by Anna Reader
The bowler stalked back to the beginning of his run-up and the crowd leapt to their feet, becoming their team’s twelfth man as they roared their support. Harry seemed to stand a little taller, and to hold his bat with more resolve. Whether he won or lost, he was suddenly determined to face the end of the game with flair, and fighting spirit.
Once again, the lithe thatcher jogged in, raised his arms, and sent the ball revolving through the air towards its mark. Harry unfurled his long limbs, threw his weight forwards and lunged at the ball with clear intent. It certainly wasn’t the most elegant cover drive Purdie had ever seen, but it was one of the most thrilling, as it sent the ball flying past the umpire and over the dry green grass. The nearest fielder charged towards the boundary to intercept it and the crowd erupted into desperate cries, willing the ball to come to rest on the other side of the rope. And so it did: the fielder was too slow; the ball was hit too sweetly; and Harry had become a hero.
FOURTEEN
Purdie stood in front of the mirror and surveyed her reflection with a critical eye. The tan she’d acquired through the course of the cricket match contrasted rather well with the smudge of scarlet lipstick, and although she would never normally step out with a young man in a pair of slacks and a desperately old sweater, she certainly couldn’t start parading through Cornwall in a burgundy dress, stockings and neat little navy-blue heels – which was the only alternative.
“It’ll have to do,” she announced aloud, before wandering downstairs in search of a gin and tonic.
Once she’d satisfied herself – after a hushed confab with Algie in the hall – that her father had hidden the golden bail from view, and with gin now safely in hand, she settled down with a novel to pass the time until Peter’s arrival.
“You look pretty, darling,” her mother observed, looking up from her sewing with a frankly Machiavellian smile.
“I look like a hoyden, mother,” came the reply, “and you must disabuse yourself of the notion that this is anything other than official business for Mr Dashwood. No doubt he wishes to interrogate me about something.”
Now, Purdie didn’t really believe that herself - but truthfully, she didn’t know quite what to think, or whether she even ought to go. For better or worse, her family had now stolen a diamond bust of Shakespeare’s head; a painting of a Victorian explorer; and a piece of solid gold cricket memorabilia. Stepping out with the lead investigator hardly seemed wise – but then, caution had never been Purdie’s forte. Intelligence, she had in spades – but practical common sense had, she knew, always rather eluded her. Besides, she thought to herself, a touch defiantly, I like him.
“I didn’t say a word to the contrary, my sweet,” Lady Alverstock replied, whilst her eyes remained firmly fixed on her cross-stitch. “….Although I will say,” she continued after a pause, entirely unable to resist, “that he seems to be an extremely eligible young man.”
“Eligible?!” Purdie repeated in horror. “Mother, you sound like something out of a Jane Austen novel. Don’t let Algie hear you carrying on like that, for heaven’s sake, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Too late; a delighted Algernon walked through the door just in time to catch the salient points in this exchange. “Oh fie, Miss Emmeline,” he cried, seizing the Times from the arm of a chair and fanning himself in the manner of a meddling matron. “You would do well to set your cap at such a man – I hear he has five and twenty a year.”
“Stop tittering, Algie,” Purdie said, unable to suppress a chuckle. “It does not become you. Where’s Pa?”
“Lying down,” he replied, substituting the newspaper for a strong horse’s neck. “Touch of sun-stroke, I think.”
This was, no doubt, a euphemism for something rather more painful, but none of the trio wanted to be the one to introduce the subject of Lord Alverstock’s illness. Instead Lady Alverstock simply rose from her chair and made for the door.
“Where are you off to this evening, then?” Algie asked, sliding down the arm of the sofa until he was sprawled lengthways across the cushions.
“No idea,” Purdie replied, with studied nonchalance. “Just a quick drink at the pub, I expect.”
Algie snorted. “Don’t you believe it. If his courting is anything like his bowling, you’ll be out for a duck. Speaking of which,” he said, peering up from the sofa, “I think I can hear his car.”
