On the other side of the room, Ciaran leaned forwards. ‘It did belong to Elenor then?’
Isobel stayed silent for a moment, still caressing the ring. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now. Everyone involved is long dead. Yes, it belonged to her. It was the ring Khalid gave to her when she agreed to become his wife.’
Hope glanced at Ciaran, who nodded imperceptibly in recognition of the matching initial but said nothing.
‘This was back in nineteen twenty two, when Elenor was out in Egypt, working in the Valley of the Kings,’ Isobel went on. ‘That fool Carter hadn’t been able to find anything of note and was about to give up, but Elenor knew they were close. She’d been working with the local archaeologists, you see, gaining their trust and encouraging them to confide in her. There was one in particular who seemed cleverer than all the rest – a doctor of Archaeology from the University of Cairo called Khalid Al Nazari. I suppose you can guess the rest.’
‘They fell in love,’ Hope said softly. ‘But her family didn’t approve.’
Isobel let out a long sigh. ‘It didn’t matter how well-respected he was in the archaeological community, or how well-educated. All Elenor’s parents saw was the colour of his skin. How could they welcome such a man into their society, they asked? How could they be expected to accept any grandchildren?’
She lapsed into brooding silence for several long seconds. Neither Hope not Ciaran dared speak in case they broke the spell. Instead, they waited.
‘When Elenor was taken ill and had to return to England, they took their chance,’ Isobel continued, with a shake of her head. ‘They ensured she was locked away in a sanitorium, supposedly for her own good. And they hired a group of Cairo street thieves to ensure Khalid got the message too.’
Hope couldn’t help it; she gasped. Even Ciaran looked pale. ‘Did they – did he…’
Isobel sniffed. ‘They didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking. As bad as my forebears were, they did at least draw the line at murder. But he was badly injured. His recovery took many months. And in the meantime, they persuaded Elenor to write the letter you read to me, breaking off the engagement. But as you might suspect, it was never sent.’
‘So, what happened?’ Hope asked, wondering how the letter and ring had come to be included in a house clearance some ninety years after the events Isobel described. ‘Did Khalid recover?’
‘I don’t know,’ Isobel replied. ‘As you probably know, Elenor took the broken engagement very badly. I don’t know what they threatened her with, to make her write those terrible words, but she was almost mad with grief. She disappeared in the storms over Whitby one night in April.’
‘It’s an awfully tragic story,’ Ciaran said, his tone heavy with respect. ‘I wonder why they never sent the letter. It seems they went to a lot of bother to get her to write it – why not send it to Khalid and make sure he knew the engagement had been broken by Elenor herself?’
Isobel hesitated. ‘I expect he went to ground after the attack. They probably didn’t have an address for him.’
Ciaran frowned. ‘But they could have sent it care of the University.’
The old woman sighed again, and this time Hope sensed she was running out of patience. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said. ‘Maybe they thought it had been sent. Or maybe they thought they’d done enough.’
Hope saw Ciaran open his mouth to frame another question and caught his eye. If they handled this the right way, Isobel might talk to them again. But if they pushed her now in a direction she didn’t want to follow…
‘Would you like to claim ownership of the ring, Miss Lovelace?’ she asked, remembering her instructions from Mr Young.
Isobel looked thoughtful for a moment and her fingers brushed the emerald once again. ‘No,’ she said, after a moment’s reflection. ‘I don’t want it here. Elenor came to think it was cursed in the end. You keep it – put it on display somewhere or hide it away for another hundred years. I don’t care.’
‘Are you sure?’ Hope said, frowning at the hint of something unspoken behind the older woman’s words. ‘It’s worth a lot of money.’
The old woman tipped her head. ‘Quite sure. Take it away, please.’
She turned her head to stare out of the window. Hope and Ciaran took that as their cue to leave and got to their feet. ‘Thank you for sharing your family’s story,’ Hope said as Isobel showed them to the door. ‘We really appreciate it.’
‘It’s all ancient history,’ Isobel replied, and Hope wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself or to them. ‘They’re just ghosts now.’
Ciaran didn’t speak until they were outside once more, being warmed by the evening sunlight. ‘I’ll tell you what, they say Irish parents are terrifying but they’ve got nothing on the English aristocracy.’
Hope shuddered. ‘I know. What an awful way to behave.’
He shook his head and sighed. ‘Yeah. Look, I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. Want to join me?’
This time, Hope didn’t need to think twice. ‘Absolutely. As long as the first round is on me.’
Unsurprisingly, one drink led to another. At some point, Hope had realized she was hungry and they’d gone to a beautiful old Italian restaurant Ciaran knew on Gillygate, where they’d eaten pasta and drunk mellow red wine and laughed until the evening was almost gone. And now they were weaving slightly unsteadily along Fossgate, towards Hope’s apartment.
‘You really don’t have to do this,’ Hope said for the third time as they walked. ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting home, you know.’
Ciaran smiled. ‘I know. But indulge me, okay? I want to be sure you get back in one piece.’
‘But who’s
