Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

The abandoned village is thriving, Emma thought, looking around the pub.

The Bright Lady was a low, whitewashed stone building on the harborfront, tucked between a half-timbered inn and the narrow, two-story harbormaster’s house, which now served as Dr. Singh’s infirmary. The pub was warm and cozy, dimly lit by the sunlight falling through the bull’s-eye windows in the front. Pewter tankards and lengths of fishing net hung from the raftered ceiling, a back comer was devoted to a well-used dartboard, and a time-worn but lovingly polished bar jutted out into the center of the room, dividing it in two. On one side of the bar, an aged spaniel slept before a crackling fire, and the red-haired chief constable, Tom Trevoy, sat at a bare wooden table, writing doggedly on a pad of yellow paper and nursing a pint of the local ale.

Emma was sitting on the other side of the bar, at one of a half-dozen tables draped with linen and set with silver. Her table was in the front, near the windows, and she had a clear view of the harbor. Derek was speaking with three elderly women at a table in the back, answering the question Emma had heard many times as she and Derek had strolled down from the car park to the harbor.

Would Susannah’s “mishap” delay the Fete? Everyone they’d met—from Mrs. Shuttleworth, quietly tending the marigolds in front of her husband’s church, to the irascible Jonah Pengully, at whose ramshackle general store Emma had purchased work gloves; a sunhat, and a pair of wellington boots—had asked Derek the same thing. Faces had fallen when he’d declined to give a definite answer, but the villagers remained hopeful that word would come down from Penford Hall before nightfall.

Emma sipped her cider and watched out the window as three fishermen guided their boat into the harbor. She knew without looking that the boat would be in perfect condition, not a speck of paint chipped off of its sky-blue prow. She knew it because everything she’d seen so far in Penford Harbor had been perfect.

The church, with its ancient carvings and shining brasses; the tiny schoolhouse, with its computer terminals; the bakery, the butcher’s shop, the boathouse—nothing was rundown or weatherbeaten. The whitewashed cottages, roofed in blue slate or wheat-colored thatch, looked as though they’d been painted fresh that morning.

The air of well-being was more than skin-deep. According to Derek, the small fishing fleet provided the village and the hall with a great variety of seafood, and Mr. Carroway, the greengrocer, grew vegetables all year round in a solar-heated greenhouse behind his shop. An inland town supplied Mr. Minion, the butcher, with mutton and beef—it was his van that Gash had been repairing—but Herbert Munting, a middle-aged widower with a passion for poultry, provided him with chickens, geese, and other feathered delicacies from his multilevel henhouse. Mr. and Mrs. Tharby, the proud owners of the Bright Lady, made their own ale, pressed their own cider, and experimented with flavored liquors, but claimed that Crowley was the local authority on wine-making.

Penford Harbor’s air of cheerful self-sufficiency should have been appealing, but Emma found it almost eerie. It was too polished, too pristine. Old Jonah Pengully, with his cluttered shop, moth-eaten gray pullover, and curmudgeonly manner, had come as a refreshing change of pace.

Emma turned away from the window as Derek took his seat, and nodded when the matronly Mrs. Tharby stopped at their table to assure them that their lunch would be right out. When she’d left, Emma murmured uncertainly, “Did we place an order?”

Derek smiled. “One doesn’t order at the Bright Lady. One eats whatever Ernestine Potts decides to serve. She trained under Madama, so there’s no need to worry. Matter of fact, I’ve promised to bring Nell a pot of Ernestine’s jam.”

“Strawberry jam?” Emma asked.

“Why, yes. How did you guess?”

Emma studied Derek closely, wondering how he could possibly be unaware of his daughter’s fondness for strawberries. “She seems to eat a lot of them,” she replied carefully.

“Is that unhealthy?” Derek asked, faintly alarmed. Emma reassured him as Mrs. Tharby returned with their food.

“Supreme of Cornish turbot,” Mrs. Tharby informed them as she unloaded her tray. “Filled with a light scallop-and-grainy-mustard mousseline, and served on broad beans cooked French-style with a Chablis sauce. Ernestine’s having fun today. Enjoy.” She’d just turned away when the front door swung open.

“Hello, boys!” Mrs. Tharby called. “Your missus is expecting you for lunch, Ted.”

Three fishermen had come into the pub, their rubber boots trailing water, their hands and faces reddened from the wind and sun. Emma recognized them as the three she’d seen sailing into the harbor moments before. The youngest appeared to be in his late twenties, the oldest somewhere in his thirties. Emma thought she detected a family resemblance in their upturned noses and dark, wavy hair, and a moment later, Derek confirmed it, introducing her to the Tregallis brothers: Ted, Jack, and James.

“Told Debbie I’d stop by here to drop off the papers,” Ted replied to Mrs. Tharby as she headed for the kitchen. “How’re things up at the hall, Tom?”

“Peaceful, so far,” said the red-haired chief constable.

Ted placed a bundle of newspapers before Chief Constable Trevoy while Jack and James came over to shake hands with Derek. Their heavy wool sweaters reeked of sweat, diesel oil, and fish.

“Press conference went well,” Ted called from the chief constable’s table. “Seen the rags yet?”

Derek shook his head. “How bad is it?”

“See for yourself.” Ted brought several of the papers over to Derek. The first contained a black-and-white photograph of a scantily clad Susannah cavorting beside the words:

ASHERS SMASHERS!

“Blast,” Derek muttered. “Must’ve got the snap from Syd.”

“Bastards probably nicked it off him,” said Jack, wincing as Ted jabbed an elbow into his side and told him to mind his language.

“The other one’s not so bad,” said Chief Constable Trevoy, holding up a second newspaper. Its front page featured an unflattering photograph of Grayson surrounded by white-coated doctors, paired with a gorgeous shot of Susannah in a semitransparent gown, stretched full-length on her back on a rocky beach. The headline screamed:

FALLEN BEAUTY!

“Doubt Debbie’ll let me keep ’em in the house,” said Ted ruefully. “Not with Teddy around. My ten-year-old,” he explained to Emma.

“We could keep ’em on the boat,” Jack suggested, and was rewarded with a swift clout in the head from James, who asked, “This won’t affect the Fete, will it, sir?”

With admirable patience, Derek confessed yet again that he really didn’t know, and the Tregallis brothers trooped off to Ted and Debbie’s house for their midday meal, while Chief Constable Trevoy scanned through the rest of the papers. Mrs. Tharby returned to the table shortly, with a fresh round of drinks. Before leaving them to enjoy their lunch, she put a hand on Emma’s arm. “I just wanted to say what a pleasure it is to meet the garden lady. God bless you, dear. I’ve heard so much about you.” The Penford Hall grapevine, it seemed, was linked directly to the village.

13

Emma leaned over the retaining wall of the gray granite quay to look down at the lapping waves, while Derek stood beside her, facing the village. In the harbor, a gull plummeted headfirst into a wave, then rose back into the air, wings straining, a sliver of silver in its beak. A cool breeze caressed Emma’s face as she followed the gull’s flight upward and along the edge of the enclosing cliffs.