A Rather Remarkable Homecoming

by C. A. Belmond

  I stepped back now, for an overall view. “I think this is actually solid mahogany. It means somebody spent a lot of time and money on it,” I concluded. “And this image is so realistic. It seems more like a commissioned sculpture, like a portrait.”

  Jeremy had been listening attentively, but now he went into the parlor and began busily tapping away at his computer. I have learned to stand back whenever he’s on the cyber-trail of something important, for he has an uncanny ability to make connections with unexpected combinations of keywords, to track down whatever he’s after.

  When he grunted, I peered over his shoulder. On the screen were rows of thumbnail-sized images of nineteenth-century mastheads, which Jeremy was rapidly scrolling through. Suddenly he stopped, double-clicked on a picture that filled the screen, and then he compared it to one of the photos he’d taken of our masthead.

  “Look at this,” he said triumphantly. “It’s a perfect match, right? Which means our masthead is from”—he clacked a bit more on his computer—“a clipper ship. It’s from the mid-1800s, just like you said. It was called La Paloma.”

  I stared at the drawing of an elegant ship with many sails. Jeremy reported, “It says here the ship wrecked on its maiden voyage from where it was built, in Genoa. It sailed past Gibraltar but hit a storm somewhere off the Cornish coast where it foundered and split on the rocks. The owner was a man named Prescott Doyle of . . . Port St. Francis!” Jeremy exclaimed.

  “Hey. I’ll bet there’s something about this ship in the maritime museum!” I exclaimed. “Remember, the one in my guidebook that I wanted us to go see? They’ve got a whole section devoted to shipwrecks. Why don’t we drive out there and take a look after lunch?”

  But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow flitting in the driveway. I turned my head, thinking it might be a deer coming to nibble at our garden; then I realized that it was a male figure, moving stealthily closer.

  “There’s a strange man in the front yard!” I exclaimed. My stomach clutched with fear at the idea that whoever had run us off the road had followed us here to finish the job. Jeremy must have been thinking along the same lines, because he picked up the biggest kitchen knife. Together, we hovered near the window watchfully. As the man drew closer, we could finally see his face.

  “Rollo,” we both said together. Jeremy shook his head, and I opened the front door, stepped out and waved to him. Rollo glanced up, as if he’d been uncertain as to whether he had the right house. Upon seeing me, he flashed a relieved grin.

  “Greetings!” he said. He was holding a suitcase. “Just arrived a few hours ago. Whew! What an infernally long drive. That farmer fellow Geoffrey met me in town so I could follow him to the farm, and then he introduced me to his little hippie wife.”

  I couldn’t imagine what our New Age hosts would think of Rollo, and vice versa. People are usually instinctively wary at the mere sight of Rollo; for, despite his basic good taste when it comes to clothes and antiques, he has a tendency to always look a bit rumpled, as if he’s slept in his suit overnight on a park bench.

  Today, for instance, he had not shaved yet, and the dark stubble gave him a roguish air, as if he’d been at the roulette table all night somewhere. Which was not entirely inconceivable, either.

  “Didn’t they show you the other cottage Shannon picked out for you?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes, yes, the girl had a perfectly awful hut in mind for me,” Rollo explained, lounging in the doorway. “Penny darling, you could hardly call it a cottage. Damned thing is a mere shed, with one of those wretched gas tanks that goes poof! every blasted time you turn on the hot water or the stove. I simply can’t stay there, my dear girl. Just won’t cut the mustard, it’s far too rustic. And that cheeky gal actually asked me if I’d like to pitch in and help with the farming and the lambing! Fancy that, me shearing sheep! Does she actually expect me to earn my keep?”

  I could just imagine Shannon, in all seriousness, inviting Rollo to take part in the farming that she loved so much. I explained to Rollo that Geoff and Shannon believed that everyone should learn about farming, in order to appreciate the food they eat.

  “Humph. Always had the utmost respect for those who till the soil. But, really now. Enough is enough. I put her right straight about that one,” Rollo concluded. “I say, shall we have a spot of lunch together?” he inquired as we headed into the parlor.

