Broke Deep (Porthkennack Book 3) Read online

  “Not rude at all. Isn’t that exactly what you came here for?” Morgan pointed towards the house. “Come on. I’ve got a bite of lunch ready for us.”

  “It gets better and better.” Dominic slipped into step alongside Morgan. “I’ve not had anything since an early breakfast. Too excited. What my mother used to call butterflies in the stomach.”

  “I hope they’ve fluttered off enough for you to get your chops around some soup and sandwiches. There’s coffee going too.” Tim the surfer boy might have been offered a slab of chocolate cake. Among other things, if he’d been inclined and this had been that bloody romance book.

  “There’s always room for soup and sandwiches. Is it homemade? The soup, I mean?” Dominic smiled. He had a pleasant, lopsided smile that transformed his everyday type of face into something downright handsome. If Morgan could think of enough things to keep the bloke smiling, then the next few hours could be enjoyable.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t. Waitrose fresh packed, so at least it’s not from a tin.” Morgan opened the gate to his garden. “I did make the sandwiches myself. Here, come and see this. It’s supposed to be from the wreck—part of the ballast.” Funny how he’d almost forgotten about the ballast stone, although he passed by it almost every day. It was part of the wallpaper for him now, too familiar for special notice.

  They positioned themselves either side of a large boulder that might once have been a bit of carved Bath stone or similar material.

  “Blimey. Where was it found?” Dominic walked around the stone, then knelt down to explore it, tracing his fingers along each line and crevice.

  “On the beach, about a week after the ship was lost, or so the family story goes, after an even fiercer storm than the one which took her down. It was found by my no-idea-how-many-greats-grandfather.” Morgan nodded. “You can take pictures of it, if you want, but I can’t vouch one hundred percent for its provenance. For all I know it was simply a case of my grandmother making up things to entertain us. She told a cracking story.”

  “‘Us’?” Dominic had his camera out and was taking a stream of snaps, from every angle, in full sunlight and in the meagre shade of his own figure.

  “My brother Eddie and I, when we were boys.”

  “Does he still live here?”

  “Good God, no. Porthkennack’s far too small and provincial for him. He’s in the City, making a mint.” Morgan shuddered—the prickling resentment he felt over Eddie must be coming over good and strong.

  “He’s mad, then.” Dominic stood up, putting away his camera and scanning the view. “I’d give my eyeteeth to live here; big improvement on Surrey. Would have done since I was a child and arsed around with a net in the rock pools. We came and stayed along this coast every year.”

  “Is that where your particular interest in Troilus comes from? Running across the story of the ship when on holiday?” Things were starting to make sense. Morgan could imagine this strange young man as a strange little boy, poking about in the tourist shops, finding one of the many slim, self-published books aimed at the visiting trade. Sitting in his deckchair reading, fascinated, about the wrecks Cornwall had seen. The thought of a serious young Dominic poring through texts in the local library was oddly endearing.

  “In a way. I can’t deny it’s important she’s connected to a place I’ve always loved.” Dominic sighed. “I didn’t know about the ship when I holidayed here, though. I wish I had—I could have found out further information about her. But when I started to research the wreck, facts about this particular ship rang a bell. I played on that beach down in the cove.” He grinned. “It was always a treat—my parents said it was our special place.”

  “Lots of people stumble across that beach and think it’s their own.”

  “I can imagine. Like stumbling across a piece of paradise. We always had it to ourselves, though.”

  “That’s the benefit of a steep path. It stops all but the hardiest tourists. Come on, you need to see the beams.” They headed through the garden.

  “I love these old houses.” Dominic looked up with clear envy at the gabled windows. “Have you always lived here?”

  “Pretty well all my life except when I was at university and just after. Intend to stay here too.” Despite the sunshine, Morgan felt suddenly cold. That was what his mother had always hoped, that she’d live to a ripe old age in the house she’d come to as a bride; nowhere in the plan had there been room for seeing out her days in a nursing home. He quickened his pace, until they reached the front door.

