Kitabı oku: «Death Plays a Part»

Thanks to all editors, agents, and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

Thanks to my fantastic editor Victoria Oundjian and her team for embracing Cornisea Castle, Guinevere, and Dolly from the very first brief pitch I presented, and to the design team for creating a fabulous new cover look for this series.

A special thanks to all my readers who share their enthusiasm for my books online and in real life:

you keep the series coming!

May Cornisea Island bring you summery escapism

and the satisfaction derived from solving a good puzzle!

Note

Although inspired by real-life tidal islands like St Michael’s Mount and its French counterpart, and by many fascinating sources of Cornish history, archaeology, folklore, flora and fauna, cuisine etc., Cornisea Island and its castle with ruling family is a fictional world. Its layout, businesses and societies, special constable and deadly legends of patron saints and secret treasure are all the fruits of my imagination.

Chapter One

‘But if the gardener didn’t dig those holes, then who did?’ Lady Margaret’s voice – speaking over the headphones – carried an exaggerated note of terror. ‘It must have been …’

She paused for dramatic emphasis. ‘The spectre of the old tower.’

‘Ancient tower,’ a voice called, apparently from further away.

Lady Margaret sounded impatient as she said, in her normal speaking voice, ‘I can’t remember ancient. “Old tower” rolls off the tongue.’ Suddenly she broke into a sneezing fit.

‘Ruddy boa. Even the thought of a chicken gives me a rash.’

Guinevere laughed out loud, then remembered she was on a train and toned it down. Her hand rested on the player clipped to her belt. Through the headphones she had been listening to a rehearsal session for Well-mannered Murder, the play her company in London were to perform after the summer.

Set in the 1920s at a manor where a lady with a lack of funds is organizing classes to groom girls for their entry into society and possibly to forge a connection with a wealthy man, it had glamour, wit, and even a hint of comedy as the lady in question had to fight manipulative staff, mysterious occurrences, and a cunning killer to keep her new enterprise afloat.

The retired actress who played Lady Margaret was perfect for the part, and Guinevere had been thrilled to dress her in the opulent gowns and cute hats of the era. She had been stitching sequins and attaching feathers and even hand-painting a fan. Mr Betts, the theatre director, had also allowed her to work on the décors and the props, which had meant scouring antique shops and vintage stores to dig out all the best items.

Guinevere took a deep breath. She missed the theatre already, as well as her friends in the crew. Although they had been working with each other for years when Guinevere had been added to the team, fresh from her studies, the members had taken her in like they had known her all along. They had invited her to lunch at the cute little café close to the theatre and had lent a quick hand whenever Guinevere couldn’t keep up with the pace during a performance.

Soon she had felt part of the unruly family they formed, at home in the cosy building with the long history that formed their haven. But their beloved theatre was currently closed for renovations, and the crew had left London for the summer, each to his own place. Guinevere had to focus on her temporary job now.

She checked her watch. Almost there.

Holding her breath, she leaned over and pressed her cheek against the cold glass pane to catch a glimpse of water. After all, her new workplace was an island. As a child she had longed for a holiday by the seaside but her grandmother, who had taken care of her, hadn’t been able to afford any sort of holiday, let alone one in a popular destination. Now her childhood dream was finally coming true: summer along the Cornish coast.

Her heartbeat sped up, and she strained her eyes to catch that first alluring glimpse of sparkling water.

But there was nothing to be seen. Still the way in which the train lost speed told her they were near her final destination.

The woman opposite to her, in her fifties with a basket on her knees, nodded at her with a friendly smile. ‘New here, are you?’

‘Yes, I come from London. I’m going to work on Cornisea Island. Can I see it from here?’

The woman shook her head. ‘The village is on a hill. You can’t see the sea or the island from the train track and the station. Where are you going to work? I think I saw they were advertising for someone at the bakery.’

‘No, I’m going to catalogue books. At the castle.’

‘With Lord Bolingbrooke?’ The woman leaned forward, her arms on the basket, her voice lowering into a confidential tone. ‘He doesn’t like outsiders, does he?’

Recognizing the small-town willingness to share a little titbit that had pervaded her childhood in Devon and was so remarkably absent in the big-city bustle of London, Guinevere couldn’t help a smile coming up. With an inquisitive mind of her own, and a never-ending interest in what motivated people, she could never resist a snippet of gossip here or there.

