Hy Brasil

by Margaret Elphinstone

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ demanded Nesta. ‘You didn’t think I was making off with the treasure, just because I needed to borrow the keys?’

  ‘No,’ Baskerville glowered down at them both. ‘I was worried about you working in here alone after hours. I’m surprised the gallery agreed to it, given the security risks. But I see now you’re not alone after all.’ He fixed his chilly gaze on Jared, as if he’d caught him in flagrante delicto. ‘I’m not at all sure that this was wise. You didn’t tell me that our goblet had a mate.’

  ‘No,’ said Nesta. ‘There was no reason why I should. Jed traced it, and he suggested I did some photos of the two together. It’ll make a good story in the Times next week.’

  ‘May I look at it?’

  Nesta looked enquiringly at Jared. Jared hesitated, cleared his throat, and said sullenly, ‘Since you’re here, I suppose there’s no reason why not.’ He watched Baskerville lean forward, his hands clasped behind his back, and peer closely at the land goblet, then at the sea goblet, and then at the land goblet again. Jared seemed to change his mind about something, for he suddenly said in a much more conciliatory tone, ‘Do you want the light on it again, sir?’

  ‘Please.’ Baskerville groped in his pocket and brought out his magnifying glass. When Jared held up the spotlight again he grunted, and continued his survey. He put out his hand and very gently turned the goblets round. Jared held the light as steadily as he could. ‘The same,’ said Baskerville at last, and sighed deeply. ‘Indubitably from the same workshop, by the same maker. Both genuine. Both original. This is an exceptional discovery.’ He turned suddenly and fixed his piercing stare on Nesta. ‘Why was I not informed of it?’

  ‘I came to do a job for a client,’ said Nesta. ‘I only saw what it was an hour ago. Mr Honeyman is still my client. It would be quite unprofessional of me to give you information about that. But both goblets will be coming to the museum. Won’t they, Jared? That’s what you said?’

  Jared was carefully winding up the flex from the spotlight again, but he stopped and looked up. ‘Yes, it was. I found both those goblets, Mr Baskerville. I’ve given the first one to the museum. By right of salvage it’s mine, but what the hell would I want to keep it for? I’vegotglasses at home if I want something to drink out of. And I mean the second one to end up in the museum too. I’ll bring it to you soon enough. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I’d be interested to know where you found the second goblet.’

  ‘That’ll all come out. I’ll tell the whole country, just as soon as I can. It’ll all be in the paper.’

  ‘And why not now?’

  ‘I can’t say now. But very soon I will.’

  ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘It belongs to a friend of mine.’

  ‘Lucy Morgan?’

  ‘I’m not saying more. But I will. I’ll tell the whole story the moment that I can, that I promise you.’

  ‘And why not now?’ Baskerville leaned over the stand and glared down at him. ‘Why not now? What have you discovered about the treasures of Ravnscar?’

  ‘Look,’ said Jared, facing him. ‘This is nothing to do with Lucy Morgan. Nothing. You can leave her out of it.’

  ‘You had the run of that house, didn’t you, Honeyman? It must have been interesting for a young boy, especially one with a romantic disposition. I expect you indulged in all manner of exploration.’

  ‘Look here, Mr Baskerville, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but this goblet didn’t come out of Ravnscar. And yes, maybe I have been exploring, a bit more recently than you probably think, and maybe I have found out some things I didn’t know before. Why should that bother you? Is there anything I might discover that you’d rather I didn’t know? I’m bringing stuff into the museum. Isn’t that what you want? Why do you suppose I’m doing it?’

  ‘He’s right, Mr Baskerville,’ put in Nesta. ‘You’ve no reason to doubt his motives. He’s only doing just what you’re doing. You both like digging things up. Oddly enough I’d say you were both much too idealistic about our history, besides being obsessed with antiquities. Really, you know, you should see Jared as an ally, a colleague even. In fact,’ Nesta grinned in sudden mischief, ‘Possibly even your successor. We’re all mortal. You should cultivate him. Don’t you see he’d make an awfully good job of it?’

  Baskerville, clearly unamused, ignored her. ‘Explain yourself, young man. What could you possibly discover that I’d rather you didn’t know? It’s the withholding of information against the public interest which concerns me.’

