I stared at her in horror.
“Heaven bless you, miss! Not a real dead man,” she said, wheezing again in amusement. “’Tis only the legend that the island was once a giant who strode across the seven seas before curling up to sleep. It is said the sea washed over him as he slept and he never waked again and onlyhis bones were left, picked clean by the creatures of the deep and that is how the island came to be.”
“I suppose a place like this is thick with legends,” I said.
“That we are. We’ve our giant and a mermaid and more ghosts than we have living folk.”
“Ghosts—” I began, but we were interrupted by the boisterous arrival of a young boy, his dark hair tumbling over his brow as he bounded in. The cat twitched its whiskers at him but did not move.
“Hello, Gran,” the boy said, dropping a kiss to her worn cheek.
“Hello, poppet. Miss Speedwell, this is my grandson, Peter. Peterkin, this is Miss Speedwell from up the castle. You say a proper hello to the lady.”
He bowed from the waist in a gesture of such refined courtliness it would have done credit to a lord. I inclined my head. “Master Peter. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“How do you do?” he asked gravely.
His grandmother gave him a fond look. “He’s a right little gentleman, isn’t he?” she asked me. “Always reading books about his betters and practicing his manners.”
“Good manners will take him far in the world,” I observed.
“And he will go far,” Mother Nance said sagely. “I have seen it.”
“Seen it?”
“Gran is a witch,” the child said calmly.
There seemed no possible reply to this that could achieve both candor and politeness so I opted for a vague, noncommittal murmur.
Mother Nance gave another wheezing laugh as she petted her grandson’s curls. “Miss Speedwell thinks you’ve told a tale, my little love, but she’ll soon discover what’s what.”
The boy gave me an earnest look. “’Tis true, miss. Gran is a witch. Not the nasty sort. She shan’t put a spell on you and give you warts,” he said seriously. “She sees things. She has the sight.”
“The sight?”
“Things come to me,” Mother Nance said comfortably. “I do not ask them to come, mind, but come they do. Things from the past and things that have yet to be.”
“And ghosts,” her grandson reminded her.
“Aye, I have had more than a few chats with them that walk,” she agreed. She narrowed her gaze at me, but her expression was still kindly. “Miss Speedwell is a skeptic, poppet. She believes in what her eyes can tell her. She has yet to learn there is more to see than what the eyes can perceive.”
“I am skeptical, as you say. But I am willing to be persuaded,” I told her.
She laughed and exchanged a look with her grandson. “Persuaded! Lord love you, there’s no persuading to be done. Either you believe a thing or you don’t. And your believing doesn’t make it so. The ghosts don’t care if you see them or not,” she added.
I thought of Malcolm Romilly’s missing bride and experienced a shiver of curiosity.
“Have you seen ghosts?” I asked the boy.
He nodded gravely. “Twice. I saw a dark fellow with a funny sort of tin hat. He were on the beach, lying as still as the dead. Then he seemed to rise up and he kept looking behind him at the sea as though he were seeing something awful.”
“A Spaniard,” his grandmother said promptly. “An Armada ship was wrecked upon these shores, and one or two sailors washed up, half-drowned and despairing.”
“What became of them?” I asked.
“One was a priest, a chaplain to the vessel which sank. He was welcomed by the Romilly family, and it is said they kept him on secretly and he held masses for them, although no one ever saw a trace of him within the castle.”
“And the man on the beach?” I pressed.
