by Holly Bell
There they stood: Flamgoyne and Cardiubarn Hall glowering across the leaden waters of Dozmary Pool. Rivals and occasional allies, the two witch-clans had most often been locked in a cold-war truce.
But now the Hall stood empty and had done for some 30 years. Flamgoyne had fared slightly better in terms of occupancy. With the bulk of the clan wiped out during an ill-judged attack over the border, an unexpected legatee had come into the property. In the absence of a direct descendant, to the surprise of the Trelawneys, Kyt, Thomas’s father had inherited both the estate and the title of ‘Arlodh’ — Lord. He had declined to take up residence. However, Flamgoyne was inhabited by the family retainer, Pasco Flamgoyne. Currently, the two men were undergoing an uneasy transition.
Pasco would most certainly not have welcomed a Cardiubarn, even though Amanda's patronymic had long since been changed to her grandfather's surname: Cadabra. Nevertheless, Trelawney drove her as close as possible but kept their distance. They got out and walked a little way so Amanda could see the house from more than one angle. The squawk of a raven sounded above the rattling call of the mistle thrushes, hunting somewhere nearby. She pulled her coat more closely around her against the cold. The wind gusted her hair into her face.
Finally, Amanda shook her head.
‘No. No, I'm pretty sure the building I saw in my dream wasn't Flamgoyne.’
‘But it was a big building?’
‘Yes, not as big perhaps as the Hall or Flamgoyne, but not a cottage, by any means.’
‘Any idea where? Did you see the lake?’ he suggested.
‘No. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right. At least you've been able to rule out Flamgoyne,’ Trelawney encouraged her. ‘Oh no, here comes the rain. Shall we go?’
At 6.30, they were on the doorstep of Former Chief Inspector Michael Hogarth’s cottage, at one end of the peaceful cliff-top village of Mornan Bay. It was a hamlet: a row of cottages leading to a cluster of dwellings, a tiny pub, a shop-cum-post office, and finally a 500-year-old church. During their office hours, oystercatchers were busy below wading through the mud wading through the wet sand on the hunt for shellfish while skylarks sang above, soaring on the updraft from the water below.
Trelawney rang the bell even though he had a key. For some reason, although Uncle Mike kept an informal house, Amanda had had the urge to dress up. This felt like an occasion of supreme importance. She noted that Trelawney was still wearing a suit even though dining with his best friend and confidant.
‘It’s open!' came the familiar voice from within. They entered to be greeted by a smiling welcome and the aroma of fresh paint.
‘Come in, come in.’
Their host, slightly taller than Trelawney’s six-foot height, with salt and pepper hair, kept himself fit with gardening and strolling along the cliffs, and entertained by cooking, or so he claimed. However, as if in support of the latter, Hogarth was drying his hands on a white apron before offering one to Trelawney and a hug to Amanda.
‘Good journey, niece?’
‘Yes, thanks to an excellent and considerate driver.’
‘Hear that, Thomas?’
‘Miss Cadabra is a splendid passenger. She didn't offer me any driving advice or play with the presets on the radio,’ Trelawney replied with a grin.
‘Well done, Amanda,’ Hogarth praised her humorously. ‘Come and sit down and make yourselves at home. Ah, I see Tempest is already at work on that.’
The feline familiar had headed straight for the open coal-fire, and made himself comfortable in the prime position for the optimum amount of heat. The human guests hung up their coats, and Amanda sat on the sofa and looked around. She liked the nautically themed watercolours hanging on the white-painted walls between dark oak beams, some of which had cracked over the centuries of their tenure. Thomas took up a post near the mantelpiece, a prudent distance from Tempest.
Amanda stood up again. She was fairly hopping with impatience for Lucy’s story to begin, but politely commented on the décor and offered to help in the kitchen. Hogarth chuckled.
‘Yes, I know you’re all agog for the tale to start, but bear with me. Let’s eat first, and you can tell me all about Thomas’s new place at The Elms. Oh, and mind the walls in the downstairs loo. The emulsion might still be wet.’
