Death Plays a Part. Vivian Conroy
this series.
A special thanks to all my readers who share their enthusiasm for my books online and in real life:
you keep the series coming!
May Cornisea Island bring you summery escapism
and the satisfaction derived from solving a good puzzle!
Although inspired by real-life tidal islands like St Michael’s Mount and its French counterpart, and by many fascinating sources of Cornish history, archaeology, folklore, flora and fauna, cuisine etc., Cornisea Island and its castle with ruling family is a fictional world. Its layout, businesses and societies, special constable and deadly legends of patron saints and secret treasure are all the fruits of my imagination.
‘But if the gardener didn’t dig those holes, then who did?’ Lady Margaret’s voice – speaking over the headphones – carried an exaggerated note of terror. ‘It must have been …’
She paused for dramatic emphasis. ‘The spectre of the old tower.’
‘Ancient tower,’ a voice called, apparently from further away.
Lady Margaret sounded impatient as she said, in her normal speaking voice, ‘I can’t remember ancient. “Old tower” rolls off the tongue.’ Suddenly she broke into a sneezing fit.
‘Ruddy boa. Even the thought of a chicken gives me a rash.’
Guinevere laughed out loud, then remembered she was on a train and toned it down. Her hand rested on the player clipped to her belt. Through the headphones she had been listening to a rehearsal session for Well-mannered Murder, the play her company in London were to perform after the summer.
Set in the 1920s at a manor where a lady with a lack of funds is organizing classes to groom girls for their entry into society and possibly to forge a connection with a wealthy man, it had glamour, wit, and even a hint of comedy as the lady in question had to fight manipulative staff, mysterious occurrences, and a cunning killer to keep her new enterprise afloat.
The retired actress who played Lady Margaret was perfect for the part, and Guinevere had been thrilled to dress her in the opulent gowns and cute hats of the era. She had been stitching sequins and attaching feathers and even hand-painting a fan. Mr Betts, the theatre director, had also allowed her to work on the décors and the props, which had meant scouring antique shops and vintage stores to dig out all the best items.
Guinevere took a deep breath. She missed the theatre already, as well as her friends in the crew. Although they had been working with each other for years when Guinevere had been added to the team, fresh from her studies, the members had taken her in like they had known 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