Secrets and Seashells at Rainbow Bay

by Ali McNamara

  ‘What do you reckon this secret is, then?’ Tom asks me as we search for the diary again that afternoon.

  We’d all sat and had lunch in the kitchen with Dorothy, being careful not to say anything about what we were doing. Then we’d all split up again and Tom and I had been sent to look for the missing diary in some of the state rooms around the castle.

  Currently we’re going through any drawers, chests, or anything really where someone might have hidden a diary.

  ‘Benji didn’t really have a chance to continue with his story when Dorothy came into the kitchen, did he?’ Tom continues, closing up yet another empty drawer in the bedroom we’re currently in. ‘He seems to think it might be quite serious, though.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I wondered if it might be some sort of proof that Clara was gay. I know that sort of thing doesn’t matter these days, but back then I bet it would have been a huge scandal.’

  ‘It sure would,’ Tom says. ‘But knowing Benji, I’m sure it isn’t likely to be that.’

  ‘Yes, I haven’t known Benji as long as you but he doesn’t seem to be one to create drama for the sake of it.’ I close the doors on the wardrobe I’ve been looking in.

  ‘No, definitely not. He’s straight down the line is our Benji. Well, as straight as Benji is ever going to get!’ Tom grins.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, pulling open the small side drawers on a pretty dressing table.

  Tom stops what he’s doing and looks at me.

  ‘Are you messing with me?’ he asks. ‘You must know Benji is gay.’

  I swivel around on my stool and stare at him.

  ‘Obviously I was wrong,’ Tom says. ‘You didn’t know.’

  My mind rushes through everything I know about Benji, and suddenly a few things click into place. But equally some other things do not.

  ‘But Benji told me he only knew you because he dated your sister – that’s how you two met.’

  Tom grins. ‘I don’t have a sister. Only the one brother – Joe. Well, Joseph to give him his full name. That’s who I went to see this weekend.’

  I think about this, and then I cringe when I realise my mistake. ‘Oh, I must have assumed Joe was a girl when Benji mentioned him the first time. So that’s why Benji was a bit funny with you when you said you’d been to visit your brother – his ex! God, I feel so silly now.’ I bury my red-hot face in my hands.

  ‘Don’t be. Obviously I’ve known Benji for a long time and I’ve always known he was gay because of Joe. But to be fair if I hadn’t I probably wouldn’t know either. It’s not something he makes a big deal about. I’m surprised he never mentioned it, though. You two seem quite close.’

  ‘Yes, we are. I guess there was never a need for him to say anything. Perhaps he assumed I already knew.’ I think about this, and I wonder if this might have been what Benji was trying to tell me up in the tower the night we ended up talking about Tom.

  I feel bad that I might have stopped him from sharing something so important to him.

  ‘If I didn’t know Benji was gay I’d have been quite jealous of the two of you together all the time,’ Tom continues.

  ‘Would you?’ I ask innocently, pulling myself from my thoughts about Benji. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, Amelia,’ Tom says, coming over to where I’m still sitting at the dressing table and kneeling down next to me. ‘You must know how much I like you. Haven’t I made it plain enough?’ He takes hold of my hands and I have to fight my natural reaction to pull away from him.

  ‘Maybe I just missed the signs,’ I say shyly, willing myself not to retreat into my protective shell like I always do.

  ‘Really? I’ve tried to make it pretty clear.’

  I look down into Tom’s blue eyes, and I see a man desperate to make me understand how he feels.

  Let him in, Amelia, I hear my inner voice instructing me. It’s time.

  ‘Perhaps you should try a little harder then,’ I say quietly and I allow my hand to reach out and gently touch his cheek.

  Tom closes his eyes at my touch, and when he opens them again he finds my lips millimetres from his.

  ‘Amelia,’ he murmurs, but annoyingly I don’t hear him, my ears are trying to listen to something else.

  ‘What was that?’ I ask, looking away from him for a moment.

  ‘Nothing,’ Tom murmurs, gently turning my face back towards his.

