by Syd Moore
The incoming tenant decided to take matters into her own hands and stepped in and extended her hand to the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Trevelyan, I’m Mrs Strange. It’s fine. You may go. I have brought my own cleaning apparatus. Please leave the rest to me. I don’t mind scrubbing. It clears my mind.’
She had reached the door and was expecting not a curtsey but at least a nod of assent.
Neither was forthcoming.
Mrs Trevelyan stayed put, as solid as a statue. But Ethel-Rose did not give up that easily and continued on her trajectory, coming face to face with a strong and high forehead. Vivid green eyes found hers and widened as they took in Ethel-Rose’s face. Three blinks and then Gertie Trevelyan at last did step back. Not out of courtesy, however. Her eyes puckered in the corners then widened and distorted.
‘What are you?’ she asked, and gasped. For a moment a shadow of hesitation passed over her face and she touched her stomach as if some sick feeling had twisted her bowels. But it was a brief interlude and soon the housekeeper regained herself. Glancing at her husband, Mrs Trevelyan closed the front door behind her. ‘Merryn, no! This one will see. We cannot.’
But Ethel-Rose was getting tired of all this. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I would be awfully grateful if you admitted me and handed over the extra keys. I really am not going anywhere. It’s taken me a long long time to reach Lillia Lodge and the day is nearly over. I will not find other lodgings now. Would you want me asleep on the street?’
Mrs Trevelyan stared at the young woman on the doorstep. For such a slight figure, she understood that there was formidable force in her character. It came out in her posture and bearing. And, as Mrs Strange took another step towards her, the set of her features told the housekeeper further argument would be useless. The new tenant was going to be staying in Lillia Lodge, whether she consented or not.
Mr Trevelyan must have also sensed it, for without a word he bent and picked up the cases and ferried them over to the front door. ‘Let’s get her settled before night comes in, eh?’ he said as he met his wife on the step.
With a clear and audible sigh, which Ethel-Rose detected was more aligned to frustration than anger or indignation, Mrs Trevelyan finally stepped aside and opened the door for the young woman. ‘I ain’t happy about it,’ she said to her husband. ‘On your head be it, Merryn Trevelyan. On your head.’
Her husband lowered the offending body part and carried Mrs Strange’s bags into the lodge. He set them down in a small hallway, beneath a grandfather clock that ticked loud and slow.
Ethel-Rose, who had followed him in quickly before either one of them could change their minds, headed down a narrow passage to the room at the end of the house, the kitchen, which was just then flooded with the honeyed sunshine of late afternoon. Through the windows glorious views opened up over not one but two quite lovely bays.
To the left was familiar St Hilliards, but ahead and to the right she could see there was a neighbouring bay. For Lillia Lodge was situated on a rocky pinnacle that rose up between the two crescents. The one on the right, however, contrasted immensely with St Hilliards minute harbour and fluffy sands. Over time, the cliff had fallen away into the sea, creating a sharp necklace bejewelled with great black boulders that glittered wetly around granite splinters and blade-like spikes of rock over which the ocean crashed and burst, split and roiled.
The two bays presented contrasting sides of nature – the cosy, tamed and sheltered resort on one hand. On the other a churning cauldron of wild unchecked danger – Neptune in his fury.
‘But it’s beautiful,’ said Ethel-Rose. Something in the view, the tumult, moved her.
‘Devil’s Cove,’ said Mr Trevelyan coming up alongside her and pointing to the darker bay. Then he shuddered.
Ethel-Rose smiled at him and moved away so he too could enjoy the view. Absently she ran a finger over the cooker and automatically inspected her hand. Distracted thus, she noted her palm was quite quite clean. ‘Oh Mrs Trevelyan!’ she said, her mood once again lifting. ‘You must have very high standards. I should say this room is spotless, indeed!’ She laughed.
But Mrs Trevelyan, who had followed her in a lumbering fashion, did not. She went to a small wooden cabinet affixed to the wall and fished out a bundle of keys, which she threw, like a diseased thing, on the kitchen table. ‘There. All the keys. You make sure you lock up tonight.’
