by John Wilcox
‘Don’t you see, sir. It was obviously the site of a brazier specially erected on a spot where it could be glimpsed from the sea, even though the visibility was poor. Why should a light be there? It was many yards from the nearest habitation, which I presume was the Reverend Hawker’s vicarage, so that it could not have been a lantern.’
Acland interjected quickly. ‘How do you know that? The light could have been that of a lantern carried by a shepherd worried about the safety of his flock on the clifftop and in that storm.’
‘I doubt it, sir. I looked around me carefully when we drove there today. I could see no evidence of farm livestock anywhere near the cliff edge. And, anyway, the turf is moorland growth on the clifftop, not at all suitable for animal grazing. It certainly looked to me as though no livestock would be allowed to venture near such a dangerous drop, in any case.’
‘Humph.’ Acland looked quickly around the room, as though seeking inspiration. ‘Those ashes could have been there for some time. People sometimes come down from Hartland itself, or even Stoke, to light a fire and picnic.’
‘I suppose that is true. But that hole in the ground was rectangular, as though a post had been hammered into the turf. And it all seemed to fit. Why would anyone deliberately lure The Lucy onto the rocks? I thought all of that business of “false lights” ended years ago.’
‘And so it did. No one here – certainly none of the seafaring folk – would commit that murderous act now.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Unless, perhaps …’ His voice tailed away.
‘Yes. Did you have someone in mind?’
‘I don’t know. It could have been the tinners – you know, the tin miners who work on this coast, although some way away towards the south. The price of tin is low, now, I understand, and many of the poor beggars are near to starving. They don’t share our comradeship of the sea.’ He held up a hand. ‘It is just a possibility and I have no evidence at all to support the notion. I still maintain that, if there was a light, it would have been there without murderous intent. Have you consulted Cunningham about it all?’
‘Yes. He states firmly that he was there that night and saw no light.’
‘Well, there you are, then. That must be conclusive, young man. I feel that you must let this matter drop.’ He lowered his voice. ‘This is, indeed, a rather primitive part of our country and I don’t think the local populace would take kindly to you going around making accusations. It could, in fact, be a dangerous thing to do.’ Then, as an afterthought he asked: ‘Did you tell the Reverend Hawker about this business?’
‘No, sir. He was out when Emma called.’
‘Well, if you do see him, it would be best not to mention the matter. He is a man of great worth but, ah, what shall I say, of rather eccentric habits. It would not do to disturb him, you see.’
Josh did not see, but decided not to argue. It was clear that this was as far as Doctor Acland could go. Indeed, it seemed as though he had issued a warning to deter Josh from further investigations.
‘Very well, sir. I shall let the matter drop. But I am concerned about staying as your guest here without paying my way. I have a little money and would be happy to pay you, say, five shillings a week, while I stay here to recompense you for the cost of feeding and watering me.’
The doctor raised a hand, almost in relief, sensed Josh. ‘Certainly not, my boy. You are most welcome to stay here until you have completely recovered. As I have already said, we do not need money here. And,’ he allowed a rare smile to cross his countenance, ‘I rather suspect that Emma is enjoying looking after you.’
As though on cue, the door opened and Rowena appeared, flushing slightly and carrying a tray with teapot, cups and a plate of scones. Had she been listening at the door? wondered Josh. He made a mental resolve to find an excuse to ask Rowena to take him down the coastline south to where the tinners lived and worked. Perhaps there might just be a clue there. He certainly was not going to give up his investigations. He owed it to Jorgen Grumm, if no one else.
On returning to his room, however, he decided to let the matter drop for the moment. It seemed he might have provoked some resentment within the village and he did not wish to exacerbate the matter. And, in any case, he was anxious to increase his daily exercise in an attempt to heal the damaged leg. He might, he pondered sourly, have need of greater mobility in the days to come.
So it was that he declined further offers of rides in the donkey cart with Rowena. This, of course, earned her displeasure and she retaliated by doing her best to ignore him for the next few days. As a result, Joshua took to venturing out with the crutch by himself, either up the cliff path towards Morwenstow or hobbling down to the harbour to admire, once again, the excellent seamanship of the men of the smacks and the dinghies.
