A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (23 page)

I moved around the table and peered more closely. “See all the pleats in her gown? And the pattern of the bodice, and the ruffles and layers in her sleeves!” I marvelled. “I mean, you seldom get such a well-dressed lady to adorn the front of a ship! Look at her fingers!” I said, pointing to the left hand, which was raised across her body and rested just beneath her throat. The other arm hung close by her side, with the hand clasping a wide-brimmed hat, so cleverly sculpted that it just
looked
like a silk hat made to match her dress.

I stepped back now, for an overall view. “I think this is actually solid mahogany. It means somebody spent a lot of time and money on it,” I concluded. “And this image is so realistic. It seems more like a commissioned sculpture, like a portrait.”

Jeremy had been listening attentively, but now he went into the parlor and began busily tapping away at his computer. I have learned to stand back whenever he’s on the cyber-trail of something important, for he has an uncanny ability to make connections with unexpected combinations of keywords, to track down whatever he’s after.

When he grunted, I peered over his shoulder. On the screen were rows of thumbnail-sized images of nineteenth-century mastheads, which Jeremy was rapidly scrolling through. Suddenly he stopped, double-clicked on a picture that filled the screen, and then he compared it to one of the photos he’d taken of our masthead.

“Look at this,” he said triumphantly. “It’s a perfect match, right? Which means our masthead is from”—he clacked a bit more on his computer—“a clipper ship. It’s from the mid-1800s, just like you said. It was called
La Paloma
.”

I stared at the drawing of an elegant ship with many sails. Jeremy reported, “It says here the ship wrecked on its maiden voyage from where it was built, in Genoa. It sailed past Gibraltar but hit a storm somewhere off the Cornish coast where it foundered and split on the rocks. The owner was a man named Prescott Doyle of . . . Port St. Francis!” Jeremy exclaimed.

“Hey. I’ll bet there’s something about this ship in the maritime museum!” I exclaimed. “Remember, the one in my guidebook that I wanted us to go see? They’ve got a whole section devoted to shipwrecks. Why don’t we drive out there and take a look after lunch?”

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow flitting in the driveway. I turned my head, thinking it might be a deer coming to nibble at our garden; then I realized that it was a male figure, moving stealthily closer.

“There’s a strange man in the front yard!” I exclaimed. My stomach clutched with fear at the idea that whoever had run us off the road had followed us here to finish the job. Jeremy must have been thinking along the same lines, because he picked up the biggest kitchen knife. Together, we hovered near the window watchfully. As the man drew closer, we could finally see his face.

“Rollo,” we both said together. Jeremy shook his head, and I opened the front door, stepped out and waved to him. Rollo glanced up, as if he’d been uncertain as to whether he had the right house. Upon seeing me, he flashed a relieved grin.

“Greetings!” he said. He was holding a suitcase. “Just arrived a few hours ago. Whew! What an infernally long drive. That farmer fellow Geoffrey met me in town so I could follow him to the farm, and then he introduced me to his little hippie wife.”

I couldn’t imagine what our New Age hosts would think of Rollo, and vice versa. People are usually instinctively wary at the mere sight of Rollo; for, despite his basic good taste when it comes to clothes and antiques, he has a tendency to always look a bit rumpled, as if he’s slept in his suit overnight on a park bench.

Today, for instance, he had not shaved yet, and the dark stubble gave him a roguish air, as if he’d been at the roulette table all night somewhere. Which was not entirely inconceivable, either.

“Didn’t they show you the other cottage Shannon picked out for you?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, yes, the girl had a perfectly awful hut in mind for me,” Rollo explained, lounging in the doorway. “Penny darling, you could hardly call it a cottage. Damned thing is a mere shed, with one of those wretched gas tanks that goes
poof!
every blasted time you turn on the hot water or the stove. I simply can’t stay there, my dear girl. Just won’t cut the mustard, it’s far too rustic. And that cheeky gal actually asked me if I’d like to pitch in and help with the farming and the lambing! Fancy that,
me
shearing sheep! Does she actually expect me to earn my keep?”