Ethel-Rose frowned. It was ungracious she thought. But then, quite often country people lacked finesse. She knew her finishing school, which had polished her rough edges, had also scrubbed out the memories of when she too lacked subtlety. Nevertheless, at home, in Adder’s Fork, they rarely locked their doors. St Hilliards did not seem, on first impression, too dissimilar. Certainly not crime-ridden. Though as she was thinking this, she remembered the tinkers who had passed through her own village but two years ago, causing havoc and mischief wherever they went. ‘What? Why does everyone tell me to lock the doors?’ she asked. ‘Are there tinkers abroad?’
At the window Mr Trevelyan grimaced. ‘Something like that.’
Ethel-Rose saw a shadow pass across Mrs Trevelyan ’s face. There was no point challenging the woman, and she had no desire to enter into another battle of wills to excavate the truth. Instead, she took a breath and let her eyes roam over the kitchen, taking in the large inglenook fireplace and low beams. ‘That’s a wonderful fireplace there. How old is the cottage?’
Mrs Trevelyan moved, in the same lumbering way, to the feature and ran her cloth over the mantelpiece. ‘Old,’ she said. ‘This part dates to the fifteenth century. The Watcher lived here.’
‘The Watcher?’
But the housekeeper had cast her eyes to the ground. A network of thread veins flushed across her cheeks. She looked away and patted strands of her slate-coloured hair that had fallen lose from the bun at the back of her head.
Over by the windows Mr Trevelyan was fixed on something outside. She couldn’t see it in detail, though it was tall and dark like a telegraph pole. Sensing her eyes upon him, the driver turned. His face was obscured, sun shining down on his back, illuminating threads of his hair and the fuzz of his vestments like a halo. He opened his arms in a strange, almost preacher-like pose so that for a moment, in that position, with just that light streaming around him, he looked like an eerie angel. ‘Show her the priest-hole, Gertie. Show her,’ he said to his wife.
Ethel-Rose watched Mrs Trevelyan consent, then followed as she beckoned her back into the hallway.
By the stairs the housekeeper paused and held up her large hand, directing Ethel-Rose’s attention. The staircase was solid and very old, fashioned from a dark, heavy timber.
‘See here,’ she said, as Ethel-Rose looked on with curiosity, and she pressed against a carved mark on the wood. With a barely audible click, a door that had not been visible, swung open. It was rectangular with a triangle cut out of the side to match the incline of the stairs. Ethel-Rose was disappointed to find it concealed only a small under-stairs cupboard space that contained nothing but a carpet sweeper and a feather duster long since past its prime. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’
‘No,’ Mrs Trevelyan replied. ‘Down here.’ And she reached to the floor, which appeared exceedingly ordinary. ‘Here,’ she said again and instructed Ethel-Rose to the edge where the boards met the wall. ‘A lever.’ She pointed to what looked like a regular knot in the wood and put her fingers through.
To Ethel-Rose’s amazement the cupboard floor popped up like a lid. Mrs Trevelyan picked it up and pushed it open. Ethel-Rose brushed her shoulder as she craned her neck and squinted into the dark void below. There was a torch hanging by a string on a nail by the duster, which Mrs Trevelyan grabbed and then shone down. The circle of light revealed a small square space perhaps only four feet high and which extended to not more than six feet in length.
‘It’s safe,’ said a voice behind her. It made her jump. Mr Trevelyan was so close. She straightened her back but he didn’t move away to give her more space. His b
reath touched her neck.
‘Intriguing,’ said Ethel-Rose, fighting against the urge to slink further back from the driver. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of these hidey-holes.’
‘This one …’ he said, his eyes blazing into her. ‘They say it was built by Saint Nicholas Owen, a master crafter. Dedicated his whole life to creating priest-holes to protect the clergy, give them sanctuary. He was a martyr. This here, is full of great sanctity. It was one of his last.’
‘Is that so?’ remarked Ethel-Rose, unsure of what was expected of her. Was she meant to stand in admiration? Bow down and pray?
She watched as Mrs Trevelyan returned the lid to its clever resting place and hoped dearly that the old couple did not intend to tour her around all of the original features in the lodge. She yawned and made sure not to disguise it. ‘Thank you so much for pointing out such a charming feature. My little one will find it most amusing.’