  ‘I’m not withholding anything,’ said Jared. ‘At least, I shouldn’t need to for more than a week. I just have to consult somebody first. The glass isn’t mine to give. I need to talk to a friend.’

  ‘Lucy Morgan.’

  ‘I tell you, that goblet does not belong to Lucy Morgan.’ Jared picked up a shoebox, and began to fold the cracked glass carefully in bubblewrap.

  ‘Wait!’ Baskerville laid a bony hand on Jared’s arm. ‘Where are you taking it now?’

  ‘Away.’ Jared shrugged off the cold grasp, and faced Baskerville. ‘Look, sir, you really don’t have the right to ask me. This is about something else. Not to do with finding or keeping treasure, but something that somebody did. When I’ve dealt with that I’ll bring this to the museum, safe and sound. I promise. But I can’t now.’ He put the goblet gently into the box, and spread his hands, trying to make Baskerville comprehend. ‘It’s nothing to do with treasure. It’s just something I have to sort out about the past. My past, I mean, not history. If you can’t understand me, then you’ll have to trust me, or lump it. I didn’t ask you to come here, and I had every right to ask Nesta, and do what I’ve just done.’ He turned away, and slid the shoebox into his knapsack, wedging it carefully among various other objects that were already in there.

  Under Baskerville’s jealous eye, Nesta replaced the sea goblet in its case, and locked it. ‘Your keys, Mr Baskerville.’ She turned to Jared. ‘Jed, if you could put these lights and things in the car, I’ll lock up here and take the Mill keys back to Mr Rodrigues. Do you want to go on down to Atlantis and get a table? Ask for one by the window, if there’s still one free.’

  Jared shouldered his knapsack, gathered Nesta’s equipment together, bid Baskerville a wary goodbye, and departed.

  ‘Ms Kirwan,’ Baskerville began at once, as she had known he would, ‘Where did that young man get that goblet? Has that Morgan woman sworn him to secrecy? Or did he steal it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nesta. ‘It’s not my business and I didn’t ask. But I can tell you one thing for sure: Jared is neither a thief nor a liar.’

  ‘For sure?’ said Baskerville. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. He had a reputation for being light-fingered, I believe, even as a child. He has a record, you know. I daresay you’ll recall he’s been inside, and I believe there’ve been some questions recently about drugs. My guess is the police know a good deal more about him than either you or I. He’s plausible, I can see that, and evidently he’s learned a way with women. I wouldn’t let him impose upon you, Ms Kirwan, if I were you.’

  ‘My God, Mr Baskerville, talk about a serpent’s tongue! What did the poor boy ever do to you? No, I’m not going to listen to any more.’ Nesta swung her camera case on to her shoulder. ‘Come on, I’m locking up now.’

  Halfway to the door she swung round on him. ‘You know, Mr Baskerville, I don’t understand this at all. You were one of the four. So was Jack Honeyman. What the hell happened to that? If you’ve forgotten, I could swear to it that Jared hasn’t. Are you sure you don’t owe him something? Is that what it is, Mr Baskerville? Is it conscience? Think about it. I mean what I say. Jared coming home should be the very thing you dreamed of. He’s doing the same work as you. He cares about the same things. He’s his father’s son too; think what his father was to you. How do you reckon Jack Honeyman would expect you to treat his boy? Jed was never in trouble until his father went away. He did as well as
he could. And he’s not in trouble now, unless someone else makes it for him.’

  ‘Ms Kirwan, I’m perfectly willing to work with him. I have worked with him. Against the advice of our President, I might add, a consideration which I’m sure will carry some weight with you. I could wish Honeyman were a qualified archeologist, but I’ll admit the work he’s done on the Cortes has been meticulous. You can’t accuse me of prejudice. I would just be interested to know where he found that goblet.’

  ‘He’s promised to bring it to you. That’s all that concerns either of us. I’ll admit, I don’t know where he got it, or what he’s up to, but my guess is that a glass goblet wasn’t the only thing he found. Maybe one day we’ll hear more. Meanwhile, I suggest that we each mind our own business.’

  Baskerville bowed. ‘As you say, ma’am. May I wish you a very pleasant evening at the Atlantis.’

