‘Why hadn’t the grandmother come to retrieve the diamond herself? It sounds a bit dubious to me.’
Jack agreed. ‘And I haven’t turned up any treasure yet. Her grandmother definitely had a connection to this place, though. When she died, she left a significant legacy to the group who run the museum: it enabled them to set it up. That’s why my client was able to organise permission for me to stay here.’
‘What did she tell them?’
‘That I’m a photojournalist, here for a fortnight working on an assignment.’
‘So she doesn’t mind bending the truth.’
Jack smiled, thinking back to Rosalind Wheeler’s terrier manner. ‘I have no doubt that she believes every word of what she told me. And to be fair, there was one piece of evidence that seemed to support the theory.’ He reached into his pocket and produced his copy of the letter Rosalind Wheeler had emailed the other day. ‘It’s from Lucy Radcliffe, who must have been—’
‘Edward’s sister—’
‘Right. Written to my client’s grandmother in 1939.’
Elodie skimmed it and then read a paragraph aloud. ‘“I was most disturbed by your letter. I don’t care what you saw in the newspaper or how it made you feel. I insist that you don’t do as you say. Come and visit me, by all means, but you’re not to bring it with you. I don’t want it. I never want to see it again. It caused great upset for my family and for me. It is yours. It came to you, remember, against all odds, and I wanted you to have it. Think of it as a gift, if you must.”’ She looked up. ‘This doesn’t actually mention a diamond.’
‘No.’
‘They could have been talking about anything.’
He agreed.
‘Do you know what she saw in the paper?’
‘Something to do with the Blue, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps, and we could probably find out, but for now we’re only guessing. Did you mean it when you said you had a map?’
Jack, noting and liking her use of the word ‘we’, told her that he’d be back in a minute and went to fetch the map from the end of his bed inside the malt house. He brought it out to the path and handed it to her. ‘My client put this together based on Ada Lovegrove’s effects and the things she said after her stroke.’
Elodie opened it out and frowned with concentration; moments later, she smiled and gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, Jack,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but this isn’t a treasure map. It’s the map from a children’s story.’
‘Which story?’
‘Remember the one I mentioned to you yesterday? The story that my great-uncle heard when he was here as a boy in the war, that he told to my mum, who then told it to me?’
‘Yes?’
‘The places on this map – the clearing in the woods, the fairy mound, the Crofter’s river bend – they’re all from the story.’ Elodie smiled gently and handed the folded map back to him. ‘Your client’s grandmother had a stroke; maybe it was all just a case of her childhood rushing back upon her?’ She lifted her shoulders apologetically. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything more helpful to offer. It is fascinating, though, to think that your client’s grandmother knows my family’s story.’
‘Somehow I don’t think my client is going to be as happy with the coincidence as she was hoping to be when I brought her back a diamond.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Not your fault. I’m sure you didn’t mean to shatter an old lady’s dreams.’
She smiled. ‘On that note …’ And she started reloading her backpack.
‘You’ve still got a couple of hours before your train leaves.’
‘Yes, but I should get going. I’ve already taken up enough of your time. You’re busy.’
‘You’re right. After I master this map, I thought I’d look for the doorway to Narnia in the back of that wardrobe upstairs.’
She laughed and Jack felt it like a personal victory.
‘You know,’ he said, pushing his luck, ‘I was thinking about you last night.’
She blushed again. ‘Really?’
‘Do you still have that photograph on you, the one of your mum, from yesterday?’
Elodie was suddenly serious. ‘Do you think you might know where it was taken?’
‘It’s worth another look. I’ve spent a fair bit of time combing through the garden on my hunt for the door to fairyland, you know.’
She passed him the photograph and one side of her mouth tightened slightly – an endearing sign that despite all odds she still hoped that he may actually be able to help her.
And Jack wanted to be able to help her. (You have to stop trying to be everybody’s hero, Jack.)
He had been stalling when he asked to see the photo – he’d hoped to stop her from leaving so soon – but as he looked at it, as he took in the ivy and the hint of a structure and the way the light fell, the answer came to him as clearly as if he’d just been told.
‘Jack?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
He smiled and gave the photo back. ‘Up for a little walk?’
Elodie walked beside him through the churchyard and stopped when they reached the far corner. He glanced at her, gave a little smile of encouragement, and then wandered away slowly, pretending interest in the other graves.
She let out a held breath, for he had been right. It was the scene from the photograph. Elodie could tell at once that this was where the picture had been taken. It had changed very little despite twenty-five years having passed.
Elodie had expected to feel sad. Even a little bit resentful.
But she didn’t. This was a beautiful, peaceful place, and she was glad to think that a young woman whose life was cut suddenly short had spent her last hours in it.
For the first time ever, as she stood in the grove of ivy, surrounded by the hum of cemetery stillness, Elodie saw clearly that she and her mother were two different women. That she did not have to remain the smaller handprint within the larger one forever. Lauren had been talented and beautiful and a tremendous success, but it occurred to Elodie that the biggest difference between them was none of those things. It was their approach to life: where Lauren had lived fearlessly, Elodie always guarded against failure.
It struck her now that maybe she needed to let go a bit more often. To try and, yes, occasionally to fail. To accept that life is messy and sometimes mistakes are made; that sometimes they’re not even really mistakes, because life isn’t linear, and it comprises countless small and large decisions every day.
Which wasn’t to say that loyalty wasn’t important, because Elodie believed strenuously that it was; only – maybe, just maybe – things weren’t as black and white as she had always believed. As her father and Tip kept trying to tell her, life was long; being a human wasn’t easy.
And who was she to judge, anyway? Elodie had spent most of yesterday at a wedding reception venue, nodding politely while well-intentioned women bamboozled her with talk of various types of bonbonnières and why she didn’t ‘want to go that way’, as all the while she’d been longing to get back to Birchwood Manor and to an Australian man who seemed to think she would believe he was employed by the museum.
She had wondered yesterday, when she first showed him Caroline’s photograph, why she was over-sharing in such an uncharacteristic way. She had convinced herself that it was simply a result of her weariness and the emotion of the day. It had seemed a reasonable theory, and she had almost believed it until today, when he came around the corner from the meadow.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, appearing now at her side.
‘I am more okay than I thought I would be.’
He smiled. ‘Then judging by that sky, I reckon we probably ought to think about getting out of here.’
The first rain – big, fat drenching drops – fell as they were leaving the churchyard, and Jack said, ‘I never imagined that it would rain like this in England.’
‘Are you kidding? Rain is what we do best.’
He laughed, and she felt a jolt of something very pleasant. His arms were wet and she was overcome with an irresistible urge, a need, to reach out and touch his bare skin.
Without a word, and although it made no sense, she took his hand and together they started running back towards the house.