Rio Sagrado

By David Bramhall

Third volume in the Greatest Cape series of novels, Rio Sagrado is a sequel to The Black Joke and The Bernadette. Once again we follow the adventures of Fenestra Potts, her brother Pert and their friends and family, as the town is threatened with the worst crime anyone can imagine, born of lust for gold and the lunatic fantasy of a familiar face. The whole town is involved but it is Fenestra alone who sees what is coming and faces danger, death and tragedy. Meanwhile her unusual friend Lurk has demons of his own to face, including long sea voyages, man-eating jaguars and the puzzling doctrine of Original Sin - can it really apply to a dog?

A cross between Treasure Island, The Railway Children and Deliverance, The Greatest Cape is by turns exciting, amusing, alarming, charming, violent and strange - a rollicking read for adults with a childish love of adventure, and for children who aren't afraid of a few long words.

Reviewers say ... 'an extremely well-written book with three-dimensional characters you quickly grow to love or hate' ... 'absolutely captivating' ... 'elegant and easy to read' ... 'a real page-turner - couldn't put it down'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Bramhall
• Release date: Mar 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311749543

David Bramhall

Composer and author, now a novelist of sorts, and always a grumpy old person with too many opinions. That's what my wife says, anyway.

Book preview

THE GREATEST CAPE

Volume Three

RIO SAGRADO

Copyright © 2014 David Bramhall

First published 2014 by Walnut Tree Books

Second edition 2022

Walnut Tree Books

I

Fear took hold upon them there, and pain, as of a woman in travail (Ps.48:6)

I will not fear what flesh can do unto me (Ps.56:4)

Out on the broad Atlantic the clouds had sucked up water from the ocean until they were swollen and heavy, then hung low as they made their ponderous way towards the land, borne on the rising gale from the west. Reaching the shore they released their load in solid sheets of rain, great curtains that hissed slowly across the salt-marshes and poured on the quay, flattening the waves of the harbour and obscuring the distant view of the sea. The cobbles shone dull in the grey light, and water ran and poured from every roof, dripping from every gutter and filling the air with a great rushing.

Small torrents ran down every little street and joined in a flood that scoured the High Street, made the broad Market Place a sea of bouncing spray and carried filth and debris from the deserted market stalls. The stall-holders cowered in doorways and watched cabbage leaves, squashed bananas, loaf-ends and paper bags whirl past on their way to the sea. It rained as though it would never stop, the clouds hanging almost stationary over the town, intent on sinking houses and shops and cobbled alleys in a final deluge.

It rained on Bodrach Nuwl, the Old Man of the Mist, the great thousand-foot cliff that loomed over the town. Gushing torrents spouted from his sheer rock faces, falling white past caves and sloping meadows. Small trickles grew and nibbled at the loose soil that clung in crevices, washing stones and mud and small plants down into the void. His grey flanks were slick with water, and trees tossed wildly in the combes and valleys that fell down towards the great field of rock below. So vast was Bodrach Nuwl that none save Pertinacious Potts had ever scaled him, and even Pert didn't get all the way to the top because there was no need to. On his way to find his precious Rosella who had fallen into one of the trees, he crossed great meadows of treacherous grass where rabbits and foxes played out their generations with no knowledge of the wider world below, and stole eggs from the nests of sea-birds who knew no fear, never having met a human before. He had come across gaping caverns where strange pale creatures lived out their quiet lives, and secluded nooks where rare orchids bloomed and brilliant birds darted and sang. And he had found Rosella, battered and near to death, and stayed with her on the cliff, nursing her back to health and eventually leading her down to his boat and away up the coast to safety. That had been in the summer, though. Now it was autumn, and Pert and Rosella and their delightful daughter Patience were snug in the cabin of the trading ketch Bernadette while the masts swayed and the rain clattered on the deck.

