A Place of Secrets (12 page)

“And this is a dead cert, is it?” Clive snapped. “This collection coming to us?”

But before Jude could open her mouth to declare honestly that she was almost sure, Klaus butted in.

“Jude’s promised me she’ll settle the matter,” he said quietly. “We think the figures are good to aim at.”

Drop me in it, you bastard, won’t you? she thought.

* * *

“You could have warned
me what you’d put,” she told him after the meeting. “The sale’s not even in the bag yet. And I told Wickham only a hundred thousand.”

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t make more, if the items are as you describe,” Klaus said in his smoothest voice. “It’s important to be bullish.”

“In this market? We haven’t had anyone to look at the globes and stuff yet.”

“There’s a lot of interest in this area.
Anyway, it’s going to help Clive bolster our position with New York. This is politics, Jude. New York is asking us for job cuts.” His eyes glittered. “Trust me.”

She sighed. He was, as usual, impossible. If he pulled it off he’d get all the glory; if it all went wrong, she’d get the blame. Trust him, indeed.

“If you can sew up the deal this morning, we’ll discuss how to handle everything. To
turn the Starbrough collection into a big sale the publicity must be bang on.” He marched back into his office.

Jude sat down and stared sightlessly at Wickham’s observation journals where she’d laid them out on the desk. Please God there was a story in them big enough to make the difference. Aware that Klaus was probably listening from his desk—he’d left the door open—she picked up the phone
and dialed the number for Starbrough Hall.

“Good morning, I hope I’m not ringing too early,” she said when Robert answered. “I wondered whether you’d come to a decision. The team here is very excited at the prospect of handling the sale of the collection.” Company-speak. She hated it.

“And we’d be delighted to let you,” came Robert’s reply.

She almost leaped in her chair with relief. Instead
she grinned hugely at Klaus, who was standing at his door, listening. He nodded back and mouthed, “Well done,” at her.

But despite her exhilaration at her success, she had a sudden vision of Chantal standing in that beautiful, half-empty library looking desperately sad.

She spent much of the rest of the morning drawing up a letter of agreement, e-mailing the details to Robert for approval. Early
in the afternoon he replied, accepting the terms. He ended his message with a PS: “Do come and stay should you need to spend some time with the collection.” That was kind of him.

Klaus immediately summoned her and Bridget from Publicity to his office to schedule the sale and announce it. Bridget was seven months pregnant and in a hurry to get her deadlines sorted.

“If it’s to be November we’ll
need a big feature for the autumn
Collector
by early August. Three thousand words, I’d say,” Bridget said. “Would you do that, Jude?”
The Beecham’s Collector
, a quarterly free magazine, was sent out to a mailing list of clients, the media and other useful contacts. “We’ll use the piece as a starting point to create general media interest.” Jude understood that this should attract a wider range
of potential buyers than the usual suspects.

“Jude, is there much of a story behind the collection?” Klaus asked, scribbling some notes.

“There could be; I just don’t know yet.” She explained about the observation diaries and the charts.

“What would be fabulous,” Bridget said briskly, “would be to showcase some discovery that this man made. Do we know anything about him as an astronomer?”

“He’s not a known figure, I’m afraid,” said Jude. “That’s not what you want to hear, I know. I would love the opportunity to do some further research about him.”

“By all means,” said Klaus. “And, Jude, that story. If there’s one, find it.”

* * *

At five o’clock she left the office and threaded her way through the Mayfair side streets to Bond Street tube. But at Greenwich rail station, instead
of turning right toward her house, she struck out in the direction of the park and climbed the hill to the Royal Observatory.

“How wonderful to see you! It’s been far too long!” At reception, Cecelia Downham greeted Jude with a hug and showed her downstairs into a poky basement office, crammed with books and papers.

“What a fabulous place,” Jude said, looking around at everything. “Straight
out of a Dickens novel.”

“Isn’t it wonderful? I’m contributing to an exhibition about the history of the Observatory, so I’m borrowing it for a couple weeks while a pal’s on vacation. Here, have a seat. I’m sorry, it’s like a yard sale in here.”

