by Ben Cheetham
There was an excitement in Ella’s voice that had been absent since the accident. It was almost enough to make Adam smile. She switched off the lamp. In the darkness, he kissed her hand and held it against his chest. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in nine months he didn’t see Jacob. Instead he saw Fenton House as he imagined it to be – a brooding pile of towers, turrets and gargoyles straight out of a Victorian melodrama. In the instant before he fell asleep, from somewhere off in the distance, he thought he heard the murmur of the sea.
Chapter 4
The sun was climbing a cloudless sky. Adam squinted at the dashboard clock – half-past ten. They’d been travelling for nearly six hours. He’d taken the steering-wheel for the first half of the journey while Ella dozed in the passenger seat. They’d swapped over at Exeter services and he’d slept most of the way through Cornwall. Any opportunity to make a deposit in his overdrawn sleep bank was difficult to turn down, even if it meant missing out on the glorious Cornish landscape. They were passing a military airbase. Beyond razor wire fences were flat grassy expanses crisscrossed with runways and dotted with wind-socks, aircraft hangers, air-traffic control towers, lightweight planes, fighter jets and helicopters. At a gated entrance, a block of carved stone identified the airbase as ‘RNAS Culdrose’.
“How much further?” he asked.
“About ten miles,” answered Ella. “We’ve just passed through Helston.”
At the far edge of the airbase a sign directed them to ‘The Lizard’. The road undulated between thick hedgerows peppered with gorse, bracken and a profusion of wildflowers. The landscape beyond the hedges was a mixture of heathery heathland and lush green fields grazed by fat Jersey cows. A few miles to the east were the otherworldly giant satellite dishes of Goonhilly Downs. Maybe a mile to the west, glimpses of the sea shimmered in the summer heat. They passed a quaint pub, a holiday park of dated chalets, roadside signs advertising cream teas, ice-cream, pasties and locally produced cider.
“Do you think we should phone and find out how Henry’s getting on?” asked Adam.
“No, he’ll be fine. My parents will be spoiling him rotten.” Ella rubbed Adam’s arm. “Relax.”
He lowered his window and drew in a lungful of faintly salty air. “God that smells good.”
A sign for Treworder directed them onto a narrow lane with passing spaces every few hundred metres. ‘No Parking’ cones punctuated the roadside. After a mile or so, the lane began to wind its way down into a wooded valley. Trees overhung the road, dappling it with shadows. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” said Adam. “No pollution, no traffic jams.”
“I wouldn’t speak too soon,” said Ella as they turned a corner and found their progress blocked by a long line of cars.
“Bloody hell, I wonder what this is about?”
“You don’t think they’re all here for the same reason as us, do you?”
Adam frowned. “Surely not. It would take forever to interview this lot.”
A man in a high-vis tabard was making his way along the queue, stooping his tanned face to each car. A blonde-haired woman got out of one and said something to him. He replied with a shake of his head, gesticulating for her to get back in. When he reached Adam and Ella, he informed them in a thick Cornish accent, “Carpark’s full.”
“Can we park in the village?” asked Adam.
“No chance, mate. It’s mad busy down there.”
“Why, what’s going on?” asked Ella.
She and Adam exchanged a glance as the carpark attendant grumbled, “It’s this bloody Fenton House thing. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been good for business, but personally I could do without the hassle.”
“So what do we do?”
“You can wait for a space in the carpark, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. If I were you I’d turn around and go somewhere else, come back another day.”
“We can’t do that,” said Adam. “We have to be at Boscarne Cottage in fifteen minutes.” He unfolded the printout.
The attendant glanced at it, then gave Adam and Ella a weighing-up look. “Tell you what. You can leave your car here and walk down into the village. Give me your key and I’ll park it for you when there’s space.”
Adam looked at Ella as if to ask, What do you think?
“From London, are you?” observed the man. His manner suggested Londoners weren’t his favourite people.
Adam had encountered the attitude before and sympathised with it. Wealthy Londoners buying second homes was a serious problem in this part of Cornwall, pricing locals out of the market and transforming villages into ghost towns during the winter months. He put on his best friendly smile. If they were going to live around here, he didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the locals. “Is it that obvious?”
