Four fishing boats bobbed gently in the half-moon cove and fishnets were spread on the gray granite quay, where seagulls roosted in search of easy meals. The stepped and cobbled main street was lined with whitewashed houses, the doors and shutters painted with a Crayola palette of colors—lemon yellow, sky blue, tangerine. Fuchsias trailed from windowboxes, pansies filled clay pots on doorsteps, and geraniums topped old barrels along the quay.
The sounds of village life floated upward on the wind. A cloud of gulls hovered over a fishing boat just entering the harbor and Emma could hear their raucous cries as clearly as though she were standing on the deck.
Then she heard another sound, a low, tuneless whistling that seemed to be coming from somewhere in the region of her ankles. Looking down, she saw a pair of legs emerge from beneath the front bumper of the white van. The legs belonged to a chubby, white-haired man in a royal-blue jumpsuit who was lying flat on his back on a low, wheeled platform—a creeper, Emma thought it was called. The man was holding a wrench in one hand and an oily rag in the other, and when he saw Emma, he stopped whistling.
“Hello,” he said. “Lost your way?”
Emma bridled slightly. The boy at Bransley Manor had made the same assumption and the question was beginning to annoy her. “No,” she replied firmly. “I’m looking for Penford Hall. I believe it’s very near here.”
The chubby man slipped the wrench and the rag into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit, rolled off of the creeper onto all fours, then slowly got to his feet. “Not as young as I used to be,” he commented, rubbing the small of his back. “Lookin’ for Penford Hall, you say?”
Emma took the Pyms’ calling card from her shoulder bag and presented it to him. “My name is Emma Porter. I was sent by some friends of the duke.”
The man examined the card, then bent to unzip a pocket in the leg of his jumpsuit. When he stood up again, he was holding a palm-sized portable telephone. He flipped the mouthpiece down, pushed a few buttons, then held the telephone to his ear.
“Gash here,” he said. “Got a visitor for His Grace. Name of Emma Porter. Sent by”—he consulted the card—“Ruth and Louise Pym. Something to do with gardens. Right. I’ll wait.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and winked at Emma. “Handy gadget, this,” he whispered.
It was also extremely expensive. To see such a pricey piece of hardware emerge from the zippered pocket of a mechanic’s jumpsuit was a bit unexpected.
Gash was speaking again. “Right,” he said. “I’ll bring her up straightaway.” Gash folded the telephone and stowed it once more in his pocket, then gestured toward Emma’s car. “Hop in,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
As he maneuvered the car out of the tight parking space, Emma commented on the lamentable state of the road. “Don’t get used much,” Gash replied. “Not since His Grace laid in the new one. Easier on the villagers, he says. Some folks still get round by boat, o’ course. Or by chopper, but that’s for emergencies, mainly.”
“Did you say helicopter?” Emma clarified.
“Yes, well, Dr. Singh had to have one, and since the village needed him, His Grace got him his chopper.” As though suddenly remembering his manners, Gash turned to extend a pudgy hand to Emma. “I’m Gash, the mechanic up at Penford Hall.”
Formalities concluded, Gash backed Emma’s car out of the parking area and drove westward, beyond the point where Emma had given up. They crossed a stone bridge, then turned a comer where, mercifully, the potholed track became a ribbon of smooth asphalt climbing out of the valley. At the top, they came to another, broader road that ran along the crest of the western headland. Gash turned toward the sea.
When Emma saw the gates of Penford Hall, she very nearly changed her mind about visiting. Tall, black, and forbidding, the gates were set into imposing granite posts flanked by thick walls and topped with surveillance cameras that swept the road in steady, unrelenting arcs. She was further unnerved when a small door in the gate opened to reveal a stocky old man strikingly attired in a black beret, a khaki army sweater, camouflage trousers, and highly polished black leather boots.
“Newland,” Gash murmured, by way of introduction. “Nice enough feller, but you won’t get a handshake out o’ him. I expect it’s on account of his job.”
“What is his job?” Emma asked, noting the wire that ran from beneath Newland’s black beret to the sleek two-way radio hooked to his belt.
“Gatekeeper,”. Gash replied. “Newland lets the good ‘uns in and keeps the bad ’uns out. Makes him a bit antisocial, if you know what I mean.”