It was on the second day that, as he inched his way upwards towards the Preventers’ barracks, he first became conscious of a horseman, right on the clifftop and therefore silhouetted against the sky, who seemed to be observing him. He was there again the following day and on the next. He was too far away for the rider to be recognised but he seemed gently to urge his mount forward to walk in parallel with Joshua as he stumbled along. Josh thought that he saw light reflected from the lens of a telescope levelled at him, but he could not be sure.
He shrugged his shoulders. If he was being spied upon there was very little he could do about it, so there was no point in being concerned.
Some four days after his conversation with Acland, however, something occurred which did concern him. He was hobbling along in mid morning down the sleepy street, now glistening from a night-time shower, towards the harbour again. Suddenly, it seemed as if his crutch was kicked from behind and he would have fallen badly had it not been for strong arms that held him.
He turned and looked into the smiling face of Tom Pengelly, who was gripping him tightly.
‘Agh!’ Josh winced with pain as his injured leg thudded back onto the cobblestones. ‘Did you kick my crutch away then?’
‘Certainly not, Mr Mate.’ The young man’s grin seemed to widen. ‘Your crutch slipped on the cobblestones and I jumped forward and was able to save you from falling. You should thank me, not accuse me.’
Josh nodded his head slowly. ‘Yes, well then. Thank you, Tom. I could have damaged my leg again, it seems, had it not been for you.’
‘Well, Mr Weyland.’ The grin had disappeared now. ‘You really must be more careful, you know. Walking about on one leg, so to speak, you could easily slip over the clifftop. And that would be the last anyone would hear of you. I do urge you to take care.’
Josh’s eyes narrowed. The meaning was clear. This was a warning and a threat. ‘Very well, Tom,’ he said. ‘I shall be very, very careful in future. Thank you, but I can manage now, I think.’
Pengelly raised a languid forefinger to the brow of his straw hat, nodded and walked away down to the harbour. Josh decided not to follow him, and instead, turned and walked back the way he had come. Then, on impulse, he turned into the inn next to the Acland house.
It was his first visit to the hostelry and he looked around him with interest. Although the weather was mild, logs were burning on an open fireplace and the bar top was brightly polished, with pewter pots hanging in a row above the counter. Barrels lined the wall behind the bar counter and flags of shipping lines hung from the ceiling. He noted the blue star on a white background of the Blue Cross Line. There seemed to be no customers and, indeed, no bartender either, so the room was empty.
He fumbled in his pocket for coins and rapped the counter with a penny.
Immediately, an elderly man appeared, wearing a leather apron and beaming from a round face that featured the blue, bulbous nose and bright, shining cheeks of a publican.
‘Good day, good day,’ he chortled. Then he noticed the crutch. ‘Ah, you must be the sailor the boys pulled off the rocks down at Morwenstow. My word, sir, you had a lucky escape an’ that’s the truth.’
Josh held out his hand. ‘I am indeed
, landlord. Joshua Weyland.’
The innkeeper grabbed the extended hand and shook it enthusiastically. ‘Jacob Millbury,’ he said. ‘Welcome to The Unicorn. I wondered if you might pop in, like. The doctor next door used to come in regular, but we ain’t seen much of him for some time now. I ’ope he is well?’
‘Apart from his leg, which I believe still gives him some inconvenience, he seems well, thank you. I would like a pot of your best beer if I may, please, and do join me, if you have the time.’
Millbury reached up and brought down two pint-sized pewter pots. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir. I don’t mind if I do. That will be six pennies, please.’
Josh handed over the coins and took an exploratory sip. It was sour and dark and he could taste the hops. It was the first English beer he had tasted for more than two years. It was welcome. But his mind raced. He must be careful how he handled this conversation – not least having just been warned to keep his nose out of the comings and goings of Hartland Quay. He smacked his lips.
‘Very good, Mr Millbury. Best I’ve tasted for many a month.’
