Two paths led from the stream. One wandered down to the cliffs that dropped in a jungle of thorns, gorse, elderberry trees, and thick couch grass that formed a series of broad steps to the small bay below. The other led across an unkempt field to the cottage. Around the cottage, which was itself in good repair, were a scattering of roofless outbuildings and tumbled-down stone walls covered with brambles. Blackthorn grew in abandon; brushwood and gorse bushes littered the fields in unruly tangles.
“It looks abandoned,” Janey said, gazing out at the rampaging vegetation.
Clare merely pointed to the thin tendril of smoke that rose from the cottage’s stone chimney.
As they crossed the stream, stepping from stone to stone, an orange and black cat rose suddenly from the grass. Clare, having to move more slowly for fear her cane would slip off a stone, brought up the rear. She paused when the cat appeared. The cat watched them with an unblinking gaze for a long moment, apparently fascinated by their crossing, then vanished into the woods. It had no tail.
Another of that Zennor woman’s Cornish tigers, Clare thought with a smile as she continued on across the stones.
No sooner had they both set foot on the dry ground than a chorus of barking started up. They looked nervously at each other as a pack of five or so tattery dogs came bounding towards them from the outbuildings.
“Do we stay or run?” Janey asked.
“I can’t run,” Clare said needlessly.
“They won’t hurt you.”
At the sound of a stranger’s voice, both women started and turned so quickly they almost lost their balance. The newcomer had appeared out of the woods as silently as the cat had disappeared into them. So sudden and quiet was her appearance that Clare had the odd fleeting thought that the cat had merely changed into a woman once it was out of their sight.
Clare recovered before Janey, recognizing Helen Bray from her visits to the bookshop The Penzance. She was a gangly, coltish woman in her mid-twenties, at least six feet in height and slender as a rail. Her red hair was as tangled as the gorse thickets about them, her cheeks flushed from the weather. Her clothes were those of a man and bore the look of many mendings—tweed sports jacket, blue jeans that were worn and had a tear in the right knee, and a navy blue beret that did little to tame her unruly hair. On her feet were green gum boots, besmirched with mud.
As Janey and Clare looked at the woman they realized that the dogs were almost upon them and showed no sign of stopping their charge. Helen gave a shrill whistle, just as the lead dog—a terrier-collie cross—seemed ready to fling himself upon Janey. The dogs stopped in their tracks and all sat down in a half circle, tongues lolling, eyes fixed on the two newcomers.
“The dogs won’t hurt you,” Helen repeated. “Not if you leave straightway.”
Clare cleared her throat. “We’re here to see Mr. Goninan.”
“He doesn’t much care for visitors.”
“Yes, well,” Clare began, but Janey broke in.
“Why don’t you let him decide for himself?” she asked.
Helen had odd pale eyes that were each a different colour—one grey, the other blue. At the question, she turned her intense gaze on Janey.
“That’s not really the point,” she said.
“Well, what is the point?” Janey asked. “It’s not as if we could call ahead—he doesn’t have a phone.”
“He doesn’t like to be bothered by people.”
“We’re not here to bother him,” Janey said. “We’re here to ask his advice about something.”
Helen got a feline look of curiosity in her eyes.
“What kind of something?” she asked.
Janey smiled. “Never you mind.” She turned to look at the dogs. “I’m going to walk to the cottage and knock on the door. If one of those dogs bites me, you’re going to be very sorry.”
Oh, Janey, Clare thought. Don’t push so.
But as Janey set off, a determined set to her shoulders, Helen finally gave another sharp whistle and the dogs streamed back towards the cottage and disappeared behind the outbuildings. By the time the three women reached its door, there wasn’t an animal to be seen except for an old great black-backed gull that was pecking at something by the stones of the chimney, up on the cottage roof.
Giving Helen one of her patented fierce looks, Janey rapped sharply on the door with her knuckles.
“It’s open,” a voice called from within.
2.
By the time he reached Clare’s house, Davie Rowe knew just what he was going to do. He had his hands in his pockets and fingered the roll of ten-pound notes that Willie had given him.
He couldn’t very well hand over a portion of the money to Clare, for all that it would make him feel better. She’d just ask where it had come from and he wasn’t about to lie to her about it. That would make the whole exercise pointless. But so that she would get a share of it, he’d decided that he would offer to take her out for dinner tonight.
Just the two of them.
They could go to the Smuggler’s Restaurant over in Newlyn for the special Sunday night Feast—a roast-beef dinner with Yorkshire pudding and all the trimmings. They could even have some wine with their dinner, just as the posh folk in the films did.
Davie was pleased with himself for the idea and looked forward to the evening. There was always the chance, he realized, that she wouldn’t want to go. Perhaps she and her mother did something special for themselves on Sunday nights. Well, then. He’d invite Clare’s mum and his own too. Surely she wouldn’t say no to that?
What he hadn’t considered was that she might not even be home to say yes or no in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” her mother said when she answered the door, “but Clare’s gone out for the day.”