Above the harbour the grey streets rose in rows of narrow fishers' houses, and above the houses and below the church was the school where a hundred children cowered in damp and silent misery. In each classroom an iron stove sputtered and warmed the privileged few who sat near. The rest shivered in their wet clothes and longed for the bell that would release them into the rain again, and home to dry clothes and tea. In each classroom the teachers dozed or patrolled the rows of desks, depending on the amount of fear they managed to instil in their pupils. In each classroom there was a hum of reluctant activity, of scuffling, of hidden notes being passed and spiteful acts of petty bullying. In at least two classrooms a child sat silently weeping in a corner, sunk in misery. One of them was that of Mr.Merridew, brooding and resentful and in a savage temper.

Mr.Merridew was, to his own way of thinking, the school's most experienced and skilled teacher. It should have been he who was promoted to Headmaster, not that fat idiot Trump whose only virtue was indolence ... no, that wasn't right, Merridew thought, indolence wasn't a virtue. Come to think of it, Trump had no virtues at all. His only skills were spreading fatly over a chair in the staffroom or in Town Council meetings, and sleeping. The Town Council, that was it. Trump was made Headmaster because he was on the Town Council and Merridew was not. He mused bitterly, thinking of ways to take it out on his class. They deserved it, the idle, filthy little sods ...

In the Headmaster's office Trump lounged in his chair. A soft pudding of a man who in the classroom used the cane just enough to secure adequate discipline, he had always considered that to try and actually teach his pupils anything was a step too far. He left that energetic sort of thing to Merridew and Miss Clutterbrick. Being the Headmaster was altogether more agreeable. He would have put his feet up on the desk, but it was too much effort so he slid down until he was almost horizontal and thought fondly that his secretary should be back shortly with a cream cake from Ye Olde Tea Shoppe near the harbour, to eat with the tea she would make him before she could take off her sodden coat and wring the water from her hair.

He thought that after tea he would wander idly down the corridor and peep in at the teacher who had taken over his class now he was too important to do any actual teaching. He knew he would find the room in chaos, children fighting and throwing books and running up and down the aisles and sitting on the desks while Miss Dimworthy shouted and issued futile instructions, her face by turns red and ashen white. He smiled to himself. Miss Dimworthy was a chubby, insipid girl with a fine plump bottom. She plainly needed some more in-service training, he thought, and who better than himself to administer it? After school, perhaps, here in his office, over his knee. Oh yes ...

In the wet fug of Merridew's classroom the rain beat on the windows and two dozen young heads were bent in misery as they racked their brains for something to write on the subject of Is virtue its own reward? Merridew stood at the rear of the classroom, warming his backside at the stove. In the front row Basil Elkington-Horne the class swot blotted a paragraph that began First let us consider what is meant by the word 'virtue' ... and began the next. Head to one side, his tongue protruding in concentration, he wrote But what is to be understood by the term 'reward'? If it is a case of mere monetary value, then ... Beside him his neighbour peered sideways, but as Basil had a protective arm curled round his work only fragmentary glimpses were to be had. All he could see was 'term', 'reward' and 'money'. Still, half a loaf, as his mother often said. He bowed his own head and scrawled 'if every term rewards were given ...' another quick glance ... 'of more money ...'

Further back in the room there was less pretence of work; the task was too difficult. Indeed it was alien to children from the mean streets behind the harbour, where virtue was rare and reward unheard of. Virtue, that is, in terms a schoolmaster would understand, or reward of the kind he would approve. No, to the fisher folk and their adolescent offspring, virtue meant getting out of bed at four in the morning, trudging to the harbour and slipping out into the creek for hours of cold, back-breaking work every day, while reward was measured in nets filled, in crab-pots occupied, and in a fair price paid for every creel by Trumbull Underdown the Fish Factor. Reading and writing was all very well, and useful for totting up the catches or writing out a shopping-list, but for most of the town there was little reward for virtue, and none at all for writing about it.

