Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  ‘I don’t think it’s a woman,’ Chris says.

  ‘What?’

  The faces turn towards the dim streetlight. The man is Frank – and the ‘woman’… Hal.

  The photographer films what is clearly an altercation between the two men. Eventually, Hal takes off the jewels he’s wearing and hands them to Frank. Frank walks away. The reel flickers off.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Chris says. He turns to me tentatively. ‘Did Frank just get away with the loot?’

  ‘In the diary it says that “Badger”– who we now know must be Frank – took the loot to the police station. “Spider”? – your grandfather, Jeremy, drove Frank. He wasn’t involved in the looting. The film was taken by Robert Copthorne. It must have been the evidence they used against Hal – also known as Flea.’

  ‘Well, well…’ Chris gives me a dazzling smile. ‘It looks like you’ve proved that Frank Bolton is in the clear then.’

  ‘Yes.’ I smile back and the world seems to close in around us. I know that there are still unanswered questions. But for now, I lie back on the sofa, enjoying the relief I feel, and the arcing of electricity in the air between us, as Chris puts on the last reel.

  The final reel is a victory parade – fitting under the circumstances. A huge crowd shouts and waves flags as the troops roll through the streets of London.

  I lay my head on Chris’s shoulder. He tilts my chin up and brushes my lips with his. His tongue explores my mouth as his hand moves over my body. Every nerve ending begins to glow incandescent. I lie back as he removes my top but leaves the locket around my neck. He kisses my breasts, my throat; my stomach. And my hands caress his strong, muscular body, and I savour the feeling of him wanting me. And I sink back into the sofa that once belonged to the Queen Mother, and somewhere outside of time the clocks tick and chime. But all I’m aware of is the beating of our hearts resonating together and the soaring feeling of our bodies opening up to each other.

  The film comes to an end and the screen flickers with black and white lines. And with slow and delicious deliberation, the Clockmaker takes me apart and puts me back together again.

  - Chapter 42 -

  Eventually I sleep, and eventually I wake. I know it’s morning by the blizzard of dust motes sparkling in a shaft of light coming in from one of the high windows of Chris’s workshop. My body is entwined with his and I breathe in the smell of warmth and wood and skin. I feel like I’m shimmering from inside. I lie perfectly still for a long time watching him sleep. A strange, deep-seeded contentment has taken root inside of me. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

  Chris murmurs and shifts. I brush my hand over his smooth chest. Without opening his eyes, he smiles. He repositions himself against me, and I can feel the desire rising in him again. He takes his time with his lovemaking, every move languorous, and skilful. When I finally sink back onto the divan, happy and spent, he gets up.

  ‘Coffee?’ he says.

  ‘Mmmm,’ is all I can manage to say.

  When eventually he returns with two cups of steaming coffee and a bag of assorted croissants, I’m sitting up thinking about the film strip we watched.

  ‘So, is the mystery solved?’ Chris says.

  ‘A good part of it.’ I smile, feeling like a great weight has lifted off of me. My grandmother will be so relieved – and happy – that her beloved father is in the clear. But then I remember something else … I swing out of bed and get my rucksack. ‘Though, I found something else in the attic that you need to see.’ I rifle through the pocket and take out the newspaper clipping. I return to bed, watching his face as he reads over it, his eyes growing wider and darker. Eventually, he looks up at me, incredulous.

  ‘Is this saying what I think it’s saying?’

  ‘Well…’ I can’t stifle a little smirk. ‘It means there’s a strong possibility that I might have lied to you last time. You know, when I said I was definitely a nobody.’

  He inspects me carefully in a way that makes me blush – especially since I’m wearing only my pants, an old T-shirt of his, and the jewelled locket around my neck.

  ‘You’re a Russian princess,’ he says, twining the chain around his fingers and caressing my neck. ‘I mean – not to put too fine a point on it.’

  ‘Well, I… I mean…’

  I’m relieved when he begins to laugh. ‘And all along you’ve been judging me for my upper-crust family connections.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say judge, exactly…’

  But he doesn’t let me finish the thought – or, for that matter, any other thought – for a good long time.

