Rubies in the Roses. Vivian Conroy

       Chapter Five

      The next morning when Guinevere awoke she immediately saw the portrait of Dolly beside her bed. The postcards for her friends were resting before it, ready to be taken along and mailed in the only mailbox on the island, near the harbour where it was emptied once a day and its contents taken to the mainland.

      She lay back a moment, her arms folded behind her head, a luxurious feeling of freedom and expectation coursing through her still-drowsy body. She intended to embrace everything this Cornish summer had to offer.

      Humming a tune, Guinevere washed and dressed quickly, choosing her favourite poppy dress with broad red belt and matching shoes. The shoes didn’t have high heels so she could move around on them easily. With Dolly by her side she dashed down the stairs. There was nobody near the kitchen unit, but there were used plates and mugs, suggesting somebody had already breakfasted. Oliver? Max?

      Either way it would pay off to go out via the beach to post her cards near the harbour. Guinevere drank a quick cup of mocha coffee while Dolly had her breakfast, then she grabbed a banana and took the doggy outside. The great tit who had his nest in the wall was gathering insects in the yard. Breakfast for his family on the brink of fledging.

      From beside a pot with an orange tree Guinevere collected the sturdy toy she used to play fetch with Dolly. The dachshund yapped in excitement and, once out of the gate, pulled to go right at once, to the secluded beach. Guinevere could barely keep up with her running down the path. The brambles in both sides were sporting small white flowers, and a wren dived into them, using their prickly branches as protection against predators.

      On the beach the breeze came to caress Guinevere’s hot face. She took a few deep breaths, savouring the salty air and ignoring Dolly’s yapping that she should run after her at once.

      The dachshund dug into the sand, clumps flying around her head, then jogged again, her ears brushed back by the wind. She halted abruptly, almost sliding off her feet, sniffed at some driftwood, picked it up, and carried it along only to drop it as soon as something more interesting appeared.

      Guinevere let her gaze travel the length of beach. In the distance was the narrow wooden pier where small boats could moor. It was only used by locals who came to the island to fish.

      There was a boat moored there now.

      Guinevere narrowed her eyes. Judging by its colours it was Jago’s boat. Jago Trevelyan was an old fisherman who had sold off his business to his sons and now only fished for pleasure. He liked to come to the island in the evening and roam the beach, smoking his pipe and scaring people when he suddenly popped up out of nowhere. He was an authority on island lore, knowing every tale that was connected with Cornisea’s eventful past.

      Guinevere wondered if Jago knew about the goblet of Rose and Stars. It was exactly the sort of object that would catch his fancy as proof of Cornisea’s importance in the past. Maybe also as a way to draw tourists to the island in the future?

      Guinevere began to walk in the direction of the pier, keeping her eyes on the bobbing boat. If she met Jago, she could ask him if he believed the goblet was on Cornisea. He might even know some old tale that could help her work out where it was. Wadencourt seemed to know already, but it would be fun to surprise him by casually dropping a hint she knew as well.

      Dolly came up to her and circled her legs. Her ears were back, and she whined.

      ‘What’s up, girl?’ Guinevere said. ‘Do you smell another dog? There might be some staying at the B&B. Maybe they played here, huh? It’s not our private beach.’

      Dolly flattened herself onto the sand, and when Guinevere wanted to push on to the pier, Dolly stayed behind, lying down with her head on her paws.

      Guinevere looked her over. ‘What’s wrong, girl?’ The dog’s behaviour had changed completely from carefree frolicking to downcast, almost anxious behaviour.

      ‘Come on,’ she coaxed her. ‘Come over here.’

      She even snapped her fingers, but the dachshund wasn’t moving. She had pulled up her upper lip and snarled as if there was a threat nearby. But Guinevere didn’t see a soul. No dog, no human.

      Not Jago either.

      Usually he went home early in the morning when the fishing was done. Why had he stayed here?

      ‘Dolly! Come to me.’ She sat on her haunches, holding out her hand.

      The dachshund came skulking low, pressing herself close to Guinevere’s leg. Guinevere patted her. ‘Hey, are you not feeling well? Did you hurt yourself somehow?’

      Maybe her wild antics had been too much this time?