Ring of Guilt (6 page)

‘Oh, here.'

‘Where here?'

‘My wing.'

I stared at him, an eyebrow raised, as one of my foster mothers used to stare at me when she knew I wasn't telling the whole truth. Or indeed any of it.

‘I thought they might be there.' Though of course he still didn't say where. ‘When my nanny died, she didn't have a family and she hadn't a will. So the housekeeper put everything together behind a cupboard while the legal chappies hunted for someone to pass it on to. Then the war came so I suppose they forgot. It's a miracle the soldiers they plonked in here didn't find it.' It was an even greater miracle that my father had remembered it.

‘You must have been pretty young when she died,' I prompted him.

‘God, yes. Only a nipper. Ready for prep school and all that. But Nanny Baird turned up her toes and that was it.' My father didn't do emotion any more than he did affection, but I'd have sworn there was a note of tenderness I'd never heard before.

‘Was she old?'

‘She looked old to me, of course – positively ancient. But I doubt if she'd be more than forty. Not one of those aged retainers you hear about. And this was hers.'

There was no doubt this time: his voice was definitely sad. Perhaps my father really had once been fond of someone.

I shook my head sympathetically. ‘So you don't want it sold or melted down, then.' So why was he showing it to me?

‘Thing is, Lina, you've been making me think, what with one thing and another. And then there's this TV programme about ancestors. You know, people finding out about relatives they've never met. I wouldn't mind finding out about Nanny Baird's family.'

‘Not yours?'

‘Can read all about them in the Muniment Room,' he said, scornfully. ‘Just names, not real people. Not to me. Mother, now – she was beautiful, I remember that, decked out in all the diamonds she brought over from the States as her dowry.'

‘Dowry?' I echoed.

‘Oh, yes – it was pretty well an arranged marriage, just like these Asian kids are forced into. You remember – we saw it on the news the other day. She brought enough money to pay off the family mortgages, he gave her a title. And when she'd produced an heir and a spare, she skipped off to Paris or somewhere. And he went back to his boyfriends. Good job they had me as the spare – the heir dropped off his perch when he was still a nipper, of course. Don't remember him – just have this vague recollection of people being sad, and arguments and stuff.'

‘How come you've never told me any of this before?' I asked – wondering, actually, why I'd never cared to look it all up. After all, I could easily have got access to the Muniment Room now everyone working at the Hall knew I was his daughter.

‘Not really interested. A long time ago, after all. But – you know, since that business with that rotter you got involved with – I've been thinking more about family. And that led me to Nanny Baird. And finding out her family. And giving them this stuff. Thing is,' he said, leaning closer, as if afraid the ancestral walls would give him away, ‘Nanny Baird was a widow, not some Norland trained virgin. What if she had children we didn't know about? They should have this lot – even if it's not worth anything.'

I could have done with some of that champagne. My head was all swirly and I felt quite sick. I should have been glad I'd managed to awaken in him some long dead feelings, I suppose, but I wasn't. I just felt a huge, fierce anger that he now cared enough to find someone else's children, when he'd never cared a snap of the fingers for me.

‘I don't supposed you could find – are you all right, old girl? You're sure?'

I made myself nod.

‘All a bit of a shock, I suppose, hearing about your grandma. I wonder if you look like her. No portraits in the Hall, of course – there were plans afoot, to get someone in, but then what with the war and the divorce and everything . . . And she'd be pretty well
persona non grata
, of course. Tell you what, forget this stuff for a bit – unless you know some chappie who would do a bit of private eye work, for me – and we'll go and see if there are any photos anywhere.'

It slowly dawned on me that my father realized something had upset me and he was trying to make it better. I made an effort too. ‘We should pack it away first – that ring and the watch deserve better than being shoved in with the rest.'

He picked up the watch. ‘You know, I have an idea this was my mother's. I wonder if she gave it to Nanny Baird – or if it was nicked. Same as the diamond ring. Not the sort of thing you'd expect a nanny to have, eh?'

‘You say your father was gay?' I knew from the family line-up in the Portrait Gallery the other side of the dividing wall that he'd been an exceptionally handsome man, with no resemblance at all to his battered specimen of a son.

