“You know, Robin,” she said in a silky tone of voice, “I can call you Robin, can’t I? You were unconscious for a long time, and Edwin here never left your side for a moment.”
“Really?” he said, beaming. He turned to Edwin who was blushing.
“Well,” he coughed, as his ears turned so red they looked as though they might burn through his skull, “someone had to do it.”
Eva leaned in even closer and whispered to Robin. “He’d have waited there all night if you’d needed him to.”
People were swirling around the whole tavern in eddying waves, with new little enclaves forming every few minutes. A group from a nearby booth moved on, and Robin and his companions took it over. Eva suggested they move somewhere more private when the opportunity arose, as the booth was very much at the centre of the action. Iris, however, said she was happy to stay put and everyone knew that meant they would be going nowhere. They all sat and watched Mr. Reed who was now frantically running around the ground floor, grumpily making sure everyone had what they needed. Running the Moth & Moon was a massive undertaking. Mr. Reed had a small company of men and women in his employ who acted as waiters, bartenders, cleaners, chambermaids, cooks, carpenters, painters, and everything in between. He was back behind the bar now, in his favourite spot. Behind him on the wall was a brass trumpet, a mask made from silver and grey pigeon feathers, and a large, glass-fronted box in which were pinned a variety of moth types found on the island. The centrepiece was a huge, pale, female emperor moth, her wings spread wide and patterned with what looked like swirling, looping eyes, watching over the innkeeper and his premises.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t just sell the place,” said Edwin. “He obviously doesn’t want to run it.”
“Who’d buy it?” laughed Robin.
“Well, my father, for one,” said Eva.
Iris looked surprised. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. He offered to buy it when Mr. Reed’s parents died and several times before then, come to think of it. He thought it would be a good investment.”
“And if there’s one thing Marley Chase knows, it’s a good investment.” Iris smiled. “Oh! Just think, if he had bought it, he might have raised you here, instead of at Chase Manor! You could have been a bar girl!”
“Hardly,” Eva scoffed. “I’d have spilled a few too many drinks on purpose, that would have put him off the idea. You know how father hates waste. What about your parents, Edwin? Your father was a baker as well, wasn’t he?”
“Oh yes, his mother was an excellent cook, taught him all she knew. We still use her recipes today, in fact. He worked in the kitchens here at the inn for a while. Learned his trade. But he got fed up of not getting the credit for his hard work, so he opened the bakery. He’d still be working there if Mum didn’t make him stay at home.”
“He’s earned his retirement. He should enjoy it,” Eva said. “A life of leisure, I quite envy him.”
Robin thought she wasn’t far off living one herself. What little work she did do involved cracking the whip at lazy Chase Trading Company captains, and he’d seen how she relished it. He often thought she’d have used an actual whip if she thought she could get away with it.
“But you really should take on someone to help you at the bakery. It’s entirely too much work for one man.” Eva said.
Edwin shifted about uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t need anyone,” he said defensively. His head sank and he fixed his eyes squarely on his tankard. “I can manage.”
Iris smiled warmly at him. “Edwin, it’s not that we think you can’t cope, but it’s a lot for one person to take on. Without your brother or father, you’re doing to work of three men.”
“Ambrose managed it for long enough. So can I. I wasn’t much help to him when he was alive, and Dad hasn’t been right for years. Much as he complains, he’s better off out of it. It’s hard for a man who’s worked all his life to just sit back and do nothing, but his hands don’t work like they used to,” Edwin said.
One night while drunk, Edwin had confessed to Robin he was worried about the same thing happening to his own hands. He was in his early forties and found his joints were already becoming stiffer, and without a child to carry on in his name—or his nephews to pass the bakery to—Edwin wondered what would happen to him and the bakery when he was no longer able to work. Robin hadn’t had any answers for him.
There was a heavy silence. Robin felt they’d pushed him too far, invaded too much and now struggled to think of what to say. It was then that May Bell bounced over to their table.
“Hullo, Mr. Farriner!” she called cheerfully.
Edwin sat up and smiled back.
“Is there anything you need?” May asked. “Anything I can get for you?”
