The Secrets of Pencarrack Moor

by Terri Nixon

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

From the brilliant author of the Fox Family saga comes a new spin-off novel, following Bertie's journey to become a pilot as she takes to the skies in Cornwall

1930, Cornwall. Bertie Fox has had her dreams of motorcycle racing cut short by a life-changing accident, but now her thrill-seeking ambitions have turned towards the skies. Along with her two friends, Gwenna and Tory, Bertie's joined the flight training school on Pencarrack Moor.

When a fourth girl moves onto the base, it's clear she's hiding something from her fellow pilots, even as they try to earn her trust. But the more they get to know the secretive Irene, the more they suspect she might be just as dangerous as she is mysterious.

Soon, the three young women uncover something more sinister than they could have imagined. As they're drawn into a complex web, dark pasts and uncertain futures threaten them all - and the Pencarrack girls must learn who they can trust, before it's too late...

Set against the dramatic Cornish coastline, this absorbing tale of friends and secrets will delight fans of Rosie Goodwin and Evie Grace.

Praise for Terri Nixon:

'A brilliant read' RoNA award-winning, bestselling novelist Tania Crosse

'Love, loss and old rivalries are skilfully woven against an atmospheric coastal backdrop holding a promise of new beginnings. A five star page turner from the start' Kay Brellend, author of A Workhouse Christmas

'I guarantee their story will stay with you long after you have finished reading this beautifully written book' Lynne Francis, author of A Maid's Ruin

'A moving story of tragedy, deception and one woman's determination to protect her family. I couldn't put it down!' Charlotte Betts, author of The Light Within Us

Release date: March 2, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

The young woman, known only as Smith, looked from her friend to her lover, who faced each other across the yard. She shivered, and it had little to do with her drenched clothing, though the rain had lost its softness now and was plinking off pipes, splashing on stone and corrugated iron, and muffling the familiar night-sounds of the nearby railway. Her attention was all on Jenny and Victor, who did not speak, though their eyes and their stances said it all: brother and sister they might be, but tonight they confronted one another as enemies. And tonight neither one of them would back down.

At twenty-six, Jenny Lyons was the undisputed queen of the North Twenty, women selected for their charm, wit and grace, who had their own specialisms but who had also become skilled pickpockets under newcomer Smith’s tutelage. They brazenly went about town on the arms of unknowing victims, in full view of the public they sought to relieve of their valuables; nowhere was a safe place to hide money or trinkets when the Twenties were on the whiz. Not bags, purses, coat pockets or wardrobes; not cars, safes, shops or even banks. Clothing and vehicles were regularly taken too, while their owners were otherwise engaged in witty conversation with a beguiling companion.

Occasionally one of the Twenties would fall foul of the local constables, but the monthly sum each member paid into the syndicate easily paid for solicitors or fines . . . and had also greased an influential palm or two. This slippery but successful practice had naturally come to the attention of the newly founded Docklands mob, who’d forced out their rivals, now named the Redcliffe Cavers, and whose alliance with the Twenties worked well for both syndicates; the Dockers lent their muscle, and credible threats, where needed, and the Twenties applied their own particular skills to the Dockers’ scams when more subtlety was required.

Several of the Twenties had even found romantic matches among the Docklands mob. Jenny was naturally drawn to Ronnie Jackson, the Dockers’ leader, and Smith herself had fallen for Ronnie’s right-hand man Victor, who was also Jenny’s brother. The four of them shared a house in the fashionable part of town, and the excitement and financial rewards of their activities made for heady – and often hedonistic – times, but Smith had known from experience that times like that never lasted long, and she’d been right. Because now everything had turned on its head, and in the worst way imaginable.

