Laura Marlin Mysteries 1: Dead Man's Cove eBook (2 page)

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Authors: St John Lauren

BOOK: Laura Marlin Mysteries 1: Dead Man's Cove eBook
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The knock came again. ‘Laura? Laura, are you awake? Hurry now. You have a long journey ahead of you.’
Laura took a last look around the simple room that had been the centre of her universe almost her whole life. ‘I’m ready,’ she said.
By late afternoon, the road was unfurling in a hypnotic grey ribbon in front of Laura’s eyes. Hour after hour of traffic jams and road works had delayed them and they were much later than Robbie had planned. Laura hoped they didn’t have much further go. She felt sick. A greasy breakfast at a roadside diner had been followed by a lunchtime car picnic of chocolates, chips and ice cream. Laura suspected that Robbie, a gentle, genial man who’d been driving for Sylvan Meadows since he was old enough to earn his license, and was soon to retire, was under orders from Matron to give her as many treats as possible.
Much to Laura’s surprise, Matron had been quite tearful at their parting.
‘You’ll be sorely missed,’ she’d said, standing ankle-deep in snow to give Laura a hug.
‘Really?’ asked Laura disbelievingly. She felt a momentary pang. Sylvan Meadows had its imperfections, but it was the only real home she’d ever known. The staff were kind and some of them had really cared for her. She’d heard horror stories from other girls about
Oliver Twist
-style orphanages, but Sylvan Meadows wasn’t one of them. If she hadn’t had big dreams and plans she’d have probably been perfectly content there.
Matron squeezed her hand. ‘Hush now. You know Sylvan Meadows won’t be the same. You have a spirit about you that’s given life to the place. But we’ll fear for you. Or at least I will. It’s those books of yours. They’ve filled your head with unrealistic expectations.’
Laura said teasingly: ‘What about those romance novels you’re always reading with the tall, dark, muscly men on the front? Don’t see too many of them around here. Only Dr Simons with the comb-over and the odd bin man.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Why?’
Matron smiled thinly.
‘That
,
’
she said, ‘is one word I won’t miss.’
Now, as every mile carried her closer to her unknown future, Laura wondered if she was doing the right thing by leaving. Not, she supposed, that she had a choice. You couldn’t turn down uncles the way you could turn down wealthy, chihuahua-toting strangers who just wanted another toy to add to their collection.
She wound her window down a fraction and looked out at Cornwall. A short while ago they’d crossed the county border. The bitter wind made her stomach feel better, but a portion of her thigh went numb. She closed it again.
Robbie looked at her. ‘Nervous?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Laura, which was partially true because she couldn’t decide if she was nervous, excited or both. She kept trying to picture her uncle. She imagined him as a taller, broader, older version of her mother. His skin would be weathered from the sun and sea and he’d own a sailboat and live in a converted boathouse with a border collie named Scruff. At weekends he’d take Laura on trips to secret islands. He’d be a spy, or a round-the-world yachtsman, or a dolphin trainer.
A voice in her head reminded her: Or he might be a one-eyed tyrant, but she closed the door on the thought.
In the ordinary course of events, Social Services would have insisted that she met her uncle at least once before moving in with him, but the obstacles and distances involved had proved insurmountable. The saga had dragged on for months. Just when it seemed that red tape would scupper the whole thing and Laura would be at Sylvan Meadows for years to come, Social Services had received a great sheaf of character references from her uncle. These were from sources so influential and of such high moral standing that overnight the powers that be decided that there was no better person in the whole of the United Kingdom to provide a home for Laura. After she and her uncle had independently declared themselves happy to live with one another, the deal was sealed.
‘. . . smugglers, moonshiners, highwaymen, gunrunners and ghosts,’ Robbie was saying.
‘What?’ said Laura, coming back to the present with a jolt.
‘I was just remarking that, not long ago, we’d have taken our lives in our hands crossing Bodmin Moor, it was so rife with smugglers and other scary folk.’ Robbie took one hand off the steering wheel and made a sweeping gesture. ‘Even now, you wouldn’t want to be alone out here after dark.’
Laura stared at the landscape framed by the windscreen. The dying light of the winter sun had been all but extinguished by the black threat of an oncoming storm, but it was still possible to make out the contours of the moor, and the twisted trees and downcast sheep that dotted it. An air of gloom rose from it like a cloud. But rather than being frightened by it, Laura felt a rush of adrenalin. Now
this
was a setting worthy of a novel.
‘I don’t spook easily,’ she told Robbie.
He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.
The storm moved in soon afterwards. Within minutes driving rain had reduced visibility to almost zero. The wind shook the car.
To Laura, the last hour of their journey seemed to take forever. She dozed through some of it. When she came to and saw the sign for St Ives, she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. Shortly afterwards, they rounded a bend and she saw the town for the first time - a finger of twinkling lights jutting into the raging ocean far below. Boats tossed in the harbour and there was a lighthouse at the tip of the pier.
