A Little Hotel in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  "I've been robbed, woman." Riley's tone didn't bother to hush itself. "Have you no sense of decency? One of those little brats likely nicked it and rolled it into the sea, so now I'm a dead man."

  "Is this about the bicycle?" I asked. "The one parked outside yesterday?"

  They both looked at me. "What did you do with it?" asked Riley.

  "I ... I don't know," I said. "I rode it to the village to get that guest her pills." Wherever it was, I had forgotten to wonder about it after I walked back to the hotel. Had it been stolen, or had my mysterious rescuer picked it up after patching my forehead? "The chain broke, and I fell. That's why I walked back."

  "Where'd you leave it?" he demanded. "It's me mate's. He has to have it back tonight or he'll have my skin."

  "Riley, must you be so dramatic?" said Brigette, rolling her eyes.

  "It's his job. He delivers things by cycle. I swore I was only borrowing it for his day off," said Riley. "Now what am I to tell him?"

  All eyes were on me now, including the injured party's. I took a deep breath.

  ***

  My second view of the village of Port Hewer was by evening: the sun was dipping lower as the teatime hour approached, and the birds in the shrubbery and hedges — no doubt some common species that Ronnie logged in his birdwatcher's book at the age of five — were restless and singing.

  At one of the bakeries, I asked where I could find an 'S. Daniels' in the village. The man behind the counter glanced up once as he busily shoveled day-old pastries into white sacks.

  "Sidney? Over at the vicarage," he said. "Follow the street to the end o' the lane, where the church stands."

  He was a vicar? That was the last possible profession I had imagined for him. Not that I had been imagining him multiple times today. I didn't remember him wearing a clerical collar. Then again, I couldn't even remember his face clearly ... only the pair of arms, and a dusky, spicy scent clinging to his faded shirt.

  "Thanks," I said.

  At the end of the lane, the church was waiting, surrounded by bright green sprays of shrubbery, blooming with tiny little flowers. It was a gothic stone building with tall stained glass windows on all three sides, the panes darkened to a violet hue on the outside, and an iron paling fence surrounding its yard.

  Lots of crumbly, cracked gravestones were in the burial ground on one side when I crossed through the opening between the dainty-flowered hedge. Beyond the crosses and worn-looking angel statue, I saw a little house with a thatch-type roof and a neatly-mown garden occupied by lots of flower beds filled with bright pink flowers that reminded me of daisies.

  That must be the vicarage. I crossed the ground between myself and it, and searched for a door to knock on, to make myself known. The one facing the lane was a peeling green one like Bilbo Baggins's, which went unanswered despite multiple raps against the wood. The shutters were open, the lace curtains offering only a hazy view of its interior, and nothing else.

  I went around to the other side. Here was a paved yard between this house and the next one, where a motorbike in rough condition was parked, along with a badly-dinged jeep-like vehicle. The doors of an attached shed were open, revealing lots of rusty and worn garden tools, coiled-up watering hoses, gutter supplies, and a work bench supplied with hardware tools.

  There was my rescuer, busy oiling a very antiquated push mower.

  "Sidney Daniels?" I asked.

  He turned around as I spoke. A smile crossed his lips. "The girl who ran away," he said.

  He did remember me. "Sorry," I said. "But I woke up ... you were gone, and it was late ... I was perfectly fine," I added. "You needn't worry."

  "You should have waited." He tightened — or loosened — a very rusty bolt on the lawn mower. "I brought a doctor to help you, and — poof — the accident victim he was supposed to examine had disappeared. I felt pretty stupid, by the way. He probably thinks I made the whole thing up." He glanced at me again.

  He was good looking. Really. I thought once more of the prince in the mermaid story, and thought I was going to blush for certain. He was just a little different from my last few boyfriends, who had been more like Ronnie's type. None of them had this hair color, that sort of wavy-curly look, or a smile this nice....

  I shook my head and recovered myself. I thought of Ronnie in his non-slip shoes and sun hat, hunkered behind a rock on the beach somewhere with his binoculars and his little guidebook, watching a pencil-legged tern scuttle along the shore. As usual, I felt less romantic after that picture.

