by Syd Moore
At this point, Stacey had looked up to her teacher, spellbound by the young woman’s words, and saw there, at the school mistress’s shoulder, just such a black shade speaking into her ear. She’d clapped her hands and yelped with delight, appreciative of yet another educational stunt. But, instead of the consensual rapt applause that usually followed such a performance, she was met with confused glances and sniggers from the rest of her form. In fact, Stacey was then administered a sharp scolding and an instruction to pay attention.
At break time, convinced of a conspiracy, she tackled her best friend Lizzie. But, no, Lizzie had assured her, she’d seen no such spectre. Stacey was getting carried away.
The next day, in assembly, there was a disturbing announcement. With red eyes and much agitation, their headmistress sadly informed them that Ms Topping had walked out of the playground and straight under the wheels of an articulated lorry.
Bewildered and confused, Stacey rationalised the apparition: she simply had an overactive imagination. Her mum said it, her dad had said it and her brother thought she was a fruit.
Soon a replacement teacher appeared, and Stacey almost forgot about the incident until, a month later, she witnessed the same black shade tailing an elderly neighbour across the High Street. Two days afterwards, Stacey learnt the old lady had died of a heart attack in bed that night.
Over the next few years, the apparition continued to reappear and disappear, leaving in its wake a series of corpses: Uncle Jack (missing at sea), the paper boy (car accident), cousin Nicky (stabbed in a brawl), her rabbit, Pappy (got by foxes), Bertie the budgerigar (pursued by seven swans) and many, many more.
But she was a practical girl, not prone to hysterics, and soon became accustomed to spotting Death about its duties.
However, Stacey Winters was also a compassionate soul and unable to acclimatise to the grief it left behind.
So when it came to career options she thought very carefully. There was no point going into the medical profession, she would only catch Death when it was far too late. She needed to be pre-emptive, preventative. She needed to have an authority about her that would make people listen. And thus she entered the Force.
It was a bitter lesson. Try as she might, Stacey found she couldn’t outsmart Death. It was irritating and sometimes put her off her dinner. Especially when Death was hovering around the chef. And it had done precisely that, earlier this year, when she’d gone on a blind date at La Fleur restaurant. And that poor bloke had ended up with a particularly nasty exit – on a hook, split open in the cellar. She’d had to go on duty the following day and guard the entrance to the crime scene. The whole thing made her feel guilty. Quite unsettling.
But today was different. Today was more devastating. She hated it when Death took the young.
She’d given out a loud moan this morning when, from the window of the panda car, she’d spied Daniel at the roadside, the ‘Hungry and Homeless’ sign on his lap and Death at his shoulder. A familiar weariness descended and, fleetingly, she was possessed by the urge to bloody well put Death in its place. Shaking her head, she’d tutted at Daniel and directed her partner, PC Gaz Maguillo, to pull over. By the time she’d got to the young beggar, the spectre had disappeared.
Daniel shivered in his soggy sleeping bag as last-minute Christmas shoppers pelted down the pavement beside him.
Stacey breathed in. The air tasted like snow was on its way.
‘Daniel,’ she told him, ‘you need to look after yourself. Especially tonight. It’s cold. Get a decent meal and a place in a hostel.’
Then she fished into her purse and hooked out a trio of twenty-pound notes. Even as she handed them over, she could sense the echo of Death around him. Yet the lad’s enthusiastic reaction had been so encouraging she’d returned to the car wondering if, just maybe, perhaps this time she’d foil the old bastard.
And it was Christmas – the season of goodwill. Maybe Death would let her have this one as a present. Now wouldn’t that be a thing?
Despite her good spirits, it really came as no surprise when, this evening, just before knocking off, they were called back to Marble Arch to size up a new corpse.
When the young constable pulled back a filthy blanket to reveal the Belsen-thin, blue-lipped Daniel, complete with needle in arm, Stacey smiled bitterly, defeated yet again.
‘Overdose,’ her colleague concluded. Then, pulling out a small plastic sachet filled with smack, he added, ‘Looks like he came into a bit of money.’
