Chapter One
Emma had taken the day off – she’d wanted to get her weekend started early and there had been no problems until she hit the final stage. The confirmation email she’d received after making her booking had said that “… due to the property’s remote location, satnavs might struggle to find it.” It had though included clear directions, ending with “… follow the N639 out of Boskampen for about 5 minutes and then turn right into a gated entrance.” Emma had had to drive past the entrance twice before she recognised it, overgrown and set back from the road a few metres.
As she approached, she looked at the cottage and smiled. Single storied, wooden framed but with a new tiled dormer roof, it was surrounded on three sides by the trees creeping out from the woodland and on the right-hand side, as she looked at it, the gable was overgrown with ivy disappearing back into the woods. An old brightly painted bike was propped under the one window, a cluster of green foliage and small colourful flowers cascading from the basket on the front. She parked the car and retrieved the key from under the bike’s saddle, as had been explained in the email and unlocked the door.
The interior was as charming as the exterior. The website had described it as “… a sympathetic conversion of a traditional agricultural outbuilding fitted with all modern conveniences …” and it didn’t disappoint. It was charmingly rustic, its exposed wooden beams, arched brick fireplace and the old-fashioned furnishings gave it a sense of timelessness, as if it had been like this for centuries. A note addressed to ‘Mevrouw van der Linde’ was propped up on the mantelpiece, it read:
Dear Mevrouw van der Linde,
Welcome to Little Ravens, I hope you enjoy your stay. The property is heated by a gas central heating system controlled by a thermostat at the base of the stairs. For reasons of economy and safety, the system is currently turned off, but you can turn it on at the boiler in the cupboard next to the kitchen sink. If you prefer, the fireplace is practical and an original feature, by the way. There is a fire laid and firewood is stacked at the side of the cottage. The weather is improving now but the nights can still be a little chilly and an open fire can take off the edge.
Yours Sincerely
Hugo Hoogtveld
Emma put away her things, then put a match to the fire and replaced the fireguard. She decided to put on her walking boots and go explore to give the fire time to ‘take off the edge.’
The path from the road carried on past the cottage and into the wood; here and there were the suggestions of turnings but Emma was not sure if they really were turnings, overgrown with time, or animal trails in the undergrowth. It followed a small river for a while and then Emma did find a turning, leading to a bridge where the river narrowed. She followed it a little further before it halted in front of a large door in an old wall. She pushed at the door, more in hope than expectation, but it didn’t budge.
To the side, and built into the wall was a stone bench. Emma sat and looked back at a spectacular view along the river. Willows and reeds formed clumps along the banks and in the distance she could see herons. She held her breath – on the parapet of the bridge below her was a kingfisher! She watched as it dived into the water and emerged with a shining silver fish in its beak and flew back to its perch, where it smacked the fish several times against the parapet before swallowing it whole. “Nature, red in tooth and claw – and beak,” thought Emma. Well, the bird had had its lunch, now it was time for hers and she retraced her steps to the cottage.
After lunch Emma got to work. She’d come away for the solitude but hadn’t left work behind completely. A student had submitted a paper for her approval:
The Impact of Betje Wolff and Aagje Deken on the Development of the Dutch Novel: A Study of Their Epistolary Style and Themes.
She admired this student’s work and had great hopes for him. She took the paper out of her briefcase and began to read. As she expected, the work was deep and insightful, but she hadn’t expected it to be quite so challenging and after an hour and a half she needed a break. She needed some air, and some time to think it over.
She walked back along the path, allowing her thoughts and her student’s arguments to roil in her mind. She found herself at the bridge and she stared into the water where a golden glint drew her eye; “Fish!” said the back of her mind. The clouds parted, and the glint came again; “Fish!!” No, not a fish, she realised; she reached into the shallow water and drew it out. It was a key – the ‘business’ end was dull and somewhat corroded, but the other end had the unmistakable glint of gold and its shape and the design cut into it seemed vaguely familiar, like something she’d seen before.
