Kensa flushed. ‘I didn’t agree with that at all. Arthur talked Lance into it.’
Guinevere tilted her head. ‘And do you have any idea what will become of the plans now that Mr Haydock is dead? Does his daughter Leah have any interest in going on with them?’
‘Leah has always been interested in island history. But I doubt she’ll want to continue this.’
There was a strange tone to Kensa’s voice. Guinevere frowned. ‘How come? Themed stays don’t sound like a bad plan to me.’
‘Leah will have other matters on her mind now. The future of the law firm, supporting her mother. I doubt she’ll have time for the historical society. She might even quit it altogether.’
Guinevere was puzzled. It seemed Kensa knew more about Leah’s position in the society than she was letting on.
Kensa said, ‘I have to go now. There’ll be guests arriving.’
‘I thought you were all booked up.’
‘Some left this morning, and others are checking in. Never a moment’s peace when you run a B&B.’ Kensa stalked off.
A roar resounded, the sound echoing off the high walls. Oliver’s motorcycle came round the castle and halted in front of her. Oliver pulled off his helmet. ‘Was that Kensa? What did she want here?’
‘The ring Haydock had. I wonder … can she have been so upset about Haydock’s death because they were having an affair?’
Oliver hitched a brow. ‘Why would you think that?’ Before she could say something to explain, he reached into his pocket. ‘I put the bike in front of a shop and went in to buy a newspaper and see if it had anything on the death. When I came back out, this was taped to my saddle.’
Guinevere accepted the item he held out to her. It was a page torn from a sketchbook. It held three words written in large, blood-red letters: He will pay.
Oliver said, ‘Island justice. Touch one of ours and we will get back at you.’
‘But Haydock wasn’t one of ours. He didn’t live on Cornisea and if I read the feelings right, nobody really liked him. Why would anybody want vengeance for his death?’
With a frown Guinevere studied the words. ‘They are written with felt-tip. It’s paper from a sketchbook used for drawing. I guess loads of people have something like that lying around.’ She held it up to the light to see indentations in it, but there was nothing there.
She sighed. ‘Somebody took a chance pasting it on the saddle of your motorcycle in broad daylight. Might have been seen.’
‘Maybe they didn’t care?’ Oliver pulled the note from her hand. ‘Better tear it up before my father sees it.’
‘No, keep it. The police have to know about this. It’s a threat.’
Oliver exhaled. ‘Do you honestly think they will be interested in whoever wrote this?’
‘They should be. It’s part of the case.’
Oliver looked her over as if he doubted the truth of her assessment, then he said, ‘All right, I’ll keep it. For the moment. I talked to Jago’s son.’
Guinevere had to blink to refocus on what he was saying and what it connected to. ‘Yes, and?’
‘He told me that his father had invested everything he got when he retired from the fishing business and he can’t touch that money. He lives a very simple life in his little house and doesn’t need much. Still, if it’s true that Haydock gave him money, we may assume Jago ran into financial difficulties somehow and depended on Haydock to supply him with cash to live off.’
‘Assume, yes, as we cannot know for sure. Jago doesn’t seem like a man who would answer such questions if we asked them.’
‘Right. Still, it’s something to keep in mind.’
Her phone beeped, and she answered it.
LeFevre said, ‘I heard back from the lab. The boys were happy they had something nice to look at for a change and got on it right away when it came in the other day. It’s a really old ring, made of a gold alloy. They estimate it could come from the seventeenth century. Not exactly old enough to be part of Branok’s property, but still a very nice antique indeed. The emblem engraved on it is often found in Cornisea’s history so the lab thinks it must have some link with the island. There has been colour in the engraving that faded over time but they believe it was the Cornisea colours: red, blue, and green. They were in fact rather curious where the ring came from.’
‘Kensa claims it belongs to the historical society. She just left here. Maybe I can still catch up with her?’
Oliver waved at her. ‘I’ll go down with the motorcycle and catch her. You come after me. What do you want to know?’
