Pengelly's Daughter (6 page)

I hesitated, the sincerity in his voice taking me by surprise. It was as if he was speaking like a friend. No, better than that, it was as if I was drowning and he was throwing me a rope. In effect, I had been drowning since Father died and I longed for someone I could trust. I had felt his strength, I could sense his power, I knew him to be clever. Something deep inside me longed to draw on this strength but I could not trust him or anyone else. I was being foolish even considering it.

‘Let me pass,' I said.

Chapter Five

I
made my way past the quays to the new end of town where the street was wider and the air fresher. These modern buildings were the best Fosse offered. They had covered drains and water pipes and, though rather crammed in between the steep hillside and the river's edge, stood tall and dignied with symmetrical windows, ornate shutters and porticos above the front door. Father always dreamt of owning such a ne house and when his business ourished, he poured money into obtaining the lease. Coombe House was the third in the row. I had not been back for over a year and as I stared at the familiar red bricks, I was unprepared for the intense longing welling up in my heart.

The house was strangely dark, only two oil lamps burning either side of the front door and a light coming from the basement. I crept slowly down the steps, peering in through the window. Everything was so familiar. Mrs Munroe, Sam and Tamsin had stayed with Mr Tregellas and seeing them now brought tears to my eyes. Mrs Munroe was sitting in her chair by the reside, her huge ham-like arms working her knitting as vigorously as if she was rolling one of her prize-winning pastries. Tamsin was playing cards at the long pine table, her starched white apron and cap glowing in the candlelight.

The room was just as it had always been – a kettle whistling on the stove, a large stockpot hanging heavily from the spit. Copper moulds and sh kettles sat neatly on the shelves. A huge ham and bunches of herbs hung from the meat hooks. It was all so dear to me, so very precious – I had to stop myself from running down the steps and throwing myself through the door.

Sam was not in the kitchen: I had already guessed he would be at the cock ght in Fore Street. This was my chance. I would be quick. I would be silent. It had started to rain, so any noise I might make could be blamed on the weather.

Creeping round the back, I stood watching the silent house. There was very little space between the house and the steeply rising hill behind. Mother had tried to use it as a courtyard, but the back was too overshadowed, too dark to grow anything. Most of the larger trees had been coppiced or felled, but over the years several branches had grown outwards from the hill, leaning dangerously close to the houses. I hardly dared look. My whole plan rested on whether anyone had thought to trim the branch of the beech tree growing behind our house.

I was in luck. Even through the darkness, I could see the shadow looming above me. If anything, it seemed to have grown stronger. My old window was on the second oor – all I needed to do was to climb the trunk and crawl along the branch. After all, it was not such an outrageous idea – I had done it many times before.

I began inching my way along the branch. The bark was dry, easy to grip and I was condent I could not be seen. All I needed to do was keep my nerve and stretch across to reach the window, but somehow it seemed more daunting than I remembered. The branch was swaying, the rain penetrating the leaves above me. The pounding in my chest was making it hard to breathe and I found it hard to balance. I had not thought I would feel such fear. I gripped the branch, staring at the casement, almost too scared to move. But I had not come this far to fail. With one hand holding tightly to the branch, I stretched out, clutching the casement as tightly as I could.

Nothing moved. The window remained tightly shut. Once again I leant across, stretching my arm as far as I could, my ngers gripping the latch, shaking the window. In my panic, I started to fumble. Nothing was shifting. The catch had always been loose and just a shake would be enough to slide it free, but it was clearly stuck, the window remaining tightly shut.

‘Breaking and entry's a felony punishable by hanging. You know that, don't you, Rose?' Jim's voice came from the tree behind me. He was crouching on the end of the branch. Furious, I made my way slowly back.

‘What're you doing here? I didn't hear you follow me.'

‘Nobody ever does,' he said softly, the implication behind his words so unmistakable, my stomach lurched in fear. He was staring at me, no sign of a smile.

‘Go away. Leave me alone.'

