Toad in the Hole (15 page)

Not bothering to look, I said, “I don’t believe you.”

Travis pitched a whistle. “This is your place?”

Beyond the clearing were formal gardens and a sprawling two-story, brick-sided mansion. There were columns on a side portico and a stone rail that connected to several outer buildings.

“This is yours?” I asked, thinking I had gravely mistaken the jeweler's financial standing, and I wondered who he’d blackmailed.

Sonny chuckled. “That’s Stoke Park Country House. My home is behind, near a clearing. A converted dovecote.”

At this point in the journey, I clung to the notion that we were close and I pushed ahead in hopes of a shower and a bed that didn’t sway with a tide, shimmy in the wind, or ripple on the eddies of a passing boat’s wake. When Sonny said he lived in a dovecote, I lowered my hospitality expectations to a chair and maybe a bathroom with running water and a sink that I could use to wash my armpits.

“What’s a dovecote?” Travis asked.

“A birdhouse,” I said, cursing myself for agreeing to this side trip. The man was a quack.

Sonny’s pace quickened. “I haven’t been back in months. May be a bit dusty.”

Dusty? Inside a birdhouse, we’d be lucky if that’s all we found. I began to devise an exit. If the place was a dump as I expected, I’d make an excuse and head back to the narrowboat, regardless of whether or not I hurt his feelings.

Leading us along a footpath at the edge of woodlands, Sonny stopped. His chest swelled as he inhaled. “There she is.”

I stood in disbelief. A wall about six feet high with an arched entrance enclosed a cone-shaped, two-story stone cottage. Bull’s-eye paned glass windows with red shutters framed a Dutch front door. “It’s a tricked-out silo.”

“Is there plumbing inside?” Travis asked.

Sonny nodded. “I bought her in sixty-two. Cobweb Cottage has been my project for twenty-five years. Come and have a look.”

SONNY’S DOVECOTE WAS NO normal home in the country. It was a slice of wonderment, curtained by forest in the middle of English nowhere. The outside oozed cute while the sparsely furnished inside revealed a secret. Sonny was a hoarder of art. Oil paintings covered the walls like mosaic tiles covering a table. When we first stepped in, I took a quick peek around and admired a portrait of a man disguised under fruit. “Is that a Giuseppe Arcimboldo?”

He threw a sheet off a chair. “Like your grandmother, you know your art.”

Spotting a Joshua Reynolds and a George Watts, dollar signs rolled around in my brain. “You’re a collector?”

“I’ve purchased a few on Geneva’s advice. Most are from my father.”

I’d been so wrapped up in the boat journey and the meaning inside the brooch, I realized I’d never asked Sonny about his family. “Do you have children?”

Moving through a doorway and into a one-story addition, his voice trailed. “Aye no. Never settled down.”

The only bathroom in the country getaway had a bathtub, sink, and toilet—such luxury. Not fussy, the interior rooms’ throw rugs and velvet upholstered sofas softened the rough stone walls and slate floor. The boys gave me first dibs to defunk. Pleased that the toilet flushed and the water ran clean, I filled the tub, which took thirty minutes, and soaked in hot bubbles until my skin turned pink.

Once I’d bathed, I felt human again, which meant my inquisitive side had been recharged. Travis and I were given our own rooms, and inside mine was a double bed with a patchwork coverlet. It was a small space with only a chair, a dresser, and writing desk. What it lacked in furniture, it made up for in art. Upon inspection, I was ninety-nine percent sure this stuff was the real deal and not Japanese knockoffs. I wondered if Sonny knew the street value of these. Some I guessed were worth five figures and there were dozens of them. He was crazy to keep these masterpieces here in a dovecote without any security that I could see. GG zoomed into my head. How did she know Sonny and what was their relationship? And what exactly was her involvement in all of this?

OUT BACK, TRAVIS AND SONNY warmed the cushions of wrought-iron patio gliders while they drank Boddingtons beer from mustard yellow cans. There was a tray of crackers, olives, and pickled beets on a table.

“Did you save me any hot water?” Travis asked.

“Tons,” I said, not exactly confident that I had. “Your turn.”

Pardoning himself, Travis and his beer moved inside.

A French door with wood-framed glass panes led to a galley kitchen. “Help yourself to a beverage. I’ve put shepherd’s pie in the oven. It’ll take an hour or so to thaw and bake.”

