The Cornish Secret of Summer's Promise Page 3

  "That's not completely true." Sidney was blushing. "A bit of noise at best."

  "True enough. He was too bright for the place, I suppose," said Dean. "Or too wicked by the standards of any institution of higher learning's doctrine of worldly success, if you share his perspective on events."

  "Let's not make a cup of tea into an ocean." Sidney's cheeks flushed deeper.

  "What subject did he read while he was there?" I asked.

  "I don't remember. What did you read?" Dean said to Sidney, in an oddly sardonic tone. "You'll have to refresh my recollection of events as to what best suited in the end."

  A clump of grass struck the side of Dean's motorized wheelchair. "I've grown tired of talking about the past," said Sidney. "Tell Maisie stories about something more interesting than my misspent education." His face, which had been fire red a moment ago, was now a bit steely in its expression.

  "Such as? Tales of my unfinished canvases?" asked Dean, who was still being slightly sarcastic. "She knows I read art, obviously, and that was the end of my life's accomplishments. Otherwise, I wouldn't be sitting in this wilderness watching you kill a patch of ornamental plume grass."

  "Is that what this is? Why didn't you say something?" With disgust, Sidney dropped his shovel, then flopped on his back on the garden clearing's flattened grass. "Now the only thing I'm fit for is a kip and a cup of tea."

  "I'll have Callum make one." Dean reversed, then turned in the direction of the open gate.

  "See if there are any good poetry books for me to peruse also," Sidney called after him, loudly. He tossed one of the clumps of weed — or ornamental grass — halfheartedly in the direction of our pile.

  I tugged up the last tall weed stalk, then plopped down beside Sidney's head. "Are you giving up on clearing this lot away?" I asked.

  "No. Just having a sulk," he answered. "Afterwards, I'll clip the worst of it and leave the ornamental bits only. I can identify a daisy patch, at least." He tilted his head to meet my gaze and smiled.

  There was a smear of dirt on his face, and a bit of crumbly brown leaf caught in his hair. My fingers reached to brush it away, and lingered slightly longer than necessary when in contact with his brow. I was usually careful about voluntary touches that would lead to something more, but today the excuse of removing a little smudge blurred those careful boundaries.

  "There's dirt on the rest of me, too." The devil's gleam in his eye again. "You needn't bother, since you won't get it all." His old cotton shirt was dingy from past labors, and from trousers to work boots, a fine shower of dirt had sprinkled itself generously over muddy stains and damp patches from the earth.

  "What did you read in college?" I asked.

  "Books," he answered.

  "I'll pinch you, I swear, if you keep up this habit of never answering me."

  "All right," he said, adjusting his position more comfortably on the grass. "Does it matter, though? I didn't finish, as you know." He gave my question some thought, exhaling deeply. "I fancied a number of subjects. I read literature for a bit, which should interest you."

  "You did?" I said. "You never told me that." I wrapped my arms around my knees, resting my head against them. "Which branch?"

  "All kinds," he answered. But not in a way that made me take him seriously. "I studied drama, briefly, but it didn't take."

  "I could see you on the stage," I said. "All that wickedness would channel itself into your roles."

  "I was ruddy awful," answered Sidney, laughing. "But I did have a good deal of fun trying. The best experiences in those days were trial and error."

  We were both laughing now, although the picture in my head of Sidney's dramatic youth must be nothing like the memory in his own. Maybe his eyes gave me a glimpse of its humor, even though I couldn't see it unfolding ... then again, I couldn't believe he was as terrible as he claimed.

  "Were you and Dean friends back then?" I asked.

  Sidney's gaze softened. "We were," he said.

  "You grew apart, though," I said. "Was it because you gave up on your degree and left, or because he graduated?"

  "The first one," he answered. "I cut a good many close ties then." He plucked a blade of grass, his fingers rolling it into a tiny green knot. "It was entirely my fault. I went about things wrongly, I suppose, though I didn't see another way at the time except to chuck it all and make my departure."

  "So how did you find him again in the village?" For once, I might reach the end of one of Sidney's life tales, instead of imagining how it came about, which was an exciting idea to me.