There was a look in the woman’s eye that plainly said, and what makes you think she’d be so blind as to go out with the likes of you? My daughter may be crippled, but she’s not daft.
“Do you—ah—can you tell me when she’ll be back?”
“She didn’t say. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No. I . . . Just tell her I was ’round.”
“I’ll tell her when she gets in.”
The door closed on him before he could say anything more.
Bloody hell, he thought as he trudged off. They were all the same—the lads up at the King’s Arms or this woman here in the village. They never gave a bloke a chance. Lilith Mabley would probably have a good laugh about this with Clare when she came home.
He clenched his fists at the thought of Clare laughing at him.
No, she wouldn’t do that. She’d ring him up and ask him what he’d wanted, and then he could still ask her out for dinner.
He hurried off home to wait for her call, but when he got there, he found a stranger sitting outside on the front stoop. The man rose up at Davie’s approach.
“The name’s Bett,” he said, not offering his hand. “Michael Bett.”
The American accent registered.
“Uh . . .”
“I want to have a word with you, Davie. Is there somewhere private where we can talk?”
There was something familiar about the man, but Davie couldn’t pin it down.
“There’s the pub,” he said, vaguely waving in the general direction of Mousehole harbour.
“I was thinking of somewhere even more private,” Bett said. “Isn’t there some kind of scenic walk along the coast nearby?”
Davie nodded.
“Why don’t we go take in its sights?” Bett said. “I’m in the mood for a nice walk, and I think you will be too, once you hear the proposition I have for you.”
“I really can’t go,” Davie began. “I’m expecting a call. . . .”
Bett pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and stuffed it into the breast pocket of Davie’s shirt.
“All I’m asking for is an hour of your time,” he said.
Davie glanced at his h
ouse. Should he tell his mother that he was expecting a call from Clare? No. That would just take too long to explain. Clare might not even ring him up. She probably wouldn’t. But if she should and he wasn’t here to take the call . . .
“I . . .”
“C’mon,” Bett said. “What’ve you got to lose?”
“An hour, you said?”
“Tops. Guaranteed.”
“All right,” Davie agreed. “But that’s all the time I have.”
“I understand,” Bett said. “Time’s a precious commodity—especially for a busy guy like yourself.”
Was the American making fun of him? Davie wondered.
“Which way do we go?” Bett went on.
Davie pointed back the way he’d just come and the two set off, the American chatting on about how pretty the village was and had Davie lived here all his life and what did a fellow do around here for excitement?
Long before they reached the beginning of the Coastal Path, Davie was sorry that he’d ever agreed to listen to what the man had to say. But he was curious. It was Americans that had something to do with the trouble plaguing the Littles, the trouble that had spilled over onto Clare. Reckoning it so, there might be something useful he could learn from this Bett—if the man ever came out with something even remotely worth listening to.
Davie stopped when they reached the Coastguard lookout and turned to his companion. They had the place to themselves. Bett scraped some mud from his shoe and looked around.
“Nice place,” he said.
Now Davie knew he was being mocked. The path itself was beautiful, even in this season. But the same couldn’t be said for the station. On its weather-beaten white walls the paint was peeling. In places, flat stones held loose shingles down on its level roof. A ratty chicken-wire fence encircled the building. There was a wrought-iron porch facing the bay, its metalwork rusting. Leaves floated in the rain barrel by its door. Dried ferns crouched against the side of the building, sheltering from the sea winds.
“What do you want with me?” he demanded of the American.
“Well now.”
Bett reached into his pocket. When his hand came out again, it held a small automatic pistol, muzzle pointed at Davie.
“You and me,” he said. “We’ve got some unfinished business left over from last night. . . .”
Now Davie understood why the man had seemed vaguely familiar.
The trouble was, as had happened so often in his life, the knowledge came too late.
3.
Peter Goninan’s cottage, Janey discovered, was surprisingly bright—the extra light coming from a skylight that had been built into the roof facing the ocean. The interior was all one large room with a kitchen area on one side and stairs leading up to a small sleeping loft on the other. A potbellied cast-iron coal stove sat by one of the many support beams that islanded the ground floor. Set near to it was an old sofa and a pair of club chairs with tattered upholstery.
Goninan sat in one of those chairs. He stood up when they entered, a tall, gaunt man with a bald head that gleamed in the sunlight. While Helen Bray reminded Janey and Clare of a cat, Goninan was more like a bird. His eyes were small and set close to a narrow nose. His cheeks were hollow. His age was indefinable—somewhere between late forties and early seventies, if Janey had to hazard a guess. As it was, he radiated a sense of timelessness.
His birdishness was accentuated by the avian motif that filled the cottage. There were paintings and sculptures of hawks and kestrels. And masks—a dozen or more, from crudely carved wooden ones to one that was ornately decorated with hundreds of tiny feathers. There was a stuffed owl on one bookcase, a raven on another, a pair of stonechats on a third. A heron stood in one corner. An egret and two gulls were by the window. Hanging from the support beams like shamanistic fetishes were dozens of bundles of feathers and birds’ feet tied together with leather thongs.
