The TV expert had said the knife could have belonged to a sheikh or sultan, and it was worth a great deal of money. So why had she kept it? Hidden it beneath the floorboards when, presumably, her jewellery-according to family legend-had been sold to fund the purchase of this house?
As if it were too important, too precious, to part with? Hidden it and never told a living soul. Because if she had someone would have sold it long ago. If her grandma had known about it she wouldn't have sacrificed the house to raise money when she'd needed it. Would have passed on the secret when she knew she was dying…
She sighed. She didn't need more questions. It was answers she wanted. And upstairs, in the bottom of her gran's wardrobe, was an old Gladstone bag, stuffed with the kind of stuff that women couldn't part with. Dried flowers. Letters. Embroidered handkerchiefs. Bits of lace and ribbon. Wedding invitations, school reports-whoever would want to keep those!-theatre programmes. Greetings cards for every possible occasion. Great-Great- Grandad's Military Medal.
Generations of the stuff.
There had been a time, when she was a little girl, when it had been a magic bag, and being allowed to 'tidy' it had been a special treat.
Then it had become an emotional ambush to be avoided at all costs. Full of things that just to look at, hold, brought tears welling to the surface: a postcard from her mother on honeymoon in Venice; a Mother's Day card she'd made when she was so little she'd needed her gran to help with the letters; a button from her father's jacket that she'd hidden there.
At the bottom, hidden by a false base, was the big envelope that she had not been allowed to open. The one containing family documents. The certificates- birth, marriage, death-that said who they were, where they came from. An envelope that her grandma had said she could open 'when she was older'.
Except, of course, the temptation had been too much for a curious ten-year-old. Which was how she knew about the Arabic letter, although at the time she hadn't realised what it was. How she knew why her grandmother had had to raise money in such a hurry…
She had a new document to add to the family archive, but she'd been putting it off. She'd been ignoring the bag ever since her grandmother had died, delaying the moment when she became the family matriarch. The keeper of its history. Its awful secrets.
Now she needed the letter from Fatima-there was an Iraqi woman who worked in the market who might be able to translate it for her-but she couldn't bring herself to simply dump the contents of the bag on her grandmother's bed.
It was not just the trivia of their lives, but the small tokens of love and remembrance that women clung to. Family history was written in the names of men, but this bag contained the women's story. In cards, tiny treasures, a crumbling corsage worn by some unknown girl with her heart full of hope.
It was only when the hall clock struck one that she realised how long she'd spent reading old letters, scanning cards that had nothing to do with her hunt for the truth about Fatima but everything to do with her life.
Her mother's life.
A school exercise book full of gold stars. An old blue passport. School photographs full of hope and promise that was never realised.
She put them to one side and pulled out the envelope. The certificates were all in there. And the letter written in flowing Arabic script that made her heart beat faster just to hold it. Only Fatima herself could have written it and she held it close to her heart as if she could feel the words, make some direct connection with this extraordinary woman.
She did not open the last envelope. The one containing the equity release documents that her grandmother had signed and the letter from her father.
Being old enough made no difference, and, as she had done when she'd defied her grandmother's ruling and opened it, she crawled into bed, pulling the ancient quilt over her. Except that this time there was no one to come and find her and comfort her.
It was the phone that woke her. Dragging her from somewhere so deep that she was certain that it must have been ringing for some time.
She ignored it and finally it stopped, allowing her to concentrate on her headache, and the fact that her eyes felt as if someone had been shovelling grit in them all night.
The bright sunshine didn't help.
With her hand shading her eyes, she made it to the bathroom. She was in the shower when the phone began to ring again. Sarah, she thought. It would be Sarah, worrying about her. She'd call her back…
She washed her hair, brushed her teeth. Decided to forget about getting dressed until she'd had coffee.
The local newspaper was lying on the mat. Her gran had liked her to read the local news to her…
She bent to pick it up, groaning as the headache she thought she'd defeated slid forward and collided with the back of her aching eyes.
Then she groaned again as she saw the front page. It must be a slow news day, because she seemed to fill the front page, staring like a rabbit caught in the media headlights, with the
The headline read: ARABIAN 'PRINCESS' AT ROADSHOW.
What?
The doorbell rang and without thinking she wrenched the door open, certain that it would be Sarah. She'd taken to dropping in every morning over the last few weeks, to see if she needed anything. She usually came round the back, letting herself in with her 'good neighbour' key, as she had yesterday when she'd heard her cry for help when the floor had given way.
Clearly the fact that the phone had gone unanswered was causing her concern, but since she'd bolted the back door last night the key would be useless.
But it wasn't Sarah, who was tiny-apart from around the middle, where she was spreading spectacularly-and fair; the figure that filled the tiny porch was her opposite in every conceivable way.
Tall, spare, broad-shouldered, male, there was nothing soft about him. His features were austere, chiselled to the bone, and his olive-toned skin was positively Mediterranean against a snowy band-collared shirt, fastened to the neck. His hair was thick and crisply cut. But it was his eyes that held her.
Dark as midnight and just as dangerous.
He looked very…foreign.
He was also stunningly, knee-wobblingly handsome.
Violet was suitably stunned. And her knees dutifully wobbled.
Just her luck that she'd emerged from the shower pink of face, with her hair in its usual wet tangle, and with nothing between her and decency but a film of moisturiser and a faded pink bathrobe that could only be described as…functional.
'Miss Hamilton?'
Oh, and guess what…? He had a voice like melted chocolate, delicately flavoured with an exotic, barely there accent.
Whatever he was selling, she was buying it by the crate…
Except, of course, that he was far too expensively dressed to be a door-to-door salesman. She knew clothes. And what he was wearing did not come off a peg in the high street.
Oh, well. She was expecting a visit from a representative of the finance company to call any day, with the release papers for her to sign so that they could sell the house, recover their money.
This had to be him.
'Miss Violet Hamilton?' he repeated, when she didn't answer.
'Who?' she asked, just to hear him say Violet again. Long and slow.
Vi-o-let.
Pronouncing every syllable, turning a name she loathed only slightly less than the hideously shortened 'Vi' into the most desirable name in the entire world.
'I'm looking for Miss Violet Hamilton.' And, taking the newspaper from her hand, he held the front page up for her to see. 'I believe I've found her.'
No point pretending to be the lodger, then. Asking him to come back when she'd gussied herself up,
