Nicola Cornick - House Of Shadows - Discover the thrilling untold story of the Winter Queen

‘What did you see?’ she asked. As she took it from him their fingers touched.

‘I saw nothing,’ Craven lied. ‘Nothing at all.’

When Holly reached the Ashmolean Museum that evening she found huge posters flanking the entrance, proclaiming the forthcoming exhibition of artefacts from the Court of Elizabeth Stuart, the Winter Queen. It was, the poster proclaimed, an extraordinary showcase for an outstanding collection of the finest seventeenth-century glass, china, and portraiture.

The curator on duty at the door was reluctant to let Holly in until she mentioned her name and that she was meeting Mr Shurmer, whereupon he stood back with what was almost a bow and directed her to the second floor. The door of the lecture room stood wide; Holly could see the detritus of canapés and empty wine glasses strewn about. The guests were still chatting, however, and the roar of conversation was like a wall of noise.

She didn’t want to go in, to engage in conversation, to try to find Espen Shurmer in the crowd. Instead she turned away and immediately felt the shock of quietness fall about her. The roar of voices faded. There was nothing but the faint tap of her footsteps and beyond the floor to ceiling windows at the end of the corridor, the tumble of Oxford roofs, spires and towers and the glitter of the city lights.

Holly loved Oxford. She had grown up in the city and she loved the crackle of excitement, the same sense of opportunity in the air that she felt in London. It felt like a city of limitless possibilities as well as a place steeped in history. Tonight though it just felt lonely and the bright white walls and bare spaces of the museum made it all the more stark.

At the end of the corridor a thick red rope now blocked the entrance to the exhibition. Holly had been to similar events in London and knew that earlier in the evening, all the guests would have wandered through, exchanging professional opinions on the rarity and quality of the collection. Now the gallery was empty and she could see the gleam of glass in the display cases. It beckoned to her, forbidden, tempting. She slipped past the rope and went in, ignoring the portraits and the other objects, concentrating solely on the engraved glass.

As always when she saw such exquisite workmanship Holly felt her heart quicken. This was the long tradition she worked within. She had wanted to be a glass engraver almost from the moment she had started to study the decorative arts. Here she was looking at masterpieces of her craft. There were slender wine flutes in the Venetian style and fat goblets engraved with scenes from Dutch life. There were glasses shaped like inverted bells with stems of twisted spirals and broad bowls embellished with flowers.

A stunning floor-length picture of the Winter Queen dominated the far wall and seeing it, Holly felt a tug of memory. Her grandfather had told her stories of Elizabeth Stuart when she had been a little girl. Elizabeth had been a Scottish princess by birth and Holly, born in the North of England, had felt a sense of affinity with the child who had left behind her roots and travelled so far from home. The idea of a Winter Queen had caught her childish imagination; she had visualised Elizabeth spun from icicles, cold as snow, like the White Witch in the Chronicles of Narnia. But those stories had felt magical, unreal. Here was the story of Elizabeth’s life told through items she had touched and held.

Slowly now Holly walked between the display cases, taking in all the artefacts that she had previously ignored because she had been overwhelmed by the beauty of the glass. There were letters from Elizabeth to her husband Frederick of Bohemia, an astrolabe showing the celestial sphere with the earth at its centre, an engraved gold medal celebrating the couple’s marriage, a dagger enamelled and set with diamonds.

On a bed of blue velvet nestled two miniatures, one of Frederick and the other of Elizabeth. Leaning closer, Holly saw that the portraits had been painted in 1612, just before their marriage.

‘Miss Ansell? How do you do? I am Espen Shurmer.’

Holly jumped. Just for a moment she had forgotten that she had come to the Ashmolean to meet Espen Shurmer and talk about Ben.

Shurmer was standing on the other side of the display, hands in the pockets of his beautifully cut suit, smiling at her confusion with benevolent amusement. He stepped forwards and held out a hand.

‘Am I to assume that your presence here means that Dr Ansell has not returned?’ he asked. His English was almost accentless.

‘Mr Shurmer.’ Holly felt self-conscious and only just managed not to wipe her palms down her dress before she shook hands. ‘Yes, I’m afraid Ben is still missing.’

‘My sympathies,’ Shurmer said gravely. ‘I imagine that is very difficult for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Holly said. ‘Yes, it is a little difficult.’ She thought about her grandparents and the stoicism they were displaying in the absence of any news. When she had arrived earlier that afternoon, her grandmother had hugged her tightly for a long, long time as though she was afraid that Holly might vanish too. Her grandfather had told her he had spoken to the police and was trying to encourage them to open a formal investigation now that Ben had been gone over 48 hours without contact.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t make myself known to you when I arrived, Mr Shurmer,’ Holly said. ‘I …’ She hesitated. ‘I had an urge to see the exhibition.’

‘Of course.’ Shurmer smiled. ‘You are welcome.’ His eyes were a vivid blue. His face bore lines of humour and experience. It was impossible to guess his age although Holly thought he must be in his late sixties, or older. His English was slightly clipped and old-fashioned which only added to the charm.

‘Why would you not wish to see it?’ he said. ‘All these items are so very beautiful.’

‘Yes.’ Holly hesitated again. ‘I’m a glass engraver, you see, and these—’ She gestured towards the display cases, ‘well, I’ve never seen anything quite so stunning.’ She found that she had put out a hand towards the nearest cabinet as though wanting to touch the glass within. It was a rose-coloured goblet with a hunting scene engraved on it in gold foil. She knew it was called gold sandwich-glass and that it was so precious and expensive that it had probably been a gift and never actually used.

She saw Shurmer’s eyes widen momentarily in surprise. ‘A glass engraver,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘It’s wonderful to see the glass in the context of other items from Frederick and Elizabeth’s court,’ Holly said. ‘On its own it is exquisite but seen alongside some of their other possessions it has so much more meaning. I can almost imagine stepping into the palace of the Wassenaer Hof and seeing the table set for a banquet …’ She tailed off, thinking she sounded impossibly naïve, but Shurmer’s shrewd blue gaze had sharpened with interest.

‘So you know about the Wassenaer Hof? About Elizabeth and Frederick’s court in exile?’

‘A little,’ Holly said. ‘I’ve been to The Hague but of course the palace has gone now. As for Elizabeth and Frederick, my grandfather told me about them when I was a child. He was a wonderful storyteller.’

‘The Winter Queen is not well known in this country,’ Shurmer said, ‘even though she was the daughter of King James I.’

‘She was known as the Pearl of Britain,’ Holly said. She looked at Elizabeth’s portrait. ‘She looks heartbreakingly lovely. So young as well.’

It was an unusual portrait, she thought. In it Elizabeth’s auburn hair was loose about her shoulders rather than piled up in some elaborate arrangement, and the long flowing tresses complemented the bold orange and black striped gown she wore. She was a true Scottish rose with creamy white skin and pale blue eyes.