A Spirited Girl on Cornish Shores

by Laura Briggs

  "No," said Sidney, reassuringly. "It's safe. Callum — he's one of Dean's nurses — he's a very decent cook, and he's the one who made the confectionary. I merely supervised to make sure they turned out the way you described them."

  I took a bite from it. Beneath the mellow, browned sugar sweetness of the caramel was a crisp, tart apple with a hint of spice. "Mmmm. Good. Really good," I said. "These are better than mine and mom's."

  "That's because the apples come from my special source," he said. "None better in all the village."

  "The tree by the stream? That's what these are made from?"

  "Of course. Why do you think I wanted them?" Sidney asked. "They weren't all destined to decorate the vicar's front windows."

  "I want one!" One of the pirates had seized an apple from the platter. "Arrrrr!" he said to me, brandishing his sword.

  "Are you a real Cornish pirate?" I asked.

  "No — I'm from Pirates of the Caribbean," he answered, scornfully. "I'm Jack Sparrow. Can't you see?" With disgust, he stalked away. I heard a snort of laughter from Sidney.

  "I think it's time for another game, dearie," said Mrs. Graves, who was wrangling a few small guests away from the kitchen.

  "It's time for murder," announced Sidney, in a mysterious voice that got the attention of the closest costumed ghouls. "In a moment, one among us will be found horribly dead ... and one among us will be the killer."

  He lifted a plastic skull from the table, gave it a playful toss, then opened its lid and circulated it through the crowd of costumed kids. Inside were slips of folded paper.

  "Take one — the one belonging to the killer will be marked with a drop of blood. Find a place to hide, because as soon as the lights go out, he or she is under orders to strike quickly. Oh — and remember that closed doors and the kitchen are off limits, by order of Mrs. Graves."

  He slipped his piece of paper into his pocket as the little ballerina unfolded hers, the last in the group to draw. My own was just a blank slip, identical to the ones everybody but the killer would draw.

  "When the lights switch on, look for the body ... and the killer among us," declared Sidney, dramatically, his hand on the switch. There was lots of giggling and whispering going on now as everyone waited for Sidney to turn out the lamps. The parlor light winked off a moment later; the giggling grew louder as small feet stampeded for closed drapes and corner cupboards.

  I felt Sidney's hand take mine, and we slipped into the closet-like room that served as the vicar's library, pressing ourselves against its far shelves filled with titles like Helping One Another in Sorrowful Times and Why Not Pray? Twenty Answers for the Spiritually Troubled. Temporarily, we were out of sight of any killers wandering the adjoining parlor.

  "Ouch." My elbow pushed against a large, spiny shell serving as a book end.

  "Oops." Sidney accidentally bumped aside a paperweight representing the apostle Paul on the vicar's desk, and righted it quickly before any sermon pages escaped.

  "It's close quarters in here, isn't it?" I whispered.

  "A bit. But it was your idea to play Murder, after all."

  "Murder at the vicarage," I defended. "Come on. It was too good to resist."

  "Just remember that it was your idea to have a body in the library, too," he reminded me.

  "We don't know if anyone's going to be killed here," I whispered, stifling a giggle.

  "Are you certain?" Sidney pulled me closer to him, his arms around me. He dipped me low again, the way he had at Dean's cottage, and I felt goosebumps on my arms as a wave of heat swept through me, though my head had missed whacking against a shelf of Biblical commentaries by mere inches.

  Then I felt a sharp, quick jab from something pointy against my neck.

  "Ouch!" I said.

  "You're dead now. Sorry," declared Sidney in a whisper. The pointy object was a folded piece of paper, with a noticeable red ink dot dripped on it, making it different from all the others the skull had contained. His fingers lost his grip on it and it landed on the carpet; he finished by dropping us both to the floor beside the bookshelf upon losing his own balance.

  "You jerk!" I smacked him on the cheek.

  "Hitting a vicar? Heaven takes a dim view of that sort of activity," he said, grinning.

  "I don't want to be the body in the library!" I protested — albeit quietly.

