The Island Legacy Page 2

  His boat was past the narrow channel now that divided the island from the mainland – and even though he’d made this journey thousands of times, Merryn heaved a sigh of relief. Now that the water beneath Guardian Angel’s hull was deep and blue, he could enjoy the run to the back of the island. He knew there would be seals there to delight his passengers and hopefully earn him some good tips. Sometimes, if he was really lucky, Merryn might spot a basking shark or a dolphin, which was certain to boost the day’s takings. Not that it was all about money. Far from it. Merryn wasn’t mercenary. If he had been, he would have snapped up one of the wealthy holidaymakers who were always coming on to men like him. Abandoned to their second homes for the summer by their city-boy husbands, they had nothing else to do but prowl the town on the lookout for some excitement to relieve the monotony. There were plenty of these women about; Merryn knew enough friends who were more than happy to humour them and enjoy the fast boats, expensive gifts and no-strings fun they offered. All the same, this lifestyle didn’t appeal to him. He wasn’t a saint by any means – women were attracted to Merryn, and he liked them too and had indulged on more than one occasion – but being a kept man wasn’t for him. As long as he had enough money to pay his diesel bill, keep the boat ticking over and cover his own expenses then Merryn was happy. He was his own man and owed nothing to anyone, which was exactly how he liked it.

  It was freedom, Merryn decided as he slowed the boat, pure and simple. Maybe eking out a living by fishing and tripping and working in the castle grounds wouldn’t be for everyone, but it worked for him. Even his caravan on the far side of the island was basic by most people’s standards but it suited him perfectly. It was a simple life and a good one.

  Merryn hoped it was going to stay this way but lately there had been far too many changes. There was a sense of uncertainty hanging in the air nowadays, like the early-morning mist that hung over the River Pirran. Life was moving in the same rhythm it always had, but Merryn had listened to far too many rumours in The Castle and overheard several conversations that had unnerved him. Just as he always instinctively knew when the wind would swing from the south-west to the north-east, some sixth sense was telling him that something important was poised and waiting, that unseen events were ready to unfurl.

  Merryn laughed out loud. God, listen to him! He sounded just like his nan. He’d be looking in the tea leaves in a minute or scrying in the shiny screen of his plotter. Rose Hellier loved all that nonsense and fancied herself as something of a psychic; with her wrinkled walnut skin and thick white hair she looked the part of a wise old soothsayer. For years townsfolk had come knocking at her door for a reading or a lucky charm. She’d certainly always had second sight when it came to knowing what her grandson was up to. Merryn had been brought up by Rose when his mother had walked out, the colourful harbourside lights of St Pirran having been no competition for the bright lights of London. Merryn adored Rose and would do anything for her – if only she’d let him.

  “I’m not dead yet, boy!” was her usual protest when Merryn attempted to carry her shopping up the steep steps to her cottage – and woe betide him if he ever presumed to chop her logs. Fiercely independent, Rose would rather drop dead than admit defeat, and Merryn guessed that was where he got it from. Girlfriends often berated him for never allowing them to get close. Merryn knew that they were probably right, but if you let someone in then it was only a matter of time before they let you down. Hadn’t his mother proved that? His father had never got over her leaving. Will Hellier had soon stopped going to sea; his boat had fallen into disrepair and after that he’d spent the majority of his time propping up the bar in The Castle. It hadn’t been much of a surprise when cirrhosis had claimed him six years later.

  So if that was what love and dependence on somebody did for you, then no thanks. It was the open sea and freedom every time for Merryn. But even though no woman had ever been able to tie him down, the sea and St Pirran had a far greater hold on Merryn’s heart. God, he loved this place. Like a stroppy mistress the weather could turn in an instant, her storms whipping up the waves and spurring white horses to the shore, or her silent sea mists coiling themselves along the coastline and rubbing out the world. Merryn adored the place just as much then as he did on glorious days like this. Perhaps he was a simple soul who lacked ambition? Merryn wasn’t sure and didn’t much care what the answer might be. He only knew that this slice of Cornwall – with its slow-flowing rivers, shallow secret creeks and rocky smugglers’ coves – was enough for him.

