The Pool of St. Branok

Encounter at the Pool

FROM THE MOMENT BENEDICT made his dramatic entry into the family circle I was aware of a special attraction between us—that was even before we were involved in the nightmare experience at the Pool of St Branok which was to haunt us in the years ahead, and to have such an effect on our lives thereafter.

My parents, with my young brother Jack and me, were in London to visit the Great Exhibition for it was the year 1851 and I was nine years old. Benedict was fifteen but when one is nine, six years is a great deal.

We had traveled up on the train from Cornwall—an adventure in itself—to the house in the Westminster square which was ruled over by Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis. They were not really my aunt and uncle, but relationships in our family were very complicated and I always addressed them as such. Uncle Peter had married into the family and dominated it. Aunt Amaryllis was my grandmother’s niece, although they were more or less the same age. My mother had always had a grudging admiration for Uncle Peter which made me feel that there was some mystery about him. He was ebullient, charming with a definite hint of wickedness about him which made him fascinating. I had often thought it would be exciting to discover what that meant. Aunt Amaryllis was quite different. She was gentle, kindly and had a rather innocent manner; and she was dearly loved by all. There was nothing secretive about her.

They were constantly entertaining important people at their house. I did not attend these occasions, of course, but even I, at my age, had heard the names of some of these guests.

Their son and daughter had exciting lives of their own. Helena was married to a successful politician, Matthew Hume. He was constantly at the house, even without Helena, and spent a good deal of time in the company of Uncle Peter who took a great interest in his political career. I heard my mother say that Uncle Peter was the éminence grise behind Matthew Hume. Then there was the son, Peter, who had been known as Peterkin since his birth to distinguish him from his father. He and his wife, Frances, ran a Mission in the East End of London, and did much good.

My mother told me a great deal about them. She loved to talk of the past. She had been born in our old house, Cador, which had belonged to the Cadorsons for hundreds of years. My mother had inherited it, so we were not Cadorsons now. My father was Rolf Hanson, who had inherited the house through marriage with my mother; but I think he loved the place even more than the rest of us. I had heard it said that the estates had never been run as well as when Mr. Hanson took charge of them. They had never been so large either, for his contribution to the family estates had been the manor property, which he had brought in when he married my mother.

He was not a Cornishman, but what they called in those parts a “foreigner,” which meant that he had been born on the other side of the Tamar in that alien land called England. He was amused by it. We were a very happy family. My father seemed so wise; he understood every little problem that arose and made no fuss about solving it, so it seemed to me. I had never seen him lose his temper. I thought he was the most wonderful person in the world. I used to ride with him round the estate. Jack, who was three years younger than I, was just beginning to do the same. There had been a time when they had thought there would not be another child to follow me and it had been assumed then that one day Cador would be mine. But Jack came.

My mother used to say: “Cador is a wonderful house—not because of its towers and stone walls, but because of the people who lived in it and made it a home. Never, never,” she would add, “let yourself believe that houses in themselves are important. It is the people whom you love and who love you who matter. I lost time when I could have been with your father because I thought he cared more for Cador than for me. Then I was lucky. I learned my lesson in time … but only after we had missed a few years of life together. So someday Cador will be Jack’s, and when the time comes for you to marry you will know that you are wanted for yourself and not because you are the owner of a great house.”

She spoke vehemently. My mother was a great talker—unlike my father. I liked to see him sitting there smiling at her indulgently and lovingly while she talked in her vivacious way. I think I resembled her more than I did my father—although I had his looks. I was fairhaired with large dreamy-looking greenish eyes and a wide mouth. I looked as though I should have been serious, thoughtful, but the effect was spoilt by my pert nose which was quite unlike my father’s rather noble-looking long one. It gave the contradiction to my seriousness, as it were. My father would touch it sometimes when I said something outrageous, as though my audacity was due to my nose.

I did not realize how lucky I was to have such parents in those days; but that, after all, is the sort of conclusion one comes to later in life.

They were the glorious days of childhood before I was suddenly aware that day at St Branok Pool that the world can be a very frightening place.

I remember those pre-Branok days when the sun seemed to shine perpetually and each day was a week long. I had a governess, Miss Prentiss, who despaired of turning me into the little lady she felt would be worthy of the House of Cador. I ran wild and as my parents did not seem to disapprove of this, what could a governess do? I believe she bemoaned her task to Mrs. Penlock, our cook, and Watson, our butler, when she deigned to go to the kitchen, which was on special occasions only, she being very well aware of the echelons of society which placed her on a higher rung of the social ladder than the domestic staff.

But Mrs. Penlock, who had been at Cador in the days when my mother was a girl, in her stately black bombazine, reigned majestically below stairs and could deal adequately with Miss Prentiss. So could Watson—a very dignified gentleman, except when he was making himself agreeable to one of the prettier maids, and he even did that with an air of condescension.

They were happy days. I suppose I was allowed to run wild, as Miss Prentiss said. My mother had had a certain amount of freedom when she was young and wanted me to have the same. There was nothing of the stern parent about her or my father. “Little children should be seen and not heard,” said old Mrs. Fenny who lived in one of the cottages near the harbor in East Poldorey, shaking her head, ominously considering the fate of those who were heard as well as seen. She was one of those old women who look for sin and seem to find it. She spent hours looking out of her tiny window onto the quay to where men sat about mending their nets or weighing up their catch, and noting everything that went on. In the summer she would be sitting at her door, so much more convenient for discovering any misdemeanor and passing on any bit of scandal that came her way.

“There will always be people like that,” said my mother. “It is because their lives are so dull. They are unhealthily curious about others whose lives seem more eventful, and because they are envious they seize every opportunity to slander them. Let’s hope none of us ever get like that.”

There were several others like Mrs. Fenny in both East and West Poldorey. The people of the east side regarded those of the west as aliens—though slightly less foreign than those who came from the other side of the Tamar. Mrs. Fenny always referred to them as “They West Poldorers” with a certain contempt. I always laughed when I heard her western counterparts speak of the inhabitants of the east side with equal scorn and superiority.

I loved the harbor with the little fishing boats swaying on the tide, secured as they were to the great iron rings which made you watch your step as you ran along. I liked to stand by and watch the men as they worked.

“Good day to ’ee, Miss Angel,” they would call.

Angel. It was so incongruous. It was Angelet really. My mother was very interested in the family and she told me of an ancestress who had lived during the time of the Civil War. Her name had been Angelet and I was named after her. I am afraid the diminutive form did not exactly suit me. Perhaps people used it to try to make me live up to it.

They all knew who I was, “ ’er from Cador, Miss Angel who might have inherited the place but for Mr. Jack.” I could imagine their conversation when he was born. “Well, it be right and proper for a lad to be the master. ’Tis no place for a maid.”

I knew them so well, these people around me. I sometimes knew what they were going to say before they said it. Old Mrs. Fenny with her prying eyes, scenting out secrets; the Misses Poldrew who lived in a little house on the edge of East Poldorey which was as neat as they were. I knew they looked under their beds every night to see if a man was hiding there, so eager were they to guard their virtue which nobody so far had shown any inclination to assail. There was Tom Fish who was always about with his wheelbarrow when the catch came in; he trundled it through the two towns and up and down into the nearby villages calling “Fish, fresh from the sea this morning. Come, women. Tom Fish be at your door. I’m here, me darlings.” There was Miss Grant who kept the wool shop and sat by her counter crocheting as she waited for customers; there were the bakers with the enticing smell of hot bread and Pengelly’s who sold everything from thimbles to farm implements; and there was the Fisherman’s Rest where the men went after they had disposed of their catch, mingling with the mining community. “Throwing away all that they snatched from the sea or grubbed from the land,” Mrs. Fenny would comment sitting at her window watching them reel out of the inn. “Old Pennyleg ought to know better than serve ’em,” was her comment. She had resigned old Pennyleg, the innkeeper, to the flames of hell long ago.

I was very interested in Mrs. Fenny. I liked to see her sitting with her Bible on her lap tracing the lines with her finger and moving her lips. I wondered why she did this for I knew she could not read.

I loved to sit on a pile of rope with its tang of seaweed and listen to the waves while I looked out to sea and I would think of the men who had gone off into the unknown to explore the world … men like Drake and Raleigh. I would imagine the sails fluttering in the breeze and the bare-footed sailors running hither and thither while I strode the sloping decks, shouting orders. I imagined Spanish galleons, full of treasure; sending out raiding parties, bringing them in and taking the treasure back to England. I was constantly losing myself in daydreams. I was often Raleigh or Drake. Those dreams were difficult because I had to change my sex; but there were others in which I indulged with even greater frequency. I would be Good Queen Bess knighting these men. That was better. I could see myself very well as the great Queen. Three thousand dresses and a red wig and power … glorious power. Sometimes I was Mary Queen of Scots, going to her execution. I made touching speeches on the scaffold and there was not a dry eye near me. The executioner was so touched that he refused to cut off my head. One of my ladies, who worshiped me, insisted on taking my place. We tried to stop her but she insisted. And then … I pretended to be her … until some gallant man came and rescued me. We lived in happy security to a great age and no one ever discovered that I was the Queen because everyone thought I had been executed in Fotheringay Castle.

Such dreams were more real to me than what was happening about me. This was before that terrible time in St Branok Pool. After that I changed. I dared not indulge in daydreams then in case they led me back to the pool.

Cador was about a quarter of a mile out of the two towns of Poldorey. We were on a hill looking out to sea. It was very splendid with its towers and turrets and its gray stone walls which had stood against the sea and the weather for hundreds of years—a fortress if ever there was one. One could lie in bed at night and listen to the wind playing about those stone walls—sometimes shrieking like a madman, sometimes whining like an animal in distress; sometimes shrill, sometimes melancholy. It had always fascinated me before that encounter; after that I hated the sound of the wind. It was like a warning.

There was a richness about life in those days. I was vitally interested in everything about me. “Miss Angel’s nose b’ain’t what you’d call a big ’un,” was Mrs. Penlock’s verdict, “but it be into everything.”

I loved the little cottages with their whitewashed cob walls all huddled together on the quay. If ever I had a chance to get inside I seized it. I would go visiting with my mother at Christmas when we took gifts to the cottage folk in accordance with the custom of years. Those homes of the poor consisted of two dark rooms divided by a partition not as high as the roof which I understood was to allow the air to circulate. Some of the cottages had a talfat, a sort of shelf close to the ceiling, and here the young would sleep, climbing up by means of a rope ladder. The only light was what they called the Stonen Chill—an earthenware lamp in the shape of a candlestick having a socket in which they would pour oil before inserting the purvan, the local name for the wick.

The woman of the house would dust a chair for my mother to sit on, and I would stand beside her, eyes wide, noting everything and listening to the talk about how our Jenny was getting on as maid up at the rectory or when our Jim was expected home from sea. My mother knew their business. It was part of the duties of the lady of the big house.

There was always a smell of food in the cottages. They kept the fires going with the wood they picked up from the beach. I loved the blue flames which they said was due to the salt in the wood and betrayed the fact that it had been salvaged from the sea. Most of them had cloam ovens in which they did their baking, while a kettle, black with soot, hung on a chain over the flames.

They had a different language from ours, I often thought, but I learned it. They ate different foods such as quillet which was a mixture of ground peas rather like a porridge and there was pillas, a kind of oatmeal which they boiled into a mixture called gurts. My mother told me that in the last century when these people were very poor they used to pick the grass and roll it in a pastry made of barley and bake it under the ashes.

They were more prosperous now. My mother frequently pointed out to me that my father was a good man who looked on it as his duty to see that no one in his neighborhood should starve.

The poor fishermen depended so much on the weather, and the winds on our coast could be violent. A certain melancholy descended on the Poldoreys when the knowledgeable predicted fierce winds and storms which would keep the boats idle. Of course, sometimes these appeared without warning and that was what fishermen and their families dreaded most. I heard one fisherman’s wife say: “He do go out and I never knows as whether he’ll be coming back.” I thought that was very sad. It was the reason why they were so superstitious. They certainly looked all the time for signs and portents—mostly evil ones.

The members of the mining community were the same. The moor began about two miles from the town and close to the moor was Poldorey’s tin mine. It was affectionately known as the old “Scat Bal” which meant useless, worked-out old has-been. It was far from that for it had brought prosperity to the community. We were on visiting terms with the Pencarrons who lived in a pleasant house close by, called Pencarron Manor. They had come to the district some years ago, bought the place and started working the mine.

The superstitious miners used to leave a didjan, which was a piece of their lunch, in the mine for the knackers in order to placate them and stop their wreaking some mischief which was very easy to do in the mine. There had been some fearful accidents and there were several widows and orphans who had lost their breadwinner to the old Scat Bal. They, like the fishermen, took notice of signs. They could not afford to ignore them.

“They are naturally fearful,” said my mother. “One understands it. And if it means giving up a little of their lunch in order to buy safety this is a small price to pay for it.”

I was very curious to hear more of the knackers. They were said to be dwarves—spirits of those Jews who had crucified Christ. My mother did not believe in them. It was easy for her. She did not have to go down the mine. But she was very interested in superstitions.

She said: “How they would laugh at us in London. But here in Cornwall they do seem to fit sometimes. It’s the place for spirits and strange happenings. Look at the legends there are … all the wells that give special qualities … all the stories of the piskies and the unexplained mysteries. And then, of course, there is Branok Pool.”

“Oh yes,” I said, round-eyed and eager, “tell me about Branok Pool.”

“You must be careful when you go there. You must always have Miss Prentiss or someone with you. The ground’s a bit marshy round the pool. It could be unpleasant.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s an old story. I think some of the people round here actually believe it. They’d believe anything.”

“What do they believe?”

“That they hear the bells.”

“Bells? What bells?”

“The bells that are supposed to be down there.”

“Where? Under the water?”

She nodded. “It’s a ridiculous story. Some say that the pool is bottomless. In that case, where could the bells get to? They can’t have it both ways.”

“Tell me the story of the bells, Mama.”

“What a child you are! You always want to know everything.”

“Well, you said that people should try to learn as much as they can.”

“Of the right things.”

“Well, this is one of them. This is history.”

“I’d hardly call it that.” She laughed and put a lock of my hair behind my ear for it had fallen out of the grip of the ribbon which was meant to be holding it back. “Long ago, it is said, there was an abbey there.”

“What! In the water?”

“Not in the water then. That came after. At first when they built the Abbey they were all very good men, very religious; they spent their time praying and doing good works. It was when St Augustine brought Christianity to Britain.”

“Oh yes,” I urged, fearing it was going to stray into a history lesson.

“People came from far and wide to visit the Abbey and they brought gifts with them. Gold and silver, wines and rich foods, so that instead of being poor the monks all became rich. And then they took to evil practices.”