Guinevere held the phone away from her ear for a moment and said to Oliver, ‘The ring seems to be very old and has a clear link with island history. Ask how the historical society got it, from whom, when.’
Oliver nodded and left in a rush. Dolly wanted to run after him, but Guinevere snapped her fingers at her to make her stay. The dachshund looked up at her curiously as if to ask what they were going to do.
On the other end of the line LeFevre said, ‘There’s more.’
The tight tone of his voice put ice in Guinevere’s stomach.
LeFevre continued, ‘A woman just called the station. I didn’t take the call personally, but I heard from the officer who did that she owns the eatery on Cornisea, and she said that there were notes taped to all of her tables this morning saying a killer lived on the island. She removed them before any guests came and could see them. But she did want to report it.’
‘Must be the same person who left a note on Oliver’s motorbike saying: “He will pay”.’
LeFevre whistled. ‘We might have to take Bolingbrooke in and keep him here, for his own protection. To ensure he doesn’t get attacked while sentiments are raw.’
‘As long as he stays inside the castle, he will be safe enough. Please let me have my twenty-four hours.’
‘I’ll have to look into these notes to assess the risk and decide how to act on it.’
‘I understand. Thank you.’ Guinevere disconnected. LeFevre wasn’t the type to allow for vigilantes. If he really believed Bolingbrooke was in danger, he’d take him in. Today instead of tomorrow.
She looked at Dolly. ‘Blue, red, and green are the colours of Cornisea, Dolly. The colours Jago is wearing on his wrist and has painted his boat with. He seems to be acting like the island is his somehow. He worked with Haydock to create the themed stays, if Kensa can be believed. But that night when Haydock looked for him before going up to the castle, what did he want to tell him? Maybe they did meet even if Jago denies it. Maybe Haydock told him something Jago didn’t want to hear? Still Haydock arrived at the castle whole and well. He died later, in the dungeon.’
She frowned. ‘How could Jago have stabbed Haydock from the outside?’
Chapter Thirteen
Guinevere told Cador about the threatening notes and it being pertinent Bolingbrooke stayed inside the castle for his own protection. Cador assured her he would see to it.
Half smiling at the butler’s loyalty to his master, Guinevere clipped Dolly on her leash and hurried down the stairs, out of the castle, across the yard, and then down the path. She wanted to know what Oliver had managed to learn from Kensa about the Branok ring.
Why had Kensa had notes about a treasure at her home while the other notes about the Branok case and trial were at the castle? Was the motive for the murder connected with Branok’s secret stash?
When Guinevere came to the harbour area, slightly out of breath from all her rushing, she spotted the stocky figure of Constable Eal walking about and talking to fishermen here and there.
Asking questions about who had seen Bolingbrooke?
Sharing that the escape amounted to an admission of guilt?
Creating even more bad blood against Bolingbrooke, on top of the notes being spread about a killer living on the island and that killer having to pay?
Guinevere swallowed hard. The pressure was on to find the vital lead.
Oliver was waiting for her,
leaning on his parked motorcycle. ‘Kensa said Haydock got the ring for the society. He took money for it from the society’s bank account. But he never turned in a receipt. She has no idea where he bought it. She thinks it might have been at an antiques dealer Haydock did some business with. A Mr Grunwald. We have to go see him right away. He lives in a village down the coast. A friend of mine has a motorboat lying at this very pier. We can use it.’
‘You asked him?’
Oliver held up his mobile phone. ‘Just gave him a call. He said it was OK. What do you say?’
‘Great. Let’s do it. We don’t have a lot of time left to figure it all out.’ Guinevere nodded at Eal’s figure in the distance.
Oliver grimaced. ‘Better make sure he doesn’t see us and can’t ask any questions about my father’s whereabouts, or what we are up to.’
They used the cover of a group of tourists to sneak to the motorboat and clambered in, keeping themselves low. The motor seemed to start with a terrible racket, sure to draw attention, but to Guinevere’s relief Eal was so deep in conversation that he didn’t look their way. He was gesturing wildly with his hands, as if demonstrating a strangulation.