“You get so you can tell. At this time of year there are more of your lot around here than locals.”
Ella unhooked the ignition key from the keyring and handed it over. The man motioned for them to follow him. As they got out, the blonde leaned from her car window and demanded to know, “Hey, how come they can leave their car here?”
“They’re on the shortlist,” the attendant told her.
The blonde’s eyes widened. She looked at Adam and Ella. “Which of you answered the questionnaire?”
“I did,” replied Adam.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She beckoned Adam closer, her voice dropping. There were four children of varying ages crammed into the car with her. “What answers did you give?”
“I can hardly remember. Nothing special.”
“I’ll pay you.” The woman pulled out her purse.
“I... no thanks,” Adam said awkwardly.
Ella tugged at his arm. “Come on or we’ll be late.”
“Please,” the woman’s voice rose in desperation, “I’m a single mum living in two-bedroom flat.”
“I’m sorry,” said Adam, quickening his pace.
Ella shook her head sadly. “I wonder how many people there are like her here?”
“A lot I should think. If you had a choice between bringing your kids up in a shoebox of a flat or a supposedly haunted mansion, what would you choose?”
“The mansion of course, but she’s not even on the list.”
“That doesn’t make any difference,” commented the attendant. “There have been all sorts knocking on Miss Trehearne’s door day and night begging to live in Fenton House. It got so bad she had to call in the police.” He puffed contemplatively on a rollup. “Makes you wonder what the world’s coming to.”
It seemed to Adam that it showed the world was the same as it had ever been, except in one respect. “I suppose it shows people aren’t all that superstitious these days.”
The attendant grunted. “You reckon?” He thumbed over his shoulder at the blonde’s car. “It’s not just people like her we’ve had turning up. There are a hell of a lot of oddballs who want to live in that house because it’s said to be haunted.”
“Do you believe it’s haunted?” asked Ella.
“I couldn’t care less one way or the other. I’ll just be glad when this lot buggers off.” The attendant stopped at the entrance to a jam-packed, dusty carpark. “I’ll be here all day. And if I’m not here, I’ll be in The Smugglers. That’s the pub down in the village.”
“How do we get to Boscarne Cottage?” asked Adam.
“It’s at the far side of the village. Believe me, you won’t have any problem finding the place.”
They thanked the attendant and continued down the hill. Cars were parked on every spare bit of pavement, forcing them – along with a steady trickle of other people – to walk in the middle of the road. Glimpses of a deep, densely thicketed valley showed through a hedge on their left. They rounded a corner and a dazzling view opened up in front of them. Whitewashed, thatched cottages were huddled together as if for protection at the end of the valley. Cliffs of black volcanic rock speckled with yellow lichen
framed the sea. Gulls wheeled and screeched above a little fishing boat chugging into shore.
Adam took it all in. “Imagine waking up to that every morning.”
Towards the bottom of the slope the road curved sharply to the left. On the corner a tiny cottage was perched at the beginning of a rocky promontory. A footpath led to a bench facing out to sea at the tip of the promontory. To the right, steps descended a granite sea wall to a patchwork of smooth boulders and wet sand. Families were dotted around the little beach. Children were digging in the sand and splashing in the clear, almost tropically calm sea. To the other side of the promontory a larger beach of pale grey shingles shelved shallowly into the sea. Seaweed, driftwood and plastic jetsam marked the high-tide. A small fleet of sun-bleached blue, orange, red and white fishing boats were lined up at the back of the beach. Several 4x4 vehicles and a rusty tractor were parked on a cobbled slipway. The beach was busy with people strolling along, looking at the boats, skimming stones, clambering on the rocks at its far end or simply enjoying the view.
Ella took a photo. “Henry would love it here,” she said, sounding as if she was warming to the possibility of living in Treworder.
“So would Jacob,” Adam reflected quietly. His gaze was drawn to a group of figures who were obviously not tourists working on their tans. Despite the heat, they were dressed in heavy black clothes. They looked as if they’d just stepped out of a goth nightclub. A woman with dyed bright red hair was twirling around as if dancing to music only she could hear.
