“It wasn’t your fault. Teddy drinks a lot and he’s got a bad temper. Anyway, we were only chatting.”
Even as she said this, Issie knew that it wasn’t strictly true. Unable to ignore the instant fizz of electricity between them, she’d been flirting with Luke Dawson. She felt a nasty prickle of guilt. Of course Teddy had been upset.
Luke’s lips quirked upwards. “This Teddy dude might have been drinking but he’s no fool. Say, how about we find somewhere else to chat? Preferably somewhere we won’t be in danger of bumping into him again any time soon.”
The pub was behind them now and although the door was firmly closed against the chilly afternoon, Issie knew that inside there would be havoc. Adam would be furious that she’d walked out, Alice upset and disappointed, Teddy fuming, and his grandfather making yet more excuses for his bad behaviour. What she ought to do was thank Luke Dawson, apologise to Adam and go back to work.
Yes, that was what she ought to do, but since when had Issie ever done anything she was supposed to?
Light rain was starting to fall, stippling the sea and starring Luke’s thick eyelashes. It was that Cornish mizzle that seeped into everything; somehow it always managed to get people wetter than the heaviest downpour could. Across the beach the lights of Davey’s Locker shone into the gloom as if beckoning Issie and Luke, so they headed over to it for coffee. Tucked into a window seat, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs, they watched the downpour grow heavier.
“Does it ever do anything but rain here?” Luke asked disbelievingly.
She grinned. “Once or twice a year this big yellow thing appears in the sky and everything feels warm. It’s amazing.”
“Yeah, I know that yellow thing real well. I usually see it every day.”
“Must be nice,” sighed Issie. “My brother Zak’s in the Caribbean at the moment so he sees it a lot. Lucky git.”
Luke tipped two sachets of sugar into his mug. “Yeah, the Caribbean’s great. Weather’s really good. I was working just off Antigua a couple of months ago.”
Issie was confused. “You were working? I thought you were a history student?”
“I was crewing on a dive boat for a vacation job,” Luke said.
“And you’ve come here for a holiday when you could be in Antigua?” She shook her head. “You must be nuts.”
“I told you, I’m here to do some research into the Isabella.” Cradling the coffee mug in his strong, tanned hands, Luke glanced out of the window with a faraway expression. “I was kinda hoping to see the wreck today and have a think about what may have happened to the cargo. What the archives tell me is roughly where the ship sank, and I figure it would have taken at least an hour to row to shore. That means there are literally hundreds of square miles of where the cargo could be if it went overboard, but maybe only three square miles if somehow it reached the shore.”
Issie said nothing but her hand stole to her necklace, her fingers curling around the coin on the end of the chain. Luke was still speaking, his honey-warm southern tones describing the cargo and how the survivors would have placed it into a longboat, but she had the impression that he was thinking aloud rather than wanting her opinion. She listened to him but said nothing, partly because she was fascinated to meet somebody with such detailed knowledge and partly because she was finding it hard to rip her attention away from his full mouth and perfect white American teeth. What would it feel like to have those lips trace the curve of her throat? Or the teeth nip the soft skin of her neck?
Luke leaned back in his chair. “So that’s my theory. What do you think?”
Issie flushed. He really didn’t want to know what she was thinking right at this moment. “I think you seem to know an awful lot about this ship,” she told him instead.
“Yeah, I guess you could say it’s my specialist area. I’ve been looking at the cargo manifest as part of my research too. I started at the national archives in Seville and struck lucky.”
Issie stared at him. She’d tracked down the same document as well. In fact, when she’d told Mark about the ship she was named after and how much it meant to her, he’d asked one of his academic friends to help them decipher it. She and Mark had been looking at the translated version together before… before… Well, before everything had fallen apart. That Luke had read it too shocked her more than she could believe. Was it a coincidence? Or was it fate?
“What?” asked Luke when she didn’t speak.
