had already appeared, apparently notified by Oliver what was expected of him. With a straight back and impeccably soft footfall the butler went up the stairs ahead of the guests.
Max was taking it all in with a keen interest and even gave Guinevere a cheeky wink.
She flushed and hurried to the kitchens to help Oliver. Dolly ran after her, her ears flapping against her head.
Oliver banged a kettle filled with water onto the antique stove. The old kitchens were Cador’s domain where he made coffee using a filter and cooked dinners based on century-old menus. Upstairs there was a pantry unit with coffee maker and facilities to create quick meals, but Cador never set foot there, considering it a too modern addition to the household. Oliver in turn rarely invaded the kitchens, but apparently he was now eager to escape the unwelcome visitors.
Oliver rummaged through a cupboard for cups and plates, grousing, ‘The way he just walks in and thinks he owns this place!’
‘Do you know Gregory Wadencourt?’ Guinevere asked.
Oliver shrugged. ‘What’s to know? He used to come here when I was a kid. Already had that patronizing way of talking to people. He believes he’s the only one who knows about history and archaeology.’
‘Your father mentioned something about him being into missing artefacts? I mean, lost treasures of the civilized world? That sounds fascinating.’ Guinevere leaned against the table. Dolly had spotted a basket in a corner and was sniffing around it. Her tail wagged as she explored further into another corner full of shadows and cobwebs.
‘Enigmatic is the better term.’ Oliver planted his feet apart and stared up at the kitchen’s tall ceiling. ‘Or elusive.’
‘How do you mean?’
Oliver spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘It’s such a different topic from what Wadencourt used to be interested in. He was an archaeologist specializing in Roman finds. Tangible things that built him a solid scientific reputation. He was part of a team that excavated several old campsites around Britain and found interesting items that museums put on display. He also travelled to other Roman sites like in Germany and France. He used to quote Latin phrases to my brother and me. Whoever could translate it the best got a toffee.’
‘Sounds like someone who’s obsessed with his subject.’
Oliver nodded. ‘Like the overbearing uncle you avoid at birthday parties because he can’t stop talking and in his eyes you’ll never grow up.’
Guinevere tilted her head. ‘But if Wadencourt loved his Roman work so much, I don’t see why he changed to this missing objects business. It seems a lot less tangible and productive.’
‘Exactly. But there was less funding for what he wanted to do. He needed a boost to attract attention to his work. He wrote a bit about a coronet found at an abbey that might prove a lady from royal descent had taken vows as a nun there. He found a sponsor who wanted him to prove who she had been and he came up with a theory linking her to the Tudors. Some people believed him; others said he had made it all up, knowing it could never be proven either way. But it created waves for months.
‘Since then Wadencourt is always working that way, starting from an object that is mentioned in sources or has been recovered at some dig and then inventing a history for it. I call it inventing, because he can rarely support it with any real evidence. But people like the romanticism of it and gobble it up. He’s not a historian any more to my mind, but a storyteller like the brothers Grimm.’
‘And this wedding goblet he mentioned, do you have any idea what that is?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘No idea. But then Cornisea has featured in a lot of stories.’ He nodded at the book in her hand. ‘There might be something in there about it.’
‘I’ll have a look.’ Guinevere seated herself on a chair and opened the book. The pages crackled as if they were too dry. ‘I’d better be careful with this.’ She put the book on the table and opened it again, this time in the back. ‘Ah, there’s an index here. I can see if it mentions a wedding goblet.’
A clanging noise came from the corner. Dolly had overturned a stack of pans, the lids rolling away across the floor. ‘Don’t, girl,’ Guinevere called.
Oliver was already with her to get the lids back in place. He gave the dachshund a little shove to send her to Guinevere. ‘Go see what the book says about the goblet, huh.’
Dolly walked over and sat down at Guinevere’s feet, her head up, as if to listen to the story.
Guinevere ran her finger down the entries under ‘w’ but saw no goblet. ‘Is everything known about Cornisea in this book?’
‘I have no idea. Probably not. The writer used his knowledge at the time the book went to print. Things might have changed afterwards. Or he might never had a full overview to begin with.’ Oliver straightened up and stretched. ‘How did you get your hands on that book anyway?’
‘Your father had put it out ready for cataloguing.’
‘Just this morning?’ Oliver froze mid-motion. The frown over his eyes told her he thought it unlikely that it had happened by coincidence.
‘Do you think your father knew that Wadencourt was coming?’ Guinevere asked.
‘If he did, he never mentioned it to me.’
Guinevere frowned. ‘His surprise when he spotted Wadencourt in the hallway seemed genuine.’
‘You never know with my father.’ Oliver opened a cupboard and took out a bread container. ‘I hate to think he’s playing along with Wadencourt, whatever that old fox is up to now, just because my father believes it can save Cornisea.’
‘Well, a major find here of some rare artefact would bring in more tourists.’
‘Yes, and people would ruin everything like that photographer chap suggested. Dig up the gardens … You know what happened when the historical society started suggesting that medieval scoundrel Branok had hidden a gold stash on the island.’
Guinevere stared down at the pages of the book in front of her. The recent events of murder and an excruciating investigation with wrongful accusations and painful revelations were still fresh in everybody’s mind. They had all hoped for some quiet time to recover.
Wadencourt’s appearance and his insistence there was going to be a publication involving Cornisea Castle had changed all of that.
She asked softly, ‘Do you still think about what happened?’
‘Nothing about a goblet in that book?’ Oliver said with emphasis. He turned his back on her and leaned on the sink, tension in his posture.
It hurt Guinevere that he was deliberately ignoring her question but then again they had only met when she had come out to catalogue for his father. Even though she had felt like they had struck up a friendship, Oliver might not feel the same way.
Or maybe his father was right and he missed his tigers. As a wildlife
