Chapter 2
It must be some kind of elaborate trick. A hoax. Of course it is. My ears are ringing from the shot (and the sound of my own scream), but it can’t be real – except the pistol is smoking as the pirate lowers it and hisses, ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted.’
‘But we’re not trespassers,’ Connor says, levelling a frown at the ‘pirate’. ‘The door was open, and there was no one at the till to take our two quid.’ He pulls a five-pound note out of his jeans pocket. ‘I hope you have change.’
‘Did you just shoot at us?’ I say. The sound is still ringing in my ears and echoing through the cave.
‘Wouldn’t’a done much damage.’
‘But is that a real gun?’ Connor says.
The pirate shrugs, looking a little sheepish.
‘Wasn’t expecting any visitors in this weather.
When I heard the car pull up, I thought the worst. Either the young whippersnapper finally made good on his threat and called social services – or the revenue – or the council.
Take your pick. I got a right to defend my person and premises from their lot. ’
I eye him up. He’s an old man – probably mid to late seventies.
He’s wearing ragged jeans, a plaid shirt, and a floppy fisherman’s cap.
Not exactly pirate garb, but under the circumstances, I wasn’t looking that closely.
He moves to stand in front of two stacked casks that look a little too modern for the display, almost as if he wants to hide them from our view.
‘We didn’t mean any harm,’ I say.
‘Maybe not,’ he says, ‘but the cave’s closed. Didn’t you see the sign? Health and safety.’ He snorts. ‘The floor’s uneven and some railings need to be put in. Plus, there’s the electrics, and, of course, the fire alarms. Not that I got the time or money for that. Who does?’
He stares at me like he’s expecting an answer.
‘Um. No one. I totally understand. We’ll be off now and show ourselves out.’ I punctuate my statement by tripping over an uneven spot on the floor. Windmilling my arms, I only just manage to stay on my feet.
Connor stays put. ‘Can I see the gun?’ he asks the old man.
‘T’isn’t a gun,’ the man says. ‘It’s a pistol.’
‘Whatever.’ I put my hand on Connor’s shoulder and try and steer him away. ‘Let’s go,’ I say. ‘We need to find the cottage.’
‘We’re looking for the Cross Keys,’ Connor says, still focused on the man. ‘Do you know it?’
The old man’s face wrinkles like a prune. ‘Don’t be daft, boy. Of course I know it.’ He points upwards towards the roof of the cavern. ‘The inn up there is the Cross Keys.’
‘Sorry for the confusion,’ I say, my ankle smarting. ‘We’re looking for a cottage, not an inn. We’ve come all the way down from London and don’t know our way around.’ I rummage in my bag and pull out the key ring that the solicitor sent me.
The old man glances at the little ship in a bottle. The pistol twitches in his hand and for a second, I think he’s going to reload.
‘Where did you get that?’ His eyes move to my face and his frown deepens. ‘Who did you say you were again?’
‘I didn’t, but—’
‘Mum, what’s going on? What is this place? It’s so spooky – and it stinks.’
Bridget comes into the cavern where we’re standing, her long, dark hair loose and curly from the wet outside.
The old man looks at her, his eyes widening. ‘You…’ He gestures with his pistol – towards the black-haired wax woman who’s lying in the pool of fake blood. Shaking his head, he glances towards heaven. ‘What were you playing at, old girl?’
It’s unclear if he’s querying God or someone else, but at least he’s put the gun down.
Before Bridget can say anything else, I jump in.
‘I’m Juno Cartwright,’ I say, ‘and these are my children, Bridget and Connor.’ I step forward, holding out my hand.
The old man wrinkles his nose and holds fast to his firearm. Secretly relieved, I step back.
‘Clifton Kernick,’ he says. ‘You folks can call me Cliff.’
‘Kernick?’ I say. ‘That was the surname of my… relative, Victoria. Was she a relation?’
But the old man doesn’t answer. He stares at Bridget as he walks out of the tableau and moves towards her. She swallows hard, but stands her ground.
‘You’re the spit of her that’s gone,’ he says. ‘The very spit.’
It’s probably not intended, but spray lands in Bridget’s face. Grimacing, she turns away.
‘She’s the spit of who?’ Connor pulls a face at his sister.
‘Whom…’ I start to correct, but the old man sidles forward, taking Connor conspiratorially by the arm.
‘Bess Trevelyn,’ he says. ‘The doomed maid.’ He points again to the tableau.