“What were those?”

“They loved their food. They drank too much; they had wild parties; they danced and did all sorts of things which they had never done before. Then one day a stranger came to the Abbey. He brought them no rich gifts. He just went into their church and preached to them; he told them that God was displeased. They had turned their beautiful Abbey, built to serve Him, into a den of iniquity, and they must repent. But the monks by this time were too much in love with their way of life to give it up, and they hated the stranger for warning them. They told him to leave without delay and if he did not go they would drive him away. He would not go and they brought out whips and sticks which in the past they had used to chastise themselves which was supposed to make them holier—though I could never see why. They turned on him and beat him, but the blows just glanced off his body and did not harm him at all. Then suddenly a great light surrounded him. He lifted his hands and cursed St Branok’s. He said: ‘Once this place was considered holy, but now it is accursed. Soon it shall be as though it never existed. Floods shall carry it away from human sight. Your bells will be silenced … save when they shall proclaim some mighty disaster.’ And with that he disappeared.”

“Did he go to Heaven?”

“Perhaps.”

“I bet it was St Paul. It was just the sort of thing he would do.”

“Well, whoever it was, according to the legend, he spoke truth. When they tried to ring the bells no sound came. Then the monks began to be afraid. They started to pray but it was no good. The bells were silent. Then one night it started to rain … and it rained and rained for forty days and forty nights and the rivers were overflowing and the water rose and rose until it covered the Abbey and in place of it was St Branok’s Pool.”

“How far down is the Abbey?”

She looked at me and smiled. “It’s just a story that has been made up. When there was a disaster at one of the mines people said they heard the bells. But to my mind, when something dreadful happens, people fancy that they heard them, because you never hear about the bells until after the event. It is just one of the old Cornish legends.”

“But the pool is there.”

“It’s just an inland lake, that’s all.”

“And is it bottomless?”

“I doubt it.”

“Has anyone ever tried to find out?”

“Why should they?”

“To see if the Abbey is down there.”

“It’s just one of those old Cornish superstitions. No one investigates them. No one examined the water in Nun’s Well at Altarnun to see what it contains to prevent insanity, or St Unys Well at Redruth to see if it could prevent those who drink it from being hanged. There are just people who like to believe these things … and the rest are skeptical. It is the same with Branok.”

“I should like to hear the bells.”

“They don’t exist. I doubt there was ever an abbey there. You know how these legends grow up. People fancy they see or hear something which they can’t explain. Then the legends start to grow. Don’t go too near the place though. It’s unhealthy. Stagnant water always is … and as I say the ground is marshy.”

I must say I did not think very much about the pool then. There were all sorts of stories about weird happenings such as certain people ill-wishing others and how some had the power to do harm by making waxen images of them and sticking pins in vital parts. There was a man who died suddenly and whose mother accused his wife of killing him by sprinkling salt round his chair—a method which would not be considered evidence of murder in a court of law. There was Maddy Craig who was a Pellar which meant that an ancestor of hers had helped a mermaid, who had been stranded on the shore, to get back to the sea. Pellar families were those which had been endowed with special powers because they had assisted mermaids. So I did not attach much significance to the bells of St Branok.

My mother was very interested in our family and knew a great deal about it because so many of them had kept an account of their lives. Most of these were all bound and kept at Eversleigh which had been the original home of the family; but marriages throughout the years tended to send people off to different places; and Eversleigh was now the home of what was almost another branch of the family. We visited rarely because it was such a long way to the other side of England—the south-east, whereas Cador was in the south-west.

My mother had seen some of the volumes and she would tell me about them. I was very interested in my ancestor Angelet. She had had a twin sister called Bersaba and both had married the same man—Angelet first and her sister Bersaba afterwards: that was when my namesake had died.

At Cador there was a picture gallery, and the portrait which was of greatest interest to me was that of my grandfather. As he looked down on me his eyes seemed to follow me wherever I was in the gallery and I could fancy his face changed as he watched. It was a clever portrait, I suppose, because one had the impression that at any moment he was going to step out of the frame. He was dark; there was a great strength in his face; his mouth seemed to turn up at the corners as one watched and there was a twinkle in his eyes. He looked as though he thought life a great joke.

My mother discovered my interest in the picture.

“You are always gazing at it,” she said.

“It seems as though he is really there. The others are just paintings. He looks alive.”

She turned away; I knew she did not want me to see how moved she was.

Then she said: “He was a wonderful man. I loved him … dearly. When I was young he was the most important person in my life. Oh, Angel, how I wished you could have known him! I sometimes think that our lives are planned for us. He had to die young. He could never grow old. He had lived adventurously, violently even … and then he came to peace with the family he loved dearly … my mother, Jessica, Jacco and me.”

She stopped, too emotional to go on.

I slipped my arm through hers.

“Let us not look at him, Mama,” I said, “if it hurts you.”

She shook her head. “If he were here he would laugh at me. He would tell me not to grieve. She went with him … my mother … and Jacco too. They all went. They left me alone. Even now … I remember it so vividly. I can never forget … even now I think of that day when they went away and never came back.”

She told me the story of grandfather Jake Cadorson. “This was his home. He had an elder brother who was the heir to the Cador estate. They didn’t get on well together. Jake left home and lived with the gypsies.”

“He looks a little like a gypsy.”

“It was in his nature. He was never afraid of life. He challenged life and life met the challenge … and won in the end. When he was living as a gypsy he killed a man. The man was some aristocrat who had attacked one of the gypsy girls. Jake sought to save the girl. There was a fight and during it he killed the man. He was transported to Australia for seven years. He would have been hanged for murder if your grandmother Jessica had not prevailed upon her father to do all he could to save him. Her father was a very influential man. And so … the punishment was transportation to a new land for seven years which was considered a slight punishment for killing a man.

“While he was away his brother died and he inherited Cador. He returned to England and married your grandmother. My brother Jacco was born and then I was. We were a very happy family. Then we went to Australia. Jake had prospered there when his seven years’ term was up and he had some land there. It was while they were in Australia that he went sailing on that terrible day … he, my mother and Jacco. They never came back.”

“Don’t talk of it.”

“It affects me … even now. It seems so clear.”

I put my arm round her. “Never mind. You have Papa and us now … Jack and me.”

She held me tightly. “Yes. I have been lucky. But I can never forget it. We were all together … and then … no more. That is how life goes sometimes. One must be prepared.” She kissed me and said: “I should not be sad. There were so many happy times with them. I must remember those instead and be grateful for those times. And now I have your father and you and Jack.”

When I had heard the story of my grandfather, I came more often to the gallery to look at him. In those daydreams of mine I projected myself into the years long ago before I was born. I was a gypsy riding in the caravan with him. I was on the ship which carried us overseas. I was with him on the fateful day when they went sailing. I rescued them all and there was a different end to the story. My grandfather had a prominent place in my repertoire of dreams.

Then came the day in early April. It was spring and Jack was in the garden with Amy, our nursery maid, and I was with them when my parents came out.

Jack ran to my mother and clutched at her skirts. She lifted him up. Then she smiled at me. “We’ve heard from your Aunt Amaryllis.”

Aunt Amaryllis wrote frequently. She liked the family to keep in touch, and she had always felt she must look after my mother since the death of my grandmother in that fatal incident in Australia; for Amaryllis and my grandmother Jessica—although they were of an age—had been brought up together.

“She’s excited about the Exhibition,” said my mother. “The Queen is going to open it on the first of May. She suggests we ought to go up to see it. It is some time since we visited.”

I gave a little jump of joy. I loved visiting London.

“There seems to be no reason why we should not go,” said my father.

“I’m going too,” announced Jack.

“Of course you are, darling,” said my mother. “We shouldn’t dream of leaving you behind, should we?”

“No,” replied Jack complacently.

“It will be exciting,” went on my mother. “They’ve been months planning it. And the Queen is particularly enthusiastic because it is Prince Albert’s idea. He’s been behind it all along.”

“When shall we go?” I asked.

“In a few weeks,” said my mother.

“We’ll have to,” added my father. “We want to be there for the opening.”

“By the Queen,” I put in. “Oh, I can’t wait to see it.”

“I shall write at once to Aunt Amaryllis,” said my mother.

And from then on there was little talk of anything but the Great Exhibition.

When we arrived in London Aunt Amaryllis greeted us warmly. There was something very thrilling about the London residence. It was situated in a dignified square in the middle of which were enclosed gardens—for the use of the residents, all of whom had a key. They were beautifully kept and there were trees, shrubs and little paths with seats here and there. I thought of it as an enchanted though miniature wood. From the top windows of the house there was a glimpse of the river Thames. I loved to look down on it and imagine the glories of the past when the river was the great highway of the capital. I was Anne Boleyn going to her coronation and later going to her doleful prison in the Tower of London. I was in the royal pageant listening to Handel’s Water Music. I was at the center of many brilliant events and always playing some heroic part in them.

Aunt Amaryllis must have been nearly sixty by now but she had one of those smooth unruffled almost child-like faces which made her seem much younger. Uncle Peter was older still but he gave the impression of being indestructible.

Amaryllis embraced my mother with rather special affection. Her eyes filled with tears and I knew she was thinking of my grandmother which she always did when seeing my mother after an absence.

“It is lovely to have you here,” she said. “It seems so long. And, Angelet, how you have grown! And little Jack. No longer little, eh?”

“I am rather big,” Jack admitted modestly.

And Aunt Amaryllis kissed him tenderly.

“And Rolf … So lovely to see you. And now your rooms. Your usual, of course. By the way, Helena and Matthew will be here tomorrow for luncheon. Matthew has some business to discuss with Peter in the morning.”

And there I was in my little room at the top of the house. Aunt Amaryllis knew that I loved to watch the river. She thought of things like that and seemed to have spent her life trying to please everybody.

There was a great deal of talk about the family during the rest of that day.

“You must take the children over to Helena’s,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Jonnie and Geoffrey will look forward to seeing Angelet.”

“Jonnie must be getting on now.”

“He’s soon to be thirteen.”

I looked forward to seeing Jonnie.

The next morning my mother took Jack and me to see the Humes. Matthew was of course with Uncle Peter, but Aunt Helena welcomed us warmly. Aunt Helena was very like her mother but she lacked that innocent belief in the goodness of life which was her mother’s outstanding quality; she adored her family and was very proud of her husband’s achievements. She talked to my mother about Matthew’s progress in the House of Commons and how she hoped the Party would soon regain power and if they did there would certainly be a post in the Cabinet for Matthew. Her father was sure of it and, of course, he had his ear to the ground.

I went off to see Jonnie’s collection of books on archaeology which he showed me with great enthusiasm. I did not care very much about old weapons and coins and pieces of urns and things which had been dug up and proved when the Stone Age merged into the Bronze; but I did like to be with Jonnie. He was very interested in the Exhibition and told me that he was often in Hyde Park watching the progress of the work. It was going to be wonderful when it was opened and we could see the wonders of that glorious glass palace.

Geoffrey, two years my senior, was inclined to view me with a certain aloofness as being too young to engage his attention. Jonnie, who was four years older, was quite different. There was something special about Jonnie.

When we returned to the house in the square Matthew was still with Uncle Peter.

Uncle Peter was very affable to me and I fancied he gave me a rather special affection. Once he said: “You may not look like your grandmother but you are another such as she was.” And I felt that was a compliment. He must have been fond of Jessica.

He dominated everything, although he was quite an old man. His hair was almost white now, but he was very handsome; but what was different about him was that rather secretive smile as though life was great fun to him because he had found the perfect way to live it. I could well believe he had.

The éminence grise … well, there was no doubt of that. Matthew, famous politician though he might be, regarded his father-in-law as a master. Matthew had done a great deal since he had returned from Australia and written that book about transportation and prisoners which was becoming a classic, the book on the subject. Transportation was still in existence and so were the infamous hulks in which prisoners were kept; and the conditions in prisons were still appalling; but Matthew had called attention to these matters and the subject of transportation was constantly being given an airing; there were many who supported Matthew’s views that it should be abolished and it seemed only a matter of a short time before it would be. Matthew had also written a book about child chimney sweeps and labor in the mines. Matthew was a natural reformer. It meant that he was a highly respected member of Parliament, beloved by his constituents, highly thought of by the leaders of his party, and certain of a ministerial post when it was returned to power.

I was allowed to sit with the family for luncheon.

“I shall have Angelet beside me,” declared Uncle Peter. He had great charm and an endearing way with him. It was small wonder that innocents like myself admired him.

He did most of the talking. He seemed to have, as was once said of him, “a finger in many pies.” I was not sure at that time what his business was, but I knew that it was highly profitable and made him very rich. Later I learned that he owned several clubs of somewhat dubious reputation, but in his view these were a necessity for the community. It kept certain persons from committing misdemeanors which could be a menace to society so he was doing a great service to the country. Amaryllis believed this absolutely, though there had been a great scandal about his activities at one time and through it he had lost his place in Parliament. Even he had to compromise in some way, for he had to content himself with being outside the main action and give himself up to guiding Matthew in the way he wanted him to go. I thought of Matthew as the puppet and Uncle Peter as the puppet master.

It was not only Matthew whom he manipulated. I was sure Uncle Peter made a number of people do what he wanted.

It was gratifying and made me feel important to be selected to sit beside him.

The talk was of the folly of John Russell who was the Prime Minister and a Whig; and as Uncle Peter was a Tory, he had nothing but contempt for Little John, as he called him.

The Exhibition was discussed at great length.

“You are looking forward to seeing the opening, are you not, Angelet?” he asked, turning to me.

I assured him that indeed I was.

“It will be something to remember all your life. It is an historic occasion.”

“I understand the Queen is opening it,” said my mother.

“But of course. Her diminutive Majesty dotes on the idea. And why? Because it was Albert’s brainchild. Therefore in her eyes it must be perfect.”

“Is it not wonderful to see how happy they are?” said Aunt Amaryllis. “They set such a good example to the nation.”

“There are the occasional storms, I believe, my dear,” said Uncle Peter. “But I fancy Albert usually comes out best in these encounters which says something for his wisdom … or is it his pretty appearance?”

“Oh Peter!” said Aunt Amaryllis, half scolding, half admiring.

“At least,” put in Matthew, “the whole project is nearing completion and all should be well.”

“Little John will do his best to make difficulties,” said Uncle Peter. “What’s his latest, Matthew?”

“He wants the salute of guns fired in St James’s Park. He says if they are let off in Hyde Park they may shatter the glass of the dome.”

“And will they?” asked my mother.

“Of course not,” retorted Uncle Peter. “It is just that he wants to put in his spoke and cause a little trouble.”

