The Ghosts of Blackbottle Rock Page 5

  Did you go back to see if he was there?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I should have done, but that’s grown-ups for you. We think we have to act “sensibly” and lose our sense of adventure. I bet you would have gone back to check!’

  The face at the attic window flashed into his mind.

  ‘Maybe…’

  seven

  Charlie had a choice to make. Go with Dad to a garage ten miles away to investigate a funny noise he thought the car was making (Dad was always claiming to hear funny noises, and they always turned out to be in his imagination) or traipse around Polruan with Sue while she carried out research on the story of the Blackbottle Rock disaster for her book.

  No contest.

  The trip to the garage would be boring, especially waiting around while mechanics looked under the bonnet and scratched their heads, but there was no way he was going to spend hours on his own with Sue.

  No way, that was, until her heard more about her plans.

  They had just washed up after breakfast. Sue was putting notebooks and stuff in a bag; Dad was pulling his trainers on.

  ‘You must have heard it. It was like a whee-whee-whee sound whenever we dropped below thirty miles an hour.’

  ‘Perhaps a little piggy got stuck under the bonnet,’ Sue suggested, pinching his cheek, ‘and it keeps going whee-whee-whee all the way home!’

  Charlie stifled a giggle.

  ‘Very funny. You’ll both be laughing when we break down in the middle Bodmin Moor and the mists come down and we hear the mournful cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles getting ever closer.’

  ‘That was Dartmoor,’ Sue said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

  ‘Well, he’s moved. Hounds do.’

  ‘Sure you want to put up with that all morning rather than wander round in the sun with me?’ Sue asked Charlie before she left. ‘I’m meeting a man on the quay who knows about the Blackbottle Rock disaster. We’re hiring a boat to take us out to the spot where the hero performed his gallant rescue.’

  Charlie hadn’t known about this boat trip and it captured his imagination – but he made sure his features remained impassive and merely shook his head.

  Did she look a little hurt? Maybe. He felt a pang of remorse, but this was how it had to be and he pushed it away.

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll just have to meet Mr Penhale on my own, then.’

  Charlie had been about to head upstairs to grab his phone. He stopped in his tracks and spun round. ‘What?’

  ‘Henry Penhale, the local history expert who’s going to show me where the Rosebud sank and tell me the whole story. The few survivors owed their life to the courage of his ancestor.’

  ‘But that’s him!’

  ‘Who?’ asked Dad.

  ‘The man who…’ Charlie hesitated, remembering what a fool he’d made of himself only a couple of days previously. ‘He’s the one who came to the door on Monday…’

  ‘Ah, the mass murderer,’ said Dad, munching on a biscuit.

  ‘Yeah, well… Anyway, he seems, er, interesting,’ Charlie said, addressing Sue. ‘And I didn’t realise you were going on a boat. Is it all right if I go with you after all?’

  Her face brightened. ‘All aboard!’

  As they waited at the appointed meeting place in Crumpets, the little teashop just round the corner from where they were staying, Charlie began to fidget nervously. He was trying to remember why he’d been so keen to come in the first place. Yes, there was still something decidedly peculiar, even suspicious, about the Creep; yes, he would love to know what was behind it. But there was nothing he could actually do. He’d like to ask him why he was ripping pages out of old books and lurking about in empty houses – and especially what gave him such a fright. But that wasn’t going to happen, so not only was he stuck with Sue for ages, but wasting his time. All that would happen was that Penhale would recognise him as the boy who was spying on him through binoculars. Then again, he probably wouldn’t bring it up with Sue being there.

  Charlie’s heart lurched when a new customer darkened the open Crumpets’ doorway. Even without looking he somehow knew who it was and tried to avoid making eye contact for as long as possible. Which wasn’t long.

  ‘Ah, we meet again!’

