Broke Deep (Porthkennack Book 3) Read online

  Headland Road

  Porthkennack

  PL28 7RY

  The postcode wasn’t quite right, but it was close enough, although the postmark was so smudged it could have come from Outer Mongolia. Probably a circular, although it was unusual to get a handwritten one, and who the hell was writing to him with what appeared to be a genuine fountain pen?

  James had always complained about Morgan’s habit of leaving the most interesting letters until last and making a song and dance about trying to work out who had sent them. He’d have ripped the thing open and put everyone out of their misery.

  You bloody idiot. How could Morgan be so dumb? This had to be from . . . what was his name? Derek? Dominic? Dominic.

  The memory stopped him in his tracks, all inclination to open the thing suddenly gone. Morgan had never supposed the bloke was going to follow up his interest in the wreck of the Troilus. He debated screwing up the whole lot, letter and envelope and all, sticking it in the bin, and forgetting about it, but that wasn’t really an option anymore, was it? He’d asked Dominic to do the research and since Dominic had come up with the goods, then he had to do his part of the bargain and at least give him a chance.

  He looked at the address again, wondering how easy it had been to find him. Maybe Dominic had bypassed the research stage and gone straight to James? Morgan hoped that wasn’t the case; the sooner he could get any vestige of that miserable bastard out of his life, the better. Probably the fact he’d answered that original phone call with the name of his business had made the challenge too easy.

  He bit the bullet, took out the letter, and read.

  Dear Mr. Capell,

  I’m assuming my search for an address has led me to the right place, although you never can be sure with the internet. If it hasn’t, and some kind soul hasn’t realised my mistake and passed this on, I suppose you’ll never know.

  Despite the sick feeling in his stomach, Morgan grinned. Dominic seemed to have fallen straight out of a BBC sitcom, with his self-deprecation, apologetic tone, and unusual turn of phrase. Morgan put the letter down and poured a coffee; if this was a torture to be endured, then it should be as comfortable a torture as possible.

  I studied history at Durham and now, for my sins, I’ve converted to accountancy. A sensible career choice for someone who wants to have plenty of resources, not the least of them time, to pursue his hobby. By which I mean nautical research, specifically related to my family. I’m not certain how to convince you of my authenticity on that point, as I’ve yet to have anything published, although I enclose a copy (of a copy!) of part of Troilus’s muster from 1793, the year before she sank. This is the nearest to “papers” I can produce.

  This time Morgan laughed aloud. Surely Dominic wasn’t this formal in person? Rather than the ripped bloke he’d visualised James trying to impress, he now pictured a bespectacled, bookish guy in clothes that had gone out of fashion ten years previously, waving his hands about as he spoke.

  I hope that you’ll treat my request seriously. I don’t want to come and gawp at your house, like a photographer for the tabloids. My intention would simply be to take photos of the beams. (Do they have any carpenters’ marks like the ones at Chesapeake Mill? In that case I’d like to take the equivalent of a brass rubbing, if that’s convenient.)

  However unpleasant this might prove, Morgan felt duty bound to invite Dominic over. Had his mum still been well enough to advise him, she’d have insisted there were no reasonable grounds for refusal. He resumed reading.

  I’ll be investigating the Porthkennack area, obviously; I believe there are some sailors’ graves in a local churchyard. It seems the locals did better than the inhabitants of the Scilly Isles did by Cloudesley Shovell. Still, I suppose the Cornish have always been on the respectable side.

  Morgan snorted with laughter. Respectable? Dominic must have had his tongue stuffed well and truly in his cheek. Why not indulge him? Why not have a “be kind to a nerd day”?

  “You never used to be so cruel.” His mother’s remembered voice resounded in his mind with one of the last things she’d said to him before she’d moved into the home. “Not before you took up with James.”

  And she’d been right, although he’d not admitted that until now; he used to be a better man than this. He returned to the letter with a kinder eye. I’d like to take pictures of the surrounding area; if you have any specialised knowledge of the local wrecks, or could refer me to anyone who does, I’d be extremely grateful. There is a family connection to all this, as I said, but I’d rather explain that face-to-face.

