She looked like a Delphic prophetess then, warning of doom, and I wondered how much of the effect was put on for visitors. “Thank you for the warning,” I told her sincerely. “Shall I cross your palm with silver?”
She flapped a hand. “I am no Gypsy fortune-teller, miss. Save your silver for the traveling fair. The second sight has come down in our family through the centuries, a gift it were, from the first lady of this island.”
“The giant’s lady?” I hazarded.
“Bless me, no! The giant laid himself down to sleep before history was a thing that was known. And long after, when his story had passed into legend, the first fishermen of Pencarron began to sail these waters. One night, when the moon was full upon the water, and the silver light shone down, one of the fishermen, a comely lad with hair as black as night, trapped a mermaid within his net. She promised him anything if he would free her, and he was a poor lad, so he asked her for a purse of gold. But the mermaid had taken a liking to the boy, handsome as he was, so she told him if he would free her and take her to wife, for half the year she would swim with her own kind and be free as the wind itself upon the waves. But for the other half, she would live with him, bringing with her all the wealth under the sea.”
I interrupted her at this point. “There is wealth under the sea?”
“Of course there is!” she cried. “Pearls and coral made by the fishes, and gold and silver from ships sunk in tempests. All the treasures of the kings of earth are nothing as compared to the wealth that lies beneath.” She leant a trifle nearer, pitching her voice low. “And there is ivory as well, from the bones of those who have gone down to their deaths.”
I gave an involuntary shudder, and she seemed pleased. “Aye, miss. All the wealth you can imagine, as much as all the lords of creation and more again, this the mermaid promised her comely lad. And he agreed, taking her to wife but always minding that he must let her go free for half the year to swim the seas with her sisters.”
“Were they happy?” I wondered.
“Happy as a mortal can be when wedded to merfolk,” she said sagely. “The little mermaid gave him a son in due course, and wealth, just as she promised. And with the wealth, the poor fisherman built a castle upon this island, which he gave in time to his boy, the mermaid’s son, and so it was that the Romillys came to live upon this island, with the blood of the merfolk in their veins. They want to be better than they are, but we who have lived here for all the centuries in between and share their blood, we know the truth. The castle folk are sprung from a fisherman’s son and his mermaid mother.”
“Share their blood? Then you are related to the Romillys?” I asked.
“Why, everyone on this island is related to the Romillys,” she told me. “Most from the wrong side of the blanket. But we are all bound by the pellar blood of the mermaid who began it all, and it is from her that the sight comes.”
“Does everyone on the island have the sight?” I asked, goggling at the idea of an entire island full of clairvoyants.
She gave a comfortable chuckle. “That would be a fair thing, would it not? No, miss. The sight used to be a common gift, but it is not so anymore. In my mother’s time, only she and my auntie had it, and I am the last pellar witch on the island.”
“Has no one else in your family the sight?”
Her expression turned faintly disgusted. “Not a single one of my children has it. They take after their father, and him a fisherman from over Pencarron way. I ought to have known better than to marry an outcomer, but I loved him and who can argue when love will have its way?”
“Who indeed?” I mused. I finished my cider and rose. “Thank you for a most interesting visit.”
She put aside her tatting and gathered herself slowly to her feet. “It was good of you to come, miss. Mind you come again. And mind you mark my warning,” she said, coming so close I could see the faint flecks of black in the grey of her eyes. “Rosamund Romilly does not rest easy. Take a care for yourself and any you love.”
“I will,” I assured her. I emerged from the little inn into a patch of sketchy sunlight, my head fairly swimming with stories of mermaids and ghosts and pellar witches. The boy Peter was sitting outside, pitching conkers, but he scrambled to his feet when he saw me.
“Are you going back to the castle, miss?” he asked.
“I am. It must be getting on time for luncheon, and I should hate to miss it.”
“Indeed,” he said longingly. “Mrs. Trengrouse runs a proper kitchen, she does. Sometimes she gives me a bit of apple tart when I’ve done a job or two for her. Did you have a nice chat with Gran?” he asked politely.
“I did, thank you. She is a most interesting woman. She was telling me about the mermaid who founded the families on this island.”
“Oh, aye? That’s fine for girls, I reckon,” he said soberly. “But mermaids are not a thing for boys.”
“How frightfully limited you are in imagination if you think so,” I told him with a smile. “A boy might properly love a mermaid story.”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “You see, a boy wants a sort of heroic story, and mermaids are fine if all you want to do is loll about in the sea, but I want stories about people who do things.”
“Ah, like the Spanish conquistadors who washed ashore?”
“And pirates,” he said, rolling his eyes ecstatically. “I love pirates.”
“Of course. I had quite a fancy for them when I was your age.”
He blinked. “You, miss? You liked pirates?”
“Naturally. Boys are not the only ones who want to sail the seven seas in search of plunder,” I assured him. “In fact, that’s rather my vocation.”
“You have been to sea? Actually to sea,” he said, waving his arms to encompass the horizon. “Not just the bit between Pencarron and here?”
“Not just that bit,” I said. “I have been as far as China and back again.”
“That,” he told me seriously, “is all the way.”