  ‘There it is again,’ I say, looking away again. ‘It’s like a pinging sound. You must hear it?’

  Tom sighs and his hand drops away from my face. ‘Yeah, I hear it. It’s probably just a bird outside.’

  I listen again.

  ‘But it’s not coming from outside, is it? It sounds like it’s coming from downstairs. What’s directly underneath here?’

  ‘Er . . . ’ Tom looks down at the floor. ‘The Great Hall, I think.’

  ‘Or,’ I say, leaping up, ‘could it be the Ladies’ Chamber?’

  ‘You mean the room with the painting of Clara in it?’ Tom asks, pulling himself to his feet.

  ‘The very same!’ I call excitedly, already heading out of the bedroom into the hall. ‘I reckon I know exactly what that pinging sound is, too.’

  ‘What?’ Tom asks, chasing after me. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the sound of a piano playing! It’s Clara,’ I say as I hurry down the corridor towards the stairs. ‘I think she’s trying to help us!’

  Thirty

  I burst into the Great Hall and rush over to the wooden panelling on the far wall. Then I push the panel with the roses on it. To my relief the panel slides open to reveal the beauty of the hidden Ladies’ Chamber beyond.

  Tom is not many seconds behind me as I hurry over to the mini piano and lift the lid. ‘It must be here somewhere,’ I say, looking desperately amongst the taut piano strings.

  ‘Are you sure it was a piano playing?’ Tom asks, standing back to watch me. ‘It wasn’t very tuneful.’

  ‘Yes, and it wasn’t a tune that was being played; it was one note. One note constantly.’

  ‘But why would someone play one note constantly?’

  ‘Because that’s exactly what Clara said she’d done in her diary,’ I say, still searching inside the piano. ‘She might have been in a loveless marriage, but she fell pregnant, then sadly suffered a miscarriage. She wrote that she sat at this very piano for hours at a time hitting one note constantly. Apparently her lady’s maid had to come and prise her away when she wouldn’t listen to anyone else.’

  ‘That’s very sad,’ Tom says, staring at the piano. ‘Poor Clara; she had some life, eh?’

  ‘She did indeed. But I think as a result of everything she had to go through, it made her the strong woman you see in that painting.’

  Tom glances at the painting while I get down on my hands and knees to look underneath the piano. ‘It must be here. It must,’ I mutter in frustration.

  Tom’s head suddenly appears upside down next to me as he investigates what I’m doing.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No,’ I say, crawling back out again. ‘I was certain it was going to be here after I heard that noise when we were upstairs. I was sure it was Clara trying to help us. It was her way of giving us a sign.’

  Tom looks thoughtfully at me.

  ‘You’re pretty sure these ghosts exist, aren’t you?’

  ‘Let’s not fall out over this again,’ I plead.

  ‘No, you mistake me. I mean, if you really think they exist, then I’m prepared to give them a go too.’

  I smile. ‘I’m fairly new to this, too, you know. But I’m pretty sure you don’t give ghosts a go like you’re choosing a fairground ride.’

  Tom grins too.

  ‘What do you do, then?’ he asks, moving closer to me. ‘Maybe you could teach me.’

  ‘Maybe we could learn together,’ I say, looking deeply into his eyes again. But to my, and most likely Tom’s annoyance too, the chances of our lips actually touching this time are dashed once more, as my gaze
is redirected to the painting behind him.

  ‘That’s it!’ I cry.

  ‘What is?’ Tom asks, startled. He looks behind him at what I’m staring at.

  ‘The painting. Look,’ I say, dashing over to it. ‘Here.’ I point to Clara’s hand resting on the book. ‘It’s the diary.’

  ‘How do you know it’s the diary?’ Tom asks, obviously trying to hide his disappointment at yet another interruption. ‘Her hand could be on any book.’

  ‘No, it looks exactly the same as all the other diaries we found; they were all written in the same style of cream leather-bound book with gilt edging around the pages. This must be the missing one. There is only one other diary after the one we’re looking for, and in it Clara talks about sitting for this very painting. She even talks about there being a meaning to this painting that no one else will ever understand.’ My forehead wrinkles as I try to remember. ‘Something about her locking her grief and guilt away somewhere, so that no one else will ever need to know or share in it.’