  Now, have I passed your test? If the answer is yes, please write to me at the address given above. If not, I shall still visit the area, but I promise not to come and make a nuisance of myself.

  Yours sincerely,

  Dominic Watson

  Morgan had to read the letter again, for amusement. Even if Dominic hadn’t satisfied him with his obviously genuine enthusiasm for his subject, the communication in itself would have won him over. It was like slipping into a time warp and finding yourself getting a letter from somebody straight out of P.G. Wodehouse. Mind you, that’s what James used to say about me. He probably meant it as a compliment at first, but the appeal soon died.

  Maybe Dominic would appreciate that part of Morgan’s character; it was as good a reason as any for meeting him.

  What if it means thinking about the Troilus again? You should put yourself first. You know what the thought of that wreck does to you.

  Unease crept up his spine like an icy hand as he reread the letter, Dominic’s enthusiasm for the wreck shining through, but Morgan couldn’t spend his entire life avoiding the subject. If it wasn’t Dominic, it would be someone else talking about Troilus; Morgan had to deal with it. He got nightmares about the ship going down, that was all.

  All? Since the first time he’d had the dream as a teenager, it had come back with startling regularity, like an old film that’s never off the television. To talk to Dominic about the shipwreck was to risk the dream returning when he’d kept it at bay for so long, but he had no choice now; the gauntlet he’d thrown down had been picked up again pretty speedily. He’d invite him down for the first May bank holiday weekend, as that would at least give them both a few days to prepare. He couldn’t believe he’d be lucky enough to find that Dominic would already have plans and they’d have to push the date back further.

  Dominic not having provided a phone number, Morgan posted a reply the next day, afraid that if he delayed too long, he’d be tempted to rip the bloody letter up and simply hope that Dominic and his research went away. Ingrained values wouldn’t let him be so gung-ho—his mother would have killed him for such rudeness, back in the days when things like proper manners still mattered to her. He had to reply and expect a prompt response, given that Dominic, despite his slightly odd and old-fashioned style, seemed pretty determined.

  For all Morgan’s perceptiveness about Dominic’s resolve, the swiftness of the bloke’s reply hitting the front door mat at Cadoc still surprised him. There had to have been an unprecedented juxtaposition of vans and trains and postmen to have turned the correspondence around so quickly.

  Morgan didn’t dilly-dally about opening the envelope this time, nor did he need a crystal ball to predict that the answer would be a resounding Yes, please.

  He’d been right about having to face things sooner rather than later. No matter how much he tried to slip out of Troilus’s grasp, she seemed determined to pin him down.

  The first Saturday in May brought a mellowing of the weather. May Day weekend had obviously decided to put on a show, with sunshine predicted as far as the BBC’s weather forecasters dared to go and, for once, it appeared they’d got it right. Morgan had spent a few hours in the garden on Friday evening, tidying up the last of the spring flowers in the semi-wild border and encouraging the early bedding to get itself established.

  Saturday morning, Morgan decided to tidy the house. He might only be having Do
minic as his guest once, but Mum would have insisted Dominic see Cadoc at its best. The beams got a thorough going over with a feather duster, surprising some of the spiders which had taken up residence, and the whole place—never really that dirty or untidy—shone like a new pin. It was good to have something, or somebody, to spruce the house up for; it had been too long since Morgan had done any entertaining.

  When Morgan had his music on loud, the doorbell tended to be drowned out, so he’d resisted any temptation to have the hi-fi on this morning. He’d given Dominic clear directions to the house, Cadoc being tucked away at the end of a little Cornish lane, parts of which appeared to be almost impassable to the untrained eye. The scan of the map which he’d tucked in the envelope would prove more reliable to Dominic than anything he could download from Google.

  He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the bloke. Poor, fanatical thing, getting excited over half a dozen lumps of wood.

  You’re doing it again.

  Catching himself thinking as James might have thought sparked off a bout of guilt which, in turn, produced a resolution to make his guest a pot of really good coffee. He’d also planned a lunch of soup, sandwiches, and a plate of Waitrose biscuits, from when he’d stocked up.