The road ran parallel to the shoreline, passing between sturdy cob-walled buildings. There was a fishmonger offering ‘Fresh Wild Fish’. A hole-in-the-wall cafe was serving ‘Treworder crab and lobster sandwiches’ to a long queue of customers. Perched over the cafe was a little art gallery, its windows overstuffed with driftwood sculptures and stained glass creations. Across the road was a gift shop selling buckets and spades, body boards, cheap footballs, ice-creams and such. Next door to it a Cornish flag dangled from the ‘Treworder Pilot Gig Club’. A sign outside the club-house advertised ‘Boat Trips’. At the midpoint of the street the cobbled slipway was flanked by fishermen’s sheds with crab and lobster pots, containers of tackle and orange marker floats stacked outside them. At its far end, where the road looped away from the sea up the opposite side of the valley was ‘The Smuggler’s Inn’, a three-storey slate-roofed building. A sign depicting a bearded smuggler with a barrel on his shoulder hung over its door.
Drinkers thronged a sun-baked beer garden, their numbers spilling out onto the road and slipway. The smell of cigarette smoke, sun-cream and alcohol permeated the air, mingling with the briny whiff of the sea. Some of the drinkers had the look of fishermen – rugged faces, broad shoulders, brawny arms. Others were obviously holidaymakers – shorts and t-shirts, sunburned faces. Many were of a type who wouldn’t normally be found thereabouts on a sunny summer’s day. There were more goths – faces caked with black lipstick and eyeliner, top hats and canes, long dyed hair. There was a little clique of scholarly characters – wire-rimmed spectacles, high foreheads, serious expressions. Another group were all wearing T-shirts with the spectral white logo ‘Ghost Hunters’ emblazoned across them. One of the ‘Ghost Hunters’ was filming the crowd with a camcorder. The eclectic mix gave the street an almost carnival atmosphere.
The crowd extended up the hill, clotting into a dense mass outside a detached cottage sunken behind a whitewashed wall. The atmosphere suddenly seemed less merry. People were jostling for space. Many looked tired and dishevelled, as if they’d been there overnight. Several were holding aloft handwritten signs. Some conveyed straightforward begging messages – ‘HOMELESS with three mouths to feed. PLEASE HELP’, ‘Lost my job. Can’t pay mortgage. Don’t let my family end up on the street.’ Others had stranger tales to tell – ‘WIDOWER NEEDS TO SPEAK TO THE DEAD AND FIND OUT WHO RAN OVER HIS WIFE’, ‘The spirits of Fenton House are in torment. I have the power to set them free.’
Adam and Ella came up against a wall of bodies. “Excuse me,” said Adam, attempting to squeeze past a woman.
She blocked his way, snapping, “Back off.”
“I need to get to the cottage.”
“So do we all.”
A policeman was stationed inside the cottage’s garden gate. Waving the letter in the air to attract his attention, Adam shouted, “We’re here to see Miss Trehearne. We’re on the shortlist.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned towards Adam and Ella.
“Hey!” gasped Ella as someone shoved her in the back in their eagerness to get to Adam. She staggered and would have fallen if the crowd hadn’t suddenly closed in even more tightly around her.
A hand snatched at the letter, tearing off a corner. Adam thrust it into his pocket and put a protective arm around Ella. His heart began to beat fast. The surrounding faces no longer looked merely tired or desperate, they looked angry and resentful.
“Give me that letter,” demanded a man, wielding a ‘Jobless. Homeless. Hungry.’ placard as if he would hit Adam with it.
The policeman forced his way through the crowd, inserting himself between the man and Adam. He escorted Adam and Ella to the small, neatly kept garden at the front of the cottage. The flowerbeds were a riot of rosebushes. A heavily scented wisteria climbed the cottage, fringing its sea-blue front door. ‘Boscarne Cottage’ was etched into a slate plaque beside the door. Curtains were drawn in little, leaded windows.
They halted in the shadow of the thatch that overhung the eaves by half-a-metre. “Are you alright?” Adam asked Ella.
Nodding, she said a touch breathlessly, “That was horrible.”
“It’s been like this for the last two days,” said the policeman. “Can I see the letter?”
