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Rubies in the Roses
Vivian Conroy


‘This author writes a cracking book. I could hardly bear to put it down.’Grace J Reviewerlady‘Guinevere is a little like a modern day Miss Marple’Adele BWelcome to Cornisea island and spend your summer holidays in a Cornish Castle.Guinevere Evans has a dream summer job: cataloguing books at a castle on a tidal island off the coast of Cornwall. With her perky dachshund Dolly by her side she explores the island’s colourful history, tries fabulous local food and sees the gorgeous sunsets.But when an old friend of her employer drops in, claiming a rare bejewelled wedding goblet is hidden in the castle gardens, strange events start to take place: several people turn up claiming they have a right to the elusive goblet, and a dead body is found on the beach.An unfortunate accident, or does this death relate to the struggle for ownership of the goblet? Is there even a goblet?Guinevere and Dolly dig in and discover plenty of motives to lie, steal and yes, maybe even kill. Can they prove what really happened to the victim and what became of the precious rubies that are at the heart of the mystery?







Welcome to Cornisea Island, where you can spend your summer holidays in a Cornish Castle.

Guinevere Evans has a dream summer job: cataloguing books at a castle on a tidal island off the coast of Cornwall. With her perky dachshund Dolly by her side she explores the island’s colourful history, tries fabulous local food and sees the gorgeous sunsets.

But when an old friend of her employer drops in, claiming a rare bejewelled wedding goblet is hidden in the castle gardens, strange events start to take place: several people turn up claiming they have a right to the elusive goblet, and a dead body is found on the beach.

An unfortunate accident, or does this death relate to the struggle for ownership of the goblet? Is there even a goblet?

Guinevere and Dolly dig in and discover plenty of motives to lie, steal and yes, maybe even kill. Can they prove what really happened to the victim and what became of the precious rubies that are at the heart of the mystery?


Praise for VIVIAN CONROY (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)

‘This book is a cross between Downton Abbey and Miss Marple … Perfect for the long winter nights ahead where comfort becomes a key word in everyone’s vocabulary.’

Katherine (Goodreads), A Proposal to Die For

‘A Proposal to Die For is wonderfully smooth and glamorous, in the style of Agatha Christie combined with the beauty of Gatsby.’

The Storycollector Blog

‘When it’s as charming as A Proposal to Die For mystery and history make the most wonderful combination.’

Little Bookness Lane

‘Dead to Begin With is a charming, entertaining and absorbing cozy mystery and a great start to a new series.’

Mystereity Reviews

‘Dead to Begin With by Vivian Conroy is a wonderful story, perfect for fans of Murder, She Wrote, and I cannot wait for the next in the series!!’

Books of All Kinds

‘What a cosy story featuring a cozy murder, and some cute dogs!’

Rachel’s Random Reads, Dead to Begin With


Available from Vivian Conroy

ACountry Gift Shop Mystery series

Dead to Begin with

Grand Prize: Murder!

Written into the Grave

A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series

A Proposal to Die For

Diamonds of Death

Deadly Treasures

Coming Soon:

Fatal Masquerade

Cornish Castle Mystery series

Death Plays a Part

Rubies in the Roses


Rubies in the Roses

Vivian Conroy







Copyright (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)






An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

Copyright © Vivian Conroy 2017

Vivian Conroy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008257521

Version: 2018-04-17


Contents

Cover (#u814f1eb6-3c79-58d8-9b6a-a6fce08e8135)

Blurb (#u58ef982b-f10d-5f39-9176-ed8a49a81b47)

Praise (#u669a3c02-45cc-5599-a453-4fd731b3f8a2)

Book List (#u0ade838a-98cd-5f5d-9bc9-411f8c29a0f3)

Title Page (#u3db9914b-98a3-598c-9055-f82b5589b2b4)

Author Bio (#ua39f9f84-791a-59f1-b2be-47b7d9316854)

Acknowledgements (#u1b9a2439-ff07-5ff6-9216-92bba39d2659)

Author’s Note (#uc75e9954-a598-51a0-ab09-6ef81e8a9bdf)

Chapter One (#u033fd2b9-6005-583e-8cb3-f0b812b5c324)

Chapter Two (#u70c6db69-3c25-5a8a-ae39-4ccef8f85ff7)

Chapter Three (#u2c0e058a-8769-5390-baf9-c968ece11db0)

Chapter Four (#u8d055bbe-d249-511c-b1dd-4588bc09dd63)

Chapter Five (#ua6f5d191-8f82-563d-89f4-6ca7b6395a01)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#u3dd3aa2d-44c7-52cc-af1c-8587d8120b11)


VIVIAN CONROY

discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favourite sleuths. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own missing heirs and priceless artefacts. Discover the glamour and secrets of the roaring Twenties in Vivian’s Lady Alkmene Callender Mysteries and open up shop, with murder in the mix, in the contemporary Country Gift Shop Mysteries. Also contemporary, but set at a location full of history and folklore, are the Cornish Castle Mysteries, in which a London costume designer and her perky dachshund take a summer job at a castle on a tidal island off the coast of Cornwall. For news on the latest releases, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites (https://twitter.com/VivWrites.com)


Acknowledgements (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)

Thanks to all editors, agents, and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

Thanks to my wonderful editor Hannah Smith and the entire HQ team, especially cover design for giving Dolly a starring role in the gorgeous cover.

A special thanks to all my readers who’ve expressed their love of this new series:

May you enjoy your return to Cornisea Island and all its quirky human and canine inhabitants!


Author’s Note (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)

Although inspired by real-life tidal islands like St Michael’s Mount and its French counterpart, and by many fascinating sources of Cornish history, archaeology, folklore, flora and fauna, cuisine etc., Cornisea Island and its castle with ruling family is a fictional world. Its layout, businesses and societies, special constable and deadly legends of patron saints and precious artefacts are all the fruits of my imagination.


Chapter One (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)

‘Did we already catalogue this stack or didn’t we?’ Guinevere Evans scrunched up her face, studying the faded titles on the leather bands. The pile of books was on the floor, leaning against the leg of an old oak table. She sat beside it on her haunches, trying to remember whether she had held these books in her hands before the weekend.

Her perky dachshund Dolly came to stand by her side and touched the books one by one with her long nose as if to help her decide.

Somewhere over their heads a baritone voice said, ‘We can always do them again. New week, new try.’

Guinevere shook her head to herself. She liked order and consistency; but her employer – Lord Bolingbrooke, master of Cornisea Castle and owner of far too many books that needed cataloguing – liked to tackle the task in his very own way. He took a book down from a shelf, started to leaf through it, found some interesting passage, sank in a chair reading, or unearthed a scruffy notebook and took notes in his illegible spidery handwriting.

What the notes were for Guinevere didn’t know, except that Bolingbrooke planned to write a magnum opus about the castle’s history and he was collecting titbits to work into it.

Had been for many years.