“I believe Albert is going to stand out against him,” said Matthew.

“What if it does shatter the dome?” I asked.

“My dear Angelet,” said Uncle Peter, beaming at me, “then Albert will be proved wrong and Little Johnny right.”

“Isn’t it a risk?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think Albert will give way on this matter. Don’t look so glum, I doubt it will happen, and I feel sure the crystal dome will remain intact, and if it does not … well, then I say … what a to-do!”

“It seems rather silly to risk it,” I said. “It would be awful if it were spoilt after all this fuss.”

“Life, dear child, is full of risks. Sometimes it pays to take them. If the Prince gave way on this we should have Little Johnny raising other objections. Albert can’t admit he’s wrong … so he takes this little risk.”

I was thoughtful considering this and I saw Uncle Peter’s amused glance on me.

He went on to talk of the beautiful Exhibition and how the Prince had thought of it as a festival of Work and Peace. How much better for nations to mingle in friendship, to show their achievements in technology than facing each other on a battlefield. Art and Commerce should stand side by side.

The great day dawned. How fortunate we were to be of a party which could attend the opening. For the first time I saw the Queen. She looked magnificent in pink and silver; across her breast was the garter ribbon and on her head a small crown in which the Koh-i-Noor diamond glistened. I caught my breath in wonder. I had never seen such a beautiful vision. I was so proud as I joined in the cheers as she arrived in her carriage, two feathers waving gently on her head attached in some way to the crown. She looked proud, happy and completely regal, everything that a queen ought to look.

It was a wonderful day. It had lived completely up to my expectations. The music was splendid. I loved the Hallelujah Chorus. The Queen and her husband were on the royal dais and sat under a blue and gold canopy. I could not take my eyes from her. In my mind I was there. I was Victoria—the proud wife, the wise mother, the great Queen—an example to the nation. I was very contented.

It was an exhausting day. There was so much to see; I found the displays of workmanship, the efforts of all the countries to send of their best, and the famous people like the Duke of Wellington, very interesting. But nothing could compare with the sight of our little Queen, so radiantly happy, so human, yet very much the Queen. I loved her from that moment and it was the memory of her which would remain in my mind as the most thrilling spectacle of that day.

There was talk of nothing else but the Exhibition. We discussed it endlessly.

Aunt Amaryllis said: “Of course you will go again before you return to Cornwall.”

My mother said we must.

“Will the Queen be there?” I asked.

“It would not surprise me,” replied Uncle Peter. “This is Albert’s conception and therefore in her eyes must be perfect.”

“They fired the guns in Hyde Park,” I said, “and they did not shatter the glass dome.”

“You remembered that, did you?” said Uncle Peter smiling.

“Well, it was important.”

“And a bit of a risk. But didn’t I tell you that risks have to be taken … and if you are bold they will work out in your favor.”

We retired that night; and as soon as I lay down I was into a beautiful sleep of happy jumbled dreams … myself in pink and silver walking majestically up to the royal dais, everyone cheering me. It was a beautiful dream.

It happened the following day.

We were at luncheon, Matthew was there again—he was a very constant visitor—being coached in the way he must act in Parliament, I supposed.

We were still talking about the Exhibition and were on the last course when there was a quiet knock on the door and Janson, the butler, appeared.

He gave a discreet little cough and said: “There is a young gentleman to see you, sir.”

“A gentleman? Can’t he wait until after luncheon, Janson?”

“He said it was important, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“He calls himself a Mr. Benedict Lansdon, sir.”

Uncle Peter sat very still for a few seconds. It was hardly noticeable but I was watching him closely and I thought he was a little disturbed.

He half rose in his chair and then sat down again.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, very well, Janson, I’ll see him. Ask him to wait.”

Janson went out and Uncle Peter looked at Aunt Amaryllis.

She said, “Who is it, Peter? The name …”

“It could be some long lost relative. I’ll sort it out … if you’ll all excuse me.”

When he went out the chatter began.

“I wonder who it is,” said Matthew. “It must be someone in the family. That name …”

“How exciting,” I said.

My mother smiled at me but said nothing.

We had finished luncheon so we rose. Uncle Peter, I gathered, was still closeted in his study with the visitor.

It is so frustrating to be young and have things kept from you. That there was an enormous mystery about Benedict Lansdon, I had no doubt. My father and mother talked of him in hushed whispers. Aunt Amaryllis looked a little dazed. I heard Matthew say to my father that he hoped it wouldn’t “get about.”

I wondered what that meant.

I listened; I watched; and gradually I began to learn the truth.

Benedict was Uncle Peter’s grandson. He had been born in Australia fifteen years ago. His father was Uncle Peter’s son. Uncle Peter had been married only once and that was to Aunt Amaryllis, but that did not prevent his having a son of whom Amaryllis, until this moment, had never heard.

I listened to my mother talking of it to my father. She said: “He passed it off as you would expect him to. A youthful misdemeanor … before he met Amaryllis, of course.”

So Benedict was the result of a youthful misdemeanor.

It was from Benedict that I heard more of the story than I could get from anyone else. He and I were immediately attracted to each other. I to him because he was different from anyone I had previously known and he to me perhaps because I so blatantly admired him.

He was tall for his age; he had very blue eyes which were startling in his bronzed face; his hair was very fair, bleached by the fierce sun of the Antipodes. He had an air of insouciance as Uncle Peter had, but it was almost a swagger in Benedict; I thought Uncle Peter would have been very like him when he was his age. There was a look of amusement as though he saw the world as something made for his advancement and benefit. It was a look I had noticed in Uncle Peter. There could be no doubt of the relationship between them.

The house in the square had only a small garden. It had paving stones and rather stunted bushes and a pear tree which produced very hard pears. Aunt Amaryllis had had pots put in with flowering shrubs and there was a rustic seat.

It was in this garden that I had my first meeting with Benedict.

“Hello,” he said. “You’re a cute little girl. Who are you?”

“I’m Angelet. Some people call me Angel which is misleading.”

“I hope it is,” he replied. “I’d be rather scared of an angel.”

“I don’t think you would ever be scared of anything.”

That was how I felt about him; and he liked to hear it. His blue eyes shone with pleasure. “I’m not scared of much,” he admitted. “But angels do have a habit of recording people’s sins.”

“Have you committed many?”

He nodded conspiratorially and I laughed.

I said: “Who are you?”

“Benedict Lansdon. Call me Ben.”

“Ben suits you better. Benedict sounds a little holy … like a monk or a saint or something.”

“I fear I should never be one of those.”

“Ben’s much more suitable.”

“They call me Ben way back.”

“Why are you here?”

“To see my grandfather.”

“Uncle Peter?”

“Oh, he’s your uncle, is he?”

“No, not really. They call people uncle when they don’t know what else to call them. He’s just married to my Aunt Amaryllis, but she’s not my real aunt either. It really is one of those relationships which are too complicated to explain to people.”

“Well, mine is not a bit complicated. He really is my grandfather.”

“But there’s something odd about it. He didn’t seem to know he had you for a grandson until you came here to tell him.”

“Not odd really. All very natural. People sometimes have children they don’t intend to. It takes them by surprise, so to speak, and then what are they going to do with them? That’s what happened to my grandmother and your Uncle Peter.”

“I see.”

“And she then went to Australia. He paid for her and sent her money for as long as she lived. My father was born. He was called Peter Lansdon after his father … Peter Lansdon Carter in fact but the Carter was dropped. My grandmother never married but my father did, and they had me. That’s how I come to be your Uncle Peter’s grandson. My grandmother was always talking about England and what a fine fellow my grandfather was. Once there was something in the papers about him. It was not very good, but she laughed over it, and said there was no one like him. When she died we lost touch with him, but he was often spoken of. My mother died and there was just my father and me. We had a small property but it was hard going. The land wasn’t good … too dry and there always seemed to be droughts … and then there were pests … locusts and that sort of thing. When my father knew he was dying he used to talk to me about the future. He knew someone who’d buy the property. He wanted me to go to England and find my grandfather. ‘You’ll find him easily,’ he said. ‘He’s a well known gentleman.’ And when he went I thought I’d like to see England, so I sold up and came.”

“That was a very brave thing to do.”

“I don’t look at it like that. I just wanted to come.”

“What will you do now?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Have to see which way the wind blows.”

“I hope it blows in the right direction.”

He gave me a confident smile. “I’ll see it does,” he said.

“I am sure you will.”

We smiled at each other and I had an idea that he liked me as much as I liked him.

I said: “My grandfather went to Australia.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. First he went as a convict.”

“Never!”

“Oh yes. Seven years’ transportation for killing a man.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“It was very extraordinary. He joined the gypsies and became one of them although he had been brought up at Cador. You’ll come to see Cador, won’t you? It’s a wonderful place. It was in the Cadorson family for generations.”

“One of those old places, eh?”

“It’s my home.”

“Tell me about your grandfather.”

“Well, he went off with the gypsies and a man who called himself a gentleman attacked a gypsy girl. My grandfather stopped him and in doing so, killed him. It was said to be murder and he was sent to Australia for seven years.”

“A light sentence for murder.”

“It wasn’t really murder. It was a righteous killing. And my grandmother, who was a little girl then, saved him, or she made her father do so. My grandfather served his term, prospered out there and when he came back to England, he and my grandmother were married.”

“A happy ending then.”

“At first. They had my uncle Jacco and my mother and were very happy, but they all went out to Australia and they were drowned there … all but my mother. She was the only one left because by chance she hadn’t gone sailing with them that day.”

“So Australia kept him in the end.”

I nodded.

“I’ve heard some tales of people who have come out.”

“Yes, I daresay. It seems to be a place where things happen.”

“Everywhere is a place where things happen.”

“Well, I’m glad you decided to come here, Ben.”

“So am I.”

Amaryllis came out with my mother. Amaryllis looked a little nervous of Benedict but he smiled at her without embarrassment. He was quite at home.

He talked for a while about Australia and how he was finding London as exciting as he had thought it would be. He asked if he could ride here. Aunt Amaryllis said that people rode in the Row and she was sure that could be arranged.

“I bet you’re a regular horsewoman,” he said to me.

“Well,” I replied. “I love riding and I do quite a lot of it at Cador.”

“Perhaps we could take a ride together.”

“I’d love it.”

My mother and Aunt Amaryllis looked a little apprehensive and Aunt Amaryllis said that luncheon would be served in half an hour.

I did go riding in Rotten Row with him and Jonnie and Geoffrey. I found it very different from riding in Cornwall. Many of the fashionable people were there and there were continual nods of recognition. I could ride every bit as well as the London boys, but I could see that Benedict was a very fine horseman indeed; and I rather wished that we were somewhere where he could show off his skills.

He talked—most of the time to me. “You ought to see the outback,” he said. He described the land. “Scrub and hills,” he said, “with the gum trees everywhere.”

“And kangaroos?” I asked.

“Surely. Kangaroos.”

“They have little babies in their pouches. I’ve seen pictures of them.”

“Little things about half an inch long when they’re born.”

He told us about Sydney with its wonderful harbor … all the little bays and inlets, the beautiful foliage and the brightly colored birds.

“And convicts,” I said.

“Yes … still them. But less than we used to have and there are many settlers there now who have come out to make something of the place and they’re doing it.”

Jonnie came up on the other side of me. Geoffrey was a little way ahead.

“Would you like to go, Jonnie?” I asked.

“Well … for a visit. I’d rather live here.”

“How do you know?” I demanded. “You’ve never been there. Ben will be able to tell us which is best because he’ll have been there and here. What do you think, Ben?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

We were able to canter for a while. It was very exhilarating.

I was liking Ben more and more.

Ben was accepted into the household, and as no one seemed to find his presence an embarrassment, it wasn’t. This was largely due to Uncle Peter, who behaved as though it was the most natural thing in the world for the result of an early peccadillo to come home to roost. He carried everything before him, as I learned later he had once before when a scandal had threatened to wreck his career—and did so to a certain extent except that he would not allow it to go further, and as he behaved as though it did not exist, in time everyone began to do the same.

Uncle Peter seemed quite proud of Ben. I daresay he recognized in him another such as himself and I think he was rather pleased to discover he had a hitherto unheard-of grandson.

He discussed with my father what should be done with the boy. I heard my father talking about this afterwards with my mother.

“I must say,” said my father, “one thing about Peter, he does not shirk his responsibilities. He wants to do everything he can for the boy. He wants to send him to university for a year or so, as he said, to put a polish on him. He thinks he has talents.”

“I am sure he has,” replied my mother. “He certainly gives me the impression of being a chip off the old block.”

They became aware of my attention and changed the subject. Maddening! For myself I was enormously interested in Ben and wanted to hear more of him.

We all went to the Exhibition once more and this time Ben was one of the company. He managed to be near me often which gave me great pleasure; and he was quite knowledgeable about some of the exhibits.

I said to him: “Are you glad you came to England?”

He pressed my hand. “You bet,” he said.

“I’m glad too,” I answered.

“Oh, it was a good thing all right. My grandfather’s a great man, don’t you think?”

I said I did.

“I want to be like him.”

“You are,” I told him.

“In every way. I want to go into business. He’s talked to me a lot. First he wants me to go to learn to be more like an English gentleman. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think you’re all right as you are.”

“He doesn’t think so. And he’s a very wise man.”

He grinned at me. There was satisfaction shining in his eyes. He was glad he had come.

I was sorry when it was time to go home. I hated saying goodbye to Ben.

“You’ll come here again soon,” he said. “Or I might come and see this wonderful Cador.”

“That would be lovely,” I replied.

He came to the station to see us on to the train and stood on the platform waving.

“You two did seem to take to each other,” commented my mother.

“He has a colorful personality,” added my father.

“What did you expect … Peter’s grandson and that unconventional life.”

“I wonder if he will come to see us.”

“He will,” I said. “He said he would.”

“People don’t always keep their word, dear.”

“But he meant it.”

“But people do mean things when they say them … and then they forget.”

I was sure he would not.

I thought about him for a long time afterwards, and then the memory began to fade.

A year passed. We had heard from Aunt Amaryllis at intervals. Peterkin and Frances had added another wing to their house of refuge; Jonnie and Geoffrey were away at school most of the time. Peter’s hopes for Matthew had been realized with the end of Little Johnny’s government and the beginning of Lord Derby’s ministry and their son-in-law had his post in the Cabinet. Peter’s grandson had changed quite a lot. “He is becoming more and more like one of us. He is really quite an English gentleman now … or almost. Peter is concerned about him. He thought he might like to go in for estate management, and he is going to ask you if you will have him at Cador for a time … say a month or two … just to see how he likes that kind of life. Peter thinks he might be rather suited to it.”

