The Demon Stonemason's Daughter

By Leslie Hayden

A perilous romance through time...

Spring 1999. Embellished with finely carved granite unearthed from a nearby farm, Tom Grant’s renovated cottage overlooking Mount’s Bay on the headland above Mousehole in Cornwall, is admired by all.

Before long, there is a new arrival in Mousehole; Carenza. Tom becomes quickly captivated by her, and it seems the feeling is mutual. She falls for Tom and dreams of love and freedom, away from her old life.

However, this once hidden stonework was fashioned by the Demon Stonemason of Lamorna centuries ago and, until now, has never been paid for. The Devil demands payment... Tom’s soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie Hayden
• Release date: Jul 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999616816

Leslie Hayden

After a long career in Sales and Marketing, I now have the time to enjoy travel and writing. Married with two grown sons and two delightful grandchildren I am a contented man. My writing goes back years. Like many, we often think we have a novel in us. I had, but always felt I didn't have the time to sit down and develop what originally started life as a screenplay, into a full blown book. Retirement has given me this precious time and my first novel entitled The Demon Stonemason's Daughter came from a 'what if...' idea after reading a slim volume of old Cornish Folklore.along with joyous visits to Cornwall which included the summer of 1999 and the Solar Eclipse. The novel is available in both ebook and a quality paperback. If you have any comments you are welcome to email me at: [e-mail]

Book preview

PREFACE

Cornwall is like a gnarled claw of granite that juts defiantly into the Atlantic. It has a grittier edge than its softer neighbour Devon.

Even now, in the summer of 1999, as we rush headlong into the twenty-first century, Cornwall’s history can be seen at every turn, a rich tapestry bound by a Celtic heritage that makes this part of England very special.

Penzance and Newlyn lie on the western flank of Mount’s Bay: here they catch whatever fish the Eurocrats allow. Beyond is the village of Mousehole, although it’s pronounced Mowzel; in bygone days this was an important trading port and was once attacked by the defeated, and fleeing, Spanish Armada in 1595. Today, however, it basks under high summer sunshine.

On the hillside beyond Mousehole, within an enclosed paddock of Cornish hedge, there is a scene currently resembling a bomb site. The remains of a once beautifully restored and extended moor-stone cottage lie in ruin. Emergency crews, including specialist mining, search and rescue teams, tussle with media news crews and onlookers as they attempt to rescue the owner, as he lies trapped underground in what appears to be an old mine shaft. Wedged deep inside, lacerated, bruised and slowly suffocating, time is running out for the unlucky Tom Grant. To discover how this sorry state of affairs came about we need to go back two months to a warm spring afternoon.

CHAPTER 1

You are not what I expected; what I was led to believe.

Spring 1999

Tom Grant stood up to stretch and ease his sore back. He leant against the spade and surveyed the surrounding area which still resembled more of a building site than the neat front garden he had planned in his mind’s eye.

A refreshing sea breeze cooled his brow: air lifted by the hillside and cliffs below. With the cottage built, he was eager to get the ground which adjoined the lane into some order. The remaining pile of moor-stone left over from the new extension would make an ideal base and a low retaining wall for an informal rockery to frame the tender palms and grasses already purchased, but which still sat within their containers.

Thoroughly renovated and extended, Foxglove Cottage proudly sat within an enclosed paddock on a small lane that veered off the top of Ragginis Hill. Follow this a little further and the lane narrows to a track forming part of the South West Coast Path from Mousehole to Lamorna Cove.

Tom had every right to be pleased with his work. A desirable house and studio with a magnificent view over Mount’s Bay towards St. Michael’s Mount, and in the far distance the Lizard Peninsula: he never tired of the view.

The faint ring of the telephone drew his attention, so he downed tools and gloves, and headed inside.

Hello he gasped, relieved to have reached the receiver before the caller rang off. Hello Jack, how you doing? Jack Madron, local baker extraordinaire and best friend. Tomorrow? Okay, seven-thirty in the Mermaid. Yeah, I’ll be there. Okay, bye.

The annual summer fête and charity cricket match was getting nearer and there was an organisers meeting at the Mermaid Inn down in the village. Tom hoped his weary bones would carry him down the steep hill as he filled a tumbler from the cold tap. Refreshed, he wiped the glass dry and placed it on the drainer before heading back outdoors.

