A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (32 page)

“And when she left, you went inside the cave and took the stone?” Jeremy asked.

Basil only nodded, then looked at me and said, “You said it was alright for me to keep it, as long as I didn’t tell anybody else about it.”

But now there was a sudden rushing sound as the tide came crashing in on us with an alarmingly aggressive roar. You didn’t have to be an experienced Cornish fisherman to guess what that sound indicated.

“Run this way! Tide’s coming in,” Basil said warningly. “We must go, else we drown.”

“ Do you think Basil’s telling the truth?” I asked after we left him.

Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe. The guy’s half-barmy,” he said. “But somehow he managed to get his hands on that stone.”

We were late for our meeting with Jeremy’s environmentalists, who had begun scouring the property around Grandmother Beryl’s house while we were in Madeira. They’d scheduled this meeting just to give us a preliminary report on what they’d learned so far.

Jeremy warned me that this pow-wow was nothing unusual, but still, I was hopeful that they’d tell us they’d found some rare natural species of animal, vegetable or mineral that required protection and could therefore stop the Mosleys’ development plans permanently.

When we arrived, the environmentalists were tromping through the eastern meadows across from Grandmother’s house. The team consisted of a man named Peter who was the leader, and several students who were working for him over the summer.

Peter, a tall, lanky dark-haired fellow dressed in jeans and a tan shirt open at the throat, shook hands with us both as soon as we arrived. “Normally, I’d be walking you through all the flora or fauna,” he said immediately. “But there’s nothing of real significance on that score so far. However, I did call in Barbara, an archeologist advisor whom I’ve used many times in the past. I’ll let her explain why.”

He jerked his head toward a woman standing farther away in the field, near the low, stone farmer’s wall that separated this property from the earl’s. Sitting on the wall a few yards away were Harriet and Colin, so deep in conversation that they didn’t notice when I waved at them.

And just as Jeremy and I were crossing the field to meet Barbara, I saw another figure emerge on the other side of the low wall, and he leaned across to speak to Barbara. I recognized the newcomer instantly.

“Jeremy!” I whispered. “That’s the earl!”

We drew closer, and as Peter made his introductions, I couldn’t take my eyes off the earl, for his face, up close, was more weather-beaten than I expected; and his eyes were a bright, lively green. He had shaved this morning, though, and he removed his hat when he spoke to Barbara. I saw that the earl was younger than he first appeared; somewhere in his thirties, just as Harriet had told me.

“But s-s-surely those arrowheads d-d-didn’t w-w-walk over h-here on their own!” he exclaimed.

Barbara shook her head, then glanced up at us, and Peter said, “Barb, can you bring Penny and Jeremy up to speed on this?”

Barbara was what you might call a handsome woman, with light brown hair, a squarish jaw, and a high, intelligent forehead. She was dressed in a safari shirt and khaki shorts. “Well, the long and the short of it is this,” she said in a clear, strong voice. “Peter’s team thought they found some ancient arrowheads on this property this morning, which is why I was called in.”

I felt ready to whoop with delight, but the expression on her face stopped me.

“However,” she said, and that one word made my high spirits immediately plummet, “I can say with certainty that these arrowheads are neither Roman, nor Celtic, nor Anglo-Saxon nor Norman. They are not even Germanic or Iberian. What they are, are Chinese.”

This gave me a pause. “Furthermore,” Barbara said, rather severely now, “they are made of a hard-grain plastic meant to mimic bronze. See the dye marks and seams? Authentic bronze from antiquity don’t have these imperfections. These arrowheads are fakes.”

“Fakes!” I exclaimed. Then I wished I hadn’t spoken. Because Barbara was looking at everyone as if we were all in a police line-up.

“Right,” she said, studying me closely. “Which means somebody planted them here. That’s not lawful. That’s not good.”

Peter looked at Jeremy and said, “Any idea who might have done this?”

“No,” Jeremy said shortly. The earl simply turned away abruptly and retreated into the thickets of his private property.