Jenny had called a meeting that afternoon in their headquarters, an otherwise disused barn between Filton Airfield and the railway line. Twelve of the nineteen other members had been able to assemble on short notice, and Jenny sat on the table at the front, swinging her legs and studying each of them in turn. She spent so long just looking that several of the girls began to shift in their seats, and Smith grew tense too, particularly when Jenny dismissed two of the girls with a simple nod towards the door. She seemed to be assessing her gang for their trustworthiness, which meant this was big. They all had the motto embroidered on their handkerchiefs: fides omnia; loyalty is everything, but theory and practice are two very different things, and there was no telling what secrets someone was hiding. If anyone knew that, it was Jenny Lyons; she hadn’t become their syndicate queen by accident.

‘The Dockers have come up good,’ she said at length. ‘Really good, in fact, but they need our help for this one, and we owe them for that time they broke up the fight down the Barrels.’ Her gaze swept over the remaining ten girls once more, and then she pointed at Smith. ‘I need you with me tonight. Wait behind after, alright?’

Smith nodded with outward calm. Her place was unquestionably at Jenny’s side, but there was something more going on tonight, and she wondered if she’d feel the same when she knew what it was.

‘The rest of you,’ Jenny went on, ‘no questions, but we’re going to need plenty of diversions later, especially round the docks. Seven-thirty onwards, you get those Rozzers pulled away from everywhere between King Edward’s and the railway, got it?’

The Twenties nodded, and after a few suggestions and some minor chit-chat, during which Smith’s curiosity and unease climbed higher, she and Jenny were finally left alone in the musty-smelling barn. Jenny turned her assessing gaze on Smith once more, and evidently made her decision. ‘It’s guns.’

Smith kept her expression neutral and nodded, inwardly conflicted for the first time since she’d joined the Twenties three years ago. Until now it had been easy to convince themselves that they weren’t really hurting anyone, just amassing the funds they’d need in their old age if they didn’t want the servitude of marriage. But this was different; she couldn’t even discount the death penalty if things turned sour. Her sense of foreboding wasn’t eased as Jenny went on to explain.

‘The Cavers are due to collect eight boxes of .22 Brownings tonight, labelled as privately shipped housewares, and sell them on to Birmingham, Manchester and London.’

No-one ever dared to ask how Jenny found these things out, and Smith didn’t question it now. She just listened as Jenny laid out her plan in simple terms, finishing with words that were a chilling reminder that they were moving in new, darker, territory now.

‘Those dealers from up the line will be down here sharpish, just as soon as word gets back that the guns have gone missing, so we’d best lay low after this one. Let the boys take the heat, they’ll be the ones armed for a fight, after all.’ She slid down off the table. ‘I’ve got to talk to Ronnie, so you go straight back home, and don’t talk to anyone. Not anyone,’ she stressed. ‘Be ready to leave by six, and,’ she winked, ‘wear your slinkiest dress.’

So tonight the North Twenty had once again joined forces with the Docklands mob. Smith’s and Jenny’s combined role was straightforward enough: they would park across the lane that ran alongside a side section of railway track, until the Cavers had collected the stolen guns and were on their way out. When the van inevitably had to stop, they would claim car trouble, and beg prettily for help, while the Dockers moved in and quietly transferred the boxes of guns from the van into one of the disused railway carriages, waiting open nearby.

‘Should be here any minute,’ Jenny said into the silence, as they sat waiting in the car.

‘The Cavers are sure to see them shifting the boxes,’ Smith said. ‘And then what?’

‘That’s up to Ronnie and his lot.’ Jenny shrugged. ‘It’s a Dockers’ haul, not ours. No doubt they’ve made their contingency plans, but we’re just doing our bit, as agreed.’

Smith had an all-too clear idea of what Ronnie Jackson’s contingency plans might be, but that was none of her business. ‘Why does it need two of us?’

‘It’s guns this time, they’re bound to be more careful. Should only be two blokes though, we can handle that easy.’

Smith fidgeted with her own bag, her fingers twisting nervously at the strap. ‘What if they realise what we’re up to, before Ronnie and the boys turn up?’

‘We won’t have to worry about the Cavers.’ Jenny pressed the snap fastener on her bag, and opened it so Smith could look inside. Nestling there was an ugly black handgun, incongruous against the pink satin.