‘Brew it myself, out the back there. People do say as it’s the best beer in Devon – or Cornwall.’ He took a draught which seemed to half empty the pot.
‘You mentioned my escape from the wreck a minute ago. D’you know, I still don’t know who pulled me off that rock and took me to the top where Ro … Emma was waiting. I was unconscious and was never able to thank them. Do you know who it was? Presumably one of the Preventers. I would like to shake their hands.’
‘Oh no. It was not the Preventers. T’was young Tom Pengelly and one of his mates from the harbour. From what I’ve ’eard, they actually crept out on the rock ’alf into the sea to pull you off. Then the two of ’em carried you up the cliff face. Quite a performance, by all accounts. Don’t know the other lad’s name but Tom will tell you. Young Emma knows ’em all.’
The last sentence was said with a smirk, which raised Josh’s ire. But he took another pull at his beer while he absorbed what had been said. Pengelly, then, the man who had just kicked away his crutch and warned him about prying into other men’s business – it was he who had saved his life, for certainly, unconscious, he could not have resisted the pull of the surf much longer. He could well imagine the dangers inherent in crawling out onto the slippery surface of the rock and then carrying him away from the crashing waves.
He sighed. Rowena must have known that Pengelly was there that night. Why did she not introduce him as his saviour, when they met on the Morwenstow road that day?
He took refuge in his pint pot to hide his puzzlement. What other secrets would this strange village throw up?
But Millbury was continuing. He leant across the bar conspiratorially.
‘I expect you knows about young Emma?’ he asked with a leer.
‘Well, I don’t know much about her, apart from the fact that she is the doctor’s daughter.’
‘Well, she’s that, all right. But the gravestone where the poor lass goes to pray for ’er mother, ain’t that of ’er mother at all.’ He pulled away from the bar and waited for Josh’s reaction. He was not to be disappointed.
‘What! But is that gravestone not that of the doctor’s late wife, then?’
The publican threw back his head in silent glee. ‘Oh, it’s that all right, sir. But she wasn’t Emma’s mother, yer see. Oh no, she wasn’t her mother.’
‘So,’ began Josh slowly, ‘who was her mother, then? And is the doctor not her father?’
The barman put a finger alongside his nose. ‘Oh ’e’s ’er father, all right. But ’er mother was a young gypsy lass who was a real looker.’ He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘The doctor couldn’t resist ’er and I don’t blame ’im. His wife was very ill at the time, so ’e didn’t ’ave what you might call much comfort at ’ome. No wonder he strayed a bit. In fact, ’is wife died just before Emma was born.’
‘What became of Emma’s mother, then – the gypsy lady, that is?’
‘She died in childbirth, so the poor old doctor lost two loved ones within a few days. His wife is buried in the churchyard at Stoke Church, up on the top. But, the doctor drew a line at ’aving ’is two ladies in the same place, so to speak. So ’e arranged with old Rev. Hawker down at Morwenstow to bury ’er in his churchyard. ’E’s a free-thinkin’ sort of bloke and ’appily agreed.’
‘So Emma doesn’t know about her real mother – about her existence, that is, and where she lies now?’
‘Course she doesn’t. Doctor couldn’t bring ’imself to reveal ’is shame, so to speak.’
Josh frowned. Was this just tittle-tattle? It all seemed rather farfetched. ‘This was some time ago, obviously,’ he said. ‘Were you here then, or did you pick up the story later?’
Millbury threw back his head at the obvious charge that he might be retelling old folk tales. ‘Oh no. I was ’ere then, keepin’ the pub, like. I knew because the doctor asked me – on the quiet, so to speak – to arrange for flowers to be sent down to Morwenstow. I was ’appy to be of service an’ to keep silent about it all.’
Well, you’re not keeping silent about it now, thought Joshua. But he pressed on, hoping to take advantage of the publican’s loquacity. ‘Thank you … Most interesting. I presume very few people know the story in the village?’
‘Oh no. I doesn’t tell anyone of it now, really.’ The man had the shame to look embarrassed. ‘I only tells you of it because you’re livin’ there now, see.’