But Harriet and Colin had edged closer to us now, and Colin was so red-faced, looking quite ashamed, that it was very clear who the culprit was.

“I don’t know what to say,” Harriet said in a wounded voice.

“It wasn’t Mum,” Colin said shortly. “She knew nothing about it. Nobody else is to blame.” But he could not resist adding, “Except the asshole who sold me the arrowheads.”

“You bought them,” Peter said. “That makes you the . . .” He didn’t have to finish.

Barbara glanced around the group, her attitude softening a bit at all the disappointed, stricken faces. “This is not the way to protect a property,” she said crisply.

“It was all in a good cause, truly,” Harriet said in a small voice.

I glanced up and saw that Jeremy had a grim look as he gazed off toward the road, where a thuggy-looking man in a black suit and sunglasses was standing, with his arms deliberately folded across his chest, in a mute but unmistakably threatening manner.

“The Mosleys’ man,” Harriet muttered. “He’s acting as if the property is already theirs. Won’t be long now before they make the final
coup de grace
.”

The phone was already ringing when we got back to the cottage. It was Simon.

“Tonight’s the night!” he exclaimed, sounding really juiced up.

It took me several moments to remember what he was talking about. Then I realized that it was the Shakespeare fête; that performance at the old theatre by the residents of the Actors’ Home to raise money for the hospital.

“Be there with bells on!” Simon was saying. “And don’t be late! Trevor got his friends from the BBC to cover it!”

“We have to go,” I told Jeremy when I hung up the phone. “We’ve got to dress nice, too. This is a big deal.”

“Fine, fine,” Jeremy said absently, heading for the shower. “It’s the least we can do, considering that this case is rapidly going south.”

“What a doofus thing Colin did,” I said. “Poor guy. I guess he’s been crazed with worry, seeing that his mum is so desperate.”

“Well, he’s set us back considerably, and he may have even given the Mosleys plenty of ammo against our whole case,” Jeremy said shortly. “Do one dishonest thing, and every thing’s up for grabs.”

This thought depressed me. But for Simon’s sake, I put on my best summer dress and my best smile.

And actually, it was all very exciting, because when we arrived in front of the theatre, the streets around it were jammed with cars and TV trucks. Not only was the BBC there, but also the local news and, I suspected, some newspaper reporters from London, judging by their slightly imperious attitude as they fired off questions at Trevor, who clearly enjoyed the spotlight and was more than up to the task of master-of-ceremonies.

“Some of the very finest names in theatre, film and television will be on that stage tonight AND in our audience!” he proclaimed as he stood before the microphones that had been arranged in front of the theatre. A new red carpet had been rolled out on the entrance path. Trevor looked especially spiffy tonight in his elegant tuxedo, and his face had that wonderful, highly animated quality, which good actors always manage to summon in the teeth of an important night.

“We sold out this morning!” said Harriet’s Legacy Society friend with the tortoise-shell framed eyeglasses.

“They’re even scalping some of the tickets,” said a young man who at first I did not even recognize. It was Colin, in a rented dinner jacket. His spiky hair had been slicked down. Harriet was wearing a bright red dress and lipstick, totally uncharacteristic of her. Shannon and Geoff were right behind them, and Shannon was wearing the most beautiful embroidered silk floor-length dress I’d ever seen.

“She made it herself,” Geoff told me, looking distinguished in a purple dinner jacket.

Toby Taylor showed up next with his entourage from the restaurant, which included a few fashion models and sports figures. “Oh, yeah, it’s been really great working with the locals and getting our supplies straight from the land and sea,” Toby was telling a reporter.

“And a warehouse,” Jeremy muttered to me. “Probably got his fish from New Zealand.”

Meanwhile, as Trevor fielded questions from the press, he was periodically interrupted whenever a celebrity’s fancy car rolled up to the red carpet and somebody important got out. Jeremy and I stood with all the other gawkers to watch the parade of politicians, film actors, and other worthies who’d been spending their summer vacation in Cornwall, and were now making a big show of arriving to claim coveted seats for what was shaping up to be
The
Event of the season.

