Hell bay, p.3
Hell Bay, page 3
In this new century with its innovations and its large companies gobbling up smaller ones like fish in a pond, the newly christened Cornish Riviera Limited can travel from London to Penzance in five hours, but in 1889, it took nearly twice that. We were of sturdier stock then, however, when Victoria was on the throne, and if it took ten hours to get somewhere, that’s how long it took. One mustn’t grumble. Or if one did, Barker wouldn’t listen, which is much of a kind.
It was near teatime as we approached the Cornish coast, and the top windows of the compartment were open or it would be stultifying. I could smell the sharp tang of sea air, which always sounds better than it really is, a mixture of salt, seaweed, and dead fish. As I felt the brakes being applied, I noted that the gaslights were already lit. There was no through line to Land’s End, so we would stop for the night here and take an omnibus coach to the coast in the morning. Dragon deposited its cargo of sore, tired, and ravenous passengers upon an unsuspecting Penzance.
CHAPTER THREE
We had reservations at the Union Hotel in Penzance, a solid, traditional old inn of good size. It wasn’t Claridge’s, but we were sore and tired after our journey and it would do. We dined on halibut and afterward I took a walk about the town. I hadn’t been out of London in a while and the place seemed rural and provincial by moonlight and yet it made me think of home again. I stopped in at a pub and had a half pint of bitter, then returned to the hotel and fell into bed. Barker came up a half hour later. The last thing I recall hearing was the clunk of his final shoe on the floor, the last thought that we had just come three hundred miles and I hoped the journey would be worth our effort.
In the morning we had kippered herring and crumpets with our eggs and tea. Mrs. Ashleigh came down in a suit of blue-gray heather which set off the russet in her hair. Barker and I rose as she entered and sat after her.
“Did you see anyone from our party, my dear?” he asked.
“Aside from the colonel and his wife, there is Lady Alicia and the Honorable Algernon Kerry.”
“I see.”
“Oh, and there is a Dr. Anstruther and his two daughters, Gwendolyn and Bella.”
I did no more than look across the dining room at the family, enough to notice that one was dark-haired and the other more fair, but Philippa slapped my hand.
“Those girls are being trotted out for the family’s inspection, not yours, Thomas Llewelyn. I won’t have you derailing Celia’s carefully laid plans.”
“I wasn’t doing anything,” I insisted. “I glanced their way out of curiosity.”
“No more glancing! Eat your kipper!”
There are some arguments one has no hope of winning. I ate my kipper. The bone in my throat did not come from any sort of fish at all. It was a bone of contention.
Within half an hour the lobby was full of luggage, ready to be loaded into a caravan of vehicles taking the party to Land’s End and our private ferry. Getting to this baleful island was proving to be something of a nuisance. Out of Philippa’s line of vision, I regarded the two young women I was warned against, and found them a trifle wanting. One had decidedly beetling brows, while the other looked rather willful. But then, my heart belonged to another, and every woman in comparison with Rebecca Mocatta came out second-rate.
I had met Miss Mocatta during my first case with Barker, then lost touch until I encountered her the year before during the infamous Whitechapel case. She was then married, but became a widow shortly after. We met and decided to start seeing each other after a proper period of mourning. There were decisions to make and family members to face, but there was time, and we would face them together. I had kissed her to seal the pact. Now, after years of chatting up each girl I met to learn if she was the one with whom I wanted to spend my life, I knew who it was and had no wish to chat up anyone else. It was a great relief, I promise you.
We climbed into a brougham, but it was so tight a fit I joined the jarvey up on the box. As it turned out, it was a glorious day and there was no better way to spend it than atop a horse-drawn coach. The countryside approached idyllic, like a scene from Constable, and we made good progress, reaching Land’s End in time.
There was no squad of porters waiting to see Mrs. Ashleigh’s trunks off the vehicle and onto the ferryboat, and since Barker was attending her, I had reached the valet portion of the case. One by one, I lifted the heavy luggage and carried it up the gangplank. At least I was not alone: a swarthy but pleasant-looking fellow in pince-nez spectacles was matching me case for case.
“Bum jia,” he said.
“Morning. Do you speak English?”
“I do. I am a trifle rusty. That is the word, isn’t it?”
“It is. I’m Thomas Llewelyn.”
“Cesar Rojas. Pleased to meet you. Which one do you work for?”
“The chap with the dark glasses there.”
“Is that his wife?”
“Not yet. Which one is yours?”
“The young gentleman in the panama hat,” he said.
I regarded the one he indicated. He was a youngish fellow in a colonial suit, but already I could see the signs of either ill humor or dissatisfaction on his face.
“What kind of master is he?” I muttered.
“A tartar,” he said, carrying a heavy suitcase over to the boat. “Yours?”
“Oh, he has his moments.”
The young master growled some caustic remark to his servant in what I assumed was Portuguese. Though he was tan, the speaker was obviously an Englishman. The valet made some sort of agreeable response to him and redoubled his efforts. I was thankful for the situation I was in. There were hundreds in London that wished they had my situation.
“I’ll speak with you later,” I said.
“Adeus.”