‘It’s an American one, a Colt,’ Jenny confided. ‘I stole it from Ronnie’s collection months ago, and he never even noticed.’

Fear crawled through Smith’s veins. ‘Would you use it?’

Jenny looked evasive. ‘If I had to.’

Smith didn’t dare ask if she already had, but she realised she didn’t need to; Jenny’s calm had always been an asset to the Twenties, but now it just seemed sinister, and hinted that there was much more to this evening’s enterprise than she was letting on.

They sat in silence, waiting, and Smith found herself considering something she’d thought had been a good while off yet; that this might be the end of her time with the North Twenty. If it was, she’d have to leave more than the syndicate, she’d have to leave Bristol too; her life wouldn’t be worth living if she stayed. In fact, it wouldn’t be worth anything at all, especially to Jenny Lyons.

Jenny opened the car door and leaned out to peer back down the path. ‘Why do you think they’re taking so long?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘Really?’ Jenny sounded unconvinced as she got out of the car, and Smith watched her narrowly, her blood running a little cooler as she thought back to where she’d gone after their meeting that afternoon, and who she’d seen. Go straight home, Jenny had said. But she hadn’t.

‘What do you think?’ she countered. ‘That it’s not going off after all?’

‘Either that or someone’s sent us to wait on the wrong path.’

Smith got out too, a light sweat pricking at her skin despite the soft rain that had begun to fall. Her stomach was in knots now. What had she done?

‘Why would they send us the wrong way,’ she ventured, ‘when we’re doing them the favour?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know.’ Jenny’s voice was tight and suspicious, bordering on angry, which Smith found puzzling at first, then a horrible thought struck her.

‘It’s not just a Dockers’ haul, is it? Were you thinking of taking some of those guns for yourself?’

‘Not for me,’ Jenny said, ‘for us.’ She yanked out her hat pin. ‘Look! Even the Cavers have guns, and we have this!’ She gave it a look of disgust. ‘That’s why I stole Ronnie’s Colt.’ She secured her hat once more, and looked back down the path towards the dock. ‘Alright, I might as well tell you now: he’s supposed to be leaving an extra six Brownings under the front seat of his van.’

‘The Caver?’

‘Of course the bloody Caver!’ Jenny flung her a look. ‘How do you think I found out about all this to begin with? We had an . . . An understanding.’

‘Which was what? You stop him, and collect the guns from his van, so he can claim he was hijacked?’

‘He is being hijacked! Right now, on the dock. And when he goes back with a light cargo he’ll rightly blame all of it on the Dockers. That’s when things are going to turn nasty.’

‘But why did the Dockers ask us for help tonight, if they’ve already done the job?’

Jenny didn’t answer, but she looked shifty, and Smith breathed out slowly as she realised the truth. ‘They didn’t ask us at all, did they? They don’t even know we’re here.’

But she quailed inside, because they did know. They knew because Smith, in the warm afterglow of a tender afternoon with Victor Lyons, and still believing the two gangs were working together, had told him what Jenny wanted her to do. Vic hadn’t shown the slightest surprise, but he must have gone straight off and told Ronnie the moment she’d left him.

‘I’m pretty sure they heard we’d be here,’ Jenny said, uncannily picking up the thread of her thoughts. ‘And I’ll bet I know who told them, too.’ Her eyes slitted as she opened the driver’s side door again, and she glared at Smith over the top of the car. ‘You’d better watch your back. I haven’t even started with you yet.’

She got back into the car, and before Smith could run around to the passenger side, she had turned and was driving back towards the dock. Smith took after her at a run, but by the time she arrived, out of breath and drenched through, Jenny was facing four Dockers across the yard. Her bag was on the wet ground beside her, and the stolen gun was gripped tightly in her two hands and pointed at her brother.

‘You’ve ruined everything, Vic,’ she shouted across the divide, raising her voice to compensate for the rain now hammering on the tin roof of the nearby storage shed. ‘You betrayed us!’