  "Tea," he said. Propping himself up on his elbows with this word.

  "What?"

  "Tea." He was scrambling to get his feet under him again. "Dean's bringing it directly with some food. Thank heavens — I'm starving, aren't you?" I could hear the sound of the chair's motor behind me before I turned my head to see Dean had a basket secured on his lap, undoubtedly containing a thermos of said beverage and a few sandwiches or biscuits made by Callum.

  ***

  With a beep beep of a less blaring nature, the lorries and removal vans from the Vancy's Auction House rolled to the service entrance of the hotel behind the private yard. Three gleaming white vans opened to reveal carefully-wrapped showcases, locked security boxes, and steel suitcases manacled by thick chains to a heavy rolling trolley, which two men in dark suits wheeled carefully onto the gravel. Inside these secure containers, the personal and priceless mementoes of the twenty years' deceased Mildred Eccleston, later Lady Von Patterson, famed of stage and screen, whose estate had finally decided upon the details of having them auctioned privately to the highest bidders.

  The head of the auction house, Mr. Tiller, hovered anxiously as two employees lifted out a massive portrait braced between wooden slats and covered with a dust-proof cloth. "Careful," he instructed, for the one thousandth time. "That happens to be the portrait of Lady Von Patterson herself, painted by Lawton Anderson in nineteen thirty-three. Even a scratch on the canvas would be devastating."

  He turned to Mr. Trelawney. "Is your staff trustworthy with regards to the care and handling of these items?" he asked.

  "They are well aware of the value of this collection," the manager answered, dryly. "I assure you that they will conduct themselves with utmost precaution for the well-being of each item."

  Our lengthy lecture this morning had been on the subject of taking extreme care whenever near the items in question. Any event which required a twenty million dollar insurance policy was not to be taken lightly, especially since Mr. Tiller had expressed reluctance regarding the hotel hosting this event at all — but it had been among the final instructions of Mildred Eccleston that her estate be publicly displayed at her favorite hotel prior to any sale of her personal boudoir's contents.

  "Mind how you carry that one. Lady Von Patterson's personal journal is extremely delicate —"

  The lorry contained high-security display cases and other security equipment that would put the public display on 'lockdown' after hours, and during the crucial period between the final exhibit and the auction itself. More members of the auction house's security team wheeled the equipment off and through the service entrance of the Penmarrow.

  I lifted a small, heavy case from the many locked ones awaiting transport, feeling a nervous hand on my arm almost immediately. "Do be careful with that," he said. "The necklace it contains is from Mildred's most famous film Taming the Fury." He turned to Mr. Trelawney, looking deeply concerned. "Are you certain the hotel's ordinary staff is the proper choice for a job this delicate?"

  "I'll be careful," I promised.

  "You needn't worry. Miss Kinnan will always give the utmost care. I have implicit confidence in her and all my staff," said Mr. Trelawney. "I would stake my reputation as the manager of this hotel upon their skill and discretion."

  "The utmost care for any of these locked cases," Mr. Tiller added to Riley and Katy, with emphasis, as they stepped forward to help. "The most valuable are on the
trolley, but there is still substantial value in the individual cases in terms of a collector's interest."

  Two gentlemen were lugging a very heavy-looking display case containing a silk Chinese gown, which they wheeled carefully towards the hotel. Riley lifted one of the cases from the stack. "What's in all these?" he asked.

  "Jewels," said one of the auction house's employees. "Lady Von Patterson's personal collection."

  "Be extremely careful with that case — that is a priceless Chinese silver dragon sculpture gifted to the late Sir Phillip by the famed Asian explorer Herbert Wilson," said Mr. Tiller. "Please, set it aside and allow the security team to collect it. Take that one instead — it contains part of Lady Von Patterson's Limoges collection."

  Another case wheeled forward, its dust covering slipping aside to reveal an elaborate Chinese headdress filled with pearls, and two intricate jade combs nestled on a silk pillow.

  "Fantastic," said Riley, with a low whistle. "Who was this lady?"

