The Cornish Widow, page 19
I look up, still holding the key, and immediately spy a trunk beneath a painting of a windmill on the sidewall. I don't need to compare the key to the lock to know it fits. I walk towards it, casting a glance towards the front of the hut, making sure that the women haven't returned unexpectedly. It is still quiet, so I slide the key inside and open the trunk, delighted to find that it contains a treasure trove of books. Stacks and stacks of books, fiction, and non-fiction alike. Heaven in a box. I busy myself pulling them out, one after another making tidy piles along the floor as I forensically examine each precious tome. I wish I could take them all home with me. I am about to remove the last few books when I realise that I have made a mess and couldn't quickly return the books and cover my tracks if I needed to. Sighing, I replace them, but my butterfingers drop a heavy book in the process and the weight of it dislodges part of the bottom of the trunk, creating a slight gap. I push my fingers in the space and tug a wooden panel towards the other side. It slides into a recess, revealing a shallow hidden compartment containing a shiny purple material. Undeterred by the prospect of being caught in the act, I pick it up and shake it out. It unfolds into a large, hooded robe, and I already know that there will be a unicursal hexagram on the back before I turn it around.
WE ARRIVE BACK AT THE colony mid-afternoon. Coralie is talking nineteen to the dozen about the prehistoric cave in the grounds of Penhallow House that they visited on their walk. It is old hat to Mary and Laura, who have seen it many times before but Laura is proud of the unusual feature on her property. She regaled Coralie with cave related folklore and superstitions during the walk, which Coralie now has a burning need to share. I try to respond as if I am listening, but all I can think about is why Mary's brother owned a Calicem Aureum robe. Was he part of the organisation? I rack my brains, trying to remember what Oliver Fox said. If my memory serves me correctly, he was fearful of Felix Crossley but not necessarily of the order in general. So, it doesn't follow that Crawford Newson was a wicked man just because he was a member. And if the visions I saw were anything to go by, he seemed frightened. I wish I could ask Mary, but I don't know her well enough to risk hurting her feelings. She might not understand and would no doubt take offence at me poking around her brother's studio. I decide it is best to leave well alone, and I try to engage with Cora and Mary, so they don't notice that I'm preoccupied.
When we get to the colony, I prepare to slink off to my room, but Mary has other plans.
"Shall I teach you to drive?" she suggests, and I immediately agree. It is a disaster. My mind is elsewhere. Although we crawl around the country lane at a speed only slightly faster than a brisk walk, I almost hit a passing pedestrian.
"We'll try again tomorrow," says Mary, as we swap seats. "Don't worry," she continues. "It takes a few attempts to get the hang of it, but you did jolly well with that leg of yours. It was strong enough to move the pedal, and we'll make a driver of you yet." I thank her and look forward to a quiet afternoon, but I hadn't reckoned with the vibrant nature of the artist's colony.
"Look lively," says Cora as I walk back through the front door. "The fortune teller will be here shortly."
"The what?"
"It's Boo's birthday," says Cora. "They've arranged tea and cakes, a fire-eater and a fortune teller." I stare, aghast. I am shattered and have done more today than I usually do in a week. I am desperate for a nap and need time to consolidate my thoughts about Crawford Newson's connection to Calicem Aureum. But I don't want to seem ungrateful and stifling a yawn, I sit between Coralie and Carrie Yates, who I only met this morning.
Boo Lyons is sitting with Mary and Mary's mother on the large leather sofa, warming herself by the fire. She is wearing a silk scarf that looks new and is sifting through several sealed envelopes in front of her. Birthday cards, I assume, then immediately feel bad that I haven't given her one. I wish Mary had mentioned her birthday celebrations before we arrived. Though Cora and I have only recently met Boo, we are living with her, if only for a short time and ignoring her birthday seems like bad manners.
I sigh. "I'd have brought Boo a card if I'd known," I say.
"Don't worry. Mary's mother told me yesterday," whispers Cora. "I packed a box of Brazil nuts in case we felt peckish on the journey, so I've wrapped it and given it to Boo. The card is from both of us."
I glance at the table again, and sure enough, there is a box of nuts tied with a red bow. "Well done," I say admiringly.
Teatime is a repeat of last night, announced with a gong and artists trooping through into the kitchen to collect plates of food. As soon as everyone sits down again, we munch cakes and drink tea while watching the fire-eater perform his tricks. It is utterly bizarre and incomprehensively bohemian. I don't know whether to love it or hate it. And I am filled with trepidation when they announce that the fortune teller will see everyone regardless of status. She starts with Boo, who dissolves into peals of laughter at the prospect of becoming famous. Mary appreciates her forecast of increasing riches, and I am cynical when told that I will soon go on a long journey. But things take a darker turn. Carrie Yates learns she will soon meet a tall, handsome stranger, and her granddaughter, Diana, should beware a suitor from afar. Carrie lost her husband a few short months ago, and Diana is only fifteen. Few men take the fortune teller seriously. Gulliver Harding eventually sends her away after rewarding her with a large tip for her services. Before long, they substitute tea for cocktails, and the evening begins to take a riotous turn.
