‘We’re making an early morning start on Saturday – probably around four o’clock. We’ll need to stop off a few times to let the car cool down.’
‘And did you book this to chase the mystery or were you definitely going?’
James raised an eyebrow and reminded Bert that their kitchen was being fitted while they were away. ‘This is a holiday. Nothing more, nothing less.’
His old friend grinned and James conceded that Bert knew him too well. He and Beth were excited about their holiday, of course they were. They hadn’t been away for some time. But he couldn’t hide his desire to know more about the missing fisherman. The fact that the man had disappeared in a busy high street, and in the middle of an opening parade, intrigued him.
CHAPTER FIVE
They received the warmest of welcomes from proprietors Vivian and Desmond Simms as they entered Reception with their suitcases. It was a rectangular area with a tiny front desk ahead of them. To one side stood a rack containing pamphlets and maps and, on the wall, posters advertising local events.
Desmond dashed forward to help. ‘Lord Harrington, Lady Harrington, welcome to The Polpennarth Hotel; only hotel in the cove and in the best position too.’ He introduced his wife, Vivian.
James put the couple at around their mid-fifties and he warmed to them straight away. Some people seemed to have that ability – an unseen aura that enveloped you and made you part of their family. Vivian reminded him a little of her namesake, Vivian Vance, who played Ethel in the popular American TV comedy I Love Lucy. She had a similar build and looks to match; and her husband he couldn’t help but liken to Spencer Tracy.
Desmond clasped his hands together. ‘Now, how about a nice pot of tea.’
Beth let out a delighted sigh. ‘Oh Mr Simms, that would be lovely. It’s a long journey but now we’ve seen the view, well worth it.’
‘If you’re comfortable with it, we’d much prefer you to call us Desmond and Vivian.’
James took his sunglasses off and confirmed that they were more than comfortable with it and that, likewise, they needn’t bother with the formalities of Lord and Lady.
Vivian stepped back with a startled look. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to upset you by being too informal.’
He assured her that the rules about dealing with the gentry that had existed before the war had long gone; he was keen to embrace a more informal approach. ‘Not everyone is comfortable with it but we’re more than happy with first names. Need to move with the times and all that. Do we need to sign in?’
Desmond hovered and Vivian rolled her eyes at him and told him to ask. He swallowed hard. ‘I’ve a book out back about rally driving and you’re in it. I wondered if you’d sign it.’
James’ couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Good lord.’
Desmond didn’t wait to be asked. He dashed to the room at the back of reception and came out triumphantly holding up a large hardback book. ‘It’s all about the big rallies to Monte Carlo. When I heard you were coming I thought I recognised the name and there you were. You’re mentioned a couple of times and there’s a photo of you.’ He’d already marked the page and held the book open. ‘There, look.’
James studied the grainy black and white photograph showing him as a young man holding a trophy aloft.
Beth squeezed his arm. ‘You’re a celebrity.’
‘I’ve told everyone here that I’ve not only got a Lord staying here but that he’s a famous rally driver too.’
James played down his status, insisting that he’d only come second in that race. ‘I didn’t fare so well in the others. It was a long time ago.’
‘But you haven’t lost your passion. You wouldn’t be driving that lovely Austin if you weren’t bothered.’
Beth agreed. ‘It’s his pride and joy and I’m sure he’d race again if the chance came up.’
Vivian chivvied Desmond to prepare the tea. He excused himself as Vivian motioned for them to sit down. To the side of the glass front doors there was a round table with two comfy chairs and an outlook toward the ocean. Two cushions occupied the low, wide window sill. They made themselves comfortable as she brought over the visitors’ book.
‘We’ve put you in the double room just above. You’ve a nice view out to the bay and a small bathroom. Probably not what you’re used to—’
‘I’m sure it’ll be perfect,’ said Beth with a reassuring smile.
‘You run your own hotel, don’t you?’
James went through a brief family history about moving into a smaller property and converting the old family home into Harrington’s. ‘We’ve been open for some time now and gaining a reputation – an excellent one, thank heavens. And how long have you been here?’