‘Why don’t you put all of those books on the table here and we’ll have a look at them?’ Bolingbrooke suggested cheerfully. His unruly grey hair stood up from raking his fingers through it, and he had rolled up the sleeves of his crumpled blue shirt. He rubbed his hands together as if he couldn’t wait to dig in.

Guinevere shook her head. ‘We’ve already catalogued all the books on the table and I don’t want them to get confused with books that haven’t been done yet.’

Bolingbrooke cleared his throat.

Guinevere rose to her feet. She eyed the elderly gentleman with a suspicious look. He tried to avoid her gaze.

Dolly squeaked as if she wanted to say ‘oh, no!’

Guinevere looked at the table. Were there actually other books there that she didn’t remember? With a frown she picked up a volume with a bright blue cloth cover. ‘Sea monsters off the Cornish coast,’ she read aloud. ‘I haven’t seen this before the weekend.’

‘That might be because I took down some new books this morning.’ Bolingbrooke’s voice was soft as always when he was making an unwelcome statement. He took his time removing an imaginary speck of dust off his light grey trousers. ‘I was up early and saw some very interesting volumes on the top shelf. I put them over there.’ Bolingbrooke broadly indicated half the table’s length.

Guinevere exhaled slowly. ‘So we can start over?’

‘Well, I don’t want to say “start over”. That would be so negative. We did do a lot already.’

Guinevere shook her head while her eyes travelled across all the books. This way they’d be working until Christmas and still wouldn’t have covered even a fraction of what Bolingbrooke owned. Not just here in his library but also in other rooms of the castle where books sat on shelves, in trunks, or on the floor.

‘Hey, what’s that?’ Guinevere reached for a small volume with faded lettering on the leather binding. ‘A Cornish Treasure Island?’

Dolly yapped excitedly as she stood on her hind legs with her front legs against a chair to see better.

Guinevere opened the book and studied the map in the front, which depicted Cornisea marked up with various signs. Off the shore there was supposed to be a sunken pirate ship. On the island itself there was a note marking the whereabouts of a crown worn by one of the unhappy wives of Henry VIII and another note indicating the location of a chest full of gold coins taken from a rich merchant in a highway attack. She whistled. ‘If this is correct, it would be worthwhile to go around with a metal detector.’

‘Lots before you tried.’ Bolingbrooke shrugged. ‘Cornisea’s colourful history has always inspired people to make it the site of some adventure tale or rare object. If you study that book better, you’d learn that the sources for those markings are obscure historians or alleged world travellers like Marco Polo. Whether they ever really set foot here, or wrote up their tales from their comfortable beds at home, is completely unclear. But as long as it involves treasure, people believe it. I thought that if Oliver and you are serious about promoting the castle, you should have a look at it. Even if the actual objects aren’t here, the connections with Henry VIII or other royals might prove to be an attraction.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Guinevere kept her eyes on the volume in her hands, not quite sure what to think of Bolingbrooke’s sudden proposition. Was he being ironic, because he didn’t really believe in the castle’s potential as a tourist attraction?

Or was he rather afraid that their scheme would prove to be so successful that his peace and quiet would be gone for ever?

A bell resounded from downstairs.

Bolingbrooke’s dogs Rufus and Nero sat up in front of the fireplace where they had been snoozing and started to bark. Their deep voices formed a threatening welcoming chorus for the unexpected visitor. People were usually a little taken aback when they realized a mastiff and a Great Dane guarded this ancient keep.

Dolly was the nice little girl in the company, being able to work her way just as easily into people’s hearts as she wormed herself into the castle’s every nook and cranny. But Guinevere knew she was really the boss over the bigger dogs who followed her lead on walks.

‘What’s that?’ Bolingbrooke bellowed. ‘Strangers at the gate? Are you expecting someone, Guinevere?’

‘No, not that I know of.’ A strange excitement coursed through her that it might be one of her friends from the theatre in London. She had worked there as costume designer before she had come here to Cornisea, for the summer only, as the theatre needed renovations and the cast had been forced to leave behind the place they thought of as home.

‘I’ll have a peek.’ Bolingbrooke hushed the dogs and left the room.

He didn’t have to open the front door himself, because he had a butler for that, a taciturn type named Cador, who could give Guinevere a start when he suddenly came upon her, moving through the castle noiselessly on his rubber soles. He seemed to be everywhere and see everything with his sharp blue eyes. Cador was supposed to politely dismiss unwanted visitors so Bolingbrooke didn’t have to deal with them. His lordship then hid in the landing waiting until the danger was averted.

Grinning to herself, Guinevere walked to the door, still holding the book about treasures in her hand. She could hear Bolingbrooke’s careful footfalls across the creaking floorboards to the head of the stairs. There he seemed to wait, peeking down into the hallway to discern who was calling on him. Soon he’d come galloping back to her and hide in his library, throwing the door shut and claiming he wasn’t at home. There were many people Bolingbrooke didn’t care to see when they came to ask about the castle’s future, about unpaid bills or about donations for charitable projects.

But now she heard a delighted cry, ‘Gregory! Old man.’ And Bolingbrooke’s heavy footfalls beat down the stairs.

Dolly beside Guinevere made a surprised sound. Guinevere said to her, ‘Yes, girl, apparently it’s someone Lord B. does want to see. Let’s have a look for ourselves who it is then.’

She snapped her fingers to tell Dolly to walk by her side instead of rushing ahead, and then she tiptoed to the stairs to look down into the hallway below. If it was an old friend of Bolingbrooke’s, she didn’t want to disturb their reunion.

A short rotund man stood in the middle of the hallway. He had apparently dropped two suitcases to the floor as they stood on either side of him. Bolingbrooke smacked his large hand down on the visitor’s shoulder hard enough to send the short man tottering on his feet.

But despite this rough welcome the visitor’s face was all smiles. ‘Is this a surprise or what?’

‘Indeed.’ Bolingbrooke grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. ‘How long has it been? Twenty years? Man, I wasn’t even sure you were still alive. No, that’s not true, I knew you were, because you wrote up those amusing articles.’

‘Amusing?’ his visitor repeated, his smiling features freezing. Even where Guinevere stood, she could sense indignation quivering through his posture.

‘Yes,’ Bolingbrooke continued unperturbed, laughing deep from his belly, ‘all those ideas about priceless artefacts that are hidden in old abbey ruins or remains of ancient keeps. You do know how to tell a tale.’

‘They’re not tales,’ his visitor said in a cold voice. ‘Those artefacts really exist.’

Guinevere cringed at how Bolingbrooke was antagonizing his guest within minutes of reuniting with him.

But Bolingbrooke didn’t seem to sense the hostile atmosphere and continued seriously, ‘How many have you uncovered?’ He leaned over to his guest as if he wanted to exchange confidentialities with him. ‘How many? Not one, hmmm?’

His guest stood awkwardly, knotting his hands in front of him.

