and she battled to restrain her hair while glancing about at the gloomy scene. But as soon as she conceived her first misgivings she put them off and hurried into the porch of the rustic Victorian guesthouse right upon the quayside.
Blundering into the hall amid a shower of fallen leaves and tumbling luggage, she was at once greeted by a pall of silence, broken only by the ticking of a clock and a dog barking mutedly somewhere. The dimpsy interior (which did not seem to have been redecorated since the war) was not indicative, at first glance, of the best standard of accommodation. Nevertheless, Ravella smartly rang the bell, and was instantly attended by the fair genius of the place, namely, Mrs. Manderville, a lady of uncertain age and quality, who was anyhow distilled of good Devonish stock, hale and plump. Unfortunately, however, it appeared that once, having mistakenly sucked upon an unripe gooseberry, the wind had changed, and her face had stayed that way.
Ravella assumed the imperious tone she always used with staff, and demanded to see the manager of the establishment.
Mrs. Manderville said: ‘I am the landlady,’ with great dignity.
‘Are you?’ said Ravella. ‘Well, I require your best room for an indefinite period, and full board— I eat like a horse, you understand.’
‘And you know how to whistle Dixie, Miss, I presume?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I was just elucidating, Miss, that this is what they call a “bed and breakfast”, and as such, a bed and a breakfast is what you can expect to get.’
Ravella smiled. ‘Oh dear, I expect to get much, much more.’
‘Then as I say, you’d better start whistling,’ replied the landlady flatly.
Ravella tutted. ‘Hmm, but I can’t do with those terms. Where else is there to eat in Hurlevor, I mean, beyond breakfast?’
Mrs. Manderville sniffed. ‘Nowhere, Miss.’
‘Well, what do the other guests do?’
‘Nothing, Miss.’
‘They starve? Is this a health farm?’
‘There are no other guests, Miss,’ returned the matron.
‘What! Nobody?’
‘You’re out of season, Miss.’
‘In June?’ enquired the Miss. Mrs. Manderville shuffled a little.
‘Yes,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘you see, people come for the crabs, mostly.’
‘The crabs? In this guesthouse?’
‘No! I meant— well, in the sea, you see?’
‘And nobody comes for the crabs in the summer?’
Mrs. Manderville half-smiled toothlessly and spread her hands.
Ravella looked at her like a teacher to a naughty pupil. ‘And they don’t come in the winter either, do they?’
Mrs. Manderville looked at her feet and shook her head.
Ravella laughed gaily and linked arms with the landlady. ‘Mrs—’ she declared (‘Manderville,’ suggested the other), ‘Mrs. Manderville, you and I are going to be such good friends! You’re going to show me the best room in the house, where I shall stay for as long as I please, and enjoy full board, and we shall always eat together, just for the pleasure of it. And in return, I will personally support your entire summer season. Now, how’s that for friendship?’
Mrs. Manderville, who, to be honest, was wondering where her next gin would be coming from anyway, smiled, and they shook hands. ‘What name shall I put in the book, Miss?’ she asked.
Ravella was attending to her hair in a dusty mirror. ‘Mrs. Trevick,’ she said.
The landlady looked up. ‘Trevick? You’re not related to Mr. Trevick who lives up at the Point, are you?’
Ravella gave her companion an arch smile. ‘What a prophetess you are, Mrs. Manderville!’ —and promptly wheedled as much news of Mr. Trevick as she could out of the hapless landlady, as they ventured upstairs.
Mrs. Manderville (carrying the bags) puffingly confirmed that Trevick had no family, lived alone and was famously wealthy. ‘Quite a catch for a pretty young thing like you, Miss,’ she rounded off.
‘Certainly beats crabs,’ the other agreed.
They proceeded into a large, sombre chamber on the first floor, the tall windows of which fronted immediately onto the sea, with only a narrow lane, a bollard and the harbour-stones intervening. Indeed, so close was the guesthouse built to the quay, that in particularly rough weather the windows of that very room were often dashed with salt-spray.
Ravella ran her finger along the mantelpiece. ‘Is this the best room?’ she queried suspiciously.
Mrs. Manderville asserted that it was. Ravella suggested that she might have the cleaners come in— it was all a bit grubby.
‘I shall do it myself, Miss!’ said Mrs. Manderville. ‘I’m never satisfied when it comes to cleanliness, until I can see my own face shining in all the furniture!’ —but this gallant gesture was only a subterfuge to disguise the fact that she could not afford to keep on any staff, and was obliged to do it all herself anyway.