  Maybe he should be driving himself hard to buy one of the big houses up on the clifftop. With their huge windows and commanding views, they were practically shrieking just how much their owners were worth. Property developers had snapped those prime sites up years ago when their former owners, ageing and tired of struggling along the cliff path to reach them, had been only too happy to swap breathtaking vistas for a pile of cash and a new-build bungalow elsewhere in town. Nobody born and bred in St Pirran stood a chance of buying a house with a view now, unless they won the lottery or happened to have a world-class talent for football. Most of the year these clifftop houses stood empty, which Merryn though a wicked waste. It was a real case of spending money for the sake of it, and he shook his head in bemusement. Take the furthest house along the cliff, for example. This one had only recently been renovated. Rumour had it that the new owner, the Max Reynard of Reynard Developments, had gutted the place totally in favour of open-plan, glass-and-chrome loft-style living. There was even an infinity pool and a hot tub and, if Polly Pipkin in the newsagents was to be believed, there’d been all-night parties and twenty types of decadence. Lots of locals did believe her too. If the new owner was wealthy enough to buy Island View House, he could certainly afford to live like Hugh Hefner.

  Merryn laughed at this. He might live in a tatty old caravan in an overgrown meadow on the far side of the island but his views were equal to (if not better than) those from Max Reynard’s newly developed house. And who needed an infinity pool when only steps away was the bluest and most perfect natural rock pool, where you could swim alone and uninterrupted day or night? And all for the princely sum of keeping the causeway clear and doing his best to maintain the castle’s grounds. The owner of the island, Armand Penwellyn, had promised Merryn that as long as he did this there would be a place for him there. He hadn’t cared about Merryn’s wild teenage reputation or that he’d been kicked out of school. The old man had given him a chance and a home, and for that he would always be grateful. Rose had worked on the island donkey’s years ago and Merryn guessed that removing her grandson from any possible trouble on the mainland was Armand’s way of thanking her. It had worked. Merryn had lived here for almost six years now and he couldn’t imagine waking up anywhere else.

  Sudden fear fluttered in the pit of Merryn’s stomach because Armand was dead, gone three weeks already, and who knew what would happen next? Armand’s niece, Lucy, was red-eyed and silent; her younger brother, Jamie, had yet to skulk back; and even Annie Luckett, the local historian and Armand’s oldest friend, appeared to be in the dark. The local solicitor, David Brown, presumably knew what the deal was, but he couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to. The island was special and to think that its future was hanging in the balance made Merryn uneasy. Armand was scarcely cold and already the developers were circling. Merryn had spotted Max Reynard walking on the beach this morning, sketchpad in hand and eyes fixed on the island. Merryn would have wagered the few possessions he had that those cream pages didn’t contain artwork but neatly labelled plans and notes for some swanky development. He could only hope that the old man, who in life had been as sharp as the rocks surrounding his island, had been equally canny in planning for his death.

  The island was fast approaching now and, as he slowed the boat, Merryn reflected that even though he saw this view every day he never tired of it. There was something about the way the island rose out of the sea, the granite cliffs towering above and the walls of t
he castle even higher still, that filled him with awe. It didn’t matter that the castle was crumbling or that the once formal gardens were overgrown and filled with nodding wild flowers: the enchantment of its ancient stones and secrets was still there. Every time he reached this point on the trip, chatter on the boat died away as the day trippers gazed up wide-eyed, pointing at the nesting seabirds and snapping away with their phones and cameras. It was pure Enid Blyton, of course: a small island with a castle set just off the coast and easily reachable by boat or causeway. The place reminded all who saw it of childhood dreams of picnics and smugglers. Even Merryn, who lived on the island and knew it for exactly what it was in the hard winter or during a howling gale, never failed to have goosebumps dusting his brown arms when he stared up at it. Maybe he was just being fanciful, but he was convinced there was Cornish magic here. St Pirran’s Island was a special place. That was why it had to be protected, why Jamie Penwellyn mustn’t be allowed—

  “What’s the history of this island?”