Someone he could just strangle?
LeFevre for letting Bolingbrooke get away?
Oliver steered the motorboat, sitting in the back, while Guinevere sat in the front with Dolly in her lap and the sharp breeze in her face. It put tears in her eyes, but it also blew some of the worrying thoughts about the murder from her head.
Being on the water was something amazing, feeling its power as the waves carried the boat and the spray splattered across her hands.
Dolly held her face into the wind and squeaked every now and then when a gull shot by above their heads.
They reached their destination sooner than Guinevere liked. Oliver grinned as he helped her onto the pier. ‘We’ll turn you into an islander soon enough.’
Guinevere made a face at him, but she didn’t really mind. Islander was a term to be proud of.
The scent of baked fish was on the air – coming from a nearby stall. Her empty stomach reminded her she hadn’t had anything since breakfast.
‘Want to try some?’ Oliver asked. ‘You must have it with sauce. Let me order.’ He had already reached for his wallet. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes. We need lunch anyway. If you want to keep going, you need to eat.’
‘OK.’ Guinevere watched as the salesman selected some bits, sprinkled them with spices and put them in the hot oil.
Another customer, an elderly woman with a hat with cherries on top, said to the girl assisting the salesman, ‘It should have been closed for the day. After a death, a murder even, you can’t just go on.’
A man beside her, carrying a camera with a large lens, perked up. ‘A murder? Here in the village?’
‘No, on Cornisea. During the re-enactment in the dungeons someone got shot, with old duelling pistols that have been in the Bolingbrooke family for generations.’
‘Nonsense,’ the fish salesman said. ‘It happened with a sword. It was supposed to have been a fake charge, or perhaps even a sword where the blade could retract as it was thrust forward, but for some reason the victim got hit for real. A stab clean through the heart. The historical society have themselves to blame. They should never have agreed to using a sword, fake or otherwise.’
Oliver made a face at Guinevere, and she shook her head to herself. The gossip mill was churning, and everybody had an opinion. No wonder notes were being spread about a killer who had to pay.
Their fish bites were ready. The salesman scooped them into a plastic container that also had a separate space for the sauce. A little plastic fork came with it.
Oliver handed her her portion, then accepted his. They sat on a bench to eat it.
‘Delicious,’ Guinevere said between two bites. ‘What’s in that sauce?’
‘Don’t try to guess. It’s his secret recipe. He won’t tell anyone. People have tried to copy it, but nobody can get quite this same taste.’
Oliver leaned against the bright red back of the bench. He toyed with the plastic fork. ‘My father doesn’t know this – and don’t you dare go telling him – but my schedule is empty for a few months. No travelling, nothing to work on. I came here because … I thought that maybe there was something to do for me here. At the island, the castle. Something to restore, to save.’
Guinevere looked at him. ‘To keep it in the family?’
‘If that’s what my father really wants, yes. Contrary to what he seems to think I don’t want to kick him out of his own castle. But it has to be viable. You have to do something with it, instead of just letting it stand there to decay.’
‘I agree completely. And the idea for the Branok exposition wasn’t bad. I mean, it need not be Branok, it could be something else; but why not have an exposition on the island? Something people will want to see? About island life, island folklore, hidden treasure? We could ask the business owners to join in. The bakery could offer special bread with a name like –’
‘Treasure trove bun?’ Oliver grimaced.
‘Come on. They make bread the way it was always done. It’s nostalgic – people like that. They can tap into that. Pull people to the island without making it all commercial and different. Everything is here. The sights, the smells, the authentic people. The brewery, the eatery. If we do make a plan, we can’t just keep the historical society out of it.
‘With the theatre we had the same thing. We wanted to do everything ourselves without outside interference because we were afraid that people would start deciding for us. But when we needed renovations, we knew we had to get sponsors, crowdfunding. There’s no other way if you want to keep old places alive. You have to have support for them. Those people are there – they’re willing to help out. But you have to convince them it’s worthwhile.’
