Persistence of Memory

by Winona Kent

  “Bloody hell, Charlie,” he said, shaking his head, his heart beginning to pound. “Bloody hell.”

  Situated at the top end of the green, The Dog’s Watch was close enough to the Village Oak that if Nick stood in the open doorway of the pub, he found he was still able to send messages to 1825.

  He’d arrived at this realization by accident. He’d needed to reassure himself that the glass bottle Mike Tidman had coaxed out of the earth between the roots of the tree was still there.

  On top of the bar.

  Unopened.

  Undisturbed.

  Yes, there it was.

  Cork still sealed with wax, paper inside still intact.

  He’d needed also to try and contact Charlie.

  To implore her to reconsider, using the most persuasive words he knew.

  He’d sent his plea and re-sent it, every fifteen minutes.

  And was still sending, as twilight gave way to night, and as the hour of the Bottle Auction drew closer.

  He had received no reply.

  He had, however, received an answer from Sam. Who was in the middle of a conversation with Roger and Mrs. Collins about Roger’s up and coming re-enactor weekend. As well as supper, which this evening was a very fine roasted chicken with rosemary, and a goat’s cheese, butter lettuce and cranberry salad.

  A farewell feast for Mrs. Collins, Sam wrote. I thought you weren’t remotely interested in the Bottle Auction.

  I am remotely interested now, Nick texted back.

  He copied what Charlie had written, and sent it on to Sam.

  Sam’s response was immediate.

  We’ll be there in two ticks.

  Two ticks were more like half an hour.

  But there they were. Sam and Mrs. Collins. And Roger, in his red wool 33rd Regiment of Foot re-enactor jacket.

  Sam parked the Civic in the paved lot beside the inn.

  “No joy from Charlie, I suppose,” she said, joining Nick in the open doorway.

  “None,” Nick said, worriedly. “Evening, Rog. Getting the drinks in for Napoleon?”

  “Hopefully he’ll get the drinks in for us,” Roger replied, humorously. “Bill Allen. Already inside at a table loaded with best British beer.”

  He escorted his two female companions into the pub.

  Nick stayed where he was.

  The Dog’s Watch was busier than usual. Not only because of the Bottle Auction. But also because of the journalists who had descended on Stoneford to provide ongoing updates on the plight of the Village Oak. And now, additionally, the fragile state of Emmy Cooper’s health.

  The inn had turned into the reporters’ base of operations.

  “Ladies and gents!” Reg Ferryman announced, in his best publican’s voice. “Ten minutes’ notice to make yourselves ready for the first and only Dog’s Watch Bottle Auction. Register your names with our guest auctioneer, Mr. Dobbs, and take your places. Twenty-five percent of all proceeds to be given to charity.”

  Generous sod, Nick thought, unkindly. There was a tax dodge for him in it somewhere.

  He checked his phone again.

  Nothing.

  Keeping his eyes on the bar, and Charlie’s glass bottle, he listened in unabashedly while Reg discussed his planned renovations with Mr. Dobbs.

  “A bank of slot machines over there,” Reg said, indicating the passage that led to the toilets. “And two of those big flat screen telly’s up on the wall.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Dobbs. “Then you’re thinking of Sports Nights.”

  “Sports, karaoke, quizzes, live cabaret…”

  “Whatever happened to a nice friendly game of darts?”

  “Rose and Crown,” Reg replied. “Down the road. Though you’ll see it’s boarded up. Lack of custom.”

  He nodded at the big stone fireplace in the corner.

  “If we cover that up,” he said, “we can put in a stage. Wire in a sound system. Multicolored lights. And a pair of dancer’s poles.”

  “You’d think owning a pub dating from 1790 would give him a feeling for history, wouldn’t you,” Nick remarked, to Sam, Roger and Mrs. Collins, whose faux-antique table was situated within talking distance of the door. “You’d think having it in his family for 200 years would give him some pride in preservation.”

  “Is it a pair of maypoles that he wishes to install?” Mrs. Collins inquired, confused.

  There was laughter from the bar. Reg pulled out an iPad and called up a set of plans, to show to Mr. Dobbs. Plans not previously heard about in Stoneford. Plans for a hotel, Nick realized. An entirely new structure, adjoining the existing buildings, and incorporating the listed Grade II red brick barn.