Having retrieved his spade he continued to move soil and stone from one area to another before manhandling, with difficulty, a large piece of moor-stone granite into place. He stepped back and began to consider the aesthetic position; as an accomplished artist he had an eye for detail and composition. With a little adjustment here and a rotation there, he was satisfied and began to feed fresh earth around the rock, creating the illusion it had always been there.

As he continued to dig he was startled by the sudden appearance of a large black raven which, amid the beating of broad wings, settled on the boundary wall.

Looking rather menacing, the creature bobbed and dipped its black head and massive beak before turning towards him, giving Tom the strange and ridiculous feeling that he was being watched, even scrutinised.

The jet black eyes followed him as he once more moved earth and shifted another lump of stone into position.

Aware of the bird’s continuing presence, he looked at the creature, its head twisted to one side, seemingly taking in his actions. Tom felt an irrational unease and considered hurling a nearby clump of earth at the raven, but common sense prevailed. Ignoring the iridescent beast, he continued to work the soil until he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and an ice cold chill pass through him.

He straightened up but felt unsteady, as if his legs had turned to jelly. He felt drawn towards the raven. Tom suddenly felt faint, his vision became distorted and blurred as he dropped to his knees; the sensation of being examined or probed increased in intensity, a cold sweat broke across his forehead and beads of perspiration began to drip into his eyes, clouding his vision further. He felt physically sick.

***

A few miles west, deep in Lamorna Wood, smoke slowly drifted through a canopy of fresh spring leaves. Within a fine four walled square, granite built house, Applewood burnt in an open grate, the distinctive sweet aroma added to the stuffy, overheated room, and it was here, in the house that stood apart from other dwellings in the valley, Tom was being watched.

His examiner was no ordinary mortal; he was a being that transcended imagination and time itself. Despite the appearance of a country gentleman, the person in question was the Devil.

He stood by the hearth, gazing at the flames, with his arm resting on the mantle. He wore corduroy trousers, an open necked checked shirt and a worn leather jacket, which covered his powerful frame. He was The Demon Stonemason, and it was he who had taken control of the raven, guiding it to the property above Mount’s Bay, to become his remote eyes that could see through time and space.

He took in the newly completed dwelling under a roof of Delabole slate: the fine stonework surrounding the front entrance, the window lintels and frames had been expertly carved, honed from local granite, but were as smooth as marble. It was the work of a master stonemason, his work, from his own quarry, albeit completed a long, long time ago.

Does he take me for a fool? he quietly said to himself. He will pay this time.

***

Feeling as if he was about to pass-out, Tom raised his leaden head and tried to find the strength to hurl the small rock which lay within his grasp. Confused but eerily certain the raven was responsible for his malaise; he could find no strength in his arm. He was trapped in a strange grip emanating from this creature.

Tom tried to wipe the perspiration from his stinging eyes. It was then he became conscious of a further menacing presence, a black shape slowly, but inextricably, moving along the wall close to the raven.

Suddenly, the fatigue and sense of suppression left him amid a loud ‘caw’ and a flurry of black feathers, as the bird ascended the air. With a rhythmic beat it flew over the roof and disappeared from view. Sat on the wall was Albe (ALien BEing), Tom’s black cat, who looked highly miffed; he had only missed the raven, literally, by a cat’s whisker.

***

The Demon Stonemason flinched at the sudden attack, the connection was broken. He cursed under his breath as he cast his eyes over the oak paneled room. In the corner a majestic long cased clock ticked rhythmically, breaking the silence, except for the creak of his leather jacket as he moved into the dappled light cast by the small diamond paned bay window. He mulled over the situation before turning his attention to the quiet, young woman seated by the window.

She continued to look out onto the adjoining land that surrounded the house, trying to remain calm, as if she didn’t care what her guardian was formulating in his evil and twisted mind. Finally, the silence was broken.