“Thanks, Sonny,” I said, and moved inside for whatever they were drinking. The kitchen walls didn’t disappoint. They were filled with portraits of animals and I recognized one artist, Sir Edwin Landseer.

Through the window I watched Sonny gaze into the treetops. The leaves and branches were in motion as wind gusts pushed through the open spaces.

I grabbed a beer and went back out. Taking a seat on a glider, I rocked forward and back. “This place. All the art. You and my grandmother have a common passion.”

“Do you have that passion?” he asked.

His question surprised me. I thought about it. Was art an infatuation in my life or something that I couldn’t escape? “When I see a painting—the layered oils, the shadowing and nuances that detail somewhere or someone unexpected—my heart pumps faster and my head races to discover clues about the artist and their craft.”

Sonny smiled. “Has your grandmother ever mentioned me?”

“No.” I spoke softly, hoping not to hurt his ego.

He nodded.

“How do you know her?”

His gray eyes softened as he pulled up memories. “Geneva and I met in London when we both were starting out. She made purchases from Garrard’s for her boss in the states. She was always traveling somewhere. Full of crazy stories. We’d meet after my shift for a pint. Share gossip and interests. Sometimes clients spoke to me of estate sales not open to the public or I’d hear about private auctions in the pub. Over time, she’d follow up on the leads and I’d make a commission.” He winked.

“Did you two date?” I asked before I realized what personal information I was asking. I blamed drinking on an empty stomach.

“I escorted her on occasion. There was a fondness for one another, but distance—me in London, Geneva in the states—and traveling. Well, you know how it is.”

Okay, that was a long-winded, non-committal answer that I decided I was cool with. Imaging an older person as young was hard, harder than picturing someone young as old. I didn’t need to know who my grandmother had hooked up with, and was glad to move on.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out the yellow envelope and slid it across the patio table toward Sonny.

He looked at it as though it were taboo.

“I still have unanswered questions.”

“It’s something in the past I’d rather forget.”

“But the past has caught up with you and me. If we want to bury this and get on with our lives, I need to know what you know.”

The sky had turned crimson and the sun dropped behind a neighboring hillside. From out of a thicket, a red fox emerged and trotted along the forest edge before slinking into high grass out of sight.

“People today, they’re different. The tabloids, gossip. Destroying reputations has become a hobby. This isn’t something I’ve ever spoken about to anybody.”

The rusted metal in the glider moaned in discontent to the swaying that worked the hinged parts.

“Walzy, you are my today and my tomorrow. Lost or lonely, you can find your way.” Sonny recited.

“That’s verbatim. You memorized the engraving?”

“I’d forgotten it, until you brought the brooch in. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was obviously a gift to his future wife, Mrs. Simpson.”

“What was the significance? Why the oyster?”

“I’ve pondered that. Both he and Mrs. Simpson had June birthdays. Their birthstone is the pearl. Beyond that, I suspect a greater purport. A series of events.”

“Something to do with the sketch of the scepter.”

He nodded. “The new king paid a visit to Garrard’s with his security guards and a gentleman I recognized from evenings at the local. Barton Bixwell, a rival jeweler with Asprey was an awkward bugger I never like. His Royal Highness asked to be escorted to the vault where the crown jewels were still housed and Barton accompanied him.”

“Did you stay in the room with them?”

Sonny shook his head. “I was asked to leave.”

“Why were the jewels at Garrard’s?

“They’d arrived in anticipation of the coronation. We were doing some restoration. Making a thorough polishing of the pieces then having them photographed. They were due to be sent to the Tower the next day.”

I waited while Sonny emptied his stout.

“Before HRH left, I asked if there was anything left that needed attending. He said that he was looking for inspiration for a new piece. Barton couldn’t conceal a weaselly smirk and that got me thinking. Although nothing was out of place, my gut told me that something had happened.”

“And?” I impatiently asked.

“And nothing. I didn’t get to inspect the jewels before they went back to the Tower. It wasn’t until Edward’s brother’s coronation—King George VI—that I discovered something was amiss. And even then I wasn’t so sure.” Sonny shrugged. “For a second time I helped prepare the crown jewels, checking the mountings and making sure all the paperwork was in order.”

