Chapter 31
Saint-Nazaire, France
My dearest Maggie,
I pray that this letter finds you well. How can I ever thank you, and your John, for your heaven-sent assistance in my hour of need.
When I look back upon that night, I can scarcely believe the events as they unfolded.
The fear for my life, hiding in plain sight, lying in my own blood, and playing ‘dead’ for my husband.
The staged wreck of the Halcyon and purveyance of the second ship, the Seagull.
And then you, dear Maggie, helping me through the darkness of the caves to the little boat rowed by John, my would-be murderer, both of you seeing me and my beloved child to safety.
Though the ordeal cost me much blood and strength, over time, I have regained both tenfold.
Because of your heroic acts, my former life of dread and fear has been transformed into one of joy and happiness, and most of all, love.
James has made a good life for us here in France, and our daughter, Hope, is a sweet babe full of mischief and energy.
My own health and spirits are now thoroughly revived, and I look forward to a quiet but happy life in our new home.
We live simply, and without the trappings of great wealth.
We have a small farmhouse and some land, and James is set on becoming a vintner.
We live in a valley that is verdant and peaceful, quiet except for the sounds of birds and bees, and I am glad I can no longer hear the crashing of the surf upon the rocks.
Though he does not say it, I believe that James misses the sea and sky, and the freedom of the waves which is in his blood.
And though I do not say it, I miss my home country and mother tongue.
But like day and night, light and dark, nothing good in this life comes without some cost, and whatever we have lost, our gain is infinitely greater.
I am a mother now, and wife to the man I love.
At last, I am no longer a child. I am wiser, and occasionally sadder. I am living the pain and joy of love.
James repaired and remade the miniature Halcyon from the pieces I spirited away in my reticule.
Like a phoenix, it has risen from the ashes, and I believe it holds good luck and fortune.
I am giving it to you as a gift so that you will never forget us and our gratitude.
Please use it to keep this letter hidden, as there is still some need to conceal our identity and whereabouts.
I am sure you understand. James has made me another little ship, the Seagull, which I have put on my windowsill and gaze at every day so that I am reminded of your kindness.
I also wanted to tell you that we have met a local artist – a woman, no less – and I have shown her some of the sketches I made of Cornwall and the inn.
She is teaching me to paint, and says I am quite good.
Perhaps one day, I will be good enough to do justice to the memory of the night of Hope’s birth, and in fact, I have begun two canvases to tell the tale.
I know the memories live on in the silent walls of the Cross Keys and in our minds and hearts, but I would like my daughter to be able to see the happenings through my eyes.
If I am successful in the endeavour, perhaps I will send the works to you.
And now, dearest, I must say goodbye for the time being.
My daughter has awoken from her sleep and I must see to her.
Do not reply to this letter, but God willing, I will write again and perhaps, when it is safe, I shall return long enough to see you once more.
Until that day, I remain your faithful and loving friend…
Bess
‘Amazing,’ Elspeth says. She sets the letter down on the table next to the cups of tea I’ve made for her and Cliff. ‘Bess sent Maggie the miniature ship as a token of her appreciation, but also as a clever way to hide their correspondence.’
‘Aye,’ Cliff says. ‘She was a wily one. Had to be, I reckon. To stay alive when all the cards were stacked against her.’
‘And not only wily,’ I say, ‘but also a talented artist. It seems she did finish her two canvases – and they’re both very fine work. Maybe she and Hope returned to the inn and delivered the works to Maggie themselves.’
‘We’ll probably never know,’ Elspeth says. ‘Or the details of how the escape was managed. But at least we’ve cleared up one mystery – why you and Bridget resemble the woman in the painting.’
‘The very spit,’ Cliff says. ‘Just like I said the first time I laid eyes on you.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And that’s why Victoria’s family tree had those question marks. I’m not a Kernick at all. I’m… a Trevelyn.’
‘And a Penhelion.’ Cliff shrugs like this can’t be helped.
‘I guess so. Though, a distant cousin of the current lot,’ I feel the need to clarify.
Elspeth laughs. ‘That’s right. And I wouldn’t worry. Here in Cornwall, if you go back far enough, all of us are related.’
‘Yes, I’m beginning to believe that’s true.’
