‘Henry and Andrew had an agreement,’ Joss said as he unscrewed one of the empty optics and lifted it carefully down to soak. ‘The paintings were displayed here and when someone bought one, they split the money.’
‘Like a gallery,’ Nessie said.
‘Yeah,’ Joss replied. ‘There aren’t any around here so this was a way for Henry to show off his handiwork.’
‘And how many did he sell?’ Sam asked.
Joss looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘Let’s see now, I worked here for eleven years and I reckon, in all that time, they must have sold . . .’ he paused to count on his fingers, then nodded. ‘None. They never sold a single one.’
‘That settles it,’ Sam said firmly. ‘They’re gone.’
It didn’t matter how much Nessie argued with her, Sam’s mind was made up. She had a vision of how the revamped interior of The Star and Sixpence was going to look and it most certainly did not involve any dodgy art by local residents. Nor did it include any ships in bottles, although none of them knew who that belonged to so she’d agreed to stash it in one of the unused bedrooms upstairs for now. The paintings she’d loaded into the back of the car and driven round to the address Joss had given her for Henry Fitzsimmons.
She’d found Mulberry Cottage opposite the square steeple of St Mary’s Church. The garden was immaculate, the flowers lining the path standing to stiff attention and the grass mowed with military precision. When no one answered her three sharp raps on the door, she knocked again. Silence.
‘Now what?’ she muttered, glancing around. There was no sign of anyone, no obliging neighbour pottering in the garden she could leave the paintings with. She knocked at the cottage next door just to be safe – no one in there either.
‘Henry is at the village council meeting,’ a helpful voice called.
Sam looked up to see a man in a dog collar standing at the gate of the churchyard, watching her. ‘He’ll be a little while yet, I expect. The meetings are usually lengthy affairs.’
‘Oh,’ Sam said grumpily. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem,’ the vicar said, his face splitting into a cheerful smile. He turned and walked up the shallow hill to the church and disappeared behind its wooden doors.
Sam began to get back into the car, then paused and looked up at the sky. It was cold but dry, and still light. Surely if she left the paintings on Henry’s doorstep, he’d find them when he got back from his meeting and take them inside. Then he would have his precious art back, and Sam wouldn’t have to hand them over face to face. It was a win-win.
Checking the vicar hadn’t reappeared, she took the paintings out of the car one at a time and stacked them carefully underneath the pointed porch of the cottage, leaning them against one wall. Then she got into the car and drove away, without looking back.
Chapter Four
It was early evening when Nessie knocked at the cottage beside the forge. An elegantly carved sign declared it was Snowdrop Cottage, with a delicate pair of white flowers painted beside the name. Nessie touched it, smiling gently; snowdrops had been her favourite flower as a child. Glancing up, she saw a blackened iron horseshoe above the door – wasn’t there an old superstition about iron keeping witches at bay? Her smile deepened; it was hard to imagine solidly built Owen believing such things, but he was a blacksmith and the job did have a touch of ancient magic about it.
The smile faded as she braced herself to lift the door knocker; she would have preferred not to bother the Rhys family at all, would rather have waited until she ran into Owen in the village to thank him and his wife for the welcome basket they had put together, but when cleaning out the enormous metal grate in the fireplace of the pub, she’d discovered a jagged hole in its middle. Which meant she needed to order a new one and it seemed rude not to ask the village blacksmith, especially when he lived right next door.
The door opened wide and a petite, dark-haired woman gazed enquiringly out. ‘Hello, how can I help?’ Then her brown eyes lit up. ‘Oh, you must be Nessie, from the pub. Owen told me all about you last night; how lovely to meet you. I’m Kathryn.’
Nessie smiled, noticing the woman’s identical Welsh accent. Childhood sweethearts, she decided. ‘Hi Kathryn. Thanks so much for the things you sent us. I’ll bring the basket back over later.’
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ the woman said easily. ‘No rush. So are you after Owen for something or can I tempt you in for tea?’
Nessie hesitated. There was something charming about the undisguised interest on Kathryn’s face, an uncomplicated curiosity that was so refreshing that Nessie was almost tempted to accept. But there was a mountain of work waiting for her at the pub. ‘Another time,’ she promised. ‘What I really need is a new grate for the big fireplace. If I tell you what I need, could you pass the message on to Owen, please?’
