The trust, p.9
The Trust, page 9
‘Oh, they’re planning an exhibition before Christmas – the Treasures of Sherborne Hall.’
‘I’m guessing this is one of Cressida’s big ideas?’ Harold raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, she’s organising it,’ said Astrid.
‘Ughh… Cressida.’ Margaret pretended to retch up a bit of food into her hand.
‘Margaret’s not a fan of Cressida,’ said Harold.
‘I got that,’ said Astrid, suppressing a smile.
Harold came over with a cup of coffee and placed it in front of her.
‘Thank you.’ Astrid took a sip.
Harold sat down next to her. ‘Help yourself to biscuits. They’re free.’ He pointed to the jar. ‘One of the perks.’
‘I might do later, thanks.’
‘Do you know what they paid for the paintings?’ said Margaret. ‘I heard it was close to a million.’
‘I honestly wouldn’t know. My job is just to restore them.’ Astrid reached into her bag and brought out her sandwich.
‘One thing’s for sure. Lady Sherborne needed the money,’ said Margaret.
‘Really?’ said Astrid.
‘Of course. The poor old bird didn’t have a pot to piss in after her husband died. She had to pay off a massive inheritance tax bill. She’s still broke now.’
‘Margaret… we’re not sure if that’s true, are we?’ said Harold.
‘It’s a fact.’ Margaret reached for the jar and tweezered out a stick of shortbread with two fingers. ‘And boy, is she furious that the public are wandering around her house. I heard that she pushed a toddler over the ha-ha.’
‘Listen, I’m sure Astrid isn’t interested in all this tittle-tattle,’ said Harold.
But Astrid was very interested. She’d just done a good job at not showing it. ‘I don’t mind, honestly.’ She carried on eating the sandwich, as the others kept up a steady flow of gossip. Their conversation had a rhythm you only get with good friends. Each playing a part. Harold – the voice of reason. Margaret – judge, jury and hangman. Her most stinging comments were aimed at the ‘bigwigs’ in the Trust’s central office in London, and nearer to home, Cressida, who she seemed to resent even more than Denise.
However much they complained, though, Astrid was sure that there was nowhere else they would rather be than here. In the basement of a stately home which, as they mentioned a couple of times, ‘really belonged to the volunteers’. Without them to keep up standards, they were sure the whole place would fall apart.
They were in the middle of a heated discussion on the new changes to volunteer travel expenses – an extra five pence a mile if you cycled in (‘pointless!’ barked Margaret) – when there was a crackle from a heavy walkie-talkie on the sideboard. The voice was slow and deliberate. ‘Denise to the volunteer hub. Respond please.’
Harold grabbed the walkie-talkie and spoke crisply into it. ‘This is Harold. Over.’ There was a twinkle in his eye, as if he’d been reminded of some successful army manoeuvre long ago.
There was a pause as everyone waited for Denise to reply. The walkie-talkie clicked a few times. ‘Oh, dear.’ Harold shook his head. ‘She’s forgotten you don’t have to press the button. This handset is on the blink so you can hear everything all the time.’
Margaret tapped the side of the biscuit jar with a spoon. ‘Tell her we’re running low.’
Harold gripped the walkie-talkie. ‘Denise. Can you please bring more biscuits from the stock room? Over.’
There was some heavy breathing, more clicking, then Denise’s voiced crackled back. ‘On my way. Over.’
‘Honestly,’ muttered Harold, placing it back on the side and covering it with a tea towel. ‘It needs to get fixed.’
‘We need to get Denise fixed,’ growled Margaret.
‘Oh, Margaret, that’s a bit harsh.’ Harold faced Astrid. ‘Don’t worry, it’s only a bit of friendly rivalry. You see, Margaret and Denise are up for the same job. It’s to do some private VIP tours in the evening.’
‘A paying job at the English Trust,’ said Margaret with a wistful sigh. ‘They’re as rare as hen’s teeth. And Denise already gets Christmas shifts in the gift shop.’ Margaret raised herself using a stick she had under the table. ‘How’s that flipping fair?’
