I couldn't believe it! It couldn't just disappear like that! Frantically I searched the cabinet again: the manuscript in its box, the transcript, the egg—they were all there, and the ring was on my finger. Could I have left it on the mantelpiece, the shelves, the table or one of the chairs? I knew I hadn't, yet I searched the whole room methodically and even went into my bedroom in case I had left it in there.
Mrs. Early had lived up to her name and the study had been swept and dusted, yesterday's ashes removed, a bright fire was burning and the wood-basket had been replenished. The cabinet had been locked, but I had left the key there. Was it possible the housekeeper had removed the figurine for cleaning? It seemed extremely unlikely, but I must ask—
Could there have been a stranger in the house? I remembered young Cumberbatch's visit: could he have . . . ? But no, I distinctly remembered refusing to let him touch it. And I was still convinced that I had put it away last night, safe and sound.
I crossed to the door, but as I opened it I heard a faint rustling noise behind me. I stopped, listened. There it came again. I looked back across the room—no, it must have been the fire crackling, a log falling . . . I heard it again, and for one wild moment thought I saw a corner of the curtains twitch, as though a mouse had run behind it. Or a rat . . . It twitched again—that did it! I didn't mind mice, but rats (and cockroaches) were right off my list of tolerances.
I raced downstairs and flung open the kitchen door.
"Mrs. Early! Mrs. Early . . ." She was kneading dough on the marble slab. "Do we have rats in the house? And have you seen that little ivory figurine? It's gone missing. I just thought . . . you might . . ." I sat down heavily at the kitchen table, my heart pounding. "And have there been any strangers in the house? I mean, in this part of the Hall? Or could they have got in from another part?" I was trembling.
She smacked her hands together to rid them of the flour, rinsed them in a bowl of water on the side, then wiped them on a cloth. "Now, Miss Lee dear, just start again, tell me what's the matter . . ."
So I tried to be coherent and rational. I explained how I had found the figurine was missing, and as I had left the key in the lock overnight, wondered if she or her husband had removed it for cleaning? She shook her head. I asked, had anyone else been in this part of the house? Again she shook her head. I explained that I thought I had seen the curtains move, but everything I said made the whole thing sound sillier and sillier. I sounded like a hysterical female of the worst kind.
But she didn't laugh at me. Instead she opened a cupboard and put a glass of sweet sherry in my hand.
"Now, sip this down, Miss Lee, and calm yourself. . . . We neither of us ever touched nothing of your uncle's, unless he asked us particular. That answers your first question. As to others in the Hall, the only strangers, apart from that lawyer fellow yesterday, have been those packing up and removing the artifacts, and then we always keep the door from the Hall through to here locked, as it is today, as is the front door. Back doors bolted at night, otherwise there's always one of us in the kitchen. That's number two. As for rats or mice or anything else like that, I pride myself there's nothing in this part of the house like that."
I sipped the sherry, already feeling better. "Sorry, Mrs. Early, but it was a bit of a shock to find it missing."
"Not to worry. Howsomever, we'll take a besom up there and if there's anything or anyone as shouldn't be, they'll get short shrift. As for the ivory, it's probably fallen down behind something . . ."
Once upstairs she attacked the curtains, but there was nothing there. She turned to the cabinet. "Now show me exactly where you put it."
I pointed to the top shelf, but I saw it even before she did. Not on the top shelf but the bottom, next to the manuscript. And I knew, I knew I had searched that shelf!
"Why, there it is!" She picked it up and handed it to me. Even as I took it in my hand I knew it had changed. It was surely nearly twice as large as before. "You must have misplaced it." She smiled at me. "Well, all's well that ends well, that's what I say! Luncheon at the usual time?"
I sat at the table in the study. On the table was the Eg, the ring was on my finger, the ivory in my hands, and I was looking at each in turn.
Here was a mediaeval round-shaped object, warm to the touch, that kept on growing; a ring that wouldn't come off, reputedly part of a mythical Unicorn's headgear, and an ivory figurine that disappeared and then reappeared, larger than before. And all this was somehow tied in with my uncle's wish that I return this egg to wherever it was supposed to belong. Against all this was the attractive alternative of taking whatever money was left and abandoning all these strange objects to their fate.
All except the ring: it still wouldn't budge. . . . And yet I liked the feeling if it on my finger. I would have preferred to find out what the egg contained, although I didn't want a baby dragon deposited in my lap, and the ivory looked friendly. . . .
I had never been abroad and there would probably never be another chance, unless I settled down and took a post as a governess who took children to a place like Brittany for the summer, or perhaps worked for a family who wanted a chaperone for their daughter at a German spa.
Stop daydreaming, I told myself severely: you're not likely to do better than the Charity School, although with the extra money you could live far more comfortably.
