Page 62 of The Secret Christmas Library
The sheer relief of being back in the kitchen was immense. Bonnie had found storm lamps and lit them, and they flickered reassuringly around the place, and made it cosier than ever. She had also lined the kitchen door to keep the snow and the draughts out. If she hadn’t had exciting news to impart, Mirren would have been in grave danger of falling asleep the second she sat down.
They sat around the table, as Bonnie served them tea with a slug of whisky in it to make up for there being no fresh milk today, and black bun, a thick, treacly fruit cake that was absolutely delicious.
Mirren showed them the ingenious cut-out book.
‘I wonder if he was ever a spy?’ pondered Jamie, and Esme snorted and said, if he was he would have probably spent more time in the House of Lords, where he had once held a hereditary seat, and less poking around old second-hand bookshops buying stock by the yard, and Jamie had had to concede that that was probably true.
‘Didn’t he ever have a real job?’ asked Mirren.
‘The estate is a real job,’ said Esme quickly.
‘That he was very, very bad at,’ added Jamie.
‘Yes, bit of a family tradition,’ said Esme, holding up the locket to the light. ‘This is just cheap tat,’ she said. ‘Disappointing. Isuppose if it had been worth anything Mummy would have sniffed it out a mile off.’
‘I think it’s pretty,’ said Mirren.
‘Do you?’ said Esme, and Mirren felt that any warmth that had grown between them this morning had abruptly worn off.
‘What’s inside?’ said Jamie. ‘I couldn’t open it.’
Esme, however, had perfectly manicured nails with neat edges, and with absolute precision she carefully found the latch and clicked it. They all leaned over, with Theo holding up the lantern to get a closer look.
Inside was a tiny picture.
But it was not, as Mirren had expected, a photograph of a young woman – nobody had recognised the handwriting of the letters.
Instead, it was a tiny, ancient painting. It was of a young man, but it wasn’t James; it was a boy of a fashion many years ago, painted, with pink cheeks and blond hair, and an old suit with an Elizabethan ruff. Around his neck was an animal that looked something like a monkey. Both gazed out of the tiny locket with a cool, penetrating stare. The colours were crude – red, blue and yellow – but they glowed bright. The style was very old indeed.
‘What?’ said Theo. ‘Who the hell is that?’
‘It can’t be someone from here,’ said Jamie. ‘It’s much earlier.’
All four of them stared at the picture. Theo once again took out his tweezers and very carefully worked the photo out of the locket. It was so beautiful and so strange.
Turning it over in the dim light, they saw a faint trace of writing on the back. And sure enough, once more there they were: a series of numbers.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Esme. ‘Grandfather, what the hell else did you have todoall day?’
Mirren read them out. ‘1, 2, 1, 3, 4, 1, 4, 2.’ She blinked. ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Seriously, what now? Don’t say Fibonacci.’
‘Fibonacci what?’ said Theo. ‘What could it be?’
‘A date? The day this was painted? The first of the second, 1341?’
‘Not very likely,’ said Jamie gloomily. ‘The fashion is Elizabethan.’
‘And it’s printed, not painted,’ said Theo, holding it close to the candle, although wary of it. ‘Although that could be the original date . . . ’
‘But the clothes are too late; you’d need a 5 in there, minimum.’
‘Well, a date from another time, then?’
‘Yes, butwhere?’
‘Also, you know, this picture is almost certainly cut out of a book,’ ventured Theo, and they all groaned in unison.
‘Oh,God,’ said Esme. ‘For GOD’S SAKE. This is absolutely bloody ridiculous. I don’t even think there’s anything at the other end. I don’t even think there’s that. There’s nothing. It’s all been some completely futileha ha ha make money on your own, you suckers, it’s all gone. If we ever get there, which I very much doubt, it’ll be an empty jack-in-the-box. No wonder you didn’t tell Mum about this stupid thing.’
