Читать книгу House Of Shadows - Nicola Cornick - Страница 15

When Holly reached the Ashmolean Museum that evening she found huge posters flanking the entrance, proclaiming the forthcoming exhibition of artefacts from the Court of Elizabeth Stuart, the Winter Queen. It was, the poster proclaimed, an extraordinary showcase for an outstanding collection of the finest seventeenth-century glass, china, and portraiture.

The curator on duty at the door was reluctant to let Holly in until she mentioned her name and that she was meeting Mr Shurmer, whereupon he stood back with what was almost a bow and directed her to the second floor. The door of the lecture room stood wide; Holly could see the detritus of canapés and empty wine glasses strewn about. The guests were still chatting, however, and the roar of conversation was like a wall of noise.

She didn’t want to go in, to engage in conversation, to try to find Espen Shurmer in the crowd. Instead she turned away and immediately felt the shock of quietness fall about her. The roar of voices faded. There was nothing but the faint tap of her footsteps and beyond the floor to ceiling windows at the end of the corridor, the tumble of Oxford roofs, spires and towers and the glitter of the city lights.

Holly loved Oxford. She had grown up in the city and she loved the crackle of excitement, the same sense of opportunity in the air that she felt in London. It felt like a city of limitless possibilities as well as a place steeped in history. Tonight though it just felt lonely and the bright white walls and bare spaces of the museum made it all the more stark.

At the end of the corridor a thick red rope now blocked the entrance to the exhibition. Holly had been to similar events in London and knew that earlier in the evening, all the guests would have wandered through, exchanging professional opinions on the rarity and quality of the collection. Now the gallery was empty and she could see the gleam of glass in the display cases. It beckoned to her, forbidden, tempting. She slipped past the rope and went in, ignoring the portraits and the other objects, concentrating solely on the engraved glass.

As always when she saw such exquisite workmanship Holly felt her heart quicken. This was the long tradition she worked within. She had wanted to be a glass engraver almost from the moment she had started to study the decorative arts. Here she was looking at masterpieces of her craft. There were slender wine flutes in the Venetian style and fat goblets engraved with scenes from Dutch life. There were glasses shaped like inverted bells with stems of twisted spirals and broad bowls embellished with flowers.

A stunning floor-length picture of the Winter Queen dominated the far wall and seeing it, Holly felt a tug of memory. Her grandfather had told her stories of Elizabeth Stuart when she had been a little girl. Elizabeth had been a Scottish princess by birth and Holly, born in the North of England, had felt a sense of affinity with the child who had left behind her roots and travelled so far from home. The idea of a Winter Queen had caught her childish imagination; she had visualised Elizabeth spun from icicles, cold as snow, like the White Witch in the Chronicles of Narnia. But those stories had felt magical, unreal. Here was the story of Elizabeth’s life told through items she had touched and held.

Slowly now Holly walked between the display cases, taking in all the artefacts that she had previously ignored because she had been overwhelmed by the beauty of the glass. There were letters from Elizabeth to her husband Frederick of Bohemia, an astrolabe showing the celestial sphere with the earth at its centre, an engraved gold medal celebrating the couple’s marriage, a dagger enamelled and set with diamonds.

On a bed of blue velvet nestled two miniatures, one of Frederick and the other of Elizabeth. Leaning closer, Holly saw that the portraits had been painted in 1612, just before their marriage.

‘Miss Ansell? How do you do? I am Espen Shurmer.’

Holly jumped. Just for a moment she had forgotten that she had come to the Ashmolean to meet Espen Shurmer and talk about Ben.

Shurmer was standing on the other side of the display, hands in the pockets of his beautifully cut suit, smiling at her confusion with benevolent amusement. He stepped forwards and held out a hand.

‘Am I to assume that your presence here means that Dr Ansell has not returned?’ he asked. His English was almost accentless.

