The Trust Read online

  THE TRUST

  M. H. Eccleston

  An Aries book

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  An Aries book

  Copyright © M. H. Eccleston, 2022

  The moral right of M. H. Eccleston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN E: 9781803280349

  ISBN PB: 9781803280363

  Cover design © Ben Prior

  Aries

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  For Ellie, Charlie, Jake and Daisy.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  One week later

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  1

  Astrid turned the Mini into a wide avenue of beech trees and Sherborne Hall slid into view. It was a huge red-brick mansion – three storeys, a steep roof accessorised with turrets, battlements and rows of gargoyles. A bright copper lightning conductor winked at her through rambling ivy. The house was a Georgian fop – overdressed and ageing badly, but still trying to get attention.

  As she pulled in alongside the wooden gatehouse, she realised she knew almost nothing about the English Trust. Their brown oak leaf road signs were all over the countryside – but up until now she’d never visited one of their properties. Her mother was a fan though. She’d once said, ‘The English Trust represents all that’s decent about England.’ Before adding something about their ‘spotless bathrooms’. Maybe she should keep that in the back pocket in case the interview stalled.

  A man who looked like he’d been sewn into his tweed jacket eventually came out of the hut and pointed her towards the side of the house. Astrid crunched up the gravel path under the stony glare of the gargoyles until she came to a door marked ‘staff’. Before she could knock, a young assistant swung the door open and introduced herself as Emily. Then took her to the head office at a pace that suggested they didn’t want to be late.

  Cressida Giles sat behind a broad mahogany desk. She was in her mid-forties, blonde hair cut perfectly straight just above her shoulders. A slash of magenta lipstick complemented her navy blue tailored suit. ‘Soo…’ She pushed her Alice band back on her high forehead and smiled broadly. ‘Thanks so much for coming in, Astrid.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Okay.’ Cressida scanned the laptop screen in front of her. ‘Let’s print your CV out. See what you’ve been up to.’

  A printer in the corner whirred into action. The printer and the laptop were the only modern things in the room. All the furniture was late Georgian, presumably borrowed from elsewhere in the house. Around the walls were a few old portraits in heavy frames. Nothing she could put an artist’s name to, though.

  Cressida went over to the printer and returned with two sheets of paper. She ran her nail down the CV, stopping now and then to study Astrid’s face. ‘Fine Art at Edinburgh… internship at the Brera in Milan.’ She tilted her head to one side as if she could somehow check the facts by looking at her. ‘Eight years as a conservator at the National Gallery.’

  ‘It’s all up to date,’ said Astrid.

  ‘Very impressive.’ Cressida beamed. ‘And we can check your references?’

  Astrid remembered that Simon was still one of the references. ‘Yes, of course.’ They never checked references, right?

  ‘Super-duper.’ She pushed the CV to one side. ‘So, let me just run through some stats about our fabulous English Trust. You probably know them.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t mind hearing them again.’

  ‘Right then.’ Cressida bounced to the edge of her seat. ‘The Trust owns over five hundred stately homes, castles, monuments, stuff like that. It has nearly six million members. Over sixty-five thousand volunteers. That’s a lot of people, but as I like saying…’ Cressida knitted her fingers together and pretended to be unable to pull them apart. ‘We are one big family.’ She unclasped her hands and waggled a finger in the air. ‘And I am just thrilled to have been given the job here as Head of Heritage Marketing.’

  Astrid had never met someone with so much positive energy. It was hard to match. ‘Well done,’ she said, half raising her fist.

  ‘So, Astrid…’ Cressida fixed her with a stare. ‘What’s the most important thing about heritage marketing?’

  ‘Um… heritage?’

  ‘No, it’s visitor numbers – footfall, as we say in the trade.’ This was clearly the speech part of the interview and Cressida was going to enjoy it. ‘As you know, the Trust is 125 years old.’

  ‘Yup, I knew that.’

  ‘And it’s time for it to adapt – for everyone.’ Cressida stressed the word ‘everyone’ as if Astrid should repeat it.

  ‘Everyone,’ said Astrid.

  ‘Exactly. Head office want visitor numbers up at Sherborne Hall, and I’m going to deliver.’ She stood up and pointed straight at Astrid. ‘And here’s how I’m going to do it, Astrid.’

  There was a knock on the door and a woman dressed in a Victorian cook’s outfit bustled in. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said cheerily.

  ‘Oh, hi Denise.’ Cressida sat down again.

  ‘Just to let you know… An Italian gentleman on one of the tours was in the pantry and took a bite out of a wax kipper.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Cressida grimaced.

  ‘He’s fine now. I just wanted to let you know.’

  ‘Well, thanks for keeping me in the loop.’

  Denise retreated round the door.

  ‘That’s Denise, one of our volunteers. She’s lovely. Anyway, where were we?’

  ‘You’re going to deliver visitor numbers.’