  The question interrupted Merryn’s thoughts and, ripping himself away from his worries, he knocked the boat into neutral and turned his attention back to the visitors. His concerns about the future of the island would have to wait because it was time for the spiel, the words he knew off by heart yet never tired of telling.

  “OK, folks. This is St Pirran’s Island, or Pirran Island as we call it here. It’s a small island just a mile off the coast and only twenty-five acres in size. Pirran’s an area of outstanding natural beauty and home to all kinds of seabirds. If we’re lucky today, we may even see some seals because there’s a colony at the back of the island.”

  There was a ripple of excitement at this idea and Merryn crossed his fingers that the seals wouldn’t have vanished. They’d been basking in the sunshine earlier but it wasn’t unknown for them to have enough of being gawked at. A bit like celebrities being chased by the paps, they often took themselves off for some peace and quiet – the lighthouse three miles further south being their usual port of call.

  “There’s a legend that Jesus visited the island with Joseph of Arimathea,” Merryn continued, smiling at the gasps this story always brought. He was pretty certain this was all nonsense, but the tourists loved it and those who made the journey across always headed straight to the ruins of the twelfth-century chapel – a visit that was swiftly followed by a trip to the castle’s tea room. Lucy Penwellyn made the most amazing cakes, thought Merryn, remembering now that he had a big slab of her coffee and walnut sponge in his lunchbox to enjoy once his passengers had disembarked.

  “Did Jesus really visit?” asked a pretty blonde tourist.

  “Absolutely,” said Merryn. After all, who was he to say? There was no doubt that the ruined chapel had a special peace. He winked at her. “We certainly like to think so, anyway. How many Cornish seaside towns can claim that Jesus took his holidays there? The Son of God certainly beats a celebrity chef, don’t you think?”

  There was the usual laughter at this, and with thoughts of cake and tea in mind, Merryn pressed on. “The castle you can see is known as Pirran Castle. Parts of the building date back to Norman times and maybe even before that. The story goes that the castle was built to defend the town and over the years has been added to. Parts of it are ruined, like the walls we’re looking at now, but there are sections that are still inhabited today. If you visit on a Tuesday or a Thursday, you’ll be able to have a tour. There’s a lovely tea room too. It’s definitely worth a trip. I have some leaflets which you can take when we get back.”

  There, that was his cake paid for, thought Merryn. If he sent a few more visitors over, that would be a couple of quid extra in Lucy Penwellyn’s pot – and God knew, she could do with the money. The last time he’d seen her she’d been wondering whether nettle soup was a goer and, as overgrown with weeds as the island was, he didn’t think she’d been joking.

  “People still live in the castle?” asked a little girl, her eyes wide. “Is there a princess?”

  Merryn smiled at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the thought of Lucy Penwellyn as a princess. Hardly. With her work-roughened hands, those overalls she wore and that wispy blonde hair of hers, she was more like a worn-out Cinderella, still waiting for her prince but so busy tending to a succession of elderly relatives and the demands of a listed building that she was unlikely to ever find the time to seek him out. And as for glass slippers – well, Lucy was far more likely to be found in wellies as she walked her dog, Biscuit, across the causeway or worked on the vegetable patch.

  “There have always been people living in the castle,” he told the little girl, “although I’m afraid there isn’t a princess. The Penwellyn family live there at the moment.”

  At the moment. Who knew how much longer they’d be staying? Merryn felt a prickle of unease along his spine. He took a deep breath and did his best to ignore it.

  “Back in 1954 the island was bought by the naturalist Edmund Penwellyn as a home for his growing family and a place to write his books. You’ll come across them in the town as well as prints of the drawings he did. He lived there with his wife and three sons. One of those sons was Armand Penwellyn, the composer.”

  “I’ve heard of him!” gasped a lady in a spotty raincoat. “He’s famous, isn’t he?”

