Page 125 of The Secret House of Honey and Hope

He has already turned away and doesn’t even glance at her. “Maybe later.”

“Hal?” she says more firmly. “I think you should come.”

At this he does turn, brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because it has to do with your family.” She beckons him over, and after a moment, he follows.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Elodie

We all crowd into the bedroom. Pierre must have pushed the bed aside because it’s no longer flush with the wall behind it. One of the floorboards has been lifted, revealing a small cache.

“I dropped my water bottle.” Pierre explains. “I noticed the water drained more quickly here. So, I shoved the bed – and believe me it took a lot of shoving because it weighs a tonne. Anyway, once the leg was off this floorboard, it just lifted.”

Next to it, on the floor, is a grey blanket which looks old and stained, the edges frayed and tatty where moths have eaten it. My eyes go to the design in the middle, a stamp in dark ink of an eagle, wings spread wide and clutching a swastika in its feet. The wordsDEUTSCHE WEHRMACHTare printed underneath.

Gabriel lets out a soft whistle. “Well, this didn’t belong to Ada Montague or her boys.”

I stare very hard at Hal willing him to look at me.

Would he really want to get to the bottom of this new mystery when it might just mean something else that implicates his grandfather as a collaborator inviting German soldiers here? Didn’t he tell me that Hector threatened to report anyone caught trespassing on his land?

“The blanket was wrapped around these.” Pierre points to a small collection of objects: a notebook with yellowing pages, several letters, a crucifix on a chain, and a few small wooden tiles and carvings. The biggest is a square with rounded edges which has been polished smooth and carved with…

Hal is closest so I hold my hand out. “May I?”

He doesn’t answer or acknowledge me, he just steps back so I can take it. As I pass him, I get a whiff of his scent. Instantly it transports me to the bed we’ve shared. The smell of his skin and the faint hint of his aftershave. I catch myself leaning slightly towards him as if to nuzzle into his neck like I’ve done so many times.

He must sense it too because for a tiny fraction of a second, he stills, then his lips tighten, and he steps back.

I blink away the memory of his touch and focus on the wooden carving.

It’s a few moments before my mind can come back and really take in what my eyes are seeing. What looks like… I turn it upside down, and …there!

The image is clearly recognisable. A small lake, a waterfall, trees, and bushes around it. “Wow, do you know what this is?” I glance out of the window at the pond. “It’s the scene outside this room. Look.” I show them. Someone who must have been staying here, must have loved this place, and made this picture.

“What do they call this?” Gabriel asks. “It’s not carved, it’s burned-in.”

“Pyrography,” Hal says, his tone pressed flat. “It’s done with a heated wire or nib to etch the design into the wood. Used to be very popular about a hundred years ago.”

It pains me to listen to him; he’s never sounded so lifeless before. The Hal I’ve known is animated, funny, knowledgeable. Now… it's as if that climb down the cliff used up the last of his hope, and his faith has drained away. I can’t bear to watch him and not reach to touch him.

Okay. Next object

This is a rectangular panel, like a plaque, the kind you hang on a wall. It’s about ten or twelve inches across with a sentence along the centre, surrounded by a decorative border of leaves and flowers and…and... oh my God, yes, bees. “Look at these.” I hold it up. “They are Hawthorn flowers, you can all recognise them, they’re in bloom right now all around this area.” Whoever did this must have been here in spring.

Gabriel takes it from me. “What’s the writing?”

We both look but cannot make it out. “It’s not English,” I say.

“Or any language I’ve seen before. It’s a different alphabet.” Gabriel hands it to Hal who takes it without a word and examines it then looks up at Pierre.

She’s been hovering behind us waiting for us to guess. “Cyrillic.”

Hal looks down at the inscription. “You could be right. It’s hard to tell because the calligraphy is so stylised.”

“It’s the same here.” She points to the papers. “The notebook and letters are all in the same language.”

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