Algie’s ears were not mistaken. At that very moment, Peter was drawing up outside the house in a smart blue Crossley. Purdie took up her book and her gin and tonic, and formed what she hoped was a casual tableau. Her brother, meanwhile, leapt up from the sofa to let his sister’s suitor in.
There was a great deal of good-natured chatter in the hall, and gales of laughter – much to Purdie’s irritation. The last thing she needed was for another member of her family to fall under this young man’s infuriating spell.
After a few minutes of this private hilarity, the two young men wandered in on the best of terms.
“We were just reliving the highlights of the match,” Algie announced. “Care for a drink, Dashwood?”
“Good evening, Em,” he said first of all, before turning his attention to Algie’s question. “Do you mind terribly if I don’t, old boy? I’d rather like to catch the light, if we can.”
“The light?!” Algie repeated gleefully, without a shred of self-restraint. “Will you be painting a portrait of Em this evening, then?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Algie,” Purdie cried, throwing a cushion at him. “Don’t be so obtuse.”
“Obtuse, is it?” Algie replied, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Now look here, Dashwood,” he continued, adopting a theatrically gruff demeanour. “I want her home by ten o’clock. And there will be no canoodling in the back of your Crossley, d’ye hear?”
“Come along, Peter,” Purdie said, dragging her companion through the door and pulling a face at her irrepressible brother over her shoulder.
“I’m awfully sorry about that,” Purdie said, as she grabbed her jacket and shut the front door firmly behind them. “My brother was raised by wolves.”
“Not at all,” Peter chuckled, “I like him. My sister would have done exactly the same thing. In fact, I think the pair of them would get on famously. Just a tic,” he said, suddenly disappearing into the back of his car. He emerged carrying a basket, the contents of which were covered by a tartan picnic rug.
“Where are we going?” Purdie asked, rather touched by this sign of domesticity.
“To the beach,” he replied, taking her by the arm and leading her down the winding country lane from the cottage to the sea. It was a heavenly evening, with a mother-of-pearl sky and the scent of spring flowers in the air. The lane was edged with forget-me-knots and daffodils, and both Purdie and Peter felt wonderfully relaxed after their day in the field. They walked next to one another in comfortable silence, neither saying anything until they got to the beach and Purdie spotted the small dinghy bobbing on the water’s edge. “I wonder whose it is?” she asked, admiring the glossy red paintwork and old-fashioned lantern perched at the bow.
“It’s ours - for this evening at least,” Peter replied, guiding her towards it and stowing the hamper.
Purdie gurgled with laughter. “How wonderful,” she cried, unable to maintain any attempt at froideur. “I adore being out on the water. This is awfully thoughtful of you.”
“Hop in,” Peter told her, as he rolled up his trousers and prepared to cast off. “You can be in charge of drinks.”
Needing no further invitation, Purdie stepped onto the boat and settled herself down by the hamper. Peter pushed it out from the sand and leapt aboard, settling the oars into the oarlocks and drawing them out into the open water. “Use the blanket if you’re cold,” he added, as he pulled them forwards with easy, practiced strokes.
Algie was right in spite of himself – they may as well have been in a painting. The setting sun set the still blue water alight; the sound of gulls wheeling overhead filled the
sky; and Purdie breathed in lungfuls of that glorious, briny Cornish air. As the boat pulled further away from the shore, she could make out the cottage and the Plough in the distance, and the lights of Chettleforth just beginning to twinkle as afternoon turned to dusk. Glancing across at Peter, she couldn’t help but notice the way the slight breeze was drawing his blond hair across that tanned forehead, and the rippling of his white shirt as he rolled the oars through the sea.
“Now”, she said brightly, turning to her duties as passenger, “what would you like to drink?” She peeled the rug back from the hamper to reveal a bottle of champagne, two clay mugs, and a mysterious parcel wrapped in grease-proof paper. “Peter,” she said, drawing the bottle out and spotting the vintage. “1905 - are you quite sure we can drink this?”
“I found it in Uncle Timothy’s cellar,” he replied, with a decidedly corrupting grin. “It’s packed to the rafters in there – he won’t even notice it’s gone. Besides, we need to toast to your six.”
