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Wadencourt picked up his suitcases and smiled. ‘I know my way around here. I’ve stayed here before.’ His patronizing tone seemed to imply: long before you ever set foot here.
Dolly whined as if she didn’t like his attitude.
Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Cador can show the visitors where they are staying. Guinevere and I will see to the tea and the sandwiches. Come on.’ He walked off in the direction of the kitchens.
Bolingbrooke hitched a brow at Guinevere. ‘I have no idea what’s eating him these days. Must miss his tigers. But maybe you’d better go with him then and send Cador out here to help the guests get settled in.’
Cador had already appeared, apparently notified by Oliver what was expected of him. With a straight back and impeccably soft footfall the butler went up the stairs ahead of the guests.
Max was taking it all in with a keen interest and even gave Guinevere a cheeky wink.
She flushed and hurried to the kitchens to help Oliver. Dolly ran after her, her ears flapping against her head.
Oliver banged a kettle filled with water onto the antique stove. The old kitchens were Cador’s domain where he made coffee using a filter and cooked dinners based on century-old menus. Upstairs there was a pantry unit with coffee maker and facilities to create quick meals, but Cador never set foot there, considering it a too modern addition to the household. Oliver in turn rarely invaded the kitchens, but apparently he was now eager to escape the unwelcome visitors.
Oliver rummaged through a cupboard for cups and plates, grousing, ‘The way he just walks in and thinks he owns this place!’
‘Do you know Gregory Wadencourt?’ Guinevere asked.
Oliver shrugged. ‘What’s to know? He used to come here when I was a kid. Already had that patronizing way of talking to people. He believes he’s the only one who knows about history and archaeology.’
‘Your father mentioned something about him being into missing artefacts? I mean, lost treasures of the civilized world? That sounds fascinating.’ Guinevere leaned against the table. Dolly had spotted a basket in a corner and was sniffing around it. Her tail wagged as she explored further into another corner full of shadows and cobwebs.
‘Enigmatic is the better term.’ Oliver planted his feet apart and stared up at the kitchen’s tall ceiling. ‘Or elusive.’
‘How do you mean?’
Oliver spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘It’s such a different topic from what Wadencourt used to be interested in. He was an archaeologist specializing in Roman finds. Tangible things that built him a solid scientific reputation. He was part of a team that excavated several old campsites around Britain and found interesting items that museums put on display. He also travelled to other Roman sites like in Germany and France. He used to quote Latin phrases to my brother and me. Whoever could translate it the best got a toffee.’
‘Sounds like someone who’s obsessed with his subject.’
Oliver nodded. ‘Like the overbearing uncle you avoid at birthday parties because he can’t stop talking and in his eyes you’ll never grow up.’
Guinevere tilted her head. ‘But if Wadencourt loved his Roman work so much, I don’t see why he changed to this missing objects business. It seems a lot less tangible and productive.’
‘Exactly. But there was less funding for what he wanted to do. He needed a boost to attract attention to his work. He wrote a bit about a coronet found at an abbey that might prove a lady from royal descent had taken vows as a nun there. He found a sponsor who wanted him to prove who she had been and he came up with a theory linking her to the Tudors. Some people believed him; others said he had made it all up, knowing it could never be proven either way. But it created waves for months.
‘Since then Wadencourt is always working that way, starting from an object that is mentioned in sources or has been recovered at some dig and then inventing a history for it. I call it inventing, because he can rarely support it with any real evidence. But people like the romanticism of it and gobble it up. He’s not a historian any more to my mind, but a storyteller like the brothers Grimm.’
‘And this wedding goblet he mentioned, do you have any idea what that is?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘No idea. But then Cornisea has featured in a lot of stories.’ He nodded at the book in her hand. ‘There might be something in there about it.’
‘I’ll have a look.’ Guinevere seated herself on a chair and opened the book. The pages crackled as if they were too dry. ‘I’d better be careful with this.’ She put the book on the table and opened it again, this time in the back. ‘Ah, there’s an index here. I can see if it mentions a wedding goblet.’
A clanging noise came from the corner. Dolly had overturned a stack of pans, the lids rolling away across the floor. ‘Don’t, girl,’ Guinevere called.