“No, I think I’m fine, thank you, May. I hope this rain doesn’t last too long, or there’ll be no bread for you to deliver tomorrow!” Edwin said as pleasantly as he could manage.
Even Robin noticed how careful Edwin always was to speak to children in as friendly a manner as he could muster. He knew it was because of how Edwin’s mother had treated him when he was a boy, always making him feel like he was a nuisance.
“If you need me to help clean up the bakery after the storm, just say so,” May said and bounded off again in the direction of some children her own age.
Eva slinked over beside Edwin and slipped her arm around his.
“You know,” she said seductively, and just a little louder than before, “if you did take on some help—say, an apprentice—you’d have someone to assist you in the bakery, and you’d also have more time for…other pursuits.”
She let that sink in and before Edwin had a chance to respond she unlocked herself from his arm and turned to face Robin.
“Now, Robin,” she said regally. “We’ve never had a chance to properly talk, and it looks like we may not get a better time, since it seems as though this entire island is about to be blown away overnight.”
As if in direct response to this, the whole inn shook with the tremendous force of the hurricane winds and a terrific flare of lightning illuminated the battered shutters.
“I’ve heard lots of stories about you and your father. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear several of our mutual neighbours warned me about you but true to maddening island form, refused to elaborate on why. Whatever have you done to earn such notoriety?”
It was Robin’s turn to shift about uncomfortably in his seat. Edwin did it again too, in sympathy. Iris just buried her face in her hands.
“You ’aven’t ’eard about Captain Erasmus Shipp?” Robin said, getting himself settled. With his thick accent, it always sounded like he was adding far too much emphasis on the a in ‘Erasmus.’ It was drawn out, like a wall to be climbed before he could reach the end of his father’s name.
Eva coughed slightly. “Well, I’ve heard stories, of course. Rumours, to be more accurate.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure I know exactly what rumours you’ve ’eard,” he said. “It’s not an ’appy tale. Not entirely. You sure you want to ’ear it?”
The two women nodded enthusiastically.
“It all started one mornin’, back along when all the fishermen of the village were headin’ to the dock, gettin’ ready for the day’s work. One of ’em hears cryin’ comin’ from one of the boats and calls the others round to ’ave a look, you see. They lift up an old oilskin tarp and there, swaddled in some old rags, is an infant, barely a day old. My dad, Erasmus, well ’e lifts the baby out and sees a note pinned to ’im.”
“Pinned to the baby?!” Iris cried.
“Pinned to the swaddling, dear,” her wife corrected, with a look of playful derision.
“Oh, yes. Of course. Do go on, Robin.”
“Anyway, this note says Erasmus were the baby’s father, and ’is mother were a woman named Rose, who ’e ’ad met on Blackrabbit Island. About nine months earlier, presumably. The note said she couldn’t look after the baby, and she ’oped Erasmu
s would. The note also said the baby’s name were Robin.”
He took a sip of whiskey while he let the moment land. Eva and Iris were both a little bewildered and sat gaping like freshly caught pilchards on a sun-baked deck.
“Tell them the best bit,” Edwin said. He’d heard the story a few times before.
“Guess which boat they found me in.” Robin smiled.
“You’re joking,” Eva replied. Working with the sailors meant she knew every boat and captain in the port.
“Nope.” Robin laughed.
“Which one?” her wife asked, a little behind.
“Bucca’s Call,” she said. “They found you, as an infant, on board your own boat?”
“Yup.” He laughed again. A deep, bellowing, hearty laugh.
“Oh, you’re having us on. This is like when my mother told me I was found in a cabbage patch,” Eva said, turning her back towards Robin in exaggerated admonishment.
Robin held his mammoth hands up, still chuckling. “I swear on me life, it’s all true. You can ask Mrs. Whitewater. She were there, saw the whole thing. Even Edwin’s parents were there. Most of the town came out to see what all the fuss were about. Bucca’s Call belonged to my dad first. ’E were well known as a bit of a ladies man. ’E toured the islands in ’er. This Rose woman must ’ave come to Merryapple in the middle of the night, recognised Dad’s boat, and left me in ’er for ’im to find. Probably a better prospect than knockin’ on every door in town tryin’ to find ’im.”
