The Cornish Secret of Summer's Promise

by Laura Briggs

  The time on my tablet computer's screen clicked to another pre-dawn hour. Not even an hour's sleep yet, and I was supposed to be at work by six.

  From a seat on the Penmarrow's terrace, my thin robe wrapped around me, I gazed across the garden lawn as if waiting for the first rosy hue to bathe the green grass and tint the sea and horizon. Beneath me, the terrace's metal patio chair felt cool through the synthetic fabric, and the morning breeze made me wish for my jumper upstairs instead. I didn't have the heart to walk along the shore and await another Cornish sunrise on the beach, the way I had when I came last summer. Instead, I sat with my chin cupped between my hands, as if I was in a doctor's waiting room and expected inconclusive test results when my name was called.

  Nothing I felt or imagined could change what was going to happen in the future. It only made me afraid of what it was going to be. But it was the only place my imagination would go, no matter how I tried to change its course.

  I heard the sound of steps across the patio tiles. "I thought it would be you out here." Molly sat down in the chair to my right. "I didn't expect you'd be sleeping. You looked terribly sad and tired out at dinner." She wore her maid's dress, but her apron was draped over her arm, and her mousy brown hair was unpinned. She must have been working the late shift, serving tea to the security team in the wee small hours.

  "Writer's block," I said. A joke, but it didn't sound very funny when spoken aloud.

  "We don't think so." Molly sounded solemn, and slightly worried. I realized she hadn't come alone when Brigette sat down in the chair to my left, with her usual prim uniform and manners despite a double shift's work. She gave me a tiny apologetic smile, which, for Brigette, looked very out-of-practice.

  "I wanted to say ..." she paused, "... I wanted to say that I was sorry for telling you those stories about Sidney. I didn't mean them to sound harsh — I didn't realize he was going to be arrested like this. He's not really such a bad bloke in the village, even if there are rumors. I only wanted to be a friend when I told you, honestly," she added. "Please, don't be upset."

  "It isn't that." I shook my head. "Believe me, I have a definite impression how the village gossips feel about Sidney, and I've had it for awhile." I might have been denying it, but those looks they gave him were unmistakable ones, and not reserved for his carefree attitudes on steady employment.

  "I've always thought he seemed like a nice lad," said Molly. "He's kind enough to everybody."

  "And he's really not such a terrible flirt — not the way the porters for the hotel carry on, leastways," said Brigette.

  Molly placed her hand on my arm. "Don't worry," she said. "Most of the village knows Sidney Daniels isn't the one who stole those jewels. They'll let him go soon enough."

  "There's already rumors in the village that the real thief is a master criminal from continental Europe," said Brigette, helpfully.

  Word travels fast in small villages, even when it's supposed to be a secret. "Thanks," I said. "For trying to cheer me up, both of you." I smiled, though it wasn't much of one, really.

  "We have a bit of something else to help cheer you, too," said Molly. Brigette held out the copy of Eternally Yours from the hotel desk, which was looking slightly more battered than in the beginning, with a slight fold crease across the hero's bare torso on the cover.

  "I thought this was safely back in the lost and found box," I said, as I accepted it, trying again not to laugh over the ridiculously-dramatic cover. "Not to be read by hotel employees, according to rules."

  "I decided that rule could be waived temporarily," said Brigette. "It might take your mind off things a bit — being accused of robbery and all the rest that happened. It certainly seems to help Riley and Gomez keep their minds off their work, at any rate," she added, with chagrin.

  "Lady Marverly's novels are always good for distracting yourself," said Molly. "I used to get a bit lost in one like this when I felt sad."

  "Even I read one on occasion, when I was feeling disappointed." Brigette's cheeks blushed fire red, briefly. "Not often, of course," she corrected herself. "Or at all anymore. They're a bit silly for my tastes, really."

  "Maybe it'll help you, too," said Molly, with another smile. She and Brigette rose to leave me alone with the paperback and my thoughts — I caught their exchange of glances as they turned to go, and could see that they really were a little worried. I had never realized that they noticed that I was so changed lately.

