Miranda's Mount Read online

  Ronnie saluted. ‘Aye, aye, cap’n. And by the way, I’ve booked some tickets to see the latest Hunger Games movie in Penzance for Saturday and reserved a table at the tapas bar next door. I’ll drive the Land Rover so you can have a sangria or four.’

  Miranda heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Excellent. I need to get out of here, especially after a day like this.’

  After carefully wrapping the bestiary in tissue paper from the filing cabinet in her office drawer, Miranda hauled herself up the steep pathways that led from the quay, with its cottages, café and visitor centre and offices, right to the castle itself.

  Ronnie had been right; despite the scare with the book, she did love the drama that came with the job. She loved almost every aspect of her role, apart from not being able to beam herself up to the top of the castle, Star Trek style. A thousand years before, St Merryn’s Mount had been colonised by monks who’d chosen the islet a mile off the coast of Cornwall because it kept them away from the temptations of the wicked world. Since then, the isle had been occupied and the castle gradually developed by generations of St Merryns, the local Cornish aristocrats who still owned it today.

  Miranda had done the climb up to the castle half a dozen times that day already and thousands of time during her years working on the Mount. Normally, she scooted up like a mountain goat but today, she felt, frankly, knackered. It was only May and meant to be low season but a pile of paperwork waited for her, teetering in the in-tray in her office. She’d hoped to start planning the Mount’s annual Festival of Fools and rejig the staff rota ready for the busier days ahead, yet she hadn’t sat down at her desk for more than ten minutes that day.

  Still, thanks to Ronnie, there was a night out to look forward to, when she could unwind and let her hair down.

  She replaced the bestiary in its display case, locked the cabinet behind her and pocketed the key. As she suspected, it had still been in the lock. One of the students must have got distracted and left the bestiary out on the table with the other less valuable books. She hoped Ronnie’s pep talk would, frankly, scare the shit out of them and prevent any more lapses of memory.

  She still couldn’t shake off her own misgivings at letting the girl go; but then again the urge to give her another chance had been so strong. Or maybe she was indulging herself; trying to turn back the clock, in some strange way, through the girl. But she didn’t want to put things right, she reasoned, she hadn’t done anything wrong in running away from home, so why did it suddenly feel as if she had? She’d never felt guilty before, not this guilty anyway … this was silly, she must be tired. She’d had a long busy day, and it wasn’t like her to brood.

  After locking the door to the archive room, she decided to make a check on the other public rooms of the castle. As expected, all was quiet in the Great Hall, the panelled dining room and the corridors. The only sounds were her own echoing footsteps and the waves battering the rocks far below the castle walls.

  Miranda pushed open the door of the armoury, the final stop on her tour of the castle. With its centuries of weaponry, it was a favourite attraction, particularly with the fathers and boys. The fusty tang of the stone-walled room filled her nostrils. The suits of armour, chain mail and helmets lined its thick walls, all silent and empty.

  But not all the visitors had gone. There was a man at the far end of the room. As the door clicked shut behind her, he turned round and looked at her. If she’d been nervous at confronting a teen thief, that now seemed like a walk in the park. Her heart thudded as loudly as the castle’s antiquated boiler system.

  The man held a cutlass in his hand and it was pointed at her.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but if you don’t put down that cutlass, I’m going to have to call Security.’ Miranda forced herself to speak calmly and clearly, as if addressing a group of schoolchildren on a tour of the Mount. Even in a highly stressful situation, especially in a highly stressful situation, it was best to be polite to the visitors, even if this one was brandishing a lethal weapon.

  The man smiled. He didn’t look like a psychopath; in fact he looked startlingly handsome in a rakish way as if he’d just swung down from the crow’s nest of a galleon. His thick black hair was trying to escape from a ponytail and he had a tiny goatee beard and a thin gold hoop through his ear. His face was tanned and, while Miranda didn’t think he was much above thirty, he had the world-weary look of someone who’d seen and done, and possibly smoked or inhaled, a lot of stuff. Oh bloody hell, she hoped he wasn’t on something now.

  ‘And you are?’ he asked, lowering the cutlass and glaring at her as if she were the intruder, not him.