‘Mr Shurmer.’ Holly felt self-conscious and only just managed not to wipe her palms down her dress before she shook hands. ‘Yes, I’m afraid Ben is still missing.’

‘My sympathies,’ Shurmer said gravely. ‘I imagine that is very difficult for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Holly said. ‘Yes, it is a little difficult.’ She thought about her grandparents and the stoicism they were displaying in the absence of any news. When she had arrived earlier that afternoon, her grandmother had hugged her tightly for a long, long time as though she was afraid that Holly might vanish too. Her grandfather had told her he had spoken to the police and was trying to encourage them to open a formal investigation now that Ben had been gone over 48 hours without contact.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t make myself known to you when I arrived, Mr Shurmer,’ Holly said. ‘I …’ She hesitated. ‘I had an urge to see the exhibition.’

‘Of course.’ Shurmer smiled. ‘You are welcome.’ His eyes were a vivid blue. His face bore lines of humour and experience. It was impossible to guess his age although Holly thought he must be in his late sixties, or older. His English was slightly clipped and old-fashioned which only added to the charm.

‘Why would you not wish to see it?’ he said. ‘All these items are so very beautiful.’

‘Yes.’ Holly hesitated again. ‘I’m a glass engraver, you see, and these—’ She gestured towards the display cases, ‘well, I’ve never seen anything quite so stunning.’ She found that she had put out a hand towards the nearest cabinet as though wanting to touch the glass within. It was a rose-coloured goblet with a hunting scene engraved on it in gold foil. She knew it was called gold sandwich-glass and that it was so precious and expensive that it had probably been a gift and never actually used.

She saw Shurmer’s eyes widen momentarily in surprise. ‘A glass engraver,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘It’s wonderful to see the glass in the context of other items from Frederick and Elizabeth’s court,’ Holly said. ‘On its own it is exquisite but seen alongside some of their other possessions it has so much more meaning. I can almost imagine stepping into the palace of the Wassenaer Hof and seeing the table set for a banquet …’ She tailed off, thinking she sounded impossibly naïve, but Shurmer’s shrewd blue gaze had sharpened with interest.

‘So you know about the Wassenaer Hof? About Elizabeth and Frederick’s court in exile?’

‘A little,’ Holly said. ‘I’ve been to The Hague but of course the palace has gone now. As for Elizabeth and Frederick, my grandfather told me about them when I was a child. He was a wonderful storyteller.’

‘The Winter Queen is not well known in this country,’ Shurmer said, ‘even though she was the daughter of King James I.’

‘She was known as the Pearl of Britain,’ Holly said. She looked at Elizabeth’s portrait. ‘She looks heartbreakingly lovely. So young as well.’

It was an unusual portrait, she thought. In it Elizabeth’s auburn hair was loose about her shoulders rather than piled up in some elaborate arrangement, and the long flowing tresses complemented the bold orange and black striped gown she wore. She was a true Scottish rose with creamy white skin and pale blue eyes.

‘As does Frederick,’ Shurmer said. Holly thought he sighed softly. ‘So young and eager. It is fortunate they did not know at that stage what was to come – betrayal, loss and exile.’

The Winter King looked no more than a boy, handsome and clean-shaven. His dark eyes were lustrous and his dark hair had a jaunty curl. Holly could see why he and Elizabeth had apparently fallen in love with each other on sight. Their good looks, hopes and expectations would have been a mirror each for the other. Everything must have seemed so wonderful in the beginning.

Then she remembered that Elizabeth had lost her brother only months before her marriage to Frederick. Even then there had been dark clouds. Unconsciously she wrapped her arms about her, warding off the darkness.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you did not invite me here to discuss this.’

Shurmer smiled. ‘On the contrary, Miss Ansell. In order to understand what it is that your brother wanted from me, it is necessary to know of the Winter Queen. But it seems that you already do.’ His gaze was intent, as though weighing up just how much she did know. ‘Has Dr Ansell already told you about his researches?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Holly said. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘So,’ Shurmer said. ‘Why did you decide to come?’