  Charlie would have been aghast.

  “We’ll leave the barn virtually untouched,” Reg said. “Keep the Parish Council happy. It becomes our very special function room. Weddings, conventions…And we can build the new hotel around it.”

  Disgusted, Nick watched as the project was erected on Reg Ferryman’s iPad. An adventure inn. With a smugglers theme. Bedrooms named after assorted colorful characters from Stoneford’s sea-roving past. Cheap antiques sourced from an overseas factory that specialized in good resin copies. Front desk staff in period costume. A gigantic water feature in the back garden with a replica pirate ship.

  “For the kiddies,” Reg added, as the mobile belonging to one of the London reporters rang.

  “You’re joking,” Nick heard him say.

  And then the reporter snapped his fingers at a colleague, and the two of them rushed outside, past Nick, to the parking lot.

  Other phones were beginning to go off. There were hurried and hushed conversations, followed in quick succession by a mass exodus of the journalists.

  “Emmy Cooper’s just died,” Gina said, at the far end of the bar, to Reg. “That’ll be your Ron in a serious spot of bother, then.”

  Nick looked in alarm at Sam, who already had her own phone out, and was ringing one of the nurses she knew at the Royal Memorial Hospital.

  “What’s going on with Emmy Cooper, Fliss?”

  As Sam waited for Fliss to go and check, Reg Ferryman hurriedly commanded the attention of his customers.

  “Ladies and gents, due to unforeseen circumstances, tonight’s Bottle Auction must regrettably be cancelled. Thank you for your interest. Gina!”

  Chapter 35

  Next to The Dog’s Watch Inn was the hostelry that shared its name, but hardly any of its custom. It had been constructed, Charlie knew, as a late addition to the 1790 tavern, fuelled by a rumour that Stoneford was on the verge of becoming a destination for visitors desirous of bracing sea air and an escape from the unhealthy environs of London.

  The rumour proved to be unfounded, and there had been no great influx of travellers. The accommodations which were attached to the inn did a middling trade, as they were convenient for wayfarers who had ridden in the mail coach from London. But the rooms were usually less than half occupied, and Charlie was of the opinion the hostel would have gone out of business altogether if it hadn’t been for the thriving custom at the drinking establishment next door.

  The accommodations were handy, however, for Lemuel Ferryman, as they happened to contain his lodgings. And on this particular Monday night, candlelight could be seen flickering through his upstairs bedroom window.

  It was 11.30 pm.

  Outside Mr. Ferryman’s window—one floor below and on the ground—a certain amount of furtive activity was taking place.

  While Charlie kept watch, four gentlemen—Augustus, Mr. Rankin, Mr. Wallis and Mr. Cole—silently crept up to the building.

  Once there, Augustus quickly located the empty wooden cask that Mr. Ferryman had been sitting on earlier, toppled it, and rolled it against the exterior wall.

  Upending it once more, he climbed onto its top, exhibiting, Charlie thought, a surprising amount of agility for a gentleman of his accumulated years.

  “Mr. Rankin,” he said, quietly and cordially, extending his hand, and the
manor’s gardener followed him up, aided by Mr. Wallis and Mr. Cole.

  Mr. Rankin was not nearly as agile as Augustus. It took some careful manoeuvring and several unsuccessful attempts before he was able to clamber onto the older gentleman’s shoulders, and raise himself—rather precariously—so that he could see directly through the window.

  Feeling the gardener’s full weight pressing down upon his shoulders, Augustus braced himself against the whitewashed wall of the hostelry.

  “Make haste, Mr. Rankin,” he suggested, in a loud whisper, “else I fear you may cause my internal workings an irreversible mischief. What do you see?”

  “Mr. Ferryman,” the gardener replied. “Snoring in a chair.”

  “And his keyring?”

  “Attached to his waistcoat by way of a substantial chain.”

  “You have my permission to proceed, sir. At your earliest convenience.”

  Still balancing precariously atop Augustus’ shoulders, Mr. Rankin reached into his pocket, and withdrew Charlie’s mobile. He switched it on—having practised it several times earlier, under the greater Monsieur Duran’s close tutelage—and expertly cued the tune he had personally chosen from Charlie’s collection.