Needing no further invitation Purdie untwisted the wire holding the cork in place, turned the bottle in her hand and released the fizz into the first of the two mugs. “What shall I do with yours?” she asked, as Peter continued to row them further out to sea.
“I’ll stop shortly. If you could just tuck it between your feet for now, I’ll be ready in a mo.”
Purdie filled her own mug, and waited patiently until her companion was ready to swap his oars for bubbles. She could still just make out the light of the cottage winking at her on the horizon, and trailed her hand in the cool water as the boat steadily began to slow down.
Finally, Peter relinquished the oars and let the vessel bob in the gentle current. Everything was silent apart from the water lapping against the side of the varnished hull, and it suddenly hit Purdie that she was alone, with Peter, on a rowing boat in the middle of the Cornish sea. The last time she’d been alone with a man he’d cornered her into a cactus and proposed marriage; this, she thought to herself, was rather a different prospect.
The absurdity of it all didn’t escape her – that she was a Capulet dabbling in a life of crime, and that he was a Montague investigating her family. She couldn’t deny that she liked him, however, and whilst she had absolutely no intention of thrusting a knife into her heart for this, or indeed any, man – Juliet really was a noodle, she mused, not for the first time – she had to admit that there was a certain…conflict of interest at play here.
Get a grip, she thought to herself, he’s only asked me out for a mug of champagne and an evening under the stars. And anyway, why shouldn’t she have a spot of fun?
Silencing her interior monologue for a moment, Purdie handed Peter his champagne. “Thanks,” he said, smiling across at her as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. “To a superb day’s cricket,” he announced, raising the mug in the air, “and the Chettleforth Challengers.”
“The Challengers,” Purdie agreed, leaning forwards to clink ceramic.
“So, Em,” Peter asked, leaning back against the side of the boat, “how was it that you and Algie found yourself amongst Appleby Parva’s first eleven?” After a sip from his mug, he added, “And forgive me if I’m mistaken, but weren’t you wearing a schoolboy’s whites?” It was a full moon and a clear evening, which meant that Purdie could still make out most of Peter’s expression; only his eyes were in shadow.
“A couple of their team overindulged in the local hooch before the game,” she replied, cool as a cucumber, pulling a cigarette case from the pocket of her slacks. “We just happened to be in the pub saying hello to Roddie, and one thing led to another. Smoke?”
“Thanks. I must say, I rather get the impression that ‘one thing led to another’ should be your family motto,” Peter observed, resting his mug under the bench and moving slowly forwards to where she was sitting at the bow of the boat. For one languid moment, as his eyes came into focus, Purdie thought he was going to kiss her; but then he took the lighter from his pocket, and cupped the flame over her cigarette. Purdie’s heart was still pounding as he leant over her to retrieve the lantern, and when he lit it and set it between them, she half-worried that he’d be able to detect the disappointment in her eyes. He didn’t seem too, however, and instead retrieved his champagne from under his seat and continued to drink.
“I love it out here,” he said after a moment. “If you drift for long enough, you can occasionally find a moment of absolute peace.”
“I feel the same when I’m walking,” Purdie replied. “Algie and I often set off for the hills for a day or two when we’ve had enough of town. It’s such bliss to think of nothing more taxing than putting one foot in front of another. This is heavenly, too,” she added. “It’s a super little boat.”
“All to Uncle Tim’s credit,” Peter replied. “He’s created something of a Cornish idyll, as far as I can see.”
“It’s so strange to think we’ve never seen you here before,” Purdie observed, as Peter refilled their glasses. “To think of you having family in Chettleforth and we’ve never bumped into one another - the odds must be microscopic.”
“I haven’t been down since I was in short trousers,” Peter said. “Uncle Tim’s been something of a black sheep since he ran off to fight in the Spanish civil war – although he assures me he only went for the rioja. I’m only here now because my Uncle’s on holiday in France, and said I could use his place to pop in on Hardy.”
Before Purdie could respond, Peter had retrieved the hamper and pulled out the grease-proof parcel.