Philippa Ashleigh had found another circle of people to speak to, I noticed, and Barker was doing his best to impersonate someone interested in their conversation. My position was still flexible so far. Barker had told me that at the latest possible moment he would decide what my role might be. If a mere valet, I could be privy to conversations in the kitchen with the house staff. As an assistant, however, I might be included in the main room during important moments.
I don’t care for security work. It is much easier to track a killer that has killed already than to protect someone from any number of attacks. So far, I had done it only two or three times, and in most cases, no attempt was made to harm anyone. Sometimes I forget, dealing as I do with death now and then, how rare murder actually is in England.
“The French ambassador?” Mrs. Fraser asked with a note of excitement in her voice. “How exciting! But what brings him to Godolphin House?”
“He is an old friend of Lord Hargrave’s, and expressed an interest in seeing him again,” Philippa explained. “I suspect Celia invited him because her husband will be so bored with the party. He’s an old diplomat and if I know him he won’t care two figs whom his children marry.”
“You can’t leave these matters in men’s hands,” the woman responded. “They have no head for such things. They’ll come up with the most unsuitable persons for their own children.”
Mrs. Ashleigh agreed, but even I suspected she was being diplomatic. We had all moved aboard the hired ferry, and after a few minutes it gave a whistle and I could hear the roar of the boiler gathering steam. Many times I had built steam in Barker’s own vessel, the Osprey, a lorcha out of Macau that he had won, oddly enough, in a fan-tan game, of all things. But, I digress.
The moorings were cast off and we pulled out of the harbor on a beautiful day, warm and fine, with just enough wind to freshen everything. I had been a child the last time I was in Cornwall, and hadn’t noticed how beautiful it was. I’d never been to the Scilly Isles, and wondered precisely what our destination would be like. I assumed the house would be grand, but how remote would the island actually be? It seemed to be the kind of place where everything had to be ferried in.
The ferry carried twenty of us, servants included, but it jiggled about in the choppy seas like a cork in a bathtub. I hoped that the ride would be short, or the colonel would be correct about my mal de mer. Everyone on deck was clutching the railing, trying to look cheerful. Still, the vessel left the harbor under full steam, heading bravely into what looked like an empty Channel. In theory, there was nothing between us and the Azores.
Just then, I recalled some old legends my grandfather once told me about the Scilly Isles. It was said that this was the very northernmost tip of Atlantis, and where King Arthur’s body was taken upon his death. Grandfather claimed that Lyonnesse was here, the kingdom where the faerie folk abandoned England, never to return. It was a place of magic and tragedy. So many legends for a small bracelet of islands in the middle of nowhere.
The boat tossed and our stomachs turned, but we continued to make progress. Like Lot’s wife, I looked back over my shoulder until Land’s End was no longer visible. There was nothing but water then, and the ferry, which now seemed very small as we bobbed in a mighty sea. In fact, we had left the Channel now for the Atlantic Ocean. Was the first land I was facing the so-called New World?
“Welcome to Hell Bay,” the captain called to us. “For what it’s worth.”
There was a ragged cheer and some finger-pointing half an hour later when small islands began to appear ahead of us. Regretfully, we passed them one by one, but they gave us much-needed courage that land still existed. Beside me, Barker was looking particularly elemental, as if hewn from granite, while beside him, Philippa looked fragile, like a bluebell growing in the cleft of a rock, sheltering in its lee.
“Land ho!” one of the sailors cried, and we all stood and searched for it, as if to prove it wasn’t a prank. A bit of black rock stood up from the ocean ahead of us, but one could not tell if it was a few feet across nearby, or a mountain rising from the sea far away. At that point, we didn’t care how big it was. We gathered our possessions about us and prepared to get off the blasted vessel.
As we neared, my eyes made out a jetty ahead of us, made of rock and stout timbers. Eventually, I noticed there were people milling about, looking like ants on an anthill. Lovely little ants, proof that we were not alone in our existence in the universe. There was a lone pier hewn from native rock and at the end of it there stood a person. No; two people, clasped as one. It was our host and hostess. Our journey, which had begun the morning before, was finally coming to an end. As we neared, Lord Hargrave raised an arm in greeting. Adam and Eve were ordered to “be fruitful and multiply,” but really, I thought, some places might not be worth the trouble to colonize.
We slowed as we entered, shooting along briskly beside the jetty until finally the steam valve was shut off and we floated to a stop. Ropes were thrown from aboard and fastened tightly in elaborate knots. My feet ached to step onto land, but so did everyone else’s. Chivalry demanded the women disembark first, as if the ferry were sinking. Besides, I was still in that nebulous position between upstairs and down. A secretary or assistant was perfectly respectable, but the valet ate in the kitchen. Not that it particularly mattered. I would go wherever Barker needed me. For now, I was one of the last to leave the boat. Oh, blessed, blessed land that while spinning through the heavens at a fantastic rate gives the wonderful impression of standing still. I stood on the dock by the luggage and communed with the rock through the soles of my shoes.
“Mr. Barker, sir,” our host called, after speaking with other parties ahead of us. “And my dear Philippa! So good to see you both. Welcome to Godolphin Island.”