Holly did not answer immediately and he did not prompt her. There was a quality of patience, of stillness, about Espen Shurmer that was unusual, she thought. It felt as though he would always be prepared to wait as long as was needed to get what he wanted.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said honestly, after a moment. ‘I think I came because I thought it might have something to do with Ben’s disappearance, or at least help me to work out what has happened to him.’

Shurmer nodded slowly. ‘It is important to you to find him.’

‘Very,’ Holly said.

Silence fell again. She waited for Shurmer to say something reassuring. Almost everyone she had met in the past 48 hours had told her they were sure Ben would turn up soon. She knew it was intended to help, to make her feel better, even though it didn’t. But Espen Shurmer said nothing.

‘When we spoke you mentioned something about a pearl of great value,’ Holly said. ‘I must admit it surprised me. That really doesn’t sound like Ben. He’s not into antique jewellery or history of any sort, to be honest. He’s too—’ She paused. ‘He’s more about the present rather than the past.’

‘Indeed?’ A frown touched Espen Shurmer’s brow. ‘Yet he was researching your family history?’

‘I only heard about that recently,’ Holly said. ‘It seemed weird – totally out of character.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m astonished he told you about that too. Did it have something to do with his questions about the pearl?’

She saw a shadow of something flicker in Shurmer’s eyes. ‘Perhaps.’ His tone was non-committal. ‘I do not know. All I know is that Dr Ansell wanted me to tell him all I knew about the Sistrin.’

‘The Sistrin,’ Holly said, and as she said the name she felt something shift inside her like the faintest of echoes, as though she had heard the word before. ‘That is the name of the pearl,’ she said softly.

‘It is,’ Shurmer said. ‘But before I tell you about it, Miss Ansell, we must go back a little.’ He gestured to her to sit beside him on one of the museum’s wide leather benches. ‘You will humour an old man, I hope.’

It felt something of a royal edict. Holly sat.

Espen Shurmer waved a hand towards the cabinet that was closest to them. ‘You see the crystal mirror, here? What do you think of it?’

Holly followed his gaze. The same display case that held the rose-coloured engraved glass also held a number of other objects, but amongst all the gorgeously extravagant glassware they had been all but invisible to her. Now she saw them: a signet ring, a sapphire necklace set in dull gold, and a small mirror in a wooden frame that was studded with diamonds. It was shaped like a teardrop with a worn handle at the base. It was beautiful, a piece of workmanship so delicate it looked as though it would be too fragile to hold. The glass shone with a milky bluish radiance. Yet there was something about it that Holly did not like.

‘It’s a stunning piece of work,’ she said carefully.

‘It is Murano crystal,’ Shurmer said, ‘and was a gift to Mary, Queen of Scots when she wed Francois II of France. It is pretty, is it not?’

That was something of an understatement, Holly thought. The mirror was exquisite. Yet there was also something malevolent about it. She did not want to look into it though she was not exactly sure what it was about it that scared her.

‘Mary was Elizabeth’s grandmother, wasn’t she?’ she asked. ‘Did she bequeath it to her?’

The lines deepened about Shurmer’s eyes as he smiled. ‘After a fashion,’ he said. ‘It was stolen by Elizabeth I of England when she had Mary put to death. Later Elizabeth sent it back to Scotland as a christening gift for Elizabeth Stuart, who was her goddaughter. It was, however, something of a cursed gift.’

‘Cursed?’ Holly said. She didn’t believe in the supernatural. She had never liked things she could not explain: ghosts, the Loch Ness monster, even the placebo effect. Even so, she felt the goosebumps creep along the back of her neck.

‘The mirror became a tool for necromancy,’ Shurmer said. ‘Soothsaying,’ he added, in response to Holly’s enquiring glance. ‘After Frederick lost his throne he became obsessed with the need to know whether he would ever regain his patrimony. He was a member of the Order of Knights of the Rosy Cross. They were said to have the power of foretelling the future and they used the crystal mirror in their magic.’