“I’ve read that too,” Issie said. “Someone at university was helping me with the translation. I was so excited when I found it; I had to know what it said.”
“Cool. Were you doing a paper on it? And how did your degree go?”
She looked out of the window, not seeing the beach but rather the documents shredded all over the floor of her student bedroom.
“Not exactly. And I never finished the degree because I left, but that doesn’t matter now.”
“Dropped out, huh? That must have been tough.” His voice was warm with sympathy.
Tough didn’t come close. Breaking up with Mark and choosing to walk away from him had felt like flaying off her skin. Mark had been far more than her boyfriend. He’d been her mentor, her intellectual guide, her tutor, her first true love… and Issie had never spoken of him to a soul. Two minutes with Luke Dawson and she was in danger of singing like a canary. What did Mickey Davey put in his coffee? The truth drug?
“Yeah, well, it’s in the past now,” she said quickly. “Anyway, never mind the manifest. I don’t believe that the cargo went down with the ship.”
“What?”
She glanced around the café. Mickey Davey was sitting at the counter talking rapidly into his mobile phone and one of his builders was putting the finishing touches to the new floor, but nobody else was anywhere near. Still, when she spoke, Issie kept her voice low. She didn’t trust Mickey an inch; he was just the kind of man who’d have the café bugged. “Isabella’s treasure made it to the shore. It’s here, somewhere in Polwenna Bay.”
Fleetingly, she saw a flicker of some undefinable emotion in Luke’s eyes. But then he shook his head. “Honey, those crazies on the beach with their metal detectors think the same. It’s a cute idea, and I bet it’s been great for business in the village, but it’s hardly likely.”
Issie’s reply was to slip the necklace over her head and pass it across the table to him. Luke’s eyes widened as he held it up to the light. He gave a low whistle.
“Where the hell did you get this?”
She ignored his question. “What do you think it is?”
Placing the coin between his index finger and thumb, Luke Dawson spun it around several times. When he looked up, his expression was one of disbelief.
“It’s an eight-escudo coin. Where did you find it?”
“It’s my grandmother’s.”
Luke held the coin up to the light, shaking his head. “Has she ever had it valued?”
“Not as far as I know. Besides, we’d never sell it. It’s been in the family forever.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you selling it,” said Luke, passing the necklace back. “I was thinking of insurance. Some of these coins can be worth over ten thousand dollars.”
Issie looped the chain over her neck. The coin slipped out of sight between her breasts, and knowing that the metal was warm from the heat of his fingertips made her quiver.
“Ten thousand dollars? Really?” That would go a long way towards solving the Tremaine’s family financial woes.
“Absolutely. Coins from the New World were solid gold. Depending on when and where they were minted, they can be worth serious cash.”
“You seem to know lots about this,” she said.
“Like I told you, it’s kinda my specialist subject.” Luke paused. “Where did you say your grandma found it?”
“I didn’t.”
Issie regarded him intently. The story of Black Jack Jago and his ill-gotten gains was a family legend. In the past Issie had been del
ighted to share it but lately she was starting to wonder if discretion was the better part of valour. Could she trust Luke Dawson?
“Can you tell me? Or is it a family secret?”
The café was warm, the pattering rain against the window sealing them away from the world, and Issie suddenly found that she wanted nothing more than to share the story of Black Jack Jago with somebody who actually took it seriously. As their drinks cooled she told him everything she knew, from the myth of the cave and the secret passage, to the story of how a handful of gold coins had mysteriously appeared from nowhere. Eventually, she talked herself to a standstill. Luke said nothing; instead, he sat regarding her thoughtfully. Issie couldn’t fathom the expression in those emerald eyes.
Did he think she was crazy? Or did he, like her, feel with all his heart that the story was rooted in the truth?
“Go on, say it. You think I’m nuts.”
He laughed. “Nuts! That’s just such a British expression. No, if you’re nuts, Issie Tremaine, then so am I – because I totally believe you.”
“You do? Really?”