  Henry Penhale had a sort of tight-lipped smile that seemed more a matter of duty than genuine warmth. Sue rose and shook the pudgy hand he offered, and Charlie did likewise. He squirmed inwardly at the Creep’s warm, slightly sweaty grasp. Once they’d settled themselves at the table, he was close enough to see that the strands of hair carefully plastered over his otherwise bald head weren’t completely grey but had a sandy colour mixed in with it. The light above his head made the pink parts of his scalp gleam, and the whole arrangement just looked ridiculous.

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Sue. ‘I hope you won’t be losing any business in your shop because of this little jaunt.’

  ‘Not at all. I have a part-time helper and she’s in charge for the day.’

  ‘Good. I’m looking forward to finding out all about what happened all those years ago.’

  ‘Well,’ said Penhale after they’d ordered drinks, ‘nice day for a boat trip!’

  ‘As long as we don’t suffer the same fate as the boat that sank off Blackbottle Rock.’ Sue smiled.

  Charlie shuddered. Sailing out of the estuary into the open sea was the thing he’d been looking forward to the most. He hadn’t quite connected it with the idea of visiting the place where people had drowned doing exactly the same thing.

  ‘Not to worry, my dear. I’ve been out there countless times, taking people on my guided tours. It was an unusual combination of things that caused the boat to sink back in Victorian times: a freak storm, a sudden change of wind direction, and…’ He trailed off quickly, and it struck Charlie that he’d just managed to stop himself saying something he preferred to keep to himself.

  ‘What else?’ he couldn’t help asking.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You said the storm, the wind – and something else.’

  Charlie noticed the briefest flash of anger in the pale green eyes, distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses. But he quickly resumed his smarmy smile.

  ‘Oh, nautical things. I’m no sailor – that’s why I get someone else to pilot the boat when I go out there.’

  ‘Did you find the owner of the car?’ Sue asked, changing tack abruptly.

  ‘Car?’

  ‘When we last met, you were trying to find the owner of a car causing an obstruction outside your shop.’

  ‘Oh, that car…’

  Although Charlie was sure he was trying to hide it, Penhale seemed surprisingly flustered by such a routine question. He also suspected that Sue had asked it as a kind of test…

  ‘Yes, blocking the shop doorway – soon found him.’

  ‘Ah, good. I could have sworn you said he was blocking a delivery van in but that must be me and my terrible memory!’

  Penhale still seemed flustered and glanced down at his watch. ‘Goodness me – the boat will be here any minute.’

  They quickly finished their drinks and made their way down the short but extremely steep road to the harbour, with its usual mix of sightseers and ferry passengers milling around. Out on the river, a boat with a crew of four bustling about the deck in bulky lifejackets was progressing in a stately manner out of the estuary towards the sea. Despite the Creep’s reassurances, Charlie was glad to see that it was a calm sunny morning. The waters around the coast were going to be as safe as could be.

  A little blue and white boat with Water Taxi marked on it chugged into view and moored behind the Polruan ferry. As soon as the latter departed, the water taxi nudged forwards into its spot and Penhale led them down the steps. He greeted the man at the helm, and soon they were on their way. It seemed strange and even a little daunting to be heading for the open sea rather than the short, cosy trip to Fowey in the opposite direction. As the boat nosed round the corner of the quay
, bobbing a little on the crosscurrent where river met sea, the river mouth opened out and Charlie’s breath was taken away by the seemingly limitless body of water opening out before him. In the bright sunlight, it looked as if it had diamonds scattered on its surface. The boat puttered along at a sedate pace, and while they skirted the cliffs that sheltered Polruan on the other side, Henry Penhale began to explain what had happened here over a hundred and fifty years ago.

