Chapter 7
SEVEN
Her stomach clenched and her pulse started to race.
In an instant her mind was flooded with an image of moonlight shimmering on a dark sea, clouds scudding over a troubled sky.
The silhouette of a sailing ship, its sails billowing, cries carried on the wind mingling with the sound of gunshot.
A sense of fear and danger permeating the misty air.
Lark gasped. ‘Oh my God!’ She was overwhelmed by the urgent need to get the pistol out of her hands.
With her heart pounding, she hurriedly wrapped it in the cloth and set it back in the tin so quickly anyone would think it was burning hot, almost dropping it as she did so.
She sat back, putting some distance between herself and the tin when a crumpled piece of paper with writing in an elaborate cursive hand caught her eye. Tentatively, she reached for it.
‘“William’s pig is farrowing”? What?’ She turned the paper over but other than a smattering of oily stains, the underside was blank. ‘“William’s pig is farrowing”?’ she said again. ‘What on earth could that mean?’
Once more, a sense of danger crawled over her as she became aware of the sound of shoes scraping over stone, urgent voices giving orders, the crack of a cannon firing in the distance, the smell of smoke swirling under her nose, the thundering crash of waves as they lashed against the shore.
An image of shadowy figures hurriedly moving items – barrels, sacks, packages – from the beach before being swallowed by an ink-dark cave played out in her mind.
In the next moment, a gunshot sliced through the air, the whiff of gun smoke, figures dashing about, voices raised in alarm.
Lark gasped, her heart racing even faster.
She dropped the paper into the tin, snatching her hand away.
This was too much. She needed to break free of this unpalatable mix of distress and agitation, it was so at odds with her naturally peaceful and calm disposition.
When her heart rate had finally settled, Lark puffed out her cheeks and released a slow breath, trying to make sense of it all.
Still feeling slightly punch-drunk, she felt her eyes being drawn, magnet-like, back to the tin.
The small rounds of lead must surely be ammunition and very likely linked to the pistol, though she wasn’t so sure what the pouches contained.
Maybe the leather one was for coins? As for the key, she couldn’t even begin to imagine what that unlocked, though her gut told her it was something at Crayke’s Cottage.
A secret room or passageway? Or an old coffer, even?
As for the piece of paper with the odd mix of words in cursive writing, she wondered if it could have been code for some illicit dealings, and if so, why have it written down?
The thought of it sent a shiver running through her.
There was no wonder poor old Luna reacted the way she had.
Lark had an overwhelming urge to get as far away from the suitcase as possible too.
With dregs of adrenalin still lingering in her bloodstream, she secured the lid back onto the tin, then returned it to the case, making sure to fasten the clasps securely.
She didn’t want it, and more particularly, the pistol in her home for a moment longer.
She needed to get it outside, and get the usual calm ambience restored to Seashell Cottage.
Nate may have said she was welcome to anything else that caught her eye at Crayke’s Cottage but, right now, she didn’t want another thing from there getting over her doorstep.
After what she’d just experienced, it didn’t bear thinking about what kind of energy it might unleash.
There was no way she was going to risk it.
She was thrilled with Betty’s case and was now wishing she hadn’t clapped eyes on the smaller one.
Thinking of Nate, much as she was keen to tell him what she’d found in the suitcases, getting the smaller one out of her house and into the shed in the backyard was a priority, snow or no snow.
Lark hefted it up from the floor and hurried through to the kitchen.
She slipped her feet into her wellies and pulled on the raincoat she kept on a peg by the back door.
That done, she flicked the switch for the outside light, grabbed the shed key and braced herself for what the weather had in store for her.
Outside, the icy air took her breath away.
The snow was considerably deeper than when she’d waved Nate off earlier, and flakes were still tumbling from the sky, settling on her head and shoulders.
Lark hurried to the shed, wintry air nipping at her face and hands, making her eyes water.
In her haste, she fumbled with the key, pushing the suitcase inside when she’d finally unlocked the door.
A sense of relief followed her all the way back to the warmth of the cottage.
Back inside, she gave a shiver. What a day it had been.
She couldn’t remember one where she’d been bombarded with such an array of emotions.
It had left her feeling quite exhausted.
On top of that, she wouldn’t feel settled until she’d cleansed the atmosphere of her home and made sure she’d ridded it of any lingering negativity.
Hopefully, that would tempt poor Luna to venture back downstairs.
Lark busied herself, gathering all she needed to begin her cleansing ritual. It was one she carried out on a regular basis there at the cottage and also at Lark’s Vintage Bazaar.
To start, she retrieved her bundle of dried herbs from the sideboard.
It was one she’d made herself and consisted of sage, lavender and a sprig of eucalyptus, all bound tightly together with twine.
The sage and eucalyptus she’d added for their powerful cleansing properties while the lavender was included simply because it was one of her favourite herbs and she valued its calming qualities – something she felt in great need of right now!
All three were known to be attributed with the power of protection, too, which Lark considered a formidable combination.
Though the wintry weather made it less than ideal, it was necessary for her to open the windows before commencing the cleansing ritual, the reason being twofold: not only did the smoke need to escape, but she also needed to create an outlet for any negative energy.