‘I remember reading about the Knights of the Rosy Cross years ago,’ Holly said. ‘Some people thought them healers rather than magicians. And some said they were charlatans in league with the devil.’

‘Very good, Miss Ansell.’ Shurmer was nodding his approval. ‘The Knights of the Rosy Cross were many things to many men.’ Then as she smiled, he said: ‘Forgive me. I sound like a teacher, I know, but it is rare to meet someone who has heard of the Order of the Rosy Cross.’ He sighed. ‘Legend has it that the Knights used a number of tools in their scrying, but that the jewelled mirror was the most important because it had the power to reflect the future. It had been forged in fire, you see, and it was said that as from fire it had come, so into fire it would lead its enemies.’

Holly gave a little involuntary shiver. She found she did not want to look directly at the mirror now, but paradoxically it almost felt as though it was willing her to turn, beckoning her gaze. Very deliberately she shifted so that her back was towards it.

‘The mirror was said to have caused the death of Henry, Lord Darnley, in an explosion and fire,’ Shurmer said. ‘It was also rumoured to have foretold the Gunpowder Plot. On the very day of the Princess Elizabeth’s christening, her nurse saw a vision of hellfire and flame in the mirror and the child upon the throne of England.’

‘I know that the plotters planned to set Princess Elizabeth up as a puppet queen,’ Holly said, ‘but since the Gunpowder Plot didn’t actually succeed, technically it can’t be said that the mirror predicted the future.’

Shurmer’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘I see that you are a most logical person, Miss Ansell.’

‘I try to be,’ Holly said.

Shurmer’s smile deepened. ‘Then I doubt you will believe for a moment the tales of the Knights and their soothsaying,’ he said. ‘Or a mirror that can destroy its enemies through fire.’

‘It’s certainly a great story,’ Holly said. ‘How did the mirror come into your collection?’

‘That was by fortunate chance,’ Shurmer said. The bright white lights of the exhibition cases threw the shadows of his face into stark relief. Suddenly he looked frail, the skin stretched too taut across his cheekbones, his eyes tired.

‘For many years the mirror was missing,’ he said. ‘It was believed buried with Frederick, but Frederick’s tomb was lost during the Thirty Years War. Then the mirror miraculously reappeared in the late twentieth century at a car boot sale in Corby in Northamptonshire.’

Holly almost choked. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but you do not strike me as the sort of man who spends his time attending car boot sales.’

Shurmer laughed. ‘What I should have said is that I was alerted to the fact that there was a very old, very fine mirror for sale. An … associate of mine bought it and mentioned it to me. He knew that I was interested in seventeenth-century artefacts, particularly those from the Bohemian court.’

‘I suppose it had no provenance?’ Holly said.

Shurmer shook his head. ‘Naturally not. But it matches the known descriptions and pictures of the Murano crystal mirror.’

‘Did you have it authenticated?’ Holly asked. It would be the natural thing to do; call in a group of experts to assess the mirror and confirm its age and origin. Yet Espen Shurmer was shaking his head again and she sensed that his belief in the mirror and its myth was so strong that either he believed it absolutely without the need for proof or he did not want to question it too closely in case he destroyed the legend.

Of course he might be right. It could indeed be the very mirror that the Winter King had used to foresee the future. Holly glanced at it again and felt the same disturbing pull. A breath of wind seemed to ripple through the still air of the gallery. The lights seemed to shimmer and the mirror glowed in its case as though it were alive. She shuddered, closing her eyes. When she reopened them the gallery swam back into her vision, all bright lights and clean modern lines. It looked normal, just an empty room with old objects in display cases.