‘Just on five years. We moved from Torquay in Devon – had a hotel there but it was a twenty-room monstrosity that needed constant care and attention. You may as well have dug a hole and thrown money in it. We wanted something smaller and cosier.’
Desmond returned with a tray and placed it on the table between them. ‘Tea and some of Viv’s Dundee cake.’
Vivian handed them the visitors’ book, then perched on the windowsill and prepared the tea. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being cheeky but would you mind signing as Lord and Lady Harrington? It’ll do our business good to have someone of your stature here.’
‘Vivian!’ Desmond baulked.
James held a hand up as he brought out his fountain pen. ‘We’re happy to, Vivian. We do the same when we have someone with some clout staying with us.’
Desmond gawped. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’ James went on to explain that regardless of which end of the business one was in, be it a bed and breakfast or the Savoy, recommendation was always the best form of business. Before he put his pen away, he signed Desmond’s book and a rush of pride flashed through him. How lovely to be remembered and in such an out of the way place too. Extraordinary.
Beth went on to offer some tips for encouraging custom and the told them of their latest venture, painting courses. ‘We’re always on the lookout for new things. It keeps business coming in.’
Over the next ten minutes, the four of them chatted like old friends and James learned that the couple were originally from London and had moved to Torquay to take over the twenty-room monstrosity. Desmond had been a messenger for the merchant banks in the City of London. Vivian had remained as a housewife, bringing up their only son who was now, himself, working in London. Beth explained their reason for visiting Polpennarth and Desmond began suggesting places to visit.
‘The Pilchard Inn is about a five minute walk from here; they do nice pasties in there. The landlord’s name is Bidevin and his mum makes them fresh every day. If your friends need any groceries, then Gretchen runs the store by the harbour. The best fish and chip shop is run by Vic and Flora and you mentioned about your friend’s anniversary. Well, there’s a nice restaurant called The Sardine a bit further along, run by Jonah Quinn.’
‘It sounds as if you have everything covered,’ James said as he handed the visitors’ book back to Vivian.
‘And you know we have the Cornish Legends festival on for another week.’
‘Yes, we saw the bunting and flags zig-zagging across the road as we came in.’
‘And that’s already started, hasn’t it?’ asked Beth.
Desmond reached across to the rack that held a number of leaflets about the area. He picked one up and gave it to Beth. ‘Started on Monday with a huge parade. From tomorrow, we celebrate one specific legend every few days and there’s either a parade or some sort of gathering to mark that particular character. Your friends’ children will love it.’
James thanked him and saw his opening. ‘And Polpennarth was in the news recently. Have they found that chap that went missing?’
Vivian’s reaction confirmed that she loved to gossip. She immediately sat forward with some animation to go through what happened. ‘One minute he’s walking along the high street, next minute, he’d v
anished – just like that – not a word to anyone. It wasn’t in the middle of the night, neither. Broad daylight it was.’
‘And no one saw anything?’
‘Not a thing.’
Desmond added that it had been crowded. ‘It was the day of the opening parade and he just disappeared. And no one’s seen hide nor hair of him since.’
‘Dear, dear!’ said Beth. ‘Is he married? His wife must be worried sick.’
‘Oh yes, married he is to a lovely girl. Quiet little thing she is – not from round here.’
‘And Fiske, he’s local?’ asked James.
‘Born and bred,’ said Desmond, who went on to explain that he’d been a fisherman, man and boy. ‘Generations of fishermen in his family – knows the area, knows the tides and the currents. That’s what makes this so strange.’
‘The Daily Express mentioned that the locals felt this was the work of pixies.’
Desmond roared with laughter. ‘Some of the older residents believe in all this nonsense. I mean, this festival is great for a bit of fun but some of ‘em take it all too seriously. There’s a few of them put in a petition to ban it a couple of years ago – said it’d cause trouble and that the goblins would come out. Hah! I ask you – talk about living in the Dark Ages.’