Bolingbrooke said, ‘Look. I understand what you’re trying to do. People love stories about treasures and the mysterious circumstances under which they were buried or got lost. Some knight who won loot in an epic battle and then hid it where his enemies couldn’t find it and who devised a map with clues for his successors to recover it. Only nobody could make sense of his clues again. Until you came along of course.’

His visitor’s round jovial face was tight with tension now. He spoke slowly and meticulously as if he was teaching a class. ‘My line of research is a very serious undertaking. The total value of artefacts that have gone missing through time runs in the billions of pounds. If only a few could be recovered, we would be looking at items that any museum in the world would be desperate to own.’

Bolingbrooke waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I believe you. You’re the expert in this field.’ He looked down on his visitor’s suitcases. ‘I say, you’ve just come back from travels?’

‘No, I’m here to stay with you.’

Bolingbrooke blinked. ‘With me? At Cornisea Castle?’

‘Well, I could find a room with some fisherman at those houses near the harbour.’ The short man gestured behind him with a fleshy hand. ‘But I had hoped for your hospitality.’

‘Of course. There’s always room for you here. But why are you in the region? What legendary item can be hidden around here?’

His visitor blinked at him in bewilderment at his ignorance. ‘The wedding goblet, of course.’

‘The what?’ Bolingbrooke asked.

Guinevere came down two more steps, and the creaking of a board made both men look up to her. Bolingbrooke waved at her to come all the way down. ‘Gregory, this is my new assistant Guinevere Evans. She’s helping me catalogue my book collection.’

Guinevere walked over and held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Gregory Wadencourt. Historian.’

Dolly circled Wadencourt’s feet and sniffed at his shoes and his suitcases. Her tail was trembling as if she detected exciting scents of the place where these well-worn travelling bags had been before. To be honest, Guinevere herself itched to know more about that. And about the alleged priceless artefacts the historian was hunting.

Wadencourt spotted the book in her other hand and hmmm-ed. ‘I see you’re interested in treasures.’

‘Oh, it’s quite a coincidence I’m carrying this with me. We happened to start on a new pile of books this morning, and this was on top of it.’

Wadencourt looked at Bolingbrooke. ‘A coincidence, hmmm?’

Bolingbrooke looked down and fidgeted with his watch’s band.

Guinevere studied him suspiciously. He had just seen some interesting books on the top shelf and taken them down, right? On the very morning his old friend, a treasure hunter, ended up here for a visit!

Wadencourt said, ‘Well, I can’t blame you for looking into it. I mean, you must realize what will happen now? As soon as the word gets out, people will be flocking here to look for it. Your island will be under siege.’

‘My island under siege?’ Bolingbrooke repeated. ‘Why?’

Wadencourt surveyed him. ‘You mean, you don’t know anything about it? I thought that man had been here.’

‘What man?’ Bolingbrooke asked, glancing at Guinevere.

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.

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 (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)

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 (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)

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?’

‘No, of course not.’ Max sounded sure. ‘This chap Vex, who writes up those stories in the gardening magazine, even calls his own contributions: “Seeds of folklore”. He explains for instance where plants’ nicknames come from or why some sites have become popular for their specific natural wonders. I don’t think there’s a single soul who will rush out here to find this so-called goblet of Rose and Stars.’

‘I wonder if the name shouldn’t be goblet of roses and stars. You know, both nouns plural?’

Max shook his head. ‘Don’t let Wadencourt hear you say that. He could give an hour-long lecture about the name. Rose is not the same as stars.’

‘But …’ Guinevere frowned. ‘I thought the name referred back to the precious stones used on the goblet? Rubies and diamonds, roses and stars.’

‘Very good. That’s the superficial explanation. But our super intelligent Wadencourt is the first living being who was able to discover that rose is singular and therefore doesn’t refer to the rubies but to a name: Rose. He believes that the name of the lady in the tale is wrong, that she wasn’t called Anne, but Rose. That’s also how he deduced that the keep referred to is Cornisea Castle. Of course he refused to give me any details, but I guess that there is a Lady Rose in this castle’s past and a siege because of her.’

Max looked at Guinevere expectantly as if waiting for her to confirm this.

‘I haven’t come across her yet, but then I’ve only been here for a few weeks. And Bolingbrooke owns a ton of books.’ Guinevere made a mental note to check with Oliver and Bolingbrooke, continuing to Max, ‘But if Wadencourt is the only one who realized the significance of Rose, instead of roses, in the goblet’s name, how did this garden historian Vex figure it out? In his article he also claims Cornisea Castle is the place where the goblet is hidden, right?’

‘Right. And that is Wadencourt’s big frustration. He was the first but he wasn’t the only one. This garden historian also realized it and according to his article Vex even has some proof to support it. Now before that hits the world, Wadencourt wants to find the goblet. Here.’ Max gestured around him.

Guinevere still didn’t understand it all. ‘And Wadencourt thinks he can actually do that before the article goes out? I thought publication was imminent?’

Max shrugged. ‘He claims that he knows exactly where to look. I think he’s lying. He has never turned up a single thing before, you know.’

Guinevere studied the tight, suntanned face. ‘Then why did you get in touch with him in the first place? If he never turned up a great find, he’s not an attractive prospect to work with, I’d say. Did you do it just to get this free Cornish trip?’

‘Let’s say I have my reasons for wanting to work with Wadencourt right now.’ Max exhaled. ‘Sometimes you have to do something unpleasant for the sake of your career.’

This was all a little too cryptic for Guinevere’s analytical mind. Oliver had confirmed that Wadencourt’s publications created waves and that he had rich sponsors, so maybe that had been appealing to Max. Even so … She carefully put it into words. ‘I can understand that you want to work with him, but why would he accept you along?’ She could hardly tell Max to his face he was rather rude to Wadencourt, but there you had it.

Max gestured. ‘I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.’

It sounded quite ominous. Guinevere studied his profile. He seemed like such a nice, normal chap – apart from his behaviour towards Wadencourt. But maybe he had an ulterior motive for being here. Wanting something with that priceless goblet himself?

A few weeks ago it wouldn’t have crossed her mind to be so wary, but after what had happened with Branok the Cold-hearted’s secret stash her perspective of situations and people had changed.

Once the Cornisea Historical Society had announced they were re-creating the history of Branok, a medieval steward of Cornisea Castle who was rumoured to have appropriated gold illegally, locals had believed that Branok’s secret stash could be located somewhere on Cornisea Island. The search for it had divided people, and the re-enactment of the Branok trial had even ended in murder, in the castle dungeons.

The belief you were entitled to something was a powerful motive to do things you would normally never do. Guinevere wasn’t quite sure if Max had signed up to be Wadencourt’s photographer because he was personally interested in the supposedly priceless goblet.

Max looked at her as if he was trying to discern what was behind all of her questions. Then he smiled. ‘All right, I’ll let you in on the secret.’

