Walking out and down the hallway, Cate opened doors, exploring the upper regions of the house. There were equally large bedroom suites both with sea and garden views, bathrooms, dressing rooms, some with floral themes, others with nautical designsShe moved quietly, aware that Jack was resting. She wanted to get a sense of the place on her own, like an animal finding its bearings. Turning in the opposite direction on the landing, she headed down the long hallway that separated the two wings of the house. Dappled sunlight danced in patterns across the faded oriental runners, worn from decades of use. There were two more guest rooms, a large family bathroom and then, at the very end of the hall, a closed door. She turned the knob. It was locked. Jack must have the key.
Cate bent down and examined the old lock. It wasnt very sophisticated. In fact, it would be easy.
As she headed back to her room, digging out a nail file and credit card from her bag, she knew it would be simpler to wait for him that it wasnt really normal to pick the lock. But there was a swell of perversity in her; a childish stubbornness to do what she wanted, when she wanted. The idea of asking for help was inhibiting. And she felt a thrill of defiance as she walked quickly back to the locked door and, in one swift movement, jemmied the latch open.
It was a skill shed learned from her father when she was eleven part of an ongoing education that he liked to refer to as lifes little talents. They included such gems as how to roll a cigarette, the construction of the perfect bacon sandwich, and how to charm virtually anyone with a view to establishing a running tab without any credit at all. After his divorce from her mother, hed lived in a small Peabody flat near the back of Bond Street Station. A promising guitarist in his youth, his career as a session musician floundered, an unwelcome by-product of his drinking. His once striking good looks faded, worn away by years of self-neglect. His sandy hair and grey-green eyes seemed to lose colour each time she saw him, and his swaggering self-confidence and physical ease were eroded by countless hangovers. She would visit him, and when he was sober, hed take her for an all-day breakfast and then on to a half-price matinee at the Odeon Cinema in Marble Arch. On a good day, he would seem genuinely pleased to see her; chain-smoking, talking ten to the dozen about the things they would do, the jobs he had in the pipeline, the trips they would take after he next got paid. Maybe Brighton, Europe, perhaps even Africa on safari. Each plan was more magical and ambitious than the next; each promise heartfelt and genuine. When he smiled, he was the most handsome man in the room. This job is different, hed say. This time its all coming together. And she would believe him.
Then around three oclock, he would grow inexplicably agitated and irritable. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many amusing stories she told, she couldnt keep his attention. And before she knew it, theyd be sitting in a pub. One drink would turn into five, then seven. His face would go hard, his speech began to slur and his whole character would change. Hed lose his keys, misplace his wallet; start a fight with a stranger about some insult only he could hear. And then lifes little talents would come in handy as she struggled to get him home without him falling over or getting punched or seducing some ridiculous old barmaid hed been poking fun of only two hours earlier.
They never did go to Africa or even to Brighton. He spent his life making promises he never kept. Yet she loved him with that stubborn, painful, magical love that children have for their parents. A kind of willing suspension of disbelief that in spite of all of the years of evidence to the contrary, he would somehow, at the very final hour, manage to keep his word. When he died, she felt as if shed spent her whole life on a train platform, checking her watch in anticipation, waiting for him to arrive. Only hed been diverted; headed in a different direction entirely. And no one had bothered to tell her.
Perhaps if shed been more interesting, prettier, smarter
Now she seemed to have inherited his moral flexibility; his dark, moody restlessness the same ever-widening discrepancy between her words and actions. Nowadays she too found herself making promises she couldnt keep, even to herself.
The latch clicked.
The locked door swung open.
Cate blinked, blinded by the brightness.
It was a large square room with high ceilings and a wall of French windows leading to a balcony overlooking the rose garden. All around the room, the most delicate plasterwork and cornicing shone, covered in gilt; bright gold garlands twining against creamy white walls. The effect was dazzling.
Cate stepped out of the cool darkness of the hallway. The room was stifling, airless. She opened the French windows, their hinges creaking from lack of use. Wind rushed in and the vacuum of heat and stale air released like a sigh. It was as if the room were holding its breath. But for how long?