“That’s…that’s astonishing. And what about Rose? Did you ever hear from her again?” Iris asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
“No, never.” Robin paused there for a moment. “I went to Blackrabbit a few times, tryin’ to find ’er. There are a few women named Rose there, but none of them were the right age. She must have left soon after I was born. Or died, I suppose. That ’appens to women, doesn’t it? Sometimes, after childbirth? Complications and that? She were in a boat, probably on ’er own. Maybe somethin’ ’appened to ’er on the way back to Blackrabbit. I asked around, travelled to all of the towns, but nobody knew who she were. It’s a funny feelin’, not knowin’ for sure if you’re an orphan or not,” he said with a forced smile.
“I can’t believe we’ve never heard this story before,” Eva said. “We need to invite you round for dinner some evening, Mr. Shipp. I had no idea you were shrouded in such mystery!”
“Well, thank you kindly,” Robin replied, doffing his cap.
“So, what happened to your father?” Iris asked.
“Ah, right, I were comin’ to that. One night, when I were about ten, ’e apparently signed on to a whaling vessel docked out in the cove and I never saw ’im again. No farewells or nothin’, he just left a will on the kitchen table—one line he wrote in an ’urry, with a signature. 'I, Erasmus Shipp, do ’ereby bequeath all my worldly belongin’s to my son, Robin Jonas Shipp.’ And that were that. ’E just left. A couple of days later, we got word the ship ’ad sank, with all souls on board lost. Now, the bit you’ve probably been told is the night he left were the same night Mrs. Whitewater’s ’usband, Barnabas, died.”
His thick accent stumbled over the ar this time.
“They found ’im on the rocks around the southeast of the island. ’E must have slipped from the ’eadland. At least, that’s what Mrs. Whitewater says ’appened. There were talk, though, that my dad were to blame.”
“Surely not!” Iris exclaimed.
“Well, folk at the time thought it were ’ighly suspicious that Barnabas died the same night Erasmus left. And once they found out ’e’d left a will, well, as far as they were concerned, ’e were guilty. ’E’d murdered Barnabas and run away. But then when we got word about the ship sinkin’, that sort of put the matter to bed, really. Nothin’ more to be done.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Iris said, reaching out and putting her tiny porcelain hand on Robin’s massive, coarse fist. He smiled at the tiny, flame-haired woman next to him.
“I don’t believe ’e ’ad anything to do with Barnabas’s death. Neither does Mrs. Whitewater. They were all friends. But some people round ’ere just won’t be told.” He glanced over in the direction of Mrs. Greenaway, who was deep in the heart of Morwenna Whitewater’s coterie. “I spent almost as much time with Barnabas as I did with Dad. Barnabas even painted that portrait of ’im on my landin’.”
Edwin nodded at this. He’d been to Robin’s house a few times and seen the painting looming down from the landing.
“Dad could be sullen and a bit moody at times, but ’e weren’t no killer. Me and ’im used to spend ’ours out in the cove. ’E taught me ’ow to sail. ’ow to fish. I remember the day I landed my first pilchard. ’E were so proud ’e couldn’t stop smilin’.”
Robin straightened his hat, fixing the visor so it was centred over his eyes.
“’E took this cap off ’is ’ead and put it on me. It were too big, at first, but I soon grew into it.” he said with a chuckle. “Before ’e left, ’e made sure I were looked after, left me Bucca, the ’ouse, the money. I suppose ’e must have known ’e weren’t coming back even if the ship ’adn’t sank. Ever since then, the people of the village ’ave eyed me a bit suspiciously, like the apple ’asn’t fallen far from the tree, I suppose.”
The smile was gone now, replaced with a sadness many years in the making. It had been a long time, but he still missed his father. Still felt abandoned.
“’E used to ’ave this journal that ’e wrote in all the time. Brought it everywhere with ’im, ’e did. A little blood-red book ’e got on ’is first voyage at sea. Sometimes I wish I ’ad it. I wonder if ’e wrote about what ’appened, why ’e left. When I think about what must be in it—’is life, ’is voyages, ’is time spent at sea with Grandad…”
“What happened to it?” Iris asked.