  The wind fanned the pages of the novel as it lay beside me, revealing a tobacco stain on one that must surely be either Riley's or Gomez's. Some scene filled with unlacing corset stays or tortured emotions on the hero's part, I imagined. A tiny smile teased one corner of my mouth.

  "I often sit outside when inspiration won't strike my thoughts." The voice, slightly dramatic despite being tinged with mild gravity, was unmistakably that of Alistair Davies.

  I scrambled upright in my chair, startled. The authoress stood in the terrace doorway in a dove-grey silk kimono robe, tied with a bright orange sash. In her hand was a teacup; the wind rippled her grey-white wisps of hair like clouds changing form on the horizon. She smiled at me.

  "I just like to sit outside in the early morning to think," I said. "Another of my bad habits." I had probably disturbed her chance to do the same thing — in peace and solitude — on the hotel's terrace.

  Alistair seated herself in the chair which Molly had vacated, her cup of tea on the table. She gazed towards the distant sea, where the first band of light was lifting above the dark waters.

  "Are you disappointed in me?" she asked. "Disappointed that I wasn't what you thought I would be. Quite evidently you were shocked to find out that I was a woman."

  "I was surprised," I answered. "But I wasn't disappointed, no. I suppose if I hadn't spent so long picturing you in the past, I would have handled my reaction differently. I didn't react that way just because you were a woman, because women are brilliant authors. I was just — sort of —"

  "Shocked?" supplied Alistair. "Most people are, who know the truth. Critics talk about the 'genuine masculine voice' in the chapters with Michael or Victor, and the 'muscular strength' of the narrative in certain pivotal scenes."

  "Women have always been among the world's best authors, though," I said. "George Eliot — so many critics mistook her writing for that of a man. Everyone except Charles Dickens, anyway."

  "I adored Eliot's books," said Alistair. "What an understated genius. Such complexity and creativity. She was really better than Dickens — he was probably quite jealous of her."

  A burst of laughter escaped me. "I think you should probably keep that opinion private," I said. "You'd have Dickensian readers and literary historians rolling in their graves. But ... her work is really incredible, isn't it?"

  "Sylvia Isles's work reminds me a tiny bit of her," mused Alistair. "I think it's the poetical nature of her prose. It positively makes me want to recite her books aloud." She named one of literature's up-and-coming female voices, whose quiet literary voice packed an incredible emotional punch that had almost won her a Pulitzer a couple of years ago, literary rumors claimed.

  "I read her first one. Its narrative possessed a kind of spellbinding nature." My voice took on a slightly dreamy quality as I remembered sitting under a pine tree at a national park picnic site, absorbed in the last chapters of the subtle but brilliant plot of Isle's short work The Whisperer. "I almost missed my chance to see a rare hawk's nesting site because I couldn't put it down until the last page." My ex-boyfriend Ronnie had thought I was crazy at the time.

  "Her conversation is every bit as scintillating as her prose. Never let them tell you that she's solely an introspective novelist, either — she's quite fun at a party, and positively the saving grace in any tedious debate between duller intellects who have locked horns in a few I've attended."

  "You know Sylvia Isles?"

  "Intimately, my dear, intimately. She's one of my dearest friends. In fact, I'll be seeing her in a few w
eeks at a little literary gathering at our friend Tony's villa. Her new work is in progress, and she's agreed to read a few pages for us."

  I couldn't imagine a roomful of listeners gifted with the chance to hear someone that brilliant share her novel in its raw stages — then again, some of them had probably heard Alistair read a few chapters in the past. Fortunate souls who knew her true identity had probably been given privileged access to Victor's wrenching train station scene in Uninvited Hauntings; or maybe Lillian and George's intense exchange among the burial ground headstones in Let to Lie. It made me dizzy to imagine it, as if I had heard of a vast literary hoard in which unrefined nuggets were piled for members to freely examine.

  I ran the tip of one finger along a flaw in the iron chair's paint. "Why haven't you finished the fourth novel?" I asked. "All these years, there have been rumors about it. But you've waited longer between it and the last one than any of the others."

