Chapter 14
I end the call, my heart racing frantically.
My son’s been injured and William Penhelion’s involved.
I should have found out what happened – asked if Connor’s OK.
Ollie’s words on the boat to the police come back to me: ‘Maybe you’ve got the wrong Penhelion.
’ Bess was forced to marry a brute – Will’s distant ancestor.
A man who paid someone to murder his wife.
Generations have passed, but could he be cut from the same cloth?
That’s ridiculous, whispers a faint voice of reason. Will Penhelion has no reason to hurt Connor. Then why does he have him?
I can’t stop the warring voices as I rush back inside and grab my car keys. I know from Cliff that Polgothley is the house at the far end of the horseshoe bay. It’s two miles away, tops.
Tyres screech on cobbles as I reverse the car and speed off. I head in the right direction, but quickly, I get lost in the hedgerows. Of course there’s no signal and no one to ask. I pull into a layby and punch the steering wheel. My son… This is all my fault.
I drive on and reach a fingerpost at the junction of two hedgerows.
One way points to Piskies Cove, which at least will be on the coast, so I head in that direction.
It feels like ten miles, though it’s probably another two, max.
As I draw nearer to the sea, the land dips and the fields and hedgerows give way to manicured woodland.
I reach an iron gate with a veritable arboretum of trees both domestic and exotic beyond.
There’s no sign, but clearly, it’s a stately home.
It must be Polgothley – it just has to be.
I continue on down the long, winding drive, overhung not only by beech and plane trees, but also, in places, giant rhododendron and laurel, the branches making spooky, skeletal shapes beneath the canopy of leaves.
I’m half-expecting a burnt-out ruin – Manderley after the fire.
But eventually, the trees give way to gardens and a beautiful old stone house.
Though the walls are grey, the sunlight is liquid gold as it reflects from the thousands of diamond panes that compose the windows.
The house must be hundreds of years old, but it appears well-kept.
I park the car and walk to the door; it’s covered with a stone porch that’s festooned with wisteria and old roses.
I feel an odd sense of déjà vu, like I’ve been here before – though I know that isn’t possible.
Not in this lifetime. Could it be ancestorial memory?
Do I even believe in such a thing? From what I understand of the family history, Old John Dog must have spent at least some time lurking around the Polgothley estate.
The thought makes me remember whose house it is and why I’m here.
Connor – I need to collect my son and get out of here.
As I ring the bell, a faint chime echoes through the house. I’m half-expecting the door to be opened by a liveried servant, but in reality, no one comes. I ring again. Is this the wrong house? Why is no one home?
My chest tight, I leave the porch and tramp across a flowerbed to one of the tall windows at the front of the house. As I cup my hands to peer inside, the door opens.
Will Penhelion comes out. He frowns when he looks at me, then down at my feet, where my trainers have squashed the young bedding plants.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, moving quickly out of the flowerbed. ‘I wasn’t sure this was the right place.’
‘It is.’ His frown doesn’t waver, and I sense that he’s judging me.
I’m flustered; I haven’t put on any make-up, and I’m wearing a pair of old jeans and a shirt that once belonged to Aiden.
In contrast, he’s perfectly turned out in chinos and a crisp white shirt, and his clean-shaven pout gives off vibes of Rupert Campbell-Black.
But if I’m expecting any sort of sexual tension, I’m sorely mistaken.
He’s the lord, and I’m disrupting his manor.
‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ he says. ‘I’ve got Connor.’
That phrase again – it makes him sound like a kidnapper. Clearly, he must be able to tell from my appearance that I’ve got nothing to pay for ransom.
‘Is he OK?’ I say.
He doesn’t answer as he walks before me into the house. It’s not only beyond rude, but utterly unfeeling under the circumstances.
‘Please tell me,’ I say.
‘He’s fine. This time.’
His words nest inside my anger, and I manage to draw a full breath. Connor is fine. That is the only thing that’s important. Not this posh tosser or this house…
This beautiful house.
If walking into the inn was like entering some kind of chamber of horrors, I have the opposite response to Polgothley.
