Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans: Book 4)

by Tayte, Megan

  ‘Oh, er…’ In casting about for something to say I caught Si’s eye and remembered his earlier point that the best lies are the closest to the truth. ‘There was smoke damage,’ I said. ‘Woodworm, you see. I called in exterminators, and they smoked it all out. Only the smoke made a right mess. Luke turned sorting it out into a bit of a project. Good practice for his cafe renovation.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Mum. ‘It must be nice to have a chap who’s a dab hand at DIY. Hugo was terrible, you know. Once tried to put up a shower rail in the bathroom for me. Only he couldn’t work the drill, so he used superglue. Which he got all over his hands. Which he then wiped with toilet paper. He had double-quilted fingertips for a week.’

  We all laughed, none more so than Mum, who had to wipe her eyes to clear the tears.

  ‘After that, he got William – he’s our groundskeeper, Si – to take on all the handiwork. Thinking of it, I could send him down here for a few days, if you like, Scarlett? To help in the cottage?’

  ‘It’s all done, thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Oh well. The cafe, then? How about that?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Luke, but I reckon he’d jump at the offer of a helping hand.’

  Mum beamed. ‘I’ll speak to him about it then.’ She turned her gaze back to her childhood home. ‘It really does look smart now. Just like I remember it from my younger days. Dad was so house-proud – an Englishman’s home is his castle, as they say.’

  I caught my breath. Mum so rarely talked about Grandad…

  ‘I was always offering to hire help, but he was so stubborn. Did it all himself.’ She smiled fondly at the thought.

  ‘Sounds like a typical born-and-bred Twycomber,’ said Si smoothly.

  I slanted a look at him. He was the very picture of innocence. I looked at Mum. Would she take the bait?

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mum, ‘my father wasn’t from here originally.’

  ‘Really?’ said Si. ‘Where was he from?’

  She frowned. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure I know exactly. Now my mother, she was from Plympton. We would go to visit my grandmother there – Grannie Martha, Scarlett; she died when I was ten so you never knew her. But Dad. Was it somewhere on Dartmoor?’ She thought for a moment and then threw her hands up in the air. ‘Nope, it’s gone. He just wasn’t one to talk about himself.’

  Si was opening his mouth to speak again, but I stepped in. Now he’d created the opportunity, it felt only right that I be the one to ask.

  ‘Did you know your grandparents on Grandad’s side, Mum? I mean, I don’t remember them.’

  Mum was shaking her head. ‘You wouldn’t, love. They died long ago – before I was even born, I think. Another one of those things my father didn’t like to talk about. Just too painful, I suppose.’ Her eyes clouded over, and I knew she was thinking of Sienna then, the lost member of our family whom neither of us had mentioned all day.

  Then Cara was stepping back outside calling ‘Mocktails!’ and Mum was breaking into a smile and I caught Si’s eye and shook my head to indicate that we were done here. Finding out about my grandfather wasn’t worth dredging up painful thoughts for my mother.

  *

  Mum had to head back to Hollythwaite by four o’clock – she was expecting company this evening – so after another quick round of drinks Cara and Si and Luke said their goodbyes, leaving us with an hour or so alone together.

  We stayed in the garden for a while, basking in the unexpected warmth of the day. Mum took out her iPad and showed me the website she’d had designed to market Hollythwaite as a venue. I could see at once the estate would be an attractive proposition for event organisers. No longer was it the oppressive, cold home of my childhood; Mum’s vision and substantial budget had obliterated every vestige of gloom. Only one room remained unchanged, and it was closed to anyone who hired the venue: Sienna’s bedroom.

  ‘I know it’s silly,’ said Mum. ‘But I just couldn’t bear to touch it. I did clear out some of her things, though. Goodness that girl had a lot of clothes – more than I ever did, I think.’

  I smiled at her. Sadly. I wanted to ask her how she was coping now with her grief. But I didn’t think I could stand to hear the answer. Whatever it was, it would convey that Mum was still hurting, would always be hurting, over the death of her daughter. And the thought of her pain stoked a fire of raging fury against Sienna.