Holding my tongue, I waited for Sonny to tell me his recollections.

“It was the royal scepter that caught my eye. The setting on the priceless Russian amethyst had been worked. Tiny scratches on the pins and the soldering of the joints to the staff—it wasn’t as flawless as I remembered.”

“What about the amethyst?” Travis asked.

I hadn’t heard him approach and twisted to see him in the doorway.

“A fake amethyst, if it’s good, is very hard to detect.”

“But what do you think?” I asked.

“My suspicion has never been proven.”

“You think King Edward snagged the real gem on his visit?” Travis asked.

“Perhaps,” Sonny said.

“But now, the Turks and Ahmed’s interest in the oyster brooch. Do you think there’s a link between the amethyst brooch and the amethyst in the scepter?” I asked.

“I’m beginning to think so, aren’t you?”

“How would Ahmed even know anything about the amethyst in the scepter?”

The sun’s showy colors tucked behind the hills. Travis had shaved and his dark brown hair was still wet. I hoped I’d cleaned up as nicely as he. An oven timer beeped.

“Something smells good,” Travis said.

In a whisper, Sonny said, “I, too received a gift from the Duchess of Windsor’s estate,”

“I didn’t know you’d met her.”

He stood and moved to the kitchen. “That’s the thing of it. I never did.”

Travis and I followed.

The kitchen had a savory, home-cooked smell that reminded me of my house back in Canton, Ohio. Back when my family was together, my mom prepared feel-good foods whose aromas lingered in the house long after the dishes had been cleared.

Placing quilted mitts on his hands, Sonny removed a large pie from the oven. “You two hungry?”

Travis rubbed his stomach. “Famished.”

Sonny nodded at a cabinet. “Plates up there. Silverware in the drawer below.” He set dinner on the table. Piping hot ground lamb and vegetables covered in gravy, baked in a pie tin with a top layer of mashed potato and sprinkled cheddar gratings. It was the best thing I’d tasted in days.

As we finished the pie, I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. “You said you received a gift from the Duchess’s estate. May I ask what it was?”

Sonny wiped his mouth with a napkin, placed it on the table and twisted at the waist to look at me. “A chestnut mare at Allerton Castle in Yorkshire.”

My alarm bells pitched a ting
.

Our host was a sensitive type so I tread carefully. “Allerton Castle?”

Travis glanced from Sonny to me, wondering what he’d missed.

“That’s right. It’s over there. Take a look for yourself.”

The feet of my chair scraped on the slate floor. Standing, I moved to the painting for closer inspection. The chunky oak frame had an intricately carved scroll design. The canvas was small, ten by twelve. There was no visible signature on the front. I was at a loss as to who the artist may have been.

The jeweler’s eyes sparked mischief and he turned to Travis. “Wanna wager a game on it?”

Travis stuttered, “I don’t have anything of value to put up as collateral.”

“Nonsense. It was a gift. Can’t be of much value,” Sonny said.

“Sonny, the coordinates inside the brooch, they lead to Allerton Castle. It’s where we’re going.”

AFTER DINNER, I’D RUN
a load of laundry in Sonny’s washing machine and hung it to dry in the bathroom. Still early evening, I’d tucked myself into the main cone-shaped room of Cobweb Cottage and commandeered a worn yellow velvet armchair that rested between two paned windows. With views of Travis and Sonny playing backgammon in the living room and through the arched cove into the kitchen, I considered it the best seat in the house. Nursing my second can of beer, I admired the portraits that hung like puzzle pieces on the curved stone wall. Despite Travis yelling, “You’re on the run now. Come see this move, Rach,” it was the first time I remembered relaxing on my vacation. From my vantage point, I could see the board game and faked occasional interest in their competition. Sonny, an expert at draping a mean scowl, clearly enjoyed the smack talk and company Travis provided.

The constant rocking feeling of cruising on water had stopped, as well as my fretting about the stolen brooch. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. I anticipated seeing my grandmother and Edmond, and once and for all placing the oyster hoo-ha shenanigans on the table. No more secrets.

NOTE TO SELF

Bathroom in England translates to bathtub. Shower not included. I’m just thankful there was running water at Sonny’s place.

What did Wallis Simpson have in mind sending my grandmother and Sonny gifts from the grave?