‘Thank you for the alert,’ replied Amanda, going to her bag. Having retrieved a small tin of tuna, she emptied half of the contents onto a china plate offered up by her host and placed it before Tempest.
Soon dinner was served, and Amanda and Trelawney were regaling Hogarth with the amusing account of what had transpired at the end of the Sunken Madley Equinox Ball at The Grange. In particular, they related how The Elms had presented itself for his future accommodation-cum-office. This sufficiently diverted them until pudding and tea on the arms of chairs and sofa. Tempest was asleep on Amanda’s lap.
Hogarth looked from one to the other of his younger friends.
‘Now. Lucy has given me leave to tell you, but only so much. Lucy needs you to tell as much of this story yourself as possible.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Amanda.
‘You will,’ Hogarth promised.
‘Why can’t you just tell us all of it?’
‘Because of what Lucy hopes will happen. And because she needs you to understand.’
Amanda looked at him in perplexity.
‘Well ... what if I can’t tell the bits of it you're not going to tell me?’
‘Then ... it just means you’re not ready. Although, we rather hope that you will be. But’ — Hogarth returned to his usual breezy, relaxed tone — ‘no pressure. Right then ....’
Hogarth laughed, seeing the expectant faces turned towards him. They both looked so much younger than their years.
‘Well now … if you’re sitting comfortably … I’ll begin. It all started, many years ago, with a pin ….’
Chapter 3
About A Boy, and The Fall
‘Not a PIN as in a personal identification number,' explained Hogarth, 'but a pin with a point. A pin in a map on the wall. The wall of an office in a Whitehall basement. The office of a man. A man whose star had fallen because he would not give up.’ He chuckled. ‘And neither would his wife ....’
***
Cal Rayke took a deep breath and tapped on the dark oak door.
‘Come!’ called the male voice that he knew better than any other. He entered to see the man seated at the desk opposite him. Behind, the top of a tall window that peeped above ground level allowed in some natural light. It was supplemented by bulbs and study lamps. Cal received a conspiratorial smile from the lady, typing at the table on the left.
Sir Philip Rayke looked over his glasses with mild surprise at seeing the youngest of his progeny standing on the threshold. It was a rare event for Cal to visit the office. Family visits were not encouraged. But then nothing to do with Sir Philip’s department was encouraged. Only a number on the door identified it.
The fall from grace had not been entirely unexpected by the family. Sir Philip had had warnings that if he persisted in pursuing a lot of voodoo trails, it would lead to ‘no good’. But Sir Philip was a digger: a quiet, relentless excavator of truth. For this, he had won the respect of his operatives in the field but, alas, the disapproval of his peers and, ultimately, his superiors.
Cal remembered the day he’d been given the news. Boards on which his father’s contributions had been appreciated, suddenly found themselves overcrowded. Unfortunately, there was no longer a place for him. Having been honoured by his queen for services to the British Empire, Sir Philip could not be dismissed from his governmental job. He was being moved sideways, allegedly, but physically it was down. Down to an office that had been occupied from time to time by the disgraced.
The rumours of rats proved to be unfounded, however. The rats of Whitehall clearly considered themselves a better class of rodent than to frequent the basements of the discredited. It was said that one or two rats wer
e to be found on the upper floors. To which species they were referring was left to the listener to decide.
The Raykes would be moving to a smaller house, although still in Hampstead. Cal accepted the change from public-school day pupil to local grammar calmly.
‘I’m sorry, son,’ apologised Sir Philip. ‘It’s just that the fees ....'
‘That’s alright, Dad, honestly. Brook Bridges Grammar is a decent school. I ... I know someone who goes there,’ he added with a faint flush. ‘It’s got good pass rates and extremely strict anti-bullying policies ... well ever since that accident two years ago.’
‘Ah, this someone-you-know wouldn’t happen to be a young lady, by any chance?’
‘As it happens, yes, but Sarah ... er, we ... we ....’
‘Splendid,’ Sir Philip commended him. ‘You already have a friend there. And an actual girl.’
