Edge of Indigo

by Mark Walker

  “Well, sir, three very old coins… that I should say are all around two hundred and fifty to three hundred years old. One silver, two gold. This one appears to be an Indian rupee, this one is Spanish, a doubloon I believe, and the silver coin is French. All worth quite a few pounds I should think.”

  Superintendent Makepeace looked at him steadily across the desk.

  “There have always been rumors of a buried treasure near a place called Eels’ Cove just south of Land’s End in Cornwall. Well, in the last four months, old coins like these have been turning up with some regularity around there, and all the way along the coast—from Sennen Cove just north of there, and all the way around the peninsula down to Mousehole in the south (he correctly pronounced it mauz’l). And murder. There have been several killings associated with these coins, and the locals, as you might imagine, are getting restless. I know it sounds outrageous—pirates, buried treasure and all that, but we’ve simply got to look into it. Specifically, you’re going to look into it. If there’s treasure buried there, and it appears there is, I want you to find it. If there’s a smuggling operation going on, I want you to smash it. There have been two unsolved murders in Eel’s Cove, and there’s been some bother at that strange inn near there, built by pirates on a rock or some such. Guests paying with gold doubloons, pieces o’ eight and the like. That’s where you’ll be staying. You’ll find all the relevant information in the dossier. Of course, you’ll liaison with the local constable in Eel’s Cove. A Sergeant Akin. Communication may be an issue at the inn, but you should be able to use the stationhouse.”

  He added dryly: “I suppose you’ll use this excuse to take that blasted whoopsydoopster, or whatever you call it, airship out there rather than take the train like any normal human being.”

  As he rose, Kelly Riggs replied, “An excellent suggestion, sir. I think I shall.”

  “Oh,” said Makepeace in his absent-minded way, “You’ll want these,” he placed the coins into a small leather pouch and handed it to Riggs.

  “Let me know if you need anything. Good luck.”

  Makepeace smiled wryly over his spectacles the white eyebrows arched as Riggs stood at the door. “Oh, and by the way, Chief Inspector, don’t forget your spade and bucket.”

  “And my eye patch, sir?”

  Indigo and purple clouds closed in on the giant iris-like orange ball of sun, sending a sudden thrill through Kelly Riggs. Here he and Bellows were together again on another case, flying into the unknown. They were now over Cornwall itself—rugged land of legend and mystery, where ghosts of its ancient past—Celts, Romans, Druids, and pirates still seem to roam the moors and reedy plains and hang about the startling cliffs and seashore. They skirted the coast to their port, whisking past picturesque St. Ives, following the coastline of the long peninsula down to the south. Riggs consulted his chart, the next landmark being Kenidjack Castle. The old romantic names on the chart brought out his lopsided smile: the Irish Lady, Kettle’s Bottom, the Shark’s Fin, the Priest’s Cove, the Ballowall Barrow Cairn. Then they were past the remains of the castle appearing to port, and next was Cape Cornwall. Then the Brison rocks appeared on his starboard, followed shortly by Gribba Point; a few more kilometers took them to Whitesand Bay and Sennen’s Cove, and just beyond—Gamper Bay.

  They rounded the headland and Kelly Riggs took in his breath in a rush excitement at the spectacular vista that appeared before them, circling the plane in a wide lazy arc. Below, the angry sea toiled at the huge craggy cliffs. Storm clouds closed over the orange ball sinking onto a knife edge of indigo at the horizonshrouds of mystery at the edge of the worldthey were at Land’s End.

  3

  RIGGS BANKED OUT OVER THE SEA, following the coastline. Through the speaking tube he said to Bellows, “Spectacular, what, old boy? That’s the famous Land’s End—known in the olden times as Dr. Syntax’s Head. So, that means we should be at Eels’ Cove in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “All for the best, sir, with Mrs. Wiggins’ coffee and all, ahem,” replied Fred Bellows in embarrassment. Riggs laughed. “Soon, enough, old boy. And what, ho, we’ll pass the Roundhouse Inn just before we get to Eel’s Covein fact, it’s the landmark I’m looking for.

  “It should be coming up soon.”