  "Someone has to die, and it can't very well be me with the vicar gone, can it?" he said, keeping his voice low, too. "No one else has the killer's mark on their paper. Besides, why do you think I invited you?"

  "You double jerk!" I could feel him shaking with silent laughter. I smacked him on the shoulder now — harder than before — but he didn't let me up.

  "SShhh!" He held one finger to his lips. "Not so loud or they'll hear. Come on, get with the spirit of things. A quarter of an hour at most, I swear it."

  "You are a lowlife weasel, Sidney Daniels."

  Leaning down, he pressed a kiss lightly on my lips. "Close your eyes," he whispered. He slipped carefully over my 'body' as he rose. The lights switched back on a moment later, although the part of the library where I was playing dead was still in shadows thanks to the bookcase walls surrounding me.

  "As the light returns, it's time to see if our nefarious killer had time to strike," he announced, as the crowd of little guests shrieked and giggled from their hiding places.

  Sandpaper skin, strong arms, and the scent of cloves, sawdust, and sweet wine-blushed apples. I was pondering all of these things as I lay there, with the trace of Sidney's kiss still working its magic on me.

  _________________

  "Of course, there's nothing of significance recorded on the blasted thing," said Kate. "I've listened to it twice. Not even white noise occurs — nothing of any psychic importance for my research, I'm afraid."

  She hit the 'play' button on her smart phone's recording, and the soft, breathy voice of Natalie Norridge emerged, asking for silence again. Minerva and Sir Nigel listened to it as they buttered muffins and sugared their morning cups of tea at the same dining table as the paranormal investigator.

  The only guests not present besides the earl himself were the sculptor, who was apparently packing his suite's makeshift studio in preparation for departure, and the psychic, who was resting after the previous night's taxing session. The rest were eating a late breakfast in the public dining hall, in various stages of glumness or cheerfulness on the party's final morning at the Penmarrow.

  "What was that odd little noise?" asked the playwright, who was listening intently to the message which young Will apparently delivered through Natalie's voice.

  "The little rasping sound? It was the doctor's cough," said Kate.

  "Was it? I thought it sounded more like a growl," said Minerva, giving the recording more attention after splashing some milk in her teacup.

  "Nary a whisper of a ghostly voice, eh?" said Budgy, pausing at their table with his plate of eggs. "I'm not surprised. Tricks all of it — not that I've any idea how it's done, of course. That would be the great secret of the psychic herself, and she'll never tell us. Quite sorry to disappoint on that subject, Miss Salinger." He moved on with a chuckle.

  Kate sighed. "I suppose I'll have to record my reaction from the safety of 'is it or isn't it?'" she said, rewinding the psychic's final words once more. "It won't be the first time."

  "Would you switch that off, please?" said Phil, in a frigid tone of voice. "Some of us are trying to have a quiet breakfast, if you don't mind." He and the rest of his family were sitting two tables away, the members of the 'glum' party lingering over crumbled toast and jam.

  Annoyance crossed the paranormal investigator's features. "Very well," she said. "Some things about this little excursion I won't miss after today," she muttered, as she gathered up her things.

  I collected her half-empty teacup and breakfast plate, then brought a fresh pot of tea to the family's table, hesitating to approach when they obviously looked like they didn't want to be disturbed
by outsiders. They looked like a family of ghosts themselves: Kay was wan and disheveled, a blue tinge to her eyelids, while Bill was sulking over an untouched muffin, but not with his usual petulant manner. There was a definite air of angry electricity beneath their moods. Phil was smoking a cigarette, against decorum and clear dining laws, proving just how rattled he was.

  "She couldn't know about the vase. We never told anyone," Kay was saying. "You know it as well as I do, Phil. It's impossible for anyone to know that part but Will."

  "It can't be." Phil's cup clattered angrily in its saucer. "It's nonsense. One of us must have told father and forgotten it."

  "Did you forget and tell him about the letter?" said Kay. "It was stupid of you to write Will for money in the first place. As if he'd have sympathy for your difficulties after such a scam."

  "And I suppose you borrowed his keys to rest after a bit of shopping, and not for your private detective to spy on a certain someone?" Phil replied.