  “Then you’re a lucky man.” Dominic hovered, despite Morgan having opened the door and waved him inside. “Shoes off?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Do you want me to take my shoes off? So many people these days don’t want their carpets trodden on.”

  “Blimey, no.” Morgan ran his hands through his hair. “Really? How bloody rude.”

  “That’s what I think. Okay if it’s part of your culture, but I hate it when possessions take precedence over people.” Still, Dominic carefully wiped his shoes on the doormat. He glanced around the hallway. “It’s exactly how I imagined it would be from the outside. We used to rent a house similar to this when we were on holiday. There were half a dozen of us by the time Aunty Mary dragged her brood along, so we needed all the space we could get.”

  There was probably a story to be told about that, given the exasperation in Dominic’s voice at the mention of Aunty Mary, but they wouldn’t go there now. Maybe if Dominic was staying in the area for a few days, they could meet up over a pint and talk about old times. And was that the lingering influence of Tim the surfer boy, getting Morgan’s hormones going?

  “Come and see the beams,” he said, eager to get his head straight. “I was going to call them the ‘famous’ beams, only we’ve managed to keep them out of public view.” He opened the door to the kitchen. “They’re all through the lower part of the house. It’s not so usual to have them still exposed in these type of properties, but they’re an object for family pride.”

  “As they should be. And how you’ve managed to keep stuff about them off the internet beats me. If I hadn’t run into James and the conversation turned in the right direction, I’d have been none the wiser.” Dominic got out his camera. “Is it all right to take pictures in the house as well? I’ll avoid getting anything in shot that might give away where we are.”

  “That’s fine. The carpenter’s marks are clearer in the dining room, but the mast stepping in here is amazing.” Morgan pointed towards the top corner of the kitchen, to the left of the old fireplace.

  “Fantastic.” Dominic beamed. “Bloody fantastic.” He started lining up his shots, much more carefully than he’d done with the boulder.

  Morgan watched him. The enthusiasm was touching; Dominic clearly loved his hobby, with a schoolboy glee that could have come straight out of a nineteen sixties edition of The Beano.

  Did he ping the gaydar? That depended on whether you had reliable gaydar to start with. A particularly embarrassing incident in a bar in Plymouth flashed into Morgan’s mind, one which had taught him not to leap to conclusions. Some women went mad for camp, and some guys would turn it on to impress them.

  “I’ll get the soup on while you’re busy. The dining room’s through the hall. Make yourself completely at home.”

  “Thank you. I’ll shout if I get lost or anything.” Dominic smiled and headed out the door, unlikely to go too far astray given how straightforward the layout of the house was. Morgan busied himself with the lunch, laying out crockery and cutlery on the breakfast bar. The dining room was out of bounds for eating, and not just because it presently was full of an enthusiastic Age of Sail fan with a roving camera. For as long as Morgan could remember, that room had been reserved for special occasions, big family Christmases, or intimate dinners à deux. He wasn’t sure he’d be seeing much of the latter anytime soon and the former had probably gone entirely by the board.

  He glanced up from the stove at th
e picture hanging next to it. Him, James, Mum, and Dad—plus assorted relatives, including Eddie and his obnoxious girlfriend—the last time Christmas lunch had been served on the long dining table. Everyone seemed happy, even James, who wasn’t putting on a show for once. They’d all rubbed along together pleasantly enough, behaving themselves under Mum’s watchful eye.

  He was going to have to find a different picture to replace it, one that didn’t remind him of boyfriends past, one that didn’t speak so relentlessly of happy times that were never to be recaptured. They’d had some fun back then, him and James. They’d shared a room with Eddie, more like schoolboys than men, sneaking beer and snacks upstairs and sharing blue jokes. Even James, who usually scoffed at such immature things, had seemed to enjoy himself.

  There’d been no chance of hanky-panky—if the Capells turned a blind eye to whatever went on away from the roost, there’d be none of it going on under their roof.