Merridew rocked and warmed himself, toying with a piece of chalk. He was a crack shot with a piece of chalk, and boasted that he could put one right in the ear of a misbehaving child clear across the classroom. A cadaverous man, long of face and misshapen of jaw, his eyes were small and his brow insignificant. Though he dressed like a magister from one of the great schools in flannel suit and long black gown, in his heart he knew himself for a weak man of limited intellect and fibre. Nevertheless, he considered himself to have been virtuous and to have remained unrewarded. The Headmaster's study should have been his. It was this dysfunction that occupied his mind for increasingly long spells of time as he watched the bent heads and fidgeting bottoms beneath him, waiting for an opportunity to lash out with tongue or fist, to unleash a caustic wit on the heads of those ill-equipped to understand it, or a vicious cane on their nether regions. They all understood that.

Increasingly these days he found it impossible to tear his thoughts away from his misfortunes. Passed over for the headship, cast adrift from his position as an Elder of the Bethesda Chapel in Low Street when it burned to the ground three years ago and had not been rebuilt or replaced; a meagre salary, uncomfortable rooms in a cold house where he was not welcome, a poor diet that wrung his bowels and left him in perpetual discomfort, and above all these little swine, these vermin who taunted and tormented him by their ignorance, their blank looks.

Once in a while there was one, usually a girl, who started the term by looking up at him with sympathy and understanding, who hung on his every word and gazed with admiration at his eloquence. His heart would warm to her, he favoured her with kind and meaning glances that said You are my special one; you and I, we understand each other ... He would touch her shoulder in passing, and write carefully-penned messages of commendation on her exercises, watching her as she left the classroom with her friends at playtime, longing for her to glance back over her shoulder.

But it never lasted. Sooner or later she would begin to see him for what he was. Whether it was the vacant, animal grin that occasionally crossed his face, or the maniac glee in his eyes as he reached for the cane to beat some unfortunate backside, some womanly instinct made her realise that he was not the demigod she thought, that there was something sick behind those weak eyes, something vicious that curled the thin lip from the teeth, something deeply unsavoury in the way he looked at her that made her gather her skirts around her and seek the familiar comfort of her friends. She bowed her head in class, she made sure she never met his eye, and she never glanced back at the door.

Down the corridor the bell sounded. Merridew strode back to his desk wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and wrote in his notebook note to self - try not to dribble. He dismissed his class and sloped off down the corridor towards the staffroom, fumbling in a pocket for his pipe.

Outside, the walls of the school were assailed by the remorseless wind from the sea. It blew cold across the salt marshes and sent dark squalls across the inner harbour, rocking the little fishing boats and making the dinghies grind together at the foot of the steps. Pattering flurries of rain chased each other over the puddles and cobbles of the quay where the seagulls stared morosely at each other.

In the streets of the town that sloped up from the quay the little fishermen's cottages were shuttered and silent, though every chimney betrayed a fire as a smudge of smoke was whipped away by the wind. Sensible people stayed off the streets, kept snug indoors, and waited for better weather. Further up the hill in the wider, more affluent streets, the shops were open but deserted. Shop keepers lounged untroubled on their counters, drumming their fingers or counting the small change in the till for the seventeenth time while the rain drove on the glass door and no customers came.

In her cosy room behind Ye Olde Gifte Shoppe, Fenestra Potts, younger sister of the doughty mountaineer, sat at her table and looked out of the window. Rain battered at the glass and trickled through a crack onto the window-sill where she had placed a towel to soak it up. The towel was now sodden, and a wet streak ran down the wall and was forming a small lake on the floor-boards. In one corner of the room there was a rustling sound as the wind snuffled behind the loose wallpaper.

In front of the feeble fire Lurk sprawled, twitching in his sleep. As Fenestra adjusted her glasses, took up her pen and began to write, he looked up and his tail thumped once on the floor. Did you say something? a voice said in her head.

No, nothing, she replied out loud, underlining her heading.

Oh. I thought you said something about sausages.

No. No sausages today.

The dog sighed loudly and went back to sleep. His grizzled flank rose and fell steadily, and his feet twitched as he returned to a dream of cats. Or possibly rabbits, Fenestra thought, something small and easy to terrorise, anyway. She took up her pen and began to write.