When she got back to the cottage, she put the key on the wooden dining table, still lost in the 18th century and thoughts of Wolff and Deken. As she went about her business, preparing a simple meal in the kitchen, her gaze fell upon a box – an old wooden writing slope on a nearby shelf. The box was old, she’d noticed it when she’d arrived, but it was locked and she’d thought little more of it, seeing it simply as part of the cottage’s quaint decor. But now, as she looked more closely, she realised that its design matched the same intricate patterns as the key she’d found in the river.
Curious, Emma walked over and ran her fingers along its surface. The designs on the box and the key were too similar to be a mere coincidence. She took it back to the table and paused, just for a moment, before putting the key in the lock. There was an odd sense of foreboding as she unlocked it and lifted the lid, revealing a bundle of old, yellowed letters, neatly tied together with a red ribbon.
Chapter Two
Emma’s breath formed small clouds in the cold night air as she walked, clutching the torch in one hand and her walking stick in the other. The moonlight filtered through the skeletal branches of the trees and cast dappled silver patterns on the ground. Despite the chill, a sense of purpose warmed her; this was why she had come here.
She had always been drawn to quiet places with a touch of romance. A Lecturer at the Universiteit der Lage Landen in Oudewaterdam near Utrecht specialising in 19th-century Dutch Language and Literature, her days were filled with the hum of academia – lectures, papers, and students with endless questions. But when the holidays came, she craved solitude, trading the bustle of the city for the silence of the countryside. Her immediate family was small; she and her younger brother Dirk had been orphaned when she was in her early teens. They had been raised in a foster family by the Bakkelaars, a kindly couple but not over demonstrative; she and they exchanged Christmas cards now but that was about the extent of their relationship. Dirk lived in London with his British wife. They emailed and called each other occasionally and she was pleased that he was settled. Her closest companion was a calico cat named Oliver, who was currently staying with her neighbours, the Vissers.
This situation suited her. She took most of her meals in the University refectory and her office was a veritable home from home; at the weekends and vacation time she liked to seek out places like this. It wasn’t just the tranquillity she sought, though. She had a fascination with the whimsy of the past, with the stories that still, despite the ubiquitous industrialisation and commercialisation that pervaded the rest of the Netherlands, indeed most of the modern world, whispered through the rural communities and bucolic villages of Brabant, her adopted ‘homeland.’
This particular place had drawn her in with its remote location and an air of mystery. The booking site said that the building had stood derelict for decades, its past ‘lost behind local legends’ and shrouded in ‘peculiar stories’ until it had recently “… undergone extensive renovation providing an ideal situation away from it all but with all the modern conveniences for a peaceful and relaxing break (sleeps 4 adults).” Whether this was true or marketing BS, Emma had had no way of knowing but that suggestion of mystery had been enough to provide the final nudge towards her booking her stay. Still, she hadn’t anticipated finding perhaps a part of that mystery herself – in a box of old letters, and a picture hinting at even more secrets waiting to be uncovered.
As she came closer to the bridge her pulse quickened as she thought about what might be hidden there. A long-lost heirloom? Another cache of letters like the ones in the box? Or perhaps something darker, something sinister, a secret buried long ago and forgotten until now. Emma paused for a moment and brought her imagination under control, the rustle of leaves underfoot and the soft “Whoo-HooHoo!” of an owl, perhaps disturbed by her passing, breaking the stillness. She tightened her grip on the torch and moved on. Just a few more steps, would she find out what the past had left behind?
As she approached the bench, she felt her anticipation growing. She crouched low, examining the area and sweeping her torch to and fro. The forest floor was covered in layers of leaves and twigs, but there was something else. A tree root had thrust its way through the surface and there beside it, reflecting the light of her torch slightly, was the edge of something metallic, discoloured by age but unmistakably man-made.
