Chapter Twelve
AS THE HURRICANE battered the island once again, the trio made their way up to the lantern room. Each time a powerful wave boomed against the lighthouse, the noise reverberated around the entire structure, causing Edwin to flinch. He felt like each surge brought the tower closer to toppling into the sea. Every slamming assault against the thick walls made him feel small and vulnerable, especially on the lower floors when he knew the waves were reaching high above his head. He felt like he was suffocating. He struggled to catch his breath as he lagged behind the other two men, and had to stop for a moment to gather his resolve. If he could just get above the waves, he’d feel better.
The lantern room was the same size as the other rooms in the lighthouse, but with its conical ceiling and walls made entirely from many small panes of glass, it appeared to be much more spacious. Several cast-iron brackets had been affixed to the metal framework holding the storm panes together. Hanging from some of these—behind the large, rotating beacon—were ceramic pots from which spilled the green and yellow-striped leaves of spider plants. In the centre of the room sat the light mechanism, comprised of a lamp and lens on a copper and brass instrument. Around the circumference of the room was a padded bench, covered with a bright red material the same shade as the lantern room exterior. It was easy to see where the keepers spent most of their time sitting as some areas of this bench behind the lens were heavily worn and cracked.
The bench was unbroken save for where it had to make way for the staircase and the door leading to the metal viewing platform running around the outside of the gallery. This platform was used by the keepers to clean the outside of the windows, and afforded spectacular views of the island. Though not on days like this, of course. Certain sections of the bench were on hinges and could be lifted to reveal storage areas. Edwin reasoned these could easily become cluttered with all manner of unnecessary rubbish, and it must be part and parcel of a lighthouse keeper’s duties to keep things as neat and tidy as possible.
It was only once they all reached the lens and watched it catch and reflect the light from the small flame that a thought occurred to Edwin.
“Um, do either of you actually know how to use this contraption?” he asked.
Robin and Duncan exchanged a brief, baffled glance.
“Err, well, Keeper Knott gave me a tour once. I think it’s all fairly straightforward. You’ve got the light and the…glass…” Robin bluffed, rather poorly. He poked around the piping and knowledgably tapped the odd panel and rivet.
“Look,” Duncan said, “you put the oil in there. It flows down there—” He traced a pipe coming from a raised reservoir. “—which is lit at the wick there.” He pointed to the flame. “The light hits the reflector, which rotates via the mechanism downstairs, and that’s all there is to it,” Duncan finished, clearly pleased with himself.
“Made a lot of toy lighthouses, have you, Duncan?” Edwin asked, honestly impressed with the knowledge the toymaker had displayed. He wasn’t sure if Duncan had gotten it all correct, as there were quite a few pipes and valves left unexplained, but he though it all sounded about right.
“Not working ones…” Duncan mumbled.
“We might ’ave a problem ’ere, boys. Unless I miss my guess, this says the oil’s nearly out.”
Robin was looking at a gauge on the side of the oil reservoir. Duncan, who had apparently just become an expert lighthouse keeper, double-checked it.
“The keepers must have missed the last refilling time when they were trapped. We’ll have to do it.”
“Where do they keep the oil?” asked Edwin.
All eyes were on Duncan now.
“Well, they obviously wouldn’t keep it up here, too dangerous,” blustered Duncan, adjusting the many-lensed spectacles on his little snubbed nose. “It’s probably in the room below, the one we passed on the way up.”
“The Watch Room, that’s called!” Robin loudly declared.
Smiling broadly, he put his hands in his coat pockets and rocked back on his heels, proud to have remembered something from his tour. Edwin thought he looked for all the world like a schoolboy who finally answered a teacher’s question correctly. Duncan smiled too, which didn’t go unnoticed.
“I’ll go have a look,” said Edwin.