Oliver was already with her to get the lids back in place. He gave the dachshund a little shove to send her to Guinevere. ‘Go see what the book says about the goblet, huh.’
Dolly walked over and sat down at Guinevere’s feet, her head up, as if to listen to the story.
Chapter Two
Guinevere ran her finger down the entries under ‘w’ but saw no goblet. ‘Is everything known about Cornisea in this book?’
‘I have no idea. Probably not. The writer used his knowledge at the time the book went to print. Things might have changed afterwards. Or he might never had a full overview to begin with.’ Oliver straightened up and stretched. ‘How did you get your hands on that book anyway?’
‘Your father had put it out ready for cataloguing.’
‘Just this morning?’ Oliver froze mid-motion. The frown over his eyes told her he thought it unlikely that it had happened by coincidence.
‘Do you think your father knew that Wadencourt was coming?’ Guinevere asked.
‘If he did, he never mentioned it to me.’
Guinevere frowned. ‘His surprise when he spotted Wadencourt in the hallway seemed genuine.’
‘You never know with my father.’ Oliver opened a cupboard and took out a bread container. ‘I hate to think he’s playing along with Wadencourt, whatever that old fox is up to now, just because my father believes it can save Cornisea.’
‘Well, a major find here of some rare artefact would bring in more tourists.’
‘Yes, and people would ruin everything like that photographer chap suggested. Dig up the gardens … You know what happened when the historical society started suggesting that medieval scoundrel Branok had hidden a gold stash on the island.’
Guinevere stared down at the pages of the book in front of her. The recent events of murder and an excruciating investigation with wrongful accusations and painful revelations were still fresh in everybody’s mind. They had all hoped for some quiet time to recover.
Wadencourt’s appearance and his insistence there was going to be a publication involving Cornisea Castle had changed all of that.
She asked softly, ‘Do you still think about what happened?’
‘Nothing about a goblet in that book?’ Oliver said with emphasis. He turned his back on her and leaned on the sink, tension in his posture.
It hurt Guinevere that he was deliberately ignoring her question but then again they had only met when she had come out to catalogue for his father. Even though she had felt like they had struck up a friendship, Oliver might not feel the same way.
Or maybe his father was right and he missed his tigers. As a wildlife film-maker, Oliver travelled the world to record footage of animals on the brink of extinction or under serious threat from increasing human exploitation of their habitats. He probably wished he was in his hide waiting for some elephants to show up instead of here at Cornisea, where he was constantly at odds with his father about the castle’s future.
Guinevere turned to the G in the index. ‘Here’s a mention of a goblet, with the designation: of Rose and Stars.’
‘Sounds poetical. Look it up, will you?’ Breaking into motion again, as if he wanted to shake off his sudden sad mood, Oliver grabbed a chunk of cheese and made slices to put on the sandwiches. Dolly came over to him to wait if a bite was forthcoming. Oliver looked down at her and shook his head. Dolly tilted hers and squeaked. She was used to people finding her adorable and caving. But Oliver stayed firm and focused on the sandwiches.
Dolly yapped in indignation and returned to Guinevere, rubbing her head against her leg.
‘Let’s see what it says, girl.’ Guinevere leafed through the yellowing pages to find the number indicated in the index. A scent of dust and dampness rose into her nose. Maybe this book hadn’t been touched for decades. Excitement rushed through her at the idea there might be something interesting hidden between its fading covers. A revelation about an artefact actually here on Cornisea Island.
‘Here it is. The goblet of Rose and Stars. A bejewelled wedding goblet.’ She scanned the explanation to paraphrase for Oliver. ‘These goblets were made from silver and decorated with precious stones if the buyer could afford it. The buyer could be a land owner or a dignitary in a community.’
‘Or the lord of a castle,’ Oliver supplied, gesturing around him with the cheese rasp.
Guinevere nodded. ‘Probably. The goblets were used at wedding ceremonies where both the groom and the bride drank from the goblet to symbolize their new life together. The goblet was kept in the family, passed on from generation to generation. This particular one got the designation of Rose and Stars because it was decorated with both rubies and diamonds.’
Oliver whistled.
Dolly pricked her ears up as if she couldn’t wait to learn more about something so rare.