  “It should be coming up soon,” uttered by Mr. Skinner in answer to little Jenny Prescott, who had been asking for the last quarter of a mile. She was squirming in her brother Michael’s lap, her long golden hair whipping against his face and that of her sister, Mandy, crammed into the sidecar seat with him. Despite their thrilling journey that afternoon, first from St. Ives by train to Eel’s Cove, and now by Mr. Skinner’s motorbike with sidecar, and despite the picturesque village and cliffs and ocean, Jen was quite ready to be at the wondrous place she had heard so many stories of.

  A cold, blustery wind blew in from the coast, bringing with it the smell of the sea, growing stronger as they drew alongside the cliffs. They could see the Atlantic itself off to the left, a deep metallic grey.

  “So, you young’uns are going to stay at the Roundhouse Inn, eh?” Mr. Skinner had to shout over the throbbing roar of the motor. He looked funny in his goggles and huge bushy moustache.

  “Yes,” replied Michael, “We’re going to meet our nanny there, and stay for a week.” Mandy explained over his shoulder, “Five days, Michael, not a whole week.”

  “Well, close enough, sis!” rejoined Michael. He continued: “Anyhow, our Dad’s in the civil service. Now, he’s in St. Ives on business, so we’re staying at the Roundhouse. Is it really like they say? Was it really built by pirates?”

  Mr. Skinner negotiated a turn in the winding coast road. “Built by the Sea Ghost, himself so they say, and I’m one to believe ‘em! It’s a mighty strange-built place it is—all pieces o’ this and that. The Potters that run the place is nice folks, right enough, and they’ll take good care of you I’m sure. They’ve had that place about a year now, I reckon. Now, I don’t want to go and scare you—you mark my words, but there’s ghosts of them pirates that hang about the cliffs there, young’uns.”

  In a few minutes he slowed as they came to a small stone hut that was hardly more than a shed. Standing beside it was a light pole with wires running off and what appeared to be a path leading down off the edge of the cliff. Hanging on the pole was a shingle sign reading The Roundhouse Inn.

  “They keeps them motorbikes locked up in the little hut, you knows. One of ‘em’s got a side car like this ‘un. It’s the only things on wheels that can get ov’r the swingin’ bridge—they uses ‘em to haul stores an’ such.”

  The strong sea air filled their nostrils, and seagulls danced in front of the dark clouds hanging heavily on the horizon. Mr. Skinner was just taking their meager baggage from the back of the sidecar and saddlebags when they first heard the plane. A low rumble overpowered the sound of the surging sea, and suddenly there was small plane heading straight down the coast toward them. It swooped below the level of the edge of the cliff, engine roaring, then reappeared a second later in a steep climb. The seagulls scattered, cackling in protest. Mr. Skinner shouted, “Well, I never saw such! Ferry foolish, if’n ye ask me. Silly young hot shot!” The plane roared on its way. The children cheered and ran to the very edge of the cliff path, where the most spectacular sight met their eyes. They all caught their breath at the scene before them.

  Everyone’s first impression of Black Rock Island was that of a huge dark head rising from the sea. The head was silhouetted against the purple clouds, the orange glow of the dying sun lighting the edge of the world. You could hear the pronounced slap of waves striking it from where they stood. Atop the rock, the most amazing structure projected into the air, the Roundhouse itself. As Mr. Skinner had noted, it was indeed strange, the tall rounded structure made from a hodgepodge of rock and pieces of various sailing vessels, its most prominent feature being the turret-like top, made mostly of a ship’s hull and bowsprit, upright and inverted like a spire.

&
nbsp; Mr. Skinner said, “Mighty impressive it is, I muster say. Well, young’uns, I need to get back ‘ter town, afore the storm blows in.” So, he explained the way down the cliff side path to the suspension bridge and boarded the motorbike with a last word of warning, “Be ceerful, young’uns, an’ don’t forget say your prayers. Give the Potters a ‘ullo,’ an’ to let me know if’s they needs anything.”

  The orange glow on the horizon gave a final gasp, as though the wind had blown out a match. It grew suddenly cold. The lamps hanging from the yardarms on posts dotting the steep zigzag path winding steeply down the cliff side began to swing. The children made their way down the paved path, where strong wooden rails offered some protection from the dark sea crashing below. A thick mist of fog was beginning to form, lolling and rolling up the sides of the cliff.