Above a marble fireplace hung an elaborate overmantel. The Aubusson carpet, sun-bleached and pale, was patterned with circlets of flowers and cherries. More garlands wove around the ceiling rose, filling the room with a soft burnished glow. It was easily the loveliest room in the house; beautifully porportioned, ornate, like a miniature ballroom.
So why was it locked?
There was a single bed against one wall and a dresser. A thick layer of dust covered everything. Cate opened a drawer and dust ballooned into the air, making her cough. There was nothing inside.
Bookshelves lined the wall opposite. She examined the faded spines. The Wind in the Willows, The Water-Babies, The Faithless Parrot, The Children of the New Forest as well as Grimms Fairy Tales and works by Hans Christian Andersen and a large collection of Lewis Carroll. Pulling out The Wind in the Willows, she opened it. Its spine creaked stiffly. Apart from damage from dust and age, however, it was pristine.
Then, kneeling down, she noticed something. There was an anthology of Beatrix Potter books, small, taking up only half the width of the shelf. Behind them, an old shoebox was wedged into place, filling the gap, making all the rows look even. Cate carefully dislodged it. It was printed in soft brown ink to look as if it were made of alligator skin and tied together with a salmon pink ribbon. It was heavy.
On the side of the box there was a label. F. Pinet, Ladies Footwear. In pencil beneath, written in a florid, old-fashioned hand, there was the shoe size, 4.
Cate untied the frayed silk ribbon and lifted the lid. Wrapped between layers of crumpled newspaper was a pair of delicate silver dancing shoes. They were made from rows and rows of fine braided mesh, finished off with rhinestone clasps. The handiwork was remarkable; intricate patterns of silver thread glittered across the back heel and along the toe. Judging from the style, the roundness of toe, they must have been from the late 1920s or early 1930s. And they looked expensive. Did they belong to Lady Avondale?
Cate turned them over. Theyd been worn only a few times; the leather was barely scuffed. She traced her finger along the smooth leather arch. They were so small! Someone, presumably the old lady, used the box to even out the rows of books. But why? Why would anyone bother with such a detail in a room that was locked, virtually empty of furniture?
Picking up the box, she felt something slide to one end. It wasnt empty. She lifted out the crumpled newspaper.
There, hidden underneath, was a collection of objects.
One by one, she took them out.
There was a worn, pale blue velvet jewellery box. Cate flicked it open.
My God!
It was a tiny bracelet, fashioned from pearls, diamonds and emeralds. Tiffany & Co, 221 Regent Street, W. London was printed on the white satin cover of the lid. Cate undid the clasp and held it up to the light. The pattern was a delicate combination of pearl flowers with emerald centres, interspersed with slender pearl ovals augmented by rows of diamonds. The diamonds were dulled by dust and age but the emeralds glittered in the sunlight. She tried it round her own wrist. It only just fitted. Incredibly finely made, it was probably extremely valuable.
Closing the clasp, she laid it neatly back in its case.
Next was a slim silver box with an elaborately scripted B in the centre decorated with diamonds. Here was a battered green badge with a picture of a candle on it. It bore the inscription The prize is a fair one and the hope great, and in the centre were the letters SSG. A small tarnished brass key, too tiny for any door, had rolled into one corner. It fitted into the hollow of her palm like something from Alice in Wonderland. Perhaps it belonged to a desk or a locked drawer? And at the very bottom of the box, there was a photograph of a handsome dark-haired young man in a sailors uniform. He had even features and black, lively eyes. It was a formal photograph, taken in a photographers studio. He was posed against a vague classical backdrop of a Greek column, one arm resting casually against a pedestal draped in heavy cloth, the other placed confidently on his hip. HMS VIVID was embroidered on his hat. He couldnt be older than twenty. Underneath, on the black border, the photographers name, J. Grey, 33 Union Street, Stonehouse, Plymouth, was written.
Cate felt a sense of building excitement. This was no random selection of objects but something personal. Each bit the shoes, the bracelet, the photograph were related somehow. Someone had gathered them, hidden them in the shoebox, and concealed them behind the books. But why?
A bee flew in through the open French windows. It buzzed wildly, looking for a way out.
She stared at the photograph of the handsome young man with the laughing, defiant gaze.