“Of course he may come and stay a while,” said my father. “I daresay it might be just the thing for him. He was brought up on what they call a property in Australia. No doubt he was born to the life.”

My mother said she would write to Amaryllis at once; and I felt excited at the prospect of seeing him.

A few days later I saw Grace Gilmore for the first time. I had taken my horse, Glory, down to the beach for I loved to gallop her over the sands at the edge of the water. It was very rarely that anyone came down there at that spot. The stretch of shore was only about half a mile from the harbor and it was part of Cador land, but there was no restriction about people’s using it.

I was surprised when I saw a young woman there. She was seated on an upturned boat close to the old boathouse which was never used nowadays and she was staring out to sea.

She looked startled when she heard me galloping towards her. I pulled up.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

She returned my greeting. She was quite young—just under eighteen, I decided. There was something about her which interested me. She looked serious, anxious, and when she saw me, a little alarmed.

I wondered who she was, and that natural curiosity, deplored by Mrs. Penlock, always got the better of me. She was a stranger and we rarely saw strangers here. Visitors were usually relations of the inhabitants and their presence was always a matter of gossip. I had heard nothing of this one.

“It’s a lovely day,” I went on. “Are you staying here?”

She replied: “I’m staying a few days at the Fisherman’s Rest.”

“Oh? Are you comfortable there?”

“Well … yes.”

I knew the Pennylegs had little to offer paying guests; there were so few of them. I believed there were only two rooms available and they were small and cramped. Most of the trade was provided by the local miners and fishermen.

“Are you staying long?”

“I’m unsure.”

She was not very communicative.

She said suddenly: “Do you live here?”

I nodded and pointed upwards to where Cador stood, on the top of the cliff.

“It’s magnificent,” she said.

I warmed to her as I always did to anyone who praised Cador.

“Is this your boathouse?” she asked.

“I suppose so. It is never used.”

She interested me, but then people always did … particularly strangers. I fancied I detected a certain tension in her. Then I told myself it was my imagination again.

I said goodbye and rode up the incline through the gorse and valerian and sea pinks to Cador.

I forgot all about her until next day when I saw her again.

I was with my mother in the garden. She had come through the courtyard and was standing there looking at us. She seemed very sad and pathetic.

My mother said: “Good afternoon. Do you want to see someone?”

“Are you the lady of the house?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I met your daughter.”

“That’s right,” I said. “On the sands by the old boathouse. Are you staying at the Fisherman’s Rest still?”

She nodded. “I was wondering if there was any work …”

“Work?” echoed my mother.

“I’d do anything,” she said with an air of desperation, which I could see touched my mother as it did me.

“Watson, the butler, engages staff,” said my mother. “You could see him.”

I imagined Watson. He would be condescending. What work could he give her? As far as I knew we did not need another servant and she did not look like a house- or parlormaid, or anything like that. She was good-looking in a severe sort of way. Not the kind who would attract Watson.

“I … I can sew,” she said.

My mother looked at me. I could see that the girl had aroused her sympathy as she had mine and we both wanted to do all we could to help her.

I read my mother’s thoughts. This might be a possibility. Clothes were bought on trips to London or even in Plymouth. There was one stylish dressmaker there. But I had often heard my mother say: “How I wish we had dear old Miss Semple here.” Miss Semple had had her room in the attics somewhere and up there was a big airy and light room which had been used as a sewing room. Miss Semple had worked there until she died three years ago.

At that moment the girl swayed a little; she would have fallen to the ground if my mother had not caught her.

“Poor soul, she has fainted,” said my mother. “Help me, Angelet. Get her head down. That will revive her.”

In a few seconds she had opened her eyes.

“Oh forgive me,” she said.

“My dear child,” began my mother, “we’re going to take you into the house. You need to rest a while.”

We took her into a room leading off the hall where people waited if they wanted to see my parents about anything.

“Ring and tell someone to bring me some brandy,” said my mother.

I did so.

The girl was sitting in a chair. She said: “I’m all right now. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me.”

“You’re not all right,” said my mother firmly. “You’re going to rest a while.”

A servant brought the brandy which the girl took half reluctantly. She seemed to recover a little.

She half rose to her feet but my mother gently pushed her back into the chair.

“Tell me,” she said. “Where have you come from? And why is a girl like you looking for work?”

She smiled ruefully. “It’s no use pretending, is it? I have to find work … quickly. I’m desperate. I have nowhere to go.”

“I thought you were staying at the Fisherman’s Rest,” I said.

“I have to leave tomorrow. I have no …”

“Why did you come here?” asked my mother.

“I knew there were one or two big houses in the neighborhood. I thought I might find work in one of them. So …”

“I see,” said my mother. “And where have you come from?”

“My home was in Barnton … in Devon. My father was the rector. He was much older than my mother and my parents were not young, either of them, when they married. I was the only child. I looked after my father and when my mother died … well, it was not easy. He was ill for some time and he had to retire. All his savings were used up. There were some debts and when everything was sold I had very little. I knew it wouldn’t last. I had to find something I could do. You see, I have never been trained for anything but I used to do a lot of sewing for people in the neighborhood and acquaintances. I’m really good at it …” she ended almost pleadingly.

My mother had made a decision. “You could see how you liked it here,” she said. “We had Miss Semple who worked for us for years. She died three years ago. We were all very fond of her and she has never been replaced. Her room has never been used and there is the sewing room next to it.”

Her face was illumined with joy. She said: “Do you really mean it …?”

“Of course,” replied my mother. “Now let us be practical. I’ll take you up to see the room right away.”

She had taken my mother’s hand; her eyes were closed. I thought she was going to burst into tears, but she did not.

My mother was faintly embarrassed by this show of gratitude. She said quickly: “I suppose you have some things which you will want to bring.”

“I have a few clothes at the Fisherman’s Rest. That’s all.”

“I’ll show you your room and then you can go to the inn and collect your things. You can settle in right away.”

“You are so kind … This seems too wonderful to be true.”

We took her up and showed her the rooms. In the sewing room was a big table at which Miss Semple had sat; and there were the dummies she used, and in the drawers of the table her cottons and tape measure just as she had left them.

She told us then that her name was Grace Gilmore, and that she hoped one day to repay us for all the kindness we had shown her.

That was how Grace Gilmore came to Cador.

There was a certain resentment below stairs where what was called “Interference from the Top” was not approved of; but my mother told them that Miss Gilmore was a genteel young lady who had fallen on hard times and she wanted them all to be as helpful towards her as possible.

Watson and Mrs. Penlock both agreed that they would do all they could to help “the young body” settle in and they implied that although it was Watson’s prerogative to engage staff, they did see that sewing was something outside his domain; so perhaps on this occasion it was not such a breach of household protocol as it had at first seemed.

Later that day, Grace Gilmore arrived with her personal belongings and was settled into the rooms at the top of the house.

She was very eager to begin work and we soon discovered that she was an excellent seamstress.

“We’ve been lucky,” said my mother. “And she is a lady, which is a help too. We must be very kind to her, poor girl. She has had such a bad time and she is really quite young. I have no doubt that she could help Miss Prentiss in some ways.”

I was pleased that we had been able to help her. Grace Gilmore interested me. There was something mysterious about her.

Benedict arrived at Cador. He was even more handsome than I remembered.

“Why,” he cried, “you’ve grown. You’re almost a young lady now.”

He laughed. I noticed that he had beautiful white teeth and his eyes were bluer than I remembered.

“I’m settling in now,” he said. “I’ll soon be as English as you.”

My parents greeted him with pleasure and in a few days he seemed to become part of Cador. He spent a good deal of time with my father. Jack was very taken with him and he was soon popular with the servants.

Whenever I could be with him I would. He seemed to enjoy my company. But of course he had come with a purpose and he was kept busy. He was full of enthusiasm for the estate; and when he was not with my father he seemed to be with John Polstark, our manager. He was very popular with all. I knew that in the kitchen they discussed him constantly, especially the younger and more frivolous maids.

“He’s what you might call one of them charmers,” was Mrs. Penlock’s verdict. “You girls want to watch out with them sort. They can be all nice words and smiles till they get what they want from you girls … and then it’s ‘Goodbye, I’m off now to the next.’ But she herself was not immune. She would simper a little when he was near. He was full of good will and if he did cast a sparkling eye on the younger and prettier of the girls, he did not forget the older ones either. He would give the same sort of attention to Mrs. Penlock herself—who admitted to being in her sixties, but I was sure she had forgotten to add a few years for she had been at Cador when my mother was a girl and had not been exactly young then. He made everyone feel that there was something special about them which he found lovable. I supposed that was called charm.

I tried to discover what it was about him which had that effect on people. It was more than just his attitude towards them; he was the sort of man who wanted power and I came to the conclusion that that was the very essence of masculine attraction.

My mother talked to me about him.

“He seems to have a way of making himself known,” she said. “He has only been here a short time and he is making an impression.”

“There is something different about him,” I answered. “He’s unlike anyone else I know.”

My mother smiled. “He’s getting along with John Polstark and your father. They seem to think he will make a good estate manager.”

“What do you think Uncle Peter intends to do? Buy him an estate somewhere?”

“Probably … but for himself I should imagine. He’ll keep a firm hand on it and perhaps let Benedict manage it.”

“I shouldn’t think Ben would want that.”

“No. He’s like his grandfather, I daresay. He would want to have complete charge. It will be interesting to see what happens. They’re a strong-willed pair. By the way, Miss Gilmore is settling in well, I think. Don’t you?”

“She’s so grateful, it’s almost embarrassing.”

“Poor girl! I don’t know what she would have done if we hadn’t taken her in. She seemed pretty desperate. She has asked me for a day off.”

“A day off! So soon!”

“She’s got an old aunt who lives somewhere near Bodmin. She wants to go and see her and tell her that she’s settled and where she is and all that, I suppose.”

“I thought she hadn’t got any relations.”

“I don’t think she said that. Well, this is her father’s sister … and I daresay she is very old … as the father was. In any case I have said she may go.”

“Near Bodmin, you say?”

“She mentioned Lanivet.”

“That’s some little way.”

“She said she would be away one night and she was so grateful when I said that would be all right. I think she is going to be very useful. She’s made a very good job of that alpaca. You know I was very fond of that costume. I didn’t want to discard it, but the bottoms of the sleeves were so marked. She’s done something so that it doesn’t show. And she’s tightened up the skirt which was too loose. It almost looks like new. Dear old Semple was getting a little past it though she would never admit it. I don’t think she could see very well towards the end.”

“I think you are rather pleased with Miss Gilmore, Mama.”

“It is nice to be able to do a good turn to someone and find you’ve done yourself one too.”

“Is she getting on all right with the servants now?”

“I think they consider her something of an outsider.”

“Well, anyone who comes from the other side of the river is that.”

My mother laughed. “She is quiet and causes no fuss. I don’t know what goes on in the kitchen. It’s like the case of Miss Prentiss. They are so strict about levels of society that they are a little complicated to follow. She seems to have become quite friendly with Miss Prentiss.”

“Perhaps they both feel they can be friendly without upsetting the rules of protocol.”

“That must be so. However, she is going off in the morning.”

I often wondered about Grace Gilmore. There was an air of mystery about her which intrigued me. I did not mention it to anyone. They would say—or even if they didn’t say it they would think it—that I was daydreaming again. I imagined her life with the poor old rector—so feeble and demanding. I was sure she had waited on him, caring for him, living for him and letting her own life slip away.

My mother would say: “You are building up what isn’t there, Angel. That imagination of yours. … It’s all very fine but don’t let it run away with you.”

I saw Grace Gilmore going to the station to get the train. There was something purposeful about her. I smiled and wished her a good journey.

I began to wonder whether she would come back. There was a certain unreality about her. It occurred to me that she might suddenly disappear and we would never hear of her again. I was so obsessed by this thought that when I returned to the house I went to her room. Everything was neat and tidy. I looked in the wardrobe. Her clothes were hanging there. Her nightdress lay neatly folded under her pillow. Yes, I was inquisitive enough to look there.

It was the room of someone who intended to return.

In the afternoon I went riding with Ben and all thought of Grace Gilmore departed during such a pleasant time.

He talked about running an estate of his own.

“Like Cador?” I asked.

“Just like Cador only bigger.”

I laughed. “Everything about you has to be bigger than everyone else’s.”

“I admit it.”

“Do you realize that this estate has been built up over hundreds of years?”

“I do.”

“And you are going to come and start and immediately have something bigger?”

“It is what I should like.”

“We don’t all get what we like.”

“I intend to.”

“ ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ ”

“Oh, moral, are we?”

“It’s supposed to be true.”

“I shall be prouder than ever and not fail … just to prove it’s wrong.”

“I should be rather disappointed if it were, when I think of the number of times I have had to write it out for Miss Prentiss.”

“It is a great game to prove the moralists wrong. And for every one of these adages there is a contradiction.”

“ ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’ and ‘Many hands make light work’?”

“Exactly. So I shall make my own laws. They will be the laws of Reason.”

“Oh, Ben, it is nice to have you here.”

“Shall I tell you what is the nicest thing about being here?”

“Yes, do.”

“Angel is here.”

“You always say such wonderful things. Do you mean them?”

“Not always. But on this occasion, yes.”

“If you don’t mean them, why do you say them?”

He paused for a moment and laughed at me. “Well, it makes people feel good. They like you for it, and it is wise to have people liking you. Never make enemies if you can help it … even in the smallest way. You never know when the most trivial thing can be turned against you. It is what you call keeping the wheels well oiled.”

“Even though it is false?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s harmless. It makes people feel happy. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose, only I like things to be true.”

“You are asking too much.”

We had come to open country and I started to gallop. He was beside me.

“We’re almost on the moor,” I shouted.

I pulled up. There it was—miles of moorland with its boulders and little rippling streams and here and there the flowering gorse.

“There’s something strange about it,” I said. “Do you feel it? I mean strange in a certain way. Uncanny.”

“Out of this world.”

“Yes.”

“You might have strayed onto another planet.”

“That’s it. Strange things happen here. When I am here I can believe the stories one hears of the piskies and the knackers and the rest.”

We walked our horses for a while.

He said: “We could tie our horses to that bush and sit here for a while. I’d like to, would you?”

“Yes,” I said.

So we tethered the horses and sat with our backs against a boulder inhaling the fresh air. There was a faint wind which whistled through the grass making a soft moaning noise which was like a human voice.

I was glad he was aware of the spirit of the moors.

“The mine is not far from here.”

“Oh yes. It belongs to the Pencarrons, I believe.”

“Yes. We’ll ride over there one day. They’d like to meet you.”

“Profitable concern, the mine, I take it.”

