The Daughters Of Red Hill Hall. Kathleen McGurl

her a lifetime. It was inevitable, she supposed, being so close to the Jurassic Coast in Dorset they were bound to have plenty of dinosaur bones and ancient marine creatures in the collection. But fossils did nothing for her. She preferred more recent history and human stories.

      ‘Cup of tea for my hard worker?’ Roger, the museum curator and her boss, put his balding head around the door.

      Gemma nodded. ‘I’d love one, thanks.’ Poor Roger. He was practically another fossil. Well, that was unfair – he was probably only about ten years older than her – but he acted as though he was from the nineteenth century. Or before. She grinned to herself as she measured the ammonite and typed its details into the computer catalogue. He was old-school, that was for sure, but he was also the nicest boss she’d ever had. After leaving university with a history degree and no idea what she wanted to do with her life, she’d had a number of jobs in quick succession until two years ago she’d struck lucky here at the museum in her home town of Bridhampton.

      By the time Roger returned with her tea, Gemma had finished cataloguing the contents of the box and was packing it up again to return it to its shelf in the museum basement.

      Roger put the tea on the desk beside her, and moved some papers off a chair so he could sit down. ‘Anything interesting in that one?’

      ‘Half a dozen ammonites. One’s nearly a foot across. Weighs a ton.’ She closed the lid of the box and taped it up before Roger could start poking around in it. He did have a habit of wanting to pull things out and examine them, making the whole job take so much longer.

      ‘Oh well. Maybe we should use them in a Jurassic Coast display. What do you think?’

      Gemma stopped herself from pulling a face. ‘We could, I suppose, but then the museum at Lyme Regis covers that so much better. Everyone goes there because of the Mary Anning connection. I think we should stick to other topics – human stories and Victorian themes.’ So much more interesting, she almost added.

      ‘You’re probably right.’ He smiled at her, and heaved the sealed box off the table. ‘I’ll fetch you the next one, then, to get started on once you’ve had your break.’

      He looked quite sweet when he smiled, Gemma thought, as she watched him go through the door that led to the basement stairs. She resolved to be nicer to him in future. Poor bloke was probably lonely. He lived alone with only a cat called Michael for company. Who on earth calls their cat Michael, she thought, not for the first time.

      Roger returned a few moments later bearing another cardboard box, this one festooned with cobwebs. He dumped it on the table and brushed the dust from his pullover. That was another thing. Who, these days, wore a hand-knitted jumper over a shirt and tie? Maybe she should have a gentle word with him about his fashion sense. If he ever wanted to get himself a girlfriend he’d need to first get himself a new wardrobe.

      ‘Here you are, then,’ he said. ‘Hope there’s something more exciting in that one. It was from aisle four, shelf three, if you want to make a note.’

      ‘Thanks.’ She jotted down the location code on her notepad, and slit open the tape across the top of the box, as Roger left her to return to the museum front desk. It was a Wednesday – their quietest day. Term time but no school parties booked, so they weren’t expecting many visitors beyond a few pensioners who were generally more interested in the tea and cakes they served in the museum café.

      Tea finished, she pulled the next box towards her and opened it up. Inside was a crumpled-up piece of fabric – dark green cotton. She held it up – it was a shirt, smelling musty and dating from the 1970s if the collar was anything to go by. The label said St Michael. Great. A Marks and Spencer original, of no value whatsoever. Why on earth was it in this box? She threw it into her box of rubbish. It was amazing how much rubbish she had come across – usually screwed-up paper and sweet wrappers chucked into the boxes of artefacts. She looked in the box again. There was a layer of yellowed newspaper, which she pulled out and inspected. The Times, from January 1972. That tied in with the date of the shirt, then. It probably indicated the last time this box had been opened. She threw that into the discard pile as well.

      Finally, at the bottom of the container, was a wooden box. It measured about two feet by one, and was four or five inches deep. It appeared to be made of mahogany, and was inset with an elaborate parquetry design. This looked more promising! She slipped on a pair of thin cotton gloves and lifted it out of the cardboard box. Clearing a space, she laid it on the table, and investigated its fastening. There was a brass hook and loop clasp, but thankfully no lock. She opened it up and gasped.

      ‘Wow. Just, wow.’ She looked around to see if Roger was in earshot, but he’d left the back rooms. Should she call him or wait and show him when he came back? He tended to pop into the back room every hour or so to see how she was getting on. She looked back at the contents of the box. No, this was too good to wait – he needed to see this now. She left the room and went through to the front of the museum to call him.

      He came trotting after her. ‘I take it that box had something better than ammonites in it, then?’

      ‘Oh yes. Take a look.’ She indicated the box, and he gasped too.

      ‘Duelling pistols. And what an elaborate pair! Take one out – you’ve got gloves on.’

      She carefully extracted one from its moulded place in the box. It was a beautiful item. ‘Gorgeous! Look at that silver work, and are those rubies on the handle?’

      ‘It’s called the stock, not the handle,’ Roger said. ‘Yes, I’d say mahogany trimmed with silver, and set with rubies. I’ll have to have a closer look with a magnifying glass to be certain of the materials. A very fine piece.’ He looked at the case. ‘And we have the pair, plus the ramrod, and that little flask there was probably used to hold the gunpowder.’

      ‘Yikes, hope there’s none in it now!’ Gemma squealed in mock horror.

      Roger smiled indulgently and slipped on a pair of cotton gloves. He took the little flask out of the case and opened it. ‘Empty. We’re all right. I would guess those other slots in the case would have held the shot, probably lead. And maybe a cleaning brush. But how wonderful to have the pair, in such a lovely case! I think we’ll have to get these out on display.’

      ‘Do you think they were ever used in a duel?’ Gemma asked. It was a sobering thought – she might be holding a gun that had killed someone.

      ‘Who knows? They look very decorative. They could have been commissioned and bought just for show. Duelling pistols were often owned as a kind of status symbol. It’s unusual to have jewels in the stocks like this. And see the inside of the case’s lid?’

      Gemma looked. It was beautifully painted with a scene showing two eighteenth-century gentlemen engaging in a duel, standing stiffly, their pistols pointed at each other, tricorn hats and flared coats giving a hint as to the era. To one side of the picture was a spreading oak tree, and two other men stood, holding the reins of black and bay horses. It certainly looked as though the case was designed to sit open, with the interior on display. Gemma found herself hoping that the pistols had never been used in anger.

      ‘Well, I’ll leave you to add that to the catalogue,’ Roger said, as he stood up and pulled off his gloves. ‘Don’t put them away afterwards though – leave them on my desk. I’d like to take a closer look after we’ve closed for the day.’

      ‘Sure, will do.’ Gemma grinned at Roger as he left, then turned her attention back to the case. She lifted out the other pistol and the ramrod, and started making notes about the case first. As she turned it over she noticed a yellowing label stuck to the base of it. There was writing on it, in a spidery hand: Bequeathed by Mrs A. Maitland, 1923. These pistols were the ones used in the infamous shooting at Red Hill Hall.

      Gemma felt a shiver run down her spine as she read the words. An ‘infamous shooting’! – but not so infamous it was still remembered in 2015. Red Hill Hall – that rang a bell. She racked her brains trying to think where else she’d heard that place name recently. And then it came to her.