Vivian Conroy - Rubies in the Roses

‘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?’