  Nesta opened the door of her car, and watched him as he hunched himself over the steering wheel of his Jeep, and jolted away over the potholes into the gathering dark. Then she swung her camera on to the back seat, and set off the other way, through the twilit terraces of ripening apple trees towards the twinkling lights of Lyonsness.

  SIXTEEN

  Sidony Redruth. Ravnscar Castle. July 18th.

  Notes for Undiscovered Islands (working title).

  I HATE IT when you think you’re not waiting for anything, but every time the phone rings you realise that perhaps you were. I’d been helping Lucy in the garden all day, weeding and watering, and I’d just come in to be in the shade for a bit and get myself a drink. The tiles on the kitchen floor were cool under my bare feet. I pulled off my sunhat and ran my hands through my sticky hair. I didn’t mind being hot and grubby. It reminded me of childhood, playing in the garden with Arthur. I even had scars on my knees, just as I had always had then, from climbing the fir tree that grew by the stone gateposts of Ravnscar. I felt as if I’d abdicated temporarily from the adult world, and when the phone rang half of me didn’t want to be dragged back. The other half felt that familiar sinking thrill in the pit of my stomach, but I wouldn’t let myself think the thought that came with it.

  ‘Hi-aye,’ A male voice, not one I knew. ‘Is that Miss Lucy?’

  ‘No. She’s in the garden. Do you want me to get her?’

  ‘Well now … You’ll be the young English lady? You could maybe take a message for her?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Per Pedersen, you can tell her, with a message from Jared– Jared Honeyman, that is – but you know our Jed, now I think about it. You were with him not so long ago at the Midsummer dance in Dorrado. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said cautiously. ‘Yes, I know Jared.’

  ‘Of course, so you do. If you could say to Miss Lucy that Jared is needing to get hold of her as soon as possible. He was trying to phone her from here yesterday all through dinnertime, right up to three o’clock. She was out, seemingly?’

  ‘We took a picnic to Hogg’s Beach. It was so hot.’

  ‘Indeed yes, the weather is terribly hot. You won’t be used to that?’

  ‘It gets quite hot sometimes in Cornwall.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it would do. So if you would say to Miss Lucy that Jed wishes to speak to her urgently, about a matter he needs to discuss. And maybe she could call back and leave a message for him here?’

  ‘I’ll tell her to do that.’

  After I’d put the phone down I stood still for a minute, staring through the window at the blank white heat outside. My head ached; I didn’t feel as eager to go back out as I had three minutes ago. Lucy was potting on fuchsias in the greenhouse. She wouldn’t mind or notice if I’d gone. It was too hot to do anything really.

  Too hot. An idea occurred to me. ‘Go where you like,’ she’d said. ‘Look at what you like. There isn’t anything secret.’ Well, why not now?

  I followed the cellar steps down from the kitchen, through the first cellar with the garden tools and fishing tackle, and through the wine cellar below that. My guess is there’s a small fortune in liquor underneath Ravnscar, but it isn’t the sort of thing I know much about. The most precious wines, including the vintage madeiras in oak casks labelled Sercial, Bual, Rainwater, Malmsey, and Amontillado, along with the Napoleonic brandy, are kept in a special low-roofed vault guarded by an iron-studded door with a huge sixteenth-century lock. At least, it would have been guarded, if the door had been latched to, and the key turned and taken out of the lock. Nothing is kept fastened at Ravnscar. I crossed the uneven flagged floor of the main cellar between double rows of barrels, all neatly labelled in faded ink. I reached the second door at the back, and turned the heavy key in the lock. The bolts were already drawn back. I couldn’t get the door open, until I figured out it had been unlocked all the time. When I turned the key back and lifted the handle it opened surprisingly easily. I took the torch from the stone shelf and switched it on, and picked up the ball of string. The end of the string was fastened to an iron peg hammered into the wall.