  "Oh, let's not talk about it," Kay snapped, but without her usual energy. "Why did you ever let father persuade us to go along with this horrible idea?"

  "Don't blame this on me," said Phil. He rubbed his forehead. "It can't be real. It simply can't."

  "It was," said Kay, drearily. "It was Will. Borrowing his flat was an absolute secret. And the voice — it was just like him to put it that way. And the postcards —"

  "There must be a way it was all arranged." But Phil sounded very helpless with this statement.

  "You saw father's face," said Kay. "Oh, Will. How could you do this to us?" She buried her face in one hand with a sigh of weariness.

  "Kay —"

  "Give it a rest, dear uncle," said Bill. Hollow sarcasm, with a dash of grave despair flavoring it. "There's nothing more to be said. We were bested by a ghost at last night's little communication session." He poked at the untouched food on his plate with sorrow — the fire had evidently gone out of the would-be heir's appetite for extra-buttery muffins. "Grandfather, it seems, was right about the other side."

  "We're all panicking over nothing," said Phil, but without his usual sharpness. "We needn't think father will change his mind because of a few vague, silly statements. That Norridge woman clearly has him infatuated with the idea, but that can still be changed. And if he leaves her any money, we can certainly make her uncomfortable in society with her ill-gotten gains. We'll have that comfort, at least."

  "And you'll have the title and the house, probably," retorted Bill. "You're not the one who's been made poor by all this, are you? I'll have to go to Yale now. And ... do something." From his tone of voice, you would think that Yale and a future career was the equivalent of being sent to the trenches of warfare.

  "That is hardly the same as facing the degradation of one's creditors," replied Phil, in bitter quietness.

  He studied his cup of tea as if it held a forecast of ill tidings. Young Bill remained silent, crumbling his muffin's corner. He shoved back his chair and left the table without another word.

  "More tea?" My cheery question was still unwelcome at this juncture.

  Molly's crossword puzzle book was absent today, foregone for an issue of a hot topics magazine called News Parade, featuring a familiar young, blond woman on its cover, standing on a photo set resembling a movie haunted manor. She hastily stowed it out of sight as I entered the butler's pantry.

  "Taking a bit of a rest," she explained. "I didn't sleep well last night. Not after ... well, it's just leaving me a bit unsettled this morning, you see." The ghostly window was evidently still on her mind, the harbinger of Will's urgent message.

  "You can go on to the laundry room if you want," I said. "I'll help Katy clear away the dining room as soon as the earl's family finishes."

  Molly's eyes sank closed. "Thanks," she said, sounding relieved. "I'd ten times rather be in the laundry room today than tidying the par — than doing the formal rooms," she finished, with a blush of guilt as she rolled her magazine up and tucked it in her apron's pocket.

  "— and you can't be serious about wanting to help Norman with gardening duties," said Brigette, who had a cornered look in her eyes as she entered the butler's pantry. "For heaven's sake, you can scarcely bring yourself to lift a designer suitcase, much less a garden rake." Riley was behind her, his attitude far more servile than I had ever witnessed from the porter.

  "I'm only trying to do my share," persisted Riley. "Be a bit more helpful. Wouldn't you like me to sort a bit of laundry? To fetch some new stamps and envelopes from the post office? Anything that would please the powers that be in this grand old place is none too small for the likes of Riley Bloom. Might you fancy a muffin and a spot of tea?"

  "No, I would not," said Brigette, insistently. Her face reddened as Riley plucked her sleeve in his state of servile contriteness. "Maisie, the earl wishes a cup of tea in his suite, if you would take it to him, please —"

  "What if I take it up?" said Riley "No trouble at all for me to pop up to the old nobleman's digs with a cuppa."

  "No, you won't — serving the earl tea is not your duty this morning. For heaven's sake, just find something already!"

  "All right," said Riley, somewhat disappointedly. "I only thought I should ask you, since you are the mistress of command. But if you insist, I'll make myself invaluable elsewhere." With a sigh that suggested it was her loss, he betook himself elsewhere. Brigette breathed a sigh of relief.