In addition to her stories and poems and her articles for the Harbour Clarion, the town newspaper she had started three years before, Fenestra had now started to keep a diary. She considered this a worthwhile pursuit. In future years when she was a world-famous novelist, people would be desperate to read of her interesting early life. She wrote ...

"Imagine my surprise yesterday when my friend Walter Sabbage turned up at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe next door. Primrose came herself to call me, grinning all over her face. He sat at one of the tables like a proper civilised person, giving his order to Poppy who also seemed rather amused. He stood when I entered, and invited me to join him for tea and crumpets which I was pleased to do.

The surprising thing was that he no longer wore his usual seaman's clothes, but a perfectly presentable suit of coarse brown tweed – and a tie, of all things! He had also had his hair cut, and had shaved (more or less). I could hardly believe it was the same man, but his crinkly smile was unchanged. He really looked quite handsome, for an older man. I think I have mentioned before that he has the most brilliant blue eyes that look as though they have spent many years gazing into the distant oceans – which, of course, they have."

They had enjoyed a pleasant tea. Wally was always an engaging conversationalist. When he chose, he could abandon his coarse sailor's language and talk like an intelligent person, one who enjoyed a close friendship with His Grace the Bishop of St.Portius – not to mention Fenestra Potts, journalist and author.

Since the tea Fenestra had deliberately avoided Primrose who would, no doubt, have plenty to say about the occasion. She'd managed to keep out of the way for the whole morning, but Primrose would not be gainsaid for very long. As Fenestra laid down her pen she appeared in the doorway, smiling.

Kettle's on next door, you coming in?

Fenestra sighed and gave in. This conversation could not be avoided for ever.

Well, I'd never’ve believed it! He do scrub up well, don't 'e? began Primrose archly, pouring the tea. From the kitchen at the rear of the café the noise of clattering crockery suddenly ceased. Fenestra knew that Poppy the waitress had stopped washing up and was listening intently.

Who does?

Who d'you think, miss? Your Wally Sabbage!

Fenestra grinned at her friend. Why, Primrose, I do believe you've taken a shine to him!

An' well I might. Make a nice beau, 'e would. But 'e only 'as eyes for one girl, and well you know it, you cheeky besom!

Oh Primrose, don't be silly! He's much too old for me.

Nonsense! Plenty of good years left in that one, you mark my words. Makes two of most men in this town, 'e does! How does 'e make you feel?

Safe. And he's funny – most of the men I meet don't get my jokes, and he always does. And ...

And?

Fenestra lowered her voice. Some things Poppy shouldn't hear. And ... well, he makes me feel ... pretty! She felt herself blushing.

But you are pretty, look at you! Bit on the skinny side, mind. Still, with a bit more flesh on your bones you'd be a real looker.

Oh Primrose, don't exaggerate. I wear glasses. Besides, I couldn't possibly ... he's a pirate!

Used to be a pirate, used to be. 'E ain't one now. An' plenty of us 'ave done things in the past we shouldn't've. Take me ... Fenestra looked up sharply, but Primrose continued blithely, ... welcomed 'alf the men in this town into me bedroom at one time or another, an' now look at me – I'm the Mayor! Me, Primrose Moon, the Lady Mayor!

Don't be hard on yourself. You were performing a kindness for lonely old men. You should get a medal – you were practically a charity, Fenestra teased.

Primrose sniffed. Not just the old ones, young miss. There were plenty of young bucks spent some time with fat old Primrose, as well. I weren't no charity neither; they paid me good money. How d'you think I could afford to buy this place?

She looked around at the Tea Shoppe, the gay gingham tablecloths, the comfortable chairs and welcoming lights around the wall. If you'd take my advice, not that you ever do, she went on, you'd grab that Wally an' keep hold on 'im. You'll never want, an' 'e'll look after you proper. Very capable man, that Wally Sabbage, an' 'e dotes on you, 'e does, an' who can blame 'im?