Still, her new position as Lord Bolingbrooke’s employee required a tactful reply so she said cheerfully, ‘Well, he advertised for someone to help him catalogue his books, so I’m sure he’s aware that I’m coming.’

The theatre’s director, Mr Betts, had told her about the position available at Cornisea Castle. He had said it was the perfect place for her to spend the summer as it had history and the island was full of fascinating stories about the past. Secret treasure, local lore.

The excitement that had grabbed her as soon as she had heard about it rushed through her again. She hadn’t had time to dig deeply into Cornisea’s colourful history but the summaries she had read about it had unrolled a tableau vivant full of saints, knights and squires, ladies and maids, a tale of siege, love, deception, heartbreak.

As if Dolly noticed her excitement, she squeaked. The short, high-pitched sound was the dachshund’s favourite way to express her enthusiasm. She held her long nose close to the window as if she also wanted to catch a glimpse of their new home. Guinevere scratched her behind the ears. ‘Almost there, girl. Just a few more minutes.’

The woman opposite them said, ‘Some people think it’s silly to talk to dogs. Well, I think it’s silly not to talk to dogs. Had them for all of my life. Retrievers first when I was still living on the farm my parents had. Now I live in the village, in a smaller house. Took in a cocker spaniel when an elderly neighbour moved away and couldn’t take her along. The sweetest little thing. Is by my bedside in the morning, the moment I wake up. Keeps me company while I garden. She’s with my sister today. She doesn’t like trains, you know.’

Guinevere smiled. ‘Dolly likes everything. She’s quite the adventurer. Aren’t you, girl?’

Dolly squeaked again and rubbed her head against Guinevere. Her bright little eyes took in everything that moved outside the window: the clouds against the skies, the specks of birds, a yellow tractor on the fields.

The train was slowing down even more, swaying, and soon they stopped all together. The woman with the basket helped Guinevere to lift her heavy suitcase from the train onto the platform. ‘Is someone coming to get you?’ she asked with a worried frown.

‘No, but I can manage. Thank you for your help. And have a lovely day. Say hello to your cocker spaniel from me and Dolly.’

The woman smiled at her and walked away, calling out to a woman at a flower stand just outside the station. It only had two platforms and an old-fashioned building with vintage motifs of golden fleur-de-lis over the entry doors.

Guinevere took a deep breath. The air carried the typical tinge of salt that always betrays the sea is nearby. But there was also the smell of paper and coffee. She spotted a window where hot beverages were sold. She also saw cans of soft drink in a cool box and newspapers. A turnable rack held leaflets on regional sights and activities.

On a blue one Guinevere read: ‘Medieval re-enactment at Cornisea Castle.’

Underneath were a few lines of explanation that the Cornisea Historical Society was to re-create the trial of Branok the Cold-hearted, the steward of Cornisea Castle, who had been accused of vile acts against the villagers under his care.

‘Based on medieval sources, the play gives a true-to-life representation of the trial, the parties involved, and medieval justice, against the breathtaking backdrop of the centuries-old castle and its rugged environment,’ she read to Dolly.

What perfect timing. Her theatrical expertise would come in handy for this re-enactment. She might help with costumes or setting the scene or whatever else was needed.

Guinevere already saw herself choosing some props from the castle’s extensive collection. Maybe some items from the armoury would lend nice touches?

And if Lord Bolingbrooke didn’t want the real things to be used, they might make copies of a coat of arms, hand-painting them in the bright heraldic gold, blue, and red.

The woman behind the window leaned on the counter and called out to her, ‘You can take that leaflet along if you want to. They’re free.’The woman looked at Guinevere’s clothes – her poppy-strewn dress with broad red belt, her matching red pumps, and the long braid hanging down her right shoulder – and asked in a conspiratorial tone, ‘You’re here for that re-enactment, right? You look sort of … vintage.’

‘Thank you. But no, I’m going to work at the castle for the summer. Cataloguing books.’

‘With Lord Bolingbrooke? You don’t say.’

Her surprise matched that of the woman on the train, and Guinevere got an unpleasant twinge of worry in her stomach. All of these people seemed baffled that Lord Bolingbrooke would invite an outsider to his keep. As if he was the type of man who kept to himself and shooed away strangers.

But he had advertised for someone to catalogue his books, right?

