Cornish Castle Mystery Collection: Tales of murder and mystery from Cornwall. Vivian Conroy
her all along. They had invited her to lunch at the cute little café close to the theatre and had lent a quick hand whenever Guinevere couldn’t keep up with the pace during a performance.
Soon she had felt part of the unruly family they formed, at home in the cosy building with the long history that formed their haven. But their beloved theatre was currently closed for renovations, and the crew had left London for the summer, each to his own place. Guinevere had to focus on her temporary job now.
She checked her watch. Almost there.
Holding her breath, she leaned over and pressed her cheek against the cold glass pane to catch a glimpse of water. After all, her new workplace was an island. As a child she had longed for a holiday by the seaside but her grandmother, who had taken care of her, hadn’t been able to afford any sort of holiday, let alone one in a popular destination. Now her childhood dream was finally coming true: summer along the Cornish coast.
Her heartbeat sped up, and she strained her eyes to catch that first alluring glimpse of sparkling water.
But there was nothing to be seen. Still the way in which the train lost speed told her they were near her final destination.
The woman opposite to her, in her fifties with a basket on her knees, nodded at her with a friendly smile. ‘New here, are you?’
‘Yes, I come from London. I’m going to work on Cornisea Island. Can I see it from here?’
The woman shook her head. ‘The village is on a hill. You can’t see the sea or the island from the train track and the station. Where are you going to work? I think I saw they were advertising for someone at the bakery.’
‘No, I’m going to catalogue books. At the castle.’
‘With Lord Bolingbrooke?’ The woman leaned forward, her arms on the basket, her voice lowering into a confidential tone. ‘He doesn’t like outsiders, does he?’
Recognizing the small-town willingness to share a little titbit that had pervaded her childhood in Devon and was so remarkably absent in the big-city bustle of London, Guinevere couldn’t help a smile coming up. With an inquisitive mind of her own, and a never-ending interest in what motivated people, she could never resist a snippet of gossip here or there.
Still, her new position as Lord Bolingbrooke’s employee required a tactful reply so she said cheerfully, ‘Well, he advertised for someone to help him catalogue his books, so I’m sure he’s aware that I’m coming.’
The theatre’s director, Mr Betts, had told her about the position available at Cornisea Castle. He had said it was the perfect place for her to spend the summer as it had history and the island was full of fascinating stories about the past. Secret treasure, local lore.
The excitement that had grabbed her as soon as she had heard about it rushed through her again. She hadn’t had time to dig deeply into Cornisea’s colourful history but the summaries she had read about it had unrolled a tableau vivant full of saints, knights and squires, ladies and maids, a tale of siege, love, deception, heartbreak.
As if Dolly noticed her excitement, she squeaked. The short, high-pitched sound was the dachshund’s favourite way to express her enthusiasm. She held her long nose close to the window as if she also wanted to catch a glimpse of their new home. Guinevere scratched her behind the ears. ‘Almost there, girl. Just a few more minutes.’
The woman opposite them said, ‘Some people think it’s silly to talk to dogs. Well, I think it’s silly not to talk to dogs. Had them for all of my life. Retrievers first when I was still living on the farm my parents had. Now I live in the village, in a smaller house. Took in a cocker spaniel when an elderly neighbour moved away and couldn’t take her along. The sweetest little thing. Is by my bedside in the morning, the moment I wake up. Keeps me company while I garden. She’s with my sister today. She doesn’t like trains, you know.’
Guinevere smiled. ‘Dolly likes everything. She’s quite the adventurer. Aren’t you, girl?’
Dolly squeaked again and rubbed her head against Guinevere. Her bright little eyes took in everything that moved outside the window: the clouds against the skies, the specks of birds, a yellow tractor on the fields.
The train was slowing down even more, swaying, and soon they stopped all together. The woman with the basket helped Guinevere to lift her heavy suitcase from the train onto the platform. ‘Is someone coming to get you?’ she asked with a worried frown.
‘No, but I can manage. Thank you for your help. And have a lovely day. Say hello to your cocker spaniel from me and Dolly.’
The woman smiled at her and walked away, calling out to a woman at a flower stand just outside the station. It only had two platforms and an old-fashioned building with vintage motifs of golden fleur-de-lis over the entry doors.
Guinevere took a deep breath. The air carried the typical tinge of salt that always betrays the sea is nearby. But there was also the smell of paper and coffee. She spotted a window where hot beverages were sold. She also saw cans of soft drink in a cool box and newspapers. A turnable rack held leaflets on regional sights and activities.
On a blue one Guinevere read: ‘Medieval re-enactment at Cornisea Castle.’
Underneath were a few lines of explanation that the Cornisea Historical Society was to re-create the trial of Branok the Cold-hearted, the steward of Cornisea Castle, who had been accused of vile acts against the villagers under his care.
‘Based on medieval sources, the play gives a true-to-life representation of the trial, the parties involved, and medieval justice, against the breathtaking backdrop of the centuries-old castle and its rugged environment,’ she read to Dolly.
What perfect timing. Her theatrical expertise would come in handy for this re-enactment. She might help with costumes or setting the scene or whatever else was needed.
Guinevere already saw herself choosing some props from the castle’s extensive collection. Maybe some items from the armoury would lend nice touches?
And if Lord Bolingbrooke didn’t want the real things to be used, they might make copies of a coat of arms, hand-painting them in the bright heraldic gold, blue, and red.
The woman behind the window leaned on the counter and called out to her, ‘You can take that leaflet along if you want to. They’re free.’The woman looked at Guinevere’s clothes – her poppy-strewn dress with broad red belt, her matching red pumps, and the long braid hanging down her right shoulder – and asked in a conspiratorial tone, ‘You’re here for that re-enactment, right? You look sort of … vintage.’
‘Thank you. But no, I’m going to work at the castle for the summer. Cataloguing books.’
‘With Lord Bolingbrooke? You don’t say.’
Her surprise matched that of the woman on the train, and Guinevere got an unpleasant twinge of worry in her stomach. All of these people seemed baffled that Lord Bolingbrooke would invite an outsider to his keep. As if he was the type of man who kept to himself and shooed away strangers.
But he had advertised for someone to catalogue his books, right?
Guinevere frowned a moment. She hadn’t actually seen the advertisement. Mr Betts had told her about it and had encouraged her to write an application email to an email address he had provided to her on a sticky note. She had received a reply from an O. Bolingbrooke, inviting her over at her earliest convenience. She hadn’t printed it off, thinking it was all settled now. Should she have brought it, to prove she had actually been invited? Lord Bolingbrooke might not personally open the door.
Guinevere thought a moment longer and then shook it off, thanking the woman behind the window and putting the leaflet about the re-enactment in her bag.
The woman said, ‘Just follow the road, and you’ll see the island soon enough. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you for the directions. Have a wonderful day.’
Clutching her