I cannot delay my departure any longer, I have to leave, I am already late, but I do not like what I see. Does this low-life scum take me for an imbecile? He paused, unhappy with what he was contemplating and about to suggest. As much as I dislike the idea of sending you my dear, my impatience gives me no choice. I must be gone; so I am going to entrust you to visit this fellow. For the first time I will allow you to travel out of time and the valley. Go tomorrow morning, loosen his tongue a little, confirm that the stonework used is mine. But, mark my words and mark them well, if you take one single step over the bounds I set, there will be a reckoning of such pain and suffering you will wish you were dead. Do I make myself clear?

She allowed her eyes to be drawn to the bloodshot orbs that penetrated her very being. She swallowed hard, unable to trust her own voice and merely nodded affirmation to his demands.

Good, he replied, removing a leather pouch from his inner jacket pocket. His face transformed from one of sinister evil to a lecherous leer. Emptying the pouch into his calloused hand he produced an exquisite solid gold rope necklace on which hung a huge pear drop diamond of exquisite clarity.

I picked up this little trinket on my last foray, its previous owner having no further need for it. I immediately thought of you my dear girl. Come, he beckoned, here, let me place it around your pretty neck.

Over the years she had become immune to his gifts of priceless jewellery, allowing him to fasten the necklace around her bare neck and suppress a tremor that threatened to overtake her whole being as his hands briefly brushed against her skin.

She turned the diamond between her fingers and thanked him for the gift. What use are these priceless gems she thought, when she was held here, a virtual prisoner to his powers in this house and the surrounding woods.

Shunned and feared by the folk in these parts, they called her the Demon Stonemason’s daughter.

I will be away a few days. Get the information I require. On my return you can tell me what I want to hear. Then, at long last, I can formulate a plan to rectify the wrong I have lived with for so many years.

***

The following morning the sun shone brightly and the temperature rose, just as it had for the past week. Tom felt fine and dismissed yesterday’s malaise as no more than an aberration. He had been overdoing it lately; perhaps his blood sugars had taken a sudden dive. He wasn’t going to let a brief wobble worry him, so he continued to work around his renovated cottage, anxious for a sense of order. It had been a long and often arduous project, practically single handed, whilst juggling his occupation as a landscape artist.

Demand for his detailed oils and sweeping watercolours continued to grow. His London agent forever eager for completed works.

He glanced at his battered wristwatch; it read eleven-thirty, but normally ran slow. He eased up and stretched; he had been at it for the past two hours or more, it was time for a break.

Already that morning there had been a number of passing walkers with backpacks loaded with refreshments and picnic lunches as they headed along the coastal path. From many came a cheery wave, while others stopped to compliment his lovely property and the magnificent views.

Life had become increasingly lonely over the past twelve months for Tom and was grateful for any distraction and always returned a friendly greeting or reply. Besides, it was nice to receive compliments and praise for his endeavour plus he liked to engage in casual conversation.

As he treaded the soil and bedded in another plant Tom’s attention was drawn by a new greeting from the direction of the wide gate that kept the rest of the world at bay, unless otherwise invited.

Hello, Tom replied, wiping perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. Only then did he realise that he was addressing an attractive young woman and not another middle aged, seasoned walker; not that he had any problem with middle aged ramblers.

I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to alarm you. She said, noting his reaction. Her hand nervously toying with a pear drop diamond suspended around her neck.

It’s okay. I didn’t realise you were there. I’ve been trying to get to grips with my garden. I think I’m about there, what do you think? He asked, surveying the freshly planted ground.

I can see you have been busy. Is this all your own work? She replied in a soft, warm, Cornish burr. Tom nodded. I haven’t been this way for some time, she continued. You’ve done a remarkable job. Would you mind if I took a closer look?

Yes… I mean no, of course not, Tom replied slightly flustered. Please, be my guest. My back aches and I could do with an excuse for a break. I’m Thomas, he added. Thomas Grant, but friends just call me Tom.

Tom opened the gate; allowing the young woman to cast her eyes more closely over the cottage and grounds.

Tell me, she enquired. Wasn’t this once an old cattle byre?

A hint of sweet Jasmine drifted on the air as this vision in a white linen dress stepped past him towards the cottage.

Many years ago, Tom replied.

I thought so. She said, with a smile that stopped him in his tracks.

Tom smiled in return. So, you must be a local; I mean, if you remember the old barn.