  Merryn swallowed. God, it was hard to talk about Armand in the past tense when he still expected to see the old boy walking along the pier or sitting in his tower window frowning out over the water. Since his death there’d been a strange stillness about the place, as though the island was holding its breath. Realising that his audience was waiting for a response, Merryn collected himself and returned to his well-worn speech.

  “That’s right. Armand Penwellyn wrote the Island Suite and Seashore Melodies, which I’m sure you’ve come across at some point.”

  There was the usual nodding at this.

  “Now, I’m not musical,” Merryn continued, “but they tell me that had Armand continued to compose he’d be as famous now as Vaughan Williams or Benjamin Britten or even,” he turned to grin at a couple of teenagers, “One Direction!”

  As always everyone laughed at this.

  “So why did he stop writing music?” asked Spotty Raincoat.

  Merryn shrugged. “I have no idea. All I can tell you is that he never published another piece of music after the eighties. People said he’d written a great symphony but that he never published it. If he did write that and if it did exist, then it’s certainly never seen the light of day. It’s a secret that he took to his grave.”

  “So he’s dead now?” said a wide-eyed little boy. “Is his ghost in that castle?”

  If it was then poor Lucy would certainly know all about it, Merryn reflected. Demanding and temperamental in life, with the mood swings and short fuse of the truly creative, Armand had bawled her out for years and wasn’t the kind to let death stop him. He only wished the old man would haunt bloody Jamie Penwellyn and scare the idiot away. Now that would be something.

  “No ghosts,” was all he said.

  “So is the castle empty now?” asked another tourist.

  Merryn shook his head. “The last of the brothers died recently but his niece still lives there with some staff.” He wondered if staff was the right term to describe the three of them: himself; Fred Tamblyn, the ancient gardener; and Fern, a fairly recent addition who worked in the tea room and did a bit of cleaning from time to time. If Merryn was honest, the phrase Armand Penwellyn’s charity cases probably described them all far better. Where else would they all fit in?

  “So is it hers now?”

  “I wish she’d sell it to me!”

  “It would make a great hotel!”

  The trippers were chatting again now, excitedly discussing the castle and their dreams about living there.

  Their words washed over Merryn. He couldn’t answer any of their questions because he really didn’t know the answers to them; no one had told him anything. Meanwhile, the townsfolk could only gossip
and speculate. Until they knew for sure what was going on, all kinds of stories were being bandied around. A rock star was buying the island. Jamie Penwellyn was selling it to an oligarch. A developer was going to turn it into a luxury hotel. Merryn had heard every rumour and each one turned him cold.

  Knocking the engine into gear and heading off in search of seals, he could only hope that whatever the old man had chosen to do with the island would keep it safe. Anything else would be unbearable.

  Chapter 2

  The roads were narrow in Cornwall, narrow and alarmingly steep as they wiggled round hills or plunged into wooded valleys. As she steered her hire car around a sharp bend, only to be overtaken by an enormous four-by-four, Nessa Penwellyn held her breath and pulled in as near to the high hedge as she possibly could. God, she really hoped the car wasn’t scratched. The last thing she needed right now was another massive bill. The flight to the UK had almost cleared out what small funds there had been in her bank account, and taking unpaid leave meant that there was no hope of anything coming in to replace it from any direction – the solicitor had made that very clear.

  With her heart hammering against her ribs, Ness waited for the black Range Rover to pass. Its driver had his foot to the floor, and when he drew alongside her the look he gave her was nearly enough to make Ness turn around and head straight back to Heathrow. There wasn’t even a nod of acknowledgement from him. So much for people in the countryside being laid-back and friendly! That supercharged monster of a vehicle wouldn’t have been out of place in downtown Miami, and judging by the murderous expression on the driver’s face she was probably just as likely to be shot here.

  This was her home? Ness couldn’t have felt more alien if she’d landed on Mars. From the minute her plane had touched down at Heathrow she’d felt lost and out of place. She might have an ancient Cornish name, but that didn’t mean she belonged here. She was just as much a foreigner in her own country as she was in the United States or the Caribbean, or anywhere else for that matter.