  Late morning, the doorbell went off with its horribly insistent tone. Morgan smoothed his hair and put on a smile—the best smile he could manage on a day when he’d woken at five o’clock in the morning and not managed to get back to sleep. The fact his waking had interrupted an erotic dream involving James hadn’t made things any easier.

  He was bloody glad he’d made some effort on his appearance when he glimpsed the vision of hotness through the hall window. This had to be a lost surfer boy or someone who’d come to the coast to find himself a job as a lifeguard and got hopelessly off track. It couldn’t be Dominic, because blokes like this didn’t usually knock on the door of Cadoc for any legitimate reason.

  Morgan hesitated, hand on the doorknob. If real life was like a gay romance book, this would be Dominic and they’d bond over a discussion of James, one full of shared hatred for the bloke. The next minute they’d be taking a romantic walk on the beach, and maybe tonight they’d drag each other up the stairs and . . .

  The doorbell rang again, and Morgan realised he was still standing fantasising. He opened the door in a rush just as “surfer boy who might be Dominic” had turned to go back down the path.

  “Sorry I took so long,” Morgan said, as brightly as he could manage.

  “I thought there was nobody in.” Surfer Boy smiled, which reignited memories of last night’s dream. Morgan squirmed. “There’s a guy here to see you, only he’s gone off to take some pictures, and he asked me to come over and say he’d arrived.” Surfer Boy waved airily at a bright-red hire car, parked next to the gate.

  “Are you a friend of his?” Surely this couldn’t be Dominic’s boyfriend, although his twin brother would be a good outcome.

  “No. We met on the plane, and when he heard where I was heading, he said he’d give me a lift so I didn’t have to wait for a bus. My girlfriend lives up on the main road.” Surfer Boy grinned, looking stupidly handsome, more so for being unavailable. “Stroke of luck on my part. Eh?”

  “It worked out well.” Morgan sighed as he scanned the line of the hedge. “Has your chauffeur gone walkabout?”

  “Probably. He seems a bit of a fanatic; he’s got a bee in his bonnet about ships or timbers or whatever. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I bet he’s seen an interesting piece of wood and gone to take a sample or whatever.” Surfer Boy—straight, unavailable surfer boy—smiled again, then adjusted his backpack. “Right. Unless I want a dose of earache, I’d better be on my way. Bye.” He turned on his heels and walked off down the path towards the gate, duty done.

  “Bye,” Morgan answered, watching him go and wondering why life was never like gay romance books.

  There was still no sign of the elusive Dominic. Maybe he’d fallen down a rabbit hole or over the cliff? Morgan stood on the doorstep contemplating this for a good minute before he twigged it was a real, and not very amusing, possibility. People did go arse over tip at the end of the lane, unless they realised in time that they needed to slow down and make a sharp left to carry on along the coastal path, which had been meandering inland. And if the terrain was slippery with mud or they went too far arse over tip, then they’d end up right by the cliff edge, if not over it.

  Morgan didn’t quite break into a run, but he made it through his garden, out of the gate, and into the road at a lick. He didn’t want to seem to be in a panic, especially if he ran into his guest a short stretch down the lane; there was a limit to how much of a plonker even he was prepared to appear. There was no sight of the bloke anywhere this side of the cliff path, and no sound of him either. Morgan picked up his pace, although he didn’t call out. It wasn’t simply a case of saving face—if Dominic, or anyone else come to that, was too near the edge, the shock of a sudden noise could be enough to make them start.

  He’d reached the end of the lane, where the hedges stopped and the path turned through its sharp angle, when he saw a lanky figure, camera in hand but not to eye, peering out over the sea. If this was Dominic, at least he had the sense not to position himself right at the edge, especially as he looked like a hefty gust of wind might well blow him off his feet. Quite a contrast to the surfer boy he’d sent to pass on his message.

  “Dominic Watson?” Morgan waved, then came closer, appraising his guest with every step, and trying to hide his disappointment.

  “That’s me. You must be Morgan.” Dominic held out his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t come directly to the house. I wanted to see the place.”