Kathryn shook her head. ‘Not on your life, I’d only get it wrong. I’ll tell you what, he’s working in the forge. Why don’t you pop in and tell him yourself?’
She pointed at the wooden door opposite the cottage.
‘Oh, I don’t want to bother him,’ Nessie said. ‘I can always come back later if he’s busy.’
‘Owen is always busy,’ Kathryn said, snorting. ‘Go and interrupt him. He might stop work at a reasonable hour then and come home in time to read his son a bedtime story.’
There wasn’t a trace of malice around the words, just affection and good-humoured resignation, and Nessie felt a stab of envy. It had been a long time since she and Patrick had been that way; for the last few years they’d almost lived separate lives. This fleeting glimpse of Kathryn and Owen’s warmth made her suddenly realise how lonely she’d been.
She forced a smile. ‘All right.’
‘No need to knock, just pop these on and walk right in,’ Kathryn urged. She held out a pair of plastic safety goggles. ‘And I’ll hold you to that promise of tea, okay? Little Monkham is fine once you get used to it but it scared me half to death when I first moved here. You need to know we’re not all power-crazed slave drivers.’
With another friendly smile, she closed the door, leaving Nessie with no alternative but to cross the yard to the forge.
She wasn’t prepared for what she found inside. The forge was hot, so hot that her clothes stuck to her skin the moment the door closed behind her. Red-hot coals blazed under a vast steel hood against the far wall and there were heavy metal tools ranged everywhere she looked. A round metal barrel filled with water stood in front of the fire. But the most striking sight of all was Owen himself. He stood with his back to her, bending over a low anvil with a hammer in one hand and tongs gripping a piece of glowing orange metal in the other. The white t-shirt he wore stretched across his muscles as he raised an arm and brought the hammer down hard on the anvil. Sparks flew out as metal struck metal and he lifted his arm again.
Nessie stood mesmerised, watching him work. The heat was stifling and sweat began to bead on her forehead but she couldn’t take her eyes from him. Eventually, she managed to look away and coughed as loudly as she dared. Instantly, he stopped hammering and turned around.
His eyes widened behind the goggles. ‘Nessie. What brings you in here?’
She took a step backwards, then got hold of herself and moved closer. ‘Kathryn sent me over here. I need a new grate for the fireplace, is that something you could do? I could probably get one online but it seemed silly with you being right next door.’
The words tumbled out before she could stop them. Now that she was closer, she could see streaks of dirt on his face, mixing with sweat. The flames danced and flared and the air was rich with sulphur. Owen nodded, turning away to plunge both the metal and the tongs into the barrel of water. It hissed and bubbled into a cloud of steam. ‘Sure, I could do that,’ he said, straightening up. ‘I think I’ve still got the measurements for it, somewhere. Do you want me to do a quote for you, drop it over?’
Nessie shifted uneasily. She wasn’t sure she wanted another man in the pub and e
specially not one who looked like Owen. Not when he made her feel so strange and not when his wife was less than a hundred yards away looking after their son. ‘Oh no, we’ll pay whatever it costs. Just let me know how much.’
‘Right,’ Owen said. ‘How are you settling in? Is there anything you need?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Nessie said, puffing a few strands of hair from her damp forehead. ‘We’ve taken on Joss Felstead to look after the cellar. And apparently we’re opening again on Boxing Day.’
Owen smiled. ‘You’ve had your orders from Franny, I see. If you think it’s too soon then say so.’
‘Does anyone say no to Franny?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I’ve heard some pretty fearful things about her.’
He laughed, a deep throaty rumble that Nessie was surprised to discover she liked. ‘Don’t let her bully you,’ he said. If there’s anything I can help with though, just let me know.’
‘Thanks,’ Nessie said.
She was about to ask what he’d been hammering on the anvil when the door flew back and a boy of around eight or nine tumbled in. He skidded to a halt when he saw her, regarding her seriously with deep blue eyes from underneath a floppy white-gold fringe. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You must be our new neighbour. Have you met Elijah Blackheart yet? He’s the ghostly highwayman who haunts the building. Did he try to murder you in your bed while you slept?’