  Mr. Rankin did not understand Charlie’s phone. He hadn’t pretended to know what caused it to light up, or how its internal workings were able to summon music at the simple touch of his finger. But he had accepted what the greater Monsieur Duran had shown him without question.

  And now, holding the device up to the open window, Mr. Rankin touched Play. And the not unfamiliar twangs of Hank Marvin’s lead guitar on F.B.I. loudly infiltrated Mr. Ferryman’s bedroom, and, by default, his dreams.

  There was a loud thump.

  “Awake?” Augustus checked.

  “Decidedly,” Mr. Rankin confirmed. “And on the floor.”

  With swift precision, Mr. Wallis and Mr. Cole assisted him down from Augustus’ shoulders and onto the ground.

  The music continued to play as the four gentlemen repaired to the back of the building, concealing themselves from Mr. Ferryman, who, red-faced and befuddled, poked his head out through the open window.

  Charlie remained where she was, hidden behind an obliging shrub.

  Mr. Ferryman withdrew his head, and moments later, burst through the downstairs door, seeking the source of the strange sound that was assaulting his ears.

  Charlie swigged from the bottle of laudanum that Augustus had entrusted to her care. The pain was just there, there, trying to break through.

  She was running a fever. She was hot, so hot.

  And now shivering.

  Clutching the bottle, she watched as Lemuel Ferryman ran towards the vegetation that grew wild at the rear of the inn, tripping through the brambles and the grasses, the bushes and the thistles. Until, by the light of the moon, he spotted the device which was responsible for the strange musical noise. Propped against the woody trunk of an obliging rhododendron was Charlie’s mobile, its little screen filled with colourful patterns that danced in time to the resounding guitars.

  Bending down to examine the device further, his fear and unfamiliarity overcome by reckless curiosity, Mr. Ferryman extended a tentative finger. He was about to actually touch the screen when a sack was thrown over his head from behind, and he was hurled, unceremoniously, into the middle of the brambles.

  Mr. Wallis held Mr. Ferryman to the ground, and Mr. Cole tightened his grip around the sack. Quickly, Mr. Rankin relieved the publican of his key ring, tossing it to Augustus, who caught it neatly and made an efficient departure towards the Dog’s Watch’s cellar.

  Most of Reg Ferryman’s customers had finished up and gone home.

  Gina had rung the bell for last call, and was preparing to lock up for the night.

  Only a few scattered diehards remained, downing their beers according to their own schedule, unmoved by the legal necessity of their removal from the pub in twenty minutes’ time.

  Nick slumped in the doorway, staring at his mobile, unable to convince himself that he was never going to see Charlie again. He’d brought her this far. He’d worked everything out. And now, he was going to lose her.

  Why?

  He shook his head.

  “What do you want us to do?” Sam checked.

  Nick glanced at the bar, where the stoppered glass bottle still stood, unopened, beneath the portrait of Reg’s ancestor, Lemuel.

  Regardless of Charlie’s decision to stay in 1825, there was no way he was going to let the Ferryman brothers win. She’d buried that deed for a reason. It was her legacy.

  The wrong, at last, made right.

  “I need Mrs. Collins in Charlie’s sitting room at midnight,” Nick said, checking his watch.

  “I thought Charlie told you she wasn’t coming back.”

  “I refuse to believe that. And I can’t risk not doing it. We only have one chance. We’ll go ahead as planned. And whatever happens…happens.”

  “What about the bottle?”

  “Bring it with you,” Nick said.

  “What,” Sam said. “Just…take it?”

  “It was never Reg’s to begin with, Sam. Ron grabbed it out of my hands. And if that’s really the deed inside, he doesn’t have any claim to the land it was found in at all. Just take it.”

  Nick looked at his watch again.

  Seventeen minutes.

  “I’ll just make sure there’s room in the car for all four of us,” Roger said, good-naturedly, downing the last of his best bitter.

  And it was while Roger was rearranging things in the back seat of Sam’s Civic that the Stoneford Constabulary arrived.

  Screeching to a stop, PC Kevin Smith and PC Oswald Brown leaped out of their own car and raced into the pub, disappearing into Reg Ferryman’s private room behind the bar.