He took no notice. Squeezing past me, he began crawling towards the window, the branch dipping precariously under his weight. At the furthest end he steadied himself, holding on to the casement while he reached into his belt. He grabbed his knife and once again, I saw the cold steel glint in the dim light. With very little effort he leant across, slipping his knife into the sash, deftly icking his wrist to loosen the catch. Immediately, the window gave way. I caught the gleam in his eye, the smile on his lips as he slid quickly across the gap, balancing on the stone sill with the agility of a cat. Making no sound, he slid the window open.

‘We're in,' was all he said.

Chapter Six

I
n the darkness, my old room smelt musty and unused. My hands trembled so much, I could hardly strike the tinderbox. Jim heard me fumbling, ‘No, Rose…don't risk a candle. Wait – your eyes will soon get used to the dark.'

‘I'm not a thief,' I whispered.

‘Then what're we doing here?' Through the darkness I could see him studying me.

‘I'm looking for something.'

I began to make out shapes. Dust sheets were hanging like eerie phantoms, covering my iron bedstead, my washstand, my chest of drawers. I walked carefully round them, pulling back the covers, my heart aching at the touch of my old belongings. I had lived here, a young woman with plans and dreams to ll a lifetime, yet, silenced by dust sheets, my aspirations seemed to mock me from the shadows. I had not expected to feel so wretched.

‘We used to live here,' I whispered, the lump in my throat catching my words. ‘This used to be my room.'

‘What're we looking for?' Jim's abrupt tone brought me sharply to my senses. Whether I liked it or not, I had to explain.

‘My father owned Pengelly Boatyard. You must have heard about his bankruptcy.'

‘No,' he said, looking away, ‘I'm new to Fosse.'

‘Father built a cutter for the revenue men – a really beautiful boat, the best of her kind. She was a hundred and twelve tons – eight guns and over a thousand yards of canvas. He'd designed her for speed…she was his pride and joy and ready for commission.'

‘And?'

‘There was some caulking to nish and warps to attach, but very little left to do...and, against all advice, she'd been fully rigged.'

‘Don't tell me. She was stolen.'

‘From right under our noses. The watchman was attacked and badly beaten. They slipped her out in the middle of the night and no trace has been seen of her since. I warned Father to get her insured but he never took my advice.' I tried to keep my voice low but I was conscious it was rising.

‘Why'd you lose the house?'

‘William Tregellas was Father's timber merchant. When the boat was stolen, Father owed a lot of money to all his suppliers. He was expecting to pay off his debts with the money from the sale, but when it disappeared his creditors foreclosed. By far the most debt was to Mr Tregellas – Father couldn't pay, was declared bankrupt, and imprisoned. Mr Tregellas was the major creditor so he was given the house and boatyard. Father didn't survive long in gaol – soon after he caught putrid fever and died.'

‘An' you suspect Mr Tregellas of the theft?' Jim had got straight to the point. He was staring at me, his mouth tight.

‘Yes,' I replied, grateful he had taken me seriously. ‘It's dangerous using just one timber merchant – I warned Father to spread the risk but he wouldn't have it. Mr Tregellas was his friend and he trusted him. But I've always mistrusted Mr Tregellas. That's why I'm here. I need proof of his treachery before it's too late.'

‘Why too late?'

‘We owe him more money,' I said quickly. I had said too much already. I would have to be careful. ‘If any evidence links him to the cutter, it'll be in his study.'

‘Then best we waste no more time.' Jim moved quietly to the door, opening it a fraction before peering into the darkness. The house was silent, only the faint ticking of the clock downstairs. A candle must be burning in the hall as light ltered up the staircase. Nodding to Jim, I began making my way across the landing, descending the stairs to the rst oor. The sight of the study door wrenched my heart. I remembered standing there as a child, reaching high as I could, leaving sticky ngerprints over the polished panels and gleaming brass knob.

We were in luck – the door opened to the pitch-black study. ‘The shutters are closed – you can light your candle now, Rose. No light will show.'