  “All done. Thanks.” Dominic’s voice shook Morgan out of his dream. How long had he been standing there, lost in remembrance of things past? Enough time for the soup to have started sticking on the bottom of the pan, anyway.

  “My pleasure. Only I’m not sure this soup will be yours.” Morgan whipped the pan off the stove before cautiously stirring the contents. “No, might be okay, after all. Perhaps we’d better eat it before I can ruin it further.”

  He poured the soup into the bowls, then fetched the plate of sandwiches from the fridge.

  “Feast fit for a king,” Dominic said, looking at the food with evident delight and not the slightest hint of sarcasm. “That’ll see me right through to dinnertime.”

  Morgan grinned. “Wait until you’ve tried it before you say that.”

  They got stuck into the meal, Morgan glad to find the soup really hadn’t been ruined and surprised to discover how hungry he’d become. They ate pretty much in silence, passing the odd word about how reliable Waitrose was, what a pain it was to have to go all the way to Okehampton to visit the store, and whether Dominic would prefer his coffee white or black.

  With his stomach having stopped rumbling at last, Morgan got up to pour their drinks. “Are you staying overnight?”

  “Yes. Halfway between here and Padstow. Through to Monday.”

  “Oh, right.” May Day bank holiday—a lot of people would be making a long weekend of it and the roads back east would be chock-a-block.

  “I thought I’d get the best out of the visit, scout out all the possible study sources.” Dominic waved his spoon energetically. “There’s supposed to be a depiction of the wreck in Quick’s. The naval museum.”

  “There are two. Highly speculative, both of them.” That remark was going to sound odd without qualification. “Because, of course, nobody is supposed to have witnessed the shipwreck itself, or to have left a proper account of what happened.”

  “Yes, I know that.” Dominic appeared puzzled. “I wasn’t sure how common that knowledge was.”

  “It’s part of our family history. It came with the beams.” Morgan moved the conversation on as quickly as he could.

  “And how did the beams come here? If you don’t mind me asking?”

  “On the back of a cart, I guess.” Morgan shrugged. “That bit of the story was usually skimmed over. Probably involved my ancestors picking up other stuff they weren’t entitled to. Strong tradition of beachcombing among the Capells.”

  “No doubt. And where there’s a will, there’s a way, and good strong timbers wouldn’t be sniffed at.” Dominic drew pictures of mechanisms in the air as he elaborated. “A winch and a pulley? Dragged up the path by a donkey on rollers? The beam, not the donkey.”

  Morgan sniggered. “Well, however they got them up from the beach, they dried the things out to be used when they built this place. I do know my ancestors stored them away—which might be a euphemism for hiding them along with anything else they got their mitts on—until they were ready to start construction. And as the summer apparently turned cool but dry after Troilus went down, the drying out was easier than it might have been. They couldn’t believe their luck.”

  “They must have thought it was manna from heaven if they wanted to raise a house and the necessary material was washed, almost literally, into their hands.” Dominic got out his notepad and jotted some notes down. “Lots to be explored, if you don’t mind me being pushy and asking further questions. What about the rest of the wreck? I mean, surely other objects came to shore along the coast if the ship broke up? Or are those things lurking in that museum too?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Morgan finished putting milk in the coffee and brought the mugs over. “Beachcombing has always been a local hobby, not just for our family, as has hoarding away what you find. Did she have a valuable cargo?”

  “I don’t think so. And if she did, I don’t suppose people were going to confess to finding it.” Dominic rubbed his forehead. “So this house must have been built within a year or so of Troilus going aground?”

  “The next summer. Which was another dry one, surprisingly.” Morgan smiled. “We have good weather here on the whole, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell a hardened holiday veteran that summer can mean thunderstorms.”

  “Tell me about it. We always had one or two thundery days—usually right after we arrived. The lightning seemed to come from nowhere.” Dominic laughed. “My mum used to say it was coming down in stair rods, but I never dared ask her what she meant. Our home was modern, so I’d never seen one, not until I went to some reproduction nineteen twenties cottage at a museum in London. It made sense then.”