  ‘Thank you, Astrid. Basically, we have to attract a wider demographic with more events and activities. Often, they’re tie-ins with brands. And of course, not everyone’s happy with that. You probably heard about the pushback for our Cadbury’s Egg Hunt.’

  ‘You know, I don’t think I did.’

  ‘Okay, well a lot of the members thought it was too commercial. Not what the Trust should be doing.’ Cressida opened the top drawer in the desk and brought out a stack of letters. ‘Here we go.’ She started to read from a small magnolia note. ‘My wife and I have now cancelled our membership after fifty-three years. If we wanted to visit a theme park we would have gone to Disney World.’

  She carried on to the next letter in the pile. ‘This is more to the point: The fiery coals of hell await those responsible. Yours sincerely. Reverend Lionel Armitage.’

  ‘I guess people don’t like change.’

  ‘Exactly, Astrid.’ She tapped her temple. ‘Blue-sky thinking. It scares people.’ She put the letters back in the drawer. ‘Ah ha…’ Out came a stiff shiny piece of paper. ‘Here it is – the Trust’s “core values”. I’m supposed to read them to you. Are you ready?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Alright.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It’s – inspire people. Love places. Thinking long term and…’ She squinted at the sheet. ‘Mmm… sorry, the laminator is running a bit hot. It’s melted that bit. I think we’ve probably covered it though.’ She tucked the fact sheet into the drawer and slammed it shut. The door creaked open and Denise poked her head round the frame.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot to ask. Do you want me to fill out the usual incident forms?’

  ‘If you would, Denise. Thanks.’

  ‘And the offending kipper. What would you like me do with that?’

  ‘I’ll leave that decision to you.’

  Denise’s head ducked out of view.

  Cressida rolled her shoulders back. ‘When I came here three months ago I sent an email saying I had an “open door policy”. Don’t even knock – just come on in.’

  ‘Well, that backfired.’

  ‘I think it might have.’

  Astrid shifted in her chair. She had been there nearly five minutes and there had been no mention of the job. ‘So, Cressida, why exactly do you need an art
conservator?’

  ‘You know.’ Cressida glanced at the door. ‘Why don’t we walk and talk?’

  *

  They took a side entrance that led out into a walled garden. A herringbone-brick path wound through triangular beds bordered by a low hedge of lavender. Neat rows of seedlings poked up from the soil. Hand-painted labels promised carrots, dwarf beans and parsnips. There wasn’t a weed in sight.

  As they walked, Cressida talked excitedly. The kitchen garden, she explained, was just a very small part of a 350-acre estate that had been in the Sherborne family since the mid-seventeenth century. Recently the current Lady Sherborne, widowed for two decades now, had reluctantly decided to downsize. She’d agreed to sell more than half of the hall to the Trust as long as she could continue living in the East Wing. The Trust had also struck a deal to buy a selection of paintings from the family collection.

  Finally, as they cut through an archway in a yew hedge and out to the gardens, Astrid’s role in all this became clear. The best dozen or so of these paintings were going to form the centrepiece for an exhibition called ‘The Treasures of Sherborne Hall’, which Cressida had every confidence would be one of the ‘blockbusters’ of the Trust calendar. They just needed a conservator to come in and get the paintings looking their best. A bit of cleaning to brighten them up. Astrid had barely said a word. Which was fine – her CV, according to Cressida, ‘spoke for itself’ and the job was hers if she wanted it.

  ‘Wow, yes please,’ she said extending her hand for an awkward fist bump. Not the sort of thing she usually did, but this was worth celebrating. She’d seen off the competition in twenty minutes. Or had nobody else applied?

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Cressida, rubbing her knuckles. ‘Now, I know it’s Friday, but would you mind popping in and making a start tomorrow? I’m really keen to get the ball rolling.’

  ‘Well, I have a basic conservator’s kit with me so yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘Wonderful. And congratulations on the appointment.’

  There was a screech of wheels on the gravel drive in front of the house. An old Land Rover ground to a halt, sending up a plume of dust. An elderly woman with a bright, floral headscarf was leaning out of the driver’s window and shouting something at a mother. The woman quickly clapped her hands over the ears of the child by her side. The Land Rover roared off through the gravel, sending visitors jumping onto the verge.

  ‘Who was that?’ said Astrid.

  ‘That,’ said Cressida, ‘was Lady Sherborne.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Astrid watched the Land Rover skid round the side of the house.

  ‘Oh, there was one thing I forgot to ask you,’ said Cressida. ‘What’s brought you all the way out here?’

  Astrid paused. ‘It’s complicated.’

  2

  Wednesday, 48 hours earlier

  Astrid stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of her apartment and admired the view. It was, as always, breath-taking. A low bank of cloud hung over the city. The Thames, muddy brown from a week of spring rain, swept out to the estuary in the east. Ribbons of cars and vans flowed over the bridges – a living landscape, framed in gunmetal grey aluminium. Like everything in the flat, the windows had been planned to the last detail. No corners had been cut. It had stretched their budget to the limit but, as she’d told Simon, they might as well make it perfect.