“It is indeed.”
“Did you ever fight anyone with a sword?”
“I regret to say, I have not. But I was caught in the eruption of a rather nasty volcano and shipwrecked, so I have had rather more than my fair share of adventures.”
His eyes shone in admiration. “I say, that is good. But you ought to know how to fight with a sword. Shall I teach you?”
“What a gallant offer,” I replied. “Do you know how to fight with a sword?”
“Not yet. But I met a pirate just now, and I mean to ask him to teach me.”
“A pirate! Well, we are living in interesting times indeed. Did he sail up under the banner of a skull and crossbones?”
Peter’s expression was painfully tolerant. “Well, of course not, miss. A pirate would not want folk to know he’s a pirate, would he?”
“I suppose not,” I admitted. “But you were clever enough to penetrate his disguise?”
“I was. I told him I knew him for a pirate and that if he didn’t want me to tell folk, he would have to teach me to use a sword properly.”
I gave him a thoughtful look. “It is a dangerous business to blackmail a pirate, young Peter.”
“I am not afraid,” he told me with a stalwart air. He put his hands into fists at his hips. “When he has done and I have mastered it—which I think will be in a week or so—I will teach you.”
“That is a most excellent plan. I shall look forward to it.” I paused and put out my hand. “Thank you for escorting me to the gate, Master Peter. You are a true cavalier.”
He swept off his cap and made a low bow, as graceful as any Stuart courtier, as I passed through the gate and onto the path to the castle. I returned the way I had come, up the path that wound from terrace to terrace, each forming a little wooded place or patch of wilderness. As I moved through the last copse, the sunlight faded, replaced by
thick grey cloud and a mist that seemed to materialize from nowhere at all. One moment I was walking jauntily through damply dappled woods, the next I was surrounded by wisps of incoming fog.
“Bloody islands,” I muttered. The path before me was obscured as the cloud rolled in, smothering sound and stifling even the shrieks of the gulls. They sounded faraway now, and eerie, as if they were crying, and I shook myself free of the fanciful notion that they were shrieking a warning.
Even as I told myself there was absolutely nothing to fear, I heard a footfall upon the path. It was the unmistakable sound of a boot upon the gravel, and then another, and still another, coming closer to me. Someone was walking up from the village, and I had a sudden, thoroughly ridiculous urge to run.
“Don’t be so missish,” I told myself firmly. I walked with deliberation back towards the castle. But the prickling feeling between my shoulder blades returned. The footsteps did not stop. They sounded, each a little louder than the last, and in between, the gulls shrieked their muffled screams.
I quickened my steps. Surely whoever was behind could hear me as well? I had made no effort to disguise my presence. They must know I was there, and yet there was no greeting, no friendly hail through the mist. I stopped sharply, and the footsteps stopped as well. There was no sound except the beating of the blood in my ears. Even the gulls had fallen suddenly silent.
My mouth went dry and my hands dropped instinctively to my wrists. It had long been my custom when walking abroad to stick my cuffs with minuten, the tiny headless pins of the lepidopterist’s trade. Useful for mounting specimens, they were equally useful for fending off unwanted attentions. Unfortunately, I had left the little box of them in my room along with the knife I habitually carried in my boot. That had been a gift from Stoker—a souvenir of one of our murderous little adventures—and I had had recourse to use it once in defense of his life. I almost never went without it, but something about this peaceful little island had lulled my defenses. Even my hatpin was not to hand, for I had worn a modest cap instead of my usual enormous brimmed affairs. I had nothing except my wits and my courage, I realized, and I intended to make the most of them.
I set off again, quickening my pace further still. I must have caught my pursuer off guard; the footsteps did not resume until I had gone a little distance. But then I heard them, coming on, faster now. I looked ahead to where the orchard wall stood atop the next terrace. It was above the mist. If I could reach it, I could see clearly who was behind me, closing the gate if need be. I had noticed on my way down that the key was in the lock.
I stopped in my tracks. Mertensia was in the garden by the orchard. If I was being followed by some sort of miscreant bent upon bad behavior, I would be leading him directly to where she was, possibly endangering her as well. There might be safety in numbers, I reflected, but I would not have it said that Veronica Speedwell was afraid to fight her own battles.
Hardly realizing what I was doing, I whirled upon my heel, hands fisted as I raised my arms and unleashed a Viking berserker battle cry and launched myself down the path, directly at my pursuer. There was a flurry of activity, limbs entangling as we went down. Somehow my pursuer got the upper hand and landed atop me, driving the air out of my lungs as I fell. He was a weighty fellow and I shoved with a massive effort, but could not dislodge him. I drew back my knee and rammed it upwards, earning a howl of pain and outrage for my efforts.
“Unhand me or I shall tear you apart like hounds on a fox!” I demanded with the last of my breath.
“I should bloody well like to see you try,” came a familiar voice in a low, grating growl. He gave a great shudder and rolled off of me and onto all fours, panting heavily. I struggled to my knees and whooped air into my lungs. When I could speak again, I used one of his favorite oaths.
“Stoker, will you kindly tell me what in the name of bleeding Jesus you are doing here?”
