The Secret Hen House Theatre (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Hunting

It was a glorious afternoon as Hannah and Lottie walked down the farm track. Puffy cotton-wool clouds perched in the great blue sky that arched over the valley. The hedges were a mass of white blossom.

Hannah clutched Lottie’s arm. “Listen. Up in the wood. The first cuckoo. Tell your dad.”

“Let’s get some pens and paper,” said Lottie. “Then we can take the costume books to the theatre and start designing.”

As they passed through the dining room, Hannah checked the phone. There was one new message. She dialled to pick it up.

It was a very posh male voice. “Good afternoon, Mrs Roberts. This is Sebastian Milsom from Sotheby’s speaking.”

Sotheby’s? Hannah cringed. Oh, no. They were phoning to say how dare she waste their valuable time by sending in photographs of worthless candlesticks.

How embarrassing. How utterly humiliating.

Unless…

Could they be … might they be … could it be possible?

Despite the disastrous trip to the antique shop, Hannah had still nursed a tiny flicker of hope. What if that valuer had been wrong? After all, he only ran a poky little shop in Massingham, didn’t he? He wasn’t a London auctioneer. Maybe Sotheby’s would know differently.

“I’ve just received your auction estimate request form,” said the voice. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but I am afraid I have to tell you that the candlesticks you wished to have valued are mid-twentieth-century reproductions, and therefore not something we would be able to sell for you.”

So.

There it was then. Her last tiny flicker of hope was gone.

Nothing could save them now. Hannah felt as if there was a great big stone lodged in her stomach. Every single door was shut and locked against her. She had tried every way she could think of to save the farm and nothing had worked.

She couldn’t possibly think about another play now. All she wanted to do was flop down on her bed and cry.

But the message carried on.

“I am, however, extremely intrigued by the oil painting behind the candlesticks in your photographs. It looks like a rather fine picture. The artist’s signature is visible in one of the photographs, and, if it is genuine, I think you might have a rather good Ben Gunn there. I would very much like to come and have a look at it, if I may. I wonder if
you’d be so kind as to give me a ring so that we can arrange a convenient time. My number is…”

Hannah stood stock still, clutching the receiver. She couldn’t take this in.

“What’s wrong?” said Lottie. “Hannah, what is it?”

Hannah couldn’t speak for a minute. When she did, her voice came out all quavery.

“It was Sotheby’s. He thinks the painting might be good.”

“Painting? What painting?”

“The horse and dog. He says the candlesticks aren’t worth anything but he likes the painting in the background. He wants to come and look at it.”

Lottie’s eyes widened. “The painting? That’s amazing! He wants to come and see it? Wow, that was quick. We only sent it off last week. Wow, Hannah, he must really like it. When’s he coming? Oh, wow, how exciting!”

But Hannah still felt dull and heavy inside. She couldn’t seem to feel the same excitement as Lottie. She couldn’t allow herself to. She had got so excited before – first about the candlesticks, and then about the competition. She couldn’t take the disappointment a third time.

“It might not be worth anything. He said ‘if it is genuine’. It’s probably a fake – just a copy or something. Anyway, he never said he thought it was valuable.”

Lottie’s eyes were shining. “He wouldn’t come all the way here if he didn’t think it was valuable.”

“He’s coming to check if it’s a fake.”

“This is so exciting, Hannah! It might save the farm! How amazing, that it was just in the background like that, and it might be valuable! Who does he think it’s by? When’s he coming?”

“I have to phone him back. Where did you put the painting?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, when you took it out of the theatre. The night before the play. Did you put it back in the sitting room?”

Lottie gave her a blank look. “What are you talking about?”

Panic flooded through Hannah.

No, no, this couldn’t be happening.

“You know!” she shouted. “You said you were going to take the painting and the candlesticks out of the theatre. So Dad wouldn’t see them when he came to the play. So where did you put them?”

“Stop yelling at me,” said Lottie. “I didn’t put them anywhere. I thought you’d taken them out of the theatre. You said—”

“I didn’t take them!” shouted Hannah. “I didn’t touch them!”

They stared at each other. Hannah felt dizzy. She leaned on the arm of the chair.

“So…” she said, “you didn’t move them, and I didn’t move them, but after the theatre was vandalised, they were gone.”

The colour drained from Lottie’s face and her eyes became enormous.

“No,” she whispered. “You don’t think … you don’t think Danny did something to them?”

Hannah’s heart was pumping. “He can’t have done. They weren’t smashed up in the theatre like everything else, were they?”

“So do you think he took them? Maybe he thought they were valuable too.”

“He might have nicked the candlesticks, but he can’t have walked home with a massive great painting under one arm.”