“Yes, I think so. It’s a great boon to the Poldoreys. Quite a number of the men work there. The population seems to be made up of fishermen and miners … apart from the farmers and people who work on the land. They are safe.”

“Safe?” he asked.

“They are not in danger. Fishermen and miners always look out for disasters. With the miners it’s black dogs and white hares which appear now and then to announce some disaster … and disaster in the mine or at sea can be terrible. Then there are those knackers who have to be placated all the time. The miners have to leave them bits of their lunch when, poor things, they are hungry and could do with it all themselves. Then the fishermen … they never know when some mermaid is going to appear to give some dreadful warning or they are going to meet a ghost ship. Apart from all that there is the weather. So you see those who work on the land have rather a peaceful time.”

“Why do they not all want to work on the land?”

“If they get a good catch they earn a lot of money. And the miners? Well, I suppose they earn more than the farm laborers, because their jobs are so dangerous.”

“Logical reasoning,” he said. “Yes, up here one could believe in some of those stories.”

“These stones for instance could come suddenly to life. Look at that one. It is rather like a woman’s shape. It’s the one they call the Stone Novice. She was turned out of her convent because she disobeyed the laws of the Church.”

“I wonder what law?”

“She had a lover. They say that at certain times if you come up here alone, you can hear her weeping.”

“I expect it is only the wind.”

“It could easily be mistaken for weeping.”

“Tell me more.”

“There is the story about the mine.”

“Pencarron’s.”

“No. No. There are lots of mines in Cornwall. This was somewhere else. It is supposed to have happened years ago. It’s an old Scat Bal now.”

“I thought Pencarron was that.”

“Oh no. That is not a Scat Bal. It’s used just as a term of affection. I do hope the knackers understand that. They might be annoyed if they didn’t. This one I am telling you about is a very different matter.”

“I’m longing to hear more.”

“It was a tin mine. There was a terrible accident there. Several men were killed. After the accident a lot of people remembered seeing black dogs and white hares hanging around. It was a complete disaster. They said that was the end of Cradley Mine. Those who escaped lost their jobs; there was a great deal of hardship in the neighborhood. People used to say the mine was haunted. They heard strange knockings there at night. There were two men … brothers … miners who had lost their work and lived in great poverty. One night they decided to go into the old mine and see what the knocking meant. This was dangerous for the mine had collapsed once and could do so again. However, one dark night they went in. They crawled along in the direction from which came the knocking, expecting at any moment that the earth would collapse on top of them. They saw a light. They went towards it and there were twenty little men all digging away with tiny shovels. They had tiny pails and these were full of gold. They were knackers.”

“And gold … in a tin mine?”

“That’s the story. The two were terrified, and then they lost their fear for the knackers were so small … just the size of a sixpenny doll, they said. The knackers were not angry with the men, because they had been brave to come there in the dead of night. The men just marveled at the sight of the gold they could see in the earth. They said that if they brought proper implements in one night they could mine twenty times as much gold as the knackers were doing in that time. They came to an arrangement with the little men. They would mine the gold and sell it and for every ounce they sold ten per cent should go back to the knackers. This was agreed and every night those two men went to work. In a short time they were very rich. They bought a beautiful house and they lived like gentry and everyone was in awe of them because of their sudden fortune which they said had been left to them by a relation from overseas.”

“I hope they remembered to surrender the ten per cent.”

“Oh yes, they did. They never forgot. As soon as a transaction was made the knackers received their due. Well, the men married. They each had a son, and when the boys were old enough they told them the secret of their wealth, and they brought them into the mine so that when they were dead their sons could go on mining gold. So they did and in time the two men died and there were only the sons.”

“I can guess what’s coming.”

“What?”

“They didn’t pay their dues.”

“That’s right. They said: ‘Why should we? We do the work.’ They never saw the knackers. They just had to take the commission and leave it there. But it was always gone on their next visit. They made up their minds that it was a fantastic story and their fathers must have been mad to throw away so large a proportion of the profits. They did not work hard as their fathers had; they gambled and drank too much and they went only to the mine when they needed to replenish their coffers. And then one night they went to the mine and all the gold was gone. There was nothing there. It had returned to being an old Scat Bal.”

“Well, it served them right, didn’t it? They should have kept to the bargain … particularly when dealing with people who can produce gold out of a tin mine and cut off supplies when they are being cheated!”

“You are very skeptical, I think.”

“Never mind, I liked the story. There are two morals in this one. Don’t be afraid for if you are bold you will prosper. That is shown by the two men investigating the knocking; and then: Don’t cheat … especially if your victim is more powerful than you are.”

I laughed at him.

I said: “If Uncle Peter buys an estate and you manage it, I wonder where it will be.”

“I have to make up my mind,” he said. “There are so many possibilities. What I shall do I think is look for some obliging knackers and ask them to find me a gold mine.”

“You are never really serious, are you?”

“Yes, sometimes, very serious.”

We were silent for a while. I inhaled the strong moorland air and was happy.

When I look back at that day, I think it was the end of my happiness.

In spite of my imaginings about Grace Gilmore she returned to Cador as she had arranged. I saw her in the sewing room on the morning after she came back. I had a dress which I rather liked and I thought it was too short. I wondered if it were possible to let it down without spoiling it.

I felt then that there was a restrained excitement about her, and I wondered what had happened when she visited her aunt.

I asked her if she had had a pleasant visit. For a moment she looked startled. Surely she could not have forgotten.

She said: “Oh yes … thank you, Miss Angelet. Very pleasant.”

“I suppose your aunt was very interested to hear you had come to Cador.”

“She seemed pleased that I had found a place.”

“Mama was very pleased with the alpaca.”

“I am very happy about that.”

“Is your aunt a dressmaker, too?”

“Oh no, no.”

“I thought perhaps it ran in the family. Miss Semple who used to do dressmaking here had a mother who was a dressmaker … and so was her grandmother, I believe.”

She said: “I am sure I can make a good job of this hem, Miss Angelet.”

I had the impression that she thought I was prying and my mother had told me as well as the servants that that was forbidden. She knew how interested I was in people and how I could not rest until I had discovered what I wanted to know about them.

I said: “Thanks, Miss Gilmore. I’ll leave the dress with you.”

I left then but I continued to think about her.

The very next day we heard about the escaped convict.

I had been riding with Ben and we had gone out as far as the Pencarron Mine. He seemed to have become interested in mines since I had told him the story of the knackers’ gold.

When we came back we rode down to the harbor. He wanted to look at the sea.

As we came through the town we saw a little knot of people gathered together staring at something fixed to the wall. We went close. It was a poster.

I saw Jim Mullens, one of the fishermen whom I knew well, and I called to him: “What’s all the fuss about, Jim?”

“Oh, Miss Angel, there be a terrible to-do. It’s this here convict who has got out of Bodmin Jail. Real dangerous they say he be.”

I dismounted and led my horse forward. Ben did the same.

We saw the rather crude drawing of a man. He had strongly marked brows under a pair of wild-looking dark eyes and thick dark curly hair.

“This man is Dangerous” said the big black words on the poster.

I read on. He was one Mervyn Duncarry and he had been about to go on trial for murder when he had escaped from Bodmin Jail.

Mrs. Fenny was there having left her cottage to be closer to the excitement.

“This be a shocking thing,” she said. “We could all be murdered in our beds.”

The Misses Poldrew stood by. I heard the whispered words. “He assaulted the poor young thing before he strangled her. He deserves to hang twice over … and here he is … He could be in Poldorey this minute …”

The Misses Poldrew would have to make a double check under their beds this evening, I thought.

There was a little about this dangerous man. He had broken out of jail during the night and could be anywhere in the Duchy. Ports were being watched. The public should keep a look out. If they thought they saw him they should not attempt to approach him, but report it at once.

We mounted our horses and rode through the town.

“He’ll soon be found,” said Ben. “He can’t get far with everyone on the alert for him.”

At luncheon we talked about him.

“He’ll hang for this,” said my father. “It is sad for he is apparently quite a well-educated young man. He was a tutor.”

“Looking after children!” cried my mother. “How terrible.”

“He suddenly seemed to go mad. It was some girl in the village. A child of about ten …”

My mother avoided looking at me. She was about my age … this poor girl who had been assaulted and murdered.

My mother said fiercely: “I hope they catch him … soon. He deserves everything he gets … and more. Why do people do such things?”

“It’s a madness,” said my father. “He must have become suddenly insane.”

“Perhaps he could be cured,” I suggested.

“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” said Ben. “And who would ever know that he was cured? It might break out again and someone else be murdered.”

“Yes,” agreed my mother. “It seems that eliminating such people is the only way. He won’t get far,” she added. “No fear of that.”

When luncheon was over Ben said to me: “What about a ride this afternoon?”

“I’d like that,” I replied eagerly.

“You said you were going to show me that pool.”

“Oh yes. Branok.”

“The bottomless pool where the bells are heard when some disaster is about to occur.”

“Yes,” I giggled. “It’s one of those places … like the moor. You can laugh but you can feel it when you are there.”

“Right. In half an hour?”

When I went down to the stables Ben was already there, mounted.

He said: “I’ve just had a command from John Polstark. He wants me to go out with him and look at one of the cottages.”

I was disappointed. “So you can’t come.”

“It won’t take very long. Are you ready to go? I believe the cottage is somewhere near the pool. You go on. Wait for me there.”

I brightened. “I’ll do that.”

And so innocently happy I rode out to the pool, not realizing that life was never going to be the same again.

It was a warm day with just a light coolish breeze. I reached the pool. How silent it was! There was no one about. There rarely was here. I listened intently. I almost felt I could hear the tinkle of bells. It was easy to fancy such things in such a place.

I felt a desire to touch the water. It shimmered in the sunshine. It was still though; there was not a ripple on the surface. I halted my horse and, slipping off her back, looked round for somewhere to tether her. She was docile enough, but I did not want her to wander.

I patted her and said: “Just for a while. Ben will be here soon.”

I went down to the pool and trailed my hand in the water. I half wished that I could hear the bells; and yet I should have been terrified if they had begun to peal. How would they sound under water? Muffled, I supposed. I should be rather frightened but only because I was alone.

My horse whinnied.

I stood still without turning round. “It’s all right, Glory,” I said. “He’ll soon be here … then you’ll be free … though he might want to walk for a while.”

I heard a footstep.

“Ben,” I called. I looked round, but it was not Ben.

“Good afternoon,” he said. He was a youngish man in his early twenties, I imagined. He smiled pleasantly. “I’ve lost my way. Perhaps you could direct me.”

“I expect so. I live round here.”

“Not at that magnificent house I passed?”

“Was it on a cliff?”

“Yes. Like a castle.”

He had come closer and was looking at me intently. He had thick eyebrows and dark curly hair.

“That’s Cador,” I told him. “It’s my home.”

“Congratulations. It must be wonderful to live in such a place. It is certainly very fine.”

“It’s very old, of course.”

“I guessed so.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Is there a good inn?”

“There is the Fisherman’s Rest. It’s very small. There was the King’s Arms. That was an old coaching inn … but there was no business after the railways came, and it closed down. There is only really the Fisherman’s Rest.”

“You’re a nice little girl,” he said and he came closer to me.

It was then that I felt the first twinge of fear. He seemed to change suddenly. I had thought that he was a student … exploring the countryside. Now I was not so sure.

“Thank you,” I said as coolly as I could and started to walk past him, but he caught my arm.

“You’re frightened,” he said. “Why?”

“No … no,” I stammered. “I … I just have to go.”

“Why?” he cried shaking me.

A terrible thought came into my mind. I remembered the poster. I looked at his face. His eyes now looked wild; they seemed to bore right into me. I thought: It’s the escaped prisoner … and I’m here … alone with him. I wanted to cry out but my mouth was dry and no sound came. My heart was beating so fast that I thought I should suffocate.

I heard myself say shrilly: “Who are you?”

He did not answer. I moved backwards. I was very close to the water.

He advanced too. He had changed. He was no longer the pleasant student. There was a dreadful light in his eyes. His pupils seemed to be distended.

He said: “I like little girls.” And he laughed horribly. “I like them when they are nice to me.”

“Yes … yes,” I said, trying to sound normal and wondering if I could slip past him and run … and run.

He gripped my arm. I tried to wrench it free, but he laughed again in that frightening way. Then he put a hand out and touched my throat.

“No, no,” I screamed. “Go away. Let me alone.”

It was the wrong thing to have done. As I tried to dodge past him he caught me by the shoulder.

“Let me go,” I sobbed. “Let me go.”

Panic had seized me. I could not think. I was only aware of his closeness … his motives, which I only half understood but which I knew ended in death.

I was young; I was agile; but he was a grown man and stronger than I. I knew that if he caught me I was doomed.

I heard myself screaming at him. He put up a hand and covered my mouth. I kicked and he freed me. I ran. I was trying to reach Glory, but how could I get away in time? He would catch me before I had a chance to untie her.

I started to run on but he caught me and I fell. I was sobbing with fear and screaming at the top of my voice. Who would hear me? Few people came to the pool.

He was loathsome. He was horrible. He nauseated me. He was pulling at my clothes. I kicked and struggled and I think I hurt him for he called out in sudden pain, cursing me. He gave me a blow at the side of my head which set up a singing in my ears. I felt blood in my mouth.

“No … no … no,” I sobbed.

I had never fought like this before. I knew that my life depended on my ability to defend myself. I was sobbing like a baby calling for my mother and my father. Oh, if only they knew what was happening to their beloved daughter. What would happen to me? I should be found … dead … another victim.

There was a lot of fight in me. I saw blood on his face and the more I fought the more angry he became.

I could not go on much longer. I felt my strength failing me. I had no idea how long this struggle had gone on, but I knew that for me it was a losing battle.

I prayed, I think. One always does, if only subconsciously, on such occasions. It is at times like this one that one believes in God … because one has to.

And … as if by a miracle my prayers were answered.

I heard my name. “Angel.” It seemed to come from a long way off. “For God’s sake, Angel.”

And there was Ben.

My assailant was on his feet. I saw Ben running towards us. He was still calling my name. “Angel, Angel. Oh no …”

The murderer was lunging towards him, but Ben was ready. I watched, too stunned to move for a moment. I just lay there. I saw the man strike out at Ben … but Ben parried the blow and came at him. He hit him hard between the eyes. The man staggered and fell. I got to my feet and rushed to Ben.

He held me tightly in his arms. “Angel … dearest Angel … Are you all right? Oh … my God.”

“I’m all right now, Ben. I’m all right now you are here.”

He stared at me … the blood on my face … I knew there was blood on my clothes. I could not imagine what I looked like.

We turned to gaze down at the man.

“It’s the one,” said Ben. “It’s the wanted man.”

