I pulled a face and set myself to keeping up with them, not an easy task given that Stoker was determined to make quick work of the outing. He was destined to be thwarted by his hostess’s strategy of keeping him at her side for the whole of the excursion. Mertensia attempted to dally at every possible landmark, pointing out every shrub and outcropping along the path, to which Stoker made artful replies. Unable to bring himself to be rude to her by means of short responses, he instead took the opportunity to give her lengthy lectures of such catastrophic dullness that only a saint could have possibly endured them with patience. I caught snatches of phrases here and there as I caught them up, bits of impenetrable Latin delivered with the somber air of a Welsh parson.
Mertensia’s eyes glazed over as he extolled the virtues of the rock formations beneath our feet. “Really?” I heard her ask. “I had no idea. I am afraid I do not know much at all about rocks,” she said somewhat desperately.
“Oh, are you talking of rocks?” I asked, widening my eyes and setting down the basket for a moment. “I do enjoy a good discussion of rocks.”
“Pity we’ve just finished it, then,” Stoker told me. He eyed the basket with an unholy sort of enjoyment. “Come on, then, Veronica. Don’t dally. Miss Mertensia has calls to pay.” He turned and strode off and only the rocks heard the names that I called him as I trotted after.
In spite of the earliness of the hour, the local folk were all up and about their business. We made several stops in the village so that Mertensia could dispense her remedies, tonics, embrocations, and balms of every variety. The local folk were cordial to us and deferential to Mertensia, accepting her instructions and her preparations with equal respect. She was sure of herself, I noted, missing all traces of her customary awkwardness when she inquired about a child’s cough or an old woman’s rheumatism. In caring for the islanders, she came out of herself, relaxing enough to discuss the various ailments with Stoker in his capacity as a former naval surgeon. He gave a little quiet advice from time to time, to which she listened with interest, and I found myself excluded, taking the role of observer.
When we reached the last of the cottages, Mertensia preceded us inside to make a private examination of an elderly patient whilst Stoker and I waited.
“Do you ever miss it?” I asked.
“Miss what?” He rummaged in his pocket for a paper twist of peppermint humbugs, popping one into his mouth and crunching hard. The fact that his teeth were even and white and uncracked from such abuses was proof that Mother Nature played favorites.
“Practicing medicine. You trained as a surgeon, and I have seen you play the part several times. You are good at it.”
He shrugged. “I am good at many things I no longer do.”
I thought of the scores of women he had bedded during the period of enthusiastic debauchery that had preceded the self-imposed chastity of his last few years. I gave him a level look and he colored furiously.
“In the name of seven hells, Veronica, I did not mean that,” he protested. “And no, I do not miss amputating limbs and mopping up after a flogging.”
“I thought floggings went out with Napoléon,” I said, plucking a humbug from his palm.
“Just because something is forbidden doesn’t mean it won’t flourish,” he told me. He put the paper twist on a stone and brought another sharply down upon it, breaking the last humbug in half. He handed the larger piece over to me.
Just then, a pair emerged from around the corner of the cottage, young Peter from the inn and Daisy the castle maid. Peter was carrying a covered pail and Daisy was hurrying him along.
“Mind you come along smartly, lad. Mrs. Trengrouse will not wait for that,” she warned him. She caught sight of us and bobbed a swift curtsy.
“Hello, Daisy. What brings you down to the village?” I asked.
Peter brandished the pail. “Chicken dung, miss.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Daisy clucked her tongue at him. “Do not speak to the lady of such things,” she scolded. “Now, get on to the castle and take that straight to the laundry or I will make you the worse for it.”
He darted a hopeful look at Stoker, who obliged him with the last piece of humbug. He grinned as he put it into his pocket with grubby hands.
“Thank the gentleman!” Daisy told him.
Peter bowed. “Very kind of you, sir.”
“You are most welcome, Master Peter,” Stoker replied with a courtly inclination of the head.
Peter scampered off and Daisy looked after him with an exasperated expression. “More trouble than a dozen monkeys, he is.”