“So where would he have put it?”

Hannah took a deep breath. Calm down, she told herself. I need to think.

“I reckon he’s hidden it on the farm somewhere, just to taunt us.”

“Right,” said Lottie. “Let’s search.”

They searched the granary, the bull pen, the loose boxes, the deserted milking parlour and the old cow stalls where Dad shut up the poultry at night. Then Hannah searched the pig shed while Lottie ran down to the empty sty where Dad kept the bedding straw.

Within seconds, she called, “Hey, Han, come here.”

Hannah dashed out of the pig shed, banging her head on the door frame.

“Ow,” she moaned, racing down the path clutching the sore patch.

She ducked inside the end sty. “Where is it?”

“Look at these. They’re hilarious.”

Lottie pointed. Sheets of paper covered in pencil
drawings were sellotaped all over the walls.

“Not the painting?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Lottie. “Did you think…?”

“Of course I did.”

“Oh. Sorry. No. But you’ve got to see these.”

When Hannah moved closer to the wall, she saw that the drawings were strip cartoons. The first one she looked at showed long, thin, green things wearing tracksuits, with beads of sweat dripping from their skinny faces. The caption read “Runner Beans”.

The next one showed big, fat, bean-shaped creatures carrying big, fat, bean-shaped babies. Underneath the cartoon was a caption in Sam’s handwriting: “Broad Beans”.

She had to call Lottie over to see the next one. The tall slim beans were wearing berets. Strings of onions hung around their necks. “‘French Beans’,” read Lottie. “That is actually quite funny.”

Hannah was looking at a picture in Sam’s six-year-old hand. This time the beans were coloured brown and were lying on the beach under a bright-yellow sun.

“Look, Lottie.”

Lottie came over. “
Baked Beans
.” She laughed. “Well, I think we’ve discovered the top secret headquarters of the Great and Mighty Society of Bean.”

“Not the painting, though.”

“No.”

They walked back across the yard to the old stable block. This was Hannah’s last hope. Please let it be
there, she prayed.

As they approached, a swallow, quick as an arrow, darted through the stable door. Hannah drew in her breath.

“They’re back!”

She tiptoed to the door and pointed at a spot high on the far wall. Through the gloom, you could just make out a mud nest. “They come back every spring,” she whispered. “All the way from Africa. We had fourteen pairs last year.”

Suddenly she thought: what if they come next year – fly halfway round the world to get here – and their nests have been destroyed?

“Come on,” said Lottie. “It’s got to be in here.”

Hannah leaned over the open top half of the stable door and drew the bolt on the bottom half. They stepped on to layers of dusty straw, littered with battered buckets and empty sacks. The shaft of afternoon sunlight that shone through the door lit up thousands of dust motes suspended in the air.

Hannah couldn’t possibly pick up a sack without first giving whatever might be lurking underneath it the chance to get away. On the other hand, she couldn’t bear to frighten the nesting swallows by making a noise. She hovered, paralysed, over the first sack.

Lottie solved her problem by grabbing a dented old meal scoop, bashing it on a metal bucket and shouting, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

The swallow darted straight out of the door again, squeaking in alarm. There was no other movement.

They worked their way through the stables, uncovering a lot of dried-up chicken dung but not much more. It must be here, Hannah kept repeating to herself. It must be here.

Jasper pushed through the half-open door to join them. “You’re missing Jo, aren’t you?” said Hannah, ruffling his wool. “She’ll be back soon.”

There was an old door propped up in the last bay. This is it, she thought. It’s behind here.

They pulled the door away. A hen squawked and flapped away from them. Three smooth eggs lay in the straw.

Nothing else.

Waves of panic flooded over Hannah. She grabbed on to Lottie.

Lottie squeezed her shoulder. “It will be all right. We’ll find it. It’s got to be somewhere.”

“But we’ve searched the whole farm. It isn’t here.”

Lottie looked at her watch. “I should go. My mum’s coming home early. Look, wherever it is, one day won’t make any difference. We’ll get the Beans to help look tomorrow. And if we don’t find it, we’ll go to Danny’s house and ask him. And we’ll tell him we’ll go to the police if he doesn’t give it back.”

The panic waves subsided slightly. At least that was a plan.

“What’s Jasper eating?” said Lottie.

Jasper had his front hooves propped up on a chicken crate. He was nibbling something hanging from a hook on the wall.

“Get that out of your mouth, Jasper,” said Hannah.
She yanked it away. “Honestly,” she said, holding it up for Lottie to see. “A leather stirrup strap. That sheep will eat anything.”

Lottie was looking at the hook. “There’s a whole bridle. How many years has that been hanging there?”