‘That brings us to the Sistrin pearl,’ Shurmer said, ‘for the crystal mirror was not the only gift bequeathed to Elizabeth by her grandmother. It was matched with a jewel of rare beauty and price.’ He waved a hand towards the miniature of young Elizabeth that was displayed in the glass cabinet. Holly saw that she was wearing a string of pearls with one huge drop pearl in the centre. The simplicity of the necklace and the radiance of the jewels suited the innocence of the portrait. Curiously though, the big pearl was shaped exactly like the crystal mirror. It was a pear shape, or teardrop.

‘The Sistrin pearl was also said to hold great magic.’ Shurmer, too, was looking towards the cabinet where the pearl gleamed at Elizabeth’s neck. ‘It was supposedly a powerful talisman for good, but like the mirror it also possessed the power to wreak destruction if it was misused.’

‘Old pearls almost always have some sort of legend attached to them, though, don’t they?’ Holly said. ‘I mean, usually they have belonged to pirates or they are cursed or something. It was a very superstitious age.’

‘That is true,’ Shurmer said. ‘Certainly the Knights of the Rosy Cross believed the legends and used the pearl and the mirror together in their necromancy. They used their magic to create firewater, a medium through which the future could not only be seen but could also be transformed.’

‘That sounds rather dangerous to me,’ Holly said. ‘If you believe in these things …’ She hesitated. ‘Well, you’re meddling with forces you cannot control, aren’t you.’

‘Yes,’ Shurmer said. There was an odd note in his voice. ‘Indeed you are.’

‘Was this what Ben wanted to know?’ Holly asked. ‘The legend of the Sistrin pearl?’

Shurmer shook his head. ‘Dr Ansell already knew the history of the pearl,’ he said. ‘No—’ His eyes met hers and Holly felt something akin to an electric shock. ‘Your brother wished to find out what had happened to the pearl after it passed out of the possession of the Winter Queen.’

Holly felt even more bewildered. ‘Why on earth would he want to know that?’

‘I have no notion,’ Shurmer said calmly. ‘He would not say. That was why I wanted to meet him. I thought that perhaps he had found it.’

‘Found it?’ Holly felt completely bewildered. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Shurmer, I don’t quite understand …’

‘After the Winter Queen’s death, the pearl disappeared,’ Shurmer said, ‘but unlike the crystal mirror it never reappeared. We do not know its fate. It is lost.’ He made a slight gesture and the light flashed on the expensive gold watch he wore. ‘It is the holy grail of collectors, Miss Ansell. Everyone wants to find the Sistrin pearl. I myself have sought it for forty years.’

There was silence in the gallery. Holly could hear nothing except the soft hum of the air conditioning. She was very aware of Espen Shurmer watching her, gauging her every expression. She was not sure what was showing on her face. It had been astonishing enough to discover that Ben had been involved in some sort of family history research. Now to discover that he had been making enquiries about a long-lost pearl was extraordinary. It felt as though there should be a connection between the two but Holly could not imagine what it was. The story of the mirror and the pearl seemed no more than superstition and legend.

‘You should know,’ Shurmer said, and Holly realised that he was picking his words very carefully, ‘that after Dr Ansell contacted me I did make some enquiries into his background and history.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Forgive me, but I am a rich man and sometimes criminals will try to target my collection. Naturally I quickly realised your brother was no such person.’ His smile was disarming. ‘Yet equally I could find no obvious connection between your family and the Winter Queen to suggest why your brother might possess the Sistrin.’

‘Did you ask him?’ Holly said. ‘Whether he had the pearl, I mean?’

‘Yes,’ Shurmer said. His tone was pensive. ‘He was … evasive. He suggested we meet and I agreed.’

There was silence. Holly tried to remember her conversations with Ben. None of them had involved anything as arcane as lost treasure. She thought about the mill. She had spent much of the day tidying it up and she had found nothing unusual or unexpected. The lack of clues towards Ben’s disappearance had frustrated her.

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said helplessly. ‘Ben said nothing to me. I really don’t think I can help.’