  I look at Tom. ‘What could that mean?’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘No idea.’ He looks more closely at the painting now. ‘If that’s a diary under her hand there, would it have a key, perhaps? Maybe that’s what she means by locking her guilt and grief away?’

  ‘It could be, but none of the other diaries had locks on them. Hmm . . . what about this chest of drawers thing she’s standing in front of? What if the diary is locked in there now?’

  ‘That’s a bureau. If it was Clara’s it was probably called her writing desk.’ Again Tom examines the painting closely. ‘Yes, I’d say by looking at it, it was probably designed specifically for her – it’s a smaller, more delicate piece than some of the earlier writing bureaus, which tended to be bigger and less intricate. This one likely dates from the late-Edwardian era.’

  I smile at Tom.

  ‘What?’ he asks, noticing.

  ‘Nothing. You’re very clever.’

  Tom shrugs. ‘I know my furniture – that’s my job.’

  ‘Do you think this could be the thing that’s locked, then?’ I look at the painting again. ‘Would it have had a lock on it, do you know?’

  ‘Oh yes, more than likely. In addition to the drawers you can see here, once open it would have had a writing slope, pigeonholes, inkwells, small slots and often secret drawers—’

  ‘Wait! Secret drawers?’

  Tom nods.

  ‘So if Clara’s bureau is still here at Chesterford the diary might be locked away in a secret drawer.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Have you seen it?’ I ask, looking at the painting again. ‘It doesn’t look familiar to me, but you’ve probably spent longer looking at the furniture here than I have.’

  Tom stares at the bureau. ‘I don’t think I have. I’m sure I would have remembered it if it has the same detailing on it that’s shown in this painting. It’s quite unique with this inlaid marquetry.’ He points to some patterns on the front of the bureau.

  I sigh. That would be just our luck if it had been thrown out or sold somewhere along the line. I don’t know why, but suddenly this search seems so important to me. I know why it’s important to Benji – searching for missing links to piece together a family’s history is right up his street. But I feel like there might be something else significant going on here.

  ‘I’ll take some photos of the painting and show it to the others. Maybe one of them will recognise it.’ I pull out my phone and stand back a little from the painting to take a few snapshots. ‘Look,’ I say as I move a little nearer to get a close-up of the desk. ‘There is a key shown here – on the desk next to the flowers.’

  ‘So there is,’ Tom says, looking at the painting again. ‘But that’s not going to be for this desk, it’s far too big. That’s a key for something bigger, like a door or a gate. The key to this desk would be very small and easily lost over the years, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I’m still going to try to find the bureau – with or without its key,’ I say determinedly, putting my phone back in my pocket.

  Wait, I suddenly think. A key! When we were in the stables with the ghosts they’d said something about a key, and that Clara would know all about it . . .

  ‘Have you ever seen this writing bureau here at the castle?’ I ask for what feels like the umpteenth time today. I hold out my phone to Arthur this time, after already asking Tiffany, Dorothy, Benji and the two tour guides that were in with us today. Joey is away for a few days to attend his cousin’s wedding in Wales.

  Arthur takes my phone from me with a puzzled look.

  ‘That’s the painting of Clara, fifteenth Countess of Chesterford,’ he says, peering at the photo.

  ‘Yes, I know; but have you seen the writing desk she’s standing in front of?’

  Arthur shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t think I have – why?’

  ‘Ah, no reason,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘I just thought it was pretty, that’s all, and I might like it to sit and write at if it wasn’t being used in any of the public rooms.’

  Arthur looks again. ‘No, I’m sure I haven’t. But what you must remember is there was a lot of artistic licence that often went on in these paintings. It’s quite possible that when Clara sat for this portrait she wasn’t sitting in front of that desk at all, but something completely different.’

  ‘Yes, I’d already thought of that. I mean, look at the size of that key on the desk – there’s no way that would fit a desk such as this, would it?’