Smith stared at her in dismay; gone was the fun-loving, diamond-hunting, good-time girl with the charming smile, the one who had somehow made it all seem more like adventure than crime. The woman who stood here now was a terrifying stranger. Ronnie Jackson stood by, clearly stunned by the speed with which his carefully planned heist had gone awry, and the Redcliffe Cavers’ driver was standing beside his own open van, bemused and nervous-looking.

‘Jenny,’ Smith pleaded. ‘Just stop and think. This is your brother . . . ’

Jenny turned to her. ‘It was you who told him, wasn’t it?’ For a moment the barrel of the gun wavered away from Victor and onto her. ‘Well, he betrayed you too, Smith!’

She swung the Colt back, but in the split second her attention had been distracted, Victor had drawn his own weapon and now he cocked it, the sound loud and horribly final as he levelled it at Jenny’s chest.

‘Put down the gun, Jen.’ His voice was also unsteady, barely recognisable as the man who’d spoken with such affection only that afternoon. ‘I swear on all that’s holy, I will kill you.’

Smith backed away slowly, trying to stay calm, and sensing she would soon need every bit of breath she could draw. She knew Jenny Lyons all too well, and Jenny wouldn’t hesitate to pull that trigger; she had a reputation to protect, and if she lost that, her career would be over. Jenny Lyons, Queen of the Twenties, would never allow that to happen.

But Smith knew Victor too, and she knew he would kill to protect himself and his leader – it didn’t matter that the threat he was protecting them from was his sister; one of them was going to die tonight, and Smith couldn’t stay here a moment longer to find out which of them it would be. She had to get out of Bristol, away from the North Twenty, and far, far away from Jenny and Victor Lyons.

She turned and ran, and as she passed out of the feeble dockside light and into the dark alley beyond, from behind her she heard the flat sound of a gunshot.

The envelope sat in its pigeonhole in the flying school dormitory building, as innocuous-looking as the letters from home that sat in many of the others. But this wasn’t a letter from home, and nor was it in any way innocuous.

Gwenna Rosdew slid it out of the small wooden compartment, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it yet, she just stared at her name, printed carelessly on the envelope. There was no address, because this had not come through the postal system, it had been delivered by hand from Flight Lieutenant Graham Bowden’s classroom across the yard, and while it remained unopened, all things were possible.

‘Good luck,’ a passing voice murmured, and Gwenna looked up to see one of her fellow trainees glancing at her with sympathy, as well he might. Everyone else from Gwenna’s intake had progressed on to actual training flights, and she had yet to pass her second instruments test with a mark high enough to satisfy her instructor. It was baffling and upsetting.

‘I’ve worked as hard as anyone else,’ she’d said to her roommate that morning, ‘and harder than some.’

‘Harder than me,’ Tory had agreed with her usual frank honesty. ‘It’s really not fair, Gwen.’

‘Gwen-na. And I’ve got all the technical knowledge down pat! I know every bit as much as you and Bertie, and look at you two now. I know I can do it, and so does everyone else.’

But Barry Hocking, the most kindly of the flight instructors, had told her quite firmly that she had a long way to go before he would feel confident in taking her up in his Avro again. Coming from him, and even delivered with evident sympathy, it was a sore blow indeed; his gentle, encouraging style made him one of the most popular instructors on the civilian pilots’ course, and his students generally did very well. So, twice a week, Gwenna could only watch from the classroom as her two best friends donned their heavy coats, scarves and gloves, and set out across the yard. She even envied Tory, who’d had the rotten luck to be paired with Bowden, their strict and dismissive classroom instructor, for her practical lessons.