A popular young actress who’d played a girl ghost-hunter in a successful movie series now alighted from her limo in a long gown and high heels, and obligingly posed on the red carpet with her trademark toothy grin for the photographers and fans who screamed out her name. Another limo pulled up, and out stepped a young actor with long blond hair who was a heart-throb from a recent blockbuster action movie. And then came the older, more venerable actress who’d recently picked up an Oscar award for her stunning portrayal of Mary, Queen of Scots.

“How on earth did Trevor assemble this cavalcade of stars?” I asked Jeremy in a whisper.

But just then, the car-to-beat-all-cars arrived bearing the guestto-beat-all-guests. I didn’t recognize the auto, but the press certainly did, and they abandoned the other celebs and flocked to the curb there. The driver parked and moved hurriedly to open the back door for the guest of honor.

A male passenger stepped out. He wore a bemused expression, and he seemed completely unruffled when the cameras and lights were all suddenly turned on him with a force that would have stunned any mere mortal.

“It’s Prince Charles!” I breathed to Jeremy.

“There’s your answer about Trevor’s roster of luminaries,” Jeremy said wryly. “They all heard that the Prince was coming tonight.”

Everyone pushed forward as the rest of the royal entourage emerged from their cars and followed H.R.H. up the red carpet. Prince Charles acted as if he had all the time in the world, even while he and his group kept moving quickly and smoothly forward. From time to time he paused momentarily to shake someone’s hand or say a quick word; and I just stood there, drinking it all in.

But I certainly did not expect what happened next. A man accompanying the Prince—no doubt a palace associate—whispered something in his ear, causing His Nibs to pause, then glance up straight at me and Jeremy. With a more intense look, Prince Charles just gave us one brief but significant nod. Then the whole group continued on.

“Good God,” I heard Jeremy mutter behind me.

“At least he doesn’t seem to hate us,” I said weakly.

Now a long black limousine shaped like a barracuda pulled up to the curb, but the crowd scarcely noticed it, still enthralled with the passing parade of royalty. And so the Mosley brothers, upon making their big entrance, were at first completely ignored. No reporter, no gawker approached or noticed them. But I sure did.

“What are
they
doing here?” I hissed indignantly to Jeremy.

“Show of support for the community,” Jeremy said dryly.

“As if!” I responded.

But now everyone was rapidly hurrying to get through the lobby, and soon we were all directed by young usherettes to take our seats. Jeremy and I got nice box seats upstairs, to the left of the stage.

Glancing below, I saw that most of the bigwigs were led to the front rows. And, some residents from the Actors’ Home who, like Simon, were wheelchair-bound, were also given special seating in the orchestra section. In the orchestra pit, a local group of musicians were tuning up. In the balconies directly across from the stage, there were lots of younger people who had come to see their friends that were performing with the elder thespians tonight.

Suddenly, the chandelier lights dimmed. The chattering dropped to a murmur, then stopped completely as the crimson curtain with the gold Tragedy and Comedy masks on it rose slowly. From deep in the orchestra pit, a lone trumpet sounded. Then an elderly actor entered the stage. The spotlight made his whitened face look eerily compelling. In a rich, well-modulated voice, he spoke:

These, I noticed, were timeless words for an environmentallyconscious crowd. The actor boomed his lines out across the stage, with perfect pitch and control, and the audience was raptly attentive.

As more players joined him, I could not help feeling real pride at the sight of all those old troupers, now coming to incredible life onstage. The faces were painted, the expressions highly dramatic, but I could recognize, here and there, the very same folks I’d passed in the hallways of the Actors’ Home, or seen lying in their beds, or eating quietly in the Priory dining room, or nodding in lawn chairs on the terrace.

But tonight each of them had special power and grace; they seemed to glow from within, and even when they occasionally stumbled on a line or made a slightly wrong exit, they were still amazing to behold. The young actors moved with less confidence but more vigor and excitement, so there was a nice symmetry in the way that old and young performed their vignettes from various scenes of Shakespeare.