“Returning to the castle, obviously,” he said as he staggered to his feet. “Until you decided to assault my person. Really, Veronica, what on earth possessed you?”
“I thought you were a criminal assailant,” I admitted. “You ought to have declared yourself.”
“To whom?” he demanded. “I had no idea you were here. That wretched fog is obscuring everything.”
“I heard you plainly enough,” I told him. I was unsettled by coming upon him so unexpectedly. We had left things so badly fixed between us that I could hardly anticipate a cordial conversation, and the knowledge irritated me. “Why have you come back on your own? I thought the gentlemen of the party were taking a grand tour of the island together.”
“Yes, well, one can only admire so many lumps of rock before a quarry grows tiresome. I decided to explore the village instead. I had a pint with the innkeeper and then the blacksmith and his apprentice and a brace of farmers turned up for a little refreshment.”
“The innkeeper? I suppose you mean Mother Nance? She might have warned me you were lurking about the village. And you must be the pirate her grandson told me about,” I added with a glance at his eye patch.
“Ah, young Peter. That boy is going to go far in life. He has the natural instincts of a criminal. He has managed to blackmail me into teaching him how to use a sword.”
“I know,” I told him darkly. “What I do not know is why you decided to get to know the locals. Unless . . .” I let my voice trail off suggestively.
“Unless?” he prompted.
“Unless you are curious about Rosamund Romilly’s disappearance and decided to ask a few questions.”
“Certainly not,” he said stoutly.
“Liar!” I whirled on him. “Swear to me on whatever you love best in the world that her name did not come up in conversation. Swear on Huxley,” I ordered.
“For God’s sake, you’re dancing around like a damselfly. Of course it came up,” he told me in a flat voice. “Rosamund’s disappearance was a nine days’ wonder. It was the most interesting thing to happen here in three centuries, but no one knows anything. No one saw anything. And there are as many versions of what happened to her as there are people on this island.”
I stopped in front of him, forcing him to halt in his tracks. “Stoker. Indulge my curiosity.” I raised my chin.
He gave a gusty sigh. “Veronica, have you ever talked to a Cornishman? A proper one? For more than three minutes running? They are the most superstitious folk in the British Isles, and that’s saying something. For every fellow who suggests she ran away with a lover or threw herself from a cliff, there are five more saying she was taken by piskies or mermaids or knackers or, just possibly, a giant.”
I blinked at him. “A giant?”
“The Cornish love their giants.”
“Dare I ask about the knackers?”
He folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. “About two feet tall with blue skin and pointed ears and content to make their homes underground. Something like an Irish leprechaun from what I gather, only one isn’t supposed to ask much because they’re thoroughly bad-tempered and malevolent.”
“They sound just the sort to make off with a bride on her wedding day,” I pointed out.
“Veronica, in the name of seven hells, please tell me you are not giving serious consideration to the idea that knackers abducted Rosamund Romilly.”
“Of course not.” I pulled a face. “But what the people around her believe is almost as significant as what actually happened. Very often, golden nuggets of truth may be found in the deepest waters.”
“That is a dreadful analogy. To begin with, gold is usually found in shallows,” he said.
I held up a hand. “No lectures on metallurgical geology, I beg you. Besides, I have no doubt they were having a very great laugh at your expense. I would wager that pulling the leg of the casual traveler is a well-established sport in this part of the world.”
“Of course it is,” he repli
ed with an unexpectedly agreeable air. “Which is why I stayed long enough to buy every man a pint and winnow out at least a little kernel of wheaty truth from the chaff of gossip.”
He slanted me a mischievous look. “Very well,” I told him tartly. “Yours is the better metaphor. Tell me, what grains of truth did you discover?”
He shrugged. “Precious little for all my trouble. Discounting the piskies and knackers—”
“And giants,” I added.
“And giants”—he nodded—“it seems there are only two possibilities.”
“Death or departure,” I supplied.
“Precisely. If she left, how and under what circumstances? Was she abducted? Did she flee, alone or with the help of another? And if so, why has no one heard a whisper of her whereabouts since?”
“And if she died, was it by her own hand, misfortune, or murder?” I finished. “Very tidy. A taxonomy of possibilities. It is practically Linnean in its purity.” I paused. “Tell me, what do you think of our host?”
Stoker did not hesitate. “Agincourt,” he said, and I understood him perfectly. With that rare sympathy that we shared, he had seen Malcolm Romilly precisely as I had, a bulwark of English predictability in this strange and otherworldly setting.
A rush of pleasure surged through me. This was how it had so often been between us, repartee serving as the language of the heart for us. Where others might whisper little poetries, Stoker and I engaged in badinage, each of us certain that no one else in the world understood us as well as the other.
But just as I began to hope that his mood of the previous night was well and truly behind him, some almost imperceptible withdrawal occurred. His posture, always inclined to lean towards me like an oak to the sun, straightened and he took half a step backwards, his tone suddenly cool. “Personally, I am inclined to think that she took a boat and left. It is the simplest explanation, after all.”
“On her wedding day?” I protested. “Surely not.”
A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Page 8