Guinevere read and paraphrased quickly, ‘It also had an engraved scene on a round emblem like part of the goblet depicting a couple drinking from a goblet. Its exact origins and age are unknown, but it’s taken to be medieval because of the clothing of the couple in the little scene. Oh, here – this is interesting.’
Oliver turned to her and leaned against the sink. ‘What?’
Guinevere ran her finger along the lines, taking in the detailed explanation before her. ‘The goblet is believed to have been stolen by a Lady Anne when she ran away from home to be with a man her parents didn’t approve of. They married, drank from the goblet, and then hid it somewhere in their keep.’
Oliver looked at her. ‘And that particular goblet is supposed to be hidden here? Why Cornisea? It could have been any keep. And Cornwall has a few.’
‘I know.’ Guinevere studied the piece in front of her. ‘It doesn’t give any specific details as to who the parties involved were or what keep was meant. It’s more like a fairy-tale story: once upon a time there was a priceless goblet and a lady ran away with it.’
‘Right. I don’t believe for one moment that the goblet of Rose and Stars ever existed. Let alone that it can be found here.’ Oliver slammed some sandwiches together and stacked them on a plate.
Guinevere stared down at the book, pursing her lips. ‘Wadencourt seems to believe that there is a connection between the goblet and Cornisea Island, or he wouldn’t be here.’
‘Or he’s trying to make himself interesting again.’ Oliver poured the hot water into the teapot. ‘Almost done. We’d better go up and see that Father and dear Gregory haven’t killed each other yet.’
Guinevere cringed at the word choice. ‘I thought they were friends.’
‘They were, but Wadencourt left here after a terrible row. I was just a kid so I have no idea what it was about. Later on it seemed they were on speaking terms again, but I have never found out what they fought about. My father has a great memory for injury.’
Guinevere nodded. ‘Let me take the sandwiches; you take the tea.’
She put the book on the tray beside the plate with sandwiches and left the kitchens.
Dolly came after her, salivating at the idea of treats.
On the way up Guinevere listened for any indication of a row: raised voices, a slamming door. But there was nothing.
In the library she found Bolingbrooke alone. He was standing at the window, staring out across the sea that surrounded Cornisea on all sides with high tide. Rufus, his mastiff, was standing by his side, resting his big head against Bolingbrooke’s thigh.
The dog usually went to his master when he sensed he was sad or distressed, so Guinevere wondered what it was about the reunion with Wadencourt that had shaken her employer. Had their old argument been personal? Was Bolingbrooke reflecting on a friendship he had once valued but lost?
Bolingbrooke turned to her jerkily when he heard the thud of the tray on the table. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ His expression was pensive, even a little weary.
Guinevere asked softly, ‘Did you know Mr Wadencourt was coming out here?’
‘No, not at all.’
The denial came a little too quickly. She narrowed her eyes, studying him. ‘So it was a pure coincidence that this book was waiting for me on top of the pile?’ She held up the volume called A Cornish Treasure Island from which she had paraphrased the information about the goblet of Rose and Stars for Oliver.
Bolingbrooke smiled. ‘Those things happen in life.’
Guinevere tilted her head. ‘Have you ever heard before about this goblet?’
‘I don’t even know what goblet he means.’ Bolingbrooke waved a hand. ‘I’m sure he’s let himself be dragged into some wild goose chase again. But he’s an old friend and I can’t … Oh, Gregory, do come in.’
Guinevere swung round to the door where their guest was waiting on the threshold. He had taken off his coat and was now in his jacket with leather elbow patches, a pipe between his lips. He looked around. ‘Your library is almost bigger than mine.’
Bolingbrooke hitched a brow at Guinevere because of the ‘almost’ but said with a charming smile, ‘You have to tell us about all your travels. Where were you last? Corfu?’
‘Close, my friend. Another of the Ionian islands. Very friendly people and a lovely climate. You should travel more.’
‘And what did you find there?’ Oliver asked, carrying in the tea.
Wadencourt walked to the window and stared out.
‘Tea?’ Guinevere suggested quickly and began to pour for their guest.
‘No milk, no sugar,’ a voice beside her said and Max DeBurgh stood there, his hair swept back, a twinkle in his dark eyes. He was still carrying his camera. ‘If we find that goblet, I want you to play Lady Anne in the photo shoot I’m going to do. You’d be perfect for the part.’