It was a chronicle, an archive of something worth hiding marked by diamonds from Tiffanys, silver dancing shoes, beautiful young men
Her memory tripped. Suddenly she was back in time, walking down the long corridor, into the ballroom of the St Regis Hotel, all gilt mirrors and low lighting. People were turning, people she didnt know, smiling at her, staring. The soft green silk of her dress swirled around her legs. A jazz trio played Please Dont Talk About Me When Im Gone.
Something marked by diamonds, dancing shoes, handsome men
He was there, in front of her. His hair smooth and glossy, sleek against his strong features; his eyes dark, almost black. He wasnt handsome but rather compelling; dominating.
Some people are afraid of success. Afraid of really being alive. His tone was challenging, his expression amused. Are you afraid?
Nothing frightens me, she had answered coolly, turning away.
Cate closed her eyes.
In truth she had been afraid; afraid of everything, everyone. But she had lied. She had walked away and he had followed, through the crowds of men and women in evening dress, waltzing and turning, their reflections spinning in the mirrors lining the walls.
The bee veered out of the open window, into the vast freedom of the garden.
Cate watched it disappear.
If only shed known then that soon hed be the one walking away and shed be the one following, stumbling behind.
There was a noise.
Cate tensed as she listened to Jack cross the landing at the end of the hallway.
He was looking for her.
Gathering the things together, she put them back in the box, hastily retying the lid with the ribbon.
It ought to go back where she found it. Or she should show it to Jack.
That was the right thing to do.
Cate? Cate? He was heading down the stairs. Cate! Instead she tucked the box under her arm, racing soundlessly along the corridor, heart pounding, back to her room.
They began their work at the front of the house, with the entrance hall, working fastidiously at what seemed like a painfully slow speed. Little stickers went on each item with a number. Each number corresponded to a description dictated to Cate by Jack and then they took a photograph, sometimes several from different angles. Every figurine, every painting, every detail of the lives that were once lived here were recorded and priced for quick sale.
Each piece had an estimated value. Cate filled in the figures next to the descriptions in uncharacteristically careful, neat handwriting, the total mounting by the minute. It was mind-numbing. How sad that all these objects, acquired and beloved through generations, were to be reduced to nothing but a few lines in a catalogue. Endsleigh had been a home once a refuge against life and the world. Some of these things had been favourites; treasured. Now she and Jack were the last people ever to stay there in its incarnation as a private home. A couple of strangers; strangers to the house and its history, strangers even to each other. Soon bulldozers would be knocking down Mrs Williamss low-ceilinged cottage to make way for a luxury spa; the front hallway transformed into a reception area and bar. Already she could imagine the delight of tourists as they arrived for their country-house weekend.
Jack was good at his job, clever and concise, reeling off complicated accounts of styles and conditions of objects without pausing for breath. And Cate was grateful for the lack of demanding interaction between them. He dictated; she recorded. She was invisible and it soothed her to forget for a while who she was and how shed ended up here. By the time they stopped at seven, her fingers ached from the effort of trying to write clearly and yet at speed.
Shall we leave it here for tonight? he suggested.
She nodded gratefully, filing away the forms in a folder.
I think I can smell something cooking, he added, yawning and stretching his arms above his head.
They wandered into the kitchen. Mrs Williams had been hard at work the shepherds pie was browning nicely in the oven and two place settings were laid out on the long pine table along with a green salad, a bowl of fruit and some cheese.
Thank God for that! He rubbed his hands together. Im famished!
And yet where is the invisible Mrs Williams? Cate wondered, leaning up against the worktop. This is like something out of a fairy tale; Beauty and the Beast.
Dont we all wish we had staff like that?
Hmm.
Oh, and heres just the thing! Jack picked up a bottle of red wine airing on the worktop next to two glasses. Can I pour you one?
No, thank you.
Really? Are you sure?
Im fine, thanks.
Then he remembered his conversation with Rachel, some mention of her father being an alcoholic. Of course, he wasnt meant to know anything about her. He poured out a glass. I hope you dont mind.
Why would I mind?
He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. No reason.
Feeling self-conscious, he smiled and sipped, as if to prove that he was completely ignorant of her family history.