“Dare I ask what Mrs. Trengrouse requires of . . . that?” I asked.
“The chicken leavings? ’Tis for scorch marks, miss. I was put up from laundrymaid to chambermaid but the new lass scorched a sheet when she was ironing and Mrs. Trengrouse was fit to be tied, she was. Now we have to soak it in a mixture of what the chickens give with a bit of vinegar and fuller’s earth to make it right again.”
Just then Mertensia emerged from the cottage. “Hello, Daisy. Chicken dung, I presume?”
“Yes, miss.”
Mertensia turned to us. “Mrs. Polglase’s chickens are the most prolific on the island for that sort of thing. Off you go, Daisy. Mrs. Trengrouse will be looking for you.”
The maid hurried off and Mertensia turned to us. “Mrs. Polglase the elder is having a difficult morning, but she wanted very much to meet our visitors. Will you oblige her?”
We expressed our willingness to do so and Mertensia guided us into the cottage. It was neat as a new pin, with freshly whitewashed walls and scrubbed stone floors. It was one main room with a sturdy table and chairs and a set of shelves with a loft made up for sleeping. In the back wall, a Dutch door had been cut, giving onto a hen yard, where a raucous clucking could be heard along with a woman’s voice as she shushed them patiently. Inside the cottage, a fire of good hardwood was burning in the hearth, and near it a bed had been arranged and fitted with blinding white linens—no doubt the handiwork of Mrs. Polglase’s excellent chickens, I surmised. In the bed, a tiny old woman of indeterminate years, anywhere between eighty and a century, peeped out from a pile of shawls and blankets and scarves, her little head topped by a vast cap of the sort worn by French queens and superior parlormaids of the last century.
“Mrs. Polglase, this is Miss Speedwell and Mr. Templeton-Vane,” Mertensia shouted.
The old woman smiled vaguely and a plump figure bustled into the cottage through the Dutch door. Mertensia made the introductions again, presenting us to the younger Mrs. Polglase, a woman of perhaps fifty with a broad, comely face and a hearty handshake.
“Welcome you are, and how kind of you to come and visit Mam,” she said with a nod towards the withered little woman in the bed.
“I mentioned we had visitors and she insisted,” Mertensia told her.
“She does take an interest,” Mrs. Polglase said. “Her mind wanders more often than it stays at home, but she always likes to hear of the castle folk.” She turned to us. “My mother-in-law used to provide eggs and chicken feathers for the castle from her own flock before she grew too old to manage. Very proud of her roasters, she was.”
“The finest chickens in Cornwall, I have,” the old woman piped up. She stared at us with a suspicious eye. “Have they come for a chicken?”
“No, Mrs. Polglase,” Mertensia told her. “These are our guests at the castle.”
The older Mrs. Polglase pushed herself up just a little, peering out from the assorted blankets and shawls. “Be that Miss Rosamund?” she asked, scrutinizing me with rheumy eyes.
Mertensia sucked in her breath, but the younger Mrs. Polglase merely pushed her mother-in-law gently back onto the pillows. “Now, Mam, you know Miss Rosamund is dead. That is Miss Speedwell, a guest at the castle.”
The old woman gave a fretful toss
of the head. “I want Miss Rosamund. She were reading a book to me and she hadn’t finished. ’Twere a very good book too. About elopements and a brothel,” she added with a sharp nod.
Her daughter-in-law tucked in her coverlets tightly, immuring the old woman in the bed. “Brothels and elopements! You’ve no call to hear about such things at your age,” she said firmly. “You need a nice dose of your tonic from Miss Mertensia and a good nap.”
“I need a man,” the old woman said with a long, thoughtful look at Stoker. He stepped sharply behind me.
“Save me,” he muttered into my ear.
“Now, Mam, have done,” her daughter-in-law told her. She gave Stoker an apologetic glance. “Think nothing of it, sir. She does wander in her wits, although she was a bit of a light-skirt in her day.”
“Reading Clarissa cannot have helped,” Mertensia put in repressively.