Guinevere answered his smile. ‘I’m a costume designer so I could certainly make a dress for it.’
‘Perfect,’ Max said. ‘That’s agreed then.’
‘The goblet of Rose and Stars is not here,’ Bolingbrooke intoned. ‘You’ve come for nothing.’
Guinevere noticed that although he had just denied any knowledge of the goblet Wadencourt was after he was now using its actual name. So he had known more about it than he was willing to admit. Her heart skipped a beat. Why hadn’t he mentioned it to her or at least to Oliver? His own son.
‘I’m here to help you out.’ Wadencourt spun away from the window. ‘The article about its whereabouts is going to be published this week. People are going to pour in with metal detectors to dig up every inch of this island. Give me a chance to find it ahead of them. It will keep your precious gardens intact. And we are old friends.’
‘What article?’ Bolingbrooke asked with his brows drawn together. ‘Published in what?’
Wadencourt exhaled in agitation. ‘I’ve already explained all that. Some gardening historian has been here, a man called Vex, and he has deduced where the goblet is hidden. He has written an article about it, including hints and clues, and it’s going out to the public this week.’
‘Like a treasure hunt?’ Bolingbrooke asked. ‘Are they raving mad?’
‘Well, this chap Vex,’ Max said, ‘has done it before, you know, written up articles about supposedly valuable finds hidden in gardens. It’s sort of a … legends series he has, I imagine. Nothing was ever found, so I don’t think you have to be afraid that his readers will suddenly believe him this time.’
Guinevere hitched a brow at his tone. If Max was so sure there was no actual goblet to be found on Cornisea Island, why had he accepted to come along as Wadencourt’s photographer? What find would there be to photograph then?
He had just suggested to her she could play Lady Anne!
Wadencourt waved a hand. ‘You’re taking this far too casually, Max,’ he said with irritation thick in his voice. ‘Vex’s former articles might have been mere tales and fluff, nothing to them. But now he’s onto something. The goblet of Rose and Stars is a real artefact. A historically important piece.’
‘That’s what you say,’ Max said, leaning back on his heels. ‘I’m not convinced.’
‘Still you came,’ Wadencourt said in the same challenging tone. ‘You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t believe I would turn up something.’
Max shrugged. ‘Maybe I had nothing better to do?’
They sized each other up as if they were combatants, then Wadencourt turned to Bolingbrooke. ‘Just let me have a look around before the article goes live.’
Bolingbrooke studied him. ‘If you do find it, it belongs to me.’
‘Of course,’ Wadencourt acknowledged at once. ‘I only want the credit for the find. For proving that it exists and that its tragic history is true as well. That the lady in question came here and was killed here.’
‘Killed?’ Guinevere echoed, shocked by this suggestion.
Wadencourt looked at her and nodded solemnly. ‘Lady Anne, as they call her, ran away from home with the goblet because she wanted to marry another man than the one she was engaged to. She married him here at this castle. Her family then came with her fiancé and put the castle under siege. Lady Anne hid the goblet for safekeeping. When the castle fell into the besiegers’ hands, both Lady Anne and her groom were killed. Her family searched the castle high and low for the goblet. But it was never found.’
‘Because Lady Anne was the only one who knew its whereabouts,’ Guinevere concluded slowly. ‘And they had killed her, not knowing that meant they would never recover what they had come for.’
Wadencourt nodded. ‘Exactly. How tragic is that for all parties involved?’
‘But if the knowledge of the goblet’s whereabouts died with Lady Anne,’ Oliver said, ‘how can you have figured out where it’s hidden?’
Wadencourt folded his arms, a superior smile on his face. ‘You can read all about my deductions in the news release I will send out to all the media as soon as the goblet is in my hands. Max will take the photos to go with it.’
Max made a mock bow. ‘Much obliged.’
Guinevere kept looking at Wadencourt. ‘How do you know what Vex is going to say in his article even before said article has gone to print?’
‘Someone who works for the gardening magazine knows of my interest and let me know.’
‘He leaked the information to you,’ Max corrected, ‘for money.’
Wadencourt turned purple. ‘Don’t you have something to do?’ he bellowed, waving his fleshy hands in the air.
‘Not right now, no.’ Max held his gaze. ‘There’s nothing to photograph yet, is there?’