Right. Pros and Cons. I drew out a sheet of paper, took ink and a pen. I made two headings: Plan A, take the money; Plan B, take the Eg back. Then I subdivided each into two sections, for and against.
I started with Plan A. Immediate money, which would either keep me a lady of leisure for a few years, or supplement any income I received for longer. Either way, freedom from penury for a while. So much for the pros. I turned to the second column and tried to be fair. How long would the money last? Would it be so little, after all, that I would have to go on working, whether I wished to or no? What if I became ill or crippled? Then came a line which seemed to write itself: Did I really want the rest of my life to be so dull, predictable, plain boring? I looked down at what I had written: was my life dull and boring? It certainly wasn't now.
I thought back on my life at the Charity School. Life had been ruled by the seasons, although the same lessons came round time and time again. Only the children had been different, but not much. Different faces, different names, but the same poverty, apathy and hunger, the latter not for knowledge, only Ellen's soup.
I did love London, however. Apart from the museums, galleries, parks, libraries, concerts, churches and buildings, there was the teeming life and the magical way everything changed with the seasons. Spring, with its hope; crocuses springing through the grass in the parks, the glorious scent of violets and narcissi in the baskets of the flower-sellers, the first house-martins swooping over the rooftops and the urgent chirp of nesting sparrows—in such a season it was torture to be shut up in school all day. Then came summer with roses falling over the railings of the houses and the welcome warmth; but summer could also be over-hot, dusty and sticky, with the smell of sewage and rotting food percolating even to the schoolroom—in such a season it was torture to be shut up with the smells all day. Autumn was crisp and colourful with falling leaves, the scent of bonfires and blowy skies. On those days I longed to escape the confines of the school: torture to be shut in all day. Winter could be cold, foggy, with frost and snow, but still there was the comfort of a warm fire, the taste of roast chestnuts from the corner vendor and the lights and celebrations of Christmas. In such a season it was torture to be shut in all day. . . .
I couldn't remember thinking like this before. I don't believe I had ever analysed my feelings in this fashion—perhaps deliberately. Maybe I had been afraid of admitting to myself what I really felt like, because I couldn't change my situation, so would have to accept it without whining to myself that I wanted something different. Of course my work was worthwhile, and I knew I did it to the best of my ability, but I now knew it wasn't the only thing in the world.
Had I always been so fond of my freedom? I had loathed the restrictions of my boarding-school, though I had submitted in order to please my parents. At home I had been happy enough, although I was always escaping to the woods and fields, or into other worlds with my books. Our village, Ditchling in Sussex, was pretty and friendly enough, but sometimes I had stood at the crossroads and watched the Brighton express coach go thundering past, or its counterpart stop at the inn to let its caped and crinolined passengers alight for refreshments before the continuation of their journey to London, I had often wished I could just jump aboard and leave everything behind, to glimpse what lay over the hill. . . .
All this had nothing whatsoever to do with the lists I was trying to draw up, I told myself. A little boredom and frustration are common in every life. Security, and perhaps to be needed, that was what mattered. I looked at my watch: time for luncheon.
Afterwards I decided to walk off a little of the pork, stuffing and applesauce by strolling the couple of miles or so to the village. The first building I came across was the Church of the Good Shepherd, where I ventured in to pray for guidance and leave an offering in the box near the door. The church was obviously old, and owed much to the trade in wool, judging from the carvings in wood and stone. There were some pretty stained-glass windows, all reflecting Christ's life as the Good Shepherd.
The village itself held little to speak of: the Lamb and Flag, a butcher's, chemist, grocer, and green grocer, ironmonger's, general store and forge. I bought some black darning wool for my stockings at the store, but was careful to scurry past the inn with my bonnet pulled forward, as I had no wish to encounter Mr.Cumberbatch.
I dawdled on my way back to the Hall, collecting brightly coloured sprays of berries to put in the study, so the sky was already darkening as I reached the driveway, but I noticed that Mr. or Mrs. Early had hung a lantern by the front door of the Temple to light my way: it was almost like coming home.
I drank a late cup of tea in the kitchen, put my berries in a glass vase, went upstairs and placed them on the mantel, then settled down with my list of pros and cons. I had put a sheet of paper with Plan A on it aside as completed, but as I glanced at it I noted that I must have added something I didn't remember to the "cons" side. "How can I find true fulfilment if I stay at home?" I must have written it, because it was in my handwriting—but it wasn't my style.
I decided not to worry any further about it, but to concentrate on the pros and cons of Plan B, the expedition and the chance of inheriting Hightop Hall. I picked up my pen, wiped it with the pen-wiper, dipped it in the ink-pot and hesitated, then under "pros" I wrote: "Foreign Travel." After another two minutes: "I like the place." Another minute: "It was what my uncle really wanted," and lastly: "It would make a pleasant school or orphanage."
