by steve higgs
‘Indeed, I would,’ I said, eyeing up the contents of the bar. ‘I need to collect my luggage and the things for the dogs, but I would like a drink first I think.’
‘Dogs?' Gretchen asked, her face a picture of confusion. She leaned forward and looked over the bar, whereupon she spied the two Dachshunds sat patiently by my feet. They saw her face appear and simultaneously started wagging their tails. ‘Goodness, they are well behaved, aren't they?’ she commented. ‘I would never have known they were there.'
That exchange had led to Gretchen handing me a key to my room with instructions on how to find it, then showing me the range of drinks I could pick from. Ten minutes later I was placing the now empty glass of Rattler pear cider on the table in front of me and thinking that I should get my things from the car before I allowed myself the next one.
The room was easy to find and was a delightful space to spend a few days in. The bed itself was a giant four-poster constructed from solid oak. The uprights were beautifully turned in a spiral design and it had curtains hanging from each side so that the occupant could completely enclose oneself at night. In the days before central heating, I would imagine this feature was highly desirable. Less so now.
I left the dogs to sniff around the room and went to retrieve the luggage from the car. Finding my way to the car was easy enough, I just pointed myself back uphill, so despite the confusing, twisting streets and alleyways, I found the carpark again without becoming disorientated. Then, to avoid a second trip, I fiddled about until I could grab, hook or balance everything I had packed. Burdened by the weight of all the baggage, I struggled back downhill to the pub.
Looking about as I tottered along, I had to observe that it was jolly dark in the bits that the streetlights did not penetrate. The moon was high in the sky though and quite close to full which created sufficient light to see by. I was curious to see how dark it would be on an overcast night and questioned whether the streetlights were on all night or perhaps went off at some point in the small hours. Did fisherman get up before dawn here? Centuries ago they would have managed without streetlights, no doubt they could now as well.
There were lights on in most houses. In some, the curtains were not drawn, so walking by the windows, I could see inside and had to make sure I did not allow my eyes to linger too long on any particular dwelling lest I be spotted staring in. ‘Would you like a hand?' asked a voice from nowhere which made me jump; I had not noticed anyone else about.
I turned slowly, a bit off balance by the weight of the items hanging from my arms to see an openly gay chap in his early twenties. He was wearing a full face of make-up, a pair of pink cowboy boots and ripped, bleached jeans that were so tight I wondered if he needed assistance just to get them on. He was just coming out of a house I had passed. ‘Are you heading to the Sea Pilgrim?' he asked.
‘I am actually. I am staying there for a few days.' He was already walking towards me, raising his hands to relieve me of whichever items of luggage I could disentangle. I had received an injury to my ribs just over a week ago when I had a sort of job-related incident involving some men dressed as clowns. Several of my ribs had been broken beneath where my right arm naturally rests. They were healing but were still sore, so I was glad to reduce the load hanging from my right arm.
‘Tempest,’ I said, offering the man my hand as I put my suitcase down.
‘John.' His handshake was rather weak – effeminate even, if I can use the term without being sexist.
‘Were you on your way to the pub?’ I was making conversation as silence would feel uncomfortable while the man was helping me.
‘Yes. I’m the chef there. My Mum runs it.’ So, John was her son not her husband.
‘Oh. Well, I look forward to sampling your cuisine this week. It is a lot of fresh seafood dishes?’ The thought of a freshly landed piece of plaice or a John Dory fillet made my mouth water. My stomach reminded me again that I had eaten all too little today.
‘Oh, yes. My aunt provides me with a fresh catch every day. She is the parish councillor and supervises the fishing activities. In fact, she is responsible for all the boating activities out of the Cawsand harbour.'
‘So, you have a quite a family legacy here,’ I commented to make conversation.
He laughed. ‘I guess we do. My sister Roberta is the local bobby, so we are all quite well known. Lived here all my life, apart from a brief, but wondrous career in the West End.’
‘Acting?’