‘It’s not, is it, Margaret?’ sighed Harold, who was checking his tie in the mirror over the sink.
It was nearly two o’clock and lunch was over. And it had been very entertaining. Lady Sherborne’s money problems, Margaret and Harold’s dislike of Cressida and Denise. Kath would have loved to hear it. It would confirm her theory that the Trust was a hotbed of intrigue and scandal. It was really only harmless office gossip though, no more than that. Wasn’t it?
Astrid had wondered what she would do if they asked her about herself. How much would she tell them about her life in London and how she got here? But they never asked, which was a relief. Nor had they mentioned the death in the icehouse. News didn’t travel as fast as she thought. Or Harper had decided not to do a thorough investigation. At DeVine’s antique shop he’d revealed the icehouse was a ‘crime scene’. So why wasn’t the place wrapped up in yellow and black tape right now? That’s how it worked on those TV shows. She’d have to keep a close eye on Harper from now on.
Astrid decided she needed to jot down some of the details of the case before she forgot. So instead of going straight to the storeroom, she made a detour for the gift shop – which was in the same stable block as the Orangery Café. Astrid located the stationery section, which was in the corner between a Welsh dresser loaded with jams and chutneys, and a rail of pastel cardigans.
There was a good range of notepads. Most had tasteful lino-cut covers showing hares leaping across cornfields or puffins on a cliff. But they were either too small, or the pages inside were plain or graph paper.
At the back she eventually found an ‘official’ One Direction notepad. It was a bit dusty, and having a boy band on the cover wasn’t ideal – presumably that’s who the four teenagers staring into middle distance were. But it was a good size with white lined paper. And it was eighty per cent off.
The cashier, a middle-aged woman in a William Morris print blouse, took the notepad from Astrid with an expression of revulsion. The way a hygiene inspector might lift a dead rat out from behind a chest freezer.
‘Sorry, I’ve no idea how that got there – we’ve had an inventory problem recently.’
Astrid paid for it along with a nice silver ink pen and found a bench under the chestnut tree. She folded back the first page then wrote ‘what we know so far,’ and underlined it twice.
Below that she put down the details of DeVine’s death and the discovery of the plain white chalk marks. This last bit was circled with an arrow to the word ‘clue’. The next page was headed ‘suspects’, although there was nothing to fill in. Except ‘Sergeant Harper’, which merited two question marks at this stage. She stared at the almost blank page. It wasn’t a great start. But it was a start.
At the bottom corner of the page was a headshot of ‘Harry’ from One Direction who, according to the daily ‘fun fact’, had a phobia of four-legged animals after being attacked by a goat when he was ten years old.
‘What do you think, Harry?’ she whispered.
‘Hi there.’
Astrid jumped. Emily was standing in front of her, holding a pile of mail to her chest. ‘Wow.’ Emily pointed at the notepad. ‘I used to love One Direction.’
‘Uh… me too,’ said Astrid.
‘They were my favourite band at uni. Then Zayn left and ruined it.’ She sighed.
‘I know, what a disaster.’
‘Anyway.’ Emily perked up again. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Margaret?’
‘Not since lunch – sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. I have a letter for her. I’ll put it in her locker in volunteer hub.’ She waved the letter. ‘See you later, Astrid.’
‘Yes, see you later, Emily.’
Astrid watched her cross the courtyard and follow the path back to the house. Then she snapped her notepad shut.
*
For the rest of the afternoon, Astrid went through the remaining paintings. She now had a good idea of the dozen that would make up the exhibition. There were a couple of vivid storm scenes that she’d added to the list. But nothing that would outshine the Constable. She packed up her materials and decided to call it a day.
Cressida must have heard her walking down the corridor. She’d just passed the door when it swung open and a cheerful voice called after her. ‘Oh, good. It’s you.’ Cressida beckoned her over. ‘Would you mind popping in for a moment?’
Astrid stepped into the office. Cressida hurried round her and firmly closed the door.