  The decor had been inspired by a hotel suite in Milan – everything from the dark walnut floor to the Art Deco side tables. She’d added a few touches of her own. Like the geometric print cushions she’d seen in Elle Decoration, and the gilded starburst mirror she’d picked up in Portobello market. The only contribution Simon had made was a canvas he’d given her as a wedding present four years ago. It was plain white with all the milestones in their relationship in bold black print. The Ivy – their first date. Cyprus – their first week away. Harry’s Bar, Venice – where he’d proposed. A bit tacky really, for him. But it reminded her of so many romantic times together, she’d grown to like it.

  Her phone rang in her pocket, snapping her out of her daydream. It was a landline number – an area code she didn’t recognise. She hit ‘Decline call’ and slipped the phone back into her pocket. Who even used a landline these days?

  She checked her watch. There were a bunch of work emails to deal with. A pile of letters in the hall to go through. But they could wait. Tonight was just for her. Simon wouldn’t be back until tomorrow night and she had the whole evening planned out.

  First, she’d have an hour on the exercise bike in the private gym. She’d probably have the place to herself. Most of the apartments were owned by foreign buyers who rarely visited. Her sister had once told her that, given the housing crisis, it was a disgrace. ‘They’re just glass and steel safety deposit boxes to these people.’

  ‘Clare,’ she’d replied, ‘these apartments are works of art. That’s what people are really buying.’

  After the gym she’d grab an apple and kale recovery smoothie from the juice bar and take a shower down there. No point adding wear and tear to your own bathroom fittings. Then she’d order something to eat – a new South Korean street food restaurant round the corner was getting rave reviews. A bottle of Premier Cru Montrachet in the wine cooler was screaming to be opened.

  But there was something she was looking forward to more than the gym. More than the food or wine. Her guilty secret. At 7.30 p.m., she’d turn on the TV, stretch out on the sofa and watch the latest episode of Dogs Need Homes. This was her favourite show, even though it was on the kind of channel she’d never admit watching. She’d already checked the listings. ‘Tonight – Pam from Norfolk bonds with a pug called Toby over short walks and shortbread.’ She would love to have a dog, but Simon was allergic to them. Just thinking about them made him itch. So DNH, as fans of the show called it, was as close as she’d get.

  She went to the bathroom to get a painkiller. She’d been getting mild headaches recently, which she’d put down to the air conditioning. It seemed to be running drier than usual. Francois at reception had promised to ‘escalate’ her complaint to building management, so she’d find out soon enough.

  There was a fresh pack of Nurofen in the medicine cabinet. She prised out a tablet, filled a clean glass with water and sluiced it down. Then she studied herself in the mirror. She could do with a trim. Sharpen up her blonde bob. Other than that, she looked okay. A bit tired maybe? There was a short break to Cyprus coming up to celebrate their fourth anniversary. They’d been working too hard recently. A bit of sun would do them both good.

  She walked back towards the door, the underfloor heating warming the soles of her feet. Then she stopped. Something had caught her eye – a shimmer of gold on the edge of the plughole. She stepped round the glass partition. Yes, there was something there. Standing directly above the plughole she could clearly make it out. It was a length of chain. She went back to the medicine cabinet, found a pair of tweezers and returned to the shower. Getting down on all fours, she pinched the end and carefully lifted it out. It was a bracelet. And it wasn’t hers.

  Astrid suddenly felt like she was going to throw up. She crouched on the marble tiles, fighting back the waves of nausea. After a few minutes she stood up again and waited for the room to stop spinning. Simon would never cheat on her. Would he? Not her Simon.

  By the time she got to the kitchen the idea of him in the shower with another woman had begun to sink in. The more she tried to fight it, the more the images flooded her. A soaking embrace, the bracelet slipping from a trembling hand. No, there had to be an explanation. Four years of marriage. Why would he just throw that away?

  She took the bracelet and laid it gently on the marble countertop. Her hands began to shake. She breathed in slowly through her nose. Exhaled quietly. It was something she’d learnt in her hot yoga class. Count down from ten. Release the negative energy.

  When her hands stopped trembling, she went to the cupboard in the hall to get her old work case. It was made of black leather and was the size of a packing box. A bit scuffed here and there from years of toting it between jobs. She set it down on the desk and flipped open the brass clasps.

  The upper part folded out to reveal two trays. They were filled with little glass bottles of solvents, varnishes and paints. Each had a small hand-written label stuck to the side. The main body of the case was divided into sections for cotton wool, disposable gloves, scalpels and other tools. She fished out a magnifying glass and hovered it over the bracelet. There was a stamp on the underside. It said 950 – which indicated it was 24 karats. Or so it claimed.