He leaned closer to Guinevere so she could see the golden specks in his eyes. Max whispered, ‘I come cheap. That’s what matters to our friend up there.’ He waved behind them at the castle’s front. ‘To be honest, his career is waning. He needs a big find, pronto, or those sugar daddies that sent him to Corfu and other places are going to stop being so generous.’

‘Aha. So the goblet is really a last resort for him?’ Guinevere concluded.

‘You could put it that way.’ Max folded his hands at his back. ‘Too bad it doesn’t exist. I had really wanted to do a nice shoot with you and the goblet. You have a classic face. Would have been perfect for it.’

Guinevere felt a little awkward under his praise. ‘Will you help Wadencourt look for it? Even though you don’t believe that it exists?’

‘Helping him look for it is an overstatement. He won’t tell me any of his clues or directions to the place where it’s supposedly hidden. He keeps everything he knows very close to his chest. Literally. He has this notebook that he doesn’t let out of his sight for one moment. I bet he even sleeps with it under his pillow, dreaming of his big breakthrough find. But hey, this island is supposed to be a treasure trove. Maybe we can hit on something, even if it’s not Wadencourt’s coveted bejewelled wedding goblet?’

Guinevere remembered the map in the front of the book she had studied earlier, mentioning the pirate ship, crown and gold coin chest, and she nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You don’t seem thrilled at the idea of a big find here. Don’t you want to go treasure hunting?’

She could hardly tell him the entire story about the Branok stash and the disaster that had turned out to be, so she said generally, ‘I like Cornisea kind of quiet. Sure, tourists come out here in the summertime, but not by the thousands a day. Something like that changes a place.’

‘Yes, it does.’ Max stared ahead with a frown. ‘I’ve been to places to photograph them before they had tourist appeal and after. It can spoil it completely. Pure natural beauty.’

He glanced at her and smiled again.

Guinevere flushed. He was flirting with her, and she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She did find him attractive, but he also seemed to be rather short-tempered and callous in his treatment of his boss. Wadencourt was not a true friend to Bolingbrooke either it seemed, so maybe the two of them would have to leave again soon? Guinevere had enough experience with people vanishing from her life not to want to go through that again.

A painful void spasmed inside as always when she thought of the blank pages in her life. The parents she had never known. The family life with them she had never had.

As if Dolly noticed her sudden sadness, the dachshund pulled at the leash, and Guinevere lengthened her stride to keep up with the doggy. The physical exertion pushed the twinge of pain aside. Moving forward was always the best way to go.

Max said, ‘So how did you end up here?’

‘I work in a London theatre, but we are currently closed for renovations. We all had to figure out something else to do for the summer. I applied for a job here cataloguing books.’

The applying part had been a bit odd as Oliver and her theatre director Mr Betts had actually set up her arrival between them, to send Lord Bolingbrooke some help, not just with the book collection but also with the castle. But she could hardly explain all that to a virtual stranger.

She continued, ‘Our crew has all gone to different places. We have several retired actors and actresses in the crew, and old Carter, our props man, worked at the theatre in its heyday. It has been under threat through the decades but it always managed to survive. We’re now doing crowdfunding to bring in funds for the renovations, but also to ensure it has a future after that.’

Max listened with a keen interest and said, ‘I have to do a shoot with all of you when the theatre is ready to reopen again. It will be great publicity, and your story will be easy to sell. The theatre obviously has a long history, and publishers are always interested in people who don’t fit into a mould.’

‘How do you mean?’

Max shrugged. ‘The whole cliché of going against the flow. Your mum wanted you to study English lit and become a teacher, but you didn’t want the apartment, the neat little car and the uptown boyfriend. Rebellion sells.’

He saw her expression and added quickly, ‘You can also call it following your dreams, whatever you like. Believe me, all those people tied to their nine-to-five day jobs and mortgages love to read about someone who has a completely different life. The bohemian decadence of working until midnight, then staying into bed until noon.’

‘It isn’t like that at all. And I’m not sure the crew would want to be portrayed like that,’ Guinevere said slowly.

‘Nonsense, you need publicity or you’ll soon be in the street.’

Guinevere glanced at him. ‘Maybe,’ she said hesitantly. Max didn’t even know her friends, but he had already made up his mind about them. They didn’t fit a mould; they were bohemian. Which meant saleable.

Not so negative, she chided herself at once. Max means well with his offer. And he could be a great help. If he really has so many followers online … The theatre’s survival should come first. Not your piqued feelings because he puts into words how people might feel about artists and their jobs, not being real jobs or acceptable jobs.

She had heard all of that before. Maybe she was just projecting something into Max’s words while he didn’t even mean it that way?

To shake her annoyance, she walked ahead of him, stopped to smell a flowering rose. She rested the rich yellow flower in the palm of her hand and inhaled its musky scent. Her life’s choices were hers, and she need not defend herself to anyone about it.

The camera clicked furiously, and Guinevere looked at Max.

‘Just a few snaps of a beautiful lady.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’re photogenic.’

‘Really?’ In theatre school most students had their own dress style and individuality had been appreciated, but in everyday life Guinevere sometimes had the impression that it was better to blend in than to stand out. Stand out she did with her retro clothes and long braided hair, and she wouldn’t call that being photogenic. She thought of herself as rather an oddball.

Max tilted his head as if he was assessing her. ‘Has no one ever told you before you’re beautiful?’

Guinevere stood motionless, unnerved by the direct question. ‘Of course. Gran said it often.’

‘I don’t mean your gran.’

Guinevere leaned down to pick a colourful pebble off the path. To buy time in which she didn’t have to look at Max. Did he mean what he said? Or was he just having a little fun with her?

Memories came flooding back of the moments in theatre school where she had stood behind a curtain waiting for a call and had heard two classmates talking about her. One of them had been the boy she had been in love with. ‘Gwen is just a little awkward, you know,’ he had said. ‘She’s cute, but not girlfriend material.’

Guinevere had never been able to figure out for herself what girlfriend material was. But she wasn’t it. That had been clear enough.

Even though it was years ago, and it was probably silly to make a great deal out of a single remark, it had hurt, and it did come back to her every now and then. Made her insecure, reluctant to believe anyone could be interested in her. That way.

For a few minutes they walked in silence. The easy atmosphere seemed to have been spoiled, and Guinevere blamed herself. She had to take Max’s compliments at face value and simply appreciate that he wanted to make friends with her. No wonder as Wadencourt was so cold to him and only considered him a sort of stage hand along for the job. Where the historian himself would of course be the centre of attention.

As they reached the picturesque harbour area, Max started to snap shots of fishermen repairing their nets, the bobbing boats with their white sails, a house front with authentic woodwork, the details of elaborate ironwork on a gate. He saw a special shot in every little thing that was around him, whether a sprawling view or a super close-up, and seemed to have forgotten he was with someone.

His camera clicked and clicked as he quickly moved around, one moment sitting on his haunches, then stretching up again to full length to reach to the top of a wall or hold the camera high for a better viewpoint.