‘Night after night, she lights her candle in the window, waiting for her lover’s ship.
But he never comes. And then, one night, she sees a light on the horizon.
She’s saved, she thinks, and makes ready to leave.
’ He sucks in a breath. ‘But then she hears it. Tap, tap, tap. Footsteps in the corridor. A man’s boots and the scurrying of a three-legged dog. ’
He points to the garish wax creature.
‘There was a knock at the door. And there he stood. Not her lover, but her nemesis. Old John Dog.’
‘Old John Dog?’ Connor says. ‘Is that the dog’s name?’
‘No – the old man,’ Cliff clarifies. ‘Smuggler, wrecker, rogue, murderer. He was married to Maggie, the inn’s landlady, until she threw him out.
And even after that, he used the caves underneath the inn to hide his smuggled goods.
Then one day, he got caught, and as good as had a noose around his neck.
But then he made a bargain with the devil for thirty pieces of silver.
He did the deed, and then bought a round of drinks for all and sundry.
’ He lowers his voice. ‘All that was left of the maid was a pool of blood.’
My mouth drops open; Bridget lets out a little whine. The old man smiles, satisfied that he’s rattled us.
‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Murdered she was, the poor girl. That ship she saw, the Halcyon – it was bad luck. Beware if you see it. For it brings death and doom.’
‘Death and doom!’ Connor says. ‘Wicked!’
‘Oh yes, they were wicked in those days,’ he says. ‘But it’s not all in the past. Black deeds go on around here to this day, make no mistake.’
‘Yes, well…’ I’m a little shocked by his tale, which was no doubt his intent. I get the sense he could regale us all night with stories of murder and mayhem. We really need to get out of here.
‘Clearly, this place has a fascinating history,’ I say. ‘And we’ll definitely come back again – paying our admission, of course.’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘But for now, we need to find our cottage. We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I’m sure we can find it.’
‘All you need is the other door. Out front.’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘I tried the key. It…’
From the pocket of his trousers, he takes out a key ring. I’m dismayed to see that like mine, it’s a miniature ship in a bottle. This can’t be the right place. Yet, it seems it is.
‘My sister, Victoria, wasn’t daft. She wasn’t about to give some posh solicitor the keys to the castle. But try this one…’ He holds out an ancient-looking brass key, much larger than the little silver key on my ring. ‘It’ll work a charm.’
‘Victoria was your sister?’
‘Aye, may she rest in peace.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘My loss is your gain, Juno Kernick.’
‘Um… it’s Cartwright. But I guess that means we’re also related. Do you know what the connection is?’
The old man shakes his head. ‘Vic spent a lot of time trying to track you down – she was into that sort of thing. If she says you’re a relation, then you’re a relation; it’s good enough for me.’
I suppose it will also have to be good enough for me – at least for now.
Cliff hobbles back through the cavern with Connor at his heels.
With a long exhale, I follow them out of the cave.
The tableaux were garish before, but after seeing one of them come to life and shoot at us, they now seem positively sinister.
And hearing the story of the ‘doomed maid’ who was murdered here?
I don’t like the sound of that. I glance at Bridget; her face is stony.
Just because she has similar hair to a mannequin doesn’t mean anything.
We go back through the museum. Thunder rumbles outside and a flash of lightning illuminates the clutter and chaos of the small space. Here in the back of beyond, the treasures of the Cross Keys might warrant a museum, but in the real world, the term ‘hoarder’ comes to mind.
As we exit the museum and follow Cliff back around the front of the inn, I rub my arms to keep from shivering.
The thunder is more distant and the rain has stopped, but a chill mist has closed in, tomblike, around us.
Surely, our best option is to find a B&B for the night and then head back to London tomorrow.
Find a little flat as a new base to build a life.
I feel sickened by the idea, but I could do it…
But the old man is already at the front door, with Connor at his heels like an eager puppy. As Bridget and I cross the slippery cobbles to join them, I hear the booming of waves nearby. Although it’s impossible to tell, we must be very near the sea.
Cliff opens the door easily with his old-fashioned key. As we stand at the threshold, dripping wet, he leans inside and uses a lighter to light a lantern that’s hanging near the door. The wick flares blue with kerosene.
‘Seriously?’ I mutter under my breath to Bridget.
Cliff stands aside so we can enter, leaning against the door. ‘Welcome home,’ he says.
In the flickering circle of light from the lantern, I stare beyond into the gloom.
‘Mum…’ Bridget wails.
I have no words.