“I feel I should apologise, having dragged you out onto the ocean with the promise of food. I’m not a terribly proficient cook, I’m afraid, so I’ve rather…cobbled something together.”
He peeled back the paper to reveal two doorstop sandwiches, the bread cut into thick, wholly uneven slabs. “I hoped the champagne might make up for it,” he added hopefully.
If anything was going to make Purdie fall in love with Peter, this was it. It was, she thought, evidence of absolute helplessness; he may be able to solve crimes and dominate a cricket match, but this crudely assembled sandwich looked as though it had been made by someone standing in the dark, without even a rudimentary understanding of scale. It was vast, crooked, and completely adorable. Purdie’s heart melted.
“It looks…terribly hearty,” she said, smiling warmly. “And is that cheddar? What a treat.”
“I’ve also brought a pot of jam,” Peter revealed, buoyed by this positive reception. “Some people aren’t particularly taken with the combination, but I’ve always loved it with cheese. I thought I’d let you add some, if you wanted it.”
“I’d adore some,” Purdie replied, entirely truthfully, her heart contracting once again with the sweetness of this confession.
This wholly positive endorsement of his culinary abilities was a great relief to Peter – he had entered a state of panic upon realising that it was Uncle Timothy’s cook’s day off, and had raided the larder in something of a frenzy. Perhaps, he thought, his skills were actually rather better than he’d ever given himself credit for.
“I also found a Bakewell tart,” he confessed, “so pudding’s all taken care of. More champagne?”
Once her mug had been refilled, Purdie looked down at the sandwich and wondered how best to broach it. In two halves? Bottom up? Perhaps by tearing off chunks and attacking it in stages…Algie’s tripod wouldn’t have gone amiss; the expanse of crust certainly had something of a cliff-like quality. Buying herself some time with the jam-spreading operation, Purdie looked up to find that Peter had launched into his with gusto, entirely untroubled by the sheer height of the thing. Throwing caution to the wind, Purdie followed suit.
She was just about winning the Battle of the Bread when she noticed a flashing light out of the corner of her eye. Abandoning the sandwich for a moment she stared back at the shore, trying to make out where it was coming from. It seemed to be on the water, but then she hadn’t heard a boat move past them, and it was a very still even
ing.
“Can you see that?” she asked, convincing herself she could hear oars slicing through the water in the distance.
Peter stared out into the darkness, searching for whatever it was that had caught Purdie’s attention. “No, I….hang on a sec, there it is. What the devil could that be? It’s terribly close to the shore.”
“Shall we take a look?” Purdie asked, suddenly caught up in an enticing vision of morally compromised smugglers, romance, and adventure. “I suppose they might need our help.”
Peter wasn’t convinced by this in the least; it was probably no more than a late night dog-walker down on the beach with a torch. However, it was also abundantly clear to him that Purdie was rather taken by the promise of some light detective work. Never one to disappoint a young lady, he stowed his sandwich in the hamper and took up the oars. “Alright – a quick reccie couldn’t hurt.”
“Good show,” Purdie replied, her voice aquiver with excitement. She seized the champagne and refilled their mugs. “One for the road, then.”
“Do just help yourself to Bakewell Tart,” Peter said, adding an incongruous touch of domesticity as he drew their boat back towards the shore in search of adventure.
“I suppose it could be a criminal gang,” Purdie remarked after a moment’s silence. “Tom Mortimer said there’d been strange goings-on down in the cave. Suppose we caught a group of desperadoes up to their elbows in stolen jewels....”
“You might try not to sound quite so delighted by the prospect,” Peter observed dryly, as the rows cut through the water. “In my experience thieves have far less in common with Robin Hood than one might hope. The last pair we nabbed shared a single tooth between them.”
“Like the Fates,” Purdie replied with a bubble of laughter.
“Yes, although sadly lacking in prescience. We found them in a pub about fifty years from the scene of the crime.”
Purdie laughed again, and found herself thinking that she really was having a lovely evening with Mr Dashwood. If only they weren’t currently on opposite sides of the law….