“’E took it with ’im when ’e left. All that ’istory, lost with ’im. It’s a shame. Sometimes, I imagine findin’ it washed up onshore in a bottle. Like maybe ’e’d put it in one and thrown it overboard before the boat sank. Somehow, it’d find its way ’ere. Silly, really.”
Robin thought about telling them what had happened earlier, how his boat was either lying in pieces on the beach or sunk in the cove, but winced at the very idea and found the words too difficult to say. Remembering he was in company, he sought to liven the mood.
“The randy goat probably ran off with some woman. Mrs. Caddy says she’s amazed there weren’t more babies left in ’is boat!”
Despite the hurricane battering their tiny island, spirits were raised and the villagers had settled in for the night. There had been a few minor scuffles at first, some toes trodden on—both figuratively and literally—while everyone adjusted to the situation, but they had mostly died down.
A few men had pulled out their fiddles and struck up a tune, someone else produced a type of drum known as a crowdy-crawn, and another a set of pipes. While people had been playing instruments in random isolation throughout the day, now a proper music session had begun and some of the sailors had gathered to sing some shanties. Mrs. Louisa Bell turned out to have a strikingly beautiful singing voice. She sang an old song her grandmother had taught her about a woman standing by a gnarled tree on a cliff, waiting for her husband to return home from sea. It was only afterward she’d realised how this probably hadn’t been a good idea, given how Mrs. Stillpond was worried sick about her husband and son still being out in the storm. Some of the other musicians picked up on this as well and changed the tempo considerably, allowing Mr. Penny a chance to sing a rather bawdy song about two pirates, a barrel of rum and a tropical island boy.
It was getting late, and people were handing out blankets to those who hadn’t thought to bring any. The rooms upstairs were filled with the elderly and infirm of the village. A handful of residents had suffered minor injuries as a result of the high winds. Everyone else had to make do with whatever space they could find. Sylvia Farriner had tried to intimidate one elderly man o
ut of his bed on an upper floor, but Nathaniel, fearing she was up to something, had followed her and dragged her away, apologising to the gentleman as he did so. He got her settled on a cushioned bench at the back of the tavern, while he sat on a couple of wobbly stools, wrapped an old blanket around his shoulders, and propped himself up against a knobbled wall.
Some villagers settled into large chairs whose leather had become cracked and worn through years of use and misuse. Others stretched out on padded benches, or across tables. A few hardy souls resolved to lie on the cold floors, which necessitated many extra blankets. Although some had already fallen asleep, there was still a hum of chatter and laughter from most of the occupants.
At the back of the tavern, in some anterooms set aside for younger inhabitants, mothers were settling their children and assuring them that everything would be better in the morning.
Chapter Ten
IN THE LITTLE blue house on the hill, Duncan was attempting to read a book by the fire. He never seemed to get more than a couple of sentences read before his mind wandered back to his meeting with Robin earlier in the day. In spite of himself, he was uneasy. He kept telling himself the Moth & Moon was the safest place to be, but every peal of thunder and snapping tree branch filled his mind with worries.
Slamming the book shut, he got up from his velvet armchair. Peering through the shutters, something odd caught Duncan’s eye—through the miasma of the hurricane, he could just see a blinking light in one of the west-facing windows of the lighthouse. It was a repeating pattern. Three blinks, then a pause, then three again. Someone was in distress. From the angle, he knew no one in the Moth & Moon would have been able to see it. A mild dread began to grip him. He knew there were two attendants in the lighthouse—Keeper Knott and Keeper Hall. The main lamp was still radiating its brilliant beam out to sea, but something must have happened to one or both of the keepers.
Duncan frantically paced up and down the room for a few moments. There was nothing else for it—he’d have to go to the lighthouse. There wasn’t anyone else. Taking a deep breath, he pulled on his heaviest boots and tricorne cap, then his midnight-blue overcoat. The fine gold thread caught the light from the fire and glinted as it wove around in surprisingly delicate patterns.
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