  I grinned at him. But Jeremy motioned to me to hang back so that he could whisper warningly to me, “If Rollo actually thinks he’s going to sleep on our sofa here, you’d better disabuse him of that notion straight away.”

  “Take it easy,” I advised. “When we go into town this afternoon to check out that maritime museum we can try to find him other accommodations.”

  “You know there aren’t any other accommodations,” Jeremy reminded me. “Let’s not roast that old chestnut. Rollo is lucky to have gotten any kind of ‘private hut’ on such short notice.”

  “Look, he can stay here with us for a couple of days,” I suggested. “If he even lasts that long. You know how easily he gets bored.”

  “Whoo-hah!” Rollo shouted suddenly from the kitchen. “Good God!” A silence followed. Then he returned to the doorway, wide-eyed.

  “You failed to introduce me to your other houseguest, Penny dear,” Rollo said, clutching his chest dramatically as he gestured toward the masthead lying on the kitchen table. “Gave me an awful fright! Thought she was a corpse and you were performing an autopsy. What’s it all about?”

  We lugged the Great Lady into an empty closet. Then over lunch, we informed Rollo of our noble mission to find some historic value to Grandmother Beryl’s house and the property around it. I even told him about H.R.H., so Rollo understood that we weren’t just going off half-cocked out of sentimentality about the house. The funny thing about Rollo is that you can’t trust him on ordinary matters—he’ll steal a cigarette or an antique trinket—but on huge matters like the cases that Jeremy and I work on, Rollo has proved himself an invaluable, trustworthy agent.

  At least, so far.

  So, when I suggested he accompany us into town to try to find out anything about Lady Mascot’s real identity, he perked up and said, “Delighted, my dear. She does rather look vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve heard of her somehow.”

  Rollo and I headed for the car while Jeremy printed out extra copies of his best photo of Miss Paloma.

  “Nice to be back in the saddle again,” Rollo said with a lopsided smile. Jeremy joined us now, and we all climbed into the Dragonetta and headed for town.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Once we got into Port St. Francis, we decided to split up so we could cover more ground in our search for the story of the Great Lady. I went to the library to dig out all I could about the masthead; Jeremy went straight to the maritime museum, which was a few miles outside of town; and Rollo . . . well, he followed his nose, doing what he does best—ducking into dark or dubious places where Jeremy and I would never think to go and would in any case stick out like sore thumbs.

  At five o’clock, as pre-arranged, Jeremy and I met up on the large outdoor deck at the back of Toby Taylor’s restaurant, where drinks and finger food were served for a cocktail hour before dinner. It was so noisy and busy that we could speak without anyone around us caring about what we were saying.

  Rollo arrived, out of breath and smelling faintly of beer. “Bit hungry after all this research!” he said, settling himself in a chair and signalling the waiter for a drink. Jeremy gave him a skeptical look, but ordered a platter of appetizers. Rollo surveyed the view appreciatively, for the sun was slowly setting, and the boats were coming into the harbor below, with hungry seagulls cawing and dipping for their own appetizers.

  I was bursting to tell Jeremy what I’d found out, for I was sure I’d made the most astonishing find of the day. Now that Rollo had finally arrived, I plunged right in.

  “You know the guy who built the ship that our masthead came from? Pr
escott Doyle? Well, not only is he from Port St. Francis, but he just happens to be the former owner of Grandmother Beryl’s house!” I exclaimed. “Can you believe it? This was after The Earl’s Players lived there, of course.”

  I opened my portfolio to get the pages I’d copied. “In the late 1700s,” I went on, “the earl sold the house to a shipping magnate named Jonathan Doyle. When Jonathan died, the house was inherited by his only child—our Prescott Doyle. And it belonged to Doyle’s relatives until, lo and behold, Grandmother Beryl’s dad bought it in the late 1800s.”

  “Did the masthead come with it?” Jeremy inquired.

  “Nope,” I said emphatically. “The masthead was retrieved from the shipwreck and given to the Port St. Francis library. But later, there was an auction, and Grandmother Beryl’s father bought it! They had a little story about this in an old edition of the local paper. Look.”