  “The delights of the impenetrable English language.”

  “A lot of it comes from the Age of Sail. Sorry. You probably know that.”

  “I know a bit. ‘Room to swing a cat’ was the one which confused me as a child—I used to imagine some poor moggy being whizzed around by its tail.” Morgan grinned. “I must have been an annoyingly literal child. So, when’s Quick’s museum on your agenda?”

  “Later this afternoon, I think. I’ll look at those pictures, despite the fact they’re not accurate. I’m not after precision in them, simply the feeling they might evoke. Another layer to the research.”

  “You’ll find plenty of layers, certainly. And as much as you’ve ever wanted to know about tides and currents and the Devil’s Anvil—the stuff about geography and oceanography, or whatever you call it, should be pretty accurate.” Morgan decided the coffee was as hot as it was likely to get. “Troilus isn’t the only ship that’s foundered off these shores. Others are bigger or better known.”

  “So I understand. But the others don’t really interest me. Not like she does.” The glint in Dominic’s eye spoke volumes; there was more to this than fond memories of childhood places.

  “Is there some personal connection between you and the ship?”

  “Do you usually go around reading people’s minds?” Dominic sat back, leaning on the side of the carver chair and cradling his drink. “You talked about your great-great-whatever ancestor and that piece of rock. My great-great-whatever-uncle was captain of Troilus.”

  “Good God.” Morgan steadied his hands on the edge of the table. “Well, that was a lucky guess. Or maybe an unlucky one.”

  “Neutral, I’d have said. I’m not sure I believe in luck, despite the sailing background.”

  “Were any other members of your family in the navy?” Morgan busied himself with his own drink. He’d read about Captain Edward Watson of the Troilus, who went down with all hands, and simply to think of the ship’s crew gave him shivers. In his nightmare, he could hear their drowning screams above the roar of the storm, see the bodies battering on the rocks. He clasped his hands around his cup in a vain attempt to steady them.

  “His nephew followed the old man into the profession, but then my family parted ways with the sea. One of my however-many-great-uncles was in the merchant marine between the wars and the rest of our history, military or otherwise, is strictly territorial.” Dominic t
ook another swig of coffee. “This is good. I’m being spoiled.”

  Morgan smiled, despite the nausea in his stomach. Dominic was a genuinely nice bloke; why couldn’t he have been interested in a different ship, another set of rocks?

  “That’s a lovely picture.” Dominic nodded towards the family grouping on the wall. “Taken in the dining room?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid Dad’s no longer with us and Mum’s . . . Mum’s in a home. Only me here now.”

  Dominic flushed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to intrude.”

  “No offence taken. It’s good to talk about them. Dad would have been fascinated by all your history stuff.”

  “Can I do a rubbing? Of the marks on the beams, I mean?” Dominic had turned a brighter red.

  Oh yes, gaydar’s gone ping. Fortunate that Dominic wasn’t really James’s type or the rat would likely have another broken heart to wear on his sleeve.

  Morgan nodded. “I don’t see why not. So long as you don’t mind a bit of dust.”

  “You should see the state of my flat.” Dominic drained his coffee quickly, as if he hadn’t intended what that remark might have implied, either.

  “Come on, let’s get you set up.” Morgan pushed back his chair and rushed them round the awkward conversational corner. “Which ones did you have in mind?”

  “The ones in the dining room.” Dominic got to his feet and grabbed his bag.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. Come and show me what you need.”

  The logistical issues became obvious as soon as they were in the room. The table could be moved, even the sideboard could be shifted at a pinch, but Dominic, tall as he was, would still be short of the beams themselves by a good few inches. “Ah. I think I’m going to be too vertically challenged.”

  “Silly sod. I’ll get the stepladder out of the garage, and you can shin up it with your brass-rubbing kit or whatever you’ve got in that bag. I guess you came prepared.”

  “Hey, don’t put yourself out. You’ve gone to enough trouble already without me rearranging your house.”