Shades of the Past (10 page)

“I guess so. I suppose the canal was once very important?”

He pursed his lips. “Not as important as its owners hoped.”

“The owners? I suppose that’s the Deverils?”

“You know about them, eh?”

“I know the hotel has their name.”

He nodded. “They owned all the land hereabouts, and Sir James Deveril was the first major shareholder in the canal.”

“I’ve only heard of Sir Blair Deveril.”

What could only be described as a guarded look descended over Gulliver’s eyes. “What do you know of Sir Blair?” he asked.

“Oh, I read about him somewhere,” she replied dismissively, and then went on quickly, “What happened to the family? Are they still around?”

“That I really don’t know. Sir James was Sir Blair’s father, and that’s more or less all I know. The family’s history seems to die out in 1818, at the same time their house, Deveril House—yes, now the hotel—also disappeared from the records. The story goes there was a fire, but the details are so scant as to be doubtful. Anyway, in Victorian times the house reappears in legal documents, a fraction its former size and under different ownership, so either the Deverils sold up and moved on, or they just died out. Something of the sort, anyway.”

“I think Sir Blair purchased some place called Castle Liscoole in Ireland,” she said.

“Did he?” Gulliver studied her. “How do you know that?”

“Oh, I researched Castle Liscoole once, that’s all, although don’t ask me to remember details, I’m hopeless with things like that. You mentioned 1818 a moment ago, and it rings a bell. Wasn’t there some trouble with the canal tunnel in that year?” She was fishing quite blatantly, and knew it.

“Yes, there was. A roof collapsed.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “It wasn’t the first time, or the last. The tunnel always caused problems and expense, and eventually put an end to the canal as a commercial venture. It was the geology of the hill, you see. Instead of being oolitic limestone all the way through, it has patches of fuller’s earth that have to be shored up with brickwork to protect the tunnel. It would have been limestone all the way if the engineer had driven through in the right place, but he made an error in his calculation, and it went through one hundred yards to the north. It passes only a few feet beneath the cave under the Deveril House cellars.”

“There’s a cave?” she asked with interest.

“Er, yes.” Gulliver’s hand seemed to tremble as he raised his glass, and she thought he’d gone a little pale. What was bothering him? She had to know. “Is something wrong, Mr. Harcourt?”

“Wrong? No, why should there be?”

“I—I don’t know. You just seem a little, well, bothered.”

He gave a quick grin. “It’s the awful beer they serve here,” he joked. “You asked about the cave. There’s a few of them hereabouts, and this one was always used to store winter ice at Deveril House because it was always cold year-round. And before you ask, the reason I know for certain what the cave was used for is because it’s mentioned several times in the early canal records. Many of the later records went astray like those of the house.”

Laura sat back. So
that
was how there’d been so much ice at the ball in May! She looked at him as something else occurred to her. “The coat-of-arms at the hotel is a play on names, isn’t it?”

He drew a long breath. “I
think
it is, but that’s all.”

She waited for him to expand on the subject, but he didn’t, so she ran a fingertip around her coffee cup. “I guess Sir Blair Deveril is represented by the barley, and his wife Celina by the moon?” she ventured.

He lowered his glass abruptly. “You’re exceptionally knowledgeable, miss,” he observed.

She resorted to the excuse he’d used. “It’s just a guess.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that’s what history’s all too frequently reduced to—guesswork.”

His evasive manner was both intriguing and infuriating. What was his problem?

The bartender came over to ask if she wanted more coffee.

“Yes, thank you.” She pushed her cup and saucer toward him.

“Old Gulliver boring you to death, is he?”

Gulliver gave him a dark look, but Laura smiled. “Actually, I’m really interested. I was asking about the Deveril House Hotel—or at least, about the mansion it used to be.”

Ron cradled the coffeepot on a napkin. “Did he tell you about my old great-grandfather?”

Gulliver snorted. “That old nitwit!”

Laura looked from one to the other. “No, he didn’t.”

“Well, Great-Granfer was a canal watchman here back in the early nineteenth century, and lived in a cottage right by the tunnel. The ruins of it are still there.”

The cottage where the woman had been putting out the washing, Laura thought.