Oliver asked, ‘And now that the theatre is being renovated, aren’t you afraid of change? That you will come back and the old atmosphere will be gone? That you’ll discover your crew has been replaced by others, younger, better-looking, whatever, and that your plays all have to be modern pieces about an existential crisis in someone’s life?’
‘Of course I’m afraid. That the thing I loved won’t be there any more. But if we had done nothing, it would certainly have passed.’
Guinevere looked down at her hands. Her throat was suddenly tight. ‘I don’t know what it will be like when I go back. But I wanted the theatre to have that chance. I wanted my friends to have that chance.’
Oliver put his hand on her arm a moment. ‘Maybe if you can’t go back, you can stay here.’
Guinevere looked at him. ‘Stay here?’
‘Well, if you’re going to convince my father and me that we have to do something with the castle, something new and challenging, you better be here to help us succeed. Now if that fish is done with, we can finally go see Mr Grunwald.’
Oliver shot to his feet, dumped his empty fish container in the nearby bin and stalked off.
Dolly tried to run after him, but when she reached the end of her leash, she had to stop. She barked at Guinevere as if to say she had to hurry up.
‘Coming, girl,’ Guinevere said and put her own empty container and used napkin in the bin. Her head was spinning that Oliver would ask for her help with the castle’s future, that he would trust her with something so big.
Something that he himself didn’t want to do and that his father wouldn’t like.
It would take a really good plan to make this work. And community support.
They walked away from the harbour with its many sailing boats and yachts, along terraces full of people drinking wine and ale and eating seafood, along the small shops lining the boulevard offering postcards and miniature castles in plastic and stone.
The iconic silhouette of Cornisea Island and Castle were everywhere, in souvenirs, logos, and even the tiles in front of their feet. Oliver said, ‘There is a coastal walk that goes along here. The view of Cornisea
is one of the highlights of it.’
He checked his phone screen. ‘Grunwald should have his shop in a side street off the boulevard. It says here it’s called The Crabs, but I don’t see a street sign, do you?’
‘No. Can that be it?’ Guinevere pointed down a narrow cobbled street. From windowsills red geraniums hung down, and a sign depicting cute vintage hats advertised a millinery shop.
‘Could be,’ Oliver said. ‘Let’s give it a try.’
There were small barred windows at street level belonging to the houses’ original cellars. Dolly poked her nose through the bars to peek in as they passed.
Oliver perked up. ‘There it is.’ He pointed at a building up ahead that had many crates outside filled with candlesticks, books, hatboxes. An old rocking horse sat beside it, the bright sunlight glinting in its brown glass eyes.
Oliver pushed the door open. A bell jangled overhead.
An elderly man stood behind the counter. He leaned over an instrument that held a magnifying glass in place for him while part of a watch rested underneath. With tweezers he was replacing some cogwheel. ‘One moment, please,’ he said in a tone of utmost concentration.
Oliver put his finger on his lips to Guinevere, and she winked in return.
They waited as the little man ended his activity. His hands had to be steady still to be able to do such precise work.
At last he looked up at them. ‘Yes? Ah, you must be here to collect the closet. I put it ready in the backyard. Have you brought a blanket to protect it during transport? It’s in mint condition but you have to be careful with denting.’
‘No, we’re here about something else,’ Oliver said quickly. ‘Mr Haydock, of the Cornisea Historical Society, was here recently to buy a ring.’
‘A ring?’ The man’s bushy brows drew together.
‘Yes, a ring dating back some centuries. He wanted to use it in the re-enactment of a medieval trial.’
‘He didn’t buy it here. I would remember such a thing. I don’t do a lot of jewellery. At least not very old jewellery. Turn of the century, yes, maybe Victorian, yes, but nothing before that.’
Death Plays a Part (Cornish Castle Mystery, Book 1) Page 15
