Chapter 3
I was wrong: the museum in no way resembles a hoarder’s lair – not compared to this.
Inside the door is a hallway that’s crammed to the gills with books, old clothing, piles of newspapers, and dusty boxes.
On either side are doors with stencilled lettering that reads ‘bar’ and ‘common room’ above the lintels, which are hung with dead sprigs of gorse.
The side rooms are crammed with old furniture, odd bits of wax figures and musty old museum rejects.
The place smells of damp and mice, old lady and wet dog, and a thick lace of cobwebs covers almost every surface.
Cliff makes his way through the maze of detritus towards what, from the rancid smell, seems to be the kitchen at the far end. At the threshold, he lights another lantern, which does little to dispel the heavy, cloying darkness.
‘So, I take it this isn’t a working inn.’ I try to brighten the gloom with small talk.
‘It is.’ Cliff looks affronted. ‘The Cross Keys ’as been operating for over two hundred years.’ He hands the second lantern to Connor. ‘Back in the day, hardly a night went by when there weren’t guests.’
‘Guests? Here?’
‘Well, I’ll grant you that Vic did let things slide a bit. She was having a clear-out – as you can see – but never quite finished.’
I have the distinct impression that the ‘clear-out’ was probably going on for decades, and mostly involved amassing more things, but what do I know about Victoria Kernick?
Absolutely nothing. Not even how we’re related to her.
On the phone, the lawyer tried to explain the relationship to me, but I got lost on the ‘twice removed’ and ‘three generations ago’.
The bottom line as I understand it is that Victoria Kernick, deceased, was some sort of distant aunt on the maternal side.
I checked with my mother, but she’d never heard of her.
Our ancestors mostly came from France and Ireland, though she had a vague recollection of her grandmother saying that she ‘had more than a drop of Cornish blood in my veins.’
‘Anyway,’ he sweeps a hand, ‘Vic preferred running the museum. She liked curating the collections, and Elspeth, from the village, made the wax figures for the pirate cave. Elspeth had grand plans – she was always on Vic to reopen the inn, but it never quite happened.’
There seem to be a lot of ‘never quite’s in this place, but I don’t say so as he continues. ‘Anyway, Elspeth’s a good, capable sort. She can help you get the place back on its feet, if that’s what you want. So make sure you treat her right.’
‘But why me?’ I say. ‘You’re Victoria’s brother. Shouldn’t you have inherited the Cross Keys?’
‘Me?’ He laughs. ‘What would I do with this place? No… Vic knew me too well to put the burden on me. Now that you’re here, I can sail off into the blue yonder, and the young whippersnapper won’t be able to stop me.
’ The laughter settles and his face slips back into a frown.
‘But as for you, it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Vic wanted you to have the inn, and that’s that. ’
‘Great.’ I can’t keep the edge of despair from my voice.
I didn’t think to request photos of the place from the solicitor, but in my mind I’d pictured the Cross Keys as a quaint little seaside cottage, formerly inhabited by a fastidious little old lady who baked scones, knitted socks, and dried her own potpourri.
At the time, inheriting a property had seemed like a godsend.
But this place… any self-respecting god would have bailed out long ago.
A clock chimes, low and melodious, from another room. It’s eight o’clock.
‘Time for me to be off then,’ Cliff says.
‘You’re leaving us…?’ Bridget says. ‘Here?’ She gives me a pleading look. ‘We can’t stay here, Mum. Can we?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘We’ll find a B the sheen of oil paint glints in the lantern light.
I stare up at it, and recognise that it must have provided the inspiration for the wax figure in the smugglers’ cave.
The painting shows a mullioned window with a triple-masted ship in a bottle on the sill.
The window looks out upon a moonlit sea, with a tall ship sailing out of a dense bank of clouds on the horizon, indicated with strong, Turner-like brushstrokes.
But my eye is drawn to the girl in the foreground, her face half-turned in profile and lit by an unseen candle.
A girl with waves of dark hair, a bow-shaped mouth, and sharp, piercing blue eyes.
Eyes similar to ones that I have known for years – seventeen to be exact.
When they opened for the first time, I knew the girl in my arms.
Bridget.
The girl in the painting could be her twin.
‘Oh.’ I stare at my daughter, expecting her to react as if she’s looking into a mirror. Instead, her mouth is set in its usual bored pout. ‘Is that Bess?’ I say to Cliff. ‘Was she a relation?’
‘That’s Bess, alright,’ he says. ‘But she wasn’t a Kernick. She came from noble blood. No relation to us.’
‘Well…’ I say with a little laugh. ‘She certainly was a stunner.’
‘She kind of looks like you, Bridge.’ Connor identifies the elephant in the room.
Bridget gives him a look like he’s grown a second head. ‘That’s rubbish. She’s like, old. From Victorian times or something.’
