Amanda Cadabra and The Strange Case of Lucy Penlowr by Holly Bell (i like reading .TXT) 📗

‘True,’ Amanda agreed.

‘However, yes, I’m still on call for Parhayle, plus I do have some things to finish up before I move.’

‘Oh, Mr Branscombe apologised again for not being able to start on your flat at The Elms straight away.’

Trelawney was clearly relaxed about it. ‘There really is no hurry, please assure him.’

‘I will.’ Amanda put the last of her shoes on the floor of the wardrobe, closed her empty case, and looked up. ‘I have to admit to some impatience. It’s been a week since Lucy gave me that message.’

‘It was Lucy?’

‘She called herself that. She said, "my story, Lucy’s story.”’

‘And you didn't see her face?' asked Trelawney.

‘No, she was in deep shadow down there in the crypt. I just saw a lot of pale wavy hair and a dark form my height, and heard a child's voice.’

‘That's all?'

‘Yes. But Uncle Mike must have mentioned something about her to you during all the years you've known him, worked with him?’

‘I've been racking my brains, but no. Nothing.’

Amanda mused. ‘She said it was “time”. Time to tell it — her story. Why now, I wonder? And now we’re so close to finding out. It does seem a bit hard to have to wait even a few more hours.’

Trelawney smiled understandingly.

‘Well, we must let Mike tell this in his own way and in his own time.’ He stashed her case on the top of the wardrobe.

‘Yes, I do feel that it is highly privileged information.’

He frowned. ‘And somehow personal.’

‘Do you know much about Uncle Mike personally? You’ve been friends for some time.’

Trelawney shook his head. ‘Not really. I know about his sister and brother-in-law in Spain, of course, and visited them. I know Mike has some Cornish antecedents, but I think he was born in London. He’s never said much besides that, and I haven't wanted to pry.'

‘Hm, of course.'

‘I'll make some tea, shall I?' he offered.

‘Please. I'll just go and freshen up.'

Thereafter, Trelawney accompanied Amanda on a windy visit to say hello to the sea, while Tempest said hello to the bed. As they looked out on the waves, Trelawney asked,

‘In your dream in the car on the way here, the building you saw on fire, was it Cardiubarn Hall?’

Amanda had seen that imposing edifice only once since her early childhood.

‘No, I'm pretty certain it wasn't, not that there was that much to see what with the fire and smoke.’

‘Was it Flamgoyne?’ he enquired. It was the estate of his father's family, Thomas's undesirable connection to the notorious witch-clan and rival of the Cardiubarns.

Amanda considered. ‘I ... I'm not sure I'd know.’

‘All right, how about if I drive you up there? We have time, and there's plenty of daylight.’

'Yes. Yes, why not?'

They returned to the cottage, where Amanda looked in on her familiar.

'Coming?’ she asked.

Tempest sighed and roused himself for the arduous journey from quilt to travel blanket on the back seat of the Ford.

They took the road north from Parhayle, past Liskeard to the east and the Golitha Falls to the west. Climbing up to the expanse of Bodmin Moor — Goon Brenn in the Cornish tongue — they drove parallel to the waters of the River Fowey, flowing down to the coastal town of that name. Clouds scudded across the sky, from pale to gun-metal grey, threatening rain. At last, Trelawney took a track west. Presently he stopped the car.

There they stood: Flamgoyne and Cardiubarn Hall glowering across the leaden waters of Dozmary Pool. Rivals and occasional allies, the two witch-clans had most often been locked in a cold-war truce.

But now the Hall stood empty and had done for some 30 years. Flamgoyne had fared slightly better in terms of occupancy. With the bulk of the clan wiped out during an ill-judged attack over the border, an unexpected legatee had come into the property. In the absence of a direct descendant, to the surprise of the Trelawneys, Kyt, Thomas’s father had inherited both the estate and the title of ‘Arlodh’ — Lord. He had declined to take up residence. However, Flamgoyne was inhabited by the family retainer, Pasco Flamgoyne. Currently, the two men were undergoing an uneasy transition.

Pasco would most certainly not have welcomed a Cardiubarn, even though Amanda's patronymic had long since been changed to her grandfather's surname: Cadabra. Nevertheless, Trelawney drove her as close as possible but kept their distance. They got out and walked a little way so Amanda could see the house from more than one angle. The squawk of a raven sounded above the rattling call of the mistle thrushes, hunting somewhere nearby. She pulled her coat more closely around her against the cold. The wind gusted her hair into her face.

Finally, Amanda shook her head.

‘No. No, I'm pretty sure the building I saw in my dream wasn't Flamgoyne.’

‘But it was a big building?’

‘Yes, not as big perhaps as the Hall or Flamgoyne, but not a cottage, by any means.’

‘Any idea where? Did you see the lake?’ he suggested.

‘No. Sorry.’

‘That’s all right. At least you've been able to rule out Flamgoyne,’ Trelawney encouraged her. ‘Oh no, here comes the rain. Shall we go?’

At 6.30, they were on the doorstep of Former Chief Inspector Michael Hogarth’s cottage, at one end of the peaceful cliff-top village of Mornan Bay. It was a hamlet: a row of cottages leading to a cluster of dwellings, a tiny pub, a shop-cum-post office, and finally a 500-year-old church. During their office hours, oystercatchers were busy below wading through the mud wading through the wet sand on the hunt for shellfish while skylarks sang above, soaring on the updraft from the water below.

Trelawney rang the bell even though he had a key. For some reason, although Uncle Mike