  "Are you all right?" Sidney asked, giving me a funny look. That was the same bemused smile from yesterday. Those same little flecks of humor and mischief appeared in his eyes, which were not as dark as I remembered, but almost a little bit hazel.

  There was a little bit of devilment in those eyes, like those of a boy who gets into trouble often. I thought it was very unlike a vicar, somehow.

  "I'm fine. I didn't mean to make you worry, leaving like that," I answered. "I wanted to leave a note, but ... then I thought I should say thanks in person, really. And I wanted to ask you ..." I hesitated, "... do you know what happened to my bicycle?"

  "You nearly dashed out your brains on a rock — yet your primary concern is for a bicycle," he said. "Interesting." He ran a piece of sandpaper over a rusty blade.

  "For a vicar, you have a very odd way of talking to somebody with a problem," I said.

  "Vicar? I'm not the vicar," he replied. "I'm the groundskeeper. He lets me live in this shack so long as I mow the grass and trim the hedges." He tried to turn the mower's gears, which locked up immediately. "All my duties are confined to this and a bit of handy work. And I'm not very handy, truthfully. Which leaves me with quite a bit of spare time."

  "So what do you do all the time, if you're not handy?" I asked. He tried a spanner on the lawnmower's blades. They didn't budge.

  "I surf a bit, though the waves aren't suited to it. Try my hand at painting. Look after the dogs." Here, he rumpled the ears of the skinny little dog I remembered from yesterday, which was lying on top of the work bench, amidst the tools. It had only one eye, I noticed, with a scar where the other one should be.

  There were three or four other dogs spread around the shed, from a large, shabby wolfhound breed to a sad-looking pit bull, and a heavyset hound asleep in the sun. The awake ones wagged their tails at me.

  "Sometimes I tinker a bit with the old bike outside," he continued. "Speaking of which —"

  From behind a pile of frost tarps, he hoisted the bicycle, setting it in front of me with a grunt. "This is what you're looking for, I believe." He rang the rusty little bell attached to one of its handlebars.

  "You fixed it." I was surprised — and a little amazed. The chain was back in place, and the pedal which had been half-missing was also replaced. He rolled it outside the shed and handed it over to me.

  "Brakes are fixed, too," he said. "You're a bit rough on this poor machine — no wonder it dropped you down a hill. Probably trying to get away and protect itself. It's practically a classic model."

  "It did not drop me," I said. "It slipped and fell by accident. And it's not mine. It belongs to a coworker at the hotel. I borrowed it, and I promised I'd bring it back." I noticed he had touched up the patchy blue paint with a color that didn't quite match. I wondered why he bothered to do that for someone he didn't know.

  "Promise kept," Sidney replied. "And the head?"

  To my surprise, his fingers lightly touched the bruise on my forehead. My skin shivered with contact between my face and his hand. But that was perfectly natural, I imagined.

  "Much better," I said. "Thanks again for patching me up." I dropped my gaze, just in case I accidentally blushed.

  "You work at the hotel on the hill?" he said. "The Penmarrow?"

  "I'm the new maid," I answered. "Maisie Cl—Kinnan," I hastily corrected myself, just in case he ever happened to run into anyone else from the hotel. "Pleased to meet you." I held out my hand, feeling his own shake it
in return. The earth did not move with his touch this time, proving I was only letting my imagination run away with me before.

  "Pleased to meet you, Miss Clakinnan," he said.

  "Oh. Uh, no ... just Kinnan," I said.

  He raised one eyebrow. "Kinnan," he repeated. "Well, Miss Kinnan, welcome to Cornwall. And if I may be so bold as to ask, why is someone like you working here in a hotel?"

  I shrugged. "Because I need to earn my way in Cornwall," I said. "And somebody told me that working there would be a great experience." Wallace Scott hadn't been talking about the hospitality industry in Cornwall when he suggested adventures, but close enough. He hadn't heard Mrs. Charles's speech about the 'history in the halls' of the grand old hotel by the sea.

  "You know who you remind me of? I just now realized. Clara," he said. "From Doctor Who. The impossible girl."

