Dinosaur Island: A Collection of Historical, Mystery and Romantic Short Stories

  DINOSAUR ISLAND

  A collection of historical, mystery and romantic short stories.

  BY

  Dawn Harris

  Text Copyright © 2014 Dawn Harris

  Image: Anne and Paul Cameron

  With thanks to my daughter, Jude, for all her encouragement.

  Table of Contents

  THE PEACOCK ROOM

  LOVERS

  AVENGING ANGELS

  THE HIDDEN TRUTH

  STRICTLY PLATONIC

  MEN WITH BRIEFCASES

  NORMAN CONQUEST

  HOT WATER BEACH

  SISTERLY ADVICE

  DINOSAUR ISLAND

  CAROL, THE FORTUNE TELLER

  THE TOTWELL GHOST

  OTHER TITLES BY DAWN HARRIS

  THE PEACOCK ROOM

  The prospect of sleeping in the 16th century Peacock Room so entranced Blue Latimer that it momentarily side-tracked her thoughts from the mind-blowing danger Tim was in.

  Blue, named by rock musician parents for the brilliant colouring of her eyes, was emphatically a modern woman, but one with a deep fascination for the past. And finding she was to occupy a room in which someone had slept when the first Queen Elizabeth had been alive, swept her imagination into overdrive.

  The week had begun on a wonderful high, when she and Tim