As Adam handed it over, Ella surveyed the faces beyond the garden wall. “It makes me feel awful. We’ve got a house. We might be taking the place of someone who hasn’t.”
“I didn’t think it would be like this,” said Adam.
“Would it have stopped you from applying?”
He considered the question, then admitted, “No. We need this just as much as any of them.”
Satisfied the letter was genuine, the policeman knocked on the door. It was opened by a beanpole of a man in a pinstripe navy blue suit and matching tie. Everything about him was thin. Thinning white hair was combed in precise lines over a liver-spotted scalp. Thin lips were set in a deadpan line beneath an equally thin nose. He peered down at Adam and Ella with hawkish blue eyes. The policeman handed him the letter. He glanced at it and said in a brisk, business-like voice, “I’ll need to see some ID.” Adam and Ella showed him their driving-licences. The man stood aside to let them into the house, adding, “I’m Niall Mabyn of Mabyn and Moon solicitors. Miss Trehearne is expecting you.”
Chapter 5
The solicitor ushered Adam and Ella along a gloomy flagstone hallway, stooping to avoid hitting his head on a low, beamed ceiling. The noise of the crowd receded to the edge of hearing as they entered a room cosily furnished with a floral three-piece-suite and thick rugs. Despite the summer heat, a fire crackled in a stone fireplace. A fat pug with a turquoise ribbon around its neck waddled over to sniff their ankles. Sunlight flooded through French doors overlooking a little walled back garden alive with sparrows and blackbirds feeding at a table and bathing in a wrought-iron bath.
A birdlike old lady in a long dress that matched the dog’s bow occupied the armchair nearest the window. Her grey hair was pinned up in a bun. Her wrinkled cheeks glowed with rouge. Her lips – which were as red as holly berries – were drawn into a smile that stretched to her grey eyes. Bifocals were balanced on the end of her nose. She made Adam think of the Mrs Pepperpot stories he’d read the twins a few years ago.
She rose to greet the newcomers with a sprightly, “Mr and Mrs Piper, lovely to meet you. I’m Rozen Trehearne.” Her voice was well-spoken with a soft Cornish burr. She extended a ringless, bony-knuckled hand. They shoo
k it and she gestured them to the sofa. As Mr Mabyn perched himself in the other armchair, she indicated a teapot and a Victoria sponge on a coffee-table. “Would you like some tea and cake?”
“Thank you. That would be lovely, Miss Trehearne,” said Ella.
“Please call me Rozen. May I call you Adam and Ella?”
“Please do.”
Rozen poured tea into china cups and passed them to her guests along with a slice of cake each. She settled back in her armchair, sipping delicately from her own cup. The pug made round eyes and lolled its tongue at Adam.
“Edgar is an incorrigible beggar,” said Rozen.
Adam broke off a bit of cake. “Can I give him some?”
“He’s supposed to be on a diet, but seeing as it’s a special occasion...”
Edgar snaffled the cake and whimpered for more.
“Shush, Edgar. Lie down,” instructed Rozen.
The pug reluctantly retreated to the hearth rug. Rozen watched her guests eat and drink for a moment, before focusing her smile on Adam, “So tell me, Adam, why do you want to live in Fenton House?”
Adam could suddenly feel sweat gathering under his clothes, and not only because of what had happened outside or the warmth of the fire. His mind was back in that terrible moment – the crash of breaking glass, Jacob on the porch floor, blood spreading like... like... He blinked away from Rozen’s gaze.
Ella answered for him, her voice as steady as ever. “There was an accident. We lost our eleven-year-old son, Jacob.”
Rozen put a hand to her heart as if there was a pain there. “Oh you poor things. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. It could have been even worse. Jacob’s twin brother, Henry, was hurt too. He might easily have been killed. I thank god every day that he’s still with us.”
“Yes that’s something to be thankful for, although I don’t suppose it makes the loss of Jacob any easier to bear. Do you have a photo of them?”
Ella took one out of her handbag. It had been taken at their tenth birthday party. She’d carried it with her ever since. Henry and Jacob had an arm around each other and were beaming into the camera over a Star Wars cake. She’d said at the time, and many times since, that they’d never looked more beautiful.