‘I don’t suppose you talked to the press about the accident in the icehouse?’ She stressed the word accident. As if to embed it in Astrid’s mind.
‘I’ve only spoken to the police. They took a statement yesterday.’
‘And did they, you know… suggest the Trust was in trouble?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Thank goodness.’ She sighed. ‘We can’t let the Trust’s brand be dented in any way.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be.’
‘Fabulous.’ Cressida was back to her usual self. She dodged round Astrid and swung the door open. ‘Well, I won’t keep you.’
Astrid stood where she was. ‘Actually. I do have some other news for you. There’s a really nice Constable among the paintings.’
‘Constable? Right…’ She played idly with her necklace, which was made of heavy amethysts. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got a clue about art.’
‘You didn’t have anything to do with the purchase of the collection?’
‘No, that was arranged by central office.’
‘Okay, well, it’s a really lovely work, and I think it should be the centrepiece of the exhibition. There might be a romantic story attached to it.’
‘Smashing – I’ll leave it up to you then.’ Cressida opened the door a bit wider. ‘Have a lovely evening, Astrid.’
‘You too.’ Astrid stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind her.
12
If there was one thing that Astrid liked, even more than pressed cotton bed sheets, it was an empty email inbox. Just thinking of the emails stacking up over the days set her teeth on edge. Sometimes she’d walk past colleagues’ desks and see they had hundreds of unopened messages. It was a struggle not to say anything.
She arrived at the library about twenty minutes before it closed and booted up the laptop at her usual table. To her relief there were only about a dozen emails in the ‘focused’ file of her work account. HR clearly hadn’t got round to shutting it down.
The first was Muraki checking if she was okay. She replied, thanking him for caring and saying she’d explain everything soon enough. How she would have loved to have told him she was knee-deep in a murder investigation!
There were a handful of other work emails from people outside the department who’d clearly not been told she’d left. She deleted them all – not her problem now – and scanned the twenty-two junk emails headed up by one titled ‘Doctors are amazed by this home-made cure for shingles’.
She was about to dump the whole folder when she spotted an article at the bottom of the page – ‘The secret signs that show you’re heading for a divorce’.
Her finger hung over the delete key. Had she really misread her marriage all this time? Hard to believe, but maybe worth checking.
She tapped ‘enter’ and a headshot of ‘Relationship expert, Brenda Golden’, a woman with a tight perm and reading glasses, popped up. Next to her was a picture of two wedding cake figurines with their backs to each other. Below that was a series of questions Brenda promised would show any cracks in a marriage.
The opener asked, ‘What was his last birthday present to you?’ Astrid drummed her fingers on the table. Simon had given her an Amazon gift card. Nothing wrong with that. It meant she could buy something she really wanted. Brenda disagreed – unromantic gifts she said ‘could be a clue that your love life has gone off the boil’.
Next question. ‘Is your husband the first person you confide in?’ No. That was Gina. Astrid felt a stab of sadness, and quickly moved on to the next question.
But as the questions stacked up so, according to Brenda, did the signs of a marriage in trouble.
‘Do you argue?’ Not at all, thought Astrid. That had to be a good sign? Apparently not. Arguing showed ‘the spark is still alive’.
She sat back in her chair and muttered. There was no science in this, was there? Probably not – Brenda Golden might have reading glasses but there was no sign of a PhD in psychology.
It didn’t matter though – her marriage was over. Her husband, the man she loved, had left her. For her best friend, who she’d lost as well. She trapped her hands between her legs and the chair to stop them shaking. No crying, Astrid. Not here.
Someone had once told her that getting over a break-up is like standing with your back to the ocean. You think you’re okay, then once in a while you’re hit by a wave that takes you off your feet. Like now. This grief, and that’s what it was, had floored her again. And she had nobody to confide in. That might be the worst part. Right now Gina was with Simon. This was like getting over two break-ups, and it didn’t feel like she’d ever recover from either of them.