‘Luke!’ Owen warned, his eyebrows beetling together forbiddingly.
The boy turned an injured gaze upon him. ‘What? There is a ghost, Andrew said there was. It roams the corridors of the pub at night, waiting to kill the unwary.’
Owen sighed and glanced at Nessie. ‘This is my son, Luke. He has quite an imagination, as you can see.’
Nessie smiled. ‘Hi Luke, I’m Nessie. I’m afraid I haven’t met Elijah yet but we’ve only been there one night. Maybe he’s waiting until we’ve settled in before he murders us.’
Luke regarded her gravely. ‘I expect that’s it.’ He turned to Owen again. ‘I came to say supper’s ready. And then I need you to help me with my English homework. I have to say three things I liked about the book I’ve just read and I can only think of two.’
Nessie studied them, marvelling at how different they were: blond and dark, blue eyes and brown. Luke was a sunny day and Owen was midnight. But there were similarities too – the same shaped mouth, the same jaw. He might be all legs and freckles now but Luke Rhys was definitely cut from the same cloth as his father. ‘I should be getting back,’ she said, suddenly aware she was staring. ‘Sam wants to look at carpet samples this evening.’
Owen nodded. ‘I’ll pop in to measure up for the grate and get it done as soon as I can.’
‘Thank you,’ Nessie said. She smiled at Luke again. ‘It was lovely to meet you. If you hear screaming in the night, it probably means the ghost has shown up.’
‘Awesome!’ Luke said, his eyes gleaming.
Nessie laughed and handed over her goggles. She risked a final look at Owen, standing in the glow of the fire. ‘See you later,’ she said, reaching for the door handle.
Outside, it was cool and fresh but she still fanned her too-hot cheeks as she hurried back to the pub. Really, it had been unbearable in the forge but she knew Sam wouldn’t believe that was all there was to it. Nessie paused under the lamppost, letting the night air soothe away the worst of the heat. The last thing she needed was a guilty-looking flush to feed her sister’s imagination.
Chapter Five
When the door thundered and rattled in its frame around seven o’clock that evening, both women froze. They were sitting at a battered wooden table in the cramped kitchen upstairs but the sound still freed a sprinkling of dust from the ceiling to dance beneath the bare yellow light bulb. Nessie lowered her knife and fork with a frown.
Sam pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll get it, shall I? It’s probably that sexy blacksmith, come to show you his red hot poker.’
It wouldn’t be Owen, Nessie thought as the hammering began again. His knock would be more respectful – whoever this was, they were bullish and determined . . . and angry. But if it wasn’t Owen, who was it?
‘Maybe it’s Franny, coming to check how we’re getting on with the refurbishment,’ she said, doing her best to match her sister’s lightness of tone.
‘Or Sotheby’s, wanting to value the carpet in the bar.’ Sam paused and looked at Nessie. ‘Shall we find out?’
If it had been up to Nessie, she’d have pulled the door open carefully to peer through the crack. Not Sam, though: she snapped back the bolts so that they cracked and hauled the door wide to stand defiant and imperious. ‘Yes?’
An old man with a short white moustache and reddened, thread-veined cheeks scowled back. ‘Was it you who dumped my paintings on the doorstep of my house?’
Nessie stepped forward in dismay. ‘Oh Sam, you didn’t?’
Her sister folded her arms. ‘I knocked and no one answered. What was I supposed to do? We’re modernising the pub and the paintings don’t fit in with the new look. Sorry.’
The trouble was she didn’t sound the least bit sorry, Nessie thought, and Henry Fitzsimmons obviously agreed. ‘This pub has been here for centuries,’ he growled, his bushy old-man eyebrows bristling. ‘She’s an old lady, a local in every sense – the heart of our community, cared for by people who recognised her importance. You’ve got no right to modernise her. I don’t know who you think you are—’
‘The owners,’ Sam interrupted in a silky smooth tone, clearly unimpressed by Henry’s lyrical comparisons. ‘So we have every right to do whatever we like. Look around you – have you ever seen a place more in need of modernisation? If this pub is a woman, she deserves a facelift.’