  *

  When we finally return to reality, I suggest we leave the workshop and get a meal so that we can have a serious talk without getting ‘distracted’ again. Chris puts the film reels in the safe, and we go to a little hole in the wall off Theobald’s road that serves, in Chris’s words, ‘the best bacon butties west of Hackney’.

  We find a table by the window and a waitress brings us coffee. ‘Now,’ I say, ‘let’s get a few ground rules straight. First off – no using the “P” word.’

  ‘Ah, you mean “Princess”.’ He leans close to kiss me over the table.

  I scowl playfully. ‘That’s the one.’ I rummage in my bag and take out the article on the Russian spy. He reads through it again, stroking the faint stubble on his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘So assuming that the Russian “word-that-shall-not-be-mentioned” is Marina, then I suppose it makes sense that she was frightened. She was worried that the Russian secret police were after her, and it looks like she was right.’

  ‘Yes, that makes sense,’ I say.

  ‘And the jewelled bird – it fits too.’ He beams. ‘We can surmise it may have been an imperial court piece from Fabergé that belonged to Marina as a girl – or at least a member of her family. It’s so beautiful and special – just like you.’

  ‘Don’t start,’ I scold.

  Our food arrives. He tucks into his bacon butty like it’s going out of style.

  ‘But the article mentions jewels plural.’ He takes a sip of his coffee. ‘Did Marina have more precious items hidden away?’

  ‘I don’t know. My grandmother mentioned something about a wooden box Mamochka kept under the bed, I think. But surely that must have been lost in the bombing.’

  He nods. ‘Probably.’

  I take a bite of toast studying him carefully. ‘You don’t look convinced.’

  He pauses to chew and swallow. ‘I don’t know if the jewels still exist or not. But it’s possible that someone might think they do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was thinking of your “uninvited guest”? You said he’s broken in a few times.’

  ‘Yes – I think so. And I know that he ransacked the attic.’

  ‘Could he have searched the entire house?’

  ‘For what? Jewels?’ I laugh. ‘For secret rooms? Hidden cupboards behind the panelling?’

  ‘Do you have those things?’

  ‘Of course. It’s an old house. We have the odd priest’s hole and a few secret cupboards.’ I cross my arms in mock displeasure. ‘Which you’d know if you’d bothered to take my tour.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He laughs. ‘Maybe I can schedule a private visit.’ His hand caresses my thigh under the table.

  ‘Anyway, though,’ I reach under the table and remove the all too welcome distraction. ‘Someone will have time to do all the searching they like. The estate agent said that someone is already interested in buying the house.’

  I’ve already told Chris about my new bête noire, Alistair Bowen-Knowles, and the firm of upper-crust estate agents, Tetherington Bowen Knowles. Not surprisingly, he’s heard of them – there was even mention of a cricket match somewhere before I cuffed him on his posh arm. His advice was to do exactly what I’m doing – ignore them.

  ‘Hmm, that was quick,’ he says. ‘I thought it wasn’t even on the market.’

  ‘You’re right – it�
��s not.’ I mull this over. Trying to buy the house seems like an extreme step for an intruder to take. Unless he or she really thinks a fortune in jewels might be hidden there.

  ‘You should talk to the estate agent again,’ he says. ‘Try to find out who’s interested in the house. You may not find any jewels, but you might just find your intruder.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I might just.’

  *

  Chris accompanies me to the train station. I have a fleeting memory of a lifetime ago, when Xavier would sometimes disappear for days or weeks on end, supposedly for ‘research’ but later, I learned that he was really meeting his wife for a holiday in Madrid. Each time he left, I’d feel hollow and empty, a worm of doubt gnawing at my insides. A part of me always knew that the end was just a matter of time. But that was then. This is now…

  At the ticket barrier, Chris kisses me long and hard on the lips and then gives me one of his quirky, unselfconscious smiles. Instead of a worm of doubt, I feel an inner glow that, if anything, seems to be growing in intensity with every moment we spend together. Chris is real; solid. A man who makes love like a true romantic but without the drama and heartache attached. I’m more than ready for such a grown-up kind of lover.

