Chapter 10
In the morning, I wake up in the unfamiliar room next to my sleeping daughter.
I lie there for a few minutes listening to the sound of her breathing, then quietly get out of bed so as not to wake her.
The curtains have a small gap between them; I peek through at the sea beyond.
The horizon is cloudless and shipless – what I thought I saw last night was an illusion.
Bridget’s night terror was just a dream, and no doubt the fledging bond we formed was an illusion too.
Bridget turns over and groans. I tiptoe out of her room so as not to disturb her rest. Instead of returning to my own room, however, I go down the corridor to the room that Bess died in.
In truth, I’ve been avoiding coming here, and part of me expects to feel a jittery sensation of ‘wrongness’ from the memories that the walls hold.
Instead, I feel nothing but the morning chill, hear nothing but a loose shutter banging in the wind.
The view of sea and sky is similar to the others on this side of the building.
One difference, however, is that the windowsill in this room is not empty.
Sitting in pride of place is a ship in a bottle on a stand made from a thick slab of oak.
If I’d seen the ghost ship from this room last night, I might have come to the conclusion that what I saw was nothing more than a reflection in the darkened glass of the window.
But I wasn’t in the room and besides, the miniature ship has two masts and black sails, whereas I’m certain that the ghost ship had three masts and white sails.
I know nothing about the different types of ships and what they’re called, but I can tell black from white and two from three.
Besides, the dead giveaway that the model ship is not the Halcyon is the brass nameplate on the front of the stand that’s engraved with the name The Seagull.
The brass plate is askew – I’ll need to glue it back on – someday, when all the hundreds of other more important tasks required to restore the inn are done. Right now, I haven’t the foggiest idea how all those tasks will be done, let alone when.
Which means I’d better stop daydreaming and start getting on with it.
I leave Bess’s room and return to my own to get dressed and start the day.
It strikes me that in a very short time, I’ve come dangerously close to losing the plot.
Bad dreams and ghost ships are hardly the biggest problem I’m facing.
More serious is the fact that I’ve uprooted our lives and brought us to a new place that may never feel like home.
Rudderless, directionless, I need to pull myself together and make a decision.
Or, in this case, implement it. Despite the beautiful location, selling the inn is the only option.
I’ll start searching for a new job – not just in London, but further afield.
When I find the right opportunity, I’ll move the kids to a new home and a new life.
One that doesn’t involve phantom ships, night terrors, or handsome, modern-day pirates.
A real, sensible life that is just like everyone else’s. That’s what’s best for us.
Having come to a decision, I feel strangely flat – not what I’d expected. I guess it’s because there’s still so much in flux. Once I get the inn on the market, everything will seem much better… I’m sure.
On my way downstairs, I stop to study the painting.
The girl at the window looks so much like Bridget – and, also, a little like me in the magazine photo.
But everything I’ve learned so far indicates that the resemblance is coincidental.
I’ve found nothing to explain what Victoria was thinking, how she found me, or what she expected me to do. Is the failure on her part, or mine?
A noise from the kitchen startles me, and then… a smell. Is Connor up? Usually, I hear him when he bounds out of bed in the attic, and besides, he doesn’t… cook?
When I reach the doorway, I see Cliff standing at the stove, a spatula in hand. A pan of scrambled eggs sizzles on the hob. Sensing my presence, he turns and gives me a crooked-toothed half-smile, half-snarl.
‘I hope you don’t mind, maid, but I’m whipping up some breakfast for you lot.’
‘Where have you been?’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen you lately.’
He screws up his face. ‘Thought that since you were finally here, I might be able to get away. I got as far as the Scillies. But then I heard the voices of my forebears calling me back.’
‘It’s nice to see you,’ I say. ‘Though really, if you want to leave, then you should do it. We’re fine here.’
But are we really? The words stick in my throat. Noises in the night; Bridget’s dream of a pool of blood. What good are any of us against things that aren’t of this world?
‘No, maid. I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. I’m cursed to remain here as the past can never be put right.’
‘What past would that be?’
‘Our ancestor. Old John Dog. His deeds still haunt these walls.’
‘I’m sure.’ The room seems to grow colder and I shiver. ‘But what exactly was his relationship to us?’