‘It’s a rough sea today!’ she observed brightly, to distract her guest while she surreptitiously wiped over a table with her skirt, behind her back.
Ravella glanced towards the window and shivered. ‘I can’t abide listening to the sea,’ she muttered. ‘The sound of the waves in the night drives me mad.’ She involuntarily shied away towards the door.
‘Most folks find it restful,’ said the landlady.
‘I am not most folks,’ rounded Ravella. ‘I always think the water is watching me. I had a dream once that I was swimming and got my foot caught in a lobster pot. It dragged me down to the bottom, and I had to live there forever.’
‘What an idea!’ Mrs. Manderville shook her head. ‘But you did say you wanted the best room, Miss.’
Nevertheless Ravella insisted that she see another, at the back of the house, and so was led to a still gloomier apartment, overlooking a meagre garden.
‘I wouldn’t have put you in here unless you’d insisted,’ warned Mrs. Manderville, ‘because it’s haunted.’
Ravella glanced around the room and beamed. ‘How lovely! Tell me who haunts it.’
‘Well,’ confided the other, warming to the theme, ‘they say that there was a young cavalier, you know, from cavalier times, who was in love with the lady who lived up at the great house.’
‘Hurlevor Point?’
‘Yes, but the old mansion’s gone now, Miss. Anyway, it seems this lady was cruel to him, and turned him off, so he run himself through on his sword, for grief. And now they say he’s often seen on windswept nights, pacing this chamber, all bloodied, with his cutlass in his back.’
‘How terrible!’ Ravella enthused, wide-eyed. ‘A cavalier, you say? And when was this house built?’
‘Eighteen forty-two,’ intoned Mrs. Manderville solemnly. ‘It says so over the door.’
Ravella nodded conspiratorially, and looked about the room. Happening to rest her hand a moment on the stout oak bedframe, a large timber of it came away in her fingers. ‘Mrs. Manderville!’ she gasped. ‘This guesthouse really is in a shocking state of repair!’
The hostess apologised. ‘But it’s finding the time and gumption to do it all, you know. I’m not too handy with woodwork.’
‘Can’t you get Mister Manderville up here to sort the old place out?’
The matron took on a very grave look. ‘My husband, Miss,’ she announced, ‘has been dead these ten years.’
‘Oh.’
‘Lost at sea, Miss,’ she continued, rather proudly. ‘The best sailor I ever knew.’
Ravella was still for a moment, before returning: ‘Well! You know we really are birds of a feather, Mrs. Manderville.’
‘How so?’
‘We’re both widows, and the sea has both our husbands, too. But you see I haven’t let myself go for all that— and similarly, you shouldn’t let this house fall to rack and ruin. No wonder nobody stays at Hurlevor, if this is the fare they’re to expect! But with a bit of imagination you could really turn this place around. I can see it now— an exclusive little execu
tive getaway, only for the most select clientele. Yes, you’re sitting on a goldmine, without a doubt.’
Mrs. Manderville looked around the faded old walls in surprise. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked doubtfully.
Ravella took her arm with conviction. ‘Mrs. Manderville,’ she said, ‘I never tell a lie.’
And so she recommended that they eat, which they did, and chewed over the landlady’s glittering hoteliery future. Afterwards Ravella proposed that they take a drink, which was the kiss of life to Mrs. Manderville, and the gin appeared. Then Ravella asked her hostess whether she played, and without delay the cards were brought out, and they began. Shortly Ravella intimated that they should play for a few pennies, which went down well, and after that suggested upping the stakes to pounds, and, the gin having taken Mrs. Manderville (who considered herself quite a shark at cards), this was readily agreed to— so they gambled on into the night. And Ravella, you will not be surprised to learn, never lost at cards, and by morning had her landlady so far in debt as to keep herself in board and lodging for the next six weeks; and all the while they became the very best of friends, and Mrs. Manderville became very, very drunk indeed.
Nevertheless, she was up bright and early the next morning cooking a hearty breakfast for Ravella, who, against all the odds, had slept quite soundly in the haunted chamber. She came downstairs full of resolution, and principally, a desire to acquaint herself with Trevick’s landed assets. Mrs. Manderville was eager to know what was afoot, and eulogised about ‘young lovers’ all over the bacon and eggs. But Ravella only smiled and kept her counsel; she was no more
The Drowned Sailor Page 10