“Philippa!” Lady Hargrave cried, embracing Mrs. Ashleigh. She was a pleasant-looking woman in her early fifties, still retaining much of the beauty of her youth. She was blond-haired and blue-eyed, and her face was freshened by the breeze and freckled by the sun. By her very presence I began to suspect that perhaps we would all have a good time here.
Barker, on the other hand, was still adamantine. He did not care for house parties, nor bodyguard work. While Philippa and Lady Hargrave chattered together over a thousand different subjects, the two men cudgeled their brains for just one.
“I hear Grace hit for the century this week,” His Lordship said.
“Century?” Barker asked, as if he might have misheard him.
“Cricket, sir,” I said in his ear.
“I don’t keep up with cricket,” Barker stated.
“Ah.”
“Would it be possible, once everyone is settled, to have one of your groomsmen or gardeners show me about the island?”
That was Cyrus Barker for you, all business at hand. He was there for a purpose, and he would fulfill it. One would as soon discuss the cricket scores with a plow horse.
“Of course, sir. He’s generally about somewhere. Come along, Celia! There is much to be done.”
A stony staircase led to the top of the cliffs and the island proper. I turned and regarded the pile of luggage and the steamer trunks being unloaded, then regarded the stone steps I was to carry them up and over. A hand tapped me on the shoulder. It was the friendly Cesar.
“They won’t move themselves,” he said, pointing to the luggage. “You have to carry them, you know.”
“Oh, really? Thank you for the tip. What do you say? One at a time, or all at once?”
“No more than two at a time. The capitán there says there is a dogcart at the top to take the luggage to the castle.”
“Is it a castle?” I asked. “I thought it was just a house.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it yet. House or castle, it doesn’t matter much. We’re not ever likely to afford either.”
We carried the luggage up the stairs to the cart. It took several trips. Cesar helped me with the trunks, which were too unwieldy for one man to lift. The guests had either walked or ridden to the main building. When the dray cart was full, we walked beside it down the drive. We passed through a screen of trees and caught our first glimpse of what would be our home for the next week.
It was a castle, indeed, I told myself. That is, when it was built centuries ago, I’m sure, that was what they intended. It might be small by modern standards, but improvements had been added, like windows and gardens. So this was Godolphin House, a crenellated castle of dark gray stone set in an ambitious garden. It was charming. One felt it was cared for and looked after rather than slaved over. People might actually enjoy working here. In fact, whoever worked here must realize how lucky they were.
I’d have to ask my employer what his first impressions were. He wasn’t about to venture any opinion unbidden. Cesar was not so reticent. He whistled.
“Very nice, senhor,” he said. “One could get used to this.”
“Get your master to propose to the daughter of the house and you’ll come here more often.”
“Let us just see if we can get through this first time, shall we?” Cesar suggested.
CHAPTER FOUR
The decision as to whether I was to remain upstairs or go downstairs had not yet been decided, but I followed the cart around the outside of the house and entered through the back entrance, on the safe side of a wall where I could hear pounding surf. Once inside the kitchen, I set down my own single piece of luggage and looked about. There were a dozen people in the near passages and all of them were talking at once. I debated who most looked like they knew what they were about and finally fixed upon a fellow coming down the passage in a short beard and a swallowtail suit coat. I buttonholed him as he passed.
“Who’s in charge of this place?” I asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m Mr. Barker’s man.”
“You’ll need the housekeeper, then, Mrs. Tregowith. She’s down the hall there. She’ll sort you out.”
“Right. Thanks. Come along, Cesar.”
“Look there!” the Brazilian said, pointing to a wooden case as we passed.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Renaudin Bollinger, 1879. Only the best champagne in the world. Someone shall be eating well this week.”
“I doubt it will be us.”
We found the housekeeper in the kitchen. Mrs. Tregowith was a severe-looking woman, which I suppose must be an admirable quality in housekeepers as I’ve never seen one that wasn’t. She glared at us as if we were already in trouble for being in her domain.
“And who might you two gentlemen be?”
“I’m Mr. Barker’s assistant, Thomas Llewelyn, ma’am. This is Mr. Kerry’s valet, Cesar.”
The woman pulled a clipboard seemingly from out of the air and consulted it like some kind of oracle.
“You are in room seven with Colonel Fraser’s man, and you, Mr. Rojas, are in room nine.”
“Is there a chance we could—” I began, but the woman gave me such a thunderous look that I changed tack. “Be of any service to you or your staff?”
“Thank you. I shall keep that in mind. For now, tend to your masters’ needs and try not to get underfoot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we both said. She reminded me of an early teacher of mine.
We began first with Kerry’s luggage. I never knew a man to have so many cases. We carried them upstairs to his rooms and apparently burst in upon him. The tanned Englishman looked furtive, although he appeared to be merely in the act of putting on a cuff link. He gave it to us with both barrels.
“What in hell are you two idiots doing, blundering in like this?”
“We’re just bringing in your luggage, sir,” Cesar said, not in the least offended by his attitude.
“It’s about time, too. Well, be quick about it and get out.”
“Si, senhor.”
“It’s ‘Yes, sir,’ here, Cesar. We’re in England now.”