The younger Mrs. Polglase laughed. “Bless you, Miss Mertensia. She has had that book for a decade under her pillow. Miss Rosamund used to read the Bible when she first came calling, but Mam told her she would rather hear about Lovelace than Lazarus, and Miss Rosamund saw no harm in it.”
“Miss Rosamund came often to call?” I asked.
Mrs. Polglase canted her head, thinking. “At least twice a week, miss, I should think. She took a proper interest in the folk around here. As the future mistress of St. Maddern should,” she added stoutly.
Mertensia seemed to have curled within herself during this conversation. She gathered up her things, leaving behind a green glass bottle. “Mind you give her a spoonful of tonic with breakfast this morning, every meal after, and another dose before she sleeps. It will keep her aches at bay. Send to the castle if you need more.”
She turned to go, but not before the old woman pushed herself up again. “Where is Miss Rosamund?” she demanded. She looked accusingly to each of us in turn, narrowing her eyes finally at Mertensia. “Did you take her away? Why did you take Miss Rosamund away?”
Her daughter-in-law tightened her mouth and did not look at Mertensia. “Now, Mam, you know that is not true.”
“I know that is what folk say,” the old woman told her, her expression baleful as she stared at Mertensia. The younger woman shushed her and herded us gently from the cottage. “I am sorry, Miss Mertensia. Her mind,” she began.
“It is of no matter, Mrs. Polglase,” Mertensia told her woodenly.
She set off for the castle without a backwards glance. Stoker and I followed behind, slowly, each of us lost in thought.
CHAPTER
14
We returned to the castle without speaking of the incident in the cottage. As we reached the last terrace, Mertensia turned to Stoker. “You ought to come to the stillroom. I have arnica for your bruises,” she told him tonelessly. He agreed and I left them to it, going to find the household in a state of some excitement outside the breakfast room. Caspian and Helen were standing next to a pile of baggage, arguing strenuously with Mrs. Trengrouse.
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Romilly, but I am afraid there is no accommodation for a trip to the mainland today,” the housekeeper was saying as I entered.
I went to stand near Tiberius as Caspian, his face empurpled with rage, remonstrated severely with the housekeeper. “What sort of balderdash is that? No accommodation? What the devil do you mean?”
“I mean, Master Caspian, that the boat used for trips over is at Pencarron and must be sent for.”
“Then do it, by God!” he thundered. His mother stood at his elbow, pale and silent as her son carried on. She seemed diminished now and content to let him take the helm. He put a protective arm about her. “My mother’s nerves are flayed to shreds. We’ll not stay here another night. Send for the boat.”
“It cannot be done,” Tiberius drawled. His voice was lazy but held unmistakable authority.
“What’s that you say?” Caspian demanded. His obstreperousness faltered a little in the face of Tiberius’ cool composure, but he held his ground. Mrs. Trengrouse shot Tiberius a grateful look. She had held her own with dignity, but she seemed grateful to have the matter attended to by a figure of authority.
“I am afraid, Caspian, that Mrs. Trengrouse is quite correct. The sea is running far too high after last night’s storm. You can signal until your arm falls off, but no one from Pencarron will come.”
“Of all the bloody nonsense,” began the young man. He broke off at a touch of his mother’s hand. “Very well, then. What of one of the local fishermen? They have boats. One of them can take us over.”
“Not likely,” Tiberius said evenly. “To begin with, their boats stink to high heaven of pilchards and crab. Not something your mother would find comfortable, I’m sure,” he added with an inclination of his head towards Helen.
“I don’t mind,” she said in a faint voice.
Mrs. Trengrouse spoke up. “The local fisherfolk won’t go out in these waters, not when the horses are running.”
“The horses? What damned horses?” Caspian was fairly shouting now.
Tiberius replied. “It is a colloquial term referring to the white froth on the edge of the waves, like the manes of horses running in the wind. It simply means the sea is too high and the currents too strong. They will not risk a trip to the mainland when their boats could be dashed upon the rocks.”
“But I can see it!” Caspian protested. “It is less than an hour’s rowing. How dangerous can it be?”