Luke laid a hand against his heart. “Really. Sift through the myths and the exaggeration and the legends and, sure, there’s truth there somewhere. We just have to figure out where.”
“We?”
“Was that kinda presumptuous?” Luke asked. “I guess I thought that together we could stand a chance of finding out if there is any truth in the stories? You know this village inside out and I’ve got some vacation time on my hands. We can help each other.”
“You want me to help you with the research for your paper?” Issie felt a rush of excitement. How much she’d once loved doing this kind of thing. There was nothing like following a hunch and looking through old documents for hours in the search of that one sentence, or even word, which could make sense of the whole puzzle. This could be exactly what she needed to do!
For an answer, she jumped to her feet. “Do you want to start now? The rain’s easing off.”
“It is?” He looked outside doubtfully. “How the hell can you tell that?”
“I can see the far side of the beach. The wreck’s just beyond the headland. If we go now the tide will have gone out far enough. I’ll show you the cave too.”
He smiled. “Sure, that sounds great. No time like the present, I guess.”
“I’m just putting off going back to the pub and grovelling to Adam,” Issie confessed.
“Will he give you a hard time?”
“He’ll try to, but Adam’s crap at being angry. Besides, I’m a good barmaid and he needs me. It’ll be fine.” Issie crossed her fingers behind her back. Hopefully Adam wouldn’t sack her. Granny Alice would be extremely upset if he did, and Jake would flip at yet more evidence of her thoughtless and irresponsible ways.
The rain-pitted beach was empty now that today’s influx of treasure hunters were sheltering in the pub, so Issie and Luke had the wreck all to themselves. There wasn’t much to see now because the sands had shifted again, but even so Luke spent ages examining the exposed section of the hull and taking pictures before they eventually retraced their footsteps and headed to the cave.
“This is the place I was talking about,” Issie explained as they trudged towards the furthest crevice, amid the seaweed and scattered rocks. “There was supposed to be a secret passage at the back.” It was dank and dark in the cave; seawater dripped continually from its roof like unceasing tears.
“And that was the passage the old dude claims he went through years ago?” Luke shone his iPhone torch up at the piles of granite. “Seems pretty unlikely.”
“Granny Alice says he always was a fibber, but I’m not so sure.” Issie laid her hand against the cold wet rocks and a shudder ran through her. She’d never liked the cave. It felt unwelcoming and unlucky. “He claims he managed to walk through a section of it when he was a kid.”
Luke switched off the torch. “Well, if he did, he didn’t get in this end. There has to be another way in.”
“That’s what I think too,” she agreed.
Lost in thought, they walked back into the fading daylight, their footsteps filling with seawater as they crossed the wet sand. From the depths of her pocket Issie felt her mobile vibrate as a text message arrived. She didn’t need to read it to know who’d sent it.
Without opening the message, Issie deleted it. She waited to feel the usual tug on her heartstrings, but this time it didn’t come and she was taken aback.
“Everything OK?” Luke asked, when her pace faltered.
Issie shoved the mobile back into her pocket and nodded. Now that Luke Dawson was in Polwenna Bay, she had a feeling that things were going to be far more than just OK.
Chapter 13
The box, when she finally found it, was on top of the wardrobe in the smallest spare room and thickly coated with dust. Her fingers could only just reach it even when she was balancing on a chair, and for a few precarious seconds Alice Tremaine swayed on her tiptoes as her hands clawed at the faded cardboard.
“Careful, Grand Gran! If you fall you’ll probably break your bones. That’s because old people have less calcium,” warned her great-grandson, Morgan, who was holding the chair steady and watching her with worried violet eyes. “Old people often break their hips and get pneumonia and die. Fact.”
“Thanks for that, my love,” said Alice. As if she needed any reminding she wasn’t as agile as she’d once been. Not so long ago she’d have hopped up onto this chair, grabbed the box and stepped down without so much as a second thought, but now every movement was laced with potential danger. She was only glad Jake couldn’t see what she was up to. Her eldest grandson would go mad – he was such a worrier – and say she should have waited for him to come home to fetch the box down for her. Alice couldn’t bear to feel helpless, though.