"I am dead on my feet," I say, trying to keep my eyes open as I gaze at Cora.
"Oh, but it's such fun."
"You must stay," I say. "Enjoy yourself. I don't need watching, and I'm going straight to sleep."
"As long as you don't mind," she says. "Best not mention it to Vera."
I nod my agreement, but I am past the point of caring. Tiredness overwhelms me, and it is a struggle to climb the stairs. I cannot summon the energy to get into my nightclothes so shed only my dress before sliding under the sheets in my petticoat and stockings before sleep overtakes me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Warning
JUNE 1948
I am dreaming again, and I have been here before. I am standing outside a red brick terraced house, peering through the dusky dawn at a familiar-looking doorway. In front is a tiny garden, and behind me, a street. The inhabitants are rousing from their slumbers as day breaks. I'm feeling fuzzy and not entirely with it. Something is wrong, something more than the distraction of being in a dimension I still don't understand. I hear the roar of an engine and look behind me to see a car passing by at speed. But what a car. It is terrifyingly modern, and I don't recognise the make at all. A woman walks by with hair piled high in curlers barely contained in a cheap linen scarf. No pride in her appearance, as evidenced by her skirts. Goodness me, but her hemline is only just below her knee. Having only recently abandoned full-length dresses, I am appalled at the sight of her legs. It is too much. I stare at the house, knowing my dream has brought me here for a reason, and that reason is inside. But doubt has paralysed me, and I want to know more about my surroundings. So, I wait, and a paperboy soon arrives and drops his bundle on the mat under the covered porch. I hasten toward it and steal a look. It does not tell me much. He's rolled up the newspaper, and all I can see is half a photograph of a suited man. The headline is on the underside, and as I have no physical presence, I'm unable to move it. Fortunately, a gust of wind does the job for me, and I am astounded to read the date on the Shrewsbury Chronicle – Wednesday, June 2, 1948. No wonder I am feeling disorientated. I am out of place and out of time. But why?
The door opens, and a woman appears clad in a coat too warm for the season and swamped by an oversized hat. I look and look again. This woman seems familiar, but I can't see her face beneath the hat brim. And in a flash, I remember dream walking to this house, a night memorable because until then, I had never been further than Mawgan Porth. During the dream, I watched someone remove a poisonous liquid from a bottle and mix it into another with clear intent to cause harm, perhaps even death. And now I know why I am here – to warn the victim, whoever she is. I wave my hands and try to call her, try to shout. I hear the shrillness in my voice, high pitched, loud, and increasing in intensity. But the noise is all inside my head. She doesn't see me. In desperation, I glide towards her and hurl myself into her body. She feels nothing, doesn't know I'm there. My job is to save her, but I can't. I'm all that stands between her and her killer, and I have failed. My head jerks violently, and the street becomes blurred, then I sink back into darkness and wake with tears running down my cheeks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Betsy Poskitt's Diary
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1930
It is Christmas Eve, and we ought to be celebrating, but Alfred is in his workshop mending shoes by gaslight. He will ruin his eyes if he's not careful. He has plucked a fowl, but we cannot raise any enthusiasm for Christmas Day with Annie still missing and under suspicion of such heinous crimes. My heart breaks for her. It was bad enough when Aunt Mary died, but things became worse when our sister, Minnie, faded away into nothing. I remember Annie's letters well. She sent news every week as Minnie was too poorly to write herself. Minnie's illness started with gastric catarrh and colitis, soon accompanied by rheumatic pains in her arms. Annie ministered to her every need and made sure Dr Gibson frequently called to see her. And when Minnie lost a lot of weight, Dr Gibson checked her for signs of cancer. We already had that wicked disease in the family, but there was no sign of any malignancy.
"She'll pull through," I said to Alfred, and he wholeheartedly agreed. But Minnie did not thrive. Quite the reverse. I have kept Annie's letters from that terrible time. Every one of them. They are in the back of my diary for that year, and I read them often as I remember my dear departed sister. By the time Dr Gibson checked on Minnie two weeks after the cancer examination, she was feeble, emaciated and barely alive. Minnie was so weak that she couldn't turn over in bed without help, and though she moved her lips and tried her best, Annie wrote to say she could hardly talk. My poor sister had winced in pain, raising her head from the pillow in one last heroic attempt to speak. Annie wept as she recalled Minnie's last valiant efforts and her final letter still bears evidence of her distress, tears forming inky furrows down the page. Annie must have posted it in a hurry, for the crooked stamp hung over the edge of the envelope when it arrived. Another letter soon followed, this one scrawled in an unsteady hand only just recognisable as Annie's. It was short and melancholy. Minnie had died the same night. Annie was distraught, and her only consolation was Dr Gibson's kind words. He called her a good nurse and devoted sister. She was all those things and more.