  The children reached a large landing that cut into the rock at the foot of the bridge. The supporting arches patched together with various ship parts looked like giant gaping mouths, made even more ominous by the creaking, groaning sounds of the bridge emanating through them. They stood shivering just outside the first supporting arch, trying to gather the courage to cross the slightly swaying bridge. It was heavily planked, with railings on each side, the uprights in the rails suspended from huge cables. Fortunately, lights were strung intermittently along the suspended cable, throwing little pools of light along the way. As it happened, the bridge was barely only a meter and a half wide, indicating it was mostly for foot traffic, the motorbikes being the only vehicles small enough to cross it. The lights gave the scene a weird, almost carnival atmosphere.

  Before them lay Black Rock Island. The outer edges of the top of the island held outcroppings of black rocks, scrubby trees and bushes surrounding a gravel drive that circled the fascinating crazy-quilt of black, brown and tan—the rock and wood façade of the Roundhouse Inn. Although much of the structure was built of rock, it was filled in with various pieces of timber, and whole pieces and sections of ships and boats; the windows varied from regular leaded windows and casements to actual ship’s portholes.

  The Roundhouse was not in fact exactly round but gave that general impression. The amazing turret, constructed with a large portion of ship’s hull and bowsprit, its carved lady figurehead facing the cliff, seemed to soar into the sky. The whole effect was like a great art-house folly, built by a crew of drunken sailors under the direction of the surrealist artist, Salvador Dali. As the children grew closer, they could see the base of the Roundhouse framed by the black rocks, a large bow window to the left of a great wooden door. A crookedly peaked roof covered the door, serving as a small porch. Warm light glowed from some of the leaded windows encased in the jumbled façade, like many eyes watching them.

  They had no choice but to cross the bridge. Michael took the lead.

  “All right, here we g–go. M–Mind the Gap—”

  The girls laughed nervously, and they stepped onto the planks.

  The children were in awe, creeping closer, feeling that wave of vertigo one gets when crossing a narrow high place, the sea crashing thirty meters beneath them. There was just room to walk three abreast, and they clutched their bags and each other’s hands tightly. With each step, the gaps in the boards seemed to grow wider, and the menacing groans of the bridge more intense. It was as though the bridge were coming alive beneath them, threatening to open up and let them fall through.

  Suddenly, a lone gull came shrieking up from below the bridge. The children quavered, catching their collective breath. The collective “Whew!” which they let out could be seen due to the thick moisture in the night air.

  But as they approached the halfway point across the bridge, a low moaning sound rose up around them. It grew it intensity as the bridge swayed beneath them. They froze in place clutching each other, as the sound seemed to drown out the existence of every other sound. The wind tore at them, threatening to pull them over the sides. The moan became howl that seemed to engulf them. Jen cried out.

  Then, ahead, the door of the inn creaked opened. A warm streak of light shot across the gravel toward them like a greeting. Then to their relief, three figures emerged, and proceeded to the foot of the bridge. The children gave a cry of relief and rushed forward to the safety of the arms awaiting them.

  4

  “OH, CHILDREN! WELCOME to the Roundhouse Inn,” shouted Dennis “Dinky” Potter over the howling roar. He was a youthful, portly man, slightly balding, with a cheerful open countenance, an apron surrounding his full waist. His wife, Doris, was equally chubby, and she and her daughter Delia, (a mirror of the two), gathered up the children and their bags, quickly sweeping them into the warmth of the inn. They were grateful to be in out of the chill. Behind them, through the closed door the wind and noise continued, though muffled.

  “That sound is what they call the ‘Lowling Howl,’ at least that’s what the old pirates and locals and sailors around here call it. Seems to emanate somewhere in the tunnels inside the cliffs and that’s what makes that terrible howl. And I’m afraid that means we’re in for quite a storm.”

  “They say the Lowling Howl is the ghosts of all the slaves that built this here place, crying out a warning before a real bad storm. Whatever it is, the storm’s a’comin’.” This from a man seated at a small table with a wireless set, at the back of the room by a large bow window. He turned off the set, rose and came forward to meet them, looming very tall and gnarled.

