better.
Guinevere opened the book and studied the map in the front, which depicted Cornisea marked up with various signs. Off the shore there was supposed to be a sunken pirate ship. On the island itself there was a note marking the whereabouts of a crown worn by one of the unhappy wives of Henry VIII and another note indicating the location of a chest full of gold coins taken from a rich merchant in a highway attack. She whistled. ‘If this is correct, it would be worthwhile to go around with a metal detector.’
‘Lots before you tried.’ Bolingbrooke shrugged. ‘Cornisea’s colourful history has always inspired people to make it the site of some adventure tale or rare object. If you study that book better, you’d learn that the sources for those markings are obscure historians or alleged world travellers like Marco Polo. Whether they ever really set foot here, or wrote up their tales from their comfortable beds at home, is completely unclear. But as long as it involves treasure, people believe it. I thought that if Oliver and you are serious about promoting the castle, you should have a look at it. Even if the actual objects aren’t here, the connections with Henry VIII or other royals might prove to be an attraction.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Guinevere kept her eyes on the volume in her hands, not quite sure what to think of Bolingbrooke’s sudden proposition. Was he being ironic, because he didn’t really believe in the castle’s potential as a tourist attraction?
Or was he rather afraid that their scheme would prove to be so successful that his peace and quiet would be gone for ever?
A bell resounded from downstairs.
Bolingbrooke’s dogs Rufus and Nero sat up in front of the fireplace where they had been snoozing and started to bark. Their deep voices formed a threatening welcoming chorus for the unexpected visitor. People were usually a little taken aback when they realized a mastiff and a Great Dane guarded this ancient keep.
Dolly was the nice little girl in the company, being able to work her way just as easily into people’s hearts as she wormed herself into the castle’s every nook and cranny. But Guinevere knew she was really the boss over the bigger dogs who followed her lead on walks.
‘What’s that?’ Bolingbrooke bellowed. ‘Strangers at the gate? Are you expecting someone, Guinevere?’
‘No, not that I know of.’ A strange excitement coursed through her that it might be one of her friends from the theatre in London. She had worked there as costume designer before she had come here to Cornisea, for the summer only, as the theatre needed renovations and the cast had been forced to leave behind the place they thought of as home.
‘I’ll have a peek.’ Bolingbrooke hushed the dogs and left the room.
He didn’t have to open the front door himself, because he had a butler for that, a taciturn type named Cador, who could give Guinevere a start when he suddenly came upon her, moving through the castle noiselessly on his rubber soles. He seemed to be everywhere and see everything with his sharp blue eyes. Cador was supposed to politely dismiss unwanted visitors so Bolingbrooke didn’t have to deal with them. His lordship then hid in the landing waiting until the danger was averted.
Grinning to herself, Guinevere walked to the door, still holding the book about treasures in her hand. She could hear Bolingbrooke’s careful footfalls across the creaking floorboards to the head of the stairs. There he seemed to wait, peeking down into the hallway to discern who was calling on him. Soon he’d come galloping back to her and hide in his library, throwing the door shut and claiming he wasn’t at home. There were many people Bolingbrooke didn’t care to see when they came to ask about the castle’s future, about unpaid bills or about donations for charitable projects.
But now she heard a delighted cry, ‘Gregory! Old man.’ And Bolingbrooke’s heavy footfalls beat down the stairs.
Dolly beside Guinevere made a surprised sound. Guinevere said to her, ‘Yes, girl, apparently it’s someone Lord B. does want to see. Let’s have a look for ourselves who it is then.’
She snapped her fingers to tell Dolly to walk by her side instead of rushing ahead, and then she tiptoed to the stairs to look down into the hallway below. If it was an old friend of Bolingbrooke’s, she didn’t want to disturb their reunion.
A short rotund man stood in the middle of the hallway. He had apparently dropped two suitcases to the floor as they stood on either side of him. Bolingbrooke smacked his large hand down on the visitor’s shoulder hard enough to send the short man tottering on his feet.
But despite this rough welcome the visitor’s face was all smiles. ‘Is this a surprise or what?’
‘Indeed.’ Bolingbrooke grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. ‘How long has it been? Twenty years? Man, I wasn’t even sure you were still alive. No, that’s not true, I knew you were, because you wrote up those amusing articles.’
‘Amusing?’ his visitor repeated, his smiling features freezing. Even where Guinevere stood, she could sense indignation quivering through his posture.
‘Yes,’ Bolingbrooke continued unperturbed, laughing deep from his belly, ‘all those ideas about priceless artefacts that are hidden in old abbey ruins or remains of ancient keeps. You do know how to tell a tale.’
‘They’re not tales,’ his visitor said in a cold voice. ‘Those artefacts really exist.’
Guinevere cringed at how Bolingbrooke was antagonizing his guest within minutes of reuniting with him.
But Bolingbrooke didn’t seem to sense the hostile atmosphere and continued seriously, ‘How many have you uncovered?’ He leaned over to his guest as if he wanted to exchange confidentialities with him. ‘How many? Not one, hmmm?’
His guest stood awkwardly, knotting his hands in front of him.
Bolingbrooke said, ‘Look. I understand what you’re trying to do. People love stories about treasures and the mysterious circumstances under which they were buried or got lost. Some knight who won loot in an epic battle and then hid it where his enemies couldn’t find it and who devised a map with clues for his successors to recover it. Only nobody could make sense of his clues again. Until you came along of course.’
His visitor’s round jovial face was tight with tension now. He spoke slowly and meticulously as if he was teaching a class. ‘My line of research is a very serious undertaking. The total value of artefacts that have gone missing through time runs in the billions of pounds. If only a few could be recovered, we would be looking at items that any museum in the world would be desperate to own.’
Bolingbrooke waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I believe you. You’re the expert in this field.’ He looked down on his visitor’s suitcases. ‘I say, you’ve just come back from travels?’
‘No, I’m here to stay with you.’
Bolingbrooke blinked. ‘With me? At Cornisea Castle?’
‘Well, I could find a room with some fisherman at those houses near the harbour.’ The short man gestured behind him with a fleshy hand. ‘But I had hoped for your hospitality.’
‘Of course. There’s always room for you here. But why are you in the region? What legendary item can be hidden around here?’
His visitor blinked at him in bewilderment at his ignorance. ‘The wedding goblet, of course.’
‘The