I know he does. And I'm awfully fond of him. It's just ... I don't know ...

Well, you know what I thinks, anyway. But you 'as to make up your own mind, as do we all. Now ... Primrose leant forward, looking serious, I 'as somethin' else to tell you. I've decided to take a back seat in this café in future. What with bein' the Mayor an' everythin', and with Poppy bein' experienced now, and a good worker with 'er 'ead screwed on, I reckon I can take it a bit easier.

Fenestra smiled at her. You're retiring? That's good news, I'm delighted! Poppy's lovely, I'm sure she'll do it ever so well.

Yes, an' 'er little sister Petulia as comes in sometimes, she's goin' to be permanent now and help. Bright little thing she is, a bit cheeky but the customers like 'er. Petulia was a plump girl with a rosy smile, and Fenestra thought she was probably rather like Primrose herself had been when she was young.

That all sounds excellent, she said. But ... will it make any difference to me? Will I still be able to stay living here? I mean, I can always go back to mother and father's, but I do love it here, and so does Lurk ...

Lor' bless you, my dear, you don't think I'd be castin' you out on the street, do you? Of course you shall stay, and you'll both be welcome as long as you want! Primrose got up and put her arm round Fenestra's shoulders. She kissed her on the cheek, and added Any rate, until you see sense and decide to set up home with your lovely pirate ...

Fenestra giggled.

Inside the open door of one of the quayside fish sheds sat the brown man, calmly whittling at a piece of wood with a knife that had seen some adventurous times. The neat flakes of wood he gathered from the floor and fed to a small stove at his side. He watched the rain with blue eyes that crinkled and saw beyond the horizon, his fair hair was bleached by the sun and his skin was brown.

A robust man, whipcord body hardened by wind and sea, skin armoured by years of sun and salt, veins and arteries steeped in violence and pickled in savagery. Pity the wandering virus or bacterium that sought a home in this inhospitable environment: be it the most pestilential plague that stalked the continents, the most virulent bloody flux that scoured the cities of man leaving empty houses and windblown streets in its path, it would be reduced and humbled by this man's hostile carcase and passed on a few days later to a friend or acquaintance as little more than a slight head-cold.

This was Walter Sabbage, ex-seaman, ex-pirate, ex-knife-fighter, ex-convict, ex-mate to the notorious Trinity Teague of the brig Black Joke, respected in stews and seaports throughout the Windward Islands, loved in the Leeward Isles, feared in the Chops of the Channel, and regarded with both suspicion and grudging approval round this harbour. Here the fishermen trusted him, for a good seaman is a good seaman regardless of his politics, and they preferred to judge a man more by his deeds than his motives.

And now, Sabbage was an unlikely lover, too, the patient and understated lover of Fenestra Potts, flighty and fanciful, her pretty head full of tales and imagination and not quite sure what to do about her older admirer. She was drawn to his humour and his kindness and his intelligence, but feared his disreputable past and also worried that her feelings might not really be love but gratitude, for he had saved her life on one occasion and her bacon on another.

He looked out of the door, and sniffed the air. This rain and this wind were nearing their end, he could tell. He could smell fair weather following behind. Walter Sabbage smiled to himself, watched the rain and whittled with his knife. He was a patient man. He could wait.

Lurk roused himself, sat up, scratched vigorously and declared himself ready for a walk. Fenestra threw down her pen.

I might as well take a break, she said peevishly, I seem to be suffering from writer's block. The ideas just aren't coming.

That's on account of malnourishment, said Lurk. What you need is sausages. I dare say Grunt's the Butchers is still open ...

No, Lurk. No sausages, she said firmly, you're getting rather fat as it is. What we both need is a brisk walk and some fresh air. Let's go up the street and check up on Dilly. I don't know whether she's got enough material for this week's edition.

