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“No, our Nellie’d die afore she’d let me down,” Mrs Smith had insisted. In hindsight, the words had an ominous, prophetic ring.
Cad, together with most of the servants and estate workers, had joined the search party, but no sign of Nellie Smith had yet been found. Dispirited by the atmosphere of gloom, and unsettled by my nighttime encounter with Cad, I slipped out of the house and followed the cliff path toward Port Isaac. Below me, the incredible creativity of nature was on display. Over countless eons, water from both narrow streams and the Atlantic Ocean had sculpted cliffs, boulders, pebbles and sand into fascinating, improbable shapes. The sensation of walking along England’s edge, at the world’s end, overwhelmed me. I felt small and insignificant. The weather was blustery and chill, but my head was clearer and my footsteps lighter by the time I reached the cobbled streets and followed a familiar path.
I reached the tiny cove that Eleanor and I had come to on my first visit to the town. It was the place to which the errant Bertram had led us with his stubborn refusal to come when his mistress called. I paused, recapturing the breath my brisk pace had stolen from me. The boy, Tristan, who we had seen on that first day, was there again, digging in the damp sand. He looked up from his task as I approached and regarded me with interest.
“You were with Miss Eleanor,” he said, rising from his kneeling position and brushing the sand from his knees. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Are you looking for Nellie Smith, as well? I thought the murderer might have buried her body in the sand.”
“We must hope she is found alive,” I said, although I, like everyone else, had grave doubts that would be the case.
“How do you suppose he gets them to go with him?” Tristan asked, as if we had known each other for years. “Supposing she is dead, and supposing it was the same man that killed Amy Winton. What would make them go off with him?”
“He must get them to trust him,” I said, giving the matter some thought. “Something about him convinces them that they will be safe.”
We sat on the low wall that ran parallel to the bay and, although his mind did not stray far from the probable fate of the missing girl, we chatted companionably. He was surprisingly well spoken. He told me, in the open, confiding manner I would come to associate with him, that he had a private tutor and that he was to go away to boarding school in the new year. I cast a quick glance back at the tiny cottage that was his home and tried to compute the two circumstances. Boarding school and private tuition required money, and I could not see any outward evidence that Tristan’s family were in possession of such a commodity.
“Will Miss Eleanor come again soon?” Tristan asked with a wistful look in the depths of his eyes. “My mother says she is a very busy lady, but I do miss her when she doesn’t come often. And I haven’t seen Bertram in an age.”
“Do any other members of Miss Eleanor’s family come to visit you, Tristan?” I asked. I had already learned that he had no father. Perhaps his mother was a former family retainer? That would explain why Eleanor came to visit this lowly cottage.
“The older lady—the one my mother calls ‘her ladyship’—she came once when I was ill. She said she would send for the doctor and, when he came, she gave him money to get me to the hospital. She told my mother she must let her know if there was ever anything more she needed.” He pushed the lock of dark hair that flopped onto his brow back with an impatient hand. It was a familiar gesture, and one that made me study his face closely. The resemblance was there, of course, although muted. I should have seen it before.
When Tristan’s mother appeared in the doorway and called him in to dinner, I surveyed her carefully. I judged her to be in her mid-forties. She was a stout, little woman with a frizz of grey hair and a plain but kindly face. “I hope he’s not been bothering you with his chatter, miss?” she asked me, and I assured her that, on the contrary, I had enjoyed talking to her son. Tristan shook my hand formally, and professed a hope that I would come again. I said I would.
As I made my way back to Athal House, I pondered the mystery that was Tristan. He was a Jago, of that there could be no doubt. But whose son was he? The image of Tynan being unfaithful to Lucy actually made me laugh out loud. That left one of the younger generation. But what could possibly have attracted Eddie or Cad, both so charismatic and good-looking, to Tristan’s mother? Surely either Jago brother had only to snap his fingers to attract any woman into his bed? It was a puzzle that my mind returned to now and then over the ensuing days, but one to which I could unearth no obvious answer.
