I go out the main door to look for my grandmother when all of a sudden, gravel sprays and a silver car pulls up. The car nips into the disabled parking space, and Tim jumps out brandishing a bouquet of white lilies wrapped in cellophane. Speaking of the devil…
‘Alex!’ he says. ‘I came as soon as I could. I need to explain—’
‘You need to move that car.’
He has the nerve to laugh, obviously thinking that I’m joking. That in and of itself is enough to set my hackles on edge. He takes a few steps towards me, holding out the flowers.
‘I mean it,’ I growl, keeping my hands at my side. ‘I’ll have it towed, and you along with it.’
‘Alex, please. Let’s get a coffee. I know you must be upset—’
‘Upset? You think I should be UPSET?!?’ I barrage him with an outpouring of my suspicions. From blackmailing an old lady about her family history to falsely imprisoning me and gaining my trust under dishonest pretences. ‘And then, to top it off,’ I shout, ‘you put me through the ordeal of meeting your crackers gran!’
‘Alex, pull yourself together.’ He sets the lilies down on top of his car and puts his hands on my shoulders. I pull away. ‘I like you, Alex. A lot. Why do you think I’m here?’
‘I don’t know.’ I snap. ‘Maybe to leave another unmarked envelope with an upsetting diary entry?’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ he says. His voice deepens like he’s addressing a hostile witness. ‘I haven’t left any envelopes here. I came here to the house and took your tour because I was curious. Gran’s had that photo album around for so long. She talked about Catherine Bolton like they were old friends – that’s what I thought, anyway. So I wanted to learn more.’
‘Why?’ I cry. ‘So you could wreck an old woman’s retirement?’
‘Because Frank Bolton knew my great-grandfather,’ he says. ‘He’s the only link I have to his past. His life was cut short, as you know, by the accusation of looting. He didn’t get a trial – Churchill himself hushed it up. Nowadays it would be seen as a miscarriage of justice. But back then, during those dark days… I guess there were reasons for it.’
‘Do you think your great grandfather was innocent?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘So why now? Why bring it up after all these years?’
‘Because it’s only recently that she found proof. Her father’s journal. She read through it, and immediately saw that it supported her theory that her father was innocent. And implicated Frank Bolton in the process. So now, she’s got a real bee in her bonnet.’
‘More like a hornet’s nest. And where did she find this precious diary anyway?’
‘She’s been sorting out some old boxes in the attic.’ He scratches the non-existent stubble on his chin. ‘I gather she found it in some box of her father’s things.’
The fight flows out of my body, leaving me limp. Mrs Fairchild suspected as much.
‘And what does she want with us? Money? Some kind of justice?’ I round on him. ‘Is she another one of your “widows and orphans” who are trying to right past wrongs.’
‘No,’ his voice softens. ‘She’s my gran. She may be a bit off sometimes, but I love her. I’m not going to lie – when she first told me the story, I did feel that a terrible injustice had been done – to my own family. But I also told her that it was most likely too late to do anything about it. I advised her to forget the whole thing. Try to let it go.’
‘Well, you sure succeeded.’
He takes a step forward, reaching out to me again. I step back, but this time, when he persists in putting his hand on my arm, I don’t jerk away.
‘Gran did send a few of the diary entries through the post.’ He hangs his head. ‘She admitted that when she first saw the diary – inscribed with her father’s name, and telling all about those terrible times – she wanted Catherine to know the whole upsetting truth. I’m really sorry, and I hope you won’t hold it against her. But neither she nor I left anything here at the house, and for the record, I certainly didn’t lock you in the loo.’
I draw back. ‘But what about your being there at the police station – to “rescue” me? You can’t expect me to believe that you “just happened” to be at the right place at the right time.’
I stare him down, sure that I’ve caught him out.
Instead, he starts to laugh. ‘You’re right – it wasn’t a total coincidence.’
‘It wasn’t?’ I tense up again.
‘No,’ he smiles. ‘Well – not really. The truth is, I’m friendly with one of the police officers at the station. He’s helped me on a couple of cases in the past, and though he’s supposed to be retired now, he’s still around a lot seeing his mates. After I did the house tour, we went down the pub for a drink. To the Golden Fleece – you know it?’