  ‘I’m the property manager, sir. The castle closed some time ago and,’ she added as goosebumps danced the flamenco along her bare arm, ‘I’m afraid we can’t allow visitors to handle the artefacts.’

  Her mouth was dry, her fingers were slick around the leather case of the radio but she was determined to stay calm. She’d opened the emergency channel to the island’s security team as soon as she’d entered the armoury and spotted him so she hoped Ronnie and her deputy could hear her. Sadly, because the CCTV camera wasn’t working, they couldn’t actually see her. This is where ignoring memos would come back to bite her on the bum, thought Miranda as she fought to stay calm. By her calculations, it would only take a few minutes for Ronnie and Reggie to run up the steps and into the armoury, less if one of them was nearby. That was time enough for her to have the situation under control.

  The man gave the air an experimental slash.

  She swallowed hard. It was also more than enough time for him to turn her into a doner kebab.

  She spoke into the radio, battling to keep the tremor from her voice. ‘Hello, Ronnie? Can we have a mop and bucket in the armoury, please? There’s been a spillage.’

  A smile spread over the man’s face. ‘A mop and bucket? I suppose that’s some kind of code for an incident? Well, there’s no need, I’m really not dangerous.’

  He took a step forwards, still holding the sword. The arm that held the cutlass was lean but muscular, his shoulders broad and strong. He definitely looked like a man who could handle himself in a skirmish and he was definitely in full control of his faculties. Maybe that ‘been there, done that, killed it’ look was because he’d been in the Forces or a mercenary. Miranda took two paces back on legs that had turned very wobbly. She prayed that her mop and bucket alert would have the security team racing to her rescue. ‘Sir, please calm down.’

  ‘I am calm. I’m only messing about. Have at ye, varlet. Or some shit like that.’ He slashed a ‘Z’ in the air.

  ‘I think you’ll find that was Zorro and that he used a rapier. You’re holding a cutlass. A very rare cutlass.’

  ‘Really?’ He ran a finger over the tip of the sword. ‘Ow! Bugger, it’s still sharp.’

  She scooted backwards, her back now scraping the stone wall. ‘Just put down the sword. My team’s on its way and I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘OK, OK. Miss Whiplash.’

  He laid down the cutlass on a wooden trestle and Miranda exhaled discreetly as tension ebbed from her body. Thank goodness for that, he was probably just a bit of a prat rather than a serial killer. She hadn’t really thought he was dangerous or a thief, not that he’d have got very far with the cutlass unless he planned on swimming.

  He raised his palms and smiled. ‘You got me bang to rights, guv’nor.’

  ‘This isn’t funny you know,’ said Miranda, torn between relief at his relinquishing the sword and annoyance at his cheek. He stared at her for a moment then gave a shrug and a sigh, as if he’d suddenly become bored with the game. ‘No. You’re right. This isn’t funny at all but it is abso-fucking-lutely farcical. It is, in fact, the biggest joke on the planet that I’m even here now … Christ on a bike!’

  Miranda let out a tiny squeal as a small studded door behind him flew back on its hinges. In seconds, two burly figures had burst in and pinned the man to the
flagstones.

  ‘Get off me, you idiots!’

  Oh you shouldn’t have said that, thought Miranda. You really shouldn’t have said it, not to Reggie, and especially not to Ronnie.

  There was a low growl in Ronnie’s throat as she sat astride his legs. ‘Shut up, tosser.’

  Reggie was more polite. ‘Now, sir, don’t struggle. We don’t want to hurt you,’ he said, twisting the man’s arms behind his back.

  ‘Miss Whiplash over there said that. Now, look what’s happened. Fuck it! You’re breaking my bloody arm!’

  ‘We advise you to calm down, sir, or we’ll have to take further action that you might find uncomfortable.’ Ronnie sounded like a Bond villainess before she pulls the lever that plunges her victim into the shark tank. ‘Are you all right, Miranda?’

  Realising she’d backed into a corner, Miranda stood up straight and brushed dust from the back of her shorts with shaky hands. ‘Yes thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘Hey, there’s no need to tie my hands. Ooof.’