As soon as Lark cranked open the horizontal sliding sash window (a style typical of the vernacular cottages in the area), the freezing air didn’t waste a moment and rushed in, diving into every corner of the room.
Lark methodically went around the rest of the cottage, opening the windows in each room and temporarily disabling the smoke alarms so the smouldering herbs wouldn’t set them off and startle her neighbours – they were well used to the smell of burning herbs emanating from her home and wafting into theirs.
That done, she lit the top end of the herb stick and allowed it to catch fire before blowing it out with a gentle puff of breath, then carefully leant it against a terracotta bowl set on the sideboard.
While the fragrant smoke filled the air, Lark picked up the chunk of green, polished malachite crystal she’d prepared in anticipation of any negative energy brought into her home from Crayke’s Cottage.
That morning she’d rinsed the crystal under running water and left it to air dry in the living room.
That way, she felt happy that she’d washed away any traces of negative energy it could be holding on to; she was keen for its properties to be at the optimum level.
Clutching her crystal in one hand, she took the herb bundle in the other and walked slowly around the room, the scented smoke drifting all around her and filling the tiny space.
She stretched out her arm, ensuring the smoke reached right into the corners.
Lark repeated this action in every room of the house – even the bathroom – until she was satisfied the cottage was adequately cleansed, and every trace of negative energy had been eradicated.
In the living room, she set the herb bundle back down, fragrant smoke still drifting from it.
She placed the piece of malachite beside it while she went around closing all the windows.
She was just about to hunt for Luna, who was still making herself scarce, when she heard a gentle mewing from her bedroom.
The sound appeared to be coming from under her bed.
Heading over to it, Lark lifted the edge of the patchwork quilt and peered beneath to see two eyes blinking back at her.
‘Oh, Luna,’ she said softly. ‘You can come out now, sweetheart, everywhere’s back to normal. There’s nothing left to upset you. Come on.’
The cat gave another plaintive miaow before tentatively inching her way out, letting Lark scoop her up and carry her downstairs. ‘I’m so sorry, Luna, I should’ve taken notice of your warning and not touched the case.’ I should’ve taken notice of my own warning, too.
With tranquillity restored at Seashell Cottage and Luna watching from the doorway, Lark set about making herself a soothing mug of camomile tea.
Her mind was turning over the items in the second suitcase.
As thrilled as she’d been about Betty’s clothes in the larger case, the contents had been overshadowed by the smaller one.
Could the items inside have anything to do with why Mr Thurston had said Crayke’s Cottage was cursed with bad luck?
And, if so, did he know anything about that particular suitcase?
Was that why he was so determined to not keep any of the items? So many questions!
Lark had decided against texting or calling Nate about it, deciding, instead, to tell him tomorrow.
She was at a loss at what to do with the smaller suitcase.
She was reluctant for Nate to have it with all its weird energy; she didn’t want even the tiniest hint of it to rub off onto him, especially after the weird feelings she’d detected on him earlier.
It made her wonder as to the vibes in the furniture currently stored in his van.
In fairness, there hadn’t been much. The place had been sparsely furnished, though what there was had been heavy, it being made of aged oak.
If he was okay with it, she’d treat the van to a spot of sage burning before he moved it, and its contents, to his workshop, hang up a couple of the malachite crystals she had on chains.
As she poured hot water over the teabag, the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if the small suitcase and its contents should be handed over to the local heritage centre – she didn’t want it, and she wasn’t so sure Nate would either.
At least, she hoped he wouldn’t. The centre would be the best place for it.
Surely it couldn’t cause any distress to anyone there?
The Old Micklewick Heritage Centre was dedicated to the unlikely partnership of the town’s notorious smuggler, Jacob Crayke and Benjamin Fitzgilbert.
Though it was only small, it had an interesting collection of exhibits.
Situated in the converted chandlery building, facing out to sea in the old part of town, it had become a popular visitor attraction.
It had been a while since she’d looked round the place, but Lark was confident the curator and her staff would be thrilled to receive the items and have them on display amongst the other artefacts.
A wisp of a memory flickered in her mind.
She felt sure she’d heard something about it being awarded some investment or a grant.
And now she thought about it, something told her Florrie was on first name terms with the curator; something to do with the out-of-print books the bookshop stocked.
Another thought popped into her mind. She wondered if there would be anything in the museum’s archives concerning the history of Crayke’s Cottage.
She made a mental note to contact the visitor centre tomorrow, it suddenly dawning on her that it was closed on Mondays except for Bank Holidays.
Drat! Not only was Lark impatient to dig into the history of Crayke’s Cottage, but, more pressingly, she was also impatient to get the small suitcase out of her shed and into the hands of someone who would know what to do with it.
Checking the time on her phone, she saw it was almost nine o’clock.
With the usual calm and positive air restored to not only herself, but the cottage too, Lark decided it would be a good time to call her dad, see how he was doing.
She couldn’t wait to hear what he’d have to say about the case, hoping it would pique his interest. He needed something after the last three years he’d had.