Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘What?’ I blurted. ‘He sounded a real bastard. No wonder she took a lover.’
Mason shook his head in disgust. ‘Yep. A real piece of work.’
‘So, Augustus Lapley was an utter dick,’ I pressed, desperate to read Georgina’s private thoughts. ‘And then she met someone else? Was it the Scarlet Highwayman? Does she name him?’
‘Slow down, Miss Marple,’ said Mason, waggling his phone.
‘No, she doesn’t name him – at least not as far as I’ve got.
’ He popped the diary back inside his zip case and dumped it behind him and beside Darwin on the back seat.
‘Come on. Let’s get Darwin settled back at mine and then we can grab something to eat somewhere. I’ll tell you more then.’
I thought about heading out somewhere for dinner and my aching feet protested. Without thinking it through, I asked, ‘Why don’t you both come back to my place, and I’ll rustle up some dinner?’
Mason appeared almost as surprised as I was.
I rearranged my face into one of casual indifference. ‘It’s going to rain soon,’ I said matter-of-factly, ‘and today has been pretty exhausting, what with the official opening of the cottages and hooded figures delivering old diaries.’
Mason studied me for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘That sounds good. Thanks, Poppy.’
‘My pleasure. How does sea bass sound?’
‘Wonderful.’
‘Okay, let’s go.’
It was a relief to fall through the door of the annexe. Mason and Darwin followed me in, Darwin taking in my pale-blue-and-white décor with his huge, marble-like eyes.
‘Please take a seat and I’ll make a start on dinner.’
Mason wandered into my sitting room. ‘Am I right in saying your artwork is inspired by nature?’
‘Guilty as charged.’
Mason viewed the gorgeous ceramic tree speckled with sequins, which Katie had made me for my last birthday, and my favourite Jack Vettriano painting on the far wall, entitled The Picnic Party.
It featured two ladies in cream dresses, battling against a stiff sea breeze on a stretch of beach, while their gallant gentleman companion attempted to hold onto one of their two umbrellas.
I caught him admiring it.
‘It reminds me of Port Starr,’ I offered.
Everything about my small but comfortable abode screamed The Great Outdoors, from the new leaf-embossed roller blind at the kitchen window to the seascape print I’d painted and hung in the bathroom. Slowly but surely, the annexe was beginning to feel like home.
‘Your landscapes remind me of the Fleurieu Peninsula,’ commented Mason, glancing into the small utility area where I was storing a couple of my pieces. ‘Are you sure you don’t have some Australian blood in there somewhere?’
‘As far as I know. Perhaps I ought to ask you to research my family tree?’
As soon as the words escaped from my mouth, I cringed. Oh, shut up! He’ll think you’re chatting him up, if you carry on like that!
I peeled the potatoes, chopped fresh broccoli and steamed the asparagus, assuring myself that the only reason I’d invited him over for something to eat was because I was being friendly. And this was just a research meeting, wasn’t it?
‘I’ve got some plain digestive biscuits here, if Darwin would like one,’ I called out from the kitchen.
There was a snort from the sitting room. ‘This one won’t refuse any offer of food.’
I rummaged in my biscuit jar and on hearing a noise behind me, spun around. Mason was standing in the doorway, his long shadow sliding across my linoleum floor. ‘Your painting of Port Starr harbour at twilight; it’s beautiful.’
My face caught fire. ‘Thank you.’
I handed him two biscuits for Darwin, who was already on full alert and salivating at the prospect.
‘You’ve got a real talent,’ he went on. ‘What about exhibiting your work? Getting your name out there?’
I knew I was worried about failure, that my work might not be good enough, but I couldn’t tell Mason that. He’d think I was a coward. ‘That would be wonderful,’ I said, while I fetched a jug of water. ‘But I want to get White Willow Cottages up and running first.’
I’d set the breakfast bar for dinner and as Mason and I ate, Darwin crunched his digestive biscuits and slurped from a cereal bowl I’d filled with water for him.
Mason appraised me across dinner. ‘So, you’re a bona fide Port Starrian, then?’
I savoured the taste of the sea bass, which I’d drizzled with lemon. ‘I sure am. I think we’re all born with the salty sea air in our blood and a certain weather-beaten look.’ I watched Mason take a sip of his water. ‘And what about you?’ I asked.
‘I’m Australian.’
‘Yes, I did gather that.’
He grinned and put down his knife and fork for a moment. ‘I’m from a small town, as well. It’s not too far from Sydney.’ He leaned his arms on the table. ‘Cormount is a gorgeous little place; all sun-soaked scenery and a great community spirit.’
‘But?’