  I spread out the copy I’d made at the library from a feature story about the auction:

  Item #24. Ship’s Masthead. Carved mahogany study of Paloma, the lady for whom the ship was named. Sold to Thaddeus Laidley for ten pounds. The new owner admitted that he does not possess a ship. When asked what he planned to do with the masthead, Thaddeus replied, “Why, it would make an excellent scarecrow for my garden!” Mr. Laidley is the proud new owner of the summer cottage that belonged to Prescott Doyle.

  “Thaddeus Laidley!” I repeated, pointing at the name on the page. “My great-grandfather! He’s the father of Great-Aunt Penelope, Grandmother Beryl and Great-Uncle Roland. No wonder they got their little mitts on it! Do you suppose their dad just gave it to them?”

  “Maybe the masthead was a lousy scarecrow,” Rollo joked. “Maybe the crows shat on it.”

  “Well, in any case, that’s my report,” I said.

  “Great! Now it’s my turn,” Jeremy said eagerly. “I found out all about the ship—and the woman who inspired it! Her name was Paloma Manera. She was known as ‘the Spanish songbird’, although she was actually born in Madeira, an island which is technically Portuguese territory. Anyway, she was a world-famous performer, who ‘took Europe by storm’ as they say, with an opera company from Madrid that also toured the English countryside,” he explained, reading from the notes he’d taken at the exhibit. “The guy at the museum told me that Paloma’s company showed up in Port St. Francis one summer, and performed at the theatre where Harriet and her club have an office now.”

  “Oh!” I cried, picturing the elegant soprano on that wonderful old stage.

  “They say that Prescott fell hopelessly in love with Paloma ‘at the very first note that he heard her sing’,” Jeremy continued. “According to the museum guy, Prescott chased her all around the globe, courting her until she finally agreed to marry him. Prescott designed and commissioned the ship, La Paloma, as a luxury honeymoon yacht for her. It could carry two hundred fifteen passengers!”

  “I wouldn’t want two hundred fifteen people aboard on my honeymoon,” Rollo commented. I nodded.

  “I saw some of the design drawings of the interior of the ship, in the museum.” Jeremy went on. “Incredible. La Paloma was constructed in Italy, using the very finest materials. There was an actual theatre aboard, so that Paloma could sing for their guests. The masthead was just one of many fancy pieces on this luxury yacht-to-beat-all-yachts.”

  “Doyle must have been incredibly wealthy,” I commented. “And hopelessly in love!”

  “Yeah, the guy spared no expense. Linens, lace, clothing—everything a bride could want. He even hired a French chef to cook aboard, and brought on an orchestra to play for their wedding day,” Jeremy replied. “So,” he intoned dramatically, “a week before the wedding, the ship sailed out of Genoa for Cornwall, with all those hired people aboard. But a storm drove it against the rocks, and everybody—crew, musicians, chef—perished . . . including Prescott Doyle.”

  I gasped. “What about Paloma?” I asked. “Was she aboard?”

  “No, she was finishing up her tour on the continent,” Jeremy explained. “When she got the news, she retreated in shock to her villa on the island of Madeira, and she never performed publicly again. She lived there the rest of her life, as pretty much a recluse, and she died there. The villa still exists. It’s a music museum that hosts an annual classical concert every year.”

  We all fell silent for a moment. Jeremy signalled to a waiter for the check.

  Then Rollo cleared his throat. “Well, I must say all of what you’ve both reported certainly tracks with what the earl told me,” he announced. I nearly fell off my chair.

  “The earl!” I exclaimed. “You talked to the earl?” Rollo nodded sagely.

  “Where?” Jeremy asked warily. “Did he invite you into his manor house for tea?”

  “Not necessary, old boy,” Rollo said. “I nearly tripped over him down at the old Red Rooster Tavern.”

  I recalled seeing the painted sign down by the docks for a rather sorry-looking dive that might attract sailors, drunks, Rollo . . . and the earl?

  “Man has a terrible stutter,” Rollo said, “but he likes his ale, and he likes to make a sporting wager on a game of darts. He’s a good player,” Rollo admitted ruefully. “Emptied my pockets! Once he started winning, he stopped stuttering—and he talked up a storm. When I showed him the photo of the masthead he really got going. I say, Jeremy, couldn’t we have a bit more to eat and drink?”