‘Most miserable bugger I've ever met in my life. Oh, you mean queer.'

I pulled a face.

‘Don't tell me – it's one of those words I'm not supposed to use these days. Well, he liked boys. And he liked some women too. Dipped his wick in all sorts of places, I dare say. Like father, like son. Not that I've ever done boys or men, except at school, and that doesn't really count.' He passed me the watch. ‘If this was my mother's you should have it. Not to sell. To keep. A bit vulgar for every day, of course.'

My head had all sorts of things whizzing round. My mouth said, ‘Cartier! Vulgar?'

‘Well, Nanny Baird would have said diamonds looked better by candlelight. Try it on,' he urged. ‘No?'

‘I don't want to fall in love with it only to find it's someone else's,' I thought, but actually said out loud, surprising myself as much as him, I think.

‘Hmm.' He looked at me as hard as Griff did, sometimes. ‘Very well. Let's pop it away for a bit, and tuck it behind that cupboard again. And then I'll see if I can find that photo album – I'll swear I knew where it was the other day . . . Tell you what, though – let's have a glass of fizz first.'

This time I didn't argue.

‘There you are,' he declared half an hour later, jabbing a typically Thirties photograph album, leather bound with some unlikely tassels on the spine. ‘She'll be in here, your grandmamma.'

She was, too. It was like looking at a beautiful version of myself on a really miserable day. She oozed unhappiness, whether she was patting a horse, surrounded by hounds or tentatively hugging a small boy who might have been either brother – you couldn't tell from their clothes. But from the tragic cast of her face, I assumed it was my father.

Most were snapshots, but there was a series of much better ones of her on her own that might have been preparation for a formal portrait. My father jabbed a finger.

‘See – there's that watch. But that doesn't mean she didn't give it to Nanny Baird, of course – she gave away a lot of things, come to think of it, just as if she was dying. More like she as trying to make sure my father couldn't get his claws on them as part of the divorce settlement. Look at those earrings, now – you should have those. Or was it that ring? She told me that she wanted me to have something to give my bride as a present from her. Never had a bride, of course. So I reckon you should have them. If only I can remember where they were put. Hell, is that the time? We should be watching that Egg Head thing.'

I nodded. But just as he was cramming the photo album back into a really horrible lacquered writing desk, I stopped him. ‘Do you think you could spare me a photo of her?'

‘What? Look, here's a loose one.' Barely looking at it, he flipped it across to me. ‘Are you coming down? No? Be a good girl and find a couple of pots or whatever to sell. Mustn't run short of shampoo.'

It was only a step to Stelling Minnis rectory, and Robin, an old friend of mine. Maybe it would make my nightmares go away if I could talk to him about the body. I could ask him if I could pray for whoever it was. Better still, if he would. But the rectory was locked, and the people at the village shop said he was retreating. Or something like that. I bought some lemon grass and a couple of aubergines anyway.

H
aving a photo of my grandmother was one thing, but knowing what to do with it was quite another – especially as I didn't know how Griff would feel. He'd suspect, as he always did if my father gave me anything, he was trying to woo me over to Bossingham. What he'd say about the search for Nanny Baird I'd no idea, but I'd an idea it wouldn't be enthusiastic. And however bright and cheerful I'd try to be, Griff could read me like a book and know something was worrying me. At least if I stowed the photo deep in my knickers drawer and I shut myself in the work room to tackle my backlog of repairs he wouldn't get to see too much of my face.

I reckoned without a phone call, which brought him to the bottom of the stairs calling up to me, something quite against our house rules when I'm doing delicate work. As it happened, all I was doing was sitting with my chin in my hands staring at a broken jug, but all the same, I was ready to be ratty.

‘Harvey Sanditon!' Griff mouthed, his hand covering the phone. ‘For you!'

Well, it would hardly be for Mrs Walker, would it? But I never snapped at Griff, so I managed a wary smile and ran down to the office.