Mason reached for his water glass again. ‘I felt I needed to get away from it in the end.’
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.
‘Your brother seems a good guy,’ he commented, changing the subject.
‘Most of the time he is.’ I paused before asking my next question. ‘Are you an only?’
‘No, I’ve got a younger brother, Garrett. He’s an archaeologist.’ Mason dived into his jeans pocket and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to a picture and handed his mobile across to me.
It was a photograph of Mason with a man who shared his raven hair colour but was a shade shorter and of slighter build.
A watery sun was spilling down on both of them, and the peaks and troughs of a mountain range were visible behind them.
They were both wearing backpacks. Garrett was grinning, while Mason was sporting a lopsided smile.
Mason’s velvety tones jolted me out of my thoughts. ‘We have our arguments like all brothers do, but we’re really close. Garrett’s currently on a dig down south.’
‘Oh, whereabouts?’
He took an appreciative bite of boiled potato. ‘Have you heard about the discovery of an ancient burial site down in Cambridge?’
I recalled something mentioned on the news several weeks back.
‘Well, Garrett is heading up that dig. It’s all very exciting and a great opportunity for him.’ His eyes glowed as he spoke. ‘Indications are the bones recovered there might be the victims of some family dispute that took place several hundred years ago.’
‘Wow!’ I handed back his phone to him and drank some of my water. I smiled down at Darwin, who was now snoozing by Mason’s feet. ‘Your parents must be very proud of you both.’
Mason’s eye roll made me laugh. ‘It’s got to the point where their neighbours are avoiding them. I think the poor sods are sick of hearing about the pair of us.’
‘And are you alike in nature?’
He looked pensive. ‘Garrett is more sensitive than I am; he tends to rush headlong into situations…’ His voice tailed off as he recalled something. ‘But I’m always here for him.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
I paused, expecting him to elaborate, but Mason finished the last of his asparagus and sank back in his chair. ‘That was delicious, Poppy. Thank you again.’
‘You’re welcome.’
We both stood up and began to clear away the dinner debris.
‘So, do you go back much to Cormount to visit your parents?’
An odd look flashed across his dark features again.
Mason kept his attention focused on the knives and forks as he rinsed them under the tap.
He took longer than I expected to answer.
‘I go when I can, but what with the likelihood of this TV series in the offing, it’s not going to be easy.
’ He began stacking the dirty plates in my dishwasher.
‘I prefer to pay for them to fly over to visit me.’
‘I bet they enjoy that.’
Mason’s mouth melted. ‘They’ve grown accustomed to business-class travel even faster than I thought they would.’ His attention shifted to my kitchen window for a moment. ‘Cormount is…’ He appeared to catch himself, a guarded wall surfacing. ‘Thank you again for dinner.’
I puzzled at why he was so secretive but afforded him a smile. ‘No problem at all.’ I gave Darwin an affectionate pat as he weaved around my legs. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’
‘That would be great, thanks. Then I’ll show you Georgina’s diary.’
The rich aroma of roasted coffee permeated my sitting room. I set down the tray on the table with two stripy mugs and a bubbling cafetière.
Mason was resting against my sofa, and in his hand was Georgina Lapley’s diary. It looked so alien in many ways, with its worn grey cover and yellowed pages.
He poured the coffee before handing me a cup and taking a long sip of his own. ‘Right,’ he exclaimed as the moody sky outside melted into a belt of rain.
I put my coffee mug beside his on the table and took the diary. It was wearing its age quite well, despite the grooves and indentations etched into the leather cover. It was the strong scent of lignin – like dated vanilla – that gave a clue to its years.
I opened it, the pages parting with a dry rustle. I was faced with Georgina Lapley’s handwriting – a sea of delicate black loops and swirls, dancing and skipping across every page.
Mason directed me to where I should start reading. ‘This is where the story gets really good.’
I glanced at him and began to read on from when we’d been sitting in his car a short while ago.
Georgina Lapley was heading to this tawdry pub to see what her husband was up to.
7 June 1793
The Jolly Jester was a tavern close to the harbour; an unimpressive greystone with flickering lamps, scarred benches and equally tired wooden tables. Raucous music tumbled out of the door, as well as drunk customers.
Harris eased the horses to a stop a short distance away. ‘Don’t go in, madam,’ he advised, materialising out of the dark to greet me at the coach door. ‘Please allow me to take you back to The Hawthorns.’
I shook my head and hitched up the hood of my blue velvet cloak. ‘I shall only enter for a moment, Harris. You have my word.’
‘Well, at least allow me to accompany you. It is not a safe place for a young lady such as yourself to enter alone.’