‘No. I was a make-up artist. I thought I was going to be there forever, but my boyfriend cheated on me and he was the theatre producer, so I lost my job as well as my place to stay. I tried to make it on my own, but in the end, I just came home. It is lovely here though and my family are all local.’
At the door, I thanked him for his help, took back the bags he had carried and went inside. As I went up the stairs he was heading into the depths of the pub, probably to the kitchen.
I had to dump my bags to get the key from my back pocket. It was a chunky brass item that came attached to a square of metal that was almost the size of my wallet. I figured this made it harder to lose. I could hear the dogs snuffling at the gap under the door as I fiddled to open it and of course, they were climbing all over me as soon as I got it open.
Shuffling forward to prevent them from escaping between my legs, I managed to get inside and close the door. I checked my watch: 1803hrs. I tussled briefly with leaving the luggage until the morning, but I was a stickler for routine and for being organised, so I picked the dogs up and placed them on the bed where I knew they would stay out of the way, then I tackled the task of unpacking.
Fifteen minutes later my clothes were hung up, toiletries were in the bathroom and the dogs’ items were organised. It was finally pub o'clock.
Once we were back out in the corridor, the two dogs strained desperately against their leads. I could hear conversation coming from the bar downstairs. Lots of conversation. Now, it may be because my ears are attuned to hear such things now that I investigate the paranormal for a living but whatever the case, I heard the words, ghost, spectre, and pirate at least once while I stood at the edge of the room, looking around to work out where I was going to sit.
A Strange Tale. Sunday, October 30th 1900hrs
The bar was packed. There had to be fifty people in it now, which meant that most of the seats were taken and it was standing room only at the bar itself. Perhaps this was normal. As I made my way through the crowded room, watching to make sure the dogs did not tangle anyone or get trodden on, I picked up snippets of the conversation. The chaps I was passing were all aged between late twenties and mid-forties with just one or two exceptions and there were only a couple of women present. Scanning their clothing and appearances I noted that those present were almost certainly not tourists as they were not dressed to be out somewhere nice. They looked like they had been working. Their hair was windswept, their faces were red from the cold wind outside and they had on layered outdoor, rugged clothing.
I spotted an unoccupied table in the corner and made a beeline for it. It was a table for four, making me wonder if I might end up sharing, but to secure it, I hooked the dogs around a table leg, left my phone on the table and went to the bar to order food and a drink.
Waiting my turn, I heard the word ghost again and then someone said treasure. I stared at the line of spirits behind the bar and listened.
‘… dived out past the headland today. I got a ping on the sonar, but it was just some old barrels that someone had dumped over the side at some point. I am moving the grid inland tomorrow.' The speaker was to my right, but I couldn’t see him, and I didn’t want to turn and stare overtly at him.
Then another man spoke, ‘I had no luck either. Did you hear that a ghost hunter has arrived in town?’ My ears pricked up at that. I would hardly refer to myself as a ghost hunter but what was really startling was that anyone knew about me at all.
‘Yeah, some multi-millionaire girl from up north,’ replied
the first. ‘After the death on Saturday night, she packed her gear and came to Cornwall.'
‘Never,’ replied his friend. So, they were not talking about me after all. However, there had been a murder, and someone thought there was a ghost involved. I had taken a break away from home to avoid all the ghostly daftness for a week. How had I managed to find it here already?
‘Yeah, I hear she is quite the big shot. Brought a whole crew with her, flashy gear, expensive looking all-terrain vehicles. Jimmy saw them rolling onto the fields above the east headland by Kingsand earlier today. I reckon he must have meant old Graniff’s land. He doesn’t do anything with it anymore.’
‘What did you hear about the murder then?’ I was listening as acutely and as surreptitiously as I could manage without making my eavesdropping obvious. In so doing, I had failed to notice the landlady asking me what I wanted to drink until she asked again and touched my arm to get my attention.
Snapping back to reality, I said, ‘Sorry, I was miles away. I’ll take another Rattler cider please and the plaice for dinner.’
‘Where are you sat, love?’ she asked.
