House Of Shadows: Discover the thrilling untold story of the Winter Queen. Nicola Cornick
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how, as children, she and Ben would imagine the bed as a flying carpet taking them to faraway lands. They had told each other stories more spectacular, adventurous and exciting than any they had read in books. It had been magical. There had even been a little compartment hidden beneath the cushion on the window seat where they would leave each other secret messages …
The breath stopped in her throat. Softly, so as not to wake Florence, Holly slipped off the seat and lifted the cushion up. The little brass handle she remembered was still there. She pulled. Nothing happened. The box lid seemed wedged shut. She tugged a little harder.
The wood lifted with a scrape that she was afraid for a moment would wake Florence, but the child did not stir. Holly knelt down and peered inside.
There was nothing there except for a receipt for some dry cleaning, a dead spider and a misshapen yellow pebble.
Holly felt an absurd sense of disappointment and loss. What had she imagined – that Ben would have left her a secret message to explain where he had gone? No matter how wrong it felt to her that he had simply vanished into thin air, she had to believe that the police were correct. Come morning Ben would walk in full of anxiety for Flo and apologies and relief, explaining … But here Holly’s imagination failed her. She could not think of a single reason why he would do what he had done.
Eventually, when she felt calm enough, she went and curled up next to Florence on the big double bed. She didn’t sleep but lay listening to Florence’s breathing and felt a little bit comforted. After a while she fell into an uneasy doze, Bonnie resting across her feet.
She was woken some time later by an insistent ringing sound. For a moment she felt happy before the memory of what had happened rushed in, swamping her consciousness. She stumbled from the bed and down the stairs, making a grab for her bag and the phone, wondering if it was Guy calling to see what had happened.
But it wasn’t her mobile that was ringing. She found Ben’s phone halfway down the side of the sofa and pressed the button to answer the call.
‘Dr Ansell?’ It was a voice she didn’t recognise, male, slightly accented, sounding pleasant and business-like. ‘This is Espen Shurmer. My apologies for calling you so early but I wanted to catch you to confirm our meeting on Friday—’
‘This isn’t Ben,’ Holly said quickly. ‘I’m his sister.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘My apologies again.’ The man sounded faintly amused. ‘If you would be so good as to pass me over to Dr Ansell.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Holly said. ‘He’s not here. I …’ She could feel herself stuttering, still half-asleep. She wasn’t sure why she had answered the call and now she didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m afraid he’s disappeared,’ she blurted out.
This time the silence at the other end of the line was more prolonged. Just when she thought Espen Shurmer had hung up, and was feeling grateful for it, he spoke again.
‘Disappeared? As in you do not know where he is?’ He sounded genuinely interested.
‘Yes,’ Holly said. ‘Last night.’ She was not sure why she was telling this man so much when he was probably no more than a business acquaintance of Ben’s. ‘So I’m afraid I don’t know if he’ll be able to make your meeting … I mean, if he comes back I’ll tell him, but I can’t guarantee he’ll be there …’ She let her voice trail away, feeling an absolute fool.
‘Miss Ansell,’ the man at the other end said, ‘Forgive me for not introducing myself properly. My name is Espen Shurmer and I am a collector of seventeenth-century artefacts, paintings, glass, jewellery …’ He paused. ‘I had arranged to meet your brother on Friday night at 7.30pm after a private view at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. He contacted me a couple of weeks ago to request the meeting.’
‘Oh.’ Holly was at a loss. ‘Well, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Mr Shurmer, but I have no idea what Ben wanted to talk to you about. Actually I’m very surprised he got in touch. Art isn’t really his thing …’ She stopped again, realising she was still babbling even if what she was saying was true. Ben had zero interest in the arts. He had always supported her engraving career and had even bought a couple of her glass paperweights for his surgery, but she had known it had only been because she had made them herself. She had loved him for it but she was under no illusions about his interest in culture.
‘I know what it was that your brother wished to discuss, Miss Ansell,’ Espen Shurmer said. ‘He wanted some information on a certain pearl, a legendary stone of great worth.’
Holly sat down abruptly. ‘A … pearl?’ She said. She thought she had misheard. ‘As in a piece of jewellery? Are you sure? I mean …’ It was possible that Ben might have been buying a gift for Natasha, but she was certain he would have bought a modern piece rather than approaching an antiques collector. Such an idea would never even have crossed his mind.
‘I think we should meet to discuss this,’ the man said, after a moment. ‘It is most important. If your brother is unable to keep the appointment, would you be able to come in his place, Miss Ansell? I should be extremely grateful.’
Holly hadn’t even thought about what would happen beyond the next few hours, let alone on Friday. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Shurmer, but Ben will probably be back by then and anyway, this is nothing to do with me.’
‘Seven thirty at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford,’ Shurmer said, cutting in so smoothly she barely noticed the interruption. ‘I should be greatly honoured if you choose to be there, Miss Ansell,’ he added with old-fashioned courtesy.
The line clicked as the call went dead.
Holly put the phone down slowly, found her bag and grabbed her tablet. She typed in the name Espen Shurmer and the time, the date and the name of the Ashmolean Museum. The information came up at once – a lecture and private view of portraits and artefacts from the court in exile of Elizabeth, the Winter Queen, sister of King Charles I, which preceded a major new exhibition starting at the end of May. Espen Shurmer, she read, was a Dutch collector of 17th-century painting and glass, and he had donated a number of items to the museum.
She felt a pang of regret as she closed the tablet. She would have loved to see an exhibition of seventeenth-century artefacts and talk to a renowned expert. But there would be no need. Ben would be back soon, she was sure of it. She had to be sure because there was Flo to console and there were her own fears to fight. The longer Ben was absent, the more those shadows grew like monsters, the fear that Ben would never come back and she would be alone again, totally alone this time, like they had been after their parents had died, only so much worse …
She fought back the panic. It was important to keep busy. She needed to make breakfast for Flo, then they could both take Bonnie for a walk, and by then Ben would be home …
But Ben had not come back by lunchtime when Holly drove down to the deli to fetch sandwiches, nor was he back by three when they came back from another walk in the woods with Bonnie. All day Holly had felt her anxiety rising and squashed it down relentlessly, but it grew inside her, filling the empty spaces, filling her mind so she found it almost impossible to concentrate on anything. When she heard a car coming up the track towards the mill she had to restrain herself from running outside to see if it was Ben.
‘It’s Mummy!’ Flo had none of Holly’s reticence and had bounded up from the painting they had been doing to rush out of the door, Bonnie at her heels. Holly followed them more slowly. She and her sister-in-law had always had a brittle relationship. Ben had been a link between them, but now he was missing, and Holly felt suddenly wary.
Tasha, looking as elegant as though she was stepping onto the catwalk, slammed the door of her little red sports car and came hurrying across the gravel on her vertiginously high heels.
‘What the fuck is all this about?’ She demanded without preamble, meeting Holly by the gate. ‘I’ve had to come all the way back from Spain! Where is he, the stupid bastard?’
Holly