She emptied the junk folder. Then she ordered the restoration supplies she needed, putting the delivery address down as Cressida Giles, at Sherborne Hall. She began packing her laptop away, then another thought crept up on her. It had been four days and Simon hadn’t been in touch to give her an explanation. The next time she saw him… oh, boy – big public embarrassment time. Jug of water over his head in a restaurant. Standing up at one of his lectures and telling everyone what a prize shit he was. That kind of thing. Right now, though, some answers would do. She was owed that.
She took out her phone, checked the librarian wasn’t watching, and set up a text. Her finger quivered over the screen. Do it, Astrid.
You’re a coward Simon… now tell me why you did it?
*
The path back to the boat was thick with scent. Little white flowers covered the hedgerows. Black flies with long dangling back legs floated clumsily between them. The reeds hushed in the breeze, sending a scatter of small brown birds. Like a handful of seeds thrown in the air. Everything was moving. Buzzing, humming, filling every space. In the distance the spire of the church shimmering in the heat. Early summer in England. How many beautiful days like this had she missed by working so hard?
At the boat she worked the key into the lock and pushed the door open. On the top step was a square white postcard. It must have been pushed under the gap of the door. She picked it up carefully by the corner and read it. In black marker pen were the words:
I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO DEVINE. MEET ME AT THE ARNE CAR PARK – 6 P.M.
*
She sat in the car and tapped in directions for the Arne on her phone. It appeared to be a nature reserve that jutted out into Poole Harbour. There was a single road that led into a wood and stopped at a car park. It was 5.40 p.m. The route would take fifteen minutes to get there – no time for second thoughts. Or to tell anyone where she was going – which, if she did, they’d probably advise her not to. Meeting a stranger in the woods who had information about a murder… when was that ever a good idea? Still, she needed answers about DeVine’s death, and there was nowhere else to find them.
Right now, nobody believed in her. That’s why she was going to crack this case. That’s what they said on those TV shows, right? Crack the case… wide open. She’d failed at her marriage. But she wasn’t going to fail at this. She was going to show people she was worth something. Especially Simon. She checked the phone. There was still no reply to her text.
*
The Arne car park wasn’t much more than a square of dry ground, the size of a tennis court, which was surrounded by high beech trees. There was one other car there, a blue Volvo estate. It was newly polished, a Panama hat on the rear window shelf – hardly the car of a criminal. A few minutes later a middle-aged man wearing maroon cords appeared from the path and unlocked it. He knocked the dust off his hiking boots with his walking stick and drove off.
The only other sign of life was a log cabin that had a sign saying ‘VISITOR CENTRE’ over the door. There was a English Trust logo in the window. Astrid got out of the Mini and paced across the car park. A couple appeared from the path and carried on past her without breaking their conversation. She was on her own now. Maybe it was too risky?
She was about to get back in the car when a man came out of the log cabin and beckoned her to come over. He was shorter than average – five foot six maybe. Slim build. In his sixties with a grey goatee beard. He was wearing olive hiking trousers with a square patched at the knee and a green fleece. She sized him up. If it came to it, she might be able to overpower him.
As she walked over, he looked around the car park behind her. ‘Is it just you?’ His voice was high and nasal.
‘Yes, I’m on my own. But I’ve told other people I was coming here.’
‘Good for you,’ he muttered, looking slightly bewildered. ‘Let’s go then.’ On his back was an old canvas rucksack. The way it swung suggested there was something heavy inside.
She searched her pockets for something sharp. Anything. But there was only the key fob for her car.
‘Do you think we should just stay close to the car park?’
‘Car park? No, no. We need to go into the woods.’ He stared at her. ‘Is that a problem?’
Decision time. She needed answers or her investigation was over. Someone else, Harper maybe, would solve it. ‘Okay.’ Her lips were dry. ‘After you.’
She hung back for a while, watching his rucksack swinging on his shoulders. Eventually he stopped at a fork in the path and she had to catch him up. To the right the trail weaved through the trees and back out into the sunlight. The sea glistened in the distance. To the left it headed deeper into the beech forest.
