Chapter 23
My mind is reeling. Will Penhelion – his story, his invitation to dinner.
I feel giddy and dizzy and elated and terrified all at the same time.
I wander upstairs to Bess’s room and look out of the window at the bay.
Two boats are moving across the horizon – a fishing trawler and a sailing boat.
This is where the doomed woman sat staring out at the empty vastness, waiting, wondering what would befall her.
Somehow, hundreds of years later, history is repeating itself – I’ve somehow managed to entangle myself with two Penhelions.
Logically, I know there’s nothing in it with either of them.
Ollie hasn’t made much of an effort since our time on the ship, and Will – we may both be damaged goods, but there the common ground ends.
The window ledge is bare except for the ship in a bottle, set upon its stand made from a heavy block of polished oak.
It’s not a replica of the Halcyon, but of a double-masted ship, the Seagull.
A ship commandeered by pirates, if the man at the museum is to be believed.
As for Bess’s original model ship that Cliff told me about, I assume it must have been lost, destroyed, or broken long ago.
This one was probably sourced by Victoria on one of her ‘treasure hunts’.
I suppose she placed it in this room to lend ambiance and to recreate the view in the painting.
I take a step back and try to imagine myself as the Bess in the painting, and realise that something seems ‘off’ about the scene.
I study the view and the window, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.
It’s probably nothing, but I use my phone to take a picture of the window and go downstairs and compare it to the painting.
True enough, the bay is shaped differently, and the window frame in the painting has a border of carved grapevines whereas in reality, the wood is plain.
Most strikingly, however, is the fact that in the painting, the mullioned panes are diamond-shaped, whereas in life, the windows of the Cross Keys have rectangular panes.
Will’s account that the scene wasn’t painted from life makes sense, and is borne out by what I’m seeing.
The two paintings are nothing more than a romanticised version of a tragic story.
Did any of it really happen? I feel oddly sad that I’ll probably never know.
* * *
Exhausted from my earlier ordeal, I get through the rest of the day on autopilot and go to bed early.
I sleep for almost twelve hours – which is totally unlike me – and the fact that both Bridget and Connor are up and out of the house before me is totally unlike them.
By the time I bathe and get dressed, it’s almost ten o’clock.
On my way downstairs to the kitchen, a noise from behind the panelling startles me.
A rat? Or something else? I hurry to the bottom of the stairs, looking around for a weapon.
All I can find is one of Connor’s wet, sandy trainers.
I pick it up just as the cellar door opens and a man comes out.
I heft the trainer like a club before my brain catches up with my eyes.
‘Ollie?’ I blurt. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Checking to make sure there’s no bogeyman in your cellar.’ His hair and clothing are covered by a layer of dust and he looks and sounds annoyed. ‘That’s what you wanted, right?’
‘Um, yeah. Great.’ I lower the trainer and let it thud to the floor.
‘I found nothing, Juno. Nothing but a fallen wall. No rubbish or sleeping bags or footprints or anything at all other than dust and cobwebs. You’ll need to fix this door…’ He frowns at the wood I splintered when I bust it open. ‘And get a good solid lock.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m… sorry to put you through the trouble.’
‘I wedged most of the stones back into the hole. It’s solid, but could use a little mortar. A handyman should be able to patch it up in no time.’
‘Thank you.’
I should feel happy that Ollie’s taken time to help me – again – and be reassured by his findings. But the fact that he got up through the caves and into my house demonstrates that I was right to be worried. Then there are the things Will told me…
‘I can send one of my crew over.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I say. ‘I’ve got builders coming in who, as you say, should be able to fix it easily.’
‘Great.’ He smiles then, but instead of the usual melting sensation, I feel only a vague unease.
‘I do appreciate your help, Ollie,’ I say. ‘Would you… like a cup of tea?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I need to get going. Alex is helping get the barque ready for the punters, but I’m her captain and needed aboard. And now I need a shower.’ He brushes a cobweb from his hair and wipes it on the doorframe.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘And good luck with your clients.’
He steps towards me, his eyes ice cold. For a second, I’m unsure whether he’s going to kiss me or slap me. To my relief, he does neither.
‘I’ll see you soon, Juno,’ he says. ‘And I think we both want more than just a cup of tea.’
‘Oh,’ I say, startled. He’s joking… obviously… but I no longer see any sign of humour or warmth in him as he turns and leaves the inn via the front door.
* * *
My mind is clearer after Ollie’s sudden appearance and exit.
I was unsettled by his presence, and glad that he’s gone.
As much as I’ve learned not to rely on my own instincts when it comes to men, this time, the message comes in loud and clear.
Ollie may be charming and handsome on the surface – but he’s also not to be trusted.
I go to the kitchen to have breakfast and do the washing up, and while I’m there, I hear Connor come in through the front door.
I expect him to divert into the kitchen for a snack, but he runs up the stairs and I hear him go into the bathroom.
I want to talk to him about everything that’s going on, so I make some hot chocolate, put it on a tray with a few Hobnobs and take it up to his room.
The bath is running – Connor must have got wet and cold on his morning excursion. I decide to wait for him in his room, spilling half of the hot chocolate as I negotiate the steep, narrow backstairs.
Connor’s room is a disaster zone – duvet and discarded clothes on the floor and sand and dried mud everywhere.