‘Little one?’ The housekeeper’s eyes snapped to Ethel-Rose. ‘There is a child on its way? Tonight? On All Angels …?’
‘No,’ Ethel-Rose replied, quite alarmed by the shrill pitch of Mrs Trevelyan’s voice. ‘Tomorrow. That’s why I have come early – to dust and clean.’
She thought the older woman was going to respond, but her husband touched her arm. ‘Come on, Gertie. It is not our business.’
Mrs Trevelyan hesitated for a moment, then, much to Ethel-Rose’s surprise, allowed herself to be led by her husband without a further word nor any farewell. She watched the couple trundle down the hall, out the door, over the garden and then get into the blue motorcar.
As the sound of the engine faded, she leant against the stairs and breathed out a long, sustained sigh of great relief. Now the house was hers.
It did not take Ethel-Rose long to settle herself into Lillia Lodge. There was food in the pantry and fresh milk in the new refrigerator. For supper she cooked an omelette and, after eating, washed up, made herself a cup of tea and took it rather decadently into the master bedroom, which was positioned on the first floor and was to the rear of the house. But of course, with this marvellous aspect that would have been the builder’s natural choice.
There was a large window in there, which had the most spectacular view over the bays, even better than that in the kitchen. And it was here she settled herself in, with pillows and blankets and a pair of field glasses so she could sip her cup of tea and peruse the bay as the sun set.
Amber, rose and purple coloured the view as it began to sink behind the rocky island out to sea. Stars were beginning to come out in the east.
The days were shortening but the warmth had not yet drained from summer and she lazed comfortably in her little nest, looking over the two bays: by the harbour the villagers were retiring for the night, while over in the other, the waves crashed on.
She realised, as her eye roamed across the ridge and the lawns of the house, that the tall dark thing Mr Trevelyan had been staring at earlier was an old fire beacon. Though it was rusting and decrepit and could not have been used for years. She supposed it must have once functioned like some kind of lighthouse to warn seamen of the rocky dangers that awaited them if they missed the entrance of St Hilliards’ harbour and blew into Devil’s Cove. Those strident crags down there would surely smash a ship to pieces. Thank goodness, she thought, that in this modern age, they had such marvellous technologies, radar and such, secrets given up by the war. And Ordnance Surveys had come a very long way. Sailors these days were so much better positioned in terms of navigational techniques. She smiled, contented, pleased to be alive in the now, the present day, and to be there in the Lodge on such a pleasant evening.
She was not sure what woke her first – the sound or the light. It took her a few moments to realise that she must have been sleeping. For outside night had fallen. An inky blackness pooled over the sky. The moon had risen into it.
Her cup and saucer lay tilted on her lap. The last bit of tea at the bottom was cold, a cloudy residue spread over the surface. Before she could put it down on the floor, a crackling sound alerted her to activity but yards from her window seat.
The beacon, it seemed, was alight. Gassy purple flames sprouted upwards in a fluttering dance. She could not see anyone out there and wondered why she had not been informed by Mr Lombardy that the crow’s nest in her rented garden might be used by strangers on occasion. She thought such an intrusion would merit an explanation or a warning. Perhaps a discount on the weekly rental. For a moment a frisson of irritation passed through her, but very quickly her attention was distracted by something gliding on the foamy breakers just out of reach of St Hilliards’ piers and jetties. It was a boat, though strangely shaped. The prow curled like a Viking ship. Its mainsail rose as the wind picked up.
How lovely, thought Ethel-Rose. Perhaps there is a pageant or flotilla tomorrow? A kind of regatta. And she hoped that Teddy and the family would make it down in time to see it. Though, she could see no other such extraordinary vessels.
As the boat caught the breeze, it glittered.
Perhaps there is treasure on the deck, thought Ethel-Rose excitedly. From far off places? Exotic jewels, gold, frankincense, spices and more. Gifts for family, goods to trade. What a welcome the boat and its men would get here!