‘Just over in the corner.’ I pointed. She placed the pint on the towel in front of me and disappeared into the gap behind the bar again. I sipped my drink but stayed where I was.
‘…on his boat in the morning with his throat cut and stiff as a board.’ I had missed a chunk of what they had been discussing.
‘Who was he then?’ one asked of the others.
‘Well, I heard…’
The old chap I had seen sitting at the end of the bar when I first arrived interrupted. ‘It was the landlady's brother in law, Philip Masonberg,’ he said, having dropped his paper low enough to see over the top. ‘The pirates got him. Don't go out there at night alone, chaps.' He met each of us with a meaningful gaze, looking at us over the top of his glasses. Then he flicked his newspaper once and hid his face behind it again.
A second of quiet passed, then the two chaps resumed their conversation.
‘Have you seen anything? Of the ghosts, I mean,’ one asked of the other. I turned a little now so that I could take a better look at the two men. They were young, or at least younger than me but probably still in their thirties. They were wearing the rugged outdoor gear that most others in the bar had on. Several of the other patrons had starting stripping layers off, I noted. It would be cool at sea if that was where they had all been, but in the confines of the bar, the number of people in here was raising the temperature. There were no distinguishing marks on the clothing of the two men to label them as working for a particular firm, nor was there anything remarkable about the features of either man. Both were of medium build and height with brown hair. They had most likely been out on the water for most of the day and were now enjoying a cold drink during their evening off.
Curiosity got the better of me. ‘Excuse me, chaps. I could not help but overhear your discussion of ghosts. Can you tell me what it is that I have clearly missed?’ I had moved away from the bar slightly so that I was in their field of vision when I started talking. I found it preferable to tapping one of them on the shoulder. They both stared at me, not in a threatening manner, but more with a look of surprise that I was so poorly informed. ‘I arrived less than an hour ago,’ I answered their unvoiced question.
It seemed to fill in a blank for them. The taller of the two, the one furthest away but facing directly towards me spoke first. ‘You don’t know about the pirates?’
‘No. No, I don’t,’ I replied, hoping I would now get some answers.
‘Well, don’t go outside by yourself after dark, mate. Like the chap with the paper said.’
‘Because of the pirates?’ I confirmed.
‘Because there are pirates out there and they are already dead and have come back to life to protect their treasure and they will probably kill you,’ he said while flaring his eyes to show me how serious he was.
I took a sip of my drink, waiting to see if he had anything more to say on the subject. ‘And you say that someone was killed by them recently?’ I asked when he did not speak.
‘Old fella was found this morning. Run through with a sword,’ he said while miming the sword action and pulling a face.
‘A cutlass,’ his friend cut in.
‘Yeah, a cutlass,’ he agreed. ‘And there have been reports of ghostly dead pirates wandering the streets and scaring people for weeks now.’
‘Ever since they found the gold,’ his friend piped up again.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘What gold?’ I asked.
‘Crikey, mate. You don’t know much, do you? It has been all over the news.’ Now that he mentioned it, I did remember a short article on the National news a week or so ago about some gold being found. An old sunken treasure or something. I had probably been cooking dinner at the time and not really paying attention as I could not remember any more detail than that.
I pressed them for more information, which they willingly gave. A handful of gold coins had been found on Cawsand beach sixteen days ago by a chap out walking his dog. He was then spotted getting excited by the local copper who was out for a run at the time. Before anyone knew what was happening, the story was out and a fight over the ownership of the gold coins had begun.
A historian, probably with a dedicated career in marine tragedies was summoned from a nearby museum to examine the coins. It took him two days to confidently claim that they were lost when a ship called the Merchant Royal went down somewhere off the Cornish coast. The wreck had never been found, but now it looked like a storm, or something, had thrown the coins onto the shore and a gold rush of treasure hunters had beset the village hoping to make their fortunes.
The ghosts had appeared the next night – skeletal figures in pirate dress.