“I thought he was you,” I said. “He asked me the way … and he seemed quite normal. Then suddenly he changed. He got hold of me and I couldn’t get away. Ben … oh, Ben.”

“It’s all over now. He looks as if he is really out. We’ll just go and let them know we’ve found him.”

“He might get away and escape.”

Ben knelt down. The man had not moved since he had fallen. He looked strangely still. Ben lifted his head. It fell back with a jerk but not before we had seen the blood staining his thick dark curly hair. The back of his head was covered in blood. So was the stone onto which he had fallen.

Ben looked at me in horror. His next words sent a tremor of fear through me. “He’s dead,” he said.

He let him fall and then he added: “I’ve killed him.”

“Oh, Ben … it can’t be … What’ll happen?”

“I don’t know,” said Ben.

“You just saved me … that was all. He can’t be really dead … not just like that.”

“I hit him pretty hard … but it wasn’t that only. He fell on that stone. There’s a sharp edge. It looks as if it has penetrated his head.”

I just stared at him in sudden terror. My thoughts went back to the picture in the gallery. I saw clearly my grandfather’s laughing eyes. Jake Cadorson, who had killed a man who was attempting to assault a young gypsy girl. It was murder and in spite of the fact that he had saved the girl from her attacker he had been sentenced to transportation for seven years.

Ben had killed a man … a murderer wanted by the law. But it would be called murder or at least manslaughter … and my grandfather’s punishment for the same offense had been seven years’ exile.

It must not happen to Ben.

Ben had lost his bravado. I could see that he was thinking what I was.

He said slowly: “I … I killed him.”

“You didn’t mean to. You had to stop him. If you hadn’t killed him he would have killed you.”

“It was murder,” he said. “They’d say it was murder.”

I began to tremble. “My grandfather,” I began. “It was the same … almost exactly the same. … But this man was a murderer …”

“What did you say they did to your grandfather?”

I replied through chattering teeth: “They were going to hang him but my grandmother saved him … and then they sent him away for seven years. It was considered a light sentence.”

Ben was silent. He could not take his eyes from the man.

I said slowly: “Ben … no one must know.”

“They’d find out,” he said.

“How?”

“They do. There are clues and things like that. You don’t know you’ve left them but they find something you didn’t think was important. And what about this blood?”

He stood for a while in silence staring at the water. “That’s it,” he said.

“What, Ben?”

“We’re going to throw him into the pool. Nobody will find him there.” He seemed to regain his old fire. “Come on. Help me, Angel. We’ll get him to the pool.”

I thought wildly: It’s the answer. He’ll disappear. No one will think of looking for him there.

He was heavy. We pulled him across the grass leaving a trail of blood. We had him right to the edge of the pool. I noticed that his eyes were open; he seemed to be staring at me. I thought: I shall never be able to forget him.

I turned away and as I did so I caught sight of something glittering near the water’s edge. It was a ring. I picked it up and slipped it into the pocket of my skirt. I don’t know why I bothered to do that at such a time. I supposed because I had to stop looking at that man and thinking of him, even for a split second.

“What are you doing?” asked Ben. “Here. Help me get him into the water.”

He put some stones into the man’s pockets to weigh him down, and we pushed the body into the pool, but it was shallow and we had to wade in so that we were sure of getting him to the deeper part.

The water was cold. I was shivering. He slipped out of our grasp. For a moment I saw his head with the dark wet hair, the odd pallor of the skin, the open accusing eyes.

As I turned away I fell. I was completely immersed. Ben picked me up and said: “It’s over. We’ve done it.”

We stood on the edge of the pool, Ben’s arm about me.

“Stop shaking, Angel,” he said. “He’s gone. No one will ever find him. There are no tides in the pool to wash his body ashore. He’s gone forever. Let’s get away from here.”

He held me close to him as we walked to the horses. His, fortunately, had remained waiting. I could not stop looking at the trail of blood on the grass.

Ben looked up at the sky. “There’ll be rain tonight. That will wash it all away.”

“Suppose someone sees it before?”

“No one will. Few come here. Besides, you’d have to look for it to find it … and nobody could be sure that it was blood.”

“It’s a terrible thing to kill a man,” I said.

“We didn’t kill him. It was an accident. And, remember, he would have done to you what he did to that other girl. It was justice. If we are sensible we shall feel no regret about him. He deserved to die. He would have been hanged when he was tried and found guilty which he obviously was. We’ve got to be sensible about this. Oh God, Angel, you are so young.”

“I … I don’t feel young,” I told him.

He took my face in his hands and kissed it.

“It’s our secret, Angel.”

“But he’s dead, Ben, and it was because of us that he died.”

“No, it was because of himself. It was justice. I feel no remorse.”

“But when they know …”

“They are not going to know. Why should they ever know? If they found out there would be a fuss. They would say we killed a man. We disposed of his body.”

“We shouldn’t have done that, Ben. We should have gone and found them and told them …”

“There would have been such a fuss. They would have accused us. They might even call it murder. They did with your grandfather, didn’t they? It’s a similar case.”

“But the man he killed was not a murderer.”

“It makes no difference. Listen to me. We are in this together. It is our secret. We can’t bring all the scandal there would be on our families. There would be endless gossip. You know how people exaggerate. Imagine the press getting hold of it. No, as far as we are concerned it is over.”

“How can it ever be over?”

“It will be … if we don’t let anyone know. They will hunt for him and they won’t find him. They’ll think he has escaped. There’ll be questions and more questions. They’ll never let us rest. They’ll say I killed him and you were an accessory after the fact … that’s how they talk. We don’t want a great fuss. It would be exaggerated and remembered for the rest of our lives. It is always so in these cases. Consider all your legends. How they have grown up through distortion and exaggeration. We should be branded forever and they would punish us in some way … even though they would have hanged him … which would have been far worse for him than the way he died. So we’ve got to think of a way out of this. We have to think of our families. It’s the only way. I know what we must do.”

“What?” I asked.

“We must get away from here at once and not let anyone know we came here. We must say nothing about what happened. Can you do that, Angel? Not to anyone … not a word.”

“Yes … yes, I think so.” But I looked down at my sodden clothes. There was blood on my jacket.

“We’ll have to give some sort of explanation,” Ben went on. “We’ll say you had a fall. That’s the answer. It will account for the state you are in. But there must not be a word about what actually happened … about him.”

“There’ll be some way they’ll find out.”

“Not if we play it carefully. Stop shaking, Angel.”

“I can’t help it. I just feel so cold.” I started to sneeze and for a few moments could not stop.

He looked at me anxiously and said: “Listen, Angel. This is terrible, but we’re in it now and we have to get out of it.”

“When they don’t catch him …?”

“They’ll think he’s got away. It will be as easy as that.” Ben was beginning to regain his confidence. There was even a look of excitement in his eyes. “We’ll do it. But we’ve got to plan very carefully. He’s gone. He won’t be able to murder any more young girls … never again. We’ve done a good thing. No one will ever know that he is at the bottom of the pool. His clothes will be waterlogged. He’s right down at the bottom. He’ll never be found. We’ve saved him from the hangman’s rope, and that was what he deserved and what would have come to him. We’ve done him a good turn. We’ve done all those little girls whom he might have murdered a good turn. …”

Cold and shivering as I was I felt better. Ben was so convincing. I began to believe that if he decided what we must do was the best thing for us, it would be for everyone else too.

There was nothing I wanted more than to get away and forget.

He was talking coaxingly. “You see, Angel, how awful it would be for us and our families if it were known. I don’t know what they would do to us. They wouldn’t let us go off scot free. When people are killed there is always trouble. But we mustn’t stay here. What are we going to do? You’re wet through … and so am I. We can’t say we’ve been in the pool. We’ll have to say we were wet through by the sea. Look. It happened this way: You were galloping along the beach. You know how you like to do that. Glory stumbled over a boulder and threw you. You were close to the sea and the waves washed over you. You hurt yourself on a rock. That will account for the blood. You just went over Glory’s head. You lost consciousness for a few seconds. Thank goodness I was with you. That’s how it will have to be. Can you do it?”

“Yes, Ben, I think I can.”

“Then let’s get away from here. The sooner the better.”

He took my hand. I was still trembling.

“You’d better not ride,” he said. “We’ll get you up on Glory and I’ll walk you home.”

He was right. I realized I could not have ridden. There were times when it seemed as though the earth were coming up to meet me and I was shaking all over.

Ben murmured soothingly to me as we walked along. “The thing is not to talk too much about it. Make yourself believe it happened the way we said it did. You can come to believe it. …”

“I’ll never forget it … the way he looked at me. Oh, Ben, it was so horrible.”

“You’ve got to forget it. It doesn’t do any good to go on remembering that sort of thing. We did the best possible thing … the only possible thing … and now we’ve got to forget it and make our story the real one. When the truth is too distressing to contemplate it’s not a bad idea to substitute it with fancy.”

“You’ll be there to help, Ben?”

“I’ll be there.”

“I think I can do it then.”

“Angel,” he said, “you know I love you.”

“Oh really, Ben? I love you, too.”

“When I think of that man … and you … dear innocent Angel … I’m glad I did it.”

“I wish someone else had. I wish he had never escaped out here.”

“It’s no use wishing it away. It won’t go that way. It’s our secret and, dear Angel, you will be all right. It will be better as time passes.”

“I feel very strange, Ben. Everything seems far off.”

“It will be all right.”

He held me firmly. I was hardly aware of the road as we traveled along.

I vaguely remember my mother as she rushed out crying: “What is it? What’s happened?” And Ben replying: “Angelet’s had an accident. Glory threw her.”

“My darling child!”

I was so relieved because my mother was there.

My father came running out, fearful and horrified to see the state I was in.

“We’ll get her to bed quickly,” said my mother. “She’s had an accident … riding.”

“Riding? Riding Glory?”

“I don’t think she’s in a fit state to talk,” said Ben.

My mother took me up to my room. She took off my coat and for a second or two studied it in consternation, and putting my hand in the pocket of my skirt, I felt the ring I had picked up.

“What’s that?” asked my mother.

“Oh … nothing … something I picked up.”

“Never mind that now,” said my mother, and I opened a drawer and put the ring into it, vaguely wondering why I had bothered to pick it up except that I had always been interested in things I found and did it automatically.

“We’ll soon have you comfortable,” said my mother. “You’re soaked to the skin. We’ll get you out of just everything.”

She wrapped me in a blanket and put me into bed. I still could not stop trembling.

“Your father has sent one of the men to get Dr. Barrow,” said my mother.

“I’ll be all right.”

“The doctor is going to have a look at you. You never know when you have a fall like that. I don’t think anything can be broken.”

I lay in my bed. My mother sat beside me and in due course the doctor came.

He examined my head. There was now a vivid bruise on my cheek. “Did you fall on your face?” he asked.

“I … I can’t remember. It is all so confusing.”

“Hm,” he said. “Open your mouth. You’ve bitten yourself, I think. You must have done that as you fell. You’ve got some good bruises.”

I was terrified that what he discovered would not fit in with our story.

“On the beach …” he murmured, looking puzzled.

“I can’t remember much about it. Suddenly I was down …”

He nodded and turned to my mother. “Might be a little concussion. It’s a good thing she fell on soft sand. It’s the shock more than anything else. Keep her warm and I’ll give her a sedative that will ensure a good night’s sleep. Then tomorrow we’ll see.”

A good night’s sleep! I thought: I shall never sleep peacefully again. I shall dream of that awful moment when he had his hands on me … and when he fell down … the trail of blood as we dragged him to the pool … and that moment before he went down when he seemed to stare at me with his dead eyes and the water was pink with his blood.

I knew I could never forget and nothing would ever be the same again.

I did sleep deeply, due to what Dr. Barrow had given me, and when I awoke next morning my head was heavy. I felt dizzy and very hot. Memory came back to me and hung over me like a stifling cloak. I just wanted to get back to blissful forgetfulness.

My mother was alarmed when she saw me and Dr. Barrow was immediately summoned.

It was a blessing in a way. It saved me from too many questions and I believe that if I had had to face them while the incident was fresh in everyone’s mind, I might not have been able to support our story.

I had a cold which, during the next few days, developed into bronchitis and then pneumonia. I was very ill and there was a possibility that I might not recover. I lived through the days in hazy dreams. For a lot of the time I was floating in a strange world. I was not sure where I was. I would see my mother’s face watching me so tenderly that I felt I must get well. Then I would be back at the pool. I would see that face floating on the water and I would cry out “No, no.” Then I would hear my mother’s voice: “It’s all right, darling. I’m here. Everything is all right.”

There was a great deal of activity in the room. Through the haze of unreality I saw Grace Gilmore. She seemed to be there often. Ben came to see me. I was aware of him as he was standing by my bed; and I thought we were at the pool together. I started up.

I heard my mother say: “I don’t think she should have visitors … yet.”

Then they were talking about the crisis. There were many people in the room … faces which swam vaguely before me … voices which came from a long way off. My mother was trying to smile, but I knew she was crying and I thought: I am dying.

And then the fever had gone and everyone was smiling and my mother was bending over the bed and saying: “How are you feeling, darling? You are better. You will soon be well.”

I was like a new person—not a child any more. I had grown up. The world in which I had complacently lived before that day at the pool had evaporated. It was a different place now—a world in which terrible things could happen. The fears of the past had been shadowy … something one only half believed; they were for other people; not for me. I had my parents, my secure home, and nothing could harm me. Ghosts and witches, cruelty and horror, pain and murder, that might happen to other people, but not to me and those around me. They were something to talk about, to frighten oneself about … but with the delicious fear of childhood … when you terrified yourself knowing that mother was close behind and you could run to hide yourself in her skirts and the bogey would go away.

But I had left all that behind now. I had come face to face with horror. I knew a little of what that man would have done to me before he killed me. The awful realization had come to me. It could have happened to me!

My mother would not let me look in the glass for some time, and when I did it was a stranger who looked back at me. Pale and thin, my eyes seeming bigger, but my hair … it was short like a boy’s.

My mother touched it gently. “It will soon grow. And look, it is wavy. We had to cut it off because of your fever.”

I could not stop looking at that face in the mirror. There were secrets there. Those were not the innocent eyes of childhood. They had looked on the fearful realities of life.

I felt older. My illness had changed me. While I had lain there in limbo, I had grown up. I knew now that what we did was the only thing we could have done. Ben had been right. He had killed a man but it was something which had had to be done; the man was a murderer; he would have committed more murders. It was not like killing an ordinary person.

But I had to stop going over it. I had to accept what was done. Ben had said I had to believe what we had said had happened and he was right.

I was feeling better. I was sitting up now.

