‘Oh.’ My knees felt week with relief. I knew Sadie was a good judge of character – she’d never let Flea live here if he was… up to something. I had to stop imagining things. Like the rest of us, Flea was just out there doing his bit.
‘Though, he pays his rent on time, so who am I to judge?’ she said. ‘What about you, Badger – you well?’
‘As can be expected. You?’
I sat back, only half-listening, as she launched into a lengthy account of her son, Miles, who’s ‘out flying missions against them Jerrys’. I know she thinks the boys from the neighbourhood – me, Flea and Spider – aren’t pulling our weight because we’re not in the RAF. I thought of the blackened bodies in the street – they’ll live again rising up in my dreams until I wake up screaming. And I was glad she didn’t know the truth about what I’ve seen.
The girl quickly became groggy and I carried her over to the sofa. As I tucked her under the crocheted blanket, I saw the silver chain around her neck. I thought of Flea’s face as he laid eyes on it – her one small treasure. I pulled the blanket up to her chin. Sadie was here – she’d be safe… and I’d trust Flea with my life… but would I trust him with this…?
No. I couldn’t.
‘Good night,’ I whispered but she was already asleep. Gently, I reached under the blanket and undid the clasp. She didn’t even stir.
I kissed her on the forehead, and slipped the jewelled bird into my pocket.
- Chapter 22 -
I leave the garden, having been gifted a jewelled locket of unknown provenance, and very little in the way of reassurance. For all her denials, I can tell that the diary entries are bothering my grandmother. Even if her policeman beau can sort things out, I worry that a fair bit of damage may have already been done.
I tick off my morning tasks – doing the final proof of my guide for the costume exhibition, touching base with the PR firm, which I’ve hired to do the publicity, and contacting suppliers who are providing food and drink for the grand opening.
Edith and the other staff are busy with visitors and tours, and Mrs Fairchild doesn’t come inside from the garden even for her usual morning cup of tea.
At lunchtime, I muddle my way through a speech on Elizabethan architecture to a local history group – luckily most of them seem more focused on putting away the authentic ‘meat feast’ than on my talk, so I don’t have to field many questions.
When my talk is over, I have just enough time to go back to my flat and get changed to go to London. I feel a bit nervous – both about my date with Tim and my meeting with the Clockmaker (though I now think of him as ‘Chris’). But I’m also glad to be taking action. If my grandmother can’t – or won’t – tell me more about the diary entries, then at least I can continue my own enquiries on the locket.
I get the train from Tring, and watch the suburbs blur by, my mind churning. An hour later, the train pulls into Euston. Walking through the station makes me feel uncomfortable – probably because I’m wearing ‘date’ clothes for my dinner with Tim later on. Instead of my usual blazer and jeans, I’m wearing a floaty silk chiffon skirt in emerald green that Karen once persuaded me to buy in the sales. I’ve worn it exactly once – right now. I’ve also got on a black sleeveless vest and waterfall cardigan. And my boots – black patent with pointy toes – I couldn’t face a ‘date’ without boots made for walking.
I take the Tube to Chancery Lane and wind my way through the maze of little streets off Hatton Garden. I’m eager to hear what Chris has found out, but he’d sounded a bit strange on the phone. Maybe he’s discovered something bad – that the locket is a fake or that it’s not a Fabergé at all. Even before I knew I was Mrs Fairchild’s granddaughter – and before she’d gifted it to me – I’d become very invested in the theory that the locket might be something special. Now, I’m hoping that its origins may be a vital clue to finding more about her mother – my great-grandmother – and our family history.
I walk past the cool marble facade of ‘Churchley & Sons Fine Art Auctioneers’ and around the back to the alleyway. At the door in the brick wall, I stand still listening to the hum of ticking clocks. Part of me wants to turn around and leave – avoid the disappointment I know I’ll feel if the jewelled bird turns out to be nothing much. And maybe I could have done that before … but not now. Though I can’t help but wonder – will we all be better off if I succeed?
… Or if I fail?