‘Go snap some shots for your fans then.’ Wadencourt continued to the others, ‘Max is so popular on all these social media things you have to be a part of these days. I think it’s all just a waste of time, but he thinks it’s very important to get thousands of likes.’
Max’s jaw set. His eyes shot fire at Wadencourt. ‘It’s not about likes, but about getting your name out. I don’t want to keep working for cantankerous old bastards for all of my life.’
And he quit the room, slamming the door shut. The teacups rattled on the tray, and Nero growled.
Dolly stared at the closed door as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of Max.
Guinevere felt the same way. Wadencourt was patronizing to everybody and ordered Max about outright, but then he was Max’s boss. Max could show some respect to him and not call him a cantankerous old bastard to his face.
Guinevere wasn’t even sure if Max believed in the goblet or not.
‘He’s quite rude to you,’ Bolingbrooke said to Wadencourt, studying him curiously, ‘for an employee.’
The other shrugged. ‘Young people have no respect these days. And he is good at what he does.’
He picked up his tea and blew on it. Then he put the cup down again, chose a sandwich, and took a bite. He returned to the window and studied the view. Nervous energy quivered in his tight posture. He was serious about his quest here. Very serious it seemed.
Bolingbrooke looked at Oliver and Guinevere, pulling a questioning face. He scratched Rufus’s head with slow movements as if he was barely conscious of what he did.
Oliver gestured to Guinevere to come with him into the corridor for a moment. He said softly, ‘Wadencourt could have taken any photographer. Why this DeBurgh chap who’s treating him like dirt? I think we need to know just a bit more about him. After all, if Wadencourt can be believed, there’s a priceless goblet at stake here. Why don’t you offer to show DeBurgh around and ask him some innocent questions? Find out what he did before he signed up with Wadencourt. How he even knows him.’
‘Why me?’ Guinevere asked.
‘Because DeBurgh doesn’t like me and won’t say a thing, while he does seem to like you. But make sure he doesn’t get a chance to get too close to you, huh. Could be the Don Juan type. Off you go.’ Oliver clapped her shoulder and disappeared into the room again.
‘Thanks a lot,’ Guinevere muttered. Then she called for Dolly and went downstairs to see where Max had vanished to.
Chapter Three
Max stood in the yard, looking around. His expert eye seemed to search for the perfect shot to capture the place’s authentic feel: the braziers with wood in them, bumblebees buzzing around pots with blossoming plants, small orange trees already sporting first fruits.
The bright sunshine from above illuminated everything in breathtaking intensity, enhancing the colours and even the scents with its warmth.
Guinevere went up to Max and said, ‘I’m going to walk my dog. Want to join me for a look around the island?’
‘Sure. What’s his name?’
‘Her name. It’s a she. And it’s Dolly.’
Max nodded. ‘I can’t have a dog. I’m travelling all the time. Never in one place for longer than a few days.’
‘You like that?’
‘I need that. The proverbial rolling stone.’ Max snapped two shots of a weathered headstone in the wall, then he turned to her again. ‘Lead on.’
They walked out of the small door in the tall wooden gate. Those huge doors were normally never opened. In the old days they had only been used when something large like a cart had to pass through or when influential company arrived.
Overhead a great tit shot away, chattering indignantly. ‘Has a nest in the wall,’ Guinevere said, pointing up at a small hollow between the stones. ‘It’s a miracle he can squeeze himself through there. Judging by the voices of the baby birds he actually has six to eight babies in there. They should be old enough to leave the nest any day now.’
Max followed the small bird with his camera and when it sat down on a branch, he zoomed in and took a few shots. The camera’s clicks rang out in the silence.
Guinevere said, ‘If you shoot deer or other wildlife, don’t they get spooked by the sounds of the camera?’
‘There are beeps and stuff that go with the focus and the zoom but you can turn those off. I did so right after I bought my camera. The only thing you can’t turn off is the click when a photo is taken. It’s a mechanical sound having to do with parts inside the camera moving. It does disturb animals that are very sensitive to sound, like deer, but birds don’t mind usually.’
Guinevere nodded and looked around her, breathed deep and then said, semi concerned, ‘It would be a disaster if people started to dig around here. Do you think there’s a real chance of that?’