Guinevere studied the concentration in his posture and expression as he was at it. He obviously loved what he did. The assignment here was more to him than just work, even though he had said jokingly that he came cheap and one had to sacrifice for one’s career.

With a playful bounce Dolly ran to him and jumped at him.

Max looked down. ‘Not now, you stupid dog. I’m working.’

Guinevere winced that he would talk to her dog like that. Working or not, he need not snap.

She pulled Dolly along and looked into the window of the bakery to see what was on offer today. They had delicious buns and small breads. Holding a hand over her eyes, she peered into the dimness inside. There were quite a few tourists lining up to buy something. Summer seemed to bring in the bounty that small businesses on an island needed to survive.

Someone came to stand beside her, and a warm hand landed on her arm. ‘I’m sorry. I get irritable when I’m snapped out of my focus. When I’m in the zone, the rest of the world just doesn’t exist to me. But I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, you know.’

Guinevere kept looking into the window, not sure if she should just forgive Max or stay angry a little longer. Dolly meant everything to her, and someone calling her stupid … Besides, Max’s tone had been curt enough to suggest he had barely controlled his urge to slap at the dog.

Max said softly, ‘Look, I’m under a bit of pressure here.’

She looked up at him. ‘Why? Wadencourt needs to find the goblet to save his career, not you.’

‘Maybe not, but … He told you that I’m popular because I get lots of likes and shares. And I do. But that’s not the same as assignments. I need actual paid jobs to live off. Working with Wadencourt can get my name out to people like him.’

Guinevere hitched a brow. ‘You really want to do more jobs where the employer treats you like dirt?’

Max’s expression softened with a smile. ‘Not really, but hey, I can’t afford to be choosy. There are so many photographers out there. People have their phones to snap sights and events and … Even news pics come from ordinary people these days, not from press photographers any more. The landscape has changed, and I have to change with it. A little talent isn’t enough. I need a portfolio full of serious assignments I can show off to potential new clients. So can you forgive me?’

Max squeezed her arm and added, ‘I’ll make it up to you for the dog. Just wait.’

‘How?’ she asked.

‘Just wait.’ He winked at her. ‘Let’s go back up and see if Wadencourt and his lordship have already come to blows.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Max shrugged. ‘It’s no secret Wadencourt likes the ladies. I heard he was kicked off Cornisea Island in the past because he was after his lordship’s wife.’

‘What?’ So that had been the reason they had fallen out. That had made Bolingbrooke so pensive and sad. His late wife … Oliver’s mother who had so far been an elusive shadow. Oliver never mentioned her. ‘And Wadencourt dares to show his face down here again?’

‘Well, it was a long time ago. He probably thinks it’s all forgiven and forgotten.’

It sounded a bit grim, and Guinevere saw the tension in Max’s jawline. He turned away from her and took some more shots, of random objects it seemed. His earlier concentration was gone.

She wondered why Max would care what Wadencourt had once done at the castle. Max didn’t know Bolingbrooke at all.

Did he?

***

‘So what did you manage to find out about DeBurgh?’ Oliver asked. He had knocked at her bedroom door just as Guinevere had finished dressing for dinner. She had put on a light blue dress that fell all the way to the floor, combined with open shoes with silvery embroidery. She was studying her mirror image with a critical eye she had never applied before during her stay here.

One part of her told her it was useless to think about curling her hair or putting on a necklace as she would never be ‘girlfriend material’ anyway. The other part told her it was time to put the past and that spiteful remark behind her. Max had said she was beautiful. He might mean it.

Oliver leaned against the door he had closed behind him when he came in. He didn’t seem to see that she had changed or think she looked nice. He was absorbed in his own train of thought about Max. His need to find something about him that could underpin his distrust of him.

Guinevere felt uncomfortable at relating what the photographer had told her. After all, it couldn’t have been easy for Max to admit that he needed more work and that he even worked for Wadencourt at half price. Oliver was blunt enough to let him know, sooner or later, that he knew about that, and Guinevere didn’t want Max to conclude she had betrayed his confidence. That way any chance for a friendship would be spoiled from the start.

She tried to sound casual. ‘Not much. I think he’s harmless.’

‘Harmless?’ Oliver repeated. ‘What an odd choice of words.’

‘I mean, he came here simply to shoot some pictures and have a good time.’

‘What does he know about Wadencourt’s plans?’

‘Nothing, I think. He seems to have a mysterious notebook that holds all the clues and that he never lets out of his sight. That makes sense. Wadencourt can’t afford to let this big find slip through his fingers.’

Guinevere straightened the dress’s thin belt and came to the door.

Dolly followed her with a short bark, as if she was excited to get down and socialize.

Oliver stopped her at the door and looked down at her. ‘Wadencourt needs a big find to cement his reputation and my father needs some big attraction for the castle to be able to draw in tourists without putting it in a trust. That could be a dangerous combination. Play a little Find The Goblet?’

Guinevere tried to read his expression, understand what it was about this scenario that worried him. ‘This is not the Middle Ages any more. You can’t pass off a random bone you found as a saint’s digit and cash the revenue for showing it to poor unsuspecting peasants. People know their stuff. If a find is claimed, it will be scrutinized. There will be tests done to see how old it really is. They can’t fake it. So what’s worrying you?’

Oliver tapped his fingers against each other. ‘The consequences when it is all real … Our last foray into the castle’s past and treasure connected with it ended in murder.’

Guinevere took a deep breath. Not just murder, but also a hunt for the killer that had played people against each other and left the island community divided. Had even left it scarred as the B&B was no longer tended by the same family as it had always been. New faces, new names. All because of a case that had started with a corrupt steward of this very castle. His alleged thefts, his trial, his secret stash that lured treasure hunters.

Did the elusive Lady Rose and her missing goblet have the same lethal potential?


Chapter Four (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)

In a tense silence Guinevere and Oliver went down to dinner as if they couldn’t shake the awareness that something potentially threatening had invaded their home and wouldn’t go away again. There was too much at stake for Wadencourt to simply let it go.

And Mr Vex, who had written up the article – how did he fit into the equation?

In the dining room Wadencourt was already sitting at the table, having changed into a dinner jacket. A leather-bound notebook lay on the table beside his plate and wine glass. He rose to his feet, came over and kissed Guinevere’s hand. ‘A little chivalry in this old place,’ he said. ‘You look lovely.’

Guinevere blinked at his sudden kind tone while he had earlier barely noticed her. Maybe he had figured he needed to change his tune if he wanted to achieve anything here?

Bolingbrooke came in, with Max right behind him. Max was saying, ‘You do see my point.’

They both halted as if they hadn’t expected anybody to be present in the dining room yet to overhear their conversation. Bolingbrooke smiled uncomfortably and rushed to say, ‘All here then. Let’s sit down to dinner.’

Cador appeared in the doorway. Instead of bringing in the first course he said in a solemn tone, ‘Lady Serena Wilkinson is here to see you, my lord.’