*
I go through the door with trepidation not just about the locket, but about what kind of time Chris had with ‘Sidney’ on the Isle of Wight. The ‘down-on-one-knee’ kind? Not that it’s even vaguely any of my business – and I most definitely don’t care.
The quarter-past the hour cotillion heralds my entrance as I walk slowly down the corridor to the workshop and stand on the threshold until one by one, bells and chimes fall silent. The ticking sound that replaces them is steady and rhythmic like the beating of a mechanical heart.
I don’t see the Clockmaker – where is he?
A sharp laugh filters in through the door that leads to the auction house. It’s open a crack, and a yellow rectangle of light spills into the workshop. A man, and a woman. Chris – and the blonde PA?
I don’t care. Clenching my fists at my side, I march up to the door. ‘Chris?’ I call out loudly.
The laughter stops. I fling open the door. The blonde PA is standing in a corridor holding a tray of teacups. She glances in my direction and I draw back. Heavier footsteps come towards me. I hurry back to the centre of the workshop and stand in front of the workbench like I’ve been there all along.
‘Alex?’ Chris says in his deep voice.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I say flippantly. ‘I thought we had an appointment.’
‘Yes we do.’ Chris comes into the room. He’s wearing loose-fitting jeans and a ‘Nine Inch Nails – Head Like a Hole World Tour’ T-shirt. I assess his face – good-looking in a craggy way, but impossible to overlook the slightly geeky air of a boy who plays with toys all day. Not the kind of man you’d expect to be quite so popular with the ladies. And yet…
‘Did you have a good time with Sidney,’ I can’t stop myself from asking.
His pale blue eyes twinkle. ‘It was okay. How about you?’
‘No – I’ve never met her,’ I quip.
He laughs heartily. ‘Good one.’
I almost manage a smile.
He goes over to his desk and flips through his papers. ‘But you’ve been well, Alex?’ He looks up, studying me. ‘You look very nice.’
‘Thanks.’ My cheeks flush. ‘But actually, I’ve been better.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s fine. Just a few family issues – you know?’
He gives a huff of laughter. ‘I’m no stranger to those, believe me.’ He picks up a notebook from the desk. ‘Do you want to sit down? I’m guessing you want to hear what I’ve discovered.’
‘I’m surprised you’ve even had time to look at it.’
‘I came back early from the Isle of Wight,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t wait to get started.’
‘Oh. So no engagement then?’ The words are out of my mouth before I’m even aware of having spoken them.
‘What do you mean?’ He seems genuinely surprised.
I lower my eyes, embarrassed at my own presumption. ‘Well, you, Sidney, her family, your family. A romantic place like the Isle of Wight…’ I pause. ‘But of course, it’s none of my business.’
A slow smile creeps over his face. ‘It isn’t like that. Sidney’s a family friend.’
‘Ah.’ While I’m processing this information and trying to fathom why I feel so relieved, he pulls out a piece of paper and a sheaf of photographs.
‘I had a good look at the locket,’ he says. ‘I took most of it apart. But don’t worry… I put it back together.’ He grins. ‘It’s a remarkable thing – so intricate and well-made. A true piece of art.’
‘And what did you find?’
�
�Nothing.’ His eyes are strangely bright. ‘I found nothing. No mark – nothing at all.’
‘Oh.’ Disappointment creeps into my voice. ‘That’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe – but not necessarily.’ He signals for me to sit down in the orange vinyl visitor chair. I take a seat and he hands me the photos one by one. To me, most of it looks like parts from a machine catalogue – close-ups of tiny gears and wheels. ‘The fact that it doesn’t have a mark in any of the usual places might be very significant. But it’s too early to know yet.’
‘Didn’t you say before that no mark was a bad thing?’
‘I did – but that was when I thought that the bird might be a Fabergé workshop piece. Those do have a mark.’
‘So it’s not a Fabergé?’
‘I said it’s not a Fabergé workshop piece.’ He grins slyly.
‘I’m not following.’ I hand the photos back, feeling a little exasperated.