“So much for the paperless office,” said Jude, as Cecelia moved a pile of periodicals from an old chair, then set about making them both mint tea from
a tiny electric kettle. A tall, stunning blonde with an East Coast accent, Cecelia always seemed an unusually glamorous figure for a researcher. In addition to being an excellent scholar she was enthusiastic about her subject and generous with her expertise. She was also a good friend, though she and Jude didn’t see one another so often these days.

“Where are you staying? You don’t go back to
Cambridge every night, do you?” Jude asked.

“Danny has a friend with an apartment in the Barbican.” Cecelia’s long-term boyfriend was also an academic, but they never managed to get jobs in the same place. Danny, though from Dublin, was currently a professor of English in Boston, so one or other of them was always getting on a plane.

“You could have stayed with me,” Jude cried. “Another time,
promise.”

They chatted for a while, catching up from a year ago when she had visited Cecelia in the rooms of her Cambridge college.

“So what have you got for me?” Cecelia asked, indicating the briefcase Jude had brought.

“It’s your period, Cece, late eighteenth,” Jude said, pulling the packages out, unwrapping the journals and handing them across the desk. “Look,” she said, peeling the plastic
off the last one and flicking through it to show her friend. “Here’s where the handwriting changes. There are definitely two people involved here. What I need to gauge is whether there’s anything interesting about these from a collector’s point of view. I mean, can we say Wickham made any contribution to the astronomy of the period? Oh goodness, I’m jabbering, I’m sorry. I’m under some pressure
to make this into a big sale and I need a story. There’ll be no problem paying you a research fee, by the way.” She sipped at the scalding tea while Cecelia flicked through the first volume.

After a moment, Cecelia frowned and said, “I’ll have a proper look, of course, Jude, but I can’t pull a story out of the air.”

“No, of course not,” Jude said hastily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you should
twist the facts or anything.”

“Since you e-mailed me last night I’ve been trying to weasel out something, anything, about your Anthony Wickham,” Cecelia went on. “I hadn’t heard of him before. I was trying to find if he was referenced by other astronomers. To be honest, I can’t find anything yet. But I’ll keep looking.”

“Thank you,” Jude said. “That would be marvelous. I’ll do some research
of my own, of course.”

“Oh, and I’ve found someone to look at the globes.” She named an antiquarian based in Oxford. “Mind you, I’d love to see them myself.”

“And you shall once they arrive,” Jude said, copying down the e-mail address Cecelia showed her. “But that won’t be until I get back from holiday, I guess.”

“Where are you going on holiday?”

“France. Well, I think I am.”

“With your guy?”
asked Cecelia, who, like most of Jude’s friends, hadn’t met Caspar but had heard talk of him through the grapevine.

“Yes,” Jude said uncertainly, dragging the tea bag around in her mug by its tag. “I’m not totally looking forward to it.” In truth, every time she had thought about the French holiday today, it was like imagining a great big block of concrete that shut out the light.

“Why ever
not?”

She explained about Caspar’s change of plan.

“It’s quite a commitment, isn’t it, going on holiday with someone?” She looked up at Cecelia, her expression anguished. “I’m not sure I feel ready for it. Mark—”

“Jude,” Cecelia said gently, reaching out and touching her hand. “It’s a long time now since Mark. Four years.”

“I know, I know. Cecelia, do you think there’s something wrong with
me? Perhaps someone’s heart can break so completely that it never mends.”

“Oh Jude, dear, don’t sound so dramatic. Of course there’s nothing wrong with you. Perhaps Caspar’s just the wrong guy,” she said. There was a silence. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh God. Was that tactless or what?”

“Please don’t worry,” said Jude miserably. “I was only quiet because I was considering that you
might be right.”

* * *

Caspar phoned that evening. She had sat down to watch the ten o’clock news, fed up with waiting for his call, and now she turned the TV sound off and watched the silent footage of estate agents’ “For Sale” signs, in a piece about gloom and doom in the housing market. She dreaded to think what implications this climate might have for antiquarian books.

“How did today’s
meeting go?” she asked politely.

“Yeah, it’s gone well. What have you decided about France? Saturday or come with me on Tuesday?” He sounded as though he were brokering a business deal, not a love affair.

