The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries by Daphne Coleridge Page B

Laura’s ancestors.

    Floyd flicked through the papers and said, “Tom Mortimer – he signed his pictures and dated them. 1882, I think. There are a few notes on the back of the pictures.” He poked through the suitcase a bit more and picked out a dirty looking ring and tried to rub it down with the cuff of an old shirt which was still in the case. “Valuable artefact, perhaps?”

    “No,” replied Rupert firmly. “No family disposed of everything of value more effectively than the Mortimers. Just a trinket from the market, probably.”

    “Let me see?” Sebastian put down the broken umbrella he had been trying to open and reached out a hand for the ring. Just at that moment a voice called in to them.
     
    “If you lot can leave the brandy alone and come down, somebody ordered enough Chinese takeaway to feed an army – the Great Hall will smell for days,” added Laura with distaste.

    “Oh, that was me,” smiled Sebastian, happily. “Special set dinner for four, twice: my treat!” They all stuffed the things they were holding back where they came from and followed Laura down the carved oak staircase towards the tempting aroma of Chinese food.
     
    Returning to the junk room in the morning light, Rupert saw that the suitcase had been left open, the clothes and sketch books stuffed in any old how. He couldn’t now remember if it was Floyd who had been still holding the ring or if Sebastian had taken it and whether or not it had been returned to the suitcase. Unbidden, stories of ancient Egyptian curses and scenes from The Mummy films rose to the forefront of his mind. Carefully he took the sketch book from the case and read all the notes that Tom Mortimer had written as a record of his trip to Egypt. Then Rupert searched through the mess of clothes and other personal effects until he saw the ring. It was tarnished and grubby, but appeared to be a turquoise stone set in gold. The stone may have been just a stone, but Rupert had a nasty feeling that there was just the suggestion of the scarab about it. He took a fresh linen handkerchief from his pocket and carefully lifted the ring within it and folded it up, returning it to his pocket.

    Claresby Fair was scheduled to start at noon. The weather was sunny with just the hint of a cooling breeze and a scattering of light, white, fluffy clouds. As Rupert returned to the grounds he saw that everything was taking shape and there was a tendency for people to gravitate to the refreshments tent, which was already serving coffee to the participants. He could see that Conran was helping Jinny and, knowing what he knew, felt a reluctance to go over there. Unfortunately for him, Conran caught his eye and beckoned.

    “Is Floyd up and about?” asked Conran.

    “No,” replied Rupert. “You look like you are managing well enough.”

    “On this sort of occasion, Floyd is an optional extra,” smiled Jinny, a slight and pretty woman in her thirties. “We just have prints of some of his most famous paintings. Sebastian said that Floyd might be setting up an easel and painting the house. I’ll wander around and look for him later. I can see Sebastian over there; I think he has started before the crowds arrive. Is there an official opening?”

    “Not really; just gates open at twelve. The highlight of the day is the award of prizes in various categories at four this afternoon. Would you like me to fetch you a coffee?”

    “Oh, yes please!” Jinny smiled at him.
     
    Once Rupert had done this, he went over to see Sebastian. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but somehow he thought that the artist might give him a clue to what had happened to Floyd – after all, he too had looked at the ring, and he had been sleeping right next to Floyd’s room and might have heard something. He found Sebastian at the point of having set up his easel and placed a small folding table beside him with his paints lined up, his palette already sporting bright worms of colour squeezed