I could just imagine Shannon, in all seriousness, inviting Rollo to take part in the farming that she loved so much. I explained to Rollo that Geoff and Shannon believed that everyone should learn about farming, in order to appreciate the food they eat.

“Humph. Always had the utmost respect for those who till the soil. But, really now. Enough is enough. I put her right straight about that one,” Rollo concluded. “I say, shall we have a spot of lunch together?” he inquired as we headed into the parlor.

I grinned at him. But Jeremy motioned to me to hang back so that he could whisper warningly to me, “If Rollo actually thinks he’s going to sleep on our sofa here, you’d better disabuse him of that notion straight away.”

“Take it easy,” I advised. “When we go into town this afternoon to check out that maritime museum we can try to find him other accommodations.”

“You know there aren’t any other accommodations,” Jeremy reminded me. “Let’s not roast that old chestnut. Rollo is lucky to have gotten any kind of ‘private hut’ on such short notice.”

“Look, he can stay here with us for a couple of days,” I suggested. “If he even lasts that long. You know how easily he gets bored.”

“Whoo-hah!” Rollo shouted suddenly from the kitchen. “Good God!” A silence followed. Then he returned to the doorway, wide-eyed.

“You failed to introduce me to your
other
houseguest, Penny dear,” Rollo said, clutching his chest dramatically as he gestured toward the masthead lying on the kitchen table. “Gave me an awful fright! Thought she was a corpse and you were performing an autopsy. What’s it all about?”

We lugged the Great Lady into an empty closet. Then over lunch, we informed Rollo of our noble mission to find some historic value to Grandmother Beryl’s house and the property around it. I even told him about H.R.H., so Rollo understood that we weren’t just going off half-cocked out of sentimentality about the house. The funny thing about Rollo is that you can’t trust him on ordinary matters—he’ll steal a cigarette or an antique trinket—but on huge matters like the cases that Jeremy and I work on, Rollo has proved himself an invaluable, trustworthy agent.

At least, so far.

So, when I suggested he accompany us into town to try to find out anything about Lady Mascot’s real identity, he perked up and said, “Delighted, my dear. She does rather look vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve heard of her somehow.”

Rollo and I headed for the car while Jeremy printed out extra copies of his best photo of Miss Paloma.

“Nice to be back in the saddle again,” Rollo said with a lopsided smile. Jeremy joined us now, and we all climbed into the Dragonetta and headed for town.

O
nce we got into Port St. Francis, we decided to split up so we could cover more ground in our search for the story of the Great Lady. I went to the library to dig out all I could about the masthead; Jeremy went straight to the maritime museum, which was a few miles outside of town; and Rollo . . . well, he followed his nose, doing what he does best—ducking into dark or dubious places where Jeremy and I would never think to go and would in any case stick out like sore thumbs.

At five o’clock, as pre-arranged, Jeremy and I met up on the large outdoor deck at the back of Toby Taylor’s restaurant, where drinks and finger food were served for a cocktail hour before dinner. It was so noisy and busy that we could speak without anyone around us caring about what we were saying.

Rollo arrived, out of breath and smelling faintly of beer. “Bit hungry after all this research!” he said, settling himself in a chair and signalling the waiter for a drink. Jeremy gave him a skeptical look, but ordered a platter of appetizers. Rollo surveyed the view appreciatively, for the sun was slowly setting, and the boats were coming into the harbor below, with hungry seagulls cawing and dipping for their own appetizers.

I was bursting to tell Jeremy what I’d found out, for I was sure I’d made the most astonishing find of the day. Now that Rollo had finally arrived, I plunged right in.

“You know the guy who built the ship that our masthead came from? Prescott Doyle? Well, not only is he from Port St. Francis, but he just happens to be the former owner of Grandmother Beryl’s house!” I exclaimed. “Can you believe it? This was
after
The Earl’s Players lived there, of course.”

I opened my portfolio to get the pages I’d copied. “In the late 1700s,” I went on, “the earl sold the house to a shipping magnate named Jonathan Doyle. When Jonathan died, the house was inherited by his only child—our Prescott Doyle. And it belonged to Doyle’s relatives until, lo and behold, Grandmother Beryl’s dad bought it in the late 1800s.”