He opens a book – a different book on Fabergé than the one he showed me before – and points to a highlighted passage. I bend down and read it.
Although most Fabergé workshop pieces bore a Workmaster mark, the finest pieces produced in the workshop often bore no mark. These were the pieces commissioned by the Tsar and the Romanov family themselves, often to give as gifts to special friends or family members.
I look up at him in disbelief. ‘The Romanov family? Surely you can’t think—’
‘We can’t be certain just because there’s no mark,’ he says. ‘That could mean that it might not be a Fabergé at all – there is that possibility.’
‘So is it or isn’t it? How can we ever find out one way or the other?’
‘We may never know for sure – that’s the way it is with art and antiques, I’m afraid. All we can do is find out if the rest of the pieces of the puzzle fit together regarding its provenance. But if you want my opinion…’ His face erupts into a grin.
The Clockmaker believes that the jewelled bird might have once been a special piece commissioned by the Romanov family!
‘My God.’ I feel suddenly breathless. ‘Could it really be true?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to do a great deal of research,’ he admits. ‘Just on the marks. There were many different marks depending on who produced a piece, and where. I don’t know a lot about Imperial Russia in the early 20th Century. I believe the Tsar was Nicholas II and his wife was Alexandra.’
‘There were several children too,’ I say. ‘And a lot of cousins, aunts and uncles. It was a pretty big family – a dynasty. The Tsar and his immediate family were murdered by the Bolsheviks during the revolution. I’m not sure about all the others.’
‘Sounds like you do know a thing or two about it.’
‘Not really – just general knowledge. But there is one other thing…’ I take a breath. I’ve trusted him this far, so I decide to tell him about my grandmother and her strange trance when she heard the bird ‘singing’. ‘Mrs Fairchild sang a song in a foreign language,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t understand a word of it. But she told me later that it was a song Mamochka used to sing.’
‘Mamochka? Is that Russian for mother?’
‘Yes.’
We stare at each other, eyes wide. The unspoken possibilities are a charge in the air crackling between us.
- Chapter 23 -
When Chris hands me back the velvet bag, I can’t resist taking the locket out and looking at it. He’s cleaned and polished every millimetre, and the silver and gems sparkle under the bright light of his desk lamp. How could I ever have mistaken it for something modern?
‘I’m almost afraid to touch it,’ I say, nesting it in my palm.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he says. But I can sense that he too has done just that. ‘Remember, until its provenance is proved for certain, it’s just a pretty piece of jewellery, not a priceless treasure. Though the gemstones and the white gold setting are valuable in their own right.’
We both watch as I open the case and the bird ‘sings’. It looks precious and magical, like a mythical creature out of a fairy tale, and the sound of the tiny music box is clear and bell-like. It feels like we’re both in a kind of trance, held in thrall by this tiny object. When the bird has finished its rotation, I shut the case. Without warning, the troubles and anxiety that have been plaguing me come rushing back. Mrs Fairchild – my grandmother – the diary entries – the ‘uninvited guest’. My upcoming ‘date’ with Tim. Involuntarily, I shudder.
‘Are you okay, Alex?’ Chris reaches towards me. I can feel the energy in his fingers, but at the last second, he pulls back.
‘Yes, I…’ I stammer, feeling disarmed. ‘It’s just a lot to take in. I… suppose I’d better let you get on. And I have some errands in London to do this afternoon.’
A shadow of disappointment crosses his face. I ignore the little voice whispering in the corner of my mind, that actually, I’d much rather stay.
‘Maybe I’d better leave the bird with you for now,’ I say, ‘to keep it safe?’
‘Fine with me, but are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ I’m sure that if he keeps the bird for me, then at least I’ll have a reason to come back here again.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll put it back in the safe. Do you want another receipt?’
I stare at the locket for a long moment. In a way, I’m longing for a receipt on his weighty letterhead, stating that the bird is ‘possibly Imperial Russian’.
‘No,’ I say swiftly. ‘I trust you. But can we keep all this quiet for now?’ I add, as he walks me to the door.
