In the Blood (10 page)

She felt Martin’s hand on her shoulder; heard him sigh as he began to circle a palm across her back.

“It
will
get better,” he promised.

Amy doubted it.

Chapter Eleven

T
he Ferry Boat Inn has been a celebrated feature of Helford Passage for over three hundred years and continues to service sailors and fisherman along with a busy tourist trade.
 
Inside, the inn speaks of its piratical past and of smuggled contraband, with its ship’s lanterns and bells, ropes and wheels.
 
An old ship’s mast stretches the length of the bar like a sturdy lintel.
 

Jefferson Tayte was outside, still smiling to himself after learning from two of the locals that the place was known as the FBI; at hearing Tayte’s accent they had been keen to engage him in conversation seemingly just to impart this information.
 
He took a slow step beyond the terrace, leaving the cool shelter of the faux ship’s sail that canopied over it, lashed to imitation masts.

He was facing the river, comfortably fed and slouched with his hands in his pockets, jacket resting loosely through his arm.
 
Before him, a short but lively beach ran to clear water that was turquoise under a strong sun barely past its zenith.
 
Children played at the water’s edge, monitored by their parents, and further out, the river was active with the mid-week sailing fraternity; a melee of white sails gently aslant in a soft breeze that was barely there.
 
The sun felt hot on Tayte’s face.

Although not a great walker by preference, he found the stroll to Helford Passage almost as good a tonic as his lunch.
 
Along the way he’d passed the hamlet of Durgan, which consisted of a cluster of stone cottages surrounding an old school house at the edge of a small shingle beach by the river.
 
He’d spent a few minutes looking up into the sub-tropical gardens of Glendurgan while he was there, but those scant minutes were too few to do justice to the exotic beauty that was two hundred years in the making; the giant camellias and magnolias, now resting in preparation for next year’s show, when they would once again exhibit in all colours from white to deepest crimson.

Tayte strolled onto the beach towards a metal railed gangway that arched onto the river to a floating pontoon.
 
An unusual catamaran approached, and to his right, at the top of the beach, level with the gangway, a sky blue kiosk advertised ‘Ferry Boat Hire’.
 
Tayte went closer.
 
Shingle and sand stirred and sank, crunching beneath his loafers.
 
He glanced at the operating times, taking nothing in.
 
Then he proceeded towards the pontoon which rocked as the catamaran arrived and moored up alongside it.

Tayte watched a cheery-looking couple dressed in matching forest-green walking garb disembark and he wondered what it must be like to feel that close to someone.
 
As soon as they were on the pontoon, they extended their walking poles in perfect unison and linked arms before setting off towards him.
 
The boat hands’ attire was oddly conflicting, he thought: one dressed in black, the other in a bright blue t-shirt.

The man in black called out to Tayte.
 
“You going across?”

Tayte waved a dismissive hand.
 
“No thanks.
 
Maybe some other day.”

He watched the ferry operators tie off the craft, then they followed after the walkers.
 
A lunch-time lull, Tayte supposed.
 
He smiled politely as they passed, all heading for the inn.
 
Then his gaze wandered back to the start of the coastal path, wondering as he set off towards it, whether his donation to the church of St Mawnan had been money well spent.

When he arrived back at the church, Tayte got the impression that the Reverend Jolliffe had been standing there in the south doorway all this time, just admiring the view.
 
He was exactly where Tayte had left him a little over two hours ago.
 
He was all smiles as Tayte approached along the path and Tayte perceived the news to be good.

“Lady Fairborne has been very accommodating,” Jolliffe said, his face beaming.
 
He moved out from the doorway to greet Tayte, who returned his smile.

“I was lucky enough to be able to speak with her in person,” he continued.
 
“Did you have a good lunch?”

“Yes, thanks,” Tayte said.
 
“I took your advice.
 
Good call.”

Jolliffe stooped and pulled a tuft of grass out from the gravel.
 
“Lovely down there on a day like this.”
 
He scanned the path for further unwanted intrusions.
 
“I’m overdue a visit myself,” he added absently.

Tayte tried to catch Jolliffe’s eye, raising his brows expectantly, urging him to continue.

The reverend stood up again, still smiling.
 
“I
am
sorry,” he said.
 
He dropped the offending tuft onto the grass beside the path, brushing dust from his hands.
 
“Down to business as it were.”
 
He studied Tayte now with forced determination.
 
“I’ve told Lady Fairborne all about you and what you’re up to here in our little part of Cornwall.”

Tayte would have liked it put better.
 
He immediately felt as if he were up to no good.

“She was quite excited about the project.”

Tayte was waiting for the good news and he wished the reverend would hurry up and get to it.

“She’s very keen to see your work and expressed her interest in obtaining the finished result.”
 
Jolliffe moved closer to Tayte and slowly whispered, “It would guarantee her full co-operation.”

Everyone has an angle,
Tayte thought.
 
He twisted his lower jaw, considering.
 
He was sure his client would go off the rails at the idea of a total stranger having a copy of the chart
he
was paying for; even if they were technically family.
 
But it was an interesting proposition.
 
“I can’t promise anything,” Tayte said, but he wanted this interview.
 
“We should be able to work something out.”

“Of course,” the reverend said.
 