  The waiter had just brought us the tab, but Jeremy hastily ordered another round of nibbles and cocktails, looking impressed with Rollo now.

  “So what did the earl tell you?” I demanded.

  “Well, for starters, Penny dear, Prescott Doyle may well have been a shipping magnate, but his father was a bit more than that. Jonathan Doyle was more commonly known as Blackstrap Doyle. Because although he owned a shipbuilding shop, he made his real fortune smuggling.”

  “Not an uncommon occupation in those days,” Jeremy observed. “What did he smuggle?”

  “French brandy and Spanish lace,” Rollo said, looking down at a stained paper coaster from the Red Rooster bar, upon which, evidently, he had hastily jotted down notes while talking to the earl.

  “The brandy sold in England for five times what he paid for it!” Rollo exclaimed. “But it was dangerous work, and he had a lot of close shaves with the law. The earl says that Blackstrap Doyle knew these coves like the back of his hand. Among the locals, old Blackstrap was a folk hero—he was generous to his Cornish neighbors, selling his booty cheaper than the going rate—and tax-free.”

  “But how does the earl know all about this?” I asked. Rollo and Jeremy exchanged a knowing look.

  “Blackstrap Doyle couldn’t run an operation that size without—shall we say—partnering with the earl who lived in his day?” Rollo explained to me gently. “Both men made tidy profits. Our earl today wishes he had someone like that to help him pay for the upkeep of his estate. He doesn’t really like the Mosleys any more than you guys do. But, as he says, ‘One must live’.”

  “So tell me more about Blackstrap Doyle,” I urged, fascinated.

  “Well, he drove his wife to suicide!” Rollo said, awaiting my shocked look. “They say she was a beautiful, dark-haired lass. But that didn’t stop Blackstrap from carrying on an affair with a local barmaid. The poor wife plunged to her death from a high cliff. It was recorded as an accident, but the earl says it was definitely suicide. After his wife’s death, Blackstrap felt guilty and got more and more careless with his smuggling.”

  “Did he get caught?” I asked, wide-eyed.

  Rollo nodded, reaching into his pocket to pull out another paper coaster from the Red Rooster Tavern, with a whole new set of his scrawled notes. This time I caught Jeremy’s eye, and we both worked hard to suppress our grins.

  “Yep,” Rollo said, “in 1837, Blackstrap’s smuggling ship, the Falstaff, was captured off the shores of St. Ives, with a full load of brandy from Normandy. Blackstrap was convicted and sent to an Australian penal colony, where he soon
died.”

  “So, did Prescott Doyle continue the smuggling operation?” Jeremy asked.

  “Briefly,” Rollo chuckled. “But after his father was arrested, the coastal guards were getting more sophisticated and a lot harder to dodge. Prescott knew that his prospects as a smuggler weren’t great,” Rollo said.

  He broke off when the waiter returned with more appetizers. Rollo leaned forward, savoring the choice, and selected three appetizers, putting two on his own plate and one into his mouth.

  “But Prescott saw a bright future in those fancy new clipper ships,” he continued, still chewing. “The clippers could get to China quicker and carry back tea to England, where, of course, there was a huge market,” Rollo explained. “So, Prescott wisely focused on the perfectly legal importation of Chinese tea. He quadrupled his family fortune within ten years.”

  “Not bad,” Jeremy said.

  I was gazing down at the harbor, watching the boats unloading their day’s catch, and I could well imagine Prescott’s crates of tea being unpacked onto these very docks.

  “However,” Rollo continued, “his personal life was another story. Prescott was rich, he was good-looking, but he was very moody. Everyone in Port St. Francis knew it was because he had a shadow hanging over him from his mother’s suicide. The ladies considered him a ‘catch’ but, try as they might, they couldn’t touch his heart. That is, until that fateful evening at the opera, when he first heard the voice of Paloma Manera. And the rest, as you might say, is history.”

  Rollo sat back in his chair, looking satisfied but not yet done. He reached into his pocket while saying casually, “Oh, by the way, the earl also told me all about a fine antiques shop in town called The Frantic Antique.”

  “The one with all those whale’s teeth and ships’ wheels in the window?” I asked.