I lower my pen and drift for a moment, thinking about my sisters. We were alike in so many ways, Annie, Minnie, and me. The three eldest Everard girls, of those of us who lived, bound together in an unbreakable sisterly bond. Perhaps it's because we didn't have children. Or maybe because Annie and I married later in life, and Minnie didn't wed at all. Whatever the reason, we relied upon each other, and though I lived away from my sisters, we were as close as sisters could be. I might be the only one left now.
My heart aches when I remember the day I first heard about Annie's disappearance. I'd left my cottage in Long Sandall one November morning to find a grey-suited man standing by the gate, and he caught me unawares. If I'd been expecting him, I'd have thought twice about answering his questions. But he caught me on the hop when he asked what I thought about Annie's disappearance. Well, I did not know she was missing, and his words came as a terrible shock. So, I said I hadn't heard from her for about seven days, which didn't concern me as we write every week and sometimes it goes a little over. But the last letter she sent concerned her friend Alice, who had died. Annie wrote of her devastation at Alice's loss and mentioned the impending funeral. She did not say that Alice had died by nefarious means. The grey-suited man, who turned out to be a journalist, wanted to know if Annie was on her way to see me. I said that I wasn't expecting my sister, and she hadn't asked to visit. But then the enormity of the situation came over me. I remember sobbing as I listened to his account of my poor bereaved Annie and her flight from Lewannick. He asked about Annie's background and I should have told him to mind his own business but I was so flustered that I talked about her cookery school in Harrogate, which she ran with our deceased aunt, Mary Everard.
I have broken off from my writing because thinking about the three of us, three sisters who will never be a trio again, is too distressing. I have younger sisters, and I love them too, but our bond is more motherly. They could never replace Minnie and Annie.
Over the weeks, I've racked my brains about Annie. I am surprised that she hasn't found her way to me, and her absence makes me fearful that she followed through with her terrible threat. I can't imagine how she felt when she talked about destroying herself, as the newspaperman heavy-handedly informed me. I hear Annie asked Mr Thomas to send me her love in her last letter. That small fact brings me a little cheer. If Annie truly intended to take her life, she would have said goodbye. So, I hope against hope that my sister is alive.
Tomorrow Alfred and I will lay the table for three, though only two will eat Christmas Dinner. We will go to church, pray for Annie's soul and hope they find her soon. My sister is innocent. I do not fear a trial, so Godspeed to those who would locate her and bring her home safely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Mysterious Mrs Faithful
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 14, 1931
Today is a glorious day. Crispy frost shimmers over the sand as the sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warming glow through the sharp winter morn. I am enjoying the view from my favourite cave, where I'm snuggling under a blanket. I am safe and warm. And on my lap is an item of truly magnificent functionality that Coralie Pennington gave me for Christmas. It is an Icy-Hot bottle from America, and its purpose is to keep hot things hot and cold things cold. I am sitting with my legs on a packing crate, enjoying a cup of steaming hot cocoa while reading my newest library book and feeling unusually content.
I returned to Pebble Cottage two weeks ago after a frantic but pleasant trip to Mary Newson's artist colony in Bosula. Coralie and I had a good time, though my break was less carefree than hers because of my preoccupation with Crawford Newson's occult connections. But all visits must end, and I wasn't sorry to return to my natural surroundings. I'd missed my little bedroom and my ready book supply, not to mention Peter and my much-loved cave.
I pull the blanket tightly around my shoulders as I gaze across the bay. The waters are still and unseasonably serene for January. The world is light today; I've left my worries at home and I am happy. If only I could stay here all day. But Peter is coming to the house in half an hour. He wants me to conduct an experimental dream walk, and, filled with joy at seeing him after such a long absence, I foolishly agreed to it. Peter has finally acknowledged the evidence of my nocturnal meanderings and has admitted that I couldn't have invented the description of his bedroom. Not only does he believe me, but he wants to see my powers in action. I have explained to him that dream walking is by no means guaranteed, but Peter says he understands and only wants to see how it looks. The idea has a certain appeal. I don't know how I appear from someone else's perspective, and it will comfort me to have a protector if I encounter any danger. I am doing my best not to enter the waking dream state voluntarily. No good ever comes of it. Sometimes it takes me in my sleep, and I cannot stop it. But the most fearsome of the dream walks happen when I force them, and the obvious solution is not to try so, I expect this will be my last attempt. Although I have dreamed twice since my return to Pebble Cottage, I am not afraid because I have woken near Beacon Cove on each occasion. It is my territory and a place of safety. The cliffs are my domain, and I am midnight monarch of this tiny part of Cornwall.
I close my book and empty the dregs from my cup. My concentration has ebbed away thinking about Peter, and I might as well return to the cottage early. The route was slippery on the way to the cave, and I needed my stick more than I have in a long time. But I must be growing stronger as the outbound walk, usually challenging in extreme weather, was more manageable today. I whistle as I plod home along the sand and ignore the flat rock where I have so often broken my journey. And when I round the lane to see Pebble Cottage nestling behind the hotel, I am pleased with my decision. Isla Tremayne has already parked her car outside the house, so Peter must have arrived early.