“Between the currents and the hidden rocks? Very,” Tiberius told him. “Even men who have sailed these waters their whole lives won’t take chances on a day like today. Now, why don’t you let Mrs. Trengrouse have the staff take your things back upstairs and come in to breakfast?”
“I don’t want bloody breakfast! I want to get off this island,” Caspian said, purpling more than ever.
“Oh, dear. It seems we’ve missed a bit of theatrics,” Stoker murmured in my ear as he came to stand next to me, munching happily on a piece of thickly buttered toast. Mertensia came in behind, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. The marks on Stoker’s face were shiny with some sort of ointment and he smelt faintly of herbs and beeswax. He looked with some satisfaction at the brilliant bruise that had blossomed over Tiberius’ nose and the slight swelling above the viscount’s eye. Tiberius returned the scrutiny, permitting himself a smile at his handiwork.
Mertensia did not miss the exchange. “My God, Tiberius,” she blurted out. “What happened to you? Did you sleepwalk also?”
Tiberius put a hand to Stoker’s upper arm and gave him an affectionate squeeze right over his stab wound. “I presume Stoker told you that? How informative of him.”
Stoker would not oblige him by wincing, but he gave a growl of warning low in his throat.
I hurried to change the subject, bringing Stoker and Mertensia up to the mark. “Helen and Caspian would like to leave but transportation is proving a challenge.”
“It is not a challenge,” Caspian contradicted. “It is a damned conspiracy to keep us here!”
“Caspian,” his mother said, putting a hand to his sleeve again. He shook it off. “I’ll not be told what I can and cannot do, Mother,” he told her, his features set in a mask of grim resolve. “We will hire a boat from one of those useless yokels and I shall row us over myself.”
We argued against the plan for the better part of a quarter of an hour, but Caspian had decided and he would not be dissuaded. I very nearly confessed that I had been the “ghost” Helen had seen, but it seemed obvious it would make little difference. She looked distinctly uneasy and had surrendered her authority, content to let her son take the lead. He blustered and fumed, but beneath it all, I saw the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the unflinching grip his mother kept on the leather traveling box that held a protesting Hecate.
The rest of us gathered on the terrace of the castle, drawn like spectators
to a railway crash. Stoker collected another stack of toast, crunching calmly as Caspian and Helen made their way down the line of fishing boats, each time being waved off with a gesture of dismissal. We could just make out the waving of the arms, the offer of a banknote, and the abrupt, scornful refusals. With each disappointment the youth seemed to grow more enraged until finally, a very old man with a very old boat accepted his money and stood back, letting Caspian hand his mother into the tiny craft, pitching bags after her with more anger than care.
“Ah, old Trefusis,” Mertensia said, her eyes alight with mirth. “I’m not surprised. He’ll do most anything for a coin.”
“Including letting two inexperienced people out on such a sea?” I demanded.
She shrugged. “He won’t let a puppy like Caspian get the better of him, you may rely upon that. And if the boy gets a soaking it will teach him to respect the sea,” she finished. Her mouth was set in a bitter line.
Stoker offered me a piece of toast. “Stuff this into your mouth and behave yourself,” he instructed quietly.
I took it as Mertensia pointed. “Do you see that bit of rock? That marks the change from the calm of the harbor here to the open sea between us and the mainland at Pencarron. If the stupid boy cannot manage her there, he’ll have no chance. He will turn back, I promise you.”
I did not trust her promises, but she seemed unconcerned, as did the Templeton-Vanes. Stoker was silent and watchful, keeping a weather eye upon Caspian and Helen, no doubt assessing whether or not he would have to intervene for their safety. Tiberius was more amused at the folly of setting off in such conditions, occasionally punctuating his sips of coffee with pungent remarks about the boy’s intelligence and judgment. Our host was not present, and I turned to Mertensia.
“I am surprised Malcolm is not here putting a stop to this nonsense.”
She shrugged again. “No doubt he has some estate business to attend. Watch now, the bloody idiot is trying to manage the oars.” We turned as one to face the shore.
A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Page 22