‘Ms Townend, I wonder if I could ask you the most enormous favour. A contact has damaged an 1810 Barr, Flight and Barr vase and turned to me for advice. I thought of you immediately. I know you said you have a long waiting list, but this is absolutely urgent. If you can prioritize it, this will be reflected in your fee, I promise you.'

1810 Barr, Flight and Barr. I was very tempted.

‘Could you email me a photo of the vase, so I can see how much work's involved? You'll need an estimate, after all.'

‘Of course. I'll let you have all the details as soon as I can.'

‘Do you think this is all right?' I asked Griff, anxiously, as I washed up after supper. ‘He won't try and palm it off as perfect, will he?'

‘Is that what's been worrying you, dear heart? You've been looking subdued, shall we say, ever since you came home. I thought it might be something to do with that disreputable aristocrat whose only good deed in a dark career was to beget you.'

‘Two good deeds,' I corrected him, because I knew he'd want me to.

‘Oh, I know he saw off that rotter for you. So two good deeds,' he conceded, still looking anxiously at me.

There wasn't much I could hide from Griff. But I just didn't want to talk to him about Nanny Baird's legacy, or the ring my father wanted to find for me. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.

I clenched my hands, but kept them by my sides: I wouldn't hit my face till I bruised it, not this time. No more black eyes to try to cover with make-up. Never, ever, not if I could help it. I said, as lightly as I could, ‘Sanditon was very high-handed at Detling. I really didn't take to him.'

‘There's no reason why you shouldn't take to his money, though. It'd really establish your reputation if it became known that you worked for him, even though I suspect the name is fake. Does it not ring bells with you, my child?'

I frowned. Something lurked in my memory. Griff worked so hard to improve both that and the range of things I ought to have in it. My fingers clicked almost of their own accord: ‘That book! The one I got cross with because it didn't have an end!'

‘I'm sure the author got cross because she couldn't finish it, poor lady.'

Another click. ‘Ah! Jane Austen. Because she died.'

‘Well done. Now, what is it the man with the possibly spurious name wants you to tackle?'

‘He's emailed me some photos. Have you got time to have a look?'

‘As if you even had to ask, my love. Now, where are my glasses?'

‘Round your neck.'

‘So they are. Dear one, it's not like you to leave the computer on! We're supposed to be green, remember.'

‘I know. It left itself on, though. Some new antivirus programme was installing itself, and wouldn't let me switch off. Anyway, here you are.' I touched the mouse and the picture leapt into full glory.

Griff sat down heavily. ‘Goodness me, I can see why he might want to pass it off as perfect,' he breathed. ‘Last time one of those came up for auction it fetched something like five thousand pounds, if my memory doesn't deceive me. All that wonderful lifelike floral painting. All that gilding. Those darling little dolphin handles. Oh, dear. Just the one dolphin handle . . .'

Nodding, I clicked the mouse again: the next picture was of the base, with the puce script mark. ‘All hunky-dory,' I said. ‘He says he's afraid the handle fragments are too small to stick back together. If he's right, do you think I can manage a complete rebuild?'

‘So that's what it's all about,' Griff said. ‘Not whether he'll pass off a restored item as perfect, but whether you're skilled enough to do it! Of course you can do it. And maybe a rebuild would be easier than a jigsaw job,' he added reflectively.

‘But it's so fine.'

‘I don't know anyone with a steadier hand.'

‘And the gilding?'

‘Especially the gilding. Has he said how soon he wants it done?'

‘Urgent. Drop everything else. Which is another problem. I've made people promises – people we know, Griff. People who encouraged me when I was starting.'

He stroked his chin. ‘I don't think there's any harm in playing hard to get, my love. Obviously you must concentrate on restoration for a bit – I'm sure Mrs Walker would be happy to do extra hours. And you must tell Mr Sanditon just what you told me. How soon do you think you can do it – if you put back non-urgent work? Two, three weeks? Tell him four and see what he makes of that.'

The answer was, not a lot, as Sanditon said in person, when he appeared in our shop a day later, the vase under his arm. Well, almost. It was wrapped with as much care as the Rockingham vase I'd sold him. He carried its box in both hands. Fortunately he wasn't trying to balance a coat on his shoulders.