‘Of course. Scout’s Honour.’ He clasps his fist to his chest.
I study him narrowly. ‘You were never a boy scout.’
He makes a face like I’ve wounded him, barely holding back laughter. ‘No. But I always wanted to be.’
‘Fair enough,’ I laugh.
He opens the door for me.
‘I’ll do some research and see what I can find about the Imperial Family,’ I say.
‘Good. I’ll keep digging on my end through whatever I can find on Fabergé.’
‘Okay, Chris. I’ll see you soon.’
He looks at me for a long moment, his crystal blue eyes unreadable. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he says.
So will I, I think as I walk up to Clerkenwell Road and hop on a bus. I’ve got several hours before my dinner with Tim, and I’m dying to do more research on a possible connection between the jewelled bird, Fabergé, and the Russian royal line. So I get off the bus near Kings Cross and walk the short distance to the British Library. Luckily, I still have a valid reader pass from my student days. I enter the building, awed as ever by the huge rotunda of the main reading room, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Apparently there are over 400 miles of shelves in the place, and as much as I’d love to do so, I’ve no time to explore them all.
In the main catalogue, there are literally hundreds of books on the Romanovs and thousands on the history of Russia. I pick three at random.
Two and a half hours later, I have my original three books open on my table, along with a dozen others. My hand is tired from writing notes, and I’d kill for a coffee. But other than that, I’ve barely noticed the time passing.
I reread over my notes. I’ve discovered that Nicholas and Alexandra, the last Tsar and Tsarina of Russia, had five children. Alexei, the only son and heir, was a sickly boy who suffered from a disease called haemophilia. Anastasia is perhaps the most famous child, as there were rumours that she survived the murder of her family, and even some pretenders who cropped up over the years. The less famous siblings are Olga, Tatiana, and Maria.
In 1918, the entire family was taken to Ekaterinburg in Siberia and placed under house arrest. In the middle of the night, they were taken out into the yard where they faced a firing squad.
One particularly macabre account records that the bullets aimed at Alexei originally ricocheted off of him because he had gems sewed into his clothing tha
t acted like armour. But alas, it wasn’t enough. His killers had plenty of wherewithal to pump him full of more bullets, until one hit its deadly target.
It’s all very tragic, and I feel a rush of sympathy for the family – especially the children – who were murdered for the ‘cause’ of communism. Fleetingly, I wonder how much Dad knows about all the blood shed on behalf of the ‘glorious’ red crusade.
I turn to the paper where I’ve taken notes about the other Romanovs who managed to escape Russia and survive the revolution. I was surprised to learn that there are literally hundreds of ancestors and descendants still out there. Even Prince Phillip’s grandmother was a Romanov who settled in Greece after her escape. But for the last Tsar and his immediate family, there was no escape.
I stare at the shelves of books wondering how on earth Mrs Fairchild ended up with a piece of jewellery that might – and, I admit, it’s a long shot – have belonged to a member of the Romanov family? Despite Chris’s enthusiasm, it seems impossible. And more impossible still will be to prove anything one way or the other.
*
As I leave the library, I feel a little bit deflated, realising that in all probability, this quest I’ve embarked on will turn out to be a wild goose chase. I spare a thought for the jewelled bird – bedded down for the night in Chris’s father’s safe, amid stock certificates, property deeds, and other valuable items. As for Chris – he’s probably left his workshop for another ‘non-date’ with another ‘just-a-family-friend’.
The stuffy, exhaust-blackened air of a hot summer evening gradually brings me back to my senses. I jettison Chris H-C from my mind, and catch a bus down High Holborn towards Shoreditch, and my ‘date’ with my ‘get-out-of-jail-free-card’ – Tim Edwards. I plan to keep all the recent goings-on to myself, and focus on trying to enjoy a night out with an attractive man. The bus eventually sets me down in front of Shoreditch Town Hall, where we’ve agreed to meet. My stomach feels light and fluttery at the potential for what this evening might – or might not – hold.
Finding Secrets Page 16