Guinevere frowned a moment. She hadn’t actually seen the advertisement. Mr Betts had told her about it and had encouraged her to write an application email to an email address he had provided to her on a sticky note. She had received a reply from an O. Bolingbrooke, inviting her over at her earliest convenience. She hadn’t printed it off, thinking it was all settled now. Should she have brought it, to prove she had actually been invited? Lord Bolingbrooke might not personally open the door.

Guinevere thought a moment longer and then shook it off, thanking the woman behind the window and putting the leaflet about the re-enactment in her bag.

The woman said, ‘Just follow the road, and you’ll see the island soon enough. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you for the directions. Have a wonderful day.’

Clutching her suitcase, Guinevere pulled Dolly along, who wanted to sniff all the exciting smells. The road was a simple cobbled affair, broad enough for two cars to pass each other if the drivers took a little care. The houses on either side of it were built from grey stone, the low walls circling the gardens put together from rocks that stayed in place because of their own weight.

The occasional tree in a garden leaned into the road, spreading its branches to throw shade across the verge and attract birds, which swooped down to peck in the grass only to shoot back up into the tree again as soon as they spotted a possible threat.

Dolly poked her long nose through a wooden fence and barked at some ducks that waddled through a garden – probably to keep it free from snails.

‘Come on. Leave those poor ducks be. They’re only doing their job.’ Guinevere pulled the dachshund along, eager to see the island. As the road went up here, it was impossible to see the sea yet and if you weren’t aware that it should be out there, you might be mistaken and think you were still far from it. But all of a sudden they were at the highest point and could see the landscape before them.

The road went down at a steep angle, ending abruptly where the land changed to water. There was a path there though, narrower, continuing with a few mild curves to lead across the water to the island. This causeway had been there for centuries, allowing people to reach Cornisea Island when the tide was low.

Staring at it, Guinevere could just picture the people who had walked across it in centuries past: merchants who came to offer their wares at the castle, theatrical companies like theirs in London who wanted to provide entertainment for a feast.

A wedding maybe, between the lord of the castle and a princess who had come here from France, carrying the sweet scent of the blossoming lavender fields with her in the dried flowers she had sprinkled between her clothes in her many trunks. Maybe that princess had also brought the seeds of plants and small trees to fill out the gardens and arboretum that Cornisea Castle was famous for?

The island itself was an oval piece of land that seemed to have drifted away from the shore to lie by itself, surrounded by choppy waves. The left of the island was wild: towering cliffs, dense trees and shrubs, and a beach where Guinevere could see herself walking Dolly, playing a little fetch as the sun set and turned the waters into a deep red and purple while the first stars appeared against the velvety skies.

In contrast to the wild, uncultivated left of the island, the right consisted of neat cottages in a row forming a front along a sheltered harbour where boats bobbed on the waves.

There Guinevere pictured the bakery, which the kind woman on the train had mentioned. Just the idea of sweet smells made her mouth water. She needed a snack after the long train ride.

The few houses sat there like a miniature village, taking refuge in the shadow of the castle above. It towered over everything as the crowning piece on a wedding cake.

It was no fairy-tale castle in light colours with many high, elegant towers flying colourful banners, but instead was a sturdy old burg with two plump towers, flat above with a row of merlons all around. From up there you had to have a magnificent view across the island and the surrounding sea, the mainland so close by.

Guinevere began to descend, holding her weight back, Dolly pulling ahead of her. The doggy had never been to the seaside, but she didn’t seem to get nervous about all the water or about the fact they had to continue walking on a road that was surrounded by water on both sides. From the day Dolly had run into the theatre and right onto the stage – during a performance! – she hadn’t been fazed by anything new she met.

The causeway was only accessible during low tide, while at high tide the island was completely cut off from the mainland. The distance wasn’t great, and of course there were always boats to take, but still Cornisea had a certain isolation that contributed to its special appeal.

Walking here in the footsteps of those who had once visited the castle – to sell, to perform, to wed, to dance, to laugh and cry, to honour old traditions like the historical society was going to do with their re-enactment of the Branok trial – Guinevere’s heart beat faster that she had been given this unique chance. To work in a world of her own, a place where time had stood still and traditions of old were very much alive.

‘Isn’t it peaceful?’ Guinevere said to Dolly. ‘The gulls overhead, the island in front of us, the smell of the sea. Not at all like London, right, with all the traffic and the exhaust fumes.’