The architect in me is genuinely impressed by this gem of a house.
The original features are exquisite: wooden panelling, stone floors, intricate plaster ceilings.
It would be easy to make such a house look and feel like a museum, but here, magic has been worked as well.
While the house is furnished with a wealth of antiques, there is also a dose of modernity that makes it feel much more homely.
Instead of heavy brocades, the curtains and upholstery have been done in a pale linen, block printed with hollyhocks and foxgloves.
The huge, mullioned windows let in a kaleidoscope of natural light, and in the darker corners of the room, copper Arts and Craft-style lamps make the room feel cosy and welcoming.
A fire burns in the fireplace, warming the room with its rosy glow.
The huge stone mantelpiece is carved with a lion and unicorn flanking a tall-masted ship, which is also carved above the door and seems to be the family crest.
Despite my host’s distinct lack of welcome, I can’t help but praise the beauty of the house. ‘It seems like a very special place,’ I say.
‘Yes. It is.’
‘I’m not used to living in a place that’s so immersed in history,’ I say. ‘Though, the inn’s past is a little violent for my tastes.’
He pauses for a moment and half-turns to me. ‘All these old buildings have a unique past,’ he says. ‘And our lives will become part of their heritage. As John W. Gardner once said: “History never feels like history when you’re living through it”.’
I look at him with renewed interest. ‘I haven’t heard that before,’ I say. ‘Though, I think it’s very true.’
He sighs. ‘It’s right up there with “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone” – but I’m not sure who said that.’
‘Me neither.’
It’s an odd conversation to be having with this man. Am I supposed to read something into it?
As we go through the main room, dark portraits of Penhelion ancestors glare down at me, but I notice that there are no recent family photos.
It must either be a deliberate omission, or maybe…
there is no other family? I’ll have to ask Cliff or Elspeth, because there’s no way I’m going to ask this man.
I’ve already put my foot in the flowerbed – I’ve no desire to put it in my mouth too.
He leads me from the main room into a beautiful, panelled corridor. Outside the row of windows is an inner courtyard planted with an intricate knot garden. It’s exquisite, and although it’s probably best seen from above, I can’t help but pause to admire it.
‘Are you a gardener?’ I ask.
‘I’m a cardiac surgeon,’ he says. ‘But this house and the garden is my hobby.’
‘A surgeon? I didn’t know.’
He shrugs and keeps walking. I don’t want to respect him, or his profession or his hobbies. He’s an unpleasant, unwelcoming bastard – and, if Ollie is to be believed – some sort of criminal to boot. Either way, I hate that I feel even more intimidated than I did already.
He leads me around the corner to another wing of the house.
I gasp – it’s a vast kitchen, again in a style that’s a perfect mix of new and old.
The original stone and brick walls are exposed, as is the huge inglenook fireplace, but in contrast, the units are modern copper and stainless steel with space-age appliances. Is my host a cook too?
I’m really starting to hate him.
On the other side of the kitchen, we reach a cosy lounge. Not only is there a TV, but also a pool table. Connor is lying on a leather sofa playing on a Nintendo Switch. He looks up and sees me, but instantly goes back to his game.
‘Connor,’ I say. ‘Time to go.’
‘Can’t,’ he says. ‘My ankle hurts.’
I look down and see that his ankle is bandaged. It looks a professional job – Will the surgeon must have done it himself.
‘What on earth did you do?’
‘I tripped.’ He turns back to the screen.
I look at Will questioningly. He should have told me what happened right away – just like, instead of asking him about the house and garden, I should have asked about my son.
‘What happened?’
‘He pitched up in my wine cellar,’ Will says. ‘Got himself locked in there along with his friend. The friend legged it, but your son tripped at the bottom of the stairs. The ankle is only a sprain. He should keep it wrapped and elevated as much as possible, but it should be fine by tomorrow.’
‘How on earth did they get into your cellar?’
‘They came through the tunnels. The ones that originate below your property most likely. I’m assuming Connor was playing unsupervised?’