Outside the fresh air was uncomfortably full of rain, and Fenestra put up her umbrella. Their feet squelching, she and Lurk hurried up the street, sometimes stepping over the swollen gutters into the road to avoid cascades of water falling from a broken downpipe or overhanging roof. Grunt's the Butchers was still open, and Grunt himself, portly and sour, stood in the doorway glowering at the rain. He nodded grimly to Fenestra, and looked suspiciously at Lurk who had in the past been known to liberate the odd link of sausages from their imprisonment inside the shop, though no one had ever been able to pin anything on him. They seek him here, they seek him there ... she heard in her head, and Lurk sniggered.

At the top of the street, almost opposite the Royal St.Portius Hotel, was a dignified shop-front bearing in gold lettering the legend 'William Moon, Fine Art and Antique Furniture'. A side door was labelled 'The Harbour Clarion - the news and nothing but the news'. Fenestra entered and held the door for Lurk. Normally she would have made him wait outside, but the rain was worse if anything. He clattered damply up the stairs behind her.

At the top of the stairs she ignored the door lettered 'Reception, please knock and enter', instead turning to the left and opening the door marked 'Dillicent Denticle-Moon, Executive Editor'. As she entered, her friend Dilly looked up from the article she was reading and smiled.

Fenestra! she said, how nice! And Lurk too. I'll get Mrs.Headscarf to make some tea, shall I? She opened the door and called Cordelia, could you manage two cups of tea and a biscuit? Er ... make that several biscuits? She winked at Lurk. Dilly and Lurk were very old friends. In fact, when she had first arrived in the town only three years ago, alone and destitute and desperate, fleeing from a forced marriage and ready to die of cold and despair, Lurk had been the first person she met. Well, dog, really, she thought to herself, not person exactly. But he had rather adopted her until she had met Fenestra and taken a job on her fledgling newspaper, and met the lovely Billy.

Billy, now William Moon dealer in fine art and antiques, was the son of Primrose Moon. As a child he had been the smelliest and most disreputable of street-urchins but had formed a strong attachment to Fenestra. He had taken it upon himself to protect the dreamy, skinny little girl from bullies at school, and little by little she had civilised him, showing him the arts of washing and dressing properly, and teaching him to read.

Sadly their close relationship had not withstood the rigours of adult life, and Fenestra had exchanged with Dilly. Dilly now lived with Billy over the shop, while Lurk lived with Fenestra behind hers. Fenestra thought that despite appearances she had probably got the best of the bargain, for while Billy was a slippery customer, not always reliable when engaged in some shady dealing in second hand goods, Lurk was grumpy, rude and ungracious but rigidly faithful, unfailingly vigilant and a formidable protector.

And a trenchant conversationalist, of course. She could hear him now: Biscuits is all right, but what are we doin' here? She don't need you to tell her how to run a newspaper. She's better at it than you are.

But it's my newspaper. I started it.

Yes, and you still get half the profits. Aren't you the lucky one? She does all the work, and you get the money!

Don't knock it, Lurk. Where do you think the money for all your sausages comes from?

Yes, fair enough. But I used to steal 'em anyway, an' they didn't cost nothin'.

The door rattled open and Mrs.Headscarf appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. She said nothing, but slammed the tray down on Dilly's desk, gave a contemptuous sniff at Lurk, and slammed the door behind her.

Still the same ray of sunshine, then? said Fenestra.

Jolly good secretary, though, smiled Dilly, and put several biscuits on the floor. Lurk picked them up and carried them off to a corner.

So, how's things? Got any good stories this week?

Dilly shuffled through the papers on her desk. I think we're going to lead on the weather. Everyone's interested in that, she said. You know, 'Terror as deluge strikes, fear of imminent flooding', that sort of thing.

But there hasn't actually been any flooding, has there? Fenestra did not approve of Dilly's cavalier approach to journalism.

But there might have been. People deserve to be alerted to the possibilities. Besides, they love being scared! Oh, there's one thing that'll interest you. Widow Dolphin's come out of the woodwork again.

That dreadful old trout? You'd have thought she'd have the decency to keep quiet, after everything she did.