  Thankfully, Mum seemed to sense I didn’t want to talk. She reached over and placed a hand over mine and said with feeling, ‘Thank you for inviting me here.’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I replied sincerely.

  Had the day ended there, I’d have always looked back on it as a memorable one for me and Mum, our little family of two. Not least for the fact that we were able to be together and genuinely happy in a way neither of us had ever been before. But ultimately, it was the last few minutes of the visit that would always stand out most in my recollection of that day.

  We’d gone into the house for Mum to freshen up before her journey back, and she’d taken a tour of the same-but-different cottage. Back in the hallway, ready to kiss me goodbye at the front door, she’d paused before a picture on the wall – a large, bold, bright canvas that emitted a strong scent of acrylic paint.

  ‘Scarlett, this is new,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘A friend painted it.’

  ‘Jude – that boy from the hospital with the tattoo on his arm?’

  It was my turn to be confused; why think of Jude? I shook my head. ‘No, a friend of Jude’s.’

  ‘What is this friend’s name?’

  I pointed to the signature in the corner.

  She squinted at it, ‘Oh,’ she said as she made out the name for herself: Michael. But she was still frowning.

  I looked at the painting too, trying to decipher what may have upset her. It looked innocuous enough to me. Beautiful, in fact, if a little dark. It was abstract, so open to interpretation. I saw three layers to the work. At the bottom, a row of black silhouettes – a man, a child, a woman and another child standing on a hill hand in hand. The next, a vast, swirling storm in reds and purples in which some kind of creature was caught up – a bird, I thought. And the last, a strip at the top, sitting serenely above the clouds, depicting a silvery sky peppered with pinpoints of light, some random, some clustered into constellations.

  Mum reached out and touched a group of white dots and said, ‘“Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels…”’

  ‘Blake?’ I asked. According to my father, his side of the family was descended from William Blake, the Romantic poet, and I’d grown up with lines quoted at me regularly. Though come to think of it, it was Father who did that – never Mum.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘not Blake. An American poet called Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I don’t know his works.’

  ‘Neither do I. Only those two lines, and the title of the poem they’re from.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again. There didn’t seem much else to say.

  Mum looked at me and smiled. ‘Seeing this picture, being back in this cottage, all our conversations today about family – it made me remember those lines. Your grandfather would recite them sometimes, standing out in the garden and looking up at a starry sky. Once I asked him why he looked so sad as he said the words. He told me that poem made him think of his mother, whom he’d lost. You were asking earlier about your great-grandparents. Well, I’m afraid that’s all I know.’

  ‘Er, I’m a bit confused,’ I said. What did starry skies have to do with my grandfather’s parents?

  ‘Sorry,’ said Mum. ‘That picture’s completely thrown me. I mean the poem’s title. “Evangeline.” That was your great-grandmother’s name.’

  I stared at her. So she did hold the answer after all. That was it, the proof I’d been seeking. Enough proof to confront Evangeline? It was hard to think with Mum still talking…


  ‘And that’s why, for your grandfather, I decided to name you Scarlett Eve. I thought he would like it. Though I don’t think he ever commented on it. But your father certainly did! I really had to fight him over that name.’ Her eyes drifted back to the painting.

  ‘Father?’ I said, bemused. ‘Why – what’s wrong with Eve?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just hated the name.’

  ‘But didn’t Father have an Aunt Eve he was fond of? I thought I was named after her.’

  Mum started. ‘Who? Oh, her. Yes, that’s right. Your… Hugo did have an Aunt Eve. I must be getting muddled. Old age – ha ha!’

  Before I could say another word, she was pulling me in for a breath-defying hug and saying heartily, ‘Well, I must be off, darling. But I’ll see you soon! For the wedding fair! Hooray!’

  And moments later I was alone in a shadowy hallway but for the lingering scent of Mum’s Chanel No. 5 and a strangely revelatory painting.