‘He was my great-great-great-grandfather,’ he says. ‘Descended from one of the sons of Maggie and Old John. There are distant Kernick relatives, of course, but we’re the last of the direct line.’
‘You mean you and Victoria?’ I say. ‘Because I found a photo of me from a magazine article, and a family tree Victoria was making. But on my branch of the tree, there was a question mark. Maybe I’m a distant relative, not a direct one.’
‘Vic said you were the rightful heir, and that’s that.
Like it or not, the blood of Old John Dog runs in your veins.
I know Vic was excited when she found you, and then she was off to see the lawyer.
I suppose she looked at registry information and whatnot.
She and Elspeth ran the museum here, but they also volunteered at the museum in the village. You been there?’
‘Not yet,’ I say.
‘Well, I expect that when you shovel deep enough, you’re bound to hit pay dirt.’
‘I went through some of her papers and found some travel receipts. She went to Ireland and France before she died. Was that for business or pleasure?’
‘Prob’ly both. She often took trips to find things for the museum. “Treasure hunting”, she called it.’
‘That must have been it.’
‘Sorry ma’am, but I’ve no light to shed on you and the fated ancestors. That was Vic’s thing, not mine.’
‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘Without more clues, I have to accept that we might never know.’
‘True enough.’ He lets out a long sigh. ‘I only wish she was around so you could ask her yourself.’
‘Me too.’
While he finishes cooking, I make us mugs of tea.
Though I’ve been to the supermarket in the last few days, the cupboard once again looks bare.
Most of the biscuits and crisps are gone – I suppose it could have been Connor – but an entire box of cereal is missing, along with a jar of Nutella and a loaf of bread.
I highly doubt Cliff is the culprit, but if not him, then who?
When the food is ready, we both sit down to eat. ‘When we first met,’ I say to Cliff between bites, ‘and you told me about the terrible things that happened here, I thought you were exaggerating – and trying to get us to leave. Are you sure you don’t want the Cross Keys after all?’
‘No, ma’am, absolutely not,’ he says swiftly. ‘And Elspeth, she’s happy as things are. We’re fine with you being here, as long as you don’t throw us out on our ears.’
‘I don’t want that, believe me. I just wish things were a bit less… hectic with the museum and her waxworks.’
‘I hope you’re not planning to make things hard for her.’ He gives me a flinty stare. ‘Because I won’t be having that.’
There’s something unexpectedly protective in this tone that makes me wonder if it’s the voices of his ancestors that are tying him to the inn – or his unspecified ‘lady friend’. Cliff and Elspeth seem like two peas in a pod, and who am I to argue with that?
‘Got it,’ I say. ‘Though I’m still considering what to do with the place. I’m not sure the property market is particularly buoyant when it comes to a haunted inn.’
‘Haunted?’ He raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘So you’ve seen and heard things?’
I shrug. As much as I don’t want him to say, I told you so, I can’t see any real reason to lie. I tell him about Bridget’s dream and about the missing food. I decide in the moment, however, to keep the ghost ship to myself. I don’t need any more reminders of my doom.
I finish my account with an attempt to laugh off my fears. ‘You must think I’m crackers,’ I say. ‘But inside these walls, the mind can play tricks.’
He nods soberly. ‘That’s for sure. Round here, the veil’s thin between land and sea – between this world and the next.
There’s thousands dead in the ground, and twice that in the water.
More dead than living, some say. So many lost to a cruel fate – poverty, hunger, violence, the sea’s hungry maw.
And they can’t rest easy because of it.’
I don’t believe him, but nonetheless, his words give me goosebumps. He does like to scare me – I’m sure of that – and he definitely knows more than he’s telling.
‘Elspeth said that Old John Dog was hired to murder Bess by her own husband – because he thought she’d been unfaithful. Was that true?’
Cliff shrugs. ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’
‘So she was murdered for love?’
‘I reckon men like Lord Robert weren’t capable of love, unless it be love of money and power. And when it came to his possessions – like his wife – he could be the jealous type. And they say that when he married young Bess, her heart was already given to another.’
‘And do “they” say who that was?’
‘Yes, ma’am. It was James Penhelion. Captain of the Halcyon. The original one, that is.’
‘Another Penhelion? They certainly get around.’