaired, you got…’ I choose my words, ‘…very upset. You obviously recognised the tune that the music box played. You started singing in a foreign language. And then you fainted.’
‘Did I?’ she flicks at the dirt under her nails. ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’
‘What was the language?’ I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘Was it Russian?’
She stares down at her fingers, then at the edging of the lawn, then up at the wisps of cloud in the sky. Everywhere but at me. ‘Yes. It was.’
‘You said a word too – Mamochka – I think. Does that mean mother? Was your mother Russian?’
Finding Secrets Page 12