‘I know it,’ I say through my teeth.
We spent the whole afternoon catching up – I hadn’t seen him in a while. I told him why I’d come up to these parts, and about visiting Mallow Court. I told him about this smashing tour guide I’d met – very sexy, if you want to know the truth.’
I stare at him, my face growing hot.
‘So when he heard about the arrest at Mallow Court, he put two and two together. He rang me. I came to rescue you.’ His voice softens to a purr.
I want to believe him as he takes me by the shoulders again and draws me to his chest. He tilts my chin up with his finger, and leans in, his lips brushing mine. Part of me wants to pull away, and part of me feels like jelly. I stand there, not quite responding, but not quite protesting either.
When finally we come up for air, he holds me at arm’s length. ‘I really like you, Alex. Please say you forgive me.’
‘I forgive you.’ The words stumble out of my mouth.
‘Good. I won’t keep you any longer – I’m due in court this afternoon. But I’ll ring you later.’
‘No … I mean … I don’t know.’
He brushes a lock of hair back from my cheek. ‘Sorry about the car,’ he says with a sideways grin. ‘Next time I’ll take care to park properly.’
He takes the lilies off the top of the car and thrusts them into my hand. I stand there watching until his car disappears in a cloud of gravel dust. He had an explanation for everything. But in actual fact, his assurances have made me even more unsettled.
If he’s not responsible for what’s been going on, then who is?
- Chapter 27 -
When Tim is gone, I put the flowers in a vase and go to look for my grandmother. She’s nowhere to be found, and when I ask Edith, she reminds me that Mrs Fairchild is away for the whole day at the Hampton Court Flower Show. I sit Edith down and tell her about the revelation – that I’m Mrs Fairchild’s granddaughter. I’m expecting her to be surprised, but in actual fact, she just nods her head.
‘It explains a lot,’ she says. ‘The way you two are around each other – and – I’ve always thought you looked a bit like her.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ She smiles. ‘Oh Alex, I’m happy for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. I decide not to tell her that my new-found contentment might be woefully short-lived.
After talking with Edith, I go up to my grandmother’s room to look for the diary entries, but when I go upstairs and try the knob, the door is locked. I have a master key in the estate office, but I feel too guilty to use it. Instead I closet myself in my office, and sink into the deep leather desk chair, leaning against the desk with my head in my hands.
I think about Tim’s visit – the memory of the kiss turning sour in my mouth. The attraction I felt for him has become irreparably blurred by the inky doubts that have crept in around the edges. Regardless of what he may believe himself – there’s no denying that it’s his gran who’s made the accusations against Frank Bolton – terrible accusations. And it was Tim who brought me round to meet her so she could throw those in my face.
The scholar in me tries to view things dispassionat
ely – there are mysteries, yes – and most likely I’ll never know the ‘truth’. I didn’t study medieval history for years without learning that truth is often simply whatever is written down by the survivors. And in this case, I’ve yet to see a shred of real evidence proving that Frank Bolton was anything other than the upstanding man he seemed. Or that Hal Dawkins – Tim’s great-grandfather – was innocent of the crime he was accused of. But assuming that the diary is a voice from the grave, I’ll have to find some way to prove that Frank Bolton is innocent. Because if I don’t, then my grandmother will suffer.
Despite the worries battering my head, I manage to go through the motions – checking in with the PR company about the costume exhibition, scheduling tours and wedding venue viewings, fishing a nappy out of a blocked loo, escorting out a woman who decided to smoke a cigarette in the Tudor kitchen next to a very dry store of firewood.
When the tours are ended for the day, I go into the green drawing room just off the main hall, where a number of old photos are displayed. The room was updated in the early 1900s by a rich American owner who was a relation of Rockefeller’s. There’s a stunningly ornate plaster ceiling, but other than that, the room is cosy rather than grand – papered in green silk with an embossed ivory leaf pattern and furnished with comfortable, if slightly saggy William Morris print chairs and sofas, and a number of dark wood occasional tables.