Unfortunately the "cons" column was far easier to complete. Never been abroad before, didn't know where to start or whether the money would last out, women just didn't go on expeditions, I would have to suffer the proximity of two people I didn't know, I only had a year in which to do it . . . Besides which there weren't any such things as dragons or unicorns, so what was the point? I finished with what I should probably have started with: even if I succeeded, I wouldn't have enough money to keep up the Hall. It would have to be sold; a pity, but there it was.
I sighed and laid down my pen. There, it was easy enough to make a decision if one was logical and systematic about it. Better safe than sorry.
It was now Thursday evening—I had been here three full days!—and I decided I would write a letter to the solicitors later tonight and get Mr. Early to deliver it to Mr. Cumberbatch tomorrow. If a reply was received in time, I could travel back to London on Saturday, otherwise it would have to wait until Monday. I hoped so: I rather fancied a few more days being cossetted in what was, to me, the lap of luxury.
I wondered what would happen to the Eg? I had already decided to take the ivory with me—it would look nice on my mother's writing-desk, and the ring seemed to be a fixture. I would throw away the original manuscript, but keep the transcript and read it again one day, for fun. The Eg? Perhaps I could take it down to the beach at Brighton, where my parents had taken me as a child, and roll it down the pebbles into the sea. Or I supposed I could give it away—but who would want something that looked like a cannon-ball, was warm to the touch, and kept on growing?
I decided I would have supper in the kitchen with the Earlys, so I could quiz them about their memories of my mother, but I wouldn't tell them of my decision to take the money until tomorrow or the next day.
They both remembered my mother as a harum-scarum, pretty girl with a mind of her own, easily bored and with no mind to her lessons. Apparently my maternal grandfather was much like my uncle, a recluse, and it was my maternal grandmother who ruled the roost. She was fond of entertaining, was highhanded with the servants, a stickler for routine and a strict disciplinarian with her children, which didn't suit my mother.
"First chance she got, she was off," said Mrs. Early.
"You mean—when she met my father?"
Mrs. Early nodded. "He came to the house two, three times to do a routine check on the clocks. There must have been—oh, twenty or more in those days. The usual clock-minder fell ill, and your father happened by chance in town at just the right time. Nice young man. Only saw him twice, quiet and respectful. But your mother fell for him head over heels, she did. He stopped at an inn nearby, and turns out later she let herself out of the house several times and met Mr. Lee outside.
"Your grandmother was fit to turn purple when she found out and shut your mum up in her bedroom, and kept the key under her pillow. This went on for three weeks, and all the staff were real sorry for the poor lass. Your father was dismissed on the spot and she tried to persuade your grandad to put a whip across his shoulders. Luckily for your father your grandad believed it was six of one and a half-dozen of the other. Perhaps he knew his daughter better than most gave him credit for . . .
"And then one day your mother disappeared."
"Disappeared?" This was all news to me. My parents had never discussed their earlier life in front of me. They were absorbed in each other, so in love, even after all those years, that even I felt sometimes excluded.
"Yes, disappeared as though she had never been! Your gran paid her a visit before breakfast, to give her her usual lecture, unlocked with the only key, and found her daughter gone! You can imagine the state she was in! Everyone was questioned, but had she not had the only key I think she would have dismissed us all. Then she got a note from your mother, signed in her married name of Lee. Not that we would have known about it but that she screwed up the letter and threw it away, and one of us, er—found it."
"What did she say? How did she escape?" I was on the edge of my seat.
"Seems the two young lovers were more resourceful than we thought. Your mother knew that your gran would blame everyone but herself, so she explained how it was done. She had torn a petticoat into strips and attached it to some ribbons, so she could lower it out of her window at night and exchange letters with her lover, your father. He told her what to do: save some candlewax and keep it soft, and when your gran came in to lecture, take a quick impression of the key, which she always left on a side-table. She lowered the wax out of the window, your father had a key made and hey presto! They were away!"
I leant back in my chair. My parents had been so inventive, so daring. But it was difficult to think of them as a pair of star-crossed lovers.
Was I lacking in their initiative, I wondered as I went upstairs again? Surely not, I thought as I replenished the fire, just because I had chosen security over speculation. I must write to Mr. Swallow at once before I was tempted to change my mind.
I took a fresh sheet of paper and dated it. "For the attention of Mr. Swallow," I wrote. "Dear Sir," but then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The ivory figurine had gone missing again!
I looked under the table, back in the cabinet, on the shelves, behind the curtains but it wasn't there. I sat down again at the table. What in the world was happening? I glanced at the papers on which I had written my pros and cons and suddenly was on my feet, my hand to my mouth.
On the sheet of Plan B where there had been a long list of cons, there was now a mess of spilled ink. On the left, against the few pros, had been added a couple of lines in flowing capitals: "YOU WILL HAVE HELP, YOU KNOW."