“Actually, Caspar.” She closed her eyes and plunged in. “Will you think I’m awful if I don’t come at all?”

“Jude! You must come. Don’t be like that. Listen, if it’s about my messing up the
plans…”

She took a deep breath.

“Seriously, Caspar, I don’t think it’s right altogether.” And suddenly she was saying more than she’d originally intended. “I don’t think we’re right.”

“Look, don’t say that. I’ll come back. I can get a plane tomorrow, at lunchtime probably. I can meet you at work. We’ll sort this out.” She was surprised how distressed he sounded, but she’d already gone too far.

“No, Caspar. It’s not as simple as that. I … don’t think our whole relationship is right. I expect it’s my fault. I’m finding it very difficult. Getting over Mark, I mean.”

“Mark? Your husband? Jeez, Jude, I know it must have been terrible, but it’s been some years now…”

“Four,” she replied. “Yes, everyone keeps telling me.”

“I suppose, I … don’t understand. But, give me the chance. I’m … fond
of you. Really. We could make something—”

“Caspar, no. I’m sorry.” She was surprised to hear his voice cracking, hadn’t thought it would matter so much to him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She lay awake a long time that night. It was the right decision to have made about Caspar, she assured herself. Part of her grieved for him, but she also grieved for herself. Lying here alone it was Mark she
missed most of all. In the darkest part of the night, the hour before dawn, she convinced herself that she would never be able to forget him, never find anyone who fitted her as well as he had. She would die alone. Finally, she slept. She dreamed she was walking up the spiral steps of a tower into darkness.

When she awoke the next morning, she felt exhausted, strung out. What she wanted to do, needed to do, both from a work and a family point of view, was go back to Norfolk. In particular she might help with Summer, especially since her niece would be finishing school in another week or so. The whole thing sounded simple. However, Norfolk would hardly be a holiday if she was working at
Starbrough Hall half the time, and sleeping on a lumpy mattress on Summer’s floor wasn’t something she could endure for more than a night or two.

She remembered Robert’s invitation in his “PS” to stay at the Hall and, slowly, a plan evolved. If the invitation had been sincere, and if Robert’s wife, Alexia, didn’t object, it would suit her all around to accept. Not least because it would make
good sense to be on the spot if she was researching and cataloging their collection, ready for the sale, and she could see lots of Gran and Claire and Summer while she was down there. Yet it was important that she had some holiday. She decided to speak to Klaus about it.

Klaus, with his eye for the main chance, saw the answer immediately. “Why don’t you go down there for three weeks instead of
two? You can work for some of the time, then do what you like the rest of the time. And book the whole thing in as, I don’t know, ten days’ holiday.
Voilà!
”

Jude considered this. It was good of Klaus to be flexible, but it would be a strange sort of holiday. And yet thinking of the alternatives, being in the office, or taking the holiday and hanging around on her own in Greenwich, or patching
together visits to friends at no notice, Norfolk seemed immensely attractive. She wouldn’t impose herself on the Wickhams for the whole three weeks, but maybe they would have her for some of that period. She picked up her phone and dialed the number she was quickly consigning to memory.

It was Chantal who answered.

“Jude, my dear, how are you?” she said enthusiastically, but then she must have
remembered the likely purpose of the call, for she sounded more subdued. “I’m sorry, but Robert isn’t here at present. Can I help at all?”

“I merely … wanted to discuss the next stage in the process … I’m sorry, Chantal, I know this is hard for you, losing the books…,” she ended.

“Please don’t worry,” Chantal replied with a sigh. “Of course, it’s your job. I will tell Robert you called.”

“Thank
you. And, Chantal, I haven’t spoken to my sister yet, but you can tell Robert I’m planning to visit Norfolk again very soon. To be frank, my holiday abroad has fallen through and I could call in on you to look more closely at the books.” She explained that she’d given Cecelia the journals and said, “I could start the business of cataloging. It would be nicer to do it there than bringing it back
here. Unless that’s inconvenient…”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Chantal said, passionately. “You must come to stay here. We have plenty of room, you know that, and it would be lovely to see you. I’ll ask Alexia. She and the children came home last night, you know.”