Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sand edged between our toes, feeding its warm, silky heat into our skin.
I noticed Mason had very attractive feet, with long, slim toes and neat, square nails…
I chastised myself and looked outwards at the hazy blue horizon.
I allowed the salty breeze to wash over my upturned face.
If I’d decided to stay in London, I would have missed all of this.
I would never have felt like I’d been able to move on and prove myself.
A spark of satisfaction lit up inside me, and I closed my eyes for a few seconds, allowing the sun to stroke my face.
I sensed a small nudge against my sun-cream-smeared shoulder.
‘Now, an important question,’ said Mason, rummaging around in the blue-and-green stripy cool bag he’d brought with him. We were both sitting on a tartan blanket I’d supplied from the annexe. Darwin, meanwhile, was lying beside Mason like an Egyptian sphinx.
‘Bacon, lettuce and tomato, egg and cress, or salami and mozzarella?’
I opted for the salami-and-mozzarella sandwich and relished a bite, while Mason chose the bacon, lettuce and tomato.
He took a couple of thoughtful chews and then passed me a folded sheet of paper.
I took it in one hand and squinted down at his now familiar scrawl. ‘What’s this?’
He shuffled a little closer to me. ‘I’ve been trying to narrow down possible suspects who could have become the Scarlet Highwayman.’
I adjusted my sunglasses which were hitched on top of my head.
‘I took your advice and I’ve been reading up about men in the Port Starr area who were not only accomplished horsemen but also had connections who may well have been able to assist them in concealing their highwayman identity.’
‘And?’
‘And I discovered that there were four quite prominent local gentlemen who fitted that description in one way or another and active at that time.’ He pointed one finger at his scribbled notes. ‘Perhaps one of these guys could be our Scarlet Highwayman.’
I took a gulp of water and read the names of the four men Mason had written down.
Nicholas Fairhurst
Arthur Chatham
Samuel Gilhooley
Christopher Markham
Mason pulled his mirrored sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slid them on. Then tugged a napkin from his cool bag and offered it to me. ‘I think the two strongest contenders of the four are Nicholas Fairhurst and Christopher Markham.’
A frisson of hope reared in my chest. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve read about all four, but according to my research, Nicholas and Christopher were younger than the other two.
’ Mason leaned back on his arms and stretched out his legs.
He’d rolled up his jeans and there was a faint smattering of dark hair just detectable in the opening of his shirt collar.
I forced myself to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘I found a biography of artists online too. It turns out that Nicholas and Christopher were two handsome young guys who drew a lot of attention from the ladies of Port Starr.’ Warming to his theme, Mason carried on.
‘Nicholas was a member of the successful Fairhurst family, who were involved in the banking sector, and he became a patron of the theatre group, the Port Starr Players.’
‘And Christopher?’
‘He was a high-profile cellist and accountant.’ Mason watched me for a reaction. ‘According to my research, Samuel experienced episodes of gout and Arthur was a sickly gent who was liable to bad coughs. I can’t see either of them being able to charge across the Port Starr hills on horseback.’
I fell silent and examined the frothy waves tumbling in towards the shore.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, taking off his sunglasses and raising one attractive brow.
‘Look, Mason, I’m not disputing any of this and I’m certainly no expert.’
‘But what?’
I raised my knees and rested my hands on top of my denim capri pants. ‘I’ve lived here all my life, and you know how fascinated I am by this story.’ I waggled his note in one hand. ‘I just can’t see these men as possible contenders.’
Mason stared at me with surprise. ‘And why might that be?’
I shrugged. ‘You’ll think I’m being silly, but I’ve always had a notion that the Scarlet Highwayman would be someone less conspicuous, someone subtler, shall we say?’
His mouth twitched with mild bemusement. ‘Any suggestions?’
‘Not yet, no,’ I admitted. ‘But don’t you think it’s a possibility that our highwayman was someone who was a bit less prominent in society than a composer or an heir to a banking fortune?’ I twisted around more on the rug. ‘Have you seen that Indiana Jones film with Sir Sean Connery?’
Mason nodded. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Remember there’s a scene in it when Harrison Ford has to choose the goblet that he thinks contains the secret to eternal youth?’
His mouth flickered. ‘This is rather fascinating. Yes, I do.’
‘Are you laughing at me?’
He lifted up his hands in mock surrender. ‘As if I would even contemplate such a thing. Please carry on.’
I grimaced at him. ‘Well, it turns out the priceless goblet was the least conspicuous one. It wasn’t the gold-encrusted pieces or the elaborate ones that drew the eye. It was the cup that was the least remarkable.’
Mason looked thoughtful. ‘I think I know what you’re getting at.’
‘It’s just that, from what I’ve read about him, and based on the picture I’ve built up of him in my mind, I think the Scarlet Highwayman wasn’t some high-octane mover and shaker.’
‘And what picture might that be?’ he asked, a sudden edge to his voice that matched the sea-breeze temperature.
I was about to speak, but he shook his head. ‘No, tell you what, Poppy. Don’t answer that.’ He snatched a shiny red apple out of the cool box and before taking a bite, muttered, ‘I think I know no real guy can match up to him in your eyes.’