Bolingbrooke blinked at him. ‘Here? Now?’

Cador stepped aside, and a stately woman in her mid thirties marched in. She wore a blouse and riding trousers with riding boots. The only thing missing was a short whip to crack. She halted and pointed an elegant hand at Bolingbrooke. ‘The goblet belongs to my family. And I’ll ensure we get it back.’

Bolingbrooke groaned. ‘Not another one.’

Lady Serena looked around the room. ‘Another one? I can’t imagine there are any rightful claimants here.’

The emphasis on ‘rightful’ couldn’t be missed.

Lady Serena continued, ‘The goblet had been in our family for generations before it was stolen by Lady Rose and carried out to this place. It should have been returned to my family.’

‘You mean, after your family killed Lady Rose and her husband just because they didn’t like the fact that they had married?’ Oliver enquired cynically.

Lady Serena turned to him. ‘And you are?’

‘Oliver Bolingbrooke. With my older brother playing diplomat in Singapore, I’m cast as the next lord of this castle.’

Lady Serena didn’t flinch. ‘I see. My mother told me there was a younger son. She said he had made quite a scene when she was last here. Saying he’d drive her away from the island with his wooden sword.’

Oliver flushed to his neck.

Max chuckled. ‘How old were you then?’

Lady Serena flashed him a cold look. ‘And you are?’

‘Max DeBurgh, photographer.’ Max made a mock bow. ‘At your service, my lady.’

‘Ah, Wadencourt’s little minion.’

Now it was Max’s turn to flush and Oliver’s to grin at his discomfort.

Max shot him and Lady Serena a deadly look. ‘I’m nobody’s minion.’

Raising his voice, Wadencourt said, ‘I got here first. And my old friend Bolingbrooke assured me I can look for the goblet.’

Lady Serena scoffed. ‘Bolingbrooke is no more your friend than he is mine. And I’m not saying you can’t look for it. I’m merely asking that when the goblet is recovered it will be given to me.’

‘Of course,’ Wadencourt said, ‘you won’t go to any trouble for it, but then take home the grand prize. Aren’t they all the same when they happen to have the word lord or lady in front of their name?’ He leaned his hand on the leather-bound notebook on the table. ‘I worked for years to figure out the clues to the goblet’s whereabouts. Now I want the credit for it. It’s rightfully my discovery.’

‘Naturally I’ll credit you for the discovery,’ Lady Serena said with another wave of her delicate hand. ‘But the goblet is mine to take away and return to its rightful place in my family home.’

‘Never,’ Bolingbrooke objected. ‘If it’s found here, it belongs to my family.’ He looked Lady Serena up and down, from her impeccable hairdo to her shiny boots and straight back. ‘You can hardly prove you have any claim to it.’

‘There are some very old documents that describe the goblet. Once it’s found we can see if the description matches the actual cup.’

Oliver raised his hands. ‘Once it’s found? If it is found at all, you mean. So far Mr Wadencourt here hasn’t exactly been successful in proving his wild claims.’

‘This time it’s different,’ Wadencourt said tightly.

Max added, ‘Because this time somebody else figured out the clues.’

‘Will you shut up?’ Wadencourt was purple in the face. ‘I could send you away right now.’

‘Then why don’t you?’ Max said, holding his gaze with a challenging expression.

Guinevere held her breath waiting for the final dismissal, but Wadencourt just threw his weight back against his chair and said nothing.

What was the strange bond between these men that forced them to work together while they clearly didn’t get along?

‘I’m keeping an eye on this castle,’ Lady Serena said. ‘And I’ll make sure that I get what’s coming to me.’

She turned and left the room in a whirl of expensive perfume.

Bolingbrooke exhaled and shot at Wadencourt, ‘How does she know you are here to look for the goblet?’

Wadencourt’s shoulders slumped. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Maybe your source at the magazine,’ Max said, ‘thought it fun to ring around and turn everybody against each other.’ He looked around the room. ‘Maybe he informed several people whom he knew would take the bait.’

Guinevere sat motionless. It was an interesting proposition with explosive potential.

Oliver looked at his father. ‘He has a point with this suggestion. You also heard from this source, didn’t you. After all, you suspected Wadencourt was coming, or you wouldn’t have taken out that book about the goblet and Cornisea.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m glad that raving mad woman is leaving so we can eat in peace.’ Bolingbrooke gestured at Cador, who had followed everything with silent attention. ‘The first course, please. I’m starving.’

***

After dinner Guinevere took a breath of fresh air in the courtyard when Oliver appeared by her side. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said in a low tone. He handed her his mobile phone.

Guinevere had to look closely to understand what he meant.

The screen showed her several small shots like someone’s feed on social media. Then Oliver pulled the phone from her hand, tapped the screen and suddenly it was filled with a picture of her own face as she smelled a yellow rose in her palm. She recognized it as taken this afternoon on their way to the harbour. Max had posted it with the caption Lady of the Roses.

It had been liked over two hundred times, and people had also replied to it saying things like Congrats, man, she’s a looker or Are you in a relationship now? Whyyyyy? We wuv you!!!! The latter reply had a crying emoji after whyyyyy? and ended with several red heart emojis.

Oliver said, ‘Why did he post this?’

Guinevere shrugged. ‘No idea.’ Maybe to prove to her that she was beautiful?

Her face was on fire just thinking about it.

Oliver said, ‘You should be careful around him. I texted a few of my colleagues to ask if they knew DeBurgh.’

Guinevere looked him over. As a nature film-maker Oliver had lots of contacts in the photography and filming business. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Several of them have worked with him and said he’s hot-headed and volatile. Loves you one day, treats you like dirt the next. Especially when he feels like he didn’t get his dues.’

Guinevere stood motionless. She could still see Max snapping at Dolly, his body tight as if he was ready to slap at the dog. That had struck her as really unpleasant. Did Oliver’s comment confirm that Max was indeed volatile?

But didn’t everybody have moments where they were curt just because they were tired or under pressure? Max had explained to her that the assignment here on Cornisea was important to him. Who knew what demands he placed on himself to succeed?

Oliver said, softly and urgently, ‘I know my colleagues in and out. They wouldn’t just throw dirt at someone. If they say DeBurgh’s mood changes like a weathercock, they mean it. I just want you to be careful around him.’

Guinevere drew breath slowly. ‘First you send me after him to find out some things about him and now you tell me to stay away from him? Max might have been focused on his work and curt with people, but that doesn’t mean he’s aggressive. Those are completely different things. Just imagine what some people who have worked with you might say about you?’

Oliver’s jaw tightened. He said in a low voice, ‘People can’t say about me I got into a fight while drunk and beat somebody until others had to pull me off. Literal description: he would have killed the poor bloke if we hadn’t intervened.’