‘Old and lost, but the memories live on in these walls,’ Cliff says. ‘On moonlit nights, you can still hear the footsteps of Old John Dog. Feel the maid’s terror as his ghost comes to find her.’
My neck crawls with goosebumps, but Bridget gives him a defiant glare. ‘So if Bess was murdered at the inn, then why isn’t her ghost here?’
Cliff shrugs. ‘Who can say what happens on the other side?’
‘It sounds like a stupid story,’ Bridget says. ‘Nothing more.’
‘I hope you find that to be the truth, girl.’ He shakes his head gravely.
As I scrutinise the painting and consider our prospects, Cliff returns to the kitchen and lights another lantern.
One for each of us. This is really happening – he expects us to stay.
Of course, there’s nothing stopping me from herding the kids back to the car and driving away for good.
We can find a hotel in Penzance, and tomorrow morning, I can go to a local estate agents and put the inn on the market.
Surely, they’ll be able to recommend a house-clearance firm who can get rid of the detritus and sell anything valuable – like the painting, maybe.
Cliff can sail off into the sunset, no harm, no foul.
‘Come on, boy, let’s bring in your bags.’
Cliff is addressing Connor. I need to put a stop to this now.
‘OK,’ Connor says. ‘But will you show me your boat tomorrow—?’
‘Actually—’ I start to say, but they’re already gone.
I turn and face Bridget. She won’t look at me.
‘I can’t believe this, Mum,’ she says.
‘It’s going to be OK, really.’ I risk a hand on her shoulder. Predictably, she pulls away. ‘You don’t have to be scared just because you vaguely resemble some girl in a painting.’
She whirls towards me. ‘Do you think that’s it? I mean, look around you. This place is a dump. There’s no electricity and…’ she swallows back a sob, ‘no Wi-Fi.’
‘I agree it’s less than ideal,’ I say. ‘But it’s getting late now and we’ve no guarantee of finding something else in this weather. We’ll stay here for one night and then we’ll head out tomorrow morning. We’ll find a place to stay in town, or else just…’
Go home. I want to say the words so badly. A tear trickles down Bridget’s cheek as she shakes her head. Neither of us want to admit the truth. Especially now…
She grabs one of the lanterns and shoves past me, clomping her feet hard on the wooden steps.
I follow behind, giving her space, but staying at the edge of the light.
When we reach the top, I’m relieved to see that the corridor that runs the length of the inn is clear of papers, books, and debris.
There’s a red carpet runner down the centre, and several old coffer chests and side tables, with paintings hung above each of them.
I even detect a whiff of furniture polish.
Bridget goes to the first door, which is open, and looks inside.
I peer over her shoulder at the room. It’s neat and tidy, with a double bed with a white lace coverlet.
There’s a desk, a wardrobe, and a small table by the window with a tea service with mismatched china cups.
The curtains are drawn over the window, but the room appears to face the back of the inn, and what I assume is the sea view.
‘I’ll take this room,’ Bridget says. She goes inside and slams the door, leaving me in the dark.
‘OK then,’ I say. Below, I hear Cliff and Connor chatting amiably about Cliff’s boat.
Although both my and Aiden’s fathers are dead, it never occurred to me that my son was missing out on a grandfather.
But is that enough of a reason to see this through?
Not really. But surely, we can survive one night.
I go down the hallway to the room at the end of the landing.
The curtains are open, revealing a large casement window with wonky, rectangular panes of old glass.
Pale moonlight wisps into the room through a veil of moving clouds.
The scene is familiar – I’m almost certain the window is the one from the painting on the stairs.
The hairs on my neck prickle with unease as I walk through the dark room and perch on a chair where the woman – Bess – sat.
On the windowsill is a ship in a bottle set upon a stand made from a thick block of polished oak.
Was this the room where she was murdered?
The painting doesn’t hold the answer, but the wax tableau in the cave would suggest it is.
I have the strong urge to bolt from the room, but I force myself to close my eyes trying to sense her presence, her fear; I listen for the sound of heavy boots. But there’s nothing.
I open my eyes and look out at the view: a symphony of clouds, and a vast stretch of unsettled sea.
The dark cliffs form a horseshoe-shaped bay – we must be perched very high above the water.
Far away to my left, I can just make out a few misty pinpricks of light that must be other dwellings.
It’s comforting to know that there are other human beings around, even if I can’t see them.
A gust of wind rattles the windows; the clouds skitter across the moon.
I’m about to close the curtains when all of a sudden, I feel a strange sensation in the air, almost like the hum of electricity.
Immediately, every nerve in my body goes on high alert.
On the far horizon, a vessel has appeared: a tall, three-masted ship like the one in the painting.
Surely, I’m seeing things… There are no ships like that these days, and even if there were, there’s something very strange about it, though it takes me a minute to realise what it is.
The ship is not in fact on the horizon.
It is sailing through the sky.