My mother said: “Watson was down at the quay this morning and found this John Dory. He thought it would be just the thing to tempt you. Mrs. Penlock has done it in a special way. You’d better eat every scrap of it. You know what they are.”

I smiled. I cherished every aspect of normality, of the return to the old days.

I heard my mother whisper to my father: “Better not say anything about the accident. It seems to upset her.”

I was glad of that. I didn’t want to have to talk of it. I did not want to have to lie more than was necessary. That was a great help.

I learned that I had been very ill for three weeks.

“Jack has been so upset,” my mother told me. “He’s been wanting to bring you his train and you know that is his dearest possession. You should have seen the glum faces in the kitchen. Mrs. Penlock is full of ideas as to what she is going to give you to eat. She says she is going to ‘build you up’ as though you are some sort of edifice. You would be the size of a house if she could have her way. We’ve all been so worried … every one of us, and we are so happy now that you are getting well. But don’t think you are going to rush it. You’re going to spend another week in bed; and then we are going to take it very slowly.”

“I must have been very ill.”

She nodded, her lips trembling.

“You thought I was going to die.”

“Pneumonia is very serious … and there was a fever. You seemed to be so disturbed. But it is all over now.”

All over? I thought. It will never be all over. He will always be there … lying at the bottom of the pool.

I said: “How is Ben?”

“Oh, he has gone. He waited to see if you … he waited until he knew you were going to recover. He couldn’t go till then. Well, you know, he was only coming here for a month or so.”

“He didn’t come to say goodbye.”

“No. I didn’t want you to have visitors … and you seemed a little upset when he came.”

“Didn’t I speak to him?”

“No … not really. You muttered something we couldn’t understand … and I said that I thought too many people in the room was not good for you. He went back to London about a week ago. There is a lot to tell you when you are stronger.”

I was feeling a little better every day. Nothing had been discovered then.

How right Ben had been! It had happened. It was over, and we had to forget.

I was very weak and was surprised how tottery I felt when I got out of bed.

“It will take time,” said my mother.

She would sit with me during the afternoons. Sometimes she read to me; at others she sat at her sewing … and we talked.

It was some little time before I could bring myself to say: “Mama, I haven’t heard anything about … that man … that convict who escaped.”

“Oh him. That all died down. They never caught him.”

“What … what do they think happened to him?”

“They think he must have got out of the country.”

“Would he be able to do that?”

“Oh yes, it’s possible. I expect he had friends to help him. There was quite a little bit of news about his background. It was most extraordinary. He was apparently quite a well-educated young man. He had been tutor to a family not far from Bodmin, Launceston way. Crompton … I think was the place. How dreadful to think he had been in charge of children! I think his late employers must be feeling very grateful just now.”

“A tutor,” I murmured.

“Yes … to a young boy about your age. There was a little girl in the family, but I think she had a governess. There was quite a story about them. His employers were astounded. They had always thought so highly of him.”

“You don’t think he might have been … innocent?”

“Oh no … no. No question about that. He was caught red-handed as it were. It was some local village girl.”

I shivered.

“Apparently something suspicious had happened to him before … but it hadn’t been proved. That was a pity. If it had been, that poor girl’s life might have been saved.”

“And he escaped?”

“Yes. He had a knife. They don’t know how he managed to have that. They think it must have been cleverly smuggled in to him. He attacked a warder with it. The poor man was badly hurt and is now slowly recovering. He got keys from him and just calmly walked out of the jail. They traced him to Carradon … not very far from here. Then they lost the trail and he disappeared into the blue.”

Oh no, Mama, I wanted to say. Into the pool.

“It was a nine days’ wonder. I think it is something the authorities would rather forget. But the press won’t let them … not until people get tired of the case. They do of course get tired of reading about chases that go on and on and never get anywhere. It’s rarely mentioned now. They accept the fact that this was one who got away. I think it is almost certain that he left the country.”

There was no need to worry, I thought. He will never be found. Ben is right. We have to forget. We did nothing wrong. He was a man who was going to die in any case and we had made it easier for him.

My mother went on: “Grace has been wonderful. She is more than a seamstress. She is an educated girl. I always think it is hard for those who have been brought up in a genteel family suddenly to be confronted with the need to earn a living. She dressed my hair the other night. She has quite a flair for it. Not that I need a lady’s maid. But when we go to London I always feel I could do with one. And she was wonderful … so wonderful when you were ill.”

“She seems such a pleasant woman.”

“I am so glad we were able to help her. She is so very grateful and can’t do enough for me.”

“It has been a case of casting your bread upon the waters.”

“I am glad to see you remember your Bible,” said my mother, lightly planting a kiss on my forehead.

When Grace came to see me she told me how pleased she was by my recovery.

“Praise be to God, you are on the mend now.”

“Thank you for what you did. My mother said you were very helpful.”

“It was the least I could do after all your kindness to me. I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you have been getting a little better every day.”

“I know I have been very ill.”

“You were indeed … apart from the fever. You seemed so distressed. You kept muttering to yourself. You mentioned the pool once or twice.”

I felt a sharp shock run through me. What had I said when I was delirious?

“Pool …?” I repeated foolishly.

“I suppose it was St Branok. Well, there was talk about it. The usual. People hearing the bells down there. Who ever heard of bells underwater?”

“Have they been saying they heard them … lately?”

“I did hear it mentioned once. Someone was going past at dusk and thought he heard the bells. It’s in their minds, if you ask me.”

“Yes, I expect so. There have always been people fancying they hear the bells.”

I changed the subject. I did not want to talk about the pool; but I was disconcerted that she had noticed my preoccupation with the place.

A few weeks had passed. I was out of my room now. I took walks round the garden. My hair was beginning to grow. It clustered round my head giving me the appearance of a boy; but my mother said she was sure it was growing very fast indeed. Everyone was so pleased when I came downstairs. I rode out with my father who would not let me go alone. Nor did I want to. I did not ride Glory now. She was in disgrace, poor creature, having been accused of throwing me. I muttered an apology to her and would have preferred to ride her, but they insisted that I did not. My father was anxious that I should not be overtired; so the rides were short.

There was news from London.

“They have all been so upset by your illness,” my mother told me. “Your Aunt Amaryllis has not let a week go by without writing. She is so delighted that you are getting better and always sends love and good wishes from them all.”

“Dear Aunt Amaryllis,” I said. “She is so good to everyone.”

“My mother always used to say that she sailed through life quite unaware of evil and therefore evil passed over her; and she never saw it even when it was very close to her.”

“It is a good way to live. But then if you don’t see evil how can you avoid it?”

“It is true. But Amaryllis is so good herself that she thinks everyone else is the same. So she sees no evil, hears no evil and speaks no evil. Therefore for her it does not exist.”

“It is wonderful for her but everyone cannot be like that.”

I wondered what she would have thought if she had been confronted by a murderer as I was at St Branok Pool.

Everything came back to that. I must stop myself brooding on it. I had to remember Ben’s instructions. “Tell yourself you fell from your horse when you were riding along the shore. Make yourself believe it.” But I could not make myself believe something which did not happen. Even Aunt Amaryllis would not have been able to do that.

My mother came to my bedroom. I had to rest in the afternoon—doctor’s orders—although it was not necessary to sleep unless I wanted to. My mother used to sit with me.

It was one of those occasions when she brought Aunt Amaryllis’ letter to read to me.

“Dear Annora,” she had written:

We are all so absolutely delighted that Angelet is recovering so well. Poor darling, what an ordeal for her. But she is young and healthy and I am sure will soon be quite well. We are longing to see her … and you all, of course. I was thinking that when she is a little stronger, Angelet might like to come up to London and stay for a while. It is not in the country, of course, but a change is always good. Do think about it. We’d love to have her … and you, of course. Peter joins in my good wishes and says he hopes Angelet will come to see us. He always had a soft spot for her, you know. He says she reminds him of Jessica of whom he was really very fond.

Benedict has left us, so we are missing him rather. Such a lively young man!

My mother smiled thinking, I was sure, how like Amaryllis it was to take the result of her husband’s youthful indiscretion to her heart.

He did enjoy his stay with you, but he was so upset about Angelet’s accident and illness. I gathered he was the one who was with her when it happened and that he brought her home. He seemed really unhappy about it, and he hated talking of it. It seemed to upset him.

Although he enjoyed being with you, I don’t think he wants to go into estate management. Peter thinks it would be too quiet a life for him. What do you think? He’s gone back to Australia. He has a project. You may not have heard of all the excitement there has been about the discovery of gold in Australia. Well, Benedict has gone back to find gold. He expects to come back a rich man.

Peter didn’t really want him to go. After all, he has only just found him, but he did not want to stand in his way. He said it was just the sort of thing he would have wanted to do himself when he was young. Peter thinks the chance of making a fortune from the Australian goldfields is a remote possibility—as all the good stuff must have been found long ago, but he thinks it will be good for the boy to have a try. He said he would regret it all his life if he didn’t go. He would imagine he had lost opportunities. So he has gone out there and we now await the return of the golden millionaire.

I suppose he is almost there by now. Benedict does not let the grass grow under his feet. Peter says he reminds him of himself when he was young—which is rather nice.

Well, don’t forget. We should be delighted to see Angelet and you in London to stay for a while. I am sure it would do her good.

With much love, Amaryllis

So Ben had gone away to a new country. I supposed that was the best way of forgetting. I felt a tinge of resentment, as though the burden of our secret had been left to me to bear. That was foolish. He had to make his fortune. He would come back.

And then I shall see him again, I thought. In the meantime I must keep our secret.

We did not go to London that year. I know my mother was very worried about me. I had changed so completely. The impulsive, rather garrulous girl had become a quiet, secretive one. It must have seemed strange that my illness should have changed my character. Sometimes I was on the verge of confessing for if they only knew what had happened to me they would understand.

But I was resilient and ebullient by nature and I gradually found myself forgetting my secret for long periods at a time. Then I would have a dream or something would remind me and memories would come back to me and I would revert once more to the quiet withdrawn girl.

I knew they were puzzled and was deeply touched by their concern for me.

Mrs. Penlock tut-tutted at the sight of me. “A beanpole, that’s what you are, Miss Angel. You want to get a bit of flesh on them bones of yours. I could make you a beautiful taddage pie. That’ud put some life into you, that would.”

I used to enjoy her taddage pies, made with young suckling pigs; but I had no desire for them now. She was always trying as she would say “to tempt me,” as though food was the cure for all ailments.

They were all very kind to me and when they saw my spirits lifted were so obviously pleased that I felt I must cast off my melancholy to please them.

In any case I was coming to terms with it.

We were getting very friendly with the Pencarrons who owned the tin mine close to the moor. They were a very old Cornish family and had originally come from somewhere near Land’s End. They had owned a mine there which had been worked out and that was why they had come to our neighborhood. They had acquired the mine which was now known as Pencarron Mine, and their house was Pencarron Manor. Since they had arrived some ten years before, they had become part of the community.

Morwenna was a quiet girl, rather serious; she suited my mood at that time; she did not ask questions and although she was a year older than I she would follow me. She was very good-natured and hardly ever ruffled her governess. Miss Derry was friendly with Miss Prentiss and they took pleasure in comparing their pupils. I was sure I suffered in the comparison.

Morwenna was a great help to me at that time. She was so undemanding. We used to ride together round the paddock. My mother did not want me to go out without her or my father, or at least a groom; that made me restive, but I was too listless to protest at that time.

One day my mother and I rode over to the Pencarrons’ to have lunch with the family—a fairly frequent occurrence. We were passing through the town as my mother wished to call on one of the old ladies in East Poldorey to take her some wools for her tapestry which my mother would have to buy when it was finished. We had quite a stack of this kind of work in one of the store rooms. My mother felt in duty bound to buy the wools and silks and then the finished product.

As we rode through the town young John Gort came running up to us. His grandfather, Jack Gort, had been one of the leading fishermen of his day and he was still to be seen on the quay supervising the family as to the best way of conducting the business they had inherited from him.

Young John looked rather anxious.

“What is it?” asked my mother.

“I’ve just been wondering, me lady,” he stammered, “about that there boat by the old boathouse.”

“Oh?” said my mother. “Why?”

“Well, ’tas been there for years and ’as no one wanted it like … I thought as how … if no one wanted it like … I thought as how …”

“You want it?” said my mother.

“Well, seeing as ’ow it ain’t used like.”

“You take it, John.”

“Oh, thank ’ee, me lady.”

He darted off.

“Do you know that old boat he was talking about?” asked my mother.

“I think I’ve seen an old one there at some time.”

“Well, he might as well make use of it then.”

And we rode on to Pencarron.

Grace Gilmore was often in my company. She was always pleased to do something for me. She would kneel at my feet, pins between her lips, turning up a hem, or make me stand on a chair to assure herself that she had got the length absolutely right; and I always had the impression that she was particularly interested in me—as indeed I was in her.

I was beginning to feel better. I was quite enjoying Mrs. Penlock’s muggety and lamby pies. My hair was growing. It was down to my shoulders, long enough to tie back with a ribbon. I no longer looked like a wraith. I was laughing more frequently and indulging in those daydreams in which I had played the central and heroic part. I was returning to normal.

I had not been to the pool since it happened and it was beginning to seem like a bad dream. Benedict had gone right out of my life. I was hurt about his going. I remembered vividly how he had said to me so vehemently, “I love you, Angel,” and I had replied that I loved him, too. And now he was on the other side of the world and perhaps I should never see him again. I should have thought he was running away from our terrible secret, but I could not believe that Benedict would ever run away from anything. No, he had gone to find gold … like the men in the story of the old Scat Bal. But I was left where it had all happened.

They were less careful of me now. I used to go off on my own. I even rode Glory again. She seemed glad to have me back. Horses are very intelligent and I wondered whether she knew she had been disgraced and wrongly accused.

“It had to be, Glory,” I whispered to her. “It was all part of the secret.” She seemed as though she understood. After all, she had seen it happen.

I must not think of it.

It was gone. It was past. It wasn’t the same as killing an ordinary man. I kept telling myself that he had been going to die in any case … far more horribly. It had just happened more quickly and easily than it would in the hands of the law. How often had I gone over and over that point.

One day, when my thoughts were running on these lines, I felt I had to exorcise the ghost which was haunting me. I had to go back to the pool. I had to see it again. I had to convince myself that I was cured of my guilt. I kept telling myself that I was not to blame. I would have been the victim. I had just helped to keep his death a secret and that had been the right thing to do. But I had to go to the pool. I had to convince myself that I was not afraid of it any more.

I rode over there. It was less than a mile from the house. I wanted to turn back but I would not allow myself to do so. I rode through the trees and there it was … glittering in the sunshine … still mysterious … just as it had been on that dreadful day.

I dismounted and tethered Glory to the same bush as I had on that other occasion.