Vivian agreed and checked her watch. ‘Now, you’ve had a long drive, so I expect you’d like to get to your room and freshen up.’
Two minutes later, James and Beth closed the door on their hosts and took in their surroundings for the next week. They were in a large room with a high ceiling and a double bed with an eiderdown embroidered with country flowers on a rose trellis. There were two wardrobes and chest of drawers, together with a cabinet on either side of the bed. In front of the huge bay window were two arm chairs and a pair of binoculars on the windowsill. James wandered across and picked them up.
‘I say, this is rather good isn’t it? We should do this. We have some stunning views from some of our rooms. If we want to relax we can just sit here and watch the world go by.’ He scanned the horizon. ‘Water’s like a millpond and there are plenty of children building sandcastles on the beach.’
Beth joined him. ‘A beautiful beach too. It’s a natural cove, isn’t it?’
Boulders and rocks lay at each end of the cove. He could make out small children with fishing nets and tin buckets poking around in the puddles, collecting crabs and small fish; something he’d done himself at that age. A couple of men were standing further up on the rocks sea-fishing and a number of families were enjoying picnics on the beach and playing games.
It was close to four o’clock and he suggested to Beth they take a stroll down to the harbour to get their bearings.
They began at the harbour wall, just along from the hotel and estimated it would take about an hour to walk around the village. With the sun shining down from the clearest of blue skies, they began to explore. They meandered in and out of small shops selling anything from shells and colourful tin spades to fishermen’s smocks and fishing tackle. Tourists stood pondering which souvenirs and postcards to send home.
The freshness of the sea air was invigorating and every few yards the smell of fish, chips and pasties wafted past. A seafood vendor selling cockles, mussels and winkles looked up from behind his stall and waved hello. The long drive down was soon forgotten.
Bunting criss-crossed the road all the way up the hill where, a signpost pointed towards the fairground. Billboards were posted outside several shops, advertising the festival and inviting people to buy a programme for more detailed information.
‘I’ll get one of those, Beth. It’ll be good to read up on all of these characters and know exactly when and where things are happening. Shall I get one for the Merryweathers too?’
‘I think so. There’ll be some activities for Luke and Mark, I’m sure.’
He looked up at the shop sign. Gretchen’s, the shop was called. As they entered, the bell above the door jingled.
It was a shop that couldn’t really decide what is was meant to be. There were newspapers, magazines and sweets, small toys, buckets and spades, rubber rings and hundreds of ornaments of all shapes and sizes depicting the Cornish legends. At the far end were shelves of groceries, cereals, tinned produce and bottles of fizzy drinks.
Beth picked up a large plastic mermaid and pulled a face. ‘I thought about getting a present for Stephen and Anne.’
James grinned, took the figurine from her and placed it back on the shelf. ‘I rather think they wouldn’t thank you for that.’
He heard some movement behind the counter. He turned to see a lady who he presumed was Gretchen. She was a lady in her sixties, less than five feet tall, with the most mischievous expression he’d ever seen. If anyone could pass for a naughty pixie, it would be her. Her eyes twinkled and her summer dress was easily three sizes too big for her. He wondered if she’d do better buying children’s clothes.
‘Ooh,’ she chuckled, ‘strangers in town.’ She chuckled again. ‘Have to warn the Sheriff.’ Another chuckle. ‘Tch, too many Westerns on the television. I do love a Western, don’t you?’
James and Beth confessed they did like to catch the new serial, Wagon Train.
‘One of my ancestors was a cowboy for a short while,’ said James.
Gretchen put her hands to her mouth. ‘How exciting.’
Beth swung round. ‘Are you leading us on?’
He assured her he wasn’t. ‘He was my grandfather’s cousin I think, or great grandfather’s cousin; something like that. Yes, he was a banker in Chicago, I believe, but headed west. I should find out more about him.’
Gretchen gently clapped and James couldn’t help but smile. The woman’s childlike wonder was refreshing.
‘I take it you’re Gretchen?’