‘No matter,’ Shurmer said graciously. ‘I would ask, though, that if you discover anything, you let me know?’ He took a card from his inside pocket and passed it to Holly. It felt crisp and smooth beneath her fingers, the edges sharp.

‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘Of course I will.’

She stood up, suddenly wanting to be gone from this place, the supernatural stories and the crystal mirror’s sinister gleam. It was easy to believe in superstition when she was encased in a world like the Ashmolean, where thousand-year-old tribal masks watched her with blank eyes as she passed and she could hear the whispers of history.

‘I understand that you are most anxious to uncover the reasons for your brother’s disappearance, Miss Ansell,’ Shurmer said quietly, getting to his feet too. ‘I hope that you find what you are looking for.’

‘Thank you,’ Holly said. ‘I …’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sure he will turn up soon.’

She saw the smile that touched Shurmer’s eyes and knew that he knew she was lying.

‘Let us hope so,’ he said. He held out a hand and Holly shook it.

‘It was … very interesting … to meet you, Mr Shurmer.’

‘A pleasure, Miss Ansell,’ Shurmer said. He sounded as though he meant it.

Holly had already taken five steps away when she stopped and turned back. Espen Shurmer was standing where she had left him, beside the display case that contained the crystal mirror.

‘What was the special power that the pearl was said to possess?’ she asked. The words seemed to spring from her of their own volition. She was not even sure what had put them in her mind. Then, when Shurmer did not immediately reply, she added:

‘You said that the mirror destroyed its enemies through fire. What did the pearl do?’

She saw it then, the flicker of disquiet in Espen Shurmer’s eyes, and knew that for some reason he had deliberately kept this from her.

‘Mr Shurmer?’ she said.

‘The pearl’s power came from water,’ Shurmer said. ‘It destroyed its enemies through the medium of water.’

Holly thought of the mill, of the splash of the stream running beneath the wheel and the lazy glare of the sun on the pond. It had to be a coincidence, and yet she felt a deep chill in her bones. She thought of Ben and for a terrifying moment her mind was full of darkness. There was the rushing sound of water in her ears and a pressure in her lungs that smothered her breath. Coldness gripped her limbs and there was fear that cut like a blade.

‘The Winter Queen’s eldest son died from drowning,’ she said slowly. ‘And her brother – did he not die after swimming in the Thames?’

‘That is indeed so, Miss Ansell,’ Shurmer said. ‘Those who dismiss such magic as mere superstition are perhaps complacent.’

A huge shudder shook Holly. If Ben truly had the Sistrin pearl, had it destroyed him, too? She turned, practically running from the gallery, down the stairs and out of the main door oblivious to the curious glances of the people she passed. Her breath was coming in short bursts and she had a stitch in her side and when she reached the bottom of the steps she had to stop and steady herself against the wall.

Out in the street there were crowds gathering outside the theatre opposite, spilling into the road. The normality of noise and people and light slowly wrapped about Holly, banishing the mysteries of the museum. She straightened up and started to walk slowly towards St Giles, all the while wondering what had happened to her. Stories of cursed mirrors and legendary pearls, magic and superstition, were so alien to her that she was puzzled that she had entertained them for a moment. She used such ideas as inspiration for her engraving designs but she did not really believe in them. Or she had not, until tonight.

Now, though, she felt on edge, adrift, rocked by uncertainty. She told herself that in ten minutes she would be back at her grandparents’ house and they would be bursting to tell her that they had had a message from Ben. He would be safe, he would be on the way home to Tasha and all would be well. Later, when all the fuss had died down, she would ask him about the pearl and Espen Shurmer, and he would explain that it had just been a casual enquiry as a result of something he had stumbled across in the family history …

Holly turned left into the Woodstock Road, heading for Summertown, walking briskly even though she was so tired. It was raining a little, the pavements slick, the raindrops running down the car windows and stinging Holly’s face, blurring the city lights to an endless string of pearls that was finally swallowed in darkness.