She hadn’t finished yet, when an engine roared behind Guinevere. She just had time to halt and step aside before a motorcycle blasted past her. The sun reflected off the shiny mirrors and the silver helmet that the motorcyclist wore.

‘Maniac!’ Guinevere called after him, knowing full well he wouldn’t hear her, or Dolly’s indignant barking, over the roar of the engine.

In a cloud of bluish fumes the rider sped ahead of her.

Waving a hand in front of her face, Guinevere waited for the fumes to clear before she walked on, following the man with her eyes. He came to the end of the causeway and turned right into the harbour area. Then, having startled two fishermen busy with their nets, he turned again, disappearing between the cottages. Did he live there? The irresponsible son of an elderly couple who only blasted by every once in a while to say hello to his parents?

At least he had parents.

For a moment Guinevere’s heart sank, thinking of the father and mother she had never known. No graves to visit, no place to go and remember. No photo albums either with shots of her on her birthday or riding a pony or at the zoo.

Nothing.

Like she had no past at all.

Maybe that was why she liked history and genealogy, obscure traces of people who had once lived and loved their lives. Reconstructing what had been to give meaning to the now.

A young family was coming from the other direction, the man holding a girl of six or seven by the hand, the woman carrying a toddler. They were talking excitedly about the island. Guinevere caught the word ‘donkey’. Maybe there were rides offered on the island?

She had to check that out. She loved donkeys: their gentle nature, their instinctive understanding of how people felt and their response to it. Maybe she could help out with the rides some time, during an afternoon off? She supposed Lord Bolingbrooke wouldn’t expect her to be working all of the time.

At last she reached the end of the causeway and turned into the harbour area. The fishermen greeted her with smiles and nods before lowering their heads over their nets again. At Emma’s Eatery a chalkboard invited visitors to try the pasty of the day with stout from the island’s own brewery. People sat at the tables with chequered cloths, cups of coffee and glasses of beer in front of them.

Guinevere’s stomach growled under the delicious food smells wafting at her from the eatery’s terrace – beef, fried fish – but she didn’t have time to sit down. Maybe the bakery offered something to eat on her way up to the castle?

She discerned the sign BAKERY rocking in the sea breeze and further down there was also a bookshop with a table outside full of second-hand books. The golden lettering over the large window read THE COWLED SLEUTH. Apparently enough tourists visited to sustain several businesses on such a small island.

In front of the bakery Guinevere put her suitcase down and used both hands over her eyes to spy inside. Behind the counter on shelves were all kinds of loaves of bread: braided, round, oval. There were also jars of something and packages of flour.

She told Dolly to wait for her and went inside. A sweet scent of baked goods wafted around her, and on the counter a model of a cupcake with generous pink icing made her mouth water. ‘Hello,’ she greeted the woman behind the counter. ‘Do you have some small bread or bun?’

‘Ya. Look here.’ The woman – in her forties with reddish-blonde hair swept back in a ponytail – waved a hand at a basket full of buns and rolls. Her arms were bare and there was some flour left under her right elbow as if she had recently been preparing fresh dough. ‘We’ve got cranberry, cinnamon, or lemon with a twist. All freshly baked this morning.’

‘I’ll have lemon with a twist, please.’ Guinevere fished a few coins from her pocket. ‘There are quite a few shops here for a small island.’

‘All family-owned. Have been around for generations. A B&B too. If you’re looking for a place to stay.’

‘I have a place to stay. I’m going to work at the castle, cataloguing the book collection.’

‘You don’t say.’ The woman looked her over as if trying to fit her appearance with the task she was hired for. ‘You’re with the historical society then, I suppose? They’ve been doing a lot at the castle lately, also for this trial re-enactment.’ She nodded at the wall where a rack held tourist information. The same blue flyer Guinevere had accepted at the train station took centre stage.

The woman put Guinevere’s bun in a napkin and handed her the change. ‘It’ll bring some life to the castle. It can use it. The whole island can.’

She gestured to the baskets with bread that were still quite full even though it was almost the end of the day. ‘There’d be more tourists out here, you know, if the castle was open to the public. Maybe not all the rooms, but a few. To give people an idea of what life was like there in the old days. There’s so much beautiful furniture inside – and paintings. A shame when nobody gets to see them but his lordship.’

