But first she had to get there. None of her travel brochures had mentioned Penford Hall, nor could she find it in any of her guidebooks. The only proof she had of its existence was the vicar’s out-of-date map, with his spidery X and the words “Penford Hall” written in his elegant, old-fashioned hand. Emma took the vicar’s map from her shoulder bag and opened it gingerly.
There was the X, almost on top of the fishing village of Penford Harbor, where Mrs. Trevoy’s insightful sister-in-law currently resided. A single road gave access to the coast at that point, a narrow, “unimproved” lane that turned upon itself like a wriggling snake. Very slow going. The drive there would certainly ruin her schedule and possibly rob her of the chance to see Killerton Park’s azaleas in full bloom.
Emma refolded the map, finished her toast, and gulped her tea, then headed upstairs to grab her bags and pay the bill. If she left Mrs. Trevoy’s guest house immediately, she’d arrive at Penford Hall in time to see the gardens gilded by the afternoon sun.
Emma passed the turnoff twice before creeping slowly by a third time. The sign for Penford Harbor was obscured by weeds, but at ten miles an hour it was visible, and she turned onto a rutted road that was every bit as narrow as she’d feared it would be.
It was not a scenic drive. Hawthorn hedges blocked her view on either side, and the situation straight ahead wasn’t much better, since there was no straight ahead. Inching gingerly around one bend after another, Emma tried to skirt the deepest potholes or, when that proved impossible, to ease the car through them gently.
When the hedge on her left parted to reveal a paved and sheltered parking area, Emma pulled into it. The track continued westward, but Emma’s teeth had been rattling for close to an hour and she was ready to give up on Penford Hall. No garden was worth this much trouble.
The parking area was protected by a pitched roof of corrugated metal and nearly filled by two rows of shiny new cars. Emma doubted that the owners ever used the road she’d just survived, but the sight of the cars filled her with hope. Perhaps the vicar’s map would prove reliable after all.
The only available parking space was in the front row, next to a wheelless white van set up on blocks. Emma carefully nosed in beside it, released her deathgrip on the steering wheel, and leaned back against the headrest. The enveloping silence was a balm for her jangled nerves.
Settling her glasses more firmly on her nose, Emma reached for her shoulder bag, got out of the car, and edged her way past the van to the car park’s southern edge. She was in a narrow, densely wooded valley. Somewhere to her right, hidden by bushes and overhanging trees, a fast-moving stream tumbled and splashed, while below her, at the foot of the valley, lay the village of Penford Harbor.
Emma murmured a heartfelt apology for ever doubting the vicar’s map. The village hugged the edge of a natural harbor formed by the embracing arms of towering gray granite cliffs. A beacon flashed from the barren headland to the east, warning of treacherous waters below, while the western promontory seemed to be littered with blocks of gray stone, as though a castle or a fortress had once risen there, now tumbled into ruin.
Four fishing boats bobbed gently in the half-moon cove and fishnets were spread on the gray granite quay, where seagulls roosted in search of easy meals. The stepped and cobbled main street was lined with whitewashed houses, the doors and shutters painted with a Crayola palette of colors—lemon yellow, sky blue, tangerine. Fuchsias trailed from windowboxes, pansies filled clay pots on doorsteps, and geraniums topped old barrels along the quay.
The sounds of village life floated upward on the wind. A cloud of gulls hovered over a fishing boat just entering the harbor and Emma could hear their raucous cries as clearly as though she were standing on the deck.
Then she heard another sound, a low, tuneless whistling that seemed to be coming from somewhere in the region of her ankles. Looking down, she saw a pair of legs emerge from beneath the front bumper of the white van. The legs belonged to a chubby, white-haired man in a royal-blue jumpsuit who was lying flat on his back on a low, wheeled platform—a creeper, Emma thought it was called. The man was holding a wrench in one hand and an oily rag in the other, and when he saw Emma, he stopped whistling.
“Hello,” he said. “Lost your way?”
Emma bridled slightly. The boy at Bransley Manor had made the same assumption and the question was beginning to annoy her. “No,” she replied firmly. “I’m looking for Penford Hall. I believe it’s very near here.”
The chubby man slipped the wrench and the rag into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit, rolled off of the creeper onto all fours, then slowly got to his feet. “Not as young as I used to be,” he commented, rubbing the small of his back. “Lookin’ for Penford Hall, you say?”
Emma took the Pyms’ calling card from her shoulder bag and presented it to him. “My name is Emma Porter. I was sent by some friends of the duke.”
The man examined the card, then bent to unzip a pocket in the leg of his jumpsuit. When he stood up again, he was holding a palm-sized portable telephone. He flipped the mouthpiece down, pushed a few buttons, then held the telephone to his ear.
“Gash here,” he said. “Got a visitor for His Grace. Name of Emma Porter. Sent by”—he consulted the card—“Ruth and Louise Pym. Something to do with gardens. Right. I’ll wait.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and winked at Emma. “Handy gadget, this,” he whispered.
It was also extremely expensive. To see such a pricey piece of hardware emerge from the zippered pocket of a mechanic’s jumpsuit was a bit unexpected.
Gash was speaking again. “Right,” he said. “I’ll bring her up straightaway.” Gash folded the telephone and stowed it once more in his pocket, then gestured toward Emma’s car. “Hop in,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
As he maneuvered the car out of the tight parking space, Emma commented on the lamentable state of the road. “Don’t get used much,” Gash replied. “Not since His Grace laid in the new one. Easier on the villagers, he says. Some folks still get round by boat, o’ course. Or by chopper, but that’s for emergencies, mainly.”
“Did you say helicopter?” Emma clarified.
“Yes, well, Dr. Singh had to have one, and since the village needed him, His Grace got him his chopper.” As though suddenly remembering his manners, Gash turned to extend a pudgy hand to Emma. “I’m Gash, the mechanic up at Penford Hall.”
Formalities concluded, Gash backed Emma’s car out of the parking area and drove westward, beyond the point where Emma had given up. They crossed a stone bridge, then turned a comer where, mercifully, the potholed track became a ribbon of smooth asphalt climbing out of the valley. At the top, they came to another, broader road that ran along the crest of the western headland. Gash turned toward the sea.
When Emma saw the gates of Penford Hall, she very nearly changed her mind about visiting. Tall, black, and forbidding, the gates were set into imposing granite posts flanked by thick walls and topped with surveillance cameras that swept the road in steady, unrelenting arcs. She was further unnerved when a small door in the gate opened to reveal a stocky old man strikingly attired in a black beret, a khaki army sweater, camouflage trousers, and highly polished black leather boots.