Stacey Winters sighed. She had, indeed, put Death in his place. ‘You can’t outwit it,’ she thought aloud.
‘Come on love,’ said PC Maguillo, catching the deep frown on her face. ‘We’re finished now. Don’t know about you but I could do with a drink.’
And they had raced to the nick’s social club where Sergeant Edwards was just getting into his stride.
‘You’ll get used to it soon enough,’ the senior policeman repeated to his charge. ‘You’ll deal with it eventually.’
‘You’re right. Let’s change the subject,’ said Stacey, fathoming uneasiness around her. ‘I can tell you most sincerely sir, I’ve had enough of Death today.’
‘Quite right. The feeling’s mutual,’ Death whispered in her ear.
SHE SAW THREE SHIPS
Mr Lombardy’s house was closer to St Hilliards than the cottage they had rented for their family holiday. And it was grander, with large windows that oddly did not look out on the bay below but to the south and down the coast. In fact, the unusual situation almost gave the impression the place was turning its back on the glorious view, the sun-soaked hillside and green slopes that cantered gently to the village.
Ethel-Rose thanked the driver with sincerity as she disembarked from the stylish car. She had never been in a Bentley before and hadn’t expected her first time to be in Cornwall.
When she had arrived at Penrith Station she had been expecting a car. Mr Lombardy, the owner of Lillia Lodge, the cottage that her husband had hired for the family break, had previously promised collection on arrival. Which was kind. When she decided to come down a day earlier to prepare the cottage for her family, she had written to him and asked if, instead, the car might be available to pick her up then and had of course offered payment for the service. She had not received a reply but had hoped for the best.
There was, however, no one waiting. Nor were there taxis idling. Though the station was full of bustle and voices, most of the travellers seemed to be readying for departure. No cars, she learned, were returning to the village.
If it weren’t for one elderly gentleman who had been dropped off by his niece’s chauffeur, she would have been stranded. Or faced a three-mile walk to Mr Lombardy’s house to collect the keys. And she had her luggage and equipment to clean the house and air it before her aunt Rozalie, her husband, Septimus, and son, Teddy, arrived the following day. Her brother George had experienced problems with his lungs. Dust particularly aggravated his condition. Although there were no signs of the disease in her infant son, she was taking no chances: one could never trust the standards of hygiene in rentals. Holiday-makers were transient. Often corners were cut. But to carry her luggage for the week, her dish cloths, bleach, soaps and gloves, to carry them all the way to St Hilliards, well the thought made her sigh with despair and clutch her handkerchief to her cheek. She was strong, yes, and able of course, but three miles!
Luckily it was at this moment that the gentleman had taken her arm and guided her into the lingering Bentley.
‘It was,’ he said, ‘no trouble at all.’ His niece would understand and, Tanken, the chauffeur would be delighted to take her to Mr Lombardy’s residence, then onwards if necessary to the cottage she had hired.
Tanken, however, did not look delighted at the prospect. In fact, for a moment before his mask of professionality was fastened back on, she had glimpsed a face that looked distinctly dismayed. But it had been fleeting. And in the end, because the gentleman insisted that he could not depart
until ‘this most fair damsel in distress’ looked not so, Tanken had picked up Ethel-Rose’s bags and stowed them deftly in the boot.
He was just as nifty now as he took them out and set them at Ethel-Rose’s feet.
‘Will that be all, Ma’am?’ he asked. There was a tug on his words as he spoke, as if he were trying to expel them as quickly as possible and wanted to hear no response.
Ethel-Rose looked at the house. It had, she thought, an abandoned look to it. The blinds were down on the bedrooms of the top floor. And certainly one of the rooms with a bay window had its shutters drawn.
Last week she had briefly mentioned her concerns to her husband regarding the absence of a confirming letter. But Septimus had told her he was sure everything would be fine. Her husband was one of those types of men who always acted as if everything was fine. She had liked that about him when they first met. Back then, his reassurance had been a delicious and calming nectar. Lately though, this outlook had jarred. She desired him to be more concerned than he was. And because he wasn’t, she had felt that it was up to her to work through the potential outcomes, if the cottage was unavailable. Or if Mr Lombardy was not in. She suspected if this was the case she would have to walk further into the village to find lodgings for the night. If they were available.