Ron went on. “Anyway, he had a skinful in here one night and wandered off in the dark. No one knew where he was, least of all his wife, who was a real fearsome piece. Great-Gran suspected him of having a fling with a woman in the village the far end of the tunnel, so she drove over there in the pony and trap to catch him at it. The woman said she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him, so back Great-Gran came, only to find him home. White as a sheet he was. Said he’d been up at Deveril House as it had been way back in the past.”

Laura stared at him. What else could it mean but that, like her, the old watchman had traveled back in time! So she wasn’t the only one it had happened to. She was so shaken she couldn’t speak.

Ron didn’t notice how startled she was. “Great-Gran wasn’t having any of his yarns, especially as she soon learned he’d been seen rowing out of the canal tunnel like a bat out of hell! She said he’d been to his fancy woman after all, and dreamed up the story to hide his two-timing tracks. He swore he hadn’t, but the more people heard of his tale, the more ridicule he got. In the end he gave up and admitted he’d been with the other woman.”

Laura fixed her gaze on her coffee cup. The UFO factor, she thought. The watchman decided to let his wife think the worst. Better to be branded a womanizer than a lunatic.

Gulliver scowled. “The Sawyers are all full of fancy,” he said sourly. “It began with that philandering scapegrace over there.” He nodded toward a picture on the wall that Laura hadn’t noticed before.

She saw it now, though, and almost gasped aloud, for it was an old drawing of a traveling showman so like Ha’penny Jack it had to be him! She looked swiftly at Ron, but unlike Gulliver and the butler, she couldn’t see any likeness at all between him and the burly showman she’d seen in 1818. She summoned a quick smile. “You—you had a traveling showman ancestor, Mr. Sawyer?”

“Yes, a chap by the name of Ha’penny Jack Sawyer, would you believe? I suppose I should be grateful he stayed around long enough after the Mercury Fair to marry and make things legal.”

“Who did he marry?” she asked, thinking it must have been Dolly Frampton.

“A farmer’s daughter by the name of Harriet Bellamy.”

“Oh.” Maybe Dolly had wised up to roving Jack after all, and married Harcourt the butler. Laura looked at Gulliver, and saw how intently he avoided her eyes.

Someone on the other side of the room called for service, and Ron nodded. “Well, reckon I’m needed over there,” he said, and hurried away.

Laura’s thoughts were swinging in all directions at once. Not only had she encountered Gulliver’s ancestor, but Ron Sawyer’s as well. And more than that, she guessed Ron’s other forebear, Great-Granfer the canal watchman, had traveled back in time too!

Gulliver took the opportunity to escape from her questions. “Well, I suppose I should mind my manners and go back to my friends,” he said briskly.

She was content to let him go for the time being. He clearly knew more than he was letting on, and she intended to ply him with questions again. So she smiled. “And I think I’ll go see the tunnel now,” she said, finishing her coffee.

“Be careful, miss. The towpath doesn’t go through it, and many a sightseer’s had a drenching from leaning over a bit too far to see in as far as they can. You see, the horses or donkeys were led over the hill by a path, and the barges were legged along by their crews lying down on their backs and walking against the tunnel sides or roof. Three miles took a lot of strength and stamina, I can tell you.”

“So I can’t go in even a little way?”

“I’m afraid not. There are gates across it because the place leaks like a sieve where springs have found their way through the brickwork, especially in winter, and there are unrepaired roof falls. Ron sometimes takes sightseers in his boat in the summer, but not this time of year.”

“I just want to take a peek.”

“You can do that from the entrance; just be careful.”

“I will,” she said, getting up. “Good-bye, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Good-bye, Miss... ?”

“Reynolds, Laura Reynolds.”

For a moment there was no mistaking the astonishment in his eyes, but then he managed to smile again. “Goodbye, Miss Reynolds,” he said, and before she could say anything more, he turned his wheelchair to glide away.

She gazed after him. Her name had shaken him. Did he know about her Regency counterpart? Yes, that had to be the explanation, although how he knew, she couldn’t say. Unless... A startling possibility struck her. Might
he
have gone back in time too? Why not? Anything was possible in this neck of the woods, and it would certainly explain his evasive manner. More of the ‘close encounter’ factor! One thing was certain, she’d definitely be seeking out Mr. Gulliver Harcourt again.