And surely enough, as it curved into the shelter of the harbour, she saw happy little dots emerge from the houses in the village and run to greet it. The vessel docked, and cries of delight mixed with shouts of celebration carried to her on the wind. The taverns in the village will be full of fun tonight, she thought, and smiled.
But as she was imagining the high jinks in the hostelries below something very strange happened: the beacon in the garden extinguished itself entirely, throwing everything into darkness, as if some unseen hand had thrown ashes over it and instantly suffocated the fire. Although she squinted, she could see no moving shapes outside the house, no people or keeper, who might have done such a thing. Just the spike of the beacon, dark and alone.
At that moment the wind chose to increase its strength and the moon, which had been nearing full and shining, was obscured by turbulent clouds that had appeared from nowhere.
The gloom thickened. An eerie silence crept over the land.
As she looked down into St Hilliards’ bay she saw that fingers of mist were creeping out from the harbour and blanketing the village, where she noticed all the lights had also gone out.
The Viking boat was all but obscured by the salty spray, yet above it another mast came into view, also cloaked in mist. This vessel was larger and square-rigged, its sails billowing like a giant’s white handkerchiefs.
And now a tall ship, thought Ethel-Rose. Really though, in this weather it should take care and lower its sails.
She perceived the sea had become choppy – the masts tilted and twisted as the vessel ploughed through the foamy spray, which was reaching higher. Close to the shore the waves were now crested with white horses.
It’s bringing in the fog, she thought and squinted. Below Lillia Lodge, she could just make out shadows moving round the cliff.
She peered down and saw that they were people, clambering over the rocks below from St Hilliards’ bay to Devil’s Cove.
What were they doing out at this hour on such a stormy night?
And why had they no torches?
But as they reached the further bay, she saw pinpricks of light come on. Then up the other end of Devil’s Cove another beacon exploded into light.
Out in the bay, the tall ship chopped and dipped, heading it seemed, not for the shelter of St Hilliards, but the treacherous jaws of Devil’s Cove.
Oh no, she thought. The crew must believe the lights were guiding them to safety, not warning them of the perils below!
She sat up, alarmed and pressed her face against the panes. Her breath steamed up the glass. She rubbed it and saw that the lights on the beach had multiplied and were moving, to and fro, swinging back and forth as if deliberately enticing the ship in.
No, she thought
. But it will smash against the rocks!
Then she had an idea – perhaps she should light the beacon in the garden herself?
Yes, that would be it. There might be enough time yet to warn the approaching ship.
She got to her feet, put on her shoes and raced from the bedroom down the stairs, through the passageway, out the door, round the house to the back, where she could see the beacon growing like a tree from the ground.
Oh my, it was biting out here. They said the weather in these parts was changeable but even so. Though the day had been calm she felt like now she had run into a violent tempest. The wind streamed through her hair, blowing it up and lashing her face. A bitter chill pinched at her nose and ears.
As she reached the beacon, she saw to her dismay there was no wood stacked within its metal nest. Nor cinders. Nothing. Although it had been blazing brightly just minutes ago.
Could it really have burnt itself out like that?
It was hard to think. The waves were crashing loudly now, stirring and hissing and roaring. What a storm was surely being whipped up! She blinked and searched for the bright ship out there in the thick of it, found it and gasped out loud. For the fated boat was now fast entering Devil’s Cove.
‘Why?’ she cried, then saw stirrings below: more individuals were amassing on the craggy rim.
Thrashed by the wind, her field glasses battered about her chest. She had forgotten she was still wearing them. But now she picked them up and looked through their lenses at the folk on the beach.
Her vision rested on a woman in long skirts. That was perplexing – could Mrs Trevelyan possibly be out down there? This character had the same build and cumbersome manner of walking as the heavy housekeeper, but she was too far away to see for sure. Perhaps a relative.
Around the woman were other men. Some had scarves and jerkins fastened tight, well prepared for wind and cold. Beyond this group she saw others holding lanterns. Farm hands with scythes and pitchforks, milkmaids with their shoulder yokes and pails were descending from the other cliff. They must have come out from a nearby farm, drawn by the light and clamour, to try and aid the passengers of the vessel.