Her own first choice had been Jude Singleton, the only female flight instructor on the base, who’d flown incognito during the war heading off Zeppelins over the coast, but that honour had gone to Bertie. Gwenna wouldn’t have minded who she’d been assigned after that, even Bowden, if they’d only let her prove what she knew she could do. It would have been easier to bear if she hadn’t gone on that initial flight when, although none of them had been allowed to take control of their planes, they had all come back breathless with excitement and babbling at nineteen to the dozen; now that she’d had that taste of the skies, and the freedom to travel them, every step she took on the ground felt like a failure.

Gwenna finally opened the envelope and drew out the paper, but before she unfolded it she allowed herself a glance out of the lobby window, to the pale blue August sky with its light puffs of cloud. Tory and Bertie were up there now, and Tory was due back any minute . . . This time next week she might be doing the same. Her fingers shook as she opened up the single page, and she held her breath and finally made herself look down at the formal, typewritten note.

Miss Rosdew.

You scored 67% on your recent test – an improvement, but still not an adequate score I’m afraid.

I have informed Flt Lt Bowden that you may re-take this on Friday at 9am, alongside the current cohort.

B. Hocking.

Then, handwritten below:

ps. Don’t worry, Gwenna, you’ll get there!

Barry.

Somehow the friendly encouragement felt worse, at that moment, than not attaining the 70% pass mark required, and Gwenna blinked hard to clear away the sting of tears before anyone saw them. But no-one was paying any attention now. Even her well-wishing fellow trainee hadn’t waited around to find out whether or not his encouragement had been in vain; he had more important things to be thinking about, as did everyone else passing through the hallway. Most of them were going to or from the airfield or the classroom block, all striving for those moments of weightless joy that had now been yanked away from Gwenna yet again.

She shoved the note back into the envelope, and went tiredly through to the dorm. She had a lot of reading to do before tomorrow morning.

She was still deep in diagrams some time later, when Tory’s voice cut through her concentration. ‘Have you seen her yet?’

‘Hmm?’ Gwenna looked up from her text book, frowning. It took her a moment to focus on what her room-mate was talking about, then her thoughts caught up. ‘The new girl, you mean?’

‘Of course I do.’ Tory hung up her heavy flying coat and fluffed out her newly styled, short blonde curls. ‘She was due an hour ago, I thought she’d be here by now.’

‘She’s not turned up yet.’ Gwenna removed her finger from where she’d placed it in the text, and resumed reading.

‘What’s her name again?’

‘Hmm?’ Gwenna repeated, then looked up again. ‘Irene.’

‘I wonder what she’ll be like? I hope she won’t be boring, and that we’ll find lots to talk about.’ Tory seemed unaware that her prattling was disturbing Gwenna’s study, but it was hard to be annoyed with her for long, and Gwenna gave up and shut the book.

‘How did today’s flight go?’

Tory seemed about to launch into details of her lesson, but stopped, an apologetic expression crossing her face. ‘Never mind that, did you get your test result back?’

‘Sixty-seven.’

‘Oh, Gwenna.’ Tory sighed. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Thanks.’ Gwenna hurried on before her emotions got the better of her. ‘So how did it go?’

‘It was okay,’ Tory said vaguely, and pulled a face at herself in the mirror as she re-curled a flattened lock of hair.

‘You can tell me, you know,’ Gwenna said. ‘It’s not your fault I’ve been pulled back from flying.’

‘It’s rotten though!’ Tory turned back to her. ‘Why is your instructor such a pig? He seemed so nice at the start.’

‘He is nice,’ Gwenna defended him, ‘he just thinks I need to study the theory a bit more. He’s probably right, I mean I did fail advanced instruments.’

‘He could at least take you up, even if you don’t take the controls yet. Seems dead keen to keep your feet on the ground if you ask me. I’ll bet your father would give him a thing or two to think about.’

‘Don’t be silly!’

Both Tory and Bertie were careful not to enthuse too much in front of her, but she only had to look at them to see how much they were changing as a result of their advancement on the course. Their confidence, and the way they chatted easily and knowledgeably to the mechanics when they returned their planes, made Gwenna feel like a silly first-former hanging around the fringes of a sixth-form picnic.