She stole a quick peek over her shoulder. ‘Last time I looked. Gretchen Kettel.’ She chuckled as she sang a few bars of Polly Put the Kettle On. ‘You’re visiting are you?’
Beth went through their reasons for travelling as James purchased two festival programmes. After a few minutes they bade Gretchen goodbye with an assurance they would be sure to see her over the next few days. Out on the pavement, James wrapped an arm around Beth and laughed.
‘What an extraordinary woman. She reminds me of a little sparrow flitting about, always twitching, never still.’
‘She’s adorable and I want her living in Cavendish.’
They wandered further along the high street. Flags and balloons hung from every available space and colourful cardboard effigies of mermaids, pixies and other Cornish legends were placed at various intervals along the pavement. Small alleyways and cobbled streets threaded off the main road where residents displayed hanging baskets cascading with summer blooms. Two local policemen were sealing off the end of the road.
Beth nudged him. ‘There’s The Sardine. That’s the place Desmond and Vivian recommended for dinner.’
‘And there’s The Pilchard Inn where we’re meeting the Merryweathers later,’ said James. ‘That’s where the landlord’s mother makes the pasties. We’ll have to try those. Can’t come to Cornwall and not have a pasty.’
The pasty was unique to Cornwall and was a staple food for miners during the previous century. Filled with chunks of beef, potato, onion and swede, the pastry band was thick so that miners could hold them easily. A traditional home-made pasty could not be beaten and James had already made a mental note to have at least one while they were there.
Beth checked her watch and suggested they get back to change and freshen up. ‘I’d also like to get a cardigan if nothing else. I would imagine the sea breeze brings a chill in during the evening.’
As they turned, they bumped into one of the policemen. He was a young, fresh-faced man who apologised and introduced himself.
‘PC Cardew Innes,’ he said in a mild Cornish burr.
James shook hands with him. ‘James and Beth Harrington.’
‘Welcome to Polpennarth. You’re not just Mr and Mrs Harr
ington though, are you? Not according to the Simms. Sorry but word spread the minute you made a booking. I don’t think we’ve ever had a Lord and Lady here before.’
Beth assured him they were no different to anyone else but Innes stood straight and frowned.
‘Oh no, your Ladyship. That won’t do. You are Lord and Lady Harrington and that’s how I’ll address you.’
James bit back a grin and indicated the activity. ‘You’re closing the road off?’
Innes explained that the first of the character parades would start the next day. ‘We had the opening parade which is just a general march up the street and then we celebrate each of the Cornish legends. Tomorrow is Old Bogey.’
‘Goodness,’ said Beth, ‘who’s Old Bogey?’
The young man gave a description of a solitary individual who came out at night; was horribly evil and loved to interfere with people. ‘They’re dark, have menacing red eyes and give off a nasty smell.’
Beth grimaced. ‘Sounds horrid.’
‘Oh, it’s just a bit of fun. Some of the locals will dress up as Old Bogey. They use black greasepaint, wear tall top hats and run around trying to scare people. You should come.’
‘We will,’ said James. He then asked about the missing Colm Fiske. ‘Have you found him yet?’
‘Not a dicky-bird. It’s like someone’s whisked him off the face of the earth.’ He leaned in. ‘Some of the old ones are saying that the piskies have had him.’ He straightened up and cleared his throat. ‘Not that I believe in any of that.’
Beth queried his use of the word ‘piskie’. ‘Don’t you mean pixie?’
‘Cornish term for ’em is piskie.’
‘I say, do you have an Inspector investigating?’ said James.
‘Oh yes. He’s come up from Penzance. Inspector Jarvis Wormstone. Used to work at Scotland Yard in London so he knows his stuff.’
‘And how’s his investigation coming along?’
‘Not a sausage. No one saw anything. No one heard anything.’
‘But it was a busy day?’
‘Very busy; first day of the festival. It was mid morning so it was all in full swing; plenty of people about.’ He checked the road and spotted a blind gentleman with a white stick trying to cross it. ‘I’d best get over and give Mr Atherton a hand.’
Lord James Harrington and the Cornish Mystery Page 2