‘And I suppose you’ve no place for art in this modern pub you’re planning?’ Henry snapped.
Nessie heard a low-level buzzing in her ears as the argument escalated. ‘Sam, maybe we should think about—’
‘No, we should not,’ Sam said firmly. ‘We don’t want the paintings. Now Mr Fitzsimmons here can find a new home for them. Preferably somewhere dark.’
She spun and crossed the room without a single backward look, leaving Nessie to try and minimise the damage.
‘Look, Mr Fitzsimmons, I’m sorry Sam didn’t take more care with your paintings.’
Henry stared at her through narrowed eyes for a moment, then his lip curled in disgust. ‘Your father often said his daughters were nothing like him. I see exactly what he meant now.’
He turned on his heel and stalked away, the light from the streetlamp turning his hair to silver. Nessie closed the door with a sigh and pushed the bolts home.
‘Moron,’ Sam called irritably, as Nessie trudged back upstairs. ‘I wouldn’t mind if he’d been any good but you saw the paintings. That spider in the cellar had more artistic talent.’
Nessie closed her eyes briefly, picturing the incensed look on Henry Fitzsimmons’ face. ‘You didn’t have to be so rude. At some point we’re going to need customers and it’s going to be a real struggle if you’ve insulted half the village.’
‘One old man is hardly half the village,’ Sam scoffed.
Perhaps not, Nessie thought as she sat down to finish her now cold dinner. But Henry hadn’t struck her as the type to bear his grievances quietly. And word spread fast in small communities. The last thing they needed was a mob with flaming pitchforks at their door.
Nessie lay awake long after they’d gone to bed that night. It wasn’t the sound of the freezing rain hammering against the leaded windows that troubled her, or the whistle of the wind through the gaps between the walls and the frames. It wasn’t even the thought of Luke’s murderous ghost, grinning evilly outside her door, blood-stained sword in hand, although that image made her burrow under the covers a little deeper. The argument with Henry whirled around and around in her head, especially his parting shot about how unlike their father they were. Afterwards, Sam had declared that could only be a good thing – who wanted to be
a degenerate, alcoholic loser anyway? At the time, Nessie had agreed but now in the dark half-silence, she knew that wasn’t what Henry had meant. She got the sense Andrew Chapman hadn’t been a loser in Little Monkham. Owen’s tone had been respectful when he’d spoken of their father, although he had been offering his condolences at the time. Joss seemed genuinely fond of his former employer and the anecdotes he’d shared as he worked that afternoon had been wryly affectionate. And she’d yet to meet the formidable Franny but she didn’t sound like the kind of person who would tolerate an incompetent drunk to run something as important as – what had Henry Fitzsimmons called it? – the heart of their community. No, whatever she and Sam remembered of their father, the residents of Little Monkham clearly knew him as someone else. Someone they’d liked and respected. And some of that goodwill had been inherited by his daughters, along with The Star and Sixpence, but it would soon evaporate if Sam treated everyone the way she’d treated Henry.
Nessie heard the clock strike two and turned over in the vast iron-framed bed. Maybe she’d find out from Joss what the old man liked to drink and send him a bottle or two over by way of an apology. It wouldn’t do much to unpick the hurt Sam had caused but it was a start. And it might just calm Henry’s wounded pride enough for Nessie to show him they were worthy custodians of the Little Monkham’s heart after all.
Nessie’s eyes were gritty and sore the next morning. She lay in the dark for a few moments, blinking up at the dark-beamed ceiling, before accepting that going back to sleep was not an option and levering herself out of bed. Sam had arranged for the local paper to send a photographer to cover the story of the pub’s renovation and had told Nessie in no uncertain terms that she would need to fly the flag.
‘Can’t you do it?’ Nessie had asked in dismay, casting an envious glance at her sister’s sleek blonde bob. ‘The camera loves you.’
‘It’s too risky,’ Sam said. ‘I know it’s only a local paper but if the wrong person picks up on it then I’m in trouble. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with you that a decent concealer and a haircut wouldn’t fix.’
Snowdrops at the Star and Sixpence Page 3