  "What? I look nothing like her," I protested. "Not really." Actually, I was a tiny bit flattered to be compared to one of the Doctor's companions, although Rose was my favorite ... but wait, had he been trying to flatter me?

  "It's the impossible girl part," he said. "Never mind. You'd have to be a true fan to understand." He sighed and shook his head as he went back to his work bench in the shed.

  "I have seen every series of the program," I said. "Tom Baker. Sylvester McCoy. Jon Pertwee. Fur coat guy twice."

  He laughed. "You are a fan," he said, reaching for a hammer and tapping on the mower's gears.

  "It was for the Brigadier, mostly," I said. "He was meant to be a full-time companion." I glanced around, at the lazily-weeded gardens that belonged to this ramshackle spot. "I have sympathy for people who don't have all the adventures they deserve."

  He glanced over his shoulder. "If you're new to this part of Cornwall, there's a place close by that you should visit," he said. "Drift Cove. Best possible spot for swimming because nobody knows about it except for villagers."

  "I'll add it to my list," I said. "I need to find a friend to show me around."

  That implied I was practically inviting him to offer to take me somewhere, and I knew I shouldn't be. I bit my tongue and reminded myself to stop. Was I in Cornwall to become a great writer? Did I think going swimming with someone who didn't take life seriously was the kind of 'experience' I needed for my novel? Seeing Ronnie should have served as a big reminder of all the reasons why I had decided to put romance on hold.

  "I should be going," I said, announcing this before I did something stupid, like ask him to tea or coffee sometime. "Thanks for the bike. And the bandages. And for recommending that spot."

  "Are you free?" he asked. "For a coffee sometime."

  Those eyes were looking at me again, and I felt a tiny bit less sure of my unwavering commitment to singlehood while traveling overseas. I opened my mouth, and my tongue pried itself free like welded lead.

  "I'm busy," I said. "I'm sorry."

  "Too busy for a cup of coffee?"

  "Yes. That busy," I answered, with a smile of apology. "Really." Maybe he would stop hinting before I gave in. Especially since I wished just a little that he wouldn't.

  He nodded, his gaze finally directed elsewhere from my face. "Fair enough," he said. "Maybe I'll see you around the village sometime."

  "Sure. Sometime," I said. I began pushing the bicycle away. Two ladies passing by noticed me leaving, and I saw one whisper to the other one. I wondered if that was the beginning of a local rumor about the groundskeeper and the strange girl in the village.

  "I like daisies, too." I heard this comment from his voice, calling out to me before I reached the gate. He had noticed the daisy in my hair, tucked behind my ear. "Have one of the pink ones, if you like."

  "Thanks." I glanced back at him. "I really am sorry if I caused you any trouble before," I said. "And I'm really grateful that you helped me. Truly grateful. And I hope you didn't take some of my silly remarks too seriously while I was sort of ... wandering in my thoughts."

  "It's all right," he said. "I like a romantic beginning to a friendship." His tone was playful now.

  I think if I were any more embarrassed and attracted at the same time that I would literally be on fire at this point, judging by the sudden heat wave beneath my skin. The only thing which saved me was the fact that we both laughed a little — and, also, that the taps from his hammer caused some part of the lawn mower's mechanism to spring free and bounce across the shop floor.

  He retrieved it, and grinned. "Told you I wasn't much of a handyman." He turned back to his machine in earnest now, and I made my escape with the newly-repaired bicycle.

  I was going to have to try hard not to think about him for the rest of today.

  That night, when Molly was behind the desk and the concierge Brigette was gone for the night, I managed to sneak the guest ledger away. Hidden in the cleaning closet, I paged through the names registered for the last few weeks, with my letter from Alistair Davies in hand for comparison. One was bound to match.

  Basil Pendleton.

  I almost missed it, but turned the page back quickly to the name on the next to last line, written with a dramatic flourish in the hotel's sign-in book. Of course — one of the characters from his second novel, Uninvited Hauntings. The name had been signed four weeks ago, but in the forwarding contact blank beneath my fingers, the word private was all that was written there.