“Probably from when they used to have shire horses. Before Grandfather bought the Field Marshall.”

“Emily would love it here, wouldn’t she?” said Lottie.

“Mmm,” said Hannah. Then she drew in her breath and stared at Lottie. She looked around the stable block. At the four bays, each with its manger and saddle hooks still fixed to the walls.

It wouldn’t take much. A coat of whitewash, bit of a scrub, move the junk out.

Lottie was looking at her, eyes narrowed.

“Hannah? What are you thinking now?”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Jack

Midnight. Hannah turned over again in bed and bashed her pillow into shape.

What if Danny had destroyed the painting?

If it was destroyed, it would all be her fault.

And if he hadn’t destroyed it, and they went to his house and confronted him – what if he then did destroy it anyway, out of spite, or fright?

These thoughts went round and round in her head all night, and when she met Lottie on their bench in the playground before school, she hadn’t slept at all.

Lottie was brimming over with excitement. “I looked at loads of livery yards on the Internet. And I rang the numbers and spoke to some of the owners. I pretended I had a horse I wanted to stable and I asked what they charged.”

“And?” said Hannah.

“It depends. Some of them are really posh, with sand schools and jumps and stuff, but some just have a stable and a field. I reckon, if we cleaned out those stables, you could get maybe twenty-five pounds a week for each horse.”

“Twenty-five pounds a week per horse?” said
Hannah. “So with four horses, that’s a hundred pounds a week.”

“Yep. Five thousand two hundred a year. Not bad, eh?”

Lottie frowned at Hannah. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be excited.”

“It’s great,” said Hannah. “Thank you so much for doing all that. It’s just – oh, you know. It still won’t be enough to save the farm. But if we had some money from the painting … I’m just so worried about it. I mean, what if Danny has – you know…”

The bell rang for registration.

“Don’t worry,” said Lottie, picking up her bag. “We’ll get that painting back if I have to rip Danny Carr open from head to toe to find it. And I’d enjoy that.”

Hannah’s stomach lurched. Jack, with his guitar case slung over his shoulder, had just come through the gates.

He hadn’t even looked at her since she’d attacked him in the lunch queue. She had been waiting all week for a chance to speak to him alone.

She almost chickened out. But she knew she would never have peace of mind until she’d done it.

“You go on in, Lottie. I just need to speak to Jack.”

“Jack! Why on earth would you want to talk to him?”

“I just have to. I’ll see you in the classroom, OK?”

Lottie shrugged. “Whatever you say.” She hoisted her bag on to her shoulder and walked away.

Her heart pounding, Hannah forced herself to
walk up the path towards the gate. Jack looked up as she approached. When he saw who it was, he looked back down at his feet and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

A surge of power, like electricity, swept through Hannah. She felt as if she had grown twenty centimetres taller. Imagine, Jack Adamson feeling awkward in her presence!

She stood right in front of him. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for accusing you of vandalising our theatre. I shouldn’t have said it. I was upset and I took it out on you, but I shouldn’t have. And I know now that you didn’t do it. So I’m sorry.”

He was scraping at the tarmac with his foot. She waited for a minute but he said nothing. She started to walk off.

“Wait a second,” he said.

She turned round. “What?” Her eyes met his briefly and her stomach gave a little lurch.

No, she told herself sternly. Do not succumb.

“You shouldn’t be apologising,” he said. He was looking at the ground again. He shuffled a stone from foot to foot. “I should have apologised to you. For the fire. We were idiots, lighting a fire in there.”

“Yes. You were.”

“We thought it was out. When we left. But…”

He tailed off.

Hannah continued to look at him expectantly.

Finally he met her eye and said, “What?”

“You haven’t actually said sorry.”

“Oh.”

She waited while he scuffed his feet around on the tarmac.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Thank you. I accept your apology. Goodbye.”

And, with her head held high, Hannah turned on her heel and walked into school.

He caught up with her in the foyer. “Hey, Roberts.”

Hannah turned around and felt that flutter again as her eyes met his. Why did someone so gorgeous have to be such an idiot?

“What?” she said. There was no way he was going to know she still felt anything for him.

“Was there anything missing from your theatre after Carr did it over?”

Hannah’s heart thumped. “What do you mean?”

“He was boasting about how he had some stuff of yours in his bedroom. Said he was going to flog it on eBay.” He shrugged. “Just his usual crap, I guess.”

Hannah gave a casual laugh and turned away. “Must have been. What would we be doing with anything valuable in our theatre?”

And with her pulse racing, she walked down the corridor. She didn’t break into a run until she was around the corner and out of his sight.