The uncertainty of it all was infuriating.
As a rule, she liked to plan as much as she could to keep things steady and on track. For she had come to understand that in life there were always surprises round the corner, ever ready to jump up and knock you over. And these things one simply could not prepare for. So it was up to you to do what you could. Contingency planning, she liked to call it.
She was, however, delighted, and more than a little relieved, when on ringing the bell pull, the thick front door opened and she was greeted by a young woman with dyed blonde hair and a fetching two-piece suit.
Ethel-Rose was not the only one comforted by the sight of life within.
Her driver’s shoulders dropped and with a weak smile he asked, ‘Ah good. Perhaps you would like me to bring your bags in, Ma’am?’
She didn’t answer immediately but introduced herself to the woman, who, it turned out, was Mr Lombardy’s secretary, Dorothy.
Swiftly, Tanken stowed the bags at the door under the porch.
‘All right then?’ he asked, awaiting dismissal.
‘Yes, thank you so much. That will be all, Tanken.’
‘Good luck,’ said the chauffeur returning with speed to his car. ‘Make sure you lock up well tonight, Ma’am. ’Tis Michaelmas Eve,’ he added cryptically. ‘The feast of All Angels.’
‘Is that right?’ asked Ethel-Rose, suitably perplexed and unsure of what the odd fellow was trying to imply.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘All of them.’ Then he tipped his cap and was off down the gravel drive before she could ask him to explain further.
‘Strange fellow,’ said Ethel-Rose as Dorothy bade her to enter. ‘That was an unusual farewell.’
‘Oh,’ said Dorothy and led Ethel-Rose into a side office. ‘They’re full of it down here, the locals. I wouldn’t worry. Their heads are full of superstition and straw!’ She beckoned to Ethel-Rose to take a chair and produced a ledger. ‘So – Mrs Strange. Yes, I have you down as arriving tomorrow?’
‘Ah,’ said Ethel-Rose and explained about the letter.
Dorothy nodded as she followed the train of Ethel-Rose’s logic. ‘Yes, it all makes sense. See, Mr Lombardy is away. He goes at this time every year, I’m told. I took the position up recently, in summer. Apparently, he has a villa outside of Venice. They say the light is wonderful at this time of year.’
‘How nice,’ said Ethel-Rose, wondering briefly if she might ever be able to visit such exotic climes.
‘Which explains the gap in communications,’ Dorothy concluded. ‘But it is of no matter. I have the keys here. I believe Mrs Trevelyan, the housekeeper, cleaned the lodge last week. She is planning to run over it again today. You may catch her or else I can ask her to come on the morrow.’
‘Oh no,’ said Ethel-Rose, thinking of dust motes spinning in the air and Ted’s tiny lungs. ‘Today will be just fine. I’ll be glad for the company if I catch her.’
Dorothy laughed. ‘Ha. You’re like me!’ she said and smiled. ‘I’m of the same opinion.’ Then a sigh escaped her. ‘I do like it here. The countryside is beautiful. And this is a good position, but lonely sometimes.’
Ethel-Rose nodded. ‘Yes. I can imagine. The village is not big.’
‘No. We have a lot of trade in the summer but off-season the place hibernates. A lot of the residents go away. Only us poor workers have to stay.’
Ethel-Rose agreed. ‘It is always the way in seaside towns. A pity for you, but a boon for us.’
‘Indeed,’ said Dorothy. ‘It is very pleasant to see fresh faces here. And have some conversation.’
Moved by the sincerity of her smile, Ethel-Rose touched Dorothy’s arm. ‘Then you must come and have dinner with us at the cottage one evening this week. You will like my husband, Septimus, he is adorable, and my Aunt Rozalie is quite a character! She is gifted, you know. If you get on all right she might read your cards, tell your fortune.’