“Did the masthead come with it?” Jeremy inquired.

“Nope,” I said emphatically. “The masthead was retrieved from the shipwreck and given to the Port St. Francis library. But later, there was an auction, and Grandmother Beryl’s father bought it! They had a little story about this in an old edition of the local paper. Look.”

I spread out the copy I’d made at the library from a feature story about the auction:

 

“Thaddeus Laidley!” I repeated, pointing at the name on the page. “My great-grandfather! He’s the father of Great-Aunt Penelope, Grandmother Beryl and Great-Uncle Roland. No wonder they got their little mitts on it! Do you suppose their dad just gave it to them?”

“Maybe the masthead was a lousy scarecrow,” Rollo joked. “Maybe the crows shat on it.”

“Well, in any case, that’s my report,” I said.

“Great! Now it’s my turn,” Jeremy said eagerly. “I found out all about the ship—and the woman who inspired it! Her name was Paloma Manera. She was known as ‘the Spanish songbird’, although she was actually born in Madeira, an island which is technically Portuguese territory. Anyway, she was a world-famous performer, who ‘took Europe by storm’ as they say, with an opera company from Madrid that also toured the English countryside,” he explained, reading from the notes he’d taken at the exhibit. “The guy at the museum told me that Paloma’s company showed up in Port St. Francis one summer, and performed at the theatre where Harriet and her club have an office now.”

“Oh!” I cried, picturing the elegant soprano on that wonderful old stage.

“They say that Prescott fell hopelessly in love with Paloma ‘at the very first note that he heard her sing’,” Jeremy continued. “According to the museum guy, Prescott chased her all around the globe, courting her until she finally agreed to marry him. Prescott designed and commissioned the ship,
La Paloma
, as a luxury honeymoon yacht for her. It could carry two hundred fifteen passengers!”

“I wouldn’t want two hundred fifteen people aboard on
my
honeymoon,” Rollo commented. I nodded.

“I saw some of the design drawings of the interior of the ship, in the museum.” Jeremy went on. “Incredible.
La Paloma
was constructed in Italy, using the very finest materials. There was an actual theatre aboard, so that Paloma could sing for their guests. The masthead was just one of many fancy pieces on this luxury yacht-to-beat-all-yachts.”

“Doyle must have been incredibly wealthy,” I commented. “And hopelessly in love!”

“Yeah, the guy spared no expense. Linens, lace, clothing—everything a bride could want. He even hired a French chef to cook aboard, and brought on an orchestra to play for their wedding day,” Jeremy replied. “So,” he intoned dramatically, “a week before the wedding, the ship sailed out of Genoa for Cornwall, with all those hired people aboard. But a storm drove it against the rocks, and everybody—crew, musicians, chef—perished . . . including Prescott Doyle.”

I gasped. “What about Paloma?” I asked. “Was she aboard?”

“No, she was finishing up her tour on the continent,” Jeremy explained. “When she got the news, she retreated in shock to her villa on the island of Madeira, and she never performed publicly again. She lived there the rest of her life, as pretty much a recluse, and she died there. The villa still exists. It’s a music museum that hosts an annual classical concert every year.”

We all fell silent for a moment. Jeremy signalled to a waiter for the check.

Then Rollo cleared his throat. “Well, I must say all of what you’ve both reported certainly tracks with what the earl told me,” he announced. I nearly fell off my chair.

“The
earl
!” I exclaimed. “You talked to the earl?” Rollo nodded sagely.

“Where?” Jeremy asked warily. “Did he invite you into his manor house for tea?”

“Not necessary, old boy,” Rollo said. “I nearly tripped over him down at the old Red Rooster Tavern.”

I recalled seeing the painted sign down by the docks for a rather sorry-looking dive that might attract sailors, drunks, Rollo . . . and the earl?

“Man has a terrible stutter,” Rollo said, “but he likes his ale, and he likes to make a sporting wager on a game of darts. He’s a good player,” Rollo admitted ruefully. “Emptied my pockets! Once he started winning, he stopped stuttering—and he talked up a storm. When I showed him the photo of the masthead he really got going. I say, Jeremy, couldn’t we have a bit more to eat and drink?”