He found being above the waves, in a room that was essentially a big glass box, created a new problem for him. He was feeling dizzy, as if the whole lighthouse were wobbling from side to side, on the brink of toppling over with every wave that struck. He headed back down the stone steps, happy to no longer be able to see out across the raging waters. Below the lantern room, where the light was housed, was a room where the oil and other items were kept. A selection of battered, well-used handheld lanterns was kept on a shelf, and a logbook sat open on a table. This room had a low ceiling, and though there was still plenty of space, Edwin had the urge to duck slightly as he moved about. The clockwork mechanism—a large shaft with spokes and cogs that rotated the reflector in the room above—ticked noisily in the centre of the room. Other lighthouses were known to use a drum with weighted ropes and a complex series of pulleys and levers running the full length of the structure to achieve rotation, but once again the ingenuity of the Merryapple residents had concocted an alternative.
Edwin glanced at the logbook. Sure enough, there were regular entries made by the keepers indicating when the oil reservoir was topped up. Keeper Knott was a diligent record keeper, it seemed. There were three columns, one for the keeper’s name, one marked “Beacon” and another “Mechanism.” Each column was filled with either names or times, and going by the regular intervals of the previous entries, it looked like the next entry was overdue. Edwin examined the clockwork shaft in the centre of the room. It had never occurred to him before to wonder how the light actually moved. He wound the instrument a few times until it clicked. Then he picked up the pen, checked the time on his pocketwatch—a gift from his brother some years before—and signed the ledger “Interim Keeper Farriner.” The ticking of the mechanism as it turned was far louder down there than in the light room.
On the far wall was a large copper tank with a tap jutting out, and underneath it was something that looked like a watering can. Edwin turned the knob and watched the gooey, pungent whale oil ooze out from the spout and slowly fill the container. As it did so, he thought about the two men upstairs—about that shared smile.
“You waited too long, Edwin.” He sighed to himself. “Again.”
Chapter Thirteen
AT THE MOTH & Moon, both lighthouse keepers had been quickly put to bed. This unfortunately meant moving the man who Sylvia Farriner had earlier tried to decamp, as he was the least infirm. He resigned himself to not getting a decent night’s sleep and joined the rabble in the bar. Dr. Greenaway thoroughly examined the injured men. Keeper Knott’s leg was bandaged with a splint, and Keeper Hall’s head was attended to as well. His injuries appeared less serious, but Dr. Greenaway knew that could be misleading and he recruited volunteers to keep an eye on the man throughout the night. They were given strict instructions to alert the doctor if they noticed any change in the man’s condition, no matter how slight.
During the calm, the inn had welcomed the family Trease, owners of the farm in the northeast of the island. The storm had wrenched the water wheel from the side of their mill, and an errant lightning bolt had started a fire in one of their stables. They had managed to put it out, but not without some difficulty. Once the winds began to die down, Mrs. Trease convinced her obstinate husband to pack up and head to the inn. She was also concerned about the well-being of her sister—the wife of the ailing oysterman, Mr. Hirst—and insisted they call on her on the way to the inn. Relations between the siblings had been strained ever since the younger sister had left the farm. Mrs. Trease had wanted her sister to live with her new husband in one of the converted outbuildings and either work the land or serve in the mill, but Mr. Hirst had fishing in his blood and wouldn’t even consider it. And w
here Tim Hirst went, so went his obedient wife.
Stopping by their modest home on the way to the Moth & Moon, they found Abigail Hirst in an agitated state. She had become increasingly worried about her husband’s condition and considered sending one of her daughters to the inn for help. So worried was she that when she opened the door to find her sister standing there, she forgot all about their feud and threw her arms around her neck, sobbing. The family gently put Mr. Hirst on the Trease’s cart and then brought him to the tavern where he was laid out in a room on an upper floor. This meant moving someone else from their bed, but when they discovered the reason, they gladly surrendered it.
The eye had passed now and the winds had returned with renewed vigour. Even the great wheel—the Moth & Moon’s ancient chandelier— swayed from side to side, flicking pearls of wax as it went. The tavern fell into a frightened hush when they heard a sound quite unlike any other. A frightful splintering, bursting, crashing peal, a thousand times louder, it seemed, than any heard thus far. In the howling darkness, it was impossible to tell what had been lost.