Guinevere studied Oliver’s expression. ‘Stories like that tend to get bigger and bigger every time they are told.’ She raised a hand to ward off further explanations. ‘I’ll tell you what: I’ll go see Max and ask him to take the photo of me down. I bet you he’ll do it, without an ugly word. That will prove he’s not volatile and we don’t have to worry about him being here at the castle. OK?’

‘That hardly proves anything,’ Oliver protested, but Guinevere had already turned away to go inside. Oliver’s tale about Max having beaten someone while drunk did make her uncomfortable, but for the moment she wanted to give Max the benefit of the doubt. She had to experience for herself what he was about, without someone else telling her what to think.

Wadencourt appeared on the stairs, and she asked him where Max was. ‘In the library I think,’ the historian replied with a vague wave over his shoulder.

Guinevere hurried to the library and opened the door.

Max was on the movable ladder looking for something on the top shelves. His quick movements suggested determination.

‘Hello!’ Guinevere called, and Max started, grabbing the edge of the shelf to steady himself. ‘Do you want me to take a tumble and break my neck?’ he yelled.

Dolly had moved into the room as if she wanted to run at him but seemed to have second thoughts at the volume and tone of his voice. She slunk back and hid behind Guinevere.

The dog’s fear of someone who had already snapped at her once tore at Guinevere’s heart. On top of Oliver’s suggestions about Max’s bad reputation with his colleagues she wasn’t sure what to think of him.

And what was he doing here in the library? He would never have managed to get in and get onto that ladder if Rufus and Nero had been here. But after dinner Bolingbrooke walked the dogs on the beach.

Had Max seen him leave?

Had he come here on purpose knowing the coast was clear?

What did he want to find anyway, rummaging through those books?

Her heart beat fast at the idea that Max’s surreptitious behaviour seemed to support Oliver’s negative take on him. She had come up here to prove the opposite. How could she go back to Oliver and defend Max to him when she wasn’t even sure what he was doing now?

She said challengingly, ‘I doubt that Lord Bolingbrooke gave you permission to go through his books.’

Max waved a hand at her. ‘He did say I could use the library when I needed something. When we talked before dinner. I came in here to print something and then I saw all of these beautiful old books. I just wanted to have a look around and determine if this library would make a good backdrop for a photo shoot with the goblet.’

It sounded plausible. She had seen Max come in with Bolingbrooke as dinner was about to start.

But she wanted to push him a little to see if he responded in any way that supported Oliver’s ‘volatile’ suggestion. So she said in a forced brusque tone, ‘And why did you post my picture on your feed? I told you not to snap me because it makes me feel awkward and you did it anyway and now you’ve even put it out to the world where everyone can have an opinion about it.’

Max blinked at her. ‘You didn’t tell me at all that it made you feel awkward. What on earth for? You look beautiful.’

‘I haven’t read all the comments, so there might be spiteful ones among them. Things that would hurt me if I did read them. Besides, all of these people act like they’re entitled to you.’

‘Well, they’re not. And you’re pretty; you deserve to be shown off.’ Max had clambered down and studied her. ‘Why would comments from perfect strangers hurt you?’

He rocked back on his heels. ‘Or are you hiding out here? Are you on the run from someone?’

‘Of course not.’ Guinevere was shocked at the suggestion. How did Max get such an idea into his head?

Max came closer and looked into her eyes. ‘There’s something sad about you. Like you’ve been through things, bad things. A relationship maybe in which you were put down all of the time? I don’t want to hurt you, honestly. I wanted to cheer you up by snapping your picture and showing you how you look to me.’

He smiled at her. ‘I want us to have a good time together. I’m here to work, sure, but that won’t take all day.’

Guinevere stared into his chocolate brown eyes. She was aware he was standing very close. The scent of his aftershave filled her head.

‘You know what?’ Max pulled out his phone and tapped on the screen. It took him a few moments, then he said, ‘I’ve removed your photo from my feed. I shouldn’t have put it up without asking for your permission. I’m sorry about that. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable when I’m around. OK?’

Guinevere nodded. Relief flooded her that he had taken it so well. Oliver was wrong about him. All wrong. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem. And that dress looks great on you. I didn’t get a chance to say anything about it over dinner with Lady Serena popping up and all.’ Max kept smiling. ‘As a photographer you work with filters to make everything prettier. Put a morning haze over that field or turn the sunset just a little fierier. But you don’t need filters.’

Guinevere shuffled her feet. She wasn’t good with compliments, tending to think them overdone and even untrue. But she wanted to believe that Max meant what he said. And that they could really spend a lot of time together during his stay here. That his kind words and warm smiles could convince her she was really beautiful like he had said.

Wouldn’t it be great if she could just believe that instead of immediately annihilating a compliment with her self-critical thoughts? Just a little more confidence wasn’t a bad thing, right?

She retreated to the door. ‘If you do need a particular book, ask Lord Bolingbrooke for it when he’s back from his walk with the dogs. He has a system and he’ll notice when someone has been in his things.’

‘I will. Thanks. Goodnight.’ Max folded his hands behind his back and smiled at her, not moving from the spot.

Guinevere turned away and closed the door behind her. For a moment she was tempted to listen for sounds indicating he was climbing up that ladder again to continue doing what he had been doing. Men usually didn’t listen to advice – that she had already learned from her friends in London. Especially Old Carter, their props man at the theatre, who had been great at getting himself into a pickle because he was always so sure he knew best.

Speaking of theatre friends … She had some postcards to write to them. Whatever Max did now was his business. If Bolingbrooke had given him permission, it was probably all right.

She made for her bedroom in the tower, saying to Dolly, who jogged beside her, ‘Now we just have to convince Oliver to think better of Max. But that’ll be hard. He didn’t like Max from the first moment he saw him photographing through a window and caught him by the neck to drag him in. Is there something like antipathy at first sight? What do you think, girl?’

Dolly made the sounds Guinevere always called chatter. It was like the dog was talking to herself, being undecided about something. Max?

Or Oliver? To be honest, she didn’t know him well. The events after the murder during the re-enactment had brought them closer fast, as they had sleuthed together and even been in danger together. But the bond this had forged didn’t seem to guarantee they saw eye to eye all of the time. Guinevere sometimes just didn’t understand Oliver. Why he suddenly had a strong opinion about something or someone and didn’t want to see reason.

In her room Guinevere went to the window to shut the curtains. As she always did, she let her gaze travel across the view. The skies were clear with just some very light puffs of cloud. The first stars were visible, as was a bright half-moon. It illuminated the beach and the figure standing there, looking up at the castle, holding something up to its face.

It seemed to be a woman and judging by the white trousers and tall boots, it could be Lady Serena. The thing in her hands could be binoculars.

She had said she’d keep an eye on the castle, but Guinevere had thought it was a mere threat to underline her point as she had left. Much like a slamming door in an argument, something you don’t take very seriously.

To see Lady Serena actually surveying them now made Guinevere a little cold inside.

How serious was Lady Serena about being entitled to the goblet of Rose and Stars? And about making sure that she got, as she had put it, what was coming to her?