  "An old actress from silent films," said Katy. "I read an article in a celebrity mag about her estate finally being up for grabs. She collected jewels — diamonds, old movie costume pieces, real museum stuff. She even had a ruby hairpin that belonged to Catherine the Great."

  "If I pocketed one of these little items, I'd never work a day again," said Riley, as he lifted one of the smaller cases.

  "You'd probably go to prison for life," I said, as I moved aside for the two employees bringing out the last few cases.

  "Freedom or money. Can't have both, I suppose," said Riley, sighing. "It wouldn't be life — twenty years at most."

  Mr. Tiller looked alarmed. Mr. Trelawney cleared his throat, a rumbling sound like a train in a tunnel. "Let us keep personal comments to a minimum," he said. An intimidating tone of voice wasn't necessary, only a look, and Riley sobered slightly.

  "I'll move along, shall I?" he said. Katy lifted another of the small cases and joined the train of employees disappearing inside the service door. I followed along, carrying the valuable necklace from the actress-turned-titled lady's celebrated movie.

  The ballroom where guests of the Randhouser Foundation's 'Roaring Twenties' ball had danced the Charleston to a jazz orchestra had become a high-security fortress as the auction house's temporary showroom. Lack of windows was the reason for its choice, as well as its size — plus, marble floors, pillars, and wall murals made a perfect backdrop for a collection of priceless collectibles.

  Seeing security cameras in the room's corners took my surprise as I entered. In a matter of minutes, the security team had already installed the first wireless cameras and were adding silent alarms with laser triggers. A special steel bar was being fastened to cover the old-fashioned door knobs and locks which used some sort of hydraulic seal and special keypad to hold it closed. How had they managed to do it so quickly?

  "Over here," said Mr. Tiller, indicating the corner, which is where his two employees set the Chinese silk in its case. "Put the small cases by the display ones my team is setting up," he ordered the rest of us who were carrying the actress's costume jewelry. "Has Wilson made certain the room is completely secure?" he asked, as he donned a pair of white gloves for handling fragile and valuable items.

  "As secure as an off-site location can be," announced Wilson, the apparent leader of the security team. "It would take an expert to crack that hydraulic lock. We'll install the trigger alarms around all the cases when you're ready for them."

  "No time like the present to begin," said Mr. Tiller. With that, he and his team began laying out their precious cases, and we, the ordinary hotel staff, were dismissed from the temporary high security zone of The Penmarrow Hotel.

  "Mr. Trelawney, the auction guides are on your desk," said Brigette, who was waiting for us in the hall.

  "Was that what was in the heavy box I picked up at the post?" I asked. "If so, why didn't you tell me?"

  "It was," said Brigette, mildly. "It was on a need-to-know basis. I'll have Gomez place a copy in Mr. Tiller's room for him to review, as he requested." She consulted her checklist — at least Brigette's highlighting pens still had a place in her concierge duties.

  "Thank you," said Mr. Trelawney. "Have Mrs. Finny come to my office directly so we can discuss the arrangements for Mr. Tiller's staff while they are among our guests."

  Brigette wilted slightly, as if remembering this meeting required her presence until recently. She smiled bravely. "Of course, sir," she said.

  The rest of our guests for the week were as impressive as the collection Mr. Tiller was planning to auction on behalf of Mildred Eccleston's estate. Most of them were wealthy collectors, including one from Hollywood, who was reputedly planning to buy some of the mementoes on behalf of his museum. One of England's wealthiest collectors of celebrity memorabilia was sending his assistant to bid on the actress's portrait. Even a famous young actress who had just lately earned a star on the Walk of Fame was putting in an appearance, although probably just as one of the curious visitors who wanted to see the legend's personal possessions while they were on display.

  "Look at this," said Molly, flipping through one of the auction catalogs. "A sixteenth-century keepsake box of Italian ivory with inlaid pearls and real gold leaf. Imagine keeping your jewelry in a box like that." She showed me a picture of it on page three of the collection's items.

  "Pretty," I said. "Are there a lot of pieces like this one? I don't know ... but somehow I expected an actress's collection to be a little less European museum and a little more Hollywood?"

