A Gathering Storm(9)

After a few minutes Simon Vine returned, carrying two flat wooden boxes with glass tops. ‘Here we are,’ he said, putting them in front of her on the desk.

‘Oh,’ said Lucy, looking with puzzlement. ‘They’re amazing.’ Each box contained an array of insects pinned on to cork: butterflies, their wings as brightly patterned as the day they were mounted; different kinds of moth, a huge beetle – all carefully labelled with tiny strips of paper. ‘How does this help me?’ she asked.

‘The lady brought them in a few months ago. She said she’d caught them round here when she was a girl, so we have a snapshot of natural history from the 1930s, which is rather fascinating. I imagine she’d have some useful stories to tell you. I wrote her name and address down somewhere.’ He pulled a foolscap notebook from a drawer in the counter and started hunting through it. ‘I bump into her occasionally and I can never remember her name but she always remembers mine, though she must be well over eighty. Hold on.’ He checked a label stuck on one of the boxes and flipped a few more pages. ‘Here we are. Mrs Beatrice Ashton. And the house is on the road that leads to the cliff path. This lady will certainly be able to tell you about this place before the war.’

‘Beatrice Ashton?’ Had she heard him correctly?

‘Yes. I’ll tell you what – are you staying in Saint Florian?’

‘Yes, at the Mermaid.’

‘Why don’t I call in on her on my way home this evening and ask if she’ll see you.’

Lucy left the museum and its curator, hardly believing her luck. Beatrice Ashton. Surely the name wasn’t a coincidence. Who could she be? Rafe’s wife or some other relative? She’d written down Simon Vine’s directions to Mrs Ashton’s house carefully, her mind awhirl.

She spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the town before returning to the hotel. It felt odd being on her own on a Saturday night, without anything definite to do. Back in her room she slept for a little, then ate an early supper in the hotel bar. She enquired of Cara, but there was no message from a Mrs Ashton. After a last look at the harbour, she went to bed early to read.

At half-past nine Will rang her. ‘Oh, you do get a signal there,’ he said. ‘I tried earlier.’

‘What time did you get back?’ she asked him.

‘About five. Look, Lucy, I’m worried about you. I shouldn’t have left you like that.’

‘I’m not sure I gave you much choice. And there’s no need to be worried, really.’ She explained about the possibility of meeting Beatrice Ashton, but he brushed it aside.

‘How long will you be there?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, Will, I just don’t.’

He made an impatient sound. ‘Well, let me know, and I’ll come down and collect you.’

‘There’s no need for that. You’d be exhausted. I can get a train.’

‘Lucy, I insist.’

‘Seriously, Will, I don’t want you to.’

‘I’ll ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And see how you’re getting on.’

When he’d rung off, she felt angry. She could look after herself. Why was he doing this? She didn’t want the pressure; it stopped her feeling free. She bit her lip, thinking, then switched off the phone in case he rang again.





Chapter 4


Lucy heard a distant cry. She’d climbed a steep flight of stone steps and paused at the top to catch her breath, listening to the sound of Sunday church bells. The Rowans, she saw, was set in the hillside before her, half-screened by a privet hedge. High above, a seagull coasted in slow, rhythmic arcs. It cried out again, like a warning.

That morning, after breakfast, Cara had handed her a white envelope, brought by Simon Vine, with Miss Lucy Cardwell written on it in black italics. Inside, a short note on thick cartridge paper suggested that she call on Beatrice Ashton at three o’clock that afternoon.

It was five to three. As Lucy pushed open the garden gate, she found herself in a secluded garden. The Rowans was a fine semi-detached house with a white and blue painted frontage and an enclosed glass porch. Patches of spring flowers, saffron, indigo and china white, studded a neat lawn.

NO HAWKERS, NO COLD CALLERS proclaimed a sticker on the front door. Beneath a circle of mullioned glass and a small security spyhole, an iron lion’s head snarled. Lucy lifted the ring in its teeth, tapped several times and waited.

The door rattled then sprang ajar, and a pair of brown eyes in a wrinkled face peeped out. The frail hand clutching the door jamb was studded with jewels. ‘Lucy Cardwell, is it?’ The woman’s voice was musical and strong, the consonants perfectly pronounced.