The Soldier's Dark Secret

‘I’m no expert,’ Jack said, ‘but the design is very fine, most intricately worked. See these hinges? They are very high quality indeed and not at all commonplace. I think it may be more valuable than you think.’

In fact, he was pretty sure that the smaller stones were diamonds, and that the blue stone was a sapphire. As a consequence the locket was more than likely commissioned, and indeed, on the back he noted tiny symbols, probably the goldsmith’s mark. Which might make it, and the owner’s name, traceable. But he could not be certain, and so, as was his custom, he kept his own counsel rather than raise Celeste’s hopes prematurely. ‘Do you mind if I open it?’ he asked.

‘If you wish.’

She shrugged, but he was becoming attuned to her many permutations of shrug, and Jack knew this one for feigned indifference. When he eased open the catch, he could understand why. Inside were two miniature portraits, one on each side. The first, of a flaxen-haired child, was obviously Celeste. The second, facing it, was of an older woman, her pale hair pulled tightly back from her forehead. Aside from the eyes, which were blue, the resemblance between mother and daughter was very strong, but when he said so, Celeste frowned.

‘Do you think so?’

He was surprised by the uncertainty in her voice. ‘She is unmistakably your mother, and clearly the source of your own beauty.’

Celeste touched the miniature with the tip of her finger. ‘She was beautiful. I had forgotten.’

‘May I ask her name?’

Celeste snatched her hand away. ‘Blythe.’

‘They seem to me to have been painted as a pair,’ Jack said. ‘I’m no expert, but...’

‘No, you are right. Both are by my mother’s hand.’ She had herself firmly under control again, and spoke in that cool way of hers he’d initially mistaken for detachment. ‘Unusually, actually, for she mostly painted the landscapes around Cassis. The fishing boats, the calanques—the limestone cliffs and inlets which punctuate the coast. I have never seen another portrait painted by her.’

Which made this pair all the more touching, Jack thought. He was tempted to say so, but hesitated, remembering her reaction earlier, when he had pushed her on her feelings. And she had pushed him straight back. A salutary lesson, he reckoned, in how not to go about extracting information. ‘Cassis,’ he said instead. ‘The village where you grew up?’

Celeste treated him to one of her shrugs. The feigned indifference one again. ‘Paris has been my home for many years.’

‘I remember, you said you were sent there to school when you were—ten?’

‘Yes. And stayed on to study art.’

‘You were very young to be sent so very far from home.’

‘It was a very good school.’

She would not meet his eyes. Another sensitive subject. ‘You mentioned there was another clue?’ Jack said, once more deciding that the best policy would be to bide his time.

She handed him a small packet of stitched muslin. Inside was a man’s signet ring. ‘I found it when I went to Cassis to close the house up after—after,’ Celeste said. ‘I was taking Maman’s paintings down. This was sewn to the back of her favourite canvas. It must have been there for years. I have no idea what it signifies. It clearly does not belong to my mother.’ She leaned across him to peer down at the ring. ‘The markings, I thought perhaps were a family crest. That might lead us somewhere,’ she said, looking at him hopefully.

‘It looks to me more likely to be a military crest. I’m not sure of the regiment. I would need to check.’

‘Military? Why on earth would my mother have such a thing in her possession?’

‘It’s a good question.’

‘As if we don’t have enough questions already. Do you think you can help, Jack?’

He studied the ring with an ominous sense of foreboding. ‘I can try.’

* * *

The next morning, a soft breeze blew up as Celeste walked with Jack along a path which led from the far end of the lake, over a gentle rise to an ancient oak, underneath the spread of which was a wooden bench. The view was prettily bucolic, bathed in the golden early-morning light. They stood on top of the hill while Jack pointed out the spire of St Mary’s Church some five miles away, where Lady Eleanor’s father was the vicar, and closer, the many-gabled rooftops of Trestain Manor. Golden fields of half-harvested wheat contrasted with the dark-green tunnels of hops, while the low, thatched roofs of the farm buildings and cottages contrasted with the distinctive, conical roofs of two oast houses where the hops were roasted.