  ‘In July 1856, a boat with two crew, taking three families to start new lives in London, left Polruan. Seven adults and ten children in all. The day had started sunny and fair, much like this one, but with a stiff westerly wind blowing. Before the party departed, dark clouds were gathering on the far horizon and a noticeable sea-swell had developed. Barometers were dropping and locals knew a dramatic change in the weather was on the way, but the hope was it would just be a passing squall. The party set off in a lugger owned by my ancestor, Cornelius Penhale, called the Rosebud. She was a fine vessel, clinker built and forty feet in length…’

  Charlie didn’t hear the rest of the description. As soon as he heard the name Rosebud, his mind began working overtime. Where had he heard it before? He tried to think of all the boats he’d seen on his trips across the river, and the fishing trawlers under repair in the boatyard next to the quay. It wouldn’t come to him, but he knew it was somehow significant…

  ‘So when the storm did hit the coast, it came fast and hard, catching everyone by surprise. The Rosebud was caught close to a lee shore…’

  ‘What’s that?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘It’s what you call the coast when the wind is blowing towards it, isn’t it, Mr Penhale?’ Sue offered.

  ‘Quite right. Sailing boats obviously find it much harder to sail into the wind rather than when it’s behind them. If it’s trying to blow you towards the shore – what they call a “lee shore” – you need plenty of room to manoeuvre or you’re in big trouble. Hence the term needing “leeway”. So, caught out, the skipper of the Rosebud didn’t have sufficient leeway to work his way clear. A skipper can only tack – steering left and right and try to make a bit of progress with each turn; but that takes room and time – and the Rosebud didn’t have enough of either.’

  The Creep was starting to talk like someone presenting a TV documentary now. He stood up at the side of the water taxi, pointing theatrically to the rugged shoreline.

  ‘Not enough time or room…’ he declared, pausing for effect, ‘to avoid being dashed onto BLACKBOTTLE ROCK!’

  The dramatic effect was somewhat spoiled when the wind blew the long hairs Penhale had carefully arranged over his bald head all over the place and it looked as if he’d had an electric shock. Charlie glanced at the water taxi man, and thought he seemed to be hiding a smirk; Charlie guessed he’d heard and seen all this performance many times before. But while the Creep was desperately trying to flatten his hair back in place as he droned on about the history of wrecks in the area, Charlie did turn his attention to the ominous rock formation jutting out into the sea. It wasn’t hard to imagine a powerful wind and waves throwing them towards it. A small craft like theirs would be little more than matchwood in seconds.

  ‘Cornelius Penhale had noticed the weather turning, and, fearing for the safety of the men, women and children on board the Rosebud, ignored the risk to his own life and decided to put to sea in a little boat on his own to see what he could do.’

  ‘That must have taken incredible courage,’ Sue commented.

  ‘My ancestor was a courageous man, in business and in life,’ Penhale said, puffing out his chest a little. ‘I’d like to think those qualities have been passed down through the generations!’

  Charlie had to grit his teeth to stop himself letting out a derisive snort as he listened to the little man with his upturned nose and glasses that looked like he’d found them in a joke shop ramble on. He couldn’t imagine the Creep saving anyone but himself in a crisis.

  ‘Battling through the storm, Cornelius guided his little vessel through the crashing waves until he arrived more or less where we are now and saw the terrible plight of the Rosebud. By the time he had arrived, she had already hit the rocks and been holed, but was still afloat. Some had already been thrown overboard and were lost from sight. With great skill and bravery, he took his boat as close in as he could and managed drag a man called Isaac Trewin on board. Isaac himself was clutching his young son William. As he was doing this, a tremendous wave swept the Rosebud against Blackbottle Rock once more. She was smashed to pieces, and those left on board were not seen again until their bodies were washed ashore several miles down the coast some days later.’

  The stationary taxi bobbed in the water as they all solemnly surveyed the scene of the terrible event. Even in calm conditions, the skipper had to keep blipping the engine every now and then to stop the boat washing towards the rocky shore. Charlie could easily imagine mums and dads fighting to stay afloat with the churning sea crashing over their heads – at the same time desperately floundering to reach for little children being tossed around like limp pieces of seaweed…

  Henry Penhale made a few concluding remarks while Sue scribbled busily in her notebook, then it was time for them to turn the head of the boat back towards the Fowey River. As they departed, Charlie thought he heard something…

  Anguished cries, faintly, distantly mingling with the rising note of the engine and the washing of the waves over Blackbottle Rock.