  “No problem. I got your message.” Morgan resisted all temptation to say and I approve of your choice of messenger. He knew nothing about Dominic apart from the enthusiasm for ships. It could be the bloke was rabidly homophobic, his meeting with James notwithstanding—the rat sometimes talked to straight blokes, and not just about business, especially if he thought he had a chance of temporarily converting them.

  “That would be Tim. Note I didn’t add ‘nice but dim,’ although I admit I thought it.” Dominic grinned. “I met him on the plane from Gatwick. Lovely lad, but hardly the sharpest pencil in the box. I’m glad he managed to find the right house.”

  “I’ll take your word for his mental faculties.” He wouldn’t mention his appearance. Morgan smiled, staring out towards the Devil’s Anvil, although he didn’t mention the rocks, either. Nor the wreck. The Anvil wore its harmless face now, barely other than a gentle hog’s back of stone breaking the waves. Come low tide, the needles of rock—widow-makers, each one of them—wouldn’t be quite so inviting. No wonder they’d stationed the local lifeboat nearby. “We’ve laid on lovely weather for you, anyway. It was thick with fog yesterday. It said on the radio that they’d had to shut the airport.”

  “So I heard. I’ve been keeping an eye on the website, was worried sick I wouldn’t be able to get here. Even thought about tackling the A303 and driving down with all the world and his wife and kids.” Dominic grimaced. “Glad I didn’t have to. Nobody wants to risk getting stuck in a twenty-mile tailback over Salisbury Plain. Still, that would be better than if you lived on Jersey and they shut the airport. Then I’d have to take a boat.”

  “You’re not a good sailor?”

  “You can say that again. I feel sick on the Thames.” Dominic’s grimace turned to a grin. “Come to think of it, I feel sick on the boating lake at the park.”

  Morgan studied him, sideways on. Now he’d got the image of Tim out of his mind and overcome his initial disappointment, it was clear he’d done Dominic a disservice. He must have been the right side of thirty, and wasn’t a bad-looking bloke, in a “tenth Doctor Who” sort of way. Built for speed rather than comfort, all angular edges. It wouldn’t be too much of a burden to entertain him for an hour or two. “So what makes you so keen on ships if you can’t bear travelling on them?”


  Dominic gestured vaguely out to sea. “Haven’t you read any of the Hornblower stories? He was sick at Spithead but it didn’t stop him becoming an admiral.”

  “I have read them. Some, anyway. And seeing as you don’t seem to be in the navy, then you’ve not really answered my question.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Dominic made a naval salute. “I have to get my nautical thrills secondhand. I’ve always been fascinated with the Age of Sail, from the day my parents took me to see Victory. I fell in love with her.”

  They both gazed out over the sea again, where a pleasure boat had rounded the tip of the headland, speeding off in search of dolphins or puffins or some other wildlife to observe; despite its smooth, elegant contours, it couldn’t compare to a ship of the line. Perhaps in Dominic’s mind’s eye he’d a vision of masts and sails and running out the great guns.

  “I soon discovered I’d never be able to handle anything more maritime than a sand yacht, so I had to immerse myself in the history. The real-life stories.” He turned back, eyes ablaze with enthusiasm. “Occasionally I hope I’ll wake up one morning and find myself transported off somewhere through space and time.”

  Morgan took a deep breath. “Sounds like Doctor Who and his TARDIS,” he replied, wishing he could be brave enough to say, you wouldn’t want that in reality, believe me.

  “A TARDIS would be fine so long as I could opt out of meeting the Daleks. They scare me stiff. And I don’t want to discover other worlds. There’s enough here to keep me happy.”

  “I suppose landing up in the middies’ mess on the Victory would feel like being on Mars.” Morgan grinned. Dominic was exactly what he’d expected: priceless. “And if you did fetch up there, wouldn’t you be plastering it with the contents of your stomach?”

  “Probably. But in my imagination I don’t have seasickness— that’s the beauty of daydreams. Right.” Dominic rubbed his hands together. “Would it be rude of me to ask if I can come and see those roof beams while the light’s still as good as this?”