At the rear of the room there’s a mullioned bay window with a seat filled with cushions. In front of the window is a huge Steinway Grand purchased by Frank Bolton as a present for his wife Mabel. As far as I know, neither Mabel, nor anyone else in the family ever played piano. Occasionally there’s a concert in the great hall, and the piano is moved there by a crew hired in specially. But other than that, it spends most of its life in this room, with its lid firmly closed. There, it serves as the perfect stage for Mrs Fairchild’s photos. There are several wedding photos, and one of her husband holding a blue fin tuna he caught in Fiji. There’s a photo of her daughter, Robin, as a baby, and a few of her as a smiling girl with blonde hair. I’ve seen these photos so many times before, but now it’s like I’m looking at a stranger. My mother. I peer at her closely – there’s very little resemblance between her and I. Only the eyes maybe… I’m not quite sure how that makes me feel. There’s a photo of me, also, as part of a group shot of the staff taken last Christmas. The rest of the surface of the enormous lid is filled with photos of her beloved adoptive father, Frank Bolton.
I pick up the nearest photo – it shows Frank shaking hands with Tony Blair at a charity lunch for the blind. Frank must have been in his late sixties at the time, but even so, he’s still a good-looking man. His hair is thick and white, his skin has a healthy tan. He’s not a tall man, but he’s well-built with a broad chest and shoulders. The main feature that I note, however, is the self-composed look on his face, the camera catching a blur of warmth in his blue eyes. According to my grandmother, his smiles were rare, and mostly reserved for his family. She said that he was a man who ‘loved life’. From this photo, I can believe it.
One by one, I analyse the other photos of Frank. He’s captured in many different settings – sitting at an easel in the garden, dressed in a tuxedo for a ball, giving a cheque to a charity for displaced coal miners. His upright demeanour never seems to waver. Either he has a clear conscience, or worryingly – if the allegations against him are true – no conscience at all.
I set down the last photo, wiping my fingerprints off the frame with my shirt. There’s nothing in Mrs Fairchild’s shrine to indicate that her adoptive father might have had a dark and ruthless side – a side that allowed him to steal from others in order to amass a ‘life-loving’ fortune. But then again, there wouldn’t be. What about the photos she doesn’t have on display, and Frank Bolton’s own photos, papers and personal effects? I can’t imagine that she ever would have thrown them away. But where are they?
Something catches my eye on a little table next to the fireplace that’s normally empty. It’s another photo frame but this one is face down on the table. I can’t say I’ve paid a great deal of attention before to the old photos around the house, but I know it doesn’t belong there.
I turn the frame over. It’s another picture of Frank Bolton, this one in black and white. He’s wearing his ambulance uniform and posing with his arms chummily around two other men. Hal Dawkins, and the unknown friend in the photo that Mrs Edwards showed me. It looks like it must have been taken at the same time. I undo the little swivel hooks on the back of the frame and take the picture out. The paper is brittle and yellowing, but there’s an attribution stamped on the photo: Robert Copthorne – November 1940.
November 1940 – the month and year when Hal Dawkins was arrested! I peer closer. Just below the date, I can just make out three words written in faint pencil: Flea, Badger, Spider.
Flea, Badger, Spider. I puzzle over the words. Could they be nicknames? I recall my grandmother telling me that the diary was inscribed as written by ‘Badger’ – Hal Dawkins. If – and it’s a big if – I’m going to proceed under the assumption that Frank Bolton and Hal Dawkins are both innocent, then perhaps it’s the third man who’s guilty. What had Mrs Edwards said about him? He had friends in high places.
At the very least, I should find out who he is. I put the photo back in the frame and leave it face down on the table the way I found it.
- Chapter 28 -
After another night tossing and turning, it’s after ten o’clock by the time I get to my office to check the day’s schedule. While I owe the PR company a few last minute bits and pieces for the costume exhibition, I’m relieved to find that I have no tours or meetings. I’m about to go outside to look for my grandmother when Edith appears in the doorway.
‘Alex? Oh there you are. I was about to ring your mobile.’
