‘I’m fetching you. And guess what we’ve just found.’
‘Oh, God. What? I’m busy. I am doing vital research.’
‘Well you’ll like this better, and you have to come now or we’ll miss it.’
Dutifully, Aleksey swung around and started to walk back with Ben. Oily could wait, he reasoned. Being with Ben when he was in this mood could not. He was entirely irresistible. He nudged him with one elbow as they were walking along, and he could feel Ben’s desire to hook his fingers into his waistband. Other thoughts started to drift across his mind. He was just about to suggest they return to the hotel, when they spotted the other two waiting impatiently on the harbour quay besides a small fishing smack, which appeared to have been repurposed as a tourist boat. A sign advertisedIsland Hopping Cruises,and chalked on the timetable portion at the bottom wasBenhar—Depart 10 am.
Ben laughed at his expression. ‘This is finally your opportunity to get Squeezy into anazz-i-lum.’
* * *
Chapter Twenty
Benhar proved to be a short trip south west of the main St Mary’s island. The sea was a little choppy by the time they set out, as a large cloud bank had appeared on the horizon to the west and the pilot was muttering to himself about a sou’wester coming in for the rest of the day. There were four other passengers beside the six of them, so the little, amusingly termed, cruise ship was uncomfortably full. Radulf and PB were becoming accustomed to small boats by this time, clearly preferring them to the large ferry, and both sat up on the bench which ran along the inside of the bow, jowls lifting in the wind, giving them the appearance of grinning in delight at the trip.
Aleksey, standing in the stern, watching the harbour fall away behind them, spotted the old man he’d been talking to hobbling rapidly along. Assuming he was heading for the nearest pub with his windfall, he found it more than a little interesting to see him push open the door of the bookshop. It was possible he was a keen reader, possibly even books about huskies, but, nevertheless, it was an odd coincidence he didn’t like.
The island began to appear after fifteen minutes and within half an hour more they were mooring up to a tiny wharf in a picturesque harbour surrounded by toy-town pretty, pastel-coloured cottages. Many were thatched, which only added to the overall charm of the place.
As they climbed out of the boat, Tim asked the older of the two pilots, ‘What time should we be back?’
‘Every two hour this time a year. I’ll be leaving at twelve; then my lad’ll do the two an’ four. Quite a bit to see if’n you like birds and seals, and a very welcome cuppa to be had at the Slope—can’t miss it, next to the church.’
He was right. The tea shop had a sign outside swinging in the stiffening breeze: The Slippery Slope—Cornish Cream Teas. Besides this minor commercialism, the place seemed remarkably unspoiled.
Just as with their island, Benhar was in two halves, although this only became apparent as they walked the path around the coast. This track made Aleksey think of Harry and Snodgrass walking along the cliffs of south Devon. No impressive heights here, but it was undeniably picturesque. The water sparkled and lapped gently against the rocks, swelling translucent and brilliant green where it was shallow over golden sandy bays. On the land side of the path, tall foxgloves and lupins ran wild in profusion, scenting the air and adding mad pinks and purples and brilliant yellow to the blue-green world around them.
A few seals were basking, as promised, on the rocks, entirely unconcerned at their appearance. The path stuck mainly to the coast, although they passed one wooden signpost indicating another route through some farm land and up to the highest point of the island, which appeared to be uncultivated heath. The village of Benhar gave the island its name and was the only settlement.
Eventually, they came to the furthest most western point and saw their destination. An impressive stone building sat atop an austere outcrop of rock some distance still ahead of them. It was incongruous, even more so when they dropped down from the path and discovered that the asylum was actually separated from Benhar proper by a causeway—it was only an island when the tide was in. The strip of sand now visible was perhaps half a mile long. It was all incredibly scenic, and Tim was busy taking photos of the yellow sand edged by turquoise water; this set against the dark, slightly sinister building upon the rocky promontory, which appeared to be emitting the bruise-black clouds banked to the west—no pastels or thatch here. He lowered his phone and commented to no one in particular, ‘This is just like St Michael’s Mount. We must go there one day. I can’t believe that gorgeous building has just been left empty.’ Aleksey was about to pick him up for using the word gorgeous in his presence, when Tim added wistfully, ‘Maybe they’ll sell it off and someone will develop it.’ Aleksey kept his smirk inside—he’d been thinking exactly the same thing.