Josh put down his pint. ‘Would you put a half in there please, landlord, and have another pint yourself.’
‘Ah, that’s very kind of you, sir. I don’t mind if I do.’
He filled up the pots.
‘I understand that the wreck of my ship was only one of many on this stretch of the coast,’ said Josh innocently.
‘Oh, bless you, yes. When the weather’s bad – from the north-west that would be – we seem to get one every two or three days, it seems.’
Josh pulled on his half pint. ‘Really? I’m not from round here, of course, but I did hear rumours about false lights; of ships being lured onto the rocks by wreckers. Does that still happen?’
Millbury’s face immediately froze and Josh realised that he had gone too far.
‘Course not. That ’appened – if it ’appened at all – many years ago. An’ it’s an ’angin’ offence now. I don’t know where you picked that up.’
‘Oh, it was part of the mythology of the coast, I suppose. Old stories, of course. Nothing to do with me, anyhow.’ He quickly finished his beer. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Millbury. I’ve enjoyed our chat and the beer. I must get back for Emma will be scolding me for being late for lunch. Goodbye to you.’
‘Good day to you, sir.’ But there was a certain coldness in the publican’s voice. Josh kicked himself for pushing the questioning too far, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He tucked his crutch into his armpit and swung himself through the door of the inn, his mind running.
So that was where Rowena got her dark beauty and vivacity from. She was a Romany! He frowned. How tragic, though, that she prayed at the grave of a woman who was not her mother, while the real parent languished ten miles away, probably in an unmarked grave. Perhaps the Rev Hawker could … no! He must not blunder into this sad episode. There were enough secrets in this hamlet as it was. He must not get involved. He tried to summon a picture of Mary’s round, smiling face. Why oh why had she not responded to his letter? There would have been time to do so. He resolved to send her a second letter.
At the luncheon table, he studied Rowena’s face anew. Her acquired name certainly now fitted into her maternal background. Those high cheekbones, long, wild hair and black eyes were all redolent of the Romany race and her strange impetuosity fitted into the pattern. She was undoubtedly beautiful and he wondered if her suitors – the ill-assorted pair of Pengelly and Cunningham among them – had ever acquired even the merest sniff of the story of her birth. The Pr
eventers’ captain had been, after all, shipmates with Acland and, presumably, stayed friends with him throughout Rowena’s young life.
The thought of Cunningham made him wish to walk unaided up to the Preventers’ barracks and accept the captain’s invitation to meet the men who had allegedly pulled him off the rock. Would they be ‘out on patrol’ again? If so, that would add veracity to the publican’s story.
‘Where are you goin’, Josh?’ cried Rowena as he hobbled through the door.
‘Oh, I thought I would just get some fresh air. Might perhaps see if I can walk up as far as the Preventers’ place. It would be good exercise.’
‘You don’t want to walk up that steep path on your own, Josh. I’ll come with you. Let me get my wrap.’
‘No. No. I must try and walk by myself. And I know you will have plenty to do back here.’
She pulled a face but retreated to the kitchen. Josh swung out onto the street and made for the turning that led up the cliff face. He was pleased that he was acquiring a confident rhythm in walking now, even though the ascent was gruelling and he was forced to gulp air into his lungs.
Instinctively, he looked up to the skyline above him. Was he being watched again? But no rider appeared. He bent his head and concentrated on the climb.
As he neared the iron-studded door he heard the clash of steel from within. It was as though a battle was being fought beyond it. He picked up a giant ring, which hung from its face and thumped it on the door.
It was Cunningham himself who opened it: but a Cunningham with a cutlass in his hand. The scar on his cheek stood out blackly from a face red from effort.
‘Why, it’s young Josh,’ he cried, a warm smile lighting his countenance. ‘Do come in.’ He nodded to where a surly-faced man in a bedraggled uniform of sorts stood, panting for breath and leaning on a cutlass. ‘I’ve just been exercising Hawkins here in the noble art of fighting with a cutlass. Come in, come in and provide us with an audience.’