  At first he thought it must be seagulls, but then a deep man’s voice cut through the general murmur. Whatever he was shouting was still faint and carried away on the wind, but the wrathful, accusing tone was unmistakable. Charlie twisted sharply, looking back, but all he saw was a miniature rainbow created by white sea-spray cascading over the rock.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  Sue looked up from her notebook. ‘Hear what?

  Charlie turned to Penhale, who seemed distinctly unnerved and avoided his gaze. ‘No. I heard nothing.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Dave,’ he called to the skipper of the water taxi, ‘I’ve got a group to take round Saint Finbarus church in half an hour.’

  Dave duly increased the speed of the boat, and Charlie watched Blackbottle Rock getting smaller until they turned into the estuary and it vanished from view.

  eight

  Rosebud…

  The boat that was wrecked on Blackbottle Rock and this old house bore the same name.

  Charlie let his gaze wander up from the wooden door with its peeling blue paint, past the upper floor to the dormer window of the attic. It looked blank and lifeless now. He’d wondered how such a run-down place could be a holiday cottage, as advertised on the little faded sign in the front window. Ever eager to oblige, Sue had looked into it, and discovered from the company they’d booked their own place with, that it used to be managed by them but was removed from their lists because they had trouble getting people to stay there. They hadn’t seemed keen to explain why, and it simply appeared that the owner – a Londoner who rarely visited the village – hadn’t bothered to take the sign out.

  Charlie could guess why no one would stay there. What he’d love to know was how Henry Penhale was connected with it. How had he got a key to get in? Why had he been prowling about inside? How did it fit in with the face at the window, the page he tore from the burial register, the rug he’d taken into his storeroom?

  ‘He was telling me he’s going to unveil a plaque here on Friday,’ Sue was saying. She, Dad and Charlie were sitting on a bench, licking at dribbling ice creams, watching the boats on the river. He hadn’t been paying much attention to what she was saying, but now his ears pricked up. Trouble was, he didn’t want to let on that he was interested in anything she had to say…

  ‘I’m sure he’ll make certain there’s a photographer or two to record the historic event,’ Dad commented with a wry smile.

  ‘Don’t be such a wet blanket,’ Sue chided. ‘But you’re right – he’s a bit full of him
self. Creepy, even…’

  Creepy? Now Charlie had to drop his uninterested act. ‘Who? Who’s creepy?’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m sure he’s a very nice man when you get to know him…’

  ‘You’re talking about Henry Penhale, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but Charlie—’

  ‘Don’t backtrack now,’ Dad teased. ‘When Chas was upstairs you were saying you thought he was a smarmy so-and-so in the boat this morning!’

  ‘Told you,’ Charlie muttered.

  ‘He paid for the hire of the boat, and he gave me lots of useful information for my book…’

  ‘All we’ve got to do now is find out who he murdered and we’ll get him put away for good!’

  ‘Dad!’ said Charlie. He could be a pain in the backside when he wanted to be.

  ‘Anyway, Charlie,’ Sue said, checking her watch. ‘I’ve got a mission for you this afternoon – should you choose to accept it.’

  ‘Oh?’ He was quickly trying to plan ahead, think of excuses why he couldn’t do it – whatever it was.

  ‘Your dad and I are going across to Fowey – I’ve got some delving to do in the library. That’ll be pretty boring for you, but I was thinking we could meet up there if you go by a different route and do a job for me at Lanteglos church.’

  Lanteglos Church – the place the burial register was stolen from. Where he was sure the Creep had stolen the burial register.

  ‘I might. What sort of job?’

  ‘Take some pictures. You’re a pretty good photographer and I’ll need some photos for the book. You can take my camera.’ She lifted the strap of the expensive digital SLR from around her neck and held it out to him.

  At that moment he heard the ‘new message’ tone on his phone. ‘What do you mean by “a different route”?’

  ‘You know the car ferry we used when we arrived? There’s a walk through the woods – very popular with hikers – that takes you right to it, and Lanteglos church is just a slight detour along the way.’