She paid Ron for the coffee and went out into the pale January sunshine again, crossed the parking lot to the canal, then followed the towpath toward the tunnel. Her head still rang with all the things she’d found out at the inn. It was like reading an absorbing novel; each page she turned led her deeper and deeper into the story, and took her closer to the characters. It was addictive. Earlier she had wanted to return from 1818 to the present to assemble her thoughts and emotions, but now she longed to go back again. Had she become a time-travel junkie?

The wind whispered over the canal and rustled through the reeds that grew along the bank, but she gradually became aware of the chatter of the stream that also wound along the valley. She could see its willow-lined channel swinging suddenly closer to the path ahead where both waterways entered the trees. Great Deveril and the hotel remained visible on the hill, but she still couldn’t see the tunnel or the cottage.

As she reached the trees, she thrust her hands into her pockets, for it was much colder in the shadows. Woodpeckers filled the air with their clatter, and she knew that in the past she’d have heard the Deveril House peacocks. Ivy and moss now joined the grass spreading over the tow path and snowdrops grew in hollows, then the gurgle of water became louder as the stream passed through a culvert beneath the canal, before flowing on along the valley in the direction of the gate.

But the hill now seemed to completely bar the way ahead as suddenly she came upon all that was left of the cottage, a single wall and chimney rising dejectedly beside the path. There was an ancient upturned rowing boat beside the remains of the garden gate. Once painted blue and adorned with an elegantly carved stern, it had now rotted beyond redemption, and had probably only survived because of its sheltered situation. A tall Norway spruce tree grew nearby. There weren’t any others around, and she imagined it had once been a Christmas tree inside the cottage. Maybe Ron Sawyer’s Great-Granfer, the other probable time-traveler, had planted it one Twelfth Night.

The tunnel portal was about ten yards in front of her. Set into the hillside and castellated like the gateway of a medieval fortress, it was crumbling in places. The tunnel mouth yawned black and mysterious, and a few feet in she could see the gates Gulliver had mentioned.

Her pulse quickened uncomfortably as she went to place a hand upon the old stonework. A strange feeling immediately tingled through her, and the past swung close. Suddenly the wind picked up slightly, soughing through the spruce tree behind her. She gasped and turned, half expecting to see 1818 again, but there was just the cold January of the present.

She faced the portal again, and the past brushed against her face like a cobweb. The black velvet heart of the tunnel seemed to close in, as if trying to lure her within, and water dripped constantly somewhere beyond the light at the entrance. She remembered what Gulliver had said about springs, but then felt a sudden chill draft on her face. It was accompanied by the soft sigh of drawn air, like happened in subways, except this was much more eerie.

She was about to pull back when she heard something in the distance. It resembled a muffled sob from the depths of the tunnel. Was someone trapped in there? Her pulse raced, and she called out in a trembling voice. “H—hello? Is—is someone there?”

There was only the moaning of the wind.

She called again. “Hello?”

The tunnel took up her voice, repeating it over and over into infinity, but as the echo at last died away, she was sure she heard the sob again. Primitive fears surged through her, and suddenly all she wanted to do was cut and run.

She fled back along the towpath again and, on reaching her car, slammed the door and locked it behind her. Then, for the second time that day, she fumbled with the ignition before taking off like something at race circuit.

Chapter Eight

After such an eventful few hours, Laura would have liked something alcoholic on her return to the hotel, but it was tea that awaited her, for she was waylaid by Mrs. Fitzgerald and pressed into ‘a brew and a wee chat’.

The moment the tea was poured, Jenny’s mother kicked off her shoes and lounged back exhaustedly. “Lord, what a day. Oh, before I forget, there was a call for you while you were out. It was one of your other flatmates. Lily Ponting-Smith? That’s what I thought she said. Anyway, I’m to tell you first that Gstaad was wonderful, and second you’ve been called for a second audition. I wrote the details on the pad.”

Laura picked up the pad, and her eyes brightened delightedly. The production at the Hermes Theater was set to be one of the most successful musical shows in the West End, and she wouldn’t just be part of the chorus!