  I put my ticket in the slot and go through the gate. Just inside the barrier, I turn around, lean towards him, and grab him by the scruff of his Joy Division T-shirt. A disgruntled queue of commuters grows behind me, and a few people whistle as we kiss again. ‘I’ll call you,’ I say, playfully when our lips finally part.

  ‘You’d better,’ he replies, as I turn and walk towards the waiting train.

  - Chapter 43 -

  My glow lasts the entire train ride, where I replay every moment of the last twenty-four hours, and my skin tingles with the archetypal memory of Chris’s touch. When I think of my favourite things – a long, hot bath, a great novel, a glass of wine – preferably all three together, I know that I’d forego them all in a millisecond for this new pleasure. The pleasure of having a future to look forward to, a recent past that makes me happy, and a present that – well… nothing’s perfect. The train is crowded and the journey takes forever due to a signal failure further up the line.

  I use the delay to ring the awful Alistair Bowen-Knowles, but he informs me that, of course, the identity of his client is ‘confidential’.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, not bothering to hide my irritation. ‘But don’t expect me to facilitate any viewings.’

  ‘I believe my client already has a general familiarity with the premises,’ he says.

  ‘Oh?’ Anger boils in my chest at the idea that the unnamed client might be the ‘intruder’ and this man won’t reveal his identity.

  ‘It is open to the public.’

  ‘So it is,’ I say through my teeth.

  The call ends and I try to go back to thinking about Chris, but by then the train has finally arrived at my stop.

  It’s nearly dark by the time I reach Mallow Court. I go first to the main house to check that Mrs Fairchild is okay – I can’t wait to tell her the great news that Frank Bolton is innocent. I let myself in (noting that she hasn’t set the alarm).

  The great hall is dark and empty, and I don’t turn on the lights. I go down the corridor to my office and dip inside. The message light on the phone is blinking. I set my bag and my folder of information – the newspaper clipping, the auction house records, and my notes on the Romanovs – down on the desk and listen to the messages. There are several from Tim Edwards asking me to call him that I delete immediately, and a few more from vendors and suppliers. With a sigh, I jot down the callers on a notepad. Leaving the folder on the desk, I go in search of my grandmother.

  I go down the corridor to the green salon where my grandmother likes to sit at night. The door is closed, and just as I’m about to open it, I hear a sound from inside – heavy breathing. In a split second, my instincts tell me to barge in and make sure nothing’s wrong. But then there’s another sound: ‘Catherine,’ a man’s voice, gasping. My heart slams to a halt.

  It’s one thing accepting that my new-found grandma has a ‘special friend’, but quite another to catch them in the act of doing ‘it’! Obviously, whatever rift there was between them has been duly mended. My news will have to wait. As quickly and quietly as I can, I reverse my steps and get out of there.

  Though the last twenty-four hours have brought vast changes for me (and, perhaps, my grandmother too) on the romantic front, I’m relieved to see that inside my flat, at least, nothing has changed. Everything is where I left it, and there are no misplaced photographs propped on my pillow. I may have left half of my heart in London, but here, in my own flat, I have the prospect of bath, book, and wine. I start with the latter. Going into the kitchen, I take out a bottle of Zinfandel from the rack next to the fridge, and find a corkscrew in the drawer. I’m just about to remove the cork when my mobile phone begins to ring in my pocket. Maybe Chris is calling to check that I got home all right…

  When I check the screen, I’m surprised to see Mum’s name come up. Though we normally talk every few days in the evening, she rarely calls me on my mobile.

  ‘Hi Alex,’ she says.

  ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

  ‘Yes.’ There’s a hesitation in her voice that immediately puts me on edge. ‘Yes, everything’s fine. Your Dad’s working at the pub tonight. There’s a dart’s tournament going on. So I thought it would be a good time to call.’

  ‘It is. I just got home from London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Yes, I was seeing… a friend.’