‘Unsupervised?’ I bristle at this new slight. ‘He snuck out before breakfast. And what tunnels are you talking about?’
‘Dangerous ones that he shouldn’t be anywhere near. They run underneath the house, all the way down to the caves in the cove. Underneath your place too. All of them are unsafe, and although I’ve tried to seal off the ones on my land, people keep getting in.’
‘Connor,’ I say, turning to my son, ‘Cliff told you not to go into the caves. Why didn’t you listen?’
‘I don’t know.’ Connor doesn’t look up. ‘Med knows his way around.’
‘Who is this Med?’ I say. ‘I want to meet him, and his parents. It’s not good if he’s leading you astray. And to end up in someone else’s cellar…’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ he says.
‘I’m not the one you need to apologise to. And thank, from the looks of it.’ I indicate his ankle and the video game.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Penhelion,’ he says.
‘You can call me Will.’ Though his tone with me lacks warmth, when he looks at my son, he actually smiles. It transforms his face.
‘Mr Will, sir.’
Our host sighs. ‘It’s OK. I know it’s an exciting place to explore. But I can’t impress upon you enough that it’s dangerous. There are landslides and cave-ins. Not to mention caverns that flood at high tide. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s important.’ Hearing Will’s account, I almost want to shake Connor to get some sense into him. We’re city folk – just playing at being locals. ‘We have no idea of the dangers.’
Will looks at me like he’s forgotten I’m there. Clearly, he thinks I’m a terrible parent. Anger rises up in my chest, along with alarm. This man might have a swish job, a fancy house, and a wine cellar, but does he have a wife? Kids?
I’m mortified when I hear myself ask this question out loud.
He goes from looking mildly displeased to the edge of anger. For a second, I think he’s going to order us out without answering. And when he does speak, I wish he hadn’t.
‘I have a son. But he’s – not here.’
‘Oh.’ Instantly, I put a hand over my mouth.
Not here as in away at boarding school, or not here as in dead?
I can’t ask. But the offhanded revelation brings everything I sense about him into crystal focus.
Anger and hostility masking grief and sadness underneath.
I may not like the man, but I feel an odd sense of solidarity.
‘Where is he?’
I stare horrified as Connor innocently asks the question. Have I not taught him time and time again to be polite – to be empathetic? Is this as far as we’ve got?
‘You don’t have to answer that,’ I interject.
Will goes over to the bookcase, shaking his head. He lifts out a book, thumbs through it, then puts it back.
‘Ask Ollie,’ he says, half-glancing at me. ‘I understand you two are well acquainted.’
With that, he walks back to the door to the kitchen.
‘Get up,’ I hiss to Connor. ‘We’re going.’
I hold out my hand to pull him up. He makes a big song and dance of being in pain, but his face is red and I’m gratified that at least he knows he was out of line.
I wish we could just disappear down a tunnel, but we have to bear the discomfort of walking back through Will’s house. Connor leans on me to start with, then gets bored of hobbling and, surprise, surprise, finds he can walk normally.
Will is in the kitchen, starting to cook some kind of elaborate meal involving a lot of chopped vegetables.
‘Thank you,’ I say again, not meeting his startling blue eyes. ‘And I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.’
‘Give him paracetamol, not ibuprofen,’ Will says.
‘And keep him away from those caves. And also, the sea – that can be dangerous too, especially if you’re unfamiliar with the tides.
There are… so many dangers here.’ He stares down at his long fingers, almost as if he’s forgotten I’m here.
‘But I suppose you’ll do what you’ll do. ’
‘I’ll keep him away,’ I say, knowing it’s futile.
As we walk back through the house, the undercurrent of sadness that I’d missed before now seems blindingly obvious.
Did Will’s son have some kind of mishap in the caves or on the beach?
It’s possible. And what does Ollie have to do with it?
(And – how does this man know that Ollie and I have even met?) I know I shouldn’t care about any of it, but I do.
As we exit through the big front door and I walk with Connor to the car, I wish we’d never come here. I feel a sharp stab of pain in my stomach – a longing for a life I never had, but also managed to lose along the way.