Shortly afterwards, on a southern wall of the inn, a pair of shutters were wrenched free and the window panes they protected were scattered across the room in splinters and shards. Rain mingled with brine and sand streamed in, drenching those nearby. Many hammers and spare nails had been stored behind the bar for just such an occurrence, and before long—but not without difficulty— the villagers used some wooden planks to put up a makeshift barrier across the jagged hole. They did their best, but a slight gap was unavoidable, and the storm whistled as it blew through it.
Morwenna Whitewater’s tweed knights had finished their rounds of the inn, gathering up every scrap of news and gossip, and had returned to the round table to share the particulars with her. Morwenna was sitting in her usual spot by the fire when Eva Wolfe-Chase sashayed over to warm her delicate hands; tiptoeing around the children on the mat as she did so.
“Good evening,” Lady Wolfe-Chase said with a little bow to the round table. “I saw your altercation with Mrs. Farriner earlier. She’s quite the piece of work.”
She removed her lace gloves and set them on the crowded mantelpiece before holding her hands out to the roaring flames. Being so close to the front of the building, the splashing of the rain outside sounded even louder, but that couldn’t drown out the incessant clacking sound of Mrs. Hanniti Kind’s knitting needles.
Morwenna sniffed and fiddled with her cane. “That woman is impossible. Always been the same. Impossible.”
“You’ve known her a long time?”
“Oh yes. Far too long. Since we were girls. She’s younger, of course, but she always thought she was more mature than her years. Always stirring up trouble, that one.”
“She’s not all bad,” said Mrs. Greenaway. “She’s just highly strung.”
The clacking needles paused for a moment as Mrs. Kind stared at her fellow knight.
“That’s one way of putting it,” sniffed Morwenna.
“I wondered why she wasn’t part of your enclave,” Eva Wolfe-Chase smiled.
“She used to be,” said Mrs. Greenaway, softly.
“For about five minutes. Until it turned out to be a ruse to get at me,” Morwenna said. “We thought she’d turned over a new leaf—she was all sweetness and light. Should have known better.”
“Good on you for not putting up with her,” Eva Wolfe-Chase said. “What did she…”
“Eva! Darling, there you are,” said her wife, who took her by the arm and gently led her away from the fire and the round table.
“I hope she wasn’t talking your ear off. Or gossiping,” Iris Wolfe-Chase said.
“Not at all, we were just discussing life in the village. It must be such a change from life on Blackrabbit,” said Morwenna.
“Oh my, yes! It’s much more fun!” said Eva Wolfe-Chase said as her wife began leading her away in earnest.
“Lady Wolfe-Chase. Your gloves,” Morwenna said, pointing to the mantelpiece with the end of her cane.
“Oh, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Whitewater,” she replied.
As the two women left to return to their alcove, Mrs. Greenaway wrinkled her nose. “I think it’s a disgrace,” she said to no one in particular as she continued her needlework. Since she’d arrived in the Moth & Moon, she’d kept herself busy by working on a needlepoint image of the island. She’d finished the outline of the coast, and was currently filling in the hills.
“What is?” asked Mrs. Kind.
“Those two. I mean, imagine! Getting married. To someone from Blackrabbit Island! There should be a law against it.”
On the thick, heavy bar that had once been part of the stern of a mighty sailing vessel, May Bell sat with her legs tucked under her pretty cotton dress. One of the villagers had been kind enough to lift her up and plonk her where she wouldn’t be in the way, and wouldn’t fall. Behind her was one of the enormous pillars flanking the bar and in front of her was Duncan’s rescued animal. She had taken a ribbon from her dress and was dangling it above the kitten’s head. He lay on his back, trying to grab it with all four paws. Three of them grabbed it occasionally, but his shortened leg always fell just shy of it. Whenever he caught it, he playfully gnawed on it with tiny, sharp teeth until May yanked it up again and he had to start over.
Mr. Reed was busy drying glasses when he spotted the girl on his countertop. He sauntered over to where she was sitting and leaned against the bar, casually attending to a resolute mark with his cloth.