  Two minutes later, they emerged with Ron Ferryman between them, followed by Reg.

  “Blimey,” said Gina. “Hiding in plain sight all along. Who’d have guessed it, Reg? Where were you keeping him all this time? Down the cellar inside a barrel?”

  “Lock up, Gina,” Reg replied, curtly, collecting the glass bottle from the top of the bar. “Everyone out. Pub’s closed.”

  Alarmed, Sam looked at Nick, and silently mouthed: What now?

  Nick was trying to work out just exactly what needed to be done next, when several details became obvious.

  The first was that PC Smith and PC Brown had arrived without handcuffs, and were therefore only able to escort Ron Ferryman as far as the door before he dug in his heels and refused to go any further.

  The second was that Roger Palmer, in his red wool 33rd Regiment of Foot jacket, was actually blocking the way out.

  And the third was that, wielding Mrs. Collins’ 1796 British Cavalry officer’s sword before him with all the skill of a Battle of Waterloo veteran, Roger was now parrying his way across to the bar, and Reg Ferryman.

  Aiming the point of the sword directly at Reg’s chest, Roger deftly relieved him of the stoppered bottle.

  “Many thanks,” he said, tossing it across the room, where it was caught, neatly, by Mrs. Collins.

  “Flee!” Mrs. Collins shouted, to Nick, Roger and Sam. “In haste!”

  Shoving past Ron Ferryman and the two police constables, Nick, Roger, Sam and Mrs. Collins raced outside and dived into the Civic. Sam threw herself into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  At that point, and almost simultaneously, Ron Ferryman decided that now would be an excellent time to make a run for it himself. Elbowing the two police constables aside, he darted out of the pub, and was caught in Sam’s headlights as she jammed the Civic into reverse.

  His eyes crazed with rage, Ron Ferryman glared at Mrs. Collins.

  “You’re not getting away this time!” he bellowed, as Sam’s car screeched out of the parking lot. “If I’m going down, so are you!”

  And he set out after them, running at top speed, chasing the car down the road that skirted the western edge of the Villag
e Green, all the way to Charlie’s cottage.

  Chapter 36

  There was a brisk wind blowing. Charlie could smell the sea.

  As Mr. Cole and Mr. Wallis struggled to keep Lemuel Ferryman pinned to the ground, Mr. Rankin led three of the manor’s quickest horses out into the open.

  He smiled broadly as he spotted Augustus, accompanied by Mr. Deeley.

  “Shaun,” he said. “Here is your freedom. Monsieur Duran will ride with you to Southampton, and from there, you are guaranteed a safe passage across the channel to France.”

  “Three horses?” Mr. Deeley replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  Charlie stepped out of the shadows, pale and shivering.

  There was no need for words. She lost herself in Mr. Deeley’s ready embrace. Regency manners be damned.

  “And here we have a further conundrum,” Augustus said, “and a regrettably insufficient amount of time in which to resolve it. For I fear, Mrs. Collins, that if you do not return from whence you came, you will almost certainly die.”

  “I will not return,” Charlie answered, surprised by her ancestor’s sudden change of heart. “I would rather flee to France with Mr. Deeley, and leave this world in his arms, then forsake him now. He is my everything. And there is nothing for me in the future.”

  “Wait,” said Mr. Deeley, now fully awake. “You will die?”

  Their attention was momentarily diverted to the rear of the inn, where there was a series of grunts, followed by a solid thud, and a far-too-satisfied and entirely inappropriate chuckle from Mr. Wallis.

  “Yes,” Charlie answered, bravely, gazing into Mr. Deeley’s eyes. “I will die. But I will do so willingly and without fear, for I will not abandon you…”

  “But Monsieur Duran has told you that you may live,” said Mr. Deeley, “if you return to your home.”

  “I do not wish it,” Charlie replied simply, resting her head against his chest.

  “But—what if I should wish it?” Mr. Deeley asked.

  Charlie looked at him, her eyes filling with tears. “You should wish it…?”

  “I love you,” Mr. Deeley answered, “And it is my desire that you may live. For the knowledge that you are somewhere safe, and remembering me, would guarantee me the far greater joy. Even if we must forever afterwards be apart…”