Something like that, she replied in an off-hand manner. She ran her fingers along one of the window sills. Fine stonework, she added. This is old. I mean very old; this carved stonework.

Err, yes. That window, four others, the entrance, rear casings and lintels were salvaged from an old Cornish hedge. They don’t look out of character do they?

Not at all, on the contrary, they add to the charm. The stonework is remarkable, don’t you think?

A student of architecture perhaps?

A nervous laugh slipped from a full and sensuous mouth set amid an oval high cheek boned face. A flawless sun kissed complexion framed by shoulder length chestnut hair shone in the spring sunlight.

No, she said slowly. However, I do appreciate the workmanship. My father is, or rather was, a master stonemason and he would continually go on and on…

Tom was captivated by her dark, emerald green eyes. She wore no makeup; there was no need, her complexion was radiant. She continued her apparent off hand inspection, leaving an intrigued and bemused Tom a step behind.

Carenza, she said.

I’m sorry? Tom asked.

My name, it’s Carenza. She reaffirmed, turning her attention back to the stonework.

Tom did not see the gentle smile on Carenza’s lips as she looked away, as she concentrated on the property before her.

Well, I’m pleased to meet you Carenza. Please, call me Tom.

Carenza stopped and turned to face him. No, she said, holding him with a captivating look; I prefer Thomas.

Tom was momentarily stunned, but quickly gathered his senses. Okay. He replied happily, following her to the back of the property where she had abruptly stopped to take in the vista of the bay and beyond.

My, what a view, she exclaimed, wonderful.

Tom inwardly smiled. Carenza seemed to enjoy and appreciate the view as much as he did. Together they strolled down the garden amongst a swath of meadow grass; each snatching sideways glances until they reached the spring fed pond and far boundary wall: a grass and earth topped Cornish hedge with exposed sections of ‘Jack and Jill’ herringbone walling. Foxgloves, Primrose and Ragged Robin sprouted from various crevices.

Resting against the wall, Carenza inhaled deeply the fresh, salty air. Ah, this is truly wonderful Thomas. You are most fortunate to enjoy such sweeping, magnificent views.

Thank you. Yes, I’m very lucky. It’s been hard work, but I think it’s been worth it. He paused to enjoy the view before asking, Can I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee? I can make instant or fresh, whichever you prefer.

She turned to face him and smiled. Tom felt an oozing warmth percolating within.

How about a cold drink? A beer, lemonade, Coke? He was practically babbling.

Coke? She asked quizzically, having never heard the word in such a context before.

Tom mistook her question as an affirmation. Right, Coke it is, coming up. Would you like to come inside or shall we sit out here?

Well, it’s such a lovely day and we have a wonderful view, it would be a shame to sit inside.

No problem, just give me a couple of moments and I’ll be right back.

As Tom marched ahead, Carenza followed at a more leisurely pace towards a cast iron bench and table set located on the paved area adjoining the cottage, which enjoyed views down the paddock and the bay.

Taking a seat she looked back over the property and the extension to the right of the original building. Large French doors opened onto the paved area. Through the glass she could see an easel and canvass. Still nervous, she tried to calm herself by breathing deeply.

Tom reappeared with two glasses of Coke Here we go, he said placing the glasses on the table. It’s pretty cold but I can always add some ice.

Carenza traced a finger down the condensation on the glass. She was intrigued by the rising bubbles. Taking a sip she laughed. Bubbles, she exclaimed. They tickle my nose. How do they do that?

What do you mean? Tom asked, confused.

The bubbles, how do they get the bubbles into this… stuff? she asked, taking a further sip. Mmm…refreshing, I do like it.

Well, I’m glad. As to the bubbles, they call it carbonisation don’t they? I’m not sure of the exact process.

That went over Carenza’s head; she quickly drained her glass and promptly burped.

Oh my goodness, she giggled, reddening with embarrassment. Excuse me; I’ve never had anything quite like this before. She proffered her empty glass, like a young child, asking: Is there any more? I didn’t realise how thirsty I was.

Tom was enchanted by this display of apparent innocence. Sure, hang on, I’ll fetch another can.

Moments later he was back, seated by her side. He pulled the tab on the can, the instant hiss of released gas made Carenza jump.