A sound at the door startled Guinevere. She pressed a hand to her throat and felt her pulse against her fingertips. There had been so much tension created over a couple of hours that her nerves were on edge.

A rustling sound indicated that something was shoved under the door. She stared at what appeared. The corner of something colourful, then …

She walked over and picked it up. It was a full-colour shot of Dolly, printed off at letter size. The dog looked happy and perfectly in her element staring out onto sea from the harbour. When had Max taken this? And how had he managed to capture Dolly’s essence so well?

He was really talented.

Guinevere ran a finger over Dolly’s figure on the smooth sheet in her hand. If this was Max’s way of making up to her for being curt with Dolly earlier, he had hit a winner. At the same time she wondered how he had printed this beautiful portrait for her. In the library most likely. On Bolingbrooke’s printer there?

Had he used his alleged need to print something as his excuse to be there and look into the books on the upper shelf? Why was he interested in those books anyway? He had denied having a part in trying to locate the goblet.

But at the same time he had taunted Wadencourt claiming someone else had worked out the clues for him. Who?

Max himself maybe? Did that explain for the strange bond between the men, an alliance even though they didn’t like each other?

And what had Max been discussing with Bolingbrooke as they had entered the dining room? Just if he could look in the library? Max had said with emphasis, ‘You do see my point.’ As if he had been trying to convince Bolingbrooke of something.

Chewing her lip, Guinevere took Dolly’s portrait and put it beside her bed where it would be the first thing she saw as she woke up in the morning. She couldn’t help smiling as she ran her eyes over it again. She couldn’t help looking forward to the next day and spending time with Max again. He was an exciting new presence at the castle, someone who had shaken things up, deep inside of her.

Even as she took out her postcards and the addresses of her friends, she still saw Max’s eyes, the dimple in his cheek when he smiled. The intensity in his features when he was doing what he loved to do: photographing the world around him, large scale or in minute detail. Max was just into the moment, something that Guinevere sometimes found hard to do. Her mind wanted to rationalize, understand, order. Max was just taking it all in, letting himself float on the feeling. It made him impulsive and rather hard to follow, but it also had a sort of instant appeal.

Resting her pen’s tip on the first postcard, Guinevere couldn’t quite remember what she had wanted to write as her head was so full of all that had happened today. Like Max’s arrival had put more colours into the world and dispersed a breathless energy through her system. Instead of sitting here quietly she wanted to go out onto the beach and race the wind, spread her arms wide and feel like she could fly. She wanted to reach up to the half-moon and pretend to catch it in her hands.

But there was the goblet’s charged history, the squabbling claimants, and Max’s obscure part in it all. She couldn’t turn off her thoughts about that, her questions. Maybe the next few days would reveal more about it. Until then she wasn’t running and flying yet. She leaned over her cards and forced herself to begin to write.


Chapter Five (#u90d77593-56b9-56a1-a075-6612c40d74be)

The next morning when Guinevere awoke she immediately saw the portrait of Dolly beside her bed. The postcards for her friends were resting before it, ready to be taken along and mailed in the only mailbox on the island, near the harbour where it was emptied once a day and its contents taken to the mainland.

She lay back a moment, her arms folded behind her head, a luxurious feeling of freedom and expectation coursing through her still-drowsy body. She intended to embrace everything this Cornish summer had to offer.

Humming a tune, Guinevere washed and dressed quickly, choosing her favourite poppy dress with broad red belt and matching shoes. The shoes didn’t have high heels so she could move around on them easily. With Dolly by her side she dashed down the stairs. There was nobody near the kitchen unit, but there were used plates and mugs, suggesting somebody had already breakfasted. Oliver? Max?

Either way it would pay off to go out via the beach to post her cards near the harbour. Guinevere drank a quick cup of mocha coffee while Dolly had her breakfast, then she grabbed a banana and took the doggy outside. The great tit who had his nest in the wall was gathering insects in the yard. Breakfast for his family on the brink of fledging.

From beside a pot with an orange tree Guinevere collected the sturdy toy she used to play fetch with Dolly. The dachshund yapped in excitement and, once out of the gate, pulled to go right at once, to the secluded beach. Guinevere could barely keep up with her running down the path. The brambles in both sides were sporting small white flowers, and a wren dived into them, using their prickly branches as protection against predators.

On the beach the breeze came to caress Guinevere’s hot face. She took a few deep breaths, savouring the salty air and ignoring Dolly’s yapping that she should run after her at once.

The dachshund dug into the sand, clumps flying around her head, then jogged again, her ears brushed back by the wind. She halted abruptly, almost sliding off her feet, sniffed at some driftwood, picked it up, and carried it along only to drop it as soon as something more interesting appeared.

Guinevere let her gaze travel the length of beach. In the distance was the narrow wooden pier where small boats could moor. It was only used by locals who came to the island to fish.

There was a boat moored there now.

Guinevere narrowed her eyes. Judging by its colours it was Jago’s boat. Jago Trevelyan was an old fisherman who had sold off his business to his sons and now only fished for pleasure. He liked to come to the island in the evening and roam the beach, smoking his pipe and scaring people when he suddenly popped up out of nowhere. He was an authority on island lore, knowing every tale that was connected with Cornisea’s eventful past.

Guinevere wondered if Jago knew about the goblet of Rose and Stars. It was exactly the sort of object that would catch his fancy as proof of Cornisea’s importance in the past. Maybe also as a way to draw tourists to the island in the future?

Guinevere began to walk in the direction of the pier, keeping her eyes on the bobbing boat. If she met Jago, she could ask him if he believed the goblet was on Cornisea. He might even know some old tale that could help her work out where it was. Wadencourt seemed to know already, but it would be fun to surprise him by casually dropping a hint she knew as well.

Dolly came up to her and circled her legs. Her ears were back, and she whined.

‘What’s up, girl?’ Guinevere said. ‘Do you smell another dog? There might be some staying at the B&B. Maybe they played here, huh? It’s not our private beach.’

Dolly flattened herself onto the sand, and when Guinevere wanted to push on to the pier, Dolly stayed behind, lying down with her head on her paws.

Guinevere looked her over. ‘What’s wrong, girl?’ The dog’s behaviour had changed completely from carefree frolicking to downcast, almost anxious behaviour.

‘Come on,’ she coaxed her. ‘Come over here.’

She even snapped her fingers, but the dachshund wasn’t moving. She had pulled up her upper lip and snarled as if there was a threat nearby. But Guinevere didn’t see a soul. No dog, no human.

Not Jago either.

Usually he went home early in the morning when the fishing was done. Why had he stayed here?

‘Dolly! Come to me.’ She sat on her haunches, holding out her hand.

The dachshund came skulking low, pressing herself close to Guinevere’s leg. Guinevere patted her. ‘Hey, are you not feeling well? Did you hurt yourself somehow?’

Maybe her wild antics had been too much this time?




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