They climbed a stile and began to descend through a high-banked sheep track of foxgloves and nettles, only to discover that the causeway to little-Benhar was fenced off. A yellow sign declaredDanger: Prohibited Area. Strictly no access. Private. Trespassers will be prosecuted.
They all stood looking at this for a while. The asylum, the causeway, the sign…
Even their professor of flexible ethics put up no resistance at all when Aleksey moved the free-standing construction fence to one side and squeezed through.
The causeway was particularly interesting. It brought up Biblical associations of divine hands parting waters, those surging, cresting waves then crashing back to their rightful realm. This potential drowning feature of what had seemed such a benign object seen from the higher island was not apparent until they were actually walking across it. The impression wasn’t helped when Ben said suddenly to his friends, ‘All of Scilly was part of the Cornish mainland once, and then there was a tsunami and these islands are all that’s left. What’s Lands End now was a hundred miles or so inland.’
Everyone’s eyes swivelled to the water.
Tim frowned sceptically. ‘I think that’s just a myth. You mean Lyonesse? That’s nothing more than a retelling of the ancient legend of the lost city of Atlantis—possibly even the site of Camelot—but it’s not based on any archaeological or historical fact whatsoever.’
Aleksey shrugged. He’d been amused by Ben’s assertion, as Ben had clearly been pondering Phillipa’s comment and had added a few embellishments of his own. But he was the only one allowed to make fun of Ben’s brain, so countered confidently, ‘Not according the book I’m reading. It is well-established that Lyonesse was a large and prosperous independent country—as was Cornwall its neighbour—and there is clear evidence of field systems under the waters all around Scilly which prove its extent. Remains of towns have been found and many domestic artefacts such as plates and forks and spoons. They have estimated the likely population from the nearly two hundred churches found—which were made of stone and therefore survive intact. Many still have their bells, and these can be heard ringing on particularly stormy nights. Some archaeologists even propose that Lyonesse is evidence of a pre-Neolithic advanced civilization which was destroyed by cataclysmic climatic events over twelve thousand years ago.’
He was fairly confident someone would have to a have a great deal of knowledge to unpick the web of lies he’d just spun, and the frowning professor, for all his erudition on many things, was apparently not that person. As with his friend in Russian military intelligence and his Roman coin project, Aleksey just liked messing with data. He’d read the cover of the book, this was true. He was Lord of Light Island: he was entitled to join all the other locals and make up any good yarns he liked.
Ben came to walk alongside him. ‘I thought causeways were like sucking mud, but this is just a sandy beach really.’
‘Tell that to whatever that is.’ He pointed to something further along at the edge of the sandbank. It did appear to be stuck in mud—it actually looked as if it was attempting to crawl from the deadly pull. However, when they reached it, they realised it was just tipped over and abandoned.
It was a sea tractor lying on its side, its large wooden-sided passenger cabin beginning to rot, exposing a rusting iron framework beneath. The wheels were enormous, the lower ones now well covered in sand, as the machine appeared to be sinking slowly into the seabed. The lower, sodden side of the machine was draped in slimy green seaweed, but the top, possibly over twenty feet up, was dry and clear. Aleksey tipped his head to one side, attempting to picture it upright as it once had been, and Ben asked, ‘Do you remember the island we stayed on with that really expensive hotel when we were house hunting? They had one of these.’
‘Hmm. I was just thinking that. Apparently that one was nearly washed away the other day in a particularly bad tidal surge.’
‘Really?’
Well, it had wobbled a little, but his version was better.