  "A tray to the earl's room, if you please," she repeated, in normal tones.

  I left the tray on a cart outside and opened the gold parlor's door, stepping inside. We hadn't cleared away after last night's séance, the melted candles still on the tray in the middle. The curtains were still closed, so I opened them, letting in a little sunlight and exposing the bits of wax the breeze had swept onto the table, and the ruffled pages of the book on its stand.

  I touched the window. It rattled beneath my hand, meaning that someone had forgotten to fasten it after the séance. My fingers lifted the latch and opened it, then closed it tight again. As I stepped away, I saw a small object lying on the floor. A folded piece of paper, formed into a tight square.

  Perfect for keeping a latch from fully locking.

  A muffled 'come in' followed my knock on the earl's door. Inside, I found the centenarian's luggage already packed and ready by the door, while the man himself was sitting close by the fire burned to embers in the fireplace, reading a book.

  "Pour a cup for me, if you would be so kind," said the earl, as I set the tray on the table. "I've been reading about your lovely hotel. Did you know that it was one of three founded by the same investor? A wealthy businessman who planned to retire to Cornwall."

  "I didn't know he owned three of them," I said. The book in his hands was The History of The Penmarrow Hotel, copies of which were sold by the hotel and tucked on the bookshelf in its every room, drawing room, sitting room, and parlor, and which I had yet to read. "Is it an entertaining history?"

  "Very. If you are interested in reading a whole chapter filled with rather dull details of a mineral mining empire," answered our guest, dryly.

  In my pocket, the folded paper was burning a hole with its proof of Natalie's stage trick. Before me was the man who had believed in her enough to organize these events, and believed that Natalie had made his son return from the other side last night. How could I tell him it probably wasn't true?

  I stirred sugar and milk into his tea. Inside me, a knot twisted itself before I found the courage to speak. "It's none of my business, sir," I began, carefully. "But I wondered if ... hypothetically ... it would change how you felt about this week's events if you knew that Miss Norridge faked some part of the séance."

  "You mean if she was a charlatan. A con artist." A steely edge to the earl's tone.

  I felt a little less brave, but I wasn't finished. "Maybe," I said. "She's very gifted. No question that she seems to know things that nobody could know ... but there's always a chance that they could have found out somehow." I
handed him his cup of tea. "And that ... maybe ... a very clever person could make it seem like all those little details and secrets came from the spirit world."

  The earl accepted his cup of tea between two steady hands, and not with the tremor I had expected after this statement. He rested the saucer on his lap, fingers curving around the cup's handle. "I found the box's hiding place behind the rock a decade ago," he said. "A loose stone in the cellar, a little tunnel of a meter or so."

  I had almost forgotten the gist of young Will's message from last night, but I now realized this was what the earl was talking about. So calmly and so quietly that the hairs on my neck rose, although I didn't know why, or where this story was leading.

  "A dozen pieces belonging to a priceless Greek vase, a gift from an archaeologist friend from days when tomb raiding was unfortunately all too common." He sipped his tea. "It went missing more than thirty years ago ... Livvy and I assumed it was stolen then, though I always had my suspicions of young mischief in its disappearance."

  He set the teacup on the saucer again. "I know all those secrets," he continued. "I know things that my children have imagined me to be ignorant of for months or years. I'm not quite the doddering old fool they believe me to be — not yet."

  "You know Natalie Norridge is a fake," I said.

  The earl set his teacup on the table. "Sit down ... Miss Kinnan," he said, after his eyes searched for my staff name tag again. He gestured towards the sofa, and I sank down on the cushion closest to his chair.

  "It was you I told before about my wandering youth, I believe," he said. "When I fell in love with the spellbinding arts of Madame Clarita, then the charming Madame Evenstar onstage in London."

  "Natalie Norridge's grandmother," I said. "You told me about seeing her perform before a sold-out crowd, and being impressed by her gifts."

  "Her gifts, yes. Her art would be a better way of putting it, though," he said. "She was a master showman. Truly magnificent on the stage. And truly charming in person," he added.