  With a groan, I closed the book. I would have to look up the departure date in the hotel's digital guest records, but I was almost certain that Davies — i.e. 'Basil Pendleton' — had already left by now. And he had made sure to leave no trace of his whereabouts.

  While Molly was in the powder room and the desk was vacant, I slipped the guest book back where it belonged. Now I had to decide what to do if my worst fears were confirmed about my big plan.

  ***

  Folding sheets in the laundry room early Sunday morning, I had time to think about my dilemma. My body hadn't quite adjusted to both the time change and the early rising hour, so the dryer's steady rhythm was trying to lull me back to sleep in between, as it tumbled the newly-washed sheets from yesterday's rooms.

  The washing machine reached the end of its latest load, and I scooped out an armload of staff laundry. A lipstick stain on the sleeve of Katy's maid's uniform, a grease spot on the knee of one of the porters' trousers. I reached for the stain treatment with a sigh.

  Doing twelve loads of laundry didn't seem like the kind of adventure Wallace Scott had been talking about.

  The dining room was different today when I approached its hall linen cupboard with freshly-folded tablecloths. Long serving tables occupied the section in front of the kitchen, with chafing dishes and serving trays, and employees in kitchen whites. No little complimentary packets of butter and jam for brunch at the only vacant table or two in the room — the rest were packed with diners, as if the entire hotel was taking in a late breakfast.

  "There you are. Brilliant." Katy the dark-haired maid tapped my shoulder. "You're on the serving line today."

  "Me?" I echoed.

  "They're a bit short. New person always takes the job. Now, go grab a kitchen smock before Ligeia notices one of her precious lines is lacking a server."

  Ligeia was the hotel's cook and in charge of the kitchen staff, to which I now unofficially belonged. I hurried to the kitchen, reminding myself this was all part of the experience. At least serving people food was a familiar skill, thanks to the Fiesta Cafe.

  I pulled my long hair from behind the stiff, white collar of a kitchen smock. "Does it matter that the rest of my uniform isn't black?" I asked the dish washer, who was spraying down a crusty cooking pot in the adjoining space, a scouring sink located by a large automated dish washing machine. The cook's jacket covered the blue cardigan I was wearing over my uniform, but not the striped skirt below it.

  "Nah. Nobody sees your legs," he said. "Just smile and scoop a bit of food on their plates, and you'll be fine." He sloshed some soapy water down the drain.

  The hotel's Sunday b
runch was lavish — mini egg pies like quiches, crisp bacon, fruit cakes and savory scones, and even an 'American' buffet featuring a spiral ham, fried chicken, and a mashed potato dish flecked with sweet onions and red peppers. Someone stuck me on that line, doling out crispy half-breasts and drumsticks and trying to answer questions about what seasoning was in the bean salad and what the difference was between a scone and a biscuit.

  In the crowded dining room, I glimpsed a neon yellow shirt and sports coat that seemed a little familiar — exactly the sort of thing Ronnie would wear, which is probably why it was on his body. He had just risen from his table and was now part of the crowd moving my direction.

  "I need to take a break." Hastily, I stuck the serving ladle into the potatoes.

  "A break?' said my partner from the kitchen staff. "Didn't you just arrive?"

  "Sorry. So sorry. I'll be back in no time, I promise." Hastily, I slipped from behind the serving line and ducked into the kitchen, where I pulled off the smock. If I sneaked around to the back of the dining hall, I could pretend to be restocking the cream and sugar station for the tea and coffee — a perfect place to hide, since Ronnie never drank more than one cup of coffee per morning.

  Head down, I picked my way through the dining room crowd, easing towards the back. Unfortunately, Ronnie had glimpsed me now. I felt his hand on my arm — caught.

  "Hey, Maisie," he said. "I'm glad I ran into you."

  "And me you," I said. "I should really be —"

  "Are you busy next Wednesday night?" Ronnie asked, before I could get away.

  "Wednesday. Let me think —" From the corner of my eye, I could see a couple of hotel employees scanning the dining room, and I hoped they weren't trying to spot where I had disappeared.