Or become a burden to her grandchildren.
“Have you got it?” Morgan asked excitedly. As he stepped forward for a closer look, the chair wobbled and Alice swayed perilously.
“Morgan! Sweetheart! Don’t let go!”
Clutching the box tightly against her chest, she steadied herself against the wardrobe door while Morgan held onto the back of the chair with all his might. Then, with her heart fluttering against her ribs like a trapped bird, Alice clambered down and leaned against the bed for a moment to catch her breath. The room was whirling and there was a whooshing in her ears. She was afraid that perhaps Jake was right and she really shouldn’t take risks. No matter what Jonny St Milton said, she wasn’t a young girl anymore. She was seventy-nine.
“Silly old fool,” she muttered, although whether she was referring to herself or her determined suitor Alice wasn’t sure. Climbing onto furniture to retrieve boxes of old photos wasn’t an activity for an almost-octogenarian. She’d have been more sensible to let Morgan do it, even if he was shorter.
“Are your old photos in there?” he was asking, hopping from foot to foot in agitation.
Alice nodded and blew the dust off the lid. She didn’t need to cut the string or open the box to know what lay within. The layers and layers of faded images inside were echoes in her own memories and sometimes seemed brighter and sharper than the everyday world around her. Like misty eyesight and wobbly limbs, she supposed this was just another side effect of getting old.
“Can we open it?” Morgan was so desperate to see inside that he looked as though he might pop. Apart from the fact that photography was his passion, he was very keen to work on his school project, My Family Tree. When Alice had mentioned that she had some old pictures, he’d been beside himself with excitement. Alice knew she wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until she’d located the photographs, which was another reason why she’d scaled the wardrobe. Morgan on a mission was a force of nature.
“Why don’t we take them into the kitchen and spread them onto the table?” she suggested. This would mean she could sit down and recover with a cup of tea while Morgan sorted out the pictures and worked on his project. Oh
dear, since when had everything become so exhausting? It didn’t seem so long ago that she’d been perfectly capable of looking after seven children at once, so how come she was so tired just from spending a morning with one small boy?
Doing her best to put these nagging worries out of her mind, Alice carried the box down the stairs to the kitchen and sent Morgan to his room to fetch his school bag and pencil case. Once he was at the table with his scissors, sugar paper and glue organised and she had a mug of Earl Grey in her hand, Alice slipped into the seat next to him.
“Do you want to open the box, love?”
Morgan looked thoughtful. “I think you should, Grand Gran. They’re your pictures, after all.”
Alice exhaled slowly. These might be her pictures but she’d not looked at them for a very long time. Her husband had been dead for over eight years and this box had been hidden away long before then.
“It’s your project, my love. You do it,” she said.
Morgan didn’t need asking twice. His scissors snipped the string and, moments later, photographs were covering the old kitchen table like an autumnal flurry of sepia rectangles, muted Polaroids and curling black-and-white prints. Half-forgotten faces stared up at Alice, their smiles and their lives frozen in time.
“Where did you want to start?” she asked.
“I wanted to start with Black Jack Jago but there won’t be one of him because he’s from before cameras were invented,” Morgan said sadly as he looked down at the photos. “All the other kids in my class are really jealous that he’s in my family.”
Alice sighed. She was getting very tired of Black Jack Jago. Not only was half the village obsessed with him, but also the local media kept spinning new angles on the story. And all the while, Polwenna Bay continued to overflow with excited would-be treasure hunters. As for her granddaughter, well, Issie had hardly been able to think straight since the wreck had surfaced. She’d almost lost her job too, after the incident with Teddy St Milton in the pub. Worse, she hadn’t seemed at all bothered by this; she’d merely announced that she was going to be running Black Jack Ghost Tours anyway.
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