  Alistair sighed. "I suppose the inspiration I want for it simply hasn't come," she answered. "I've had ample time, it's true. I've put words on the page for it ... but no story has come to life from them, merely existence."

  The great Alistair Davies with writer's block issues. Who would have guessed?

  "I'm so sorry," I said. "Truly. Do you ... do you think you'll find an answer?"

  "I don't know," she said. "I suppose a great many readers are hopeful that I will. Otherwise, they'll simply have to imagine all the little details, such as when Terry returns from Riviera, or what happened to Meredith after that letter turned up in the hands of a Reading solicitor."

  "I'll be among them," I admitted wistfully, my chin propped on my hands again.

  "You are still an admirer of the works of Alistair Davies — surprises and all?" asked Alistair. "I imagined it would be rather disillusioning for a young woman picturing some Ian McKellen doppelganger — only with an eye for women — to find out it's hardly the case."

  She was eerily close to the truth in part. "I'm not disappointed," I said. "Alistair Davies is and will always be my favorite author. Even if she's only ever the author of three of the world's greatest novels. In my humble opinion, at least," I added.

  Alistair laughed heartily. "I'm glad to hear someone say so," she answered. "I did think they were rather good myself." She lifted her teacup and took a sip. On the horizon, the dawn had turned the sea in a blue-gray sheet, rumpled and creased by a restless night's sleep.

  "Whatever became of your novel?" she asked. "You never answered my question that last time you visited my suite. In fact ... quite the opposite. Beneath that cryptic answer, I divine that you rather gave up on your writing than stayed the course. I certainly hope that isn't the case."

  "I didn't give up," I said. "Actually ... I finished my book." My toes traced a gap in the terrace tiles. I drew my feet upon the chair now, wrapping my arms around my legs.

  "Bravo for you," said Alistair, sounding pleased. "What sort of story? I hope it's not an attempt at my fourth manuscript. Do tell me it's something quite different."

  "It's a novelized version of the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe," I answered. "The adventures of the character Annabel Lee from his second most-famous poem. Across time, and across oceans, with gothic elements, a bit of romance ..." I trailed off, though I had once imagined describing this to Alistair Davies with rapt eagerness. "It's complicated," I finished, rather than waffle on forever in explanation. "And not exactly in the fashion of the movie version of 'The Raven'."

  "Will you let me read it?" Alistair asked.

  My feet slipped from their perch on the edge of my chair. "My book?" I said. How I managed any word I wasn't certain, because my brain had frozen in place on these words. "You're joking."

  "Not one wit," she answered. "I would be flattered by the opportunity. It would be a privilege, really. A budding talent, one of my greatest fans — I was willing to offer you advice on it a year ago, as I implied in those words I wrote you. Why shouldn't I be now?'

  "I don't know what to say." My voice was faint from utter surprise. "I never imagined this. I mean, I did ... but I knew how impossible it was after I came here, and came to my senses. It was a lot to ask of someone else, and I knew that. And I don't want you to read it out of pity." I glanced at her. "As flattering as having you ask really, truly is."

  "It's not pity, my dear child. It's sincerity of the truest form. Writer to writer, I ask it of you, but only if you still wish the opinion of a writer currently without inspiration, and one far from your expectations at the time you wrote to ask an opinion."

  Did I still want it? All these months, I had stopped imagining the possibility, folding it up the same way I folded up the Ink and Inspiration portfolio, and the mentorship program's application. Was the brilliant Alistair Davies truly serious about treating me as a fellow writer?

  "No promises that I can praise it afterwards," Alistair added, warningly. "Or that I can read it very swiftly. I do still have a great deal of mail to answer during my stay, as you observed before. But I will be fair when I do read it, and do my utmost to keep my criticism helpful. Would that suit?"

  "I would be honored," I said. "Thank you."

  ***

  London had not decided yet to close the inquiry on the missing jewels in the morning hours. Detective Anson was again questioning the remaining guests at the hotel who were still possible witnesses or suspects in his book. At ten, he had the irate Hollywood buyer at a corner table in the dining room, asking him questions once again.