‘Oh my! That would be splendid. Yes please.’ Dorothy’s face lit up. ‘Right, I must find Mr Lombardy’s man. Our Mr Trevelyan will drive you to the Lodge in the car.’ And she went off.
Thirty minutes later Ethel-Rose was bumping down an old dirt track with Mr Trevelyan in a shiny blue Ford. She wondered if there was a rulebook for Cornish chauffeurs that dictated a level of sullen silence and cloudy demeanour, for Mr Trevelyan was as unforthcoming and reluctant as Tanken had been. Though she had a sense there was much he wanted to say to her. She could see it in his eyes as he picked up her bags. In that brief unguarded moment she had seen confusion become something larger and glossier, almost like fear, strong and keen as a flash of lightning and gone just as quickly.
Silence pooled in the car as they drove together over the rocky road, and she felt herself being sucked into a feeling of despair, which was not hers. Nor was it likely to have emanated from this stony monolith of a man. It was almost as if it was coming up from the land like an unseen mist or spray. Perhaps she was simply tired from the long train journey.
Her spirits, however, were soon elevated when they turned the corner of the lane and she spied, across the tops of honey-suckled hedgerows, Lillia Lodge.
‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Ethel-Rose. ‘It is enchanting!’
The house was one of those shingle-covered affairs that had shells pressed into mortar, and perched, like a seagull, on the uppermost ring of a crescent of mounts and bumps. It really was a handsome cottage, she could see now. The blackand-white photo in the brochure had done it no justice at all. For it was bedecked with purple wisteria and decorated with tubs of geraniums, red, white and pink. A curl of saffron-coloured roses that were growing around the door capped off such a pretty picture.
There was colour everywhere. Vivid rows of fir trees sheltered a little potting shed at its side. Even this had planters full of large violet-blue Michaelmas daisies.
Trevelyan pulled up outside the porch. Ethel-Rose got out and smiled.
She had been offered a cottage further up the bay, in St Hilliards proper, where the tangle of streets, shops, bakers, tea rooms and pubs led messily down to a white beach. ‘It is more in the midst of things,’ the agent had urged.
And yes, certainly it was true that Lillia Lodge stood away from the other dwellings, up at the rockiest end of the bay. That, yes, there was no beach this end. But what the photograph had not revealed was the wonderful position of the lodge, atop the jagged crags that cradled the village.
From up here you could look down upon the whole of St Hilliards, the clusters of dwellings that spread in semi-circles around the small harbour; its boats bobbing gently in the sea; beyond them on the other side, green clifftops and grey slopes. Out on the Celtic Sea a rocky island shone in the sun.
Oh yes, this view was most certainly a fair trade for the convenience of the village.
She breathed in and smelt the sea spray, the honeysuckle, the faint tang of roses and she closed her eyes. A home from home. Sublime. This would be a charming holiday, she could tell. Just what they needed.
‘No!’ A voice pierced the quietness. It was coarse and loud, though female, belonging to an older person with large lungs. ‘Go away. It’s not ready.’
When Ethel-Rose opened her eyes she saw, there in the open doorway of Lillia Lodge, a woman in a gingham housecoat holding a dishcloth in her hand. She was shaking her head.
‘No, no, no!’ Fierce eyes blazed from Ethel-Rose to Mr Trevelyan. ‘Not today! I told Dorothy. Take her away, Merryn.’
Above Ethel-Rose’s head a seagull circled and cawed out loudly, ‘No-er, no-er.’
Mr Trevelyan joined in the communal sentiment and shook his head. ‘Nae Gertie. Dorothy says to bring her over.’
It did not settle the woman, Gertie, who had planted her legs firmly on the threshold and looked to be filling it up with as much of herself as possible, presenting a ferocious, fleshy barrier to anyone intent on entering within. She was between fifty and sixty years of age, with thick bones and high cheekbones, firm of body and stature and of voice.
‘What does she know? Not tonight, I tell thee,’ she bellowed. Her words formed a command. ‘Return her to the village.’
Being spoken of in such a fashion, as if she were an unwanted item of shopping to be taken back to the store for exchange or compensation, did absolutely nothing to endear the woman to Ethel-Rose.