  ‘No, it looks like the ceremonial key to me,’ Arthur says, handing me back my phone.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The ceremonial key. It’s a key that’s passed on to each new owner of Chesterford Castle. It’s a centuries-old castle tradition.’

  ‘But I haven’t been given a key?’

  ‘No, I was waiting for an appropriate time to give it to you. Traditionally the key is presented at the first formal gathering the new owner hosts. So far you’ve only hosted the courtyard sale, and I didn’t think that was entirely appropriate.’

  ‘No, you’re probably right.’

  ‘But I was thinking of having a small presentation when the stables are complete and the new tea room and gift shop are officially opened. It seemed a more apt occasion.’

  I’m pleased that Arthur is finally acknowledging our new venture. He’s always been very reticent to talk about it before with his extreme dislike of any sort of change. ‘That’s a lovely idea, Arthur, thank you.’

  Arthur nods.

  ‘So what does this key open, then?’ I ask. ‘The main gate or something?’

  ‘I’m not sure it opens anything, really – like I said, it’s ceremonial. An official moment to mark the passing of one Earl and the handing of the title on to a new Chesterford.’

  ‘But I don’t have the title, do I?’ I tell him. ‘The title should be Charlie’s. You’re not thinking of involving him in this, are you? You know how I feel about that.’

  Arthur shakes his head. ‘No, I wasn’t going to involve young Charlie. I feel in this special instance that the ceremony should be more about the passing of the ownership of the castle from one Chesterford to another, rather than the title.’

  ‘Thank you, Arthur, I appreciate that. So where is this key, then? I haven’t seen it around. Do you have it on display?’

  ‘No, the key is kept – funnily enough – under lock and key. It’s an incredibly important artefact in the castle’s history. It’s said to date right back to Norman times when the castle was originally built here as a simple motte-and-bailey construction.’

  ‘So it is more than likely it really doesn’t open anything?’

  ‘I highly doubt it. Now, if there’s nothing else, I must get back to the cottage. Dorothy is hosting her sewing circle this evening and I promised I’d wash down the garden furniture so they can sit outside if it stays warm and dry.’

  ‘Sure, Arthur, you go. Thanks for your help.’


  ‘Any time, miss. Any time.’

  I watch Arthur walk along the path that leads to his and Dorothy’s small cottage. I couldn’t imagine living and working at the same place like they had for so many years, although if you were going to do it, then Chesterford Castle was as good a place as any. They really had given their lives to this castle, and I for one was very grateful to have them here.

  I think about my conversation with Arthur as I begin to walk back towards the office. I wonder if this ceremonial key has anything to do with the key that the ghosts said I was to look out for?

  I shake my head. I never thought living in a castle was going to be easy, but I didn’t think my main troubles would be caused by a bunch of ghosts, an old diary, a key and very some persistent woodworm!

  Thirty-one

  ‘How much!’ I ask, not even attempting to keep my voice down as I stand with Bill in the stables the next afternoon.

  ‘It’s worse than I suspected,’ Bill says, looking apologetic. ‘The beams – especially these two here – are riddled, apparently. Vic says we can try and exterminate the woodworm and their larvae, but he very much doubts it will be enough to clear them completely.’

  Vic, the woodworm expert, had been in to look at the stables this morning, and now Bill and I were discussing his findings.

  ‘So we have no choice?’

  Bill shakes his head. ‘The beams are going to have to be replaced if you want to continue with this project.’

  ‘Can’t we just cut them out?’ I ask, looking up at the offending beams. ‘I know it won’t look as effective, but surely that would be a cheaper option.’

  ‘We could do that, but we’d have to install something else to prop up the rest of the ceiling. These oak beams aren’t just for decoration; they’re an integral part of the support system of the whole building. If you don’t replace them like for like, then we’d have to put something more modern, and, most importantly, something structurally sound in their place instead.’

  I stare up at the beams. How can something so basic-looking cause me so much expense? There’s no way I want something modern up there; it would completely ruin the look we’re going for. I’ve got no choice.