Brushing aside the debris with her gloved hand, she uncovered what appeared to be the lid of a metal box, partially embedded in the soil. It took some effort, but after a few tense moments, she managed to drag it free. It was heavier than she’d expected, its surface mottled with age. She sat on the bench and wrestled the box onto her lap. It was still covered with dirt from the hole she’d yanked it from. Wiping away some of the worst, she saw a pattern of sorts, or a design, etched and inlaid on the lid. Whatever this was, it had been waiting here for a very long time. With some effort she hefted it and decided to take it back for a closer look.
Emma returned to the cottage with the heavy box in her arms. She set it down on the desk, studying the design on the lid. Like the rest of box, it showed its age, but here and there she could see the glint of gold and silver and there were patches of enamelling. She went to lift the lid but it wouldn’t budge, locked or perhaps rusted shut as there was no apparent key-hole. She tried everything to open it, even breaking a kitchen knife that she jammed into what seemed to be a crack between the lid and the body, but it wouldn’t budge. It was tightly sealed, and whatever was keeping it closed was beyond her.
After two hours of unsuccessful attempts, Emma knew she couldn’t answer this on her own. She picked up the phone and called a friend. The situation had moved beyond curiosity into peculiarity; this was peculiar and something that needed more expertise.
Lena’s office was a treasure trove of history and archaeology. Bookshelves lined two walls and their overflow covered every available surface. On one wall hung two large maps of North Holland, one dated 1915, the other 1935. Lena had hung them side by side to demonstrate the difference to the landscape the Wieringermeer Project had made, an undertaking that had been central to her Doctoral thesis on polder mills and their importance as drainage pumps; however fond she was of her fatherland, Lena had never been able to understand why those early Nederlanders had decided to set up home in a swamp! A half-finished cup of coffee sat precariously on a corner of her desk, surrounded by scribbled notes on Mill Preservation strategies and Dendrochronological Analyses. She glanced at the clock, another late night in the offing.
Her mobile buzzed against the wooden desk, vibrating insistently before she noticed it. She reached for the phone, glancing briefly at the caller ID – Emma van der Linde. A slight smile crossed Lena’s face; she hadn’t spoken to Emma since their last faculty meeting and her call was a welcome distraction, but Emma was not one to call without a reason.
“Goedenavond! Wat doe jij nog zo laat op? Alles goed?” Lena said, sitting up in her chair.
“Lena,” Emma began, her voice carrying a mix of relief and urgency. “Ik heb iets gevonden. I need your expertise – I’ve found something weird.”
Lena sat even straighter in her chair, her curiosity instantly piqued. “Weird? How do you mean, weird?”
Emma’s words came out at a rush. “I found a writing slope, an old one. There were some letters, and now I’ve found a chest and I think there’s something weird about it, but it’s shut, and I can’t work out how to open it!”
Lena frowned.
“Emma! Emma, calm down! A chest? Emma, people don’t just ‘find’ chests.”
Emma hesitated, realising the absurdity of her story. “Okay, then, not a chest, a – a casket! Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know! Lena, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know this is weird, but there is something. I’m not sure, it feels different. I can’t explain it over the phone. I need you to see it.”
“You’ve called me at” – she glanced at the clock – “half-past ten at night” (Good God what was she still doing at work at this hour!) “and you’re certain this is worth looking into? I mean, you’ve ruled out it being just some old knick-knack?”
Emma’s voice firmed. “It’s not a knick-knack, Lena. The letters were intense. Emotional. There’s something more here, I know it.”
Lena couldn’t help it and smiled at Emma’s conviction. “Alright, you’ve convinced me. I can be with you first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Lena. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think this was important,” Emma said, her voice softening.
“Of course. I’ll set off early and we’ll see what we can uncover. Tot morgen.”
“Tot morgen,” Emma replied, the line going dead.
Lena placed the phone back on her desk, her eyes drifting to the maps on the wall. Emma wasn’t one to act on a whim and while she’d had to show reasonable scepticism, if Emma had felt the need to call (and at half-past ten!) then it wouldn’t have been to talk about a ‘knick-knack’. She stood up, stretching briefly, before picking up her briefcase and making her way to the door. As she turned off the light her thoughts were swirling. Emma had found something she thought significant and had chosen to call her. Her lips quirked into a smile as she grabbed her coat. Tomorrow promised to be interesting, to say the least.