I take the letter back from her feeling an odd twinge of regret that I’m not in fact related to Old John Dog.
While not exactly a paragon of virtue, he did help Bess escape with her baby and her lover.
He wouldn’t have done it under his own volition, however – it took all of Maggie’s bravery and cunning to save the situation.
As far as ancestors go, I’m glad Bess and her baby managed to survive so I can be standing here today.
But as heroines go, it’s Maggie who deserves her story to be told for posterity.
‘We should change a few of your tableaux in the pirate cave,’ I say. ‘Tell the real story of Bess Trevelyn and Maggie Kernick.’
‘And here I thought you were going to close me down,’ she says.
‘Not you,’ I say to Elspeth, before I turn to frown at Cliff. ‘Though a few of your “practices” are going to need to stop.’
‘Aye, maid. Learned my lesson, I did.’
The twinkle in his eyes leaves me in serious doubt.
‘It’s good you’re taking an interest in the museum and the cave. Because with all the goings-on, we’re going to need to get this place up and running as quickly as possible. We’re finally going to be on the map, my boy!’ Elspeth smiles at Cliff and squeezes his hand.
‘Well, I’ll reserve judgment for now,’ I say. ‘But at least your creepy waxworks helped us hide in plain sight, just like Bess did. I’m developing a new appreciation for your creations.’
‘Creepy?’ She looks at me in mock-affront.
‘A dog licking up a pool of blood?’
‘Aye, but that really happened.’
‘You’re right.’ It’s my turn to laugh. ‘I guess it actually did.’
* * *
The secrets of the Cross Keys – past and present – have been revealed…
To me. Over the next few weeks, the domino effect is swift: the capture of the people traffickers, the allure of the tunnels, the macabre fascination of a haunted inn above a cave full of creepy wax figures, make the regional and national news.
The phone rings off the hook; the website goes berserk with hits and inquiries.
Finally, Elspeth’s museum and Cliff’s pirate cave have landed on the tourist map and I have to admit defeat – the museum is going to stay, though we agree to apply for planning permission so she can convert the barn into a café and souvenir shop.
And ‘somehow’, Cliff manages to ‘find’ the money to make the health and safety upgrades required to reopen the pirate cave.
It has nothing to do with the overnight disappearance of the casks and barrels that ‘just happened’ to be stored there – I’m sure of it.
I’m glad for Cliff and Elspeth that their bizarre collections and hobbies will finally be paying their way.
But I’m a little worried about what that means for us.
I don’t want to stay in our makeshift living quarters while the tourists ‘flock’ to the inn.
Which means I’m going to have to think of something else.
Secretly, I’m hoping that the ‘something else’ might already be in the works. But it’s early days – much too early to hope.
As for Ollie Penhelion, my erstwhile Pirate King, there will be no jail time – at least, not yet.
His flagship the Halcyon was seized by the authorities and auctioned off.
It was purchased by an offshore company based in Antigua, with everything done through an agent, who hired a new crew for the ship.
Around the same time, Ollie managed to make bail, and then (surprise, surprise) ‘just happened’ to disappear from his temporary lodgings on the night the barque left Penzance for her new home in the Caribbean.
The authorities are, of course, working together to catch their elusive Jack Sparrow, but thus far, he and his crew have managed to evade capture.
If anyone had asked me, I would have said, I told you so. No one did, and we are where we are.
While I feel no sadness whatsoever for the loss of my rogue, the same cannot be said for Bridget.
For the first few weeks after the arrests, she either stayed in her room or took long walks along the cliff path, heartbroken that in the time-honoured way of women everywhere, she chose the wrong man to ‘fall in love’ with.
Although it’s painful to witness, I know that the tears she’s crying are not really about Alex – she’s releasing long pent-up emotions about the loss of her old life.
I stay in the background, letting her know that I’m there to talk – or just to listen – when she’s ready.
She goes through the stages of grief one by one: anger – at him – at me – at herself, then sadness, and finally, resignation.
That she needs support, and I’m the person on hand to give it.
One morning, she knocks on my door and asks me if I want to go for a walk.
I practically leap out of bed to take her up on it.
We spend three hours walking, talking, and clearing the air.
‘Alex didn’t really know what he wanted to do with his life,’ she said. ‘I think I can do better.’