  With the torch in my right hand, and the string unravelling from my left, I climbed carefully down to where the three identical passages branched out. St Joseph’s chapel was to my left. I picked the middle passage, because I could already see more steps descending. They went down a long way. I remembered Lucy saying I’d need a jumper, and wished I’d thought of it. When the steps stopped I was aware of the living rock under my feet, shiny and cold. I could feel myself coming out in goosebumps. The passage forked, and I chose left. Then left again. The distances weren’t very long, but already I’d used more than half the string. Suddenly there were no more walls in front of me. I shone the torch around. I was in a bare oval space like an empty crypt. The dome was like an untamed version of St Mark’s in Venice, bright red and yellow rock with gleaming stalactites hanging from the roof like carved ivory. In one corner the walls were built up with loose boulders. The rest was solid volcanic rock, Mount Prosper from the inside. I saw the dark mouth of another entrance directly across the chamber from the way I’d come. By the time I reached it my string was almost gone. It was a much thinner passage, but when I shone the torch upwards I couldn’t see the roof; the yellow beam reflected on mica far above my head, then petered out into the dark.

  The string ended about ten feet into the passage. I thought for a moment, and felt in my shorts pocket. There was nothing there but a yellow plastic ring from a hose joint. I tied it to the end of the string, and laid it on the floor so I couldn’t miss the little yellow blob on my way back. I left it, and went on. The passage took a sharp turn down. I felt bereft without my string, and tried to remember what the way back would be if I didn’t have anything to guide me. It boggled my mind trying to think of it backwards, and I gave up. No one was about, and who would ever want to move a piece of string anyway? Three more steps went down in front of me. I followed.

  Suddenly the roof was so low I had to stoop, and the walls curved inwards. I knew I could only go as far as the next fork; without a string I dare not risk anything but the straight way. I was beginning to think it might be quite nice to turn back.

  There was a door in front of me. A plain oak door with an iron handle. No lock. It had some sort of graffiti on it. The writing was old-fashioned and spidery. I held the torch up close. It was part of a poem:

  Look not thou on beauty’s charming –

  Sit thou still when kings are arming –

  Taste not when the wine-cup glistens –

  Speak not when the people listens –

  Stop thine ear against the singer –

  From the red gold keep thy finger –

  Vacant heart and hand and eye –

  Easy live and quiet die.

  I read the message and wondered who had scrawled it there. It felt like some sort of a challenge. I took hold of the door handle and very slowly I turned it.

  The chamber beyond was not empty. When I shone my torch slowly round it lit upon furniture: four heavy, carved chests, a great chair wit
h curved legs crossing each other and a high back like a throne, draped in red velvet. Around it, the stone benches carved out of the thickness of the wall were also lined with long red velvet cushions, embroidered with golden tassels. There were several black candle holders five feet high or more, with burned-out candles stil inside them. Everything was circular: the chamber itself, the curved benches, and the ornate carpet in the middle of the floor, with rounded patterns on it in red and black and gold. And the white things in the middle of the carpet– my torch jumped in myhand–the white things in the middle of the carpet. Iswalowed, and focused the light, and made myself look at them properly.

  A skull and crossed bones. Real ones. They weren’t white, in fact, but faded grey. I could see the squiggly lines across the skull. The teeth were yellow and had gaps in them. The long bones looked old, a bit worm-eaten at the ends. As far as I could tell they were human thigh bones. I looked down on them, and wondered who it was. Who it had once been.

  Thank God the string was there, exactly where I’d left it. I was up the steps again, and across the bare chamber. The string led me faithfully round the first turn, and round the second. I must be almost at the bottom of the staircase. I reached the place where three roads met. A looming grey shape slithered out of the right hand passage and barred my way, holding his lantern high over me in one white fleshless hand. I shut my eyes and would have screamed, but my mouth was too dry. I leaned back against the wall and merely whimpered, shielding my face with my arm against the eldritch light.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the ghost. `Miss Redruth?’

  The smell of the grave still clung to him. I opened my eyes and saw him through a cloud of smoky mist. He wore ancient black like a Victorian butler. I stared at his lantern, mesmerised. It wasn’t a candle inside. It was a small electric bulb. It was one of those battery lanterns they sell in the supermarket in St Brandons. I lowered my eyes cautiously to his face. I’d seen it before. In Maldun’s Mill, staring avidly at a green glass goblet in a white case. `Mr Baskerville?’ I heard my own voice come out somewhere between a whisper and a squeak.