  I expect her to ask me who, and at that moment, I feel fully prepared to tell her. She’s my mum – she just wants me to be happy. She deserves to know that right now – I am. But I immediately sense that she’s flustered and preoccupied.

  ‘Do you remember,’ she says, ‘that day a while back when we talked about your grandmother. And her daughter Robin?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘At the chippie.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, I really didn’t think it would come to anything, but I said I’d help if I could.’

  ‘Yes…?’

  ‘I couldn’t find anything on your grandmother, so I thought I’d try Robin. I did some digging through the insurance company records. You know, we have lots of records going way back. Some of that stuff – well, I don’t know why we keep it.’ She rambles on. ‘I didn’t find anything – which isn’t surprising. But I called a friend – do you remember Sharon? You met her at Dad’s fortieth.’

  ‘Um, maybe.’

  ‘Well, she works in the NHS archives. They’re computerizing all the old records, tracking certain medical conditions and whatnot.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She didn’t find anything either. But she called her friend Rachael. Rachael works for… oh, I can’t remember.’

  ‘And?’ I try to hide my impatience. After being up for most of the previous night with Chris, I suddenly feel very tired.

  ‘She called in a few favours too. Up your way. A friend of a friend was a retired receptionist at the hospital in Aylesbury. It was a long shot, really.’

  A pulse beings to throb in my head. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, to make a long story short… she found something.’ There’s a long pause. ‘And afraid it’s not good news.’

  ‘What?’ The temperature in the room seems to plummet.

  ‘She found some old records. Robin was in and out of hospital a few times as a girl. She had a rare blood disorder. It’s called haemophilia.’

  ‘What’s that? It sounds familiar.’

  There’s a beep on the other end of the line. ‘Oh Alex, I’m sorry. I’ve got a low battery on my phone. I’m going to have to hang up now. Anyway – haemophilia. It’s something to do with blood clotting. That’s all I know, really. But I hope it helps.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. That is helpful. Thanks so much. I can take it from—’

  The phone goes dead.

  ‘—here,’ I mutter. I
stare down at the phone, or rather, the hand holding the phone. My hand. I turn it over so I can see the lacing of veins on the top; some a pale blue just under the skin. The blood, pulsing inside, ebbing and flowing with every heartbeat. Something that I take for granted. But maybe I shouldn’t. I hug my arms around myself, wishing that Chris was here to hold me; make love to me; brush the hair back from my face; whisper that everything is going to be fine. But what if it’s not? I should go to a doctor and get checked out. Make sure I don’t have the same disorder as my… mother. Haemophilia. Why does that sound so familiar?

  I set my phone down on the library table, and finish opening the wine. I pour the dark, burgundy liquid watching as it splashes and fizzes against the smooth glass. Blood…

  The truth snaps into place, hard and painful like an elastic band. I suddenly remember why what Mum told me sounds familiar. That day at the British Library when I was researching Fabergé and the Russian Imperial Family, I read about how the Tsar’s son and heir Prince Alexei had a rare blood disease. Haemophilia.

  I rush over and find my handbag – only to realise that I’ve left the folder with the Romanov research in my office over at the main house. But I don’t think I’d written down much except the name of the disease. I plug in my laptop and start it up. I type the word haemophilia into the search engine. There are thousands of entries, but I start with the NHS information website. I read that haemophilia is a genetic disorder that interferes with blood clotting. Some people are carriers of the disease and have no ill effects from it, but suffers are easily bruised and prone to internal bleeding. For some sufferers, a trauma like childbirth might well be …

  Fatal.

  I’m instantly flooded with guilt and pity. Poor Robin – stupid Robin. There are medical records of her condition, so she must have been aware of it. I think of the signs there may have been: childhood scrapes that took longer to heal, bleeding heavier than other girls with her period. And her mother must have known of it too. I think back to our conversation – about Robin being a strong-willed child, but not physically strong, bruising easily. My grandmother being reluctant to let her go away to study. I suppose most parents would have felt the same way. But my grandmother must have been doubly worried.