  Miranda winced as Ronnie pressed the man’s face into the flagstones while Reggie secured his wrists with cable tie. Ronnie had been a prison officer at Holloway and Reggie was ex-SAS and Miranda worried momentarily that the intruder might sue them for assault but then, as he uttered a stream of curses into the floor, she decided she didn’t care.

  A middle-aged woman in a Barbour jacket, leaning on a stick, appeared under the archway leading into the armoury.

  ‘What the blazes is going on here?’

  Miranda’s heart sank into her trainers. ‘Lady St Merryn! I’m so sorry this has disturbed you. An intruder broke into the armoury.’

  ‘Intruder?’ The man snorted.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ growled Reggie

  ‘As you can see, we have the incident under control now,’ said Miranda.

  Reggie hauled the man to his feet. ‘He’s probably on drugs.’

  The man glared at Ronnie. ‘I’m not on drugs. Not these days anyway.’

  ‘I advise you to keep quiet, mate,’ said Reggie.

  ‘I’m not your mate.’

  Lady St Merryn shot the intruder a look normally reserved for the castle cat when it dropped a half-eaten mouse on her drawing room Axminster.

  ‘I really don’t know how he managed to stay in the armoury after the castle had closed,’ Miranda said, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear as if that made everything OK again. ‘We did a thorough sweep of the site as usual but this man appears to have been missed. I can assure you it won’t happen again, Lady St Merryn.’

  It definitely wouldn’t happen again; never mind the CCTV system, Miranda was already planning a root and branch review of the Mount’s security procedures. Several staff clearly needed to go on refresher courses, including herself.

  Lady St Merryn waved a hand dismissively and frowned at her. ‘Never mind me, Miranda. How are you? I do hope this miscreant hasn’t hurt you. If he has I’ll take it out on his hide myself.’

  Miranda was astonished. Lady St Merryn was known for her fiery character but Miranda hadn’t thought she’d resort to violence. Mind you, it was a very rare cutlass. It had belonged to the fifth Lord, Jasper St Merryn, who was rumoured to have captured it from a pirate ship off Tortuga in 1721.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Lady St Merryn. The team will deal with him now.’

  They hauled the man to his feet. ‘We’ll press charges,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘What for? I wasn’t stealing the cutlass.’

  Reggie snorted. ‘Only because Miss Marshall caught you. We can do you for threatening behaviour, assault, trespass …’

  ‘Nothing I haven’t faced before.’

  Miranda was speechless. She didn’t know how he could be so arrogant knowing he was about to be arrested and possibly sent to prison. With a face and body like his, she thought he’d have a very hard time there. She tried to feel sorry for him and failed.

  Ronnie’s face was grim. ‘I’ll call the police,’ she said.

  Lady St Merryn gave a sigh. ‘Untie him.’

  Reggie tightened his grip on the man’s bicep until the skin turned white. ‘We can’t do that. He could be a nutter, madam.’

  ‘Oh, he’s definitely a nutter, Reggie, but please untie him.’

  Miranda stepped forwards, astonished. ‘Lady St Merryn …’

  Lady St Merryn tapped her way to Miranda and patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. It’s fine. I won’t say you’re perfectly safe with this idiot but I don’t think he’s about to run you through with a cutlass. I, however, may be taking a horsewhip to him.’

  Miranda was speechless. She’d expected Lady St Merryn to be outraged at some oik trying to make off with her heritage, but as for simply letting him go? Yes. She’d let the teenager off but this was different.

  Grumbling, Reggie undid the cable ties and, scowling, the man rubbed at his wrists.

  ‘Hurts a bit, does it?’ said Reggie with undisguised relish.

  ‘Well, normally, I rather enjoy a little light bondage but not usually at the hands of a man.’

  Miranda tried desperately to remain composed, which was difficult considering she’d gone all hot and cold as the man turned his eyes right on her. Suddenly, he gave a little bow in her direction before stepping forwards and planting a kiss on Lady St Merryn’s cheek.

  Lady St Merryn kissed him back then scowled. ‘It will take a damn sight more than that to get round me, Jago.’

  He shook his head and gave a weary sigh. ‘Delighted to see you too, Mother, you haven’t changed a bit.’

