Rubies in the Roses

‘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

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.’