Apparently not. I mean, she never did anything that was actually illegal. Getting herself made Mayor, and trying to have Pert and Rosella convicted for murder ... she always claimed she was acting in the best interests of the town.

But Pert and Rosella didn't murder anyone. It wasn't them burned down the Vicarage.

And the Vicar.

That was the servant-girl, Vera. And Urethra Grubb was trying to kill Rosella when they both fell off the cliff.

That was before my time. But it all turned out right in the end, didn't it?

I suppose so. But what's the old trout up to now? Not going back into politics, I hope?

No. Charitable works. I suppose she's trying to rehabilitate herself, her and her nasty friends.

So Mrs.Chervil and Mrs.Wheable are in it too?

Yes, and Miss Throstle. The old firm, in fact.

You said charitable works?

Dilly passed over a sheet of paper.

'Announcement,' Fenestra read. 'It is announced that a new Charity, the 'Trust for Cultural and Humanitarian Enlightenment among the Aboriginal Tribes', seeks donations to fund an expedition to the Americas to bring true religion and moral correctitude to the savage tribes who live in sin and naked squalor in the jungle, and do not know God. Gifts of non-perishable food, clothing and money gratefully received at the Post Office, Market Square. Signed A.Dolphin (Mrs.), M.Chervil (Mrs.) and D.Wheable (Mrs.)'. So, what are they up to now, I wonder?

Well, so far as the Clarion is concerned, I suppose we have to take it at face value: they're collecting for the ignorant savages.

Huh! They're trying to replace the savages' ignorance with their own particular brand of stupidity. And make them wear clothes, of course. Look, you're the Executive Editor so you must decide, but to be honest I'd just leave it alone and not mention them at all.

Dilly looked at her for a long moment, toying with a pencil. She was not a pretty girl, but she made the best of her stocky body with expensive dresses now that Billy was fairly respectable and affluent. Her eyes were a shade too close together, but she had a lovely smile. I don't agree. Frankly, we're not so over-supplied with genuine news items that we can afford to ignore anything. Since Urethra Grubb and her daughter Listeria, and all the fuss over Pert and Rosella, and the Dean and Chapter coming to look for treasure and blowing themselves up under the mountain, well, things have got a bit quiet.

What's wrong with that?

Nothing. But 'Businesses trading as usual' and 'Fishing fleet has satisfactory catches' and 'Not much crime lately' aren't exactly riveting headlines, are they?

No, I suppose not. Still, it's all good, isn't it? If I wrote an article about how the town has returned to normality, and how everyone seems to be getting on with each other and so on, would you print it?

Of course.

Fenestra rose, and Lurk walked to the door, his claws clattering on the lino. Well, I won't keep you from your sensational weather. I must admit, it's been a bit depressing. I can't wait to see the sun again. She leant over the desk and they kissed. Though they disagreed about almost everything concerning the newspaper, Fenestra had to admit that it was very successful and sold large numbers of copies every week. And she and Dilly were fond of each other. They had a lot in common.

The main thing they had in common, apart from the Clarion, was Billy. Fenestra pushed open the door of the antiques shop to see if he was there, but he wasn't. The packet, the little cutter Eglantine, made weekly trips to the small ports further south, and Billy frequently travelled as far as St.Portius in search of bargains – furniture, bric-a-brac, paintings, machinery – anything that might be sold on at a profit. It was Billy, on one of these trips, who produced a whole printing press which they had set up in one of the fish sheds by the harbour so that Scotty Trutch could print the newspaper for them. In three years they had expanded, got more equipment and moved into a larger shed, but Scotty still printed the paper and maintained the machinery.

Looking up as she crossed the street, Fenestra thought there was a lightening of the sky behind the bulk of Bodrach Nuwl, and by the time she reached the harbour there were definite rifts and rents in the cloud cover. The rain eased too, and presently there was only a thin drizzle falling. The sea could be seen at last, still grey and angry-looking, but at least it was visible, and on the quay there were signs of life as some of the fishers began to prepare their boats.

Sadly the Bernadette was gone. Her brother Pert, with Rosella and their faithful crewmen John Tosh and Willum Borage, must have left to carry a cargo somewhere, for the old Bernadette was a trading ketch, a large two-masted vessel built to ferry small loads up and down the coast wherever needed. This was how Pert made a living now, and quite a good one at that. There were always cargoes, coal and timber and food and sometimes livestock for the farmers. It was a step up from fishing, Pert's original calling when he and Rosella lived northwards along the coast, hiding from those who wished to indict them for killing Urethra Grubb and Vicar Tench, a charge of which they were entirely innocent.

Fenestra turned on her heel. The person he had really wanted to see was her niece Patience, now a lively four-year-old. She knew where Patience would be – at the Vicarage, staying with her friend Silly Surplice and her parents Septimus and Floris. She smiled. Come on, Lurk, let's go up to the Vicarage and see Patience. She'll be pleased to see you.

Lurk grunted, but his pace increased and he lolloped ahead. He liked Patience. Sometimes Fenestra had noticed that he and Patience would stand close together, quite motionless. Patience would cock her head on one side, and look as though she was listening to something.

As the rain let up and the first signs of blue sky began to appear out to sea, Fenestra dawdled and let Lurk gallop ahead.

She mused about the article she had promised Dilly to write, about the town returning to normality after the traumatic events before. Somehow she felt uneasy about ... well, about everything, really. Everything was going well, and yet nothing felt right.

True, she could have no desire to return to the old unsettled days when her family were in danger and evil forces were at work in the town. She least of all, for she had been in possibly the greatest danger, threatened by the bullies Bunt and Durridge, and eventually half-buried under the mountain after the explosion. Only the faithful devotion of Lurk and Wally had saved her from lingering death. She shuddered at the memory. The mountain had shrugged, and she had been squished. By rights she shouldn't be here now, walking slowly up the Market Place as the clouds cleared and the sun came out. She was lucky.

And yet ... and yet ... something wasn't right. Primrose was happy and busy being the Mayor and seeing everyone's point of view. Her parents were living in Aunt Gittins' old house at the top of the town. Her mother was deeply absorbed in caring for her father, whose wits were slightly addled and who spent a lot of time talking to his vegetables, but she knew they were content and had no need to consider anyone else's point of view.

Her dear friend Septimus Surplice was busy being a successful vicar, and she supposed that seeing everyone's point of view was part of the job. He also had a large and entertaining family: Segismunde or Seggy, an ebullient child who knew no fear, the twins Sagittarius and Solmagundus, Saggy and Soggy to their friends, and the youngest Silmonella, an elfin, smiling creature known as Silly, who was Patience's best friend. Septimus was an unworldly person of nervous disposition, and Fenestra was not sure that he knew just how all this had happened, but his wife Floris was the managing sort and took care of everything quite calmly. They all lived in the Vicarage, a large and comfortable house behind the church, now rebuilt after the fire which had claimed the former Vicar. When the Bernadette was away it was customary for Patience to stay with her friend.

Her friend Dilly was happy, wrapped up in Billy, and such an efficient editor that Fenestra was left with little to do. Dilly knew which side her bread was buttered, and made a point of printing everyone's point of view. Pert and Rosella were busy making a living up and down the coast, and her other friends April and May Prettyfoot, Rosella's sisters, were recently married to the twins Seth and Solomon White, and obviously beside themselves with joy.

Even the evil witches, Mrs.Wheable and Mrs.Chervil and the Widow Dolphin with their sour satellite Miss Throstle who ran the Post Office, seemed to be reinventing themselves. Only Lurk and Wally remained, and where Wally was concerned Fenestra felt unsettled. She was drawn to him and excited by him. She also relied on him to some extent. She remembered her joy when his smiling face had appeared behind a shovel at the mouth of her cave prison, and the extraordinary sensations of their ascent of the cliff-face, pulled up on ropes by half the fishermen in town, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around his hard body and his hot breath in her ear.

It would be so easy to take Primrose's advice, and