Guinevere didn’t know what to say to that. Lord Bolingbrooke was her employer, and she didn’t want to criticize him, even unintentionally. Word of it might get back to him, and it would be a bad start to her summer experience. She asked quickly, ‘Can I just walk up to the castle? Is there a path?’

‘Oh, yes, between the houses. Just turn right from here, and you’ll see the pole with the signs on it. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you, and good day.’

The woman replied with a greeting in Cornish that Guinevere didn’t understand. To prepare herself she had gone online to look for some easy words and phrases to use, like good day, how are you?, I’m new here, et cetera.

But it had turned out that even the simplest things looked quite complicated to her untrained eye. Especially the frequent combination of consonants that seemed enough to put her tongue in a twist, and she had decided she wasn’t going to insult the locals by mutilating their language to their faces. Unless she found someone who could teach her to speak it with ease it was best to stick to what she knew.

Outside the bakery Guinevere bit into the bun and relished the combination of fresh lemon and sweet heavy dough. Dolly looked up to see if a bit of it was forthcoming, but Guinevere had a strict ‘no human food for dogs’ policy. Her friends at the theatre had never stuck to that rule though, and Guinevere was certain that as soon as Dolly made friends here on the island, she would get her treats as well. She was just too cute to resist.

Like the woman in the bakery had said, a sign on a wooden pole directed them to the path that led up to the castle. All kinds of plants grew here, some wild, others clearly cultivated, forming an inviting sloping garden up to the castle walls. Bright colours contrasted with the endless blue skies overhead. The sense of freedom was intense, and if she hadn’t been carrying a heavy suitcase, Guinevere might have thrown her arms overhead and whooped out loud.

The overfull streets of London seemed far away, and even missing her friends was less painful as the beauty of this new world invited her in. There was life everywhere: bees and bumblebees humming about, butterflies landing on the path in front of her resting a moment before taking to their wings again, and even something flashing away into the undergrowth that could be anything from a mouse to a lizard.

Through a closely planted grove Guinevere reached the castle walls, towering over her with their archer slits and holes where canons had poked through in the past. Right in front of her was the large entry gate. In the tall, wooden doors decorated with metalwork was a much smaller door, used in the old days to get in and out without having to open the huge doors. It stood ajar.

As Guinevere didn’t see a bell beside it and guessed that knocking wouldn’t bring somebody out of the huge structure, she pushed the door open and stepped into the yard.

To her surprise it wasn’t an empty, barren affair but a warm, welcoming courtyard full of wooden baskets filled with small orange trees and blossoming plants. Opposite to her position were a few metal chairs around a table that held a large lantern. Braziers full of half-burned wood suggested people sat out here at night. With little artificial light around, you had to have an amazing view of the night skies, all the stars overhead.

As Guinevere walked across to the door into the main building, she caught a flash of reflected sunlight to her left. There between all the natural beauty was a big chunk of metal.

The motorcycle that had passed her on the causeway.

She was sure it was the same one, as the silver helmet the driver had worn lay on the leather saddle.

Guinevere grimaced remembering the noise and exhaust fumes. Could the owner of the castle be fond of motorcycles? It seemed at odds with what she had expected of Lord Bolingbrooke: an older bookish man with a passion for history and plants and the beautiful island he lived on.

But maybe he was eccentric or tried to maintain his youth by blasting around the countryside?

The door into the main building did have a bell, and after she had rung it a couple of times, an old man in a simple pullover and dark trousers opened the door. He held a stack of paper cups in his hand. He looked her over with a hitched brow. ‘I thought it was an early arrival for the rehearsal but I’m sure we’ve never met before.’

‘I would like to speak to the owner of this castle,’ Guinevere said. ‘Lord Bolingbrooke.’

‘Do come in.’

The hallway was formal with lots of wood panelling along the walls. She saw antlers and a mounted pheasant in a corner, a large wooden trunk with metalwork on it at the foot of the stairs, upon which sat an enormous brass pot with a flower arrangement. Probably from the castle gardens. Guinevere recognized the same yellow roses she had seen outside.

A door to her right stood open, and inside that room a long table was covered with a cloth and plates stood ready, cutlery in a basket, sandwiches on a tray covered with plastic wrap. Preparations it seemed to receive guests. For this rehearsal the butler had mentioned?

The butler took her to the foot of stairs. ‘You can leave your suitcase here. His lordship is upstairs in the library. You can’t miss it.’