  11: IF I HAVEN’T GOT YOU

  The first of July. It was a date that meant a lot to me, but even more to Luke, and so we had a special day planned – a day of being in love and being alive and celebrating those facts, rather than moping, as he put it. Tomorrow, I was going away on a little trip, and we figured that separation meant we could swing spending the whole day alone together today. Were it not for the slight melancholy in the air, it would have been bliss. No, scrap that, even with the sadness, a day – a whole day! – alone with Luke was bliss. Even spending the time watching paint dry (actually an option in the cafe) would have been heaven with him there. But as it was we had a much more fun day planned. Albeit that fun would begin after our first port of call.

  I called for Luke at the cafe, where he’d put in a few hours since sunrise. The arrival earlier this week of William, groundskeeper at Hollythwaite, had fuelled Luke to even more energetic heights. The pair had struck up an instant friendship based on a mutual appreciation for hard graft, and the result was that work on the premises had galloped forward. This weekend William and Luke would have a final blitz, and then an electrician, plumber, plasterer and carpenter would start work on Monday. With all the paperwork already in place and the furniture and equipment set to deliver in three weeks, Luke was aiming for an opening in early September.

  I found the pair in what would be the kitchen, laying the last of the new floorboards. I watched them for a moment, grey hair and black curls side by side, Luke focused intently on hammering in a nail, William looking on approvingly. The sight gave me a twinge of sadness, and I wondered whether Luke felt the same – it had been so long since he had a father figure in his life.

  I waited until the nail was in before saying, ‘Morning, boys.’

  Luke looked up at once, smiled, said, ‘Hey, don’t worry, I am ready,’ and then jumped up and began dusting down his jeans.

  ‘Good morning… Scarlett,’ said William. He still had to check himself to remember to call me that, after eighteen years of Miss Scarlett.

  ‘How’s it coming?’

  ‘Good. Very good. The core work’s all but done, thanks to Luke. From here on it’s just prettying up. You know, you should get your mum to advise on that, Scarlett. She’s done a wonderful job at Hollythwaite. Classic but modern, she calls it. Got me to sell off a load of fusty old furniture and paintings – which fetched a pretty penny, I can tell you – and then marched me around auctions and art galleries and furniture design shops. Like I know a thing about all that!’

  He spoke with such affection that it was clear he’d grown very fond of the woman he’d once called ma’am.

  Luke had come over to me and taken my hand. I looked up at him. He had a smear of dust on his cheek and I reached up and brushed it off.

  ‘You ready?’

  He nodded. ‘You okay if I get off now, William?’

  ‘Happy as a pig in mud,’ said the old man, saluting us with Luke’s hammer.

  We walked hand in hand away from the cafe towards the village square. The sky was overcast today, daubed in a deep grey that warned of rain to come, and a cool sea wind made me shiver through my cardie. Usually, Luke would have noticed and pulled me close to warm me up, but for now he was lost in thought.

  When we reached my car I took from the passenger seat two simple posies of pink roses and handed them to Luke.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘They’re perfect.’

  He took my hand again and we walked on, across the wet grass of the village square, across the little deserted lane that ran alongside the church of St Mary’s, and through the old wooden gate into the graveyard.

  I’d come here several times since my return to Twycombe. I took Chester sometimes to visit his late owner, Bert. But most often I came alone and sat on the bench by the graves of Peter and Alice Jones, my grandparents. Last time, the reverend of the church had spotted me there and brought me out a cup of tea. He’d been so kind, patting my hand and asking me gently how I was. I’d felt guilty for his sympathy, that he thought I was still struggling with Sienna’s death. And then I’d felt angry all over again with my lying, treacherous, perfectly alive and perfectly happy sister.

  Today wasn’t a day for anger, though.

  We didn’t follow my usual path around to the back of the church. We stopped in the long shadow cast by the tower, from which a stained-glass angel watched over us sadly. In the Cavendish family plot two headstones stood out as gleaming white, the inscriptions black and stark against the granite. The words ‘beloved mother’ and ‘beloved father’ jumped out at me, as did the dates on each: first of July – four years ago today.