‘Friend,’ replied Cal hastily. ‘That’s right.’
‘And I,’ pronounced Lady Rayke, with every appearance of gratification, ‘shall be paid to keep an eye on your father, in the post of his able assistant.’
Cal looked at his mother in dismay.
‘Assistant? But Mum, you’ve been running an entire —’
‘Yes, dear,’ she replied firmly, ‘and I’ve had a good bite of the apple. More than most women even get a nibble at. Besides, this work is important. Every bit as important as what I've been doing. Maybe more so. However, we’re mainly concerned about how the changes will affect you. You see, we’ll all have to pitch in. We’ll have to let Mrs Beetin go, and Camilla will only be able to come in once a week.’
‘Oh,’ replied Cal, wondering how this would affect the quality of his dinners.
‘But it’s quite all right, because I’ve been to the library,’ stated Lady Rayke, in triumph.
She gestured towards the pile of books on the table beside her. Cal drew closer to inspect the titles. Making Meals Without Cook by Olive Venreddy, Cleaning Up - A Practical Guide to Housekeeping, by Iva Nubrum. Stitched Up: Starting Sewing by Polly Longcotton, and other guides for the domestically uninitiated.
‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘I am now a student of the domestic and culinary arts. It’ll be fun. A new project!’
Enthused by his mother’s Dunkirk spirit, Cal threw himself into the downsized life with gusto. He learned to cook and help out around the house. The younger members of the family helped Lady Rayke redecorate and refurbish the new office. Cal, once he’d made a start on his homework, would set to, peeling and chopping vegetables in preparation for the evening meal.
The new life, however, was not, in Cal’s view, without its repercussions. His parents remained as loving as ever, in fact, more so. He remembered the evening his father had walked from his study to the kitchen, holding a sheaf of important-looking papers, in search of his lady. Cal was on the other side of the room, seeking an obscure ingredient for tomorrow’s dinner. Sir Philip put his arms around his wife, saying,
‘I do like you in an apron.’
‘Hm. I expect you’d prefer a white one with a short black dress?’ came the teasing reply.
‘Rather. I’ll bring the feather-duster.’
That solicited what could only have been an unsuitably girlish giggle from Cal's mother, and a silent sigh from her son.
However much Cal appreciated his parents’ harmony, he did wish they wouldn’t flirt in front of him. That sort of thing was surely appropriately done only in private. He said as much to his sister as she was getting him off to school one day.
‘Nonsense,’ she declared. ‘If my husband ever ceases to flirt with me in both private and public, I shall divorce him on the spot.’
This insightful piece of wisdom provided Cal with food for consideration. It led to another thought.
‘Do you think someone will marry you then?’ he enquired with guileless curiosity. The merest notion of being married to his sister was so unthinkable, it was a stretch of the imagination to envision any other male wishing to do so.
‘Yes, Hatchling,’ came his sister's emphatic but good-natured riposte, as she tied his school scarf securely over his collar. ‘I do!’
And, as predicted, such a man did, in time, present himself. He was, alas, so far from their father’s choice, that a blazing row ensued and the couple departed for foreign lands. Cal and his mother received letters now and then and cards at Christmas, but the breach seemed unfillable.
Onlookers said, who could blame her? Her father’s fall from grace must have been an unbearable humiliation. One could hardly reproach her for taking the first opportunity for that offered escape.
It was some time before Cal’s next visit to the office. The first thing he noticed was that a map board had been installed on the wall behind Sir Philip’s desk. It was speared with pins, mostly red, some yellow, blue and the occasional brown one. There were two of the latter in Cornwall, another two in Wales, others in Ireland, Scotland, more in Northern France, the Iberian peninsula, Germany and elsewhere.
Cal went and stood before it. Seeing his interest, Sir Philip explained,
‘Blue: unexplained incidents or crimes. Red: confirmed supernatural. Yellow resolved.’
‘And brown?’
His father drew a breath as the phone rang, and that was the end of the conversation. Thereafter, Cal found him evasive on the subject and his mother likewise.