  "I have spoken to people in the village." The detective's pencil tapped softly against his notebook's side. "It seems many of them remember seeing you there frequently. Chatting with locals ... visiting the shops ... strolling along its lanes." His tapping paused significantly here.

  Blane shrugged. "I go for walks," he said. "I had time to kill before the auction, I didn't feel like taking a train up to London, so I thought I'd see a real slice of England. It's not a crime, is it?"

  "No. But one of the lanes where you were spotted walking is the same one where the current suspect's home is. Where, quite possibly, a person walking along the pavement outside its gates might have noticed the building stood open and unattended frequently."

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Blane sighed. "So I walked along a couple of neighborhood streets. I don't remember any addresses. I couldn't tell you what any of the cottages looked like. I didn't even take any pictures."

  "You enjoy local gossip, though." The detective made a note on his page.

  "So?" Blane scoffed. "It was some local color. I ..." he hesitated, " ... I have this idea for a story I'm working on, so I thought I'd be friendly around the village."

  "You're a writer, Mr. Blane?"

  "I'm an aspiring screenwriter, okay? Half of Los Angeles is, so it's not exactly a news flash. My senior project at film school was this little film about a fisherman and all the quirky problems in his tiny little village, and I was thinking about expanding it to a full-length indie film." He checked his watch. "Can I go now? You may find this shocking, but my boss would like me to call the airlines and change my ticket so I can fly home if there's not going to be an auction for Mildred Eccleston's estate."

  "Of course. You are free to go at any time," said Anson. "Unless, of course, the authorities in London say otherwise." Blane's expression changed subtly in response — but that might be for the thought of being stranded in England indefinitely.

  "Thanks." He shoved his chair back from the table and left the room.

  The sign for the exhibit had been removed a day ago, but today Riley was marking the word CANCELLED through two auction posters lying on the reception desk. Through the windows of the parlor, I spotted an unhappy-looking Mr. Tiller speaking with the hotel's manager on the lawn. The sale of Mildred Eccleston's estate would not take place without the diamonds of Lady Von Patterson, apparently.

  " ... the police presence alone has given the entire auction very foul publicity." Mr. Tiller's voice drifted into he
aring range as I opened the windows to the midmorning breeze outside. "The clientele and patrons of Vancy's Auction House do not care for fingerprint dust on display cases or sordid motives being dragged to light. There's no reason to hold the auction, even if the police declare the case closed tomorrow."

  "I suspect the loss of a primary attraction for buyers would hardly be helpful." Sympathy in dry tones from Mr. Trelawney. Whom, I suspected, was not entirely sympathetic to these remarks.

  "There's probably no hope for recovering the diamonds. That local fool probably buried them under some village farm hedge," said Mr. Tiller, despondently. "Some land development company in the future will dig them up unawares with a construction claw and toss them into a rubble heap."

  "Let's keep a happy thought, shall we?"

  "Happiness has no place in this affair, I fear. It hardly matters now. The insurance company will cover our loss, though it hardly consoles one for the diamonds. The day after tomorrow, I'm arranging for the lorries to come with Vancy's removal staff, so we can return the rest of the collection to one of our holding vaults for the present time."

  If only my thought about the paintings had some weight, this would be the 'clincher', as the mystery books claim.

  Across from Anson, the European collector's assistant was sipping a cup of tea, gazing patiently at the detective as he reviewed his notes. "Why did you arrive so early to the auction?" the detective asked, mildly.

  "My employer wished it. He needed to see better photographs of the items he wished to purchase, to be sure of their authenticity. He is ... very particular in his taste."

  The detective turned back in his note pages. "But the exhibit was to be open for four — no, five days before the auction. And you, according to the statements you gave both me and the local authorities, had appointments at another auction, and a London warehouse as well."

  "That is correct."

  I dusted some spilled powdered creamer from the beverage station, stalling for time as I tidied the dining room. There were a few specks of dust on the coffee mugs that needed my attention.