  Chapter Three

  Miranda replaced the cutlass on its stand, frowning at the fingerprints marking the blade. The sword would need cleaning too now, but that could wait until tomorrow when the conservator arrived. She stepped back and looked around the armoury. Her heart rate had slowed and the throbbing pulse in her head had subsided.

  Miranda hadn’t been able to take her eyes off Jago St Merryn as he’d kissed his mother, her frail figure seeming childlike in his embrace. Despite her harsh words and sarcasm, Miranda knew Lady St Merryn well enough to tell that she was happy, relieved – grateful – to have her son back home. Even if he was a son she never talked about and hadn’t even seen – if all the rumours were to be believed – since he’d left university ten years before.

  On a day-to-day basis, Lady St Merryn was in charge of the Mount but it was her son, Jago, who had inherited the property and the title from his father, Patrick. He was the heir and it should have been his duty to be in charge of it now. Instead Jago St Merryn had considered it his duty to scarper and leave the castle to be run by his mother and a handful of underpaid, and almost stupidly loyal, residents and staff.

  Miranda made her way back down to the harbour where the offices were housed in converted buildings on the quayside. The cottages, strung along the harbour, were home for the thirty staff and their families who lived on the island. Most of the buildings had been there for at least three hundred years, providing accommodation for the ferrymen, servants and trades people and their families, who had once served the Mount or still did.

  She walked into her office and opened the filing cabinet. In the bottom drawer, she found a half-bottle of ‘medicinal’ Ardbeg hidden behind a copy of Debrett’s. She checked her watch. It was one minute past six and she was officially off duty. She unscrewed the cap, sloshed a generous measure in her Mount St Merryn mug and sank back into her office chair.

  ‘How are you?’

  She smiled as Ronnie appeared in the doorway. ‘I think I’ve got over it. Whisky?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I’m still on duty. My shift doesn’t end until ten. But if I wasn’t, I’d join you in a flash. Hell of a shock, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t actually think Jago St Merryn would run me through with the cutlass.’

  ‘I didn’t mean the cutlass. I meant it’s a shock that bloody Jago’s deigned to come back to the Mount, at all.’

  ‘I suppose we should
have guessed he’d be back one day, no matter what’s gone on between him and his mother. He does own the place after all, but just turning up like that, I admit, it was unconventional.’ Miranda clamped her lips together. It wasn’t her place to speculate on the private lives of her employers; she left that to the rest of the staff when they thought she was out of earshot. She still enjoyed eavesdropping.

  The look that Jago had given her as Reggie had set him free was also burned into her brain. She gulped down a slug of whisky and wished she had a fan in the office. The May evening was unseasonably warm.

  ‘Handsome bastard, isn’t he?’ said Ronnie, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Bit of the gypsy in there if you ask me.’

  With his earring and bravado, Jago had reminded Miranda more of the Corsairs, the pirates who attacked enemy ships for the French kings.

  ‘You know he left for university and never came back?’ asked Ronnie.

  ‘I’d heard rumours but Lady St Merryn never talks about him.’

  That was an understatement. In fact, Jago might as well have not existed. While there were dozens of portraits of the St Merryn ancestors displayed throughout the castle, Jago’s handsome face was nowhere to be found. Even in Lady St Merryn’s private chambers, Miranda could only recall one photo of him, and that was a print of a sullen little boy, standing by the harbour, holding a fishing net.

  ‘No wonder her ladyship won’t speak his name. After the last lord passed away, Jago went straight up to Cambridge from boarding school. He hardly ever came home, from what I can work out and, after that, he disappeared off round the world. Reggie reckons he was banged up in some South American jail for a while.’

  Disappeared off round the world. Miranda thought that sounded about right for the man she’d just met. In past times, the sons of great families were often despatched abroad, either to do the Grand Tour and broaden their minds or because they’d done something unspeakable and had to get away until the heat died down. In Jago’s case, the unspeakable option seemed more likely. But what could you do these days that was truly ‘unspeakable’? The possibilities shot through Miranda’s mind. She pictured Jago in a Hogarthian scene of debauchery, lolling on a couch with an opium pipe in one hand, a gin bottle in the other and bare-breasted wenches lifting their skirts in his face.