Rubies in the Roses

She shrugged to indicate she didn’t know either.

Wadencourt gestured with both hands. ‘The gardening expert of course. Vex. The one who wrote the article.’

‘I don’t know any Vex. And what article?’

‘So Vex hasn’t been here.’ Wadencourt rubbed his chin and peered at Bolingbrooke as if trying to make sense of a conundrum. ‘Or at least he didn’t call on you during his visit. He must have walked about and investigated on his own. Took his photos to illustrate the article. After all, this island is freely accessible to the public. Anyone traipsing down that causeway at low tide can reach it and skulk about. Regrettable really. I wonder …’

Bolingbrooke straightened up. His eyes flashed with impatience and anger. ‘Get to the point, man. What has happened here on my land?’

‘I wonder,’ Wadencourt continued as if he hadn’t heard his host, ‘if we can claim that the photos Vex shot were taken without your permission. Then we might stop him from using them. I doubt it can stop the whole publication, but it might delay it.’

He rubbed his hands together. ‘That would be perfect. You do understand that you need my help?’

At that moment the front door opened, and a young man was propelled through it.

‘Propelled’ was the right description as he didn’t walk on his own two feet but was sort of thrown inside by some invisible force. He stumbled, almost slipped over the carpet, and ended up bumping into Guinevere. He steadied himself with his hands on her shoulders. ‘Excuse me.’

She looked up into two chocolate brown eyes. His suntanned face was sharp-edged and intelligent, crowned by lots of unruly curls. He wore a red polo shirt and neat beige trousers and had a camera around his neck. Not a small one like tourists carried but professional gear with a long lens.

‘Hello there,’ he said to her. ‘Sorry for the odd arrival, but I’m afraid there’s some misunderstanding.’

‘Not at all.’ Oliver’s voice boomed through the hallway. He had come in after the other man, rubbing his hands as if he was satisfied about a chore he had finished. ‘This louche type was trying to peek into windows and take photographs.’

Wadencourt glared at Oliver. ‘That louche type as you call him is my photographer Max DeBurgh. An extremely bright lad who will help me locate the wedding goblet. The sooner we have it, the better. Or do you really want all of your gardens destroyed by an insane crowd rushing out here to dig?’

‘This island may be open to the public,’ Oliver said, ‘but we do have rules. Especially for the gardens. People aren’t even allowed to pick flowers, let alone to dig. Dig for what anyway?’

Max laughed. ‘Haven’t you heard yet?’ He sized up Oliver. ‘Soon you’ll need help warding off people who are looking in places you don’t like them to look.’

‘I caught you soon enough,’ Oliver countered. His eyebrows were furrowed over his blue eyes. They could be warm and interested, but right now they were cold and condemning. He rocked back on his heels and put his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. As usual he wore trainers without socks. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

‘I just told you,’ Wadencourt said tightly, ‘that he’s with me. Your father has invited me to stay here. So Max is staying here as well.’

Bolingbrooke lifted a hand. ‘Invited, invited … I only said that …’

‘You said that there was always room for me here, and I accept your offer of hospitality. Max, you carry up my bags.’ Wadencourt gestured at his photographer as if he was a butler who had to snap to attention. ‘What wonderful room will it be? In the tower maybe?’

‘Guinevere is already staying there,’ Oliver said. ‘There’s a perfectly good B&B near the harbour.’

But his father shook his head. His voice sounded tired but resigned when he said, ‘Wadencourt is an old friend of mine, Oliver. He’s staying here. And if this chap is his photographer, he can stay here as well.’

‘So you know what they’re here for?’ Oliver asked.

‘Not every detail …’ Bolingbrooke said slowly.

‘Not at all, you mean. You simplyinvite them in, not even knowing …’

‘This is my house.’ Bolingbrooke smiled, but the censure in his tone couldn’t be missed. ‘Please show them to their rooms, Guinevere. Gregory can have the room beside my library and the young chap can go into the one beside that. I’ll ask Cador to make some tea and sandwiches for us.’

Eager to get the guests settled before Oliver could create more hostility, Guinevere gestured to the stairs. ‘Follow me please.’

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.