Emma put her phone back on the table and exhaled slowly, her fingers sliding along the polished wood of the desk. Lena’s agreement to come in the morning had lifted a weight from her shoulders, but it had also sharpened her anticipation. Tomorrow, with Lena’s expertise and steady presence, she might actually uncover what lay inside the casket – yes, she decided, it was a casket. But tonight, she was alone with her thoughts – and the mystery.
Her gaze shifted to the object sitting on the desk; like in the woods, with her torchlight, its surface reflected the soft light of the table lamp. It was larger than the writing slope in which she’d found the letters, but not by much, and deceptively heavy, made of brass, its mottled surface had been cold under her fingers when she’d brushed the dirt away earlier. The pattern on the lid suggested a level of craftsmanship that stood out in stark contrast to the casket’s own utilitarian construction, as if it had been retro-fitted to give some level of significance beyond the purely practical purpose for which it had obviously been intended. It clearly had some age, but it remained sturdy and intact, as though it had been designed to last several lifetimes. Whatever secrets it held, they had been locked away tightly. The lid was shut fast, no visible mechanism or keyhole giving even a hint as to how to open it.
She sat back in her chair, trying to organise her thoughts. Her relief at Lena’s agreement to come mingled with an undercurrent of unease. She trusted her friend’s ability to bring clarity to the situation, yet the weight of the discovery felt entirely her own. It was thrilling, but it was also disturbing. Reading those letters she had immediately felt a connection to Anna and to ‘H’ that she couldn’t understand and if she couldn’t, then who else would understand the peculiar emotions it stirred in her, this strange combination of awe and responsibility, as though she were the accidental custodian of someone’s long-buried secrets?
And then there was Lena herself. Emma caught herself wondering; she’d had to call someone, but why had she felt so certain that it had to be Lena she called? It wasn’t just her expertise or her practicality, though those were invaluable. There was something else, something that Emma couldn’t (or wouldn’t) quite put into words.
She found herself pacing the room, her slippered feet barely making a sound on the wooden floorboards. The soft glow of the table lamp was the only light, leaving the rest of the cottage in shadow. The casket, yes, it was a casket, seemed to watch her silently from its place on the desk, still glinting faintly as if to remind her of its importance. A rush of questions flooded her mind. What was inside? Why had it been hidden? Why had its location been hidden? Out of fear? Out of reverence? Out of shame? Why?
Emma paused by the fireplace, running a hand through her hair. The conversation with Lena replayed in her mind. “Je moet het wel zien,” she’d told her friend, and the truth of those words resonated now more than ever. You did just have to see it. Words couldn’t capture the weight of the thing, the texture of the metal, the peculiar tension it seemed to carry in its very presence. There was something profoundly tactile about it, something that demanded to be experienced in person.
Still restless, Emma poured herself a small glass of wine and settled into an armchair by the fire. The warmth of the flames did little to ease the tightness in her chest and her mind flitted between the past and the present. The letters, so intimate and heartfelt, had drawn her into another life, another time. Now this discovery added a new layer of intrigue—what was inside it! It was as though the past were reaching out to her, asking her to uncover what had been hidden away.
She took a sip of wine, savouring its warmth, and let her gaze drift back to the desk. The casket sat heavy and resolute, its secrets locked away for the night. Emma promised herself that tomorrow, with Lena’s help, she would find a way to open it. For now, though, she had to find some semblance of peace.
The cottage fell silent as she turned out the light and climbed the stairs to her room. The casket remained on the desk, bathed in moonlight that streamed through the window. Emma hesitated at the top, a flicker of unease passing over her. It was foolish, of course – but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it carried something more than its physical weight.
With a final glance, she left the room and went to bed. Sleep would not come easily.