Mrs. Trevoy nodded. “Served ‘em right,” she went on, her ruby-red lips pursed censoriously. “Stole His Grace’s yacht, didn’t they? And that rubbishy noise they called music ...” Mrs. Trevoy rolled her eyes. “Enough to make you spew. Bit of a to-do when it happened. News-men thick as fleas on a dog’s fanny. One of the cheeky buggers wanted to stop here for the night, but I sent him on his way. My sister-in-law lives in Penford’Harbor, and what Gladys don’t know about human nature would fill a fly’s pisspot. If she says His Grace is a nice boy, that’s good enough for me.” Straightening, Mrs. Trevoy plucked, at the ruffles on her apron. “But that’s all over now. Well, it’s been five years, hasn’t it? Story’s as old as last week’s fish, and twice as rotten. More eggs, dear?” Smiling weakly, Emma, declined, and Mrs. Trevoy tiptoed from the room, casting motherly smiles on the young couple at the other table.
Emma stared out of the window. No wonder Penford Hall had sounded so familiar. Richard had been one of Lex Rex’s biggest fans. And probably his oldest. Richard had plastered his studio with the rock singer’s lurid photographs, watched and rewatched the videos, cranking up the sound to such ear-splitting levels that Emma had fled to her garden for respite. Richard had followed Lex’s meteoric rise and been devastated by his death. He’d talked of the yachting accident for weeks, mourning the loss as though the world had been deprived of a young Mozart.
In Emma’s personal opinion, the loss of Lex Rex had been a major victory in the battle against noise pollution. Still, she had to admit that she was intrigued. There was the spice of scandal surrounding the rock singer’s death, and a certain shivery fascination at the prospect of seeing the actual spot where the yacht had gone down. Glancing at the honeymooners, Emma couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit smug at the thought that, but for the fairy princess, Richard could have seen it, too. Perhaps she would send the happy pair a postcard from Penford Hall, to show that there were no hard feelings.
But first she had to get there. None of her travel brochures had mentioned Penford Hall, nor could she find it in any of her guidebooks. The only proof she had of its existence was the vicar’s out-of-date map, with his spidery X and the words “Penford Hall” written in his elegant, old-fashioned hand. Emma took the vicar’s map from her shoulder bag and opened it gingerly.
There was the X, almost on top of the fishing village of Penford Harbor, where Mrs. Trevoy’s insightful sister-in-law currently resided. A single road gave access to the coast at that point, a narrow, “unimproved” lane that turned upon itself like a wriggling snake. Very slow going. The drive there would certainly ruin her schedule and possibly rob her of the chance to see Killerton Park’s azaleas in full bloom.
Emma refolded the map, finished her toast, and gulped her tea, then headed upstairs to grab her bags and pay the bill. If she left Mrs. Trevoy’s guest house immediately, she’d arrive at Penford Hall in time to see the gardens gilded by the afternoon sun.
Emma passed the turnoff twice before creeping slowly by a third time. The sign for Penford Harbor was obscured by weeds, but at ten miles an hour it was visible, and she turned onto a rutted road that was every bit as narrow as she’d feared it would be.
It was not a scenic drive. Hawthorn hedges blocked her view on either side, and the situation straight ahead wasn’t much better, since there was no straight ahead. Inching gingerly around one bend after another, Emma tried to skirt the deepest potholes or, when that proved impossible, to ease the car through them gently.
When the hedge on her left parted to reveal a paved and sheltered parking area, Emma pulled into it. The track continued westward, but Emma’s teeth had been rattling for close to an hour and she was ready to give up on Penford Hall. No garden was worth this much trouble.
The parking area was protected by a pitched roof of corrugated metal and nearly filled by two rows of shiny new cars. Emma doubted that the owners ever used the road she’d just survived, but the sight of the cars filled her with hope. Perhaps the vicar’s map would prove reliable after all.
The only available parking space was in the front row, next to a wheelless white van set up on blocks. Emma carefully nosed in beside it, released her deathgrip on the steering wheel, and leaned back against the headrest. The enveloping silence was a balm for her jangled nerves.
Settling her glasses more firmly on her nose, Emma reached for her shoulder bag, got out of the car, and edged her way past the van to the car park’s southern edge. She was in a narrow, densely wooded valley. Somewhere to her right, hidden by bushes and overhanging trees, a fast-moving stream tumbled and splashed, while below her, at the foot of the valley, lay the village of Penford Harbor.
Emma murmured a heartfelt apology for ever doubting the vicar’s map. The village hugged the edge of a natural harbor formed by the embracing arms of towering gray granite cliffs. A beacon flashed from the barren headland to the east, warning of treacherous waters below, while the western promontory seemed to be littered with blocks of gray stone, as though a castle or a fortress had once risen there, now tumbled into ruin.