There were books everywhere—on shelves, in boxes and crates, stacked in unruly piles wherever there was space. But what fascinated Janey more were all the oak and glass display cases filled with odd old coins, fossils, ancient clay whistles in the shape of birds and flint artifacts, pieces of bone and tiny wooden dolls with feather skirts, clay pot shards and things that she couldn’t readily recognize. Each piece was meticulously identified by a little square of white card set near the appropriate item, the information written on the card in a tidy neat hand.
He really is like a bird, Janey decided, sitting here in his nest with everything he’s collected over the years like some kind of magpie.
“They wouldn’t go away,” Helen said.
Goninan smiled. “That’s all right. I’ve been expecting a visit from Janey Little.”
Janey blinked with surprise. “You were?”
“I’ve seen you any number of times out on the cliffs by the bay—toodling your tunes, piping, and pennywhistling. You make fine music. I believe I even have copies of your recordings . . . somewhere in here.”
He waved a hand negligently about the cluttered room. Except for the display cases with their neatly organized contents, Janey could easily see how something could get lost in this room. Lost forever.
“Sooner or later I knew you would come ’round for a visit.”
Janey had trouble following the logic of that statement.
“Would you like some tea?” Goninan added.
“Ah . . .”
“Would you put the water on, Helen?”
The tall woman nodded and moved gracefully through the clutter to the kitchen area where she filled a kettle.
“Do take a seat,” Goninan said, ushering them both to the sofa facing his chair.
None of this was going as Janey had expected it to, but then again, she hadn’t known what to expect.
“And you are?” Goninan asked Clare.
At least he doesn’t know everything, Janey thought as Clare introduced herself.
They made their way carefully to the sofa and sat down. Janey perched on the edge of the cushion, unable to stop herself from staring around the room. No matter which way she turned, something odd or wonderful caught her eye.
She could spend weeks in here, she thought.
Goninan smiled at her as he took his own chair again.
“We were wondering if you could help us,” Clare said. “You’re considered an expert in . . . I guess you could call it arcane subjects. . . .”
“I prefer to call myself a theurgist.”
“What’s that?” Janey asked.
“A magician,” Clare said.
Goninan smiled. “Of a sort.”
Janey stifled an urge to roll her eyes.
“Theurgy,” Helen said, sitting down in the other club chair. She leaned forward a bit, her disconcerting gaze fixed on Janey. “From the Latin, theurgia, meaning a miracle worker. A theurgist is one who is intimate with the spirits that oversee our world.”
“And I guess you’re his apprentice, right?” Janey said, refusing to let the other woman daunt her.
Clare jabbed Janey with her elbow, the meaning clear: Behave.
“We were more interested in your knowledge of secret societies,” Clare said.
Goninan’s eyebrows rose questioningly, but he said nothing, so she went on.
“We were wondering if you could identify a symbol we have, if you could perhaps tell us if it’s a motif associated with any particular society.”
Janey thought about Felix’s rough sketch of the dove, then looked around at all the avian material in the cottage and wondered how good an idea this was. The old homily drifted through her mind—Birds of a feather . . .—but by then it was too late because Clare had already taken out the sketch and passed it over to their host.
“Ah,” he said.
“Is there anything in your library that can tell us something about the people who use this for their symbol?” Clare asked. “They wear it on their wrists—tattooed there.”
“Yes. I know.
And there’s no need for me to look it up. I’m quite familiar with these people.”
Bloody hell, Janey thought. We’re doomed.
“They call themselves the Order of the Grey Dove, dedicating themselves to hermetic principles, something along the lines of the Golden Dawn and their like. I’ve followed their growth over the years with considerable interest.” He smiled. “Not least because of the symbol they have chosen for their motif.”
“Their bird and your birds?” Clare asked.
Goninan nodded. “Mine—if I can use a possessive term such as that for such things—are my personal key to the invisible world of the spirits that surrounds us. My totem if you will.”
“And that’s what this Order does?” Janey asked. “They . . . ah . . . talk to spirits through a dove?”
“They seek knowledge—as do we all—but their methodology has been known to employ, at times, activities that could be considered to be, shall we say, questionable?”
“What kinds of knowledge?”
Goninan smiled again. “Oh, the usual: Longevity. Power. Even understanding, though that’s somewhat rarer among this particular Order’s membership.”
“That’s not all they’re looking for,” Janey mumbled, forgetting herself.
“How so?” Goninan asked.
Janey gave Clare a glance, but Clare only shrugged as if to say, we’re here to get information.
“They seem to think we have something that they want,” Janey said finally, “but it’s nothing very important. It’s not something that can let you live forever or give you power. At least it doesn’t seem like that kind of a thing.”
Except she remembered what her grandfather had told her about the odd occurrences that had come about the last time the book had been read. And then there was the music.
And her dream.
“The most innocent thing can hold immense power,” Goninan said. “To those who know how to use it.”
The Little Country Page 37