The embarrassment of it almost outweighed the disappointment and frustration, especially given that she’d made such a song and dance about her wartime flying ace father when she’d started. Even her fiancé had stopped asking her about it, as if he were embarrassed on her behalf; Peter was the local bobby in Caernoweth, and being seven years her senior, at thirty, he had a habit of siding with her father over many things, not least Gwenna’s progress as a pilot.

‘The way things are going,’ Gwenna said with forced lightness, ‘this Irene person will get up before I do.’ It sounded less like a joke when she heard it out loud, and she wished she’d kept quiet.

‘Let’s hope she gets Hocking too then,’ Tory said, licking her finger and wiping at a smudge of oil on her cheek. ‘You don’t suppose it’s because of your father, do you?’

It was no secret that the only way Gwenna had been able to afford the training was because Jonas Rosdew was well known locally for his wartime endeavours, and the flying school had awarded their scholarship solely on that basis.

‘They can’t deny I’ve progressed on my own merit,’ Gwenna pointed out, a little tightly. ‘They would have thrown me out after the first month’s assessment if not, like they did with that lad from Liskeard.’

‘True.’ Tory sighed. ‘Well, hopefully he’ll get bored, and give someone else a rough time for a while.’ She straightened her blouse and finally seemed happy with her appearance. ‘What time are we meeting Bertie?’

‘Six-ish, I think.’ Gwenna took up her book again. ‘Be a love and shove off for a bit, would you? I need to memorise this page of charts before the morning.’

Tory cheerfully obliged, so Gwenna was alone when, half an hour later, a timid knock at the door announced the arrival of the girl who would take the third of the four dormitory beds.

‘Come in,’ she called, ‘it’s not locked.’

The door opened to admit a slender young woman, as tall as Gwenna, who usually felt she towered over her friends. She was dressed conservatively but practically, in trousers and a belted blouse, and carried a small case and a hat, both clutched in the same hand while she kept the other on the door handle. Ready to run away? Gwenna felt a twinge of sympathy; the girl looked terrified.

‘Hello,’ she said, and stood up with her own hand out. ‘I’m Gwenna Rosdew.’

The newcomer finally relinquished her grip on the door and shook hands. ‘Irene Lewis.’ She looked around the dorm with an expression of wariness. Not dislike, exactly, but she was clearly used to a certain standard of living and had already decided that this new venture was not likely to provide it. Gwenna wondered why she was here at all if she felt like this. Perhaps she was simply being encouraged into it, in which case she’d probably last about a week.

‘Tory’s out at the moment,’ she said. She gestured to the freshly made bed in the corner. ‘That’s yours. Make yourself at home, and then I’ll show you around the base if you like.’

Irene put her suitcase on the bed. ‘No rush,’ she said, a little dismissively, and Gwenna blinked in surprise; it had been the first thing she and the others had wanted to do, and it was hard to imagine anyone not leaping on the opportunity.

‘Where can I hang my things?’ Irene asked, attempting to flap the creases out of a rather smart, pale blue cotton dress. Gwenna couldn’t place her accent, exactly, but she wasn’t local. Midlands, perhaps?

‘That wardrobe’s empty.’ She pointed to the smaller of two sturdy cupboards, side by side against the wall. ‘I moved Tory’s things into the other one, with mine.’

‘Thanks. Who’s in the fourth bed?’

‘No-one, yet. We’re hoping to persuade our friend Bertie.’

‘Who?’ Irene looked alarmed, and Gwenna smiled.

‘Bertie’s a girl. Roberta Fox.’

‘Oh!’ Irene relaxed. ‘Where does she live at the moment then?’

‘The flats at the top of town. You know the converted hotel?’

‘I’ve seen it. Why doesn’t she move in here, if you’re such pals?’

Gwenna hesitated; Bertie had had her reasons at the start, but it wasn’t really anyone else’s place to explain them. ‘Oh, just . . . you know. The way things worked out. Anyway, I’ll just carry on with my reading then, if you don’t want to look around.’