“I do understand.”

“So when will she see me?”

The reverend threw his hands out.
 
“Right away!” he said, clearly very pleased with his accomplishment.
 
“Lady Fairborne is at home this afternoon until three o’clock and can see you any time before then.”

Tayte was surprised at his luck and relieved to find someone so enthusiastic about his work.
 
He was expecting some complication, like she couldn’t see him until next week.
 
He checked his watch: ‘13:21’.
 
There was enough time if he left immediately.

The reverend placed a hand on Tayte’s shoulder.
 
“I was concerned that our many distractions would enchant you and keep you away too long,” he said.
 
He led Tayte back towards the lych gate.
   
“You’re to call at the side entrance in the north-east wing.”
 
Jolliffe gestured with his hands as though drawing a schematic of the house and grounds.
 
“You’ll have to go all the way around the headland to find the main gates first,” he added.
 
“And be sure to ask for Lady Fairborne if she’s not there to greet you herself.”

Tayte took the reverend’s hand and firmly shook it.
 
“Thanks again.”
 
He turned to leave.

“Perhaps we’ll see you at one of our services?” Jolliffe said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Tayte replied, but he doubted it.

Chapter Twelve

A
my Fallon was sitting alone on a red settee, staring into a cold inglenook fireplace.
 
Like so much of their furniture, the settee was from the Victorian period, gathered over the years on weekends away or on specific antique-hunting trips when they were looking for something special.
 
Each piece reminded her of Gabriel.
 
She knew where they bought every item and every item linked to other memories, often of romantic breaks together that began with a customary pre-dinner bath, stimulated by champagne and the heady aromas of scented candles and fragrant oils.

The black lion on the heavy iron fire-back returned Amy’s stare from deep within the grate.
 
It was early afternoon, still bright outside.
 
She’d not long been back from the river and Martin had not long since left; a quick cup of tea to calm her nerves.
 
Something stronger was suggested, but she knew she would find no answers at the bottom of a bottle - she’d already looked there.

As soon as Martin had left, she’d changed into her comfy clothes: a faded pair of jeans that were so old and torn they were beginning to look trendy again, and one of Gabriel’s old shirts: pale blue with a faint herringbone weave that had also seen better days.
 
She was stroking her shirt sleeves and thinking about what Gabriel had said that last night they shared together.
 
The conversation was often on her mind.
 
There was something he wanted to show her, but it could wait...

“I’ll show you in the morning,” he’d said.
 
“It’s late and we’ve an early start tomorrow.”

Amy remembered the fire being low in the grate.
 
She was sitting where she was now, Gabriel beside her with an arm around her.
 
She knew he was teasing her - he loved to tease.
 
But this time she’d sensed an edge of seriousness in his tone.

“Show me now,” she’d said.
 

“In the morning ... it’s no big deal.”

Amy recalled giving Gabriel a playful dig in the ribs.
 
“So show me then.”

“I can’t - really.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a secret!”

Gabriel laughed then, and Amy remembered his strong hands grabbing her wrists and pulling her onto him.
 
She remembered the mischief in his half-Irish eyes, letting her know that he would never show her until he was ready.
 
When morning came, Gabriel went out early, leaving her at the cottage with a sleepy kiss on her forehead.
 
She’d forgotten to ask what he’d wanted to show her and he had forgotten to say - or maybe he’d planned to show her later.

But later never came.

Apart from Amy’s bedroom, the sitting room was the only safe place in the house; the only place left to any peace since the decorators moved in at the start of the week.
 
Two days of banging and scraping had done nothing for her nerves, but she
was
trying.
 
A fresh look, someone had suggested.
 
Clear out the old cobwebs - the ghosts.
 
Though it tortured her, she still wanted the reminders around her; still needed them.
 
She thought she might leave the sitting room alone - some part of the house still left to her memories.

The house was called Ferryman Cottage.
 
It was constructed from flint and stone and located at Treath, a tiny hamlet of just a few cottages half a mile along the river from Helford Village on the south bank.
 
Set back from the water, it had its own quay and mooring directly opposite Helford Passage.
 
Secured to the mooring was a teak motor launch: their pride and joy.
 
It was ideal for trips down the river when the tide was in, or to follow the coastline in search of a secret cove when the sea was calm.
 
The coastal path ran between the house and the river, which was often busy with walkers during the high season, but not to such an extent that it detracted from its charm.

A covenant existed tying the cottage to the Helford Ferry, which at one time ran from Treath.
 
It ensured that whoever owned the business would have somewhere local to live.
 
Neither could be sold without the other, so when Amy and Gabriel bought the business three years ago, they also bought Ferryman Cottage.
 
The house retained most of its original features and, although smaller than they were used to, in many ways it was well suited to the quieter lives they sought - lives that had since proved to be anything but.

Amy might have burst into tears again were it not for the ten-pound hammer thumping into the wall on the other side of the fireplace.
 
The whole house shook.
 
The decorators were back at the wall again, knocking through into a side annexe that was used to store things that had no obvious place to go.
 
It was proving a difficult task, but they were nearly done.
 
It would give the room more space, but more importantly, the view from the window in the annexe offered a lovely second aspect along the river, back towards Helford and across to the inlet that ran up to Porth Navas.