‘They want their gold back. That’s what I heard,’ the man concluded in a hushed tone, leaning in to get closer to me like he was delivering a stark warning to stay away and be very afraid. I locked eyes with him for a moment. ‘And they are going to hunt down anyone who goes after it,’ he finished.
‘But you are out trying to find more of it,’ I pointed out.
He sniffed and straightened up. ‘Yeah, well. Gold is gold.’ He took a sip of his pint and checked his watch looking bored now.
It was all a bit odd. I thanked them both for their time and went back to my table to wait for my food. The dogs had gone to sleep on the old floorboards beneath the table. They looked up as I sat down but having seen that I was not carrying food to share, they saw no need to do more than that.
Dead pirates walking around the village looking for their gold, threatening people and stabbing one chap with a cutlass. That there had been a murder I believed. That it had been perpetrated by a centuries-dead pirate skeleton I could not accept. Sitting quietly and sipping my drink, I could already feel myself getting drawn into the mystery. With a sigh of resignation, I accepted that I was going to ask questions and investigate it for myself.
Fifteen minutes later, I was approached by a chap bearing my dinner on a plate. I had seen the same man working his way around the bar collecting empty glasses and serving dinner to other customers. The dominating feature was his muscular frame. He was a bodybuilder, if not professionally then he was most definitely dedicated to lifting some serious iron. His biceps bulged massively under his cheap, white shirt and his back formed a deep triangle that tapered into his lean waist.
‘You waiting for fish?’ he asked slowly.
‘The plaice?’ I attempted to confirm.
He stared down at the dish, the movement slow and deliberate, then looked back up at me, his expression unchanged. ‘Fish,’ he said again, placing the plate in front of me. It was indeed my plaice, a large piece, in fact, and exactly as I had expected the dish to look.
He seemed satisfied that the dish was delivered and wandered away feeling no need to furnish me with cutlery or condiments, or even a napkin for that matter. He seemed a little low on th
e ability scale, so I figured it might be simpler for me to sort such things out for myself. I got up and went back to the bar.
I waited to get the landlady’s attention, glancing back at my fish hungrily and wishing I was already tucking into it. She spotted me, then tutted and rolled her eyes. She reached to a shelf behind her, producing the items I needed without me needing to ask for them. She indicated that she would bring them to me at my table.
‘I see you met Thirty-three,’ she said as she was laying out my knife and fork.
I raised my eyebrows in question.
‘Our server,’ she said as if that made anything clearer. ‘The chap that speaks as if he is being played at the wrong speed. We call him thirty-three because when he speaks, he reminds you of a forty-five RPM record being played at thirty-three RPMs.' I was too young to have owned a record player, but I understood the reference. ‘He is completely harmless and works for food and lodgings, but my lord he is thicker than a wog's knob.' I shot my head around to stare at her. Racism is not something I tolerate willingly, and I had not heard a person use the W word in decades. She was oblivious though as if the remark she had made was not inflammatory. ‘He has worked here for a few months. He just turned up one day. Walked in the bar looking for some work and has been here ever since, and it takes half the time to get the beer barrels in from the delivery van now because he carries them in three at a time.'
I bit my lip and let the racist remark pass. For now. Thirty-three. It was a fitting name having listened to him speak, even if it was a little insulting and insensitive. ‘What is his name? What do people call him to his face?'
‘Oh. I don't know. He did tell me his name when he first arrived, but I forget what it is was now. Everyone just calls him Thirty-Three.' She bustled off back to the bar, leaving me to enjoy my delicious fish, which was indeed delicious. The dogs came out from under the table to stare intently at me. I was used to it, so I cooed at them between bites, assuring them I would find them a worthwhile treat later. As I scraped the plate to get the last few morsels, they began climbing my chair. I glanced across to the bar, checking that I was not being observed and put the plate down for them to lick clean. Then I finished my second pint and went to the bar for a third. The two chaps I had spoken with earlier were gone, replaced by two different men. These were much younger, perhaps twenty or twenty-one. They were talking about the ghosts and the spectral ship. Once again, I interrupted them to ask what they knew.