Irene looked a little deflated, but nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Unless you’ve changed your mind?’

‘Well, I’d quite like to see the village. But if you’re busy I’m quite happy to go alone.’

Gwenna could think of a hundred better things to do. She was always keen to poke her nose into the hangars on the base, no matter how busy she was, and would have been pleased to have had the excuse, but the village was as dull as you like, and hardly worth wasting precious studying time on. Irene did seem to have something of a pleading look about her though, and she had looked so nervous when she came in, so Gwenna nodded.

‘Let me get my outdoor shoes on, and we’ll go for a walk. I’m meeting the others at six though, so make sure you’ve got your own key to get back in.’

Irene jangled the key she’d been given, and tucked it into her handbag. ‘This is very kind of you.’ She gestured at the text book. ‘You do seem busy.’

‘I am.’ Gwenna saw Irene’s faintly embarrassed look, and regretted her bluntness. ‘But I could do with some new soap,’ she added, ‘and if we go now we might get there before the shop shuts. You can only look at a chart for so long, before it all goes blurred and you end up just staring and not learning. You’ll find that out soon enough.’ She’d hoped for a returned smile, but Irene just nodded solemnly and Gwenna had the feeling she’d only made things worse.

Outside, she reluctantly ignored the hangars, and instead crossed the base to the wire perimeter fence, and emerged onto the road to Pencarrack. Turning left would have taken them down the road to Caernoweth, but, of the choice between town and village, she was glad Irene had asked to see the village instead. Caernoweth was closer, bigger, and very pretty, but also quite steep as it wound its way down the long hill towards the sea. Coming back up would have been a terrible slog in this weather. Pencarrack, on the other hand, was around ten minutes in the other direction, but the walk was along the flat ground, lying as it did on the same high level of moorland as the air training base.

On the exposed road across Pencarrack Moor, the light summer wind lessened the sun’s heat, and made the walk less of a chore than it otherwise might have been. Gwenna pointed out the distant white peaks of the china clay pit, standing like small mountains on the horizon, and after a few more minutes Irene stopped to peer across the grassland.

‘What’s that?’ She pointed to an ornate stone structure in the distance. It had the appearance of a castle in miniature, with its walls overgrown with ivy, and gorse bushes around its base. ‘Is it really that small?’

Gwenna nodded. ‘It’s called Tyndall’s Folly. It was built by the town’s founder, Malcolm Penworthy, back in the sixteenth century to commemorate his sister. She was taken by a pirate called Edmund Tyndall, and this was built as a sort of sop to him, to win his favour so he didn’t treat the girl too badly.’

‘Gosh. Did it work?’

‘Who knows? It’s very pretty close up, even if it is absolutely pointless. It makes a nice landmark though, much nicer than the china clay pits. Apparently it’s a common place to meet for . . . ’ A little embarrassed, she left the implication hanging.

‘You mean courting couples?’

‘I suppose.’ Gwenna looked away, and a familiar sound made her squint up at the sky, glad of the excuse to change the subject. The unmistakeable outline of Jude Singleton’s plane, and the distinctive stuttering of its engine, filled her with the usual mixture of joy and envy.

‘There she is!’ She waved, knowing she probably wouldn’t be seen from up there, but somehow it felt like the right thing to do anyway. ‘It’s Bertie.’

Irene glanced briefly upwards, and nodded. ‘Very nice.’

‘Nice?’ Gwenna couldn’t bite back the incredulous retort. ‘That’s a Sopwith Camel, it actually flew in the war!’ This earned little more than a polite incline of the head. ‘You’ll be up there soon,’ she said, ‘just imagine that. Exciting, eh?’

Irene gave her a smile then, and it did make her look a lot nicer. ‘Oh, I’m sure that’ll be quite some time away yet.’ She sounded relieved about that, so Gwenna didn’t push any further but it was good to know it was nerves making the newcomer so distant, and not a sense of sup