‘I umm… overslept.’
‘There’s a man here to see you.’ Her eyes have a surprised twinkle in them.
My heart takes a swan dive. Tim – it must be Tim back to see if I’m still ‘all right’. Maybe hoping for another round of ‘kiss and make up’. And I realise then that I don’t want to see him – not now, and perhaps, not ever again. In theory, I’ve forgiven him. But by taking me to see his gran, he’s opened a can of worms that can’t be closed again. I’ll never be sure if I can trust him. Our budding relationship has withered on the vine.
‘Where is he?’ I ask.
‘In the café.’ She frowns at my lack of enthusiasm. ‘He asked me what you liked. I told him – coffee and scones. I hope that’s okay?’
‘It’s fine, thanks.’ I can’t be mad at Edith. Not when I haven’t confided in her – or anyone – about what’s happened. After I’ve got rid of Tim, I’ll call Karen, I decide. It will help to talk to someone neutral, even if there’s bound to be a pep talk at the end of it.
‘Okay.’ She gives me a little wink and heads back in the direction of the gift shop.
I quickly comb my hair and apply a coat of lip gloss – Mum always said that it’s good to look one’s best when sending a man packing. Steeling myself, I walk down the corridor towards the tea shop. I don’t have time to plan what I’ll say to Tim. I’ll have to wing it.
There’s a delightful scent of coffee and fresh-baked scones, and the café is noisy and crowded. My stomach rumbles. I look around but don’t see Tim. But then my eyes rest on the tall, leggy man sitting at a little corner table by the window. My stomach gives an excited flip. Although he’s wearing his usual T-shirt (today it’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars) and jeans, seeing him out of his workshop is like glimpsing him in a whole new light. I allow myself to acknowledge for the barest fraction of a second, how unique – and rather stunning –Christopher Heath-Churchley is.
‘Hi Alex!’ He stands up as I approach his table. ‘I hope it’s okay me turning up like this?’
‘Of course.’ I enjoy the strange bubbling feeling inside me as he kisses me casually on both cheeks
. ‘It’s great to see you.’
‘Do you have time for a coffee?’ He holds up a silver number five that he must have got at the counter. ‘I took the liberty of ordering for two.’
‘Yes, great.’ I sit down, feeling better than I have in days.
Adele comes over to the table carrying a tray. ‘Here you are, sir.’ She sets down the tray and gives me a surreptitious wink, which I ignore.
Chris takes the cups and saucers off the tray. He’s ordered a pot of coffee and a basket of fresh cinnamon scones. My favourite. He pours the coffee. I’m aware of his long legs stretching out close to mine.
‘I was curious to see Mallow Court’ He cuts his scone in half, spreading it generously with butter. There’s amusement in his pale blue eyes. ‘Though I wasn’t quite sure I’d be welcome given my “family connections”.’
I laugh. ‘Your £9.50 admission fee is as good as anyone else’s, I suppose.’
He laughs too. Just being here in his presence, I feel light inside; at ease except for a strong undercurrent of attraction. Unwittingly, I realise how with Tim, there was always a faint air of judgment about him – about my education and my job – which makes me feel defensive. And regardless of his apologies and excuses; stories about meeting old friends down the pub and ‘wanting me to meet his gran for a cuppa’, all along he was hiding things. The attractive chocolate eyes of memory turned out to be more like deep, muddy quicksand.
I realise that Chris is staring at me, and that he’s asked me a question that I didn’t hear. He’s no longer laughing or smiling.
‘I know it may be none of my business, but are you sure you’re all right, Alex? Do you want me to leave?’
‘No!’ I say. Without thinking, I reach out and take his hand – just for a moment – before realising what I’ve done. I withdraw swiftly and take a sip of my coffee. The liquid is dark and bitter – I’ve forgotten to put in the milk and sugar. What is wrong with me? ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, pouring milk into my cup. ‘It’s just that some things have been going on here and I’m kind of stressed. Some of it’s normal – like, we’ve been busy preparing for the costume exhibition. But there are other things too. I probably shouldn’t say, but…’
Finding Secrets Page 19