  “Ahem, uh, children, may I present Mr. Tom Melville, our handyman and fulltime resident here. He came to work for us when we bought the place last year and makes sure we’re always in fresh fish.”

  Tom Melville was weather-beaten and deeply tanned. He held out his crusty hands to all three children, while maintaining his crusty Cornish air.

  “Mighty pleased to meet you young folks. Seldom get young’uns out here.”

  Tom Melville was dressed in an old blue pea coat and soft sailor’s cap. His wise, lined face was framed by straggles of course reddish hair going grey, and his eyes sparkled over a bronzed and freckled nose. Despite the deep creases in his face, there was a youthful air about him, still the boy, but inhabiting an older man’s body. Smoke curled from his meerschaum pipe, and there was a faint blue haze and the smell of sweet tobacco.

  Michael immediately took a shine to the tall sailor. “So, there’s more than one ghost? Will we see them?”

  Tom Melville grinned and said, “Oh, now, lad, if you see a ghost you come get me, and when we see him, that’ll make two of us.” He winked at Dinky Potter.

  “Oh, but you mustn’t get the children going now, Tom,” Doris Potter chided, “Besides, they need to get warmed up, and settled in.” Hardly was she through speaking when Jen began turning in circles, looking about the room in wonder.

  It truly was a marvelous scene. It was a long, open space, and like the outside, the great room gave the impression of being all out-of-kilter. The low-beamed ceiling seemed to sag from the weight of ancient timbers set into plaster. Rock and plaster walls curved from the front, around to the right in a rough semi-circle all the way to the back. To their left, the wall beyond the bow window was almost straight, where two portions of a huge spiral staircase ran to either side of a huge ship’s mast in the center of the room.

  Beyond the stairs stood a long bar with taps, forming an upside-down L shape with stools standing before it. Past the bar was a swinging door leading back to the kitchen and another, the back door of the inn. In front of the bar there was a long, heavy communal dining table, and assorted benches, stools, chairs, and smaller tables clustered about. Almost facing the bar, and midway down the curved right wall, a huge stone fireplace with a heavy iron grate was blazing away. Above it set a thick mantel, a single piece of heavy blackened oak. There, seated in front of it, and almost blending into their surroundings, sat two eccentrically dressed, gypsy-like ladies.

  “Children, these are the Phipps sisters. They’ve been coming to Land’s End for ages. And they’re psychic.”
/>   “What’s that?” inquired little Jen.

  “Well, dear, they’re spiritualists you see. They can contact the other side,” answered Doris Potter. “The other side,” repeated Jen doubtfully, but Tom Melville added: “If anyone can spot a ghost, it’s these two ladies here, and that’s for sure!”

  Doris continued, “This is Flora.” She indicated the scarf-clad, wispy, pale-haired woman to the left, who raised her wide-rimmed spectacles, gave a little nod and beamed down her long nose, her dark grey eyes luminous and sparkling. She wore a large crystal pendant round her neck, and spoke in a deeply resonate voice, “When the Potters told us we would be having some young visitors, I knew it would somehow be fortuitous.”

  “And this is Fauna.” The woman on the right had blue-blonde hair upswept in a huge bun and she beamed like her sister from a slightly rounder, more gamine face. And, like her sister, her eyes, though lighter in color, were similarly expressive as though each had the same flame burning behind them. There was a small pile of knitting between them and they held the needles poised. The children were introduced, and they exchanged pleasantries. Doris Potter said, “They’re not twins but…”

  “We’re more alike than many twins are, I must say,” quipped Flora as if on cue.

  “We simply love to come this time every year, right in the heart of winter,” piped Fauna. “So good for the psychic vibrations!”

  “You can really feel them here,” said her sister, “and it’s almost become just like a second home. And I can feel some stirrings now, oh, yes! And it’s true about the Lowling Howl that Tom was speaking of just now.” She nodded at Fauna, who nodded back.

  “You’re so right, sister, dear, the spirits are about,” Fauna agreed, “you see, we have been coming to Eel’s Cove long before the Potters bought the inn a year ago. We’d intended to make this our permanent winter home here at the Roundhouse Inn. But a few things have changed recently—”