  Luke took the roses from me and crouched down and carefully laid a posy against each headstone. Then he straightened up and took my hand once more, and we stood together in silence, gazing down at his parents’ graves.

  I could only imagine what Luke was thinking – how the pain that he kept so carefully in check was ravaging him now. For my part, I couldn’t chase from my thoughts Jude’s account of the accident. Had Jude not acted that night, Luke would lie here too, beneath the cool green grass, beside his parents. Had Jude acted further, there would be no headstone here for Ryan, nor one for Anne. It tore at me, that truth. It made me want to throw my head back and yell at the heavens: Why? Why couldn’t he save them? Why was it their time? They were young. They were needed.

  Tears were threatening and I clenched my teeth. This was Luke’s pain, not mine. I had no right to stand here today and cry.

  It was Jude’s choice that made the emotion hard to control. I knew it was a choice that he and the other healing Ceruleans must make often – in the sure and certain knowledge that a person was not meant to be healed, they had to walk away. But I didn’t know how they could bear it, how they handled the guilt of not doing all they could conceivably do to save someone.

  Almost a month had passed since Jude had set me on my own healing path, and in that time I’d too often come across people who were so much in need, and yet untouchable – destined to live with, or die from, their disease. A father riddled with cancer, a teenager with a ticking time bomb for a heart, a young girl with cerebral palsy, an old man with Parkinson’s… the list went on and on. And I remembered them all, especially at night, before sleep gave me a brief reprieve from the guilt. I remembered that I hadn’t healed them – though I could have, if I’d broken the Cerulean rules. I could have.

  Now the tears were spilling down and I didn’t want Luke to see, so I turned a little, towards the rear of the church. The weeping willow by my grandparents’ grave was just in sight. And so was a man, standing beside it.

  I looked away. In a place like this, there is an unwritten code that you leave people alone with their grief. You don’t stare when they stand frozen. You don’t gawp when they fall to their knees and bury their hands in the grass of a grave. You don’t so much as glance their way when you hear a sob.

  And yet... I looked again.

  The man was walking towards us and his eyes were fixed right on me.
I started, and stared. I knew this man from somewhere.

  In moments he was close enough that I could recognise him, even without the tux, and he nodded at me and said, ‘Hello, Scarlett.’

  Three things happened then in very quick succession:

  I mumbled automatically, ‘Hello.’

  The man, who hadn’t slowed his pace in the slightest, smiled at me and walked past.

  Luke looked around and said, ‘Who...? Not Jude…’

  It wasn’t Jude, of course. There was no resemblance, even, between the two. But I knew exactly what had led Luke to make the connection: the stranger had disappeared mid-step, melting away into a blur of brilliant blue.

  Luke squeezed my hand. Tight. ‘Another Cerulean, Scarlett? Who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know, Luke. I mean, I’ve met him before – he was at the murder mystery fundraiser on the boat.’

  ‘That guy I rescued you from? The creep who started talking to you out of nowhere?’

  ‘He wasn’t creepy. He was… nice. I just wasn’t sure why he was talking to me. But I guess I know that now. How embarrassing – he must have known me on the island, and I didn’t even remember him. There were so many male Ceruleans, though, and I hardly saw most of them.’

  ‘So why’s he hanging about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’s not. I mean, the dinner cruise was for the Ceruleans’ Lux Beneficent Society. He probably works for it or something.’

  ‘And today?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But he seems harmless enough.’

  Luke’s jaw tightened but he said nothing, just looked down at his parents’ graves. I glanced back at the willow tree and wondered why I’d come so quickly to the man’s defence. Because he was a Cerulean, perhaps, and I felt bound to defend them. But Luke had a point. It was a little odd, but not unthinkable, to meet a fellow Cerulean on the dinner cruise. Yet here, in the graveyard? The only Cerulean I’d ever seen here was Jude, lurking about in order to meet me on my first day in Twycombe. The stranger had no reason to be here. Unless... He was over by my grandfather’s grave. Had he known him? Perhaps they were friends. But he was so much younger than Peter.