Over time, Cal noticed that while the blue pins might be replaced with red or yellow and the red with yellow, a brown one sometimes disappeared, as it had in Cornwall. Sometimes one might appear elsewhere, either in the same country or in another land altogether. One day, Cal hazarded a guess.
‘Dad, the brown pins, are they agents?’
‘Of sorts,’ replied Sir Philip vaguely.
‘Why do they disappear?’
Hearing the tenacious note in his son’s voice, he replied, ‘Die of old age or illness. Decide it's too risky to continue. And sometimes ... they're right. Anyway, no need for you to worry about that. It goes with the territory.’
Cal was there the day the call came. Sir Philip picked up the black telephone, and said the number of the department in a business-as-usual manner. Then came the pause. His face grew grave.
‘Thank you. I understand.’ He lowered the receiver slowly. Cal’s mother stopped typing. Sir Philip met her eyes and gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. He stood up and went to the board on the wall behind him. There was a kind of ritual solemnity in his movements as he withdrew the one remaining brown pin from Cornwall, and pushed it into the side of the map.
That was the moment that Cal’s plan was born.
***
‘Tea and a walk up the stairs for me and a drive home for you two,’ Hogarth said, concluding his narrative.
‘We three,’ corrected Thomas, prudently gaining a glance of approval from Amanda’s lap-warmer. His witch however still had her attention on Hogarth and protested,
‘What? You’re not stopping there … oh …’ Suddenly mindful of Trelawney's words, she agreed meekly, ‘Of course. It’s late.’
Hogarth smiled sympathetically. ‘Until tomorrow, my friends.’
Chapter 4
Parhayle
The car was cold after the warmth of Hogarth’s fireside. Amanda glanced over her shoulder at the disgruntled Tempest,
‘Aww, soon be home, Mr Fluffykins.’ She then asked Trelawney, ‘Who is this Cal?’
The inspector steered the car onto the road and replied,
‘I’ve never heard Mike mention him.’
‘Or Sir Philip Rayke?’
‘No. No idea at all, I’m afraid. I’m as much in the dark as you are.’ They progressed in silence for a couple of miles, then, ‘I had planned to take some days off for this but ... would you mind? There’s so much to do before I leave.’
‘Of course, you need to go into the station.’
‘You’ll have Mike’s friend, Ken, on call for a cab anywhere you like. Did you pick up the card from the coffe
e table?’ asked Trelawney.
‘I did. Thank you.’
‘And my father said he’d like to take you out and about a bit, if you’re willing.’
‘Very!’ Kyt, after some initial suspicion of Amanda, had on their first meeting, taken to her and vice versa.
‘Then he’ll take you out to lunch.’
‘Wonderful. Very kind. That will give me the morning to relax and reacquaint myself with the beach.’
Accordingly, the next day, Amanda got up late, served breakfast to herself and Tempest, just stirring, and went, unaccompanied, down to the dunes. She sat on a towel on the sand, watching the cormorants hunting low over the waves, hearing the eeow-eeow of the herring gulls, and musing on what she’d been told so far of ‘Lucy’s story’. Kyt sent a text to see if 1pm would suit her, and soon they were drawing into the main Parhayle car park.
Tempest disappeared off on affairs of his own. Amanda uneasily imagined a feline lock-up-your-daughters tour of the residential properties.
‘Now,’ said Kyt, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically, ‘I’ve booked us into the Smuggler’s Loft. I think you’ll like it.’
‘I’m sure I shall. Kyt, do you know why I’m here?’
‘Mike is doing a special edition of Listen with Hogarth, I understand.’
‘Yes. Do you know anything about it?’
‘No, not I, my dear.’
‘You’ve never heard of anyone called Lucy?’
‘Apart from the barmaid at the Tail and Fins, I can’t say I have. Mike did tell me he had a story to tell you of some importance. That’s all though. Didn’t want to pry.’
‘No. Hm.’ Amanda thought for a while, then asked,
‘Do you know of any great houses up on the Moor that burned down? I had a dream about one on the way here.’