The room seemed exactly as Father had left it. As the ame took hold, I could almost see him sitting by the re, a book on his lap, pipe smoke curling in the air around him. It was as if I was a child again, sneaking into his study; watching him reading, waiting for him to take off his glasses and pretend to be surprised. He would put down his book, hold out his hands, and I would go running to him, climb on his lap, so proud and happy he had allowed me to stay. He would read to me, ask my opinion on his latest pamphlet, and I would try so hard to give him sensible answers. The pain of the memory was almost unbearable.

I put the candle on Father's old desk, placing it carefully so no wax would spill, easing open the drawers, one at a time. I searched their contents, replacing everything exactly as I had found it. With every false hope, I grew more desperate. Nothing was incriminating, all the papers unconnected with the boatyard. Even the bureau revealed nothing. Jim watched from the darkness, saying nothing, merging with the shadows, his presence strangely reassuring.

A whirring sound momentarily startled me. The long case clock in the hall struck midnight and immediately the carriage clock on the mantelpiece began sounding out the hour. The familiar chimes used to bring me such comfort but now they increased my panic. Time was running out. ‘There's nothing here – but there has to be something, there has to be.'

Jim peered through a tiny hole in the shutters. ‘We'd best risk no longer. Have you found anything at all?'

‘Nothing to link him to the cutter.'

Holding up the candle, I cast my eye round the familiar room, searching the shadows to see if I had missed anything. Nothing seemed out of place. The bookcases were tidy, the periodicals neatly stacked, but something caught my eye – something different. A low table, covered by a brocade cloth, stood in the corner of the room and the more I looked at it, the more out of place it seemed. I was amazed I had not noticed it before.

‘This wasn't here in Father's time.' Pulling back the cloth I revealed, not a low table, but an ornately carved chest with a large lock.

Jim rushed to my side. ‘The lock's too strong – I'll not be able to force it. We must nd the key.'

Running to the desk, I began rummaging through the quills, knocking over inkpots in my haste, spilling the contents of the blotting sand. I had not seen a key in my search, but perhaps I had not been looking for one. I ran to the chair by the re, searching the table, looking in the snuffbox, the tinderbox, tearing open the lid of the pipe box. There was nothing.

‘It'll be a big key – too big to take with him – it'll be here somewhere.'

I was facing the replace. The elaborately carved mantle was too large for the room, certainly too ornate, but Father had commissioned it from one of our best carpenters and he loved it. Even when there was no re he would stand looking into the grate, his hands resting against the mantle. I could see him standing there. Suddenly I knew where the key would be. The top of the mantle had a hidden ridge – it must be there. I hurried across the room, standing high on my toes, reaching my hand along the ledge, feeling among the dust until my ngers touched cold iron. ‘I've got it!' I cried.

With trembling hands, I put the key in the lock and turned it, lifting the heavy lid. It was just as I thought – the chest was crammed full of papers and I recognised two books at once. ‘These are my ledgers,' I whispered, smoothing my hands across the leather bindings. ‘I kept this one just before the cutter was stolen.'

‘
Your
ledgers?'

‘No need to look so surprised. I kept all Father's books. I was his bookkeeper.'

‘Blimey, Rose. Is there nothing you can't do?'

I looked up at his hint of sarcasm, ‘I can't sew,' I said tartly.

My reply seemed to catch him off guard. He threw back his head and laughed, but it was dangerously loud and I cut him short. Besides, I had seen something far more important. Among the contents of the chest were an unfamiliar ledger and a mass of letters and bills – none that I recognised. Nor could I read them. It was impossible to make any sense of them. ‘These letters don't seem to be in English,' I said, putting them nearer the candle.

Jim glanced at them. ‘That's because they're in French.'

‘French? Then we won't know what they say,' I whispered, staring in surprise as he looked to be examining them in detail.

‘I speak French,' he replied, ‘an' read French,' he added, with a icker of a smile.

‘Then what do they say?' I snapped, annoyed he was enjoying a joke at my expense.

He held the letters closer to the candle. ‘This one…' He stopped, glancing up at the closed shutters. Carriage wheels were rumbling along the cobbles, hooves clattering quickly towards us and we froze like statues, listening to them stop below the window. Someone was shouting, a command ringing through the night air.