I patted her head, wondering if she remembered. “Don’t fret,” I said, “I’ve just got to do this. It won’t be anything like that other time. And then we’ll think nothing of coming here.”

I walked down to the edge of the pool and stared into the still water. There were weeping willows hanging over it and some bedraggled-looking plant-life floated on the surface of the water. I wondered how many secrets besides mine it was hiding.

I continued to look into the water, fearing to see his face again. It was greenish brown, but now there was no trace of the pink which had once colored it.

I strained my ears. I half fancied I could hear the tinkle of bells—but it was the faint breeze ruffling the trees. How easy it was to fancy one heard music.

I closed my eyes trying to wipe out memories. I had been foolish to come. Oh no. This was the way to be reasonable. To say to oneself: There was nothing wrong about it. Ben had to do what he did. We both had to.

I opened my eyes. Silence and then … what it was, I was not sure, but I guessed I was not alone. I just felt a presence. I stood very still looking at the water. The movement came from behind. Someone was standing close to me.

I half expected to see him there … his ghost risen from the waters of the pool.

I turned sharply.

“Grace!” I cried in immense relief. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you, Miss Angelet? I saw you standing by the water, so quiet and still. I wondered if you could hear the bells.”

Relief swept over me. It was only Grace … not some grisly ghost … the murderer resurrected from the dead.

“I … I was just looking at the pool,” I said.

“You are very interested in the pool,” she replied.

“I suppose it is because of the bells. I’ve always been interested in things like that.”

She came close and looked at me intently.

“You talked of it … when you were ill. But come away. It’s damp and cold … an unhealthy place.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

I noticed that there was a baffled look on her face and I wondered what she was thinking. There was something eerie about the situation … the two of us standing there, as though we were both hiding something.

I said: “Did you walk here?”

“Yes. Then I saw you at the pool and I wondered what you were doing. I thought it might be damp and you’d catch a cold.”

I walked back to Glory, Grace beside me.

“You’ll go straight home, I suppose,” she said.

I nodded. “You too?”

“Yes. I must finish that petticoat for your mother.”

I mounted Glory and rode away.

I was glad I had been to the pool. I felt better after it. It was no longer a place to avoid. I was growing away from my memories. I no longer had to tell myself we were not to blame. I knew we were not. All we did was what had to be done and it was what was best in the circumstances. I should come to the pool again and again and next time I should not try to recall. I should simply forget.

When I look back I think it was rather strange how Grace Gilmore had become almost a member of the family. I liked to be with her. She intrigued me. I felt there was a part of her which I did not know. Subconsciously I wanted to find out about her; I think that was why she was rather exciting to me.

I talked to Morwenna Pencarron about her. “What do you think of Grace?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s very nice.” Most people were “very nice” in Morwenna’s opinion. She reminded me a little of Aunt Amaryllis.

“But do you think there is something different about her?” I persisted. “She doesn’t talk much about her past. Do you know where she comes from?”

“She comes from somewhere near Devon.”

“I know. But she never really talks.”

It was no use trying to explain to Morwenna.

My mother encouraged our friendship because she liked someone to be in charge of me when I went out; she knew my spirit and did not want to restrict it, but since what she thought of as my fall, she did like me to be in the company of an adult. In London I should never have been allowed to go out alone; but here, where everyone knew each other, it seemed safe. I had discovered that this was not always so.

So if Miss Prentiss or Miss Derry did not accompany us, it was usually Grace.

One day we went to the fair with her, Morwenna, Jack and I. I had always loved the fair. There were several of them—they were annual occasions, and the best of all was St Matthew’s Fair which was held on the first of October.

It was so full of life. People from the surrounding villages merged onto the place. There was noise and bustle everywhere. The horse and cattle dealers were there; one heard the continual lowing of cows and the grunting of pigs. There they would be in their pens while the fanners leaned over the rails and poked the pigs with sticks to see how fat they were and cast shrewd eyes over the lambs, the cows, the bullocks. But what I liked best were the stalls with their goods for sale: comfits, fairings, china jugs, cups and saucers, teapots, farm implements, clothing, saddles, ribbons, dresses, boots and shoes, pots and pans and even cloam ovens; and all the traders shouting their wares. Then there was the food; the constant smell of roasting meat, bread, potatoes in their jackets, sugar animals, hearts in pink sugary sweets with “I Love You” on them. There were the peep shows and the puppets, the marionettes, the dwarves, the fat woman, the bearded lady and the strong man; and of course the gypsies who would tell your fortune.

On this occasion Miss Prentiss had a headache and my mother asked Grace Gilmore if she would take us so that we should not be disappointed. She accepted with alacrity, and we set off.

We had a wonderful time roaming among the stalls. We visited two of the shows and marveled at the rippling muscles of the strong man and tried our hand at the hoopla; we bought slabs of hot gingerbread, eating it as we went along, which Grace was not sure we should have been allowed to do.

Jack assured her that people could do things at a fair which they could not do elsewhere. He was more excited than Morwenna and I were. I suppose we were a little blasé.

Fiddlers were playing and several people were dancing.

“The most exciting part is when it gets dark,” I said, “and then they light the flares.”

“Your mother will want you home long before that,” Grace told us.

“I should like to have my fortune told,” said Morwenna. “Ginny, our parlormaid, had hers told at Summercourt Fair. She is going to marry a rich man and travel overseas. It was a wonderful fortune.”

“How can they tell?” asked Jack.

“They can see into the future … and into the past,” Morwenna replied. “They can see all you’ve done. It’s all clear to them. It’s all in your hand, particularly if you’ve done something wicked. That’s easiest to see.”

Jack looked uneasy, but Morwenna clasped her hands and said: “Oh, I wish we could.”

I thought: It’s all very well for you. You have never done anything except cheat at lessons a bit … copying out something from a book which you’re supposed to know … taking a jam tart from the kitchen when the cook’s back is turned and saying you didn’t. Little sins … nothing like killing a man and hiding his body.

The pleasure of the fair had gone. That was how it was. Memory came up suddenly … as that man had come to the pool … and the pleasure in the day was spoilt.

I was glad when Grace said there was no time to have our fortunes told. She said: “We must start for home now.”

And we left the fair. As we walked away the sound of the fiddlers grew fainter but we could hear them singing:

Come lasses and lads

Get leave of your dads

And away to the maypole hie

For every he has got him a she

And a fiddler standing by …

Jack was disappointed at leaving the fair. He had expressed his displeasure and demanded to know why we could not stay. Grace explained that we must get back before dark. Jack never sulked for long and in a few minutes he was himself again. He had a very lovable nature.

The gypsy was sitting by the side of the road. She had a basket full of clothes pegs beside her and I was not sure whether she was coming from or going to the fair.

“Good day to ’ee, ladies and little gent,” she said.

“Good day,” we replied.

“How would you like the gypsy to give you a nice fortune?”

I heard Morwenna murmur: “Oh yes. Oh, Miss Gilmore, may I?”

Grace hesitated, but Morwenna turned such a happy face to her that she was unable to resist.

“All right then, dear. But we mustn’t stay long.”

“Cross the gypsy’s hand in silver,” said the woman.

Morwenna drew back. “Oh … I don’t think I have enough.” She produced some coins.

“Well, seeing as you be such a nice little lady, I’ll take what you’ve got. Wouldn’t want to disappoint a little love like you.”

Morwenna dimpled prettily and held out her hand.

“Oh, I see a long and happy life. You’re going to have great good fortune, you are. You’re going up to London to see the Queen … when you’re a little older, that is … and there you are going to find a rich husband and live happy ever after.”

It seemed very little for all the money Morwenna had left; and I knew she had wanted to buy a pink sugar mouse and had hesitated because she had thought it too costly. It was very likely that Morwenna might go up to London for a season when she grew older and the object would be to find a suitable husband for her.

She turned to me. “And you, me ’andsome. There’s a nice fortune for ’ee, I can see.”

She had taken my hand. I was terribly afraid. Was it written there? Was she seeing the pool and that inert body … those eyes staring at us as the head disappeared?

“Naught to be frightened at, lovey. ’Tis all fair and smiling for a little lass like you. You’re going to London, too. Perhaps you’ll go with your little …” She was trying to decide on our relationship and added: “… little companion.” Then I felt that if she didn’t know who Morwenna was she would not know about the pool.

Now she turned her attention to Grace.

“Life writes as it goes along,” she said. “There’ll be more to be seen, little lady, when you be a few years older. And now, my lady, it be your turn.” She had taken Grace’s hand.

“No,” said Grace, “I don’t think …”

The gypsy was looking at her intently. “Oh, there be trouble ’ere … deep sorrow …” Grace had turned pale. The woman went on: “I can see water … water between you and what you desire …”

I felt myself go limp with apprehension. It was clear to me that she had thought the fortunes of young girls—as she regarded Morwenna and me—were not worth telling. Little did she know! I had a vague idea how this fortune-telling was done. There was a good deal of chance in it, I had no doubt, but I did believe that flashes of truth occasionally emerged; and if something really violent had happened … it might be possible to detect it. I felt that she may have seen something in my hand which she could not explain. Who would have thought that a girl of my age could be involved in such an experience; and she was transferring it to Grace.

“You will be strong,” she was saying. “You will overcome.”

The gypsy seemed a little shaken. Her eyes were fixed on Grace’s face.

Grace withdrew her hand. “Well … thank you …”

“It’s trouble … trouble … but nature made you strong. You will overcome. All will be well. You’ll find happiness in the end.”

Grace opened her purse and gave the woman money.

“Come on,” she said. “We shall be late back and that will not do.”

The gypsy was silent. She slipped the money into her pocket and sat down.

We walked away.

“We should never have stopped,” said Grace. “It was a lot of nonsense.”

“It cost a lot of money,” commented Jack. “You could have bought six slices of gingerbread and a pink pig with what you gave her.”

“It was rather silly of us,” admitted Grace. Her voice was cold and her face looked different somehow.

She might say it was a lot of nonsense but I believed the gypsy had frightened her.

I looked over my shoulder. The woman was still seated by the side of the road staring after us.

I told my mother of the encounter.

“She promised Morwenna and me that we should go to London and find rich husbands.”

“You’ll have to go up for a season, but that’s some time away. And as to the rich husband … we’ll have to wait and see.”

“I think she rather upset Miss Gilmore. She talked about some trouble.”

“One doesn’t take any notice of them.”

“Not unless they tell you something nice.”

“That’s the idea,” said my mother, smiling. “By the way, soon we shall be going to London. I’ve been talking to Grace about new clothes. She says she could make them. I wonder if she could. One doesn’t want to look countrified. What passes here might look a little dowdy in London. But I thought we might give her a try with the blue linen. It’s just the color for you.”

Grace was very anxious to try with the linen. She came to my room with some patterns which she wanted to discuss with me, and she had the blue linen with her.

She said: “I thought we’d have a little piping round the sleeves … as it is in this pattern. Don’t you think that would look nice? I think a lightish brown … very light … would look effective.”

“Yes, perhaps,” I said. “I have a scarf which I think would be just the right color to match up with the blue. It will be in that drawer behind you.”

“May I?” she said, opening the drawer.

There was a short silence. She was staring at something in the drawer. She picked up the ring I had found at the pool. I had put it there when I came home and forgotten all about it.

“This gold ring …”she said. “Is it yours?”

I felt uneasiness gripping me as it always did when there was any reference to that day.

“Oh …” I stammered. I held out my hand for the ring. “I … I found it.”

“Found it? Where?”

“It … was when I had my accident. I remember it now. I picked it up without thinking.”

“On the beach?”

I did not answer. I ruffled my brows as though trying to remember … although I recalled perfectly well every detail of that fearful time.

“What? When you fell?”

“Y-yes … it must have been. I fell … and there was the ring.”

“On the beach,” she repeated. “And you picked it up then. Why?”

“I don’t know. I always pick up things. I suppose I do it without thinking … It’s difficult to remember … I must have seen the ring and picked it up and put it in my pocket.”

“It’s rather a nice one,” she said. “It is gold, I think. What are you going to do with it?”

“Oh … nothing.”

“You didn’t think of returning it to its owner.”

“I don’t know whose it is. I shouldn’t think any of the fishermen have a ring and it wouldn’t be theirs because they don’t come to that part of the beach. It might have been there a long time. Some visitor lost it I expect and it’s so long ago they’ve forgotten about it.”

“If you don’t want it … may I have it?”

“Of course.”

She slipped it onto the first finger of her right hand.

“This is the only one it fits,” she said.

I found the scarf and we set it side by side with the blue linen. But I was not really attending. It was incidents like that which shook me terribly and brought it all back to my memory.

Miss Gilmore seemed a little absent-minded too.

Grace Gilmore was quite a good horsewoman. My mother was constantly urging her to accompany me when I went riding.

“Angelet is so independent,” I heard her say. “She does love to ride off on her own. But I’d rather someone was with her.”

Grace Gilmore was nothing loath. There was little she seemed to like better than regarding herself as a member of the family.

We were riding along the beach one day when we came close to the boathouse. She pulled up suddenly.

“It must have been somewhere near here where you found the ring,” she said.

I nodded. I hated telling a lie, but it was necessary.

She was looking along the shore, past the boathouse to where the harbor was just visible. She took off the ring.

“Look at these initials inside it,” she said. “Did you notice?”

“No. I didn’t look at it … much. I just picked it up.”

“You weren’t in a fit state to examine it closely, I suppose.”

“No. I don’t know why I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Just force of habit, I expect. I wasn’t really thinking of it.”

“No, you wouldn’t at such a time. Do you see what the initials are?”

She handed me the ring. Engraved inside were the initials M.D. and W.B.

“I wonder who they are,” I said.

She took the ring from me. What a fool I had been to pick it up. If I tried to return it the people would want to know where I found it. It might well be that the owner of the ring had never been near the sea. Ben had talked of clues. This could be one of those. I wished that Grace had never found it. I would have thrown it away if I had remembered. I should have remembered. When one practiced deceit one had to be careful. Her next words made me shiver.

“Those initials M.D. What was the name of that man who escaped from Bodmin Jail?”

“I … er … I don’t remember.”

“It was Mervyn Duncarry, I’m sure. M.D. You see?”

“There could be lots of people with those initials.”

“He must have been here … on this beach. I feel certain it is his ring.”

“And who is W.B.?”

“Some woman I suppose who was fool enough to love him.”

She held the ring in the palm of her hand and then suddenly she flung it into the sea.

“I couldn’t wear the ring of a murderer, could I?”

“No,” I said vehemently, “of course you could not.”

She could not guess how relieved I was to see the end of that ring. It was what I had begun to see as a piece of incriminating evidence.