Robbie guided the car down a steep hill, through twisting streets lined with fishermen’s cottages, bakeries advertising Cornish pasties and shops selling surf wear. There was no sign of life. The storm had driven everyone but the seagulls indoors.
When they reached a walled garden, Robbie accelerated up a hill. Laura caught a glimpse of palm trees twisting in the wind like carnival headdresses. Higher and higher the car went, rattling over the cobblestones. At the top they rounded a corner to see a row of Victorian houses. On the slope to the right sprawled a cemetery. Below that, the oily black sea seethed in the gale. Silvery waves steamrollered up to the shore and crashed onto the beach.
Robbie parked outside number 28. Aside from a gleam of yellow in the opaque rectangle of glass at the top of the heavy wooden door, the house was in darkness. The front garden was overgrown, the path checkered with weeds.
Laura opened her door and the salty, rainy sea air and roar of waves blasted in. She climbed out of the car and looked up. There was something about the way the house reared back from the street, its attic eaves like watching black eyes, that made her feel as if she was about to step wide awake into one of her novels. All her life, that’s what she’d dreamed of. Prayed for even. Now she recalled Matron’s words: ‘Be careful what you wish for.’
Robbie set her suitcase on the wet pavement and followed her gaze upwards. ‘Just as well you don’t spook easily,’ he said, adding: ‘This can’t be right.’
In the light of a fizzing streetlamp, he checked the address, shielding the paper from a fresh speckling of rain. ‘How odd. This does seem to be correct: 28 Ocean View Terrace. Let’s hope you’re expected. Wouldn’t be the first time there’s been a mix-up.’
Laura went after him up the steps, rotting leaves squelching beneath her shoes. The doorknocker was a snarling tiger. Robbie lifted its head gingerly and rapped hard.
From the bowels of the house came a guttural bark that seemed to spring from the slit beneath the door and slam into Laura’s chest. A volley of similar barks followed.
Laura grabbed Robbie’s sleeve. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I want to come back with you. Matron will understand. She can call and apologise. If you take me back I’ll be a new person, you’ll see. No more questions. No more dreams. No more unrealistic expectations.’
Robbie looked at her. ‘Laura, this is your family. You can’t change your mind. You belong here.’
You belong here.
The words had an air of finality. Unbidden, Laura’s gaze returned to the crooked rows of headstones and the flat-topped pine watching over them, whipped by the wind and rain. The barking grew more hysterical. From the other side of the door came a shouted curse and the sound of claws skittering on wood. There was a snuffling and growling at the crack.
Terror seized Laura.
‘Please
, Robbie,’ she begged. ‘Take me with you.’
A key scraped in the lock and the door screeched on its hinges, as if it were not accustomed to opening. The ink-black figure of man stood framed against the yellow light with a wolfhound at his side. The slope of his shoulders and knot of muscles in his forearm as he gripped the creature’s collar, spoke of an immense power, carefully restrained.
The smile left Robbie’s face and he stepped forward uncertainly. ‘Laura,’ he said. ‘Meet your uncle.’
2
‘DON’T MIND LOTTIE
, her bark is worse than her bite.’
Apart from a few awkward sentences on a crackling line, those were the first words Laura had ever heard a relative of hers speak. Her uncle’s mouth turned up at one corner and he added: ‘A bit like mine. Please, come in out of the rain.’
The hallway smelled of wet dog and old wood. There was a stairway at the end of it and doorways at various intervals, all of which were in darkness. A lamp on a high shelf gave off a feeble glow.
‘Welcome, Laura,’ her uncle said, and that in itself was a headspin, hearing her name spoken by a person whose blood ran in her veins. For an instant his whole focus was on her and Laura had the impression of a tall, brooding man with glittering eyes that seemed to see into her soul. A warm hand engulfed hers.
‘Calvin Redfern,’ he said by way of introduction.
Before she could respond, he’d turned away to greet Robbie. Laura noticed the driver wince as he retrieved his hand.
‘Can I offer you both a drink? You must have been travelling all day.’
Robbie said hurriedly: ‘Thanks, but I have a room booked at the Jamaica Inn near Bodmin. They’re expecting me for dinner.’ His eyes flickered to Lottie who, despite Calvin Redfern’s assurances, continued to emit low, threatening growls.
‘Traitor,’ thought Laura, which she knew was unfair because Robbie was old and had been driving since dawn and still had a long way to travel in the storm. But having wished for this moment for most of her life, she was now desperate to delay it as much as possible.
Robbie put a hand on her shoulder. Laura could see he wanted to give her a hug, but was intimidated by her uncle. ‘Goodbye and good luck, Laura. We’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you all too,’ Laura told him, and meant it very sincerely. If she hadn’t felt intimidated herself, she’d have run screaming out to the car and lain in front of the wheels until Robbie had no choice but to take her back to Sylvan Meadows. As it was she just said: ‘Bye, Robbie. Thanks for everything.’
The door opened and another blast of freezing, rainy, sea air blew in. Robbie stepped grimacing into the night. The car engine spluttered to life. Three minutes later, Laura was alone with a dark stranger and a snarling wolfhound and the sinking feeling she’d got exactly what she wished for.

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