Both of the twin beds are rumpled and unmade, which could be because Connor was trying to find a sand-free place to sleep, or because he’s had his friend Med to stay without telling me.
I want to be angry at the state of the room and his lack of trust in me, but I can’t bring myself to feel anything other than relief.
My son is alive, well, and safe on dry land.
Having heard Will’s story yesterday, I can’t take anything for granted.
I decide to tidy up the room while I’m waiting, so I set the tray on the chest of drawers underneath the little window that looks out to the front of the inn.
There’s a view of the car park directly below, and bleak, hilly moorland beyond.
If I crane my neck, I can just make out a couple of caravans.
Did the person who washed up on the beach come from the caravan park?
My heart goes out to the unknown family who must be grieving right now – or maybe they don’t even know what’s happened.
It’s hard to know which is worse. I just wish there was something I could do.
The top drawer of the chest is partially open. There’s a tangled mess of underwear and socks and something else that catches my eye.
It’s a tide table – just like the one I left in the cave.
Underneath, I find a string of dark-red prayer beads.
I pick them up and run my fingers over the surface – they’re made of some kind of natural stone.
I put them back and study the numbers on the tide table.
Did Cliff teach Connor to read one? Because it’s all Greek to me.
Something is scrawled in pencil in the margin:
The Lammermoor.
‘Mum?’
I turn, startled. Connor has come up the stairs, wrapped in a towel.
‘Just bringing you a snack,’ I say too quickly. He’s seen me at the drawer, so I take out a pair of pants and two mismatched socks and toss them to him. ‘Get dressed, and then we need to talk.’
I turn my back to give him some privacy. When he’s done, I see that he’s put on a sandy T-shirt and mud-encrusted pair of shorts from the floor.
‘What’s up, Mum?’ His face is guarded.
I pick up the duvet off the floor, shake it out, and put it on the bed. Then, I sit down and pat the bed next to me for him to sit. He does so with clear reluctance.
‘Connor,’ I say, ‘are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. But I want to go back outside. Can we talk later?’
‘No.’ I reach out and put my hand over his. ‘This can’t wait. Someone’s dead. You saw the body on the beach – in fact, I hear you found the body. That’s not something anyone should have to do, let alone someone your age.’
‘It was fine,’ he mumbles.
‘No, it’s not fine,’ I say. ‘And there’s more as well. Someone’s been sleeping rough in the tunnels under the inn. There’s something going on – something dangerous – and I think you know what it is.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because it involves your mysterious friend. The one who you never bring round to meet your family – him or his parents.’
‘You can’t meet his parents.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re dead.’
He says the words with such force, such finality. He tries to pull his hand away but I keep hold of it, squeezing it tightly to keep him close to me.
‘Dead?’ I whisper.
‘Yeah. They died in Syria. That’s where he’s from. His uncle paid to send him and his sister to the UK, but they got scammed. She’s not here yet.’
‘He’s Syrian? Here illegally?’
Connor shrugs. ‘They said they’d get him a passport. But he hasn’t got it.’
‘They?’
‘The people who brought him here. There were ten of them crammed in a little boat, and three men with guns. They landed at night in the cove. Then a lorry came to take them away. But Med didn’t trust the men and wanted to wait for his sister.
So while the others were being loaded up, he managed to escape.
Now, he’s hiding out so they don’t find him. ’
I let go of his hand and stand up, pacing the room. ‘They were trafficked,’ I say. ‘Just like the news article said was happening. Med…’
‘His real name is Ahmed.’
‘That makes sense. And it also makes sense for us to call the police.’
‘No!’ Connor jumps up. Sand sprinkles from his clothing on to the floor. ‘Med says we can’t do that. His sister needs to get here first so he can rescue her. He says that if there’s police, they won’t come. He’s worried they might land the boat somewhere else. Then he’ll never be able to find her.’
‘I get that,’ I say. ‘But we’re dealing with ruthless people here. I don’t think we can just do nothing. I need to speak to Med – right away. Find out what he knows.’
‘You can’t. He’s hiding. I’m not allowed to say where. It’s a secret.’
‘I’m sure he appreciates your loyalty,’ I say, ‘but some secrets can be harmful. Med can’t do this on his own.’
‘He has me to help him. And he’s fine looking after himself.’
‘He must be quite resourceful.’
‘He’s twelve,’ Connor says, as if that explains everything.
‘Very grown-up.’ I try to ruffle his hair but he pulls away. ‘And you are too, for trying to do the right thing. He’s been staying up here with you sometimes, hasn’t he? And you’ve taken food to give to him?’
‘Yeah, Mum.’ He hangs his head. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine, but you could have told me. I wouldn’t have been angry. Just… worried. I mean, what happens if things go wrong?’
‘They won’t,’ he says. ‘Med’s got it all under control.’
I go to his desk and pick up the tide table. ‘Is this his?’ I say.
‘No.’ Connor takes it from my hand. ‘We just found it. In the cave.’
‘Connor,’ I say, ‘I have a bad feeling about this. I don’t want you going outside without a grown-up. Or seeing Med unless I’m with you.’
He gives me a look of pure defiance. Never before have I seen this side of him.
‘Sure, Mum,’ he says. ‘I promise I won’t.’