  "She married some bloke with a title," said Katy, who was discreetly buffing her nails while lingering at the reception desk. "Probably had all sorts of antiques laying about."

  "There's lots of Hollywood stuff," said Molly, paging forward in the catalog. "There's a dress from a movie where she played an empress, and a fancy collar-type necklace she wore in a famous movie, too."

  "What are they worth?" Katy asked. "Are they real jewels?"

  "That's the sort of question I expect from Riley, not you," I said, with a laugh. "Collectors buy them for the sheer value of having a piece of cinematic history."

  "The diamond necklace is real," reported Molly, from the book.

  "It is? Let me see." Katy turned the page back one. "Ooh. I'd look awfully well in those gems. Fancy having rocks that size for earrings alone."

  "Yes. Of course, sir. I'll ring you from the auction in Falmouth tomorrow, then I'll visit the London warehouse and ensure the Shakespeare piece is on its way." The latest guest at the desk, who must be none other than the wealthy European collector's representative, signed his name in the register and requested a key to the suite reserved for a 'B. Thornton,' which Molly delivered after a few tremulous passes at using the hotel's computerized registry.

  "What are you three doing here?" demanded Brigette, who had now returned from lunch. "Shoo. Katy, you're supposed to be helping Janice clear away in the dining room, and Maisie, I think Mrs. Finny assigned you to tidy the parlor?"

  On the desk lay a copy of the housekeeper's schedule, only with Brigette's trademark multicolored lines representing the members of staff. It was partly hidden beneath a new stack of brochures on the exhibit which Brigette was in the process of folding before her break.

  New guests approached as Katy and I withdrew, two senior-age women with luggage, one in a white linen and chiffon ensemble with a large, floppy hat and Victorian silk rose scarf that nearly reached the floor with its dramatic green fringe; the other more conservatively dressed in tweeds and walking shoes. They were both discussing the upcoming auction, judging from their conversation.

  "Rumor has it that famous opera singer from Verona is coming to see it as well," said the woman in tweeds. "Celebrities always flock to these events, something about the allure of former professional glory."

  "Fame, dearest Paige. That's the name for it," said the woman in white. "What would any auction of fine jewelry be without the glitter of personal brilliance? Besides, you know yo
u want to see the necklace from the movie as much as I do. Remember, Dovie Tunbridge's mother knew her before the director spotted her on the stage."

  Brigette greeted them with her cheeriest smile as the lady reached the desk. "Welcome to the Penmarrow," said Brigette. "I hope you'll have a pleasant stay and enjoy the many sites our little corner of the Cornish coast has to offer."

  "I will, as I always do," promised the woman in white with a very winning smile that easily dispelled the impression of her chattiness beforehand. "My room key, if you please." She laid something on the desk in view of Brigette as she made this request.

  "This place will be too full for comfort when the public arrives, which is why you've insisted upon coming this time of year," said the companion in tweeds. "As always, you simply must come to gawk if people gather."

  "What harm is in that?" retorted the women in white, who now collected her room key and made way for the exhibit's critic. "The spice of life is the observation of humanity en masse. Whose words were those to begin with?" she added, thoughtfully. "I'm sure someone famous said it before."

  "I haven't the faintest idea," answered her friend. "Reservation for Paige Milkins," she said to Brigette, collecting her key as Gomez collected their luggage.

  I seized my duster and set off to tidy the parlor's collection of knickknacks far less valuable than the ballroom's contents. I nearly collided with a quick-moving young man in a leather jacket, wearing thick-shaded sunglasses. He was on his mobile phone, busily talking and almost not noticing me.

  "Uh-huh. Right. I promise, I'll be the first one bidding on the necklace. Up to fifty thousand bucks. Yes, promise. Uh-huh. You have my word." He shifted his bag to his other hand as he reached into his jacket for a slip of paper, which he laid on the reception desk as soon as he reached it. "I'll send you some pics as soon as the exhibit opens, promise. Promise, Jack."

  "Room for one," he said. "Reservation under 'Blane' in your computer." His accent was American, short and clipped, and he was still doing business on his phone as he collected his key, ignoring Riley's attempts to claim his luggage.