“Is that a real cat or a ghost cat?” he asked her suddenly.
May sat up straight and gave the grey-bearded tavern keeper a reproachful look.
“There are no ghosts, Mr. Reed. My mummy said so,” she said in her most grown-up voice.
Mr. Reed continued cleaning the tankard.
“Oh, right, right. Have you not heard about the ghost cat in the lighthouse? Everybody knows about it. Maybe you’re too young to have heard of it.” He winked knowingly at the villager who had lifted the girl onto the counter, and who now laughed into his tankard.
May hated when adults did that. They always winked at each other as if she wouldn’t notice but she always did. She hated that expression, as well. Too young. It got her hackles up. She was almost eleven, more than old enough to hear any kind of story one cared to tell. She gave him her steeliest look.
“I’m not too young. Tell me about it right now!” she demanded, slamming her little fist on the counter and almost tipping over the saucer of water left out for the kitten.
“Well, back along, a lighthouse keeper lived out there with his wife. It was lonely, as it was just the two of them and they had no children, but they had lots of cats.”
“Where did the cats come from?” May asked.
“The island, of course. The lighthouse keeper brought one back every time he went ashore in his rowboat for food. He’d walk into the lighthouse and say ‘Wife! I’m home and I have another cat!’ and she’d be very happy.”
This made perfect sense to May. Who wouldn’t be happy with an extra cat every once in a while? Her mother wouldn’t let her have any cats at home; she said they would make a mess.
“Anyway,” Mr. Reed continued, “one day, the lighthouse keeper’s wife fell ill, and she had to stay in bed. It was very boring for her as the cats wouldn’t stay with her. They preferred to play outside. All except one. A little black and white kitten, a bit like this one.” He pointed to the animal.
“This kitten loved to play with a little ball the keeper’s wife would throw from her bed out into the staircase. The kitten would chase after it and bring it back.”
“Cats don’t fetch things, Mr. Reed,” May said, folding her arms knowledgeably. “Dogs do.”
“Some cats do. Anyway, shush,” George Reed replied. “So, every day, for weeks, the kitten would chase this ball and keep the lighthouse keeper’s wife happy. But then one day, the wife died.”
“Oh, no!” May said, hands over her mouth.<
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“I know, it’s sad, but it was a very long time ago, don’t worry. After she was gone, the kitten would go to her room every day and lay on her bed, playing with the ball. Sometimes it would get away from him, and he’d chase after it, but he always brought it back to the same room and onto the same bed. Until the day—a day much like this one, actually, when thunder boomed and lightning struck the lighthouse—the keeper walked into the room and he found the cat had passed away on the very same bed as his wife.”
May was riveted now. Even the kitten seemed to be paying attention and watched him with his bright blue eyes. Mr. Reed unstoppered a bottle of water and topped up the saucer.
“And they say that to this day, when the winds begin to howl and the lightning strikes, you can still hear the cat chasing the little ball on the stairs.”
May remembered the two keepers had been brought to the inn, and resolved to ask them about the ghost when they felt better. She was absolutely certain ghost people weren’t real, but her mummy never said anything about ghost cats.
Chapter Fourteen
DESPITE THE MAIN light being seen for miles out to sea, it was barely bright enough to read a book by. This was a quirk of the construction and reflection angles that Duncan had tried to explain but Robin couldn’t wrap his head around. After Edwin had filled the reservoir, he’d replaced the candles in the small lanterns dotted around the lantern room. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor or on the mechanism.
“We might be ’ere for a while so we should probably get some rest. You two go first. I’ll keep watch,” said Robin. He could see Edwin was about to object. “I got plenty of rest earlier on,” He put one hand on Edwin’s broad shoulder. “You’ve been on the go since before dawn at the bakery. It’s well past your bedtime! Go on. There’s a bedroom downstairs.”
“I dozed for about an hour in the Moth & Moon, but now you mention it, I could do with some proper sleep,” Edwin said as he wearily headed down the staircase.
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