Oh my, she laughed, as Tom poured more of the dark fizzing liquid into her glass. Funny name though, she said, taking hold of the empty, can. Diet Coke. Strange, don’t you think?

Tom couldn’t help but smile. I don’t know; I’ve never given it a second thought, I suppose it is when you think about it.

Carenza smiled. Despite her nerves, she seemed able to hold her own in conversation with this handsome man. He neither appeared nor seemed anything like what she was expecting.

You must have a very cool larder, especially on such a warm day.

No, just an ageing Frigidaire.

Carenza looked confused. Tom noted the furrowed brow.

You know, a refrigerator, an ice-box as the Americans would say.

Carenza didn’t, but felt she should reply, Of course. She said, hoping to regain some credibility.

Tell me, she asked, promptly changing the subject, while casting an arm towards the building. How long has all of this work taken you?

Tom was miles away, captivated by this beautiful but strange girl. Her odd demeanour confused and enchanted him in equal measure. She had an innocence he found quite alluring. He realised she was now looking at him questioningly.

How long? She repeated.

I’m sorry? Tom asked, still miles away. Carenza repeated her question.

How long you say? Erm, three years, well, over three years really. Three years and five months to be precise.

And you did this all by yourself?

Had to, Tom said with a shrug of his shoulders. I couldn’t afford any help, what with... He paused, lost in thought for a moment.

Yes, well, anyway, I shouldn’t forget Jack, he’s my best mate. He helped me no end. I couldn’t have done the job without him.

Carenza didn’t miss the earlier note of regret. You couldn’t afford any help because of what?

Oh, nothing really, Tom felt moved at what seemed to be genuine concern. I could have brought in additional help, but I needed to keep the cost under control. It’s just I built this place for what I thought was a special lady. Well, she was special, in fact she was very special, but it didn’t work out that’s all.

I’m sorry.

Oh, it’s okay. Lots of water under the bridge since then; it was my own fault. I spent too much time here and not enough attention on her.

I see. Were you betrothed?

What an odd word to use these days Tom thought. No, but that was the intention. Seems she couldn’t wait that long. When the washing machine broke down she was befriended by the service engineer, you know, the chap from the planet Zanussi.

Confused, Carenza looked skyward. And where are they now? She asked, with added concern.

Last I heard, in an end terrace near Redruth. Anyway, that’s enough about me, what about you? What’s your secret, apart from an interest in old stonework, and if you don’t mind me saying, you smell divine. I like your dress too, it’s, err... very summery.

Carenza, was genuinely pleased. You like my dress? She unconsciously smoothed her hands down the bodice. The effect this innocent but sensuous act had on Tom was almost electric. The dress fitted like a glove and her action highlighted her feminine form.

I made it myself, and stitched the embroidery. You really like it?

I would say it was perfect and it, err, it certainly suits you.

The perfume is my own blend. My father spends a lot of time abroad. Sometimes he brings me oils and spices. I blend them until I get something that smells…

Heavenly, Tom interjected. It’s Jasmine unless I’m mistaken.

Was there an inkling of mutual attraction as she offered her neck so he could take in her perfume? As Tom leaned closer he felt momentarily lost to this strange and captivating woman who came out of nowhere, who seemed to take a great interest in old stonework and exhibited an enchanting naive innocence. Reluctantly he pulled away, his head filled with her womanly scent, but not before their eyes locked. A look, a hesitance passed between them. It was Carenza who finally broke the spell.

Tell me, she asked, trying to control her emotion, how did you salvage the stonework?

Tom hesitated a few moments as he tried to clear his head and collect his thoughts. It had been a long time since anyone had stirred his feelings in such a way, or left him so tongue tied. Somehow Carenza could perform both with ease. He took a moment to collect his thoughts.

I helped a farmer clear an old hedge. I was desperate for cash at the time. It must have been put together years ago and was very overgrown. It wasn’t until we got to the core we found pieces of carved granite. I’m sure we would have found more had we cleared further. The farmer wanted nothing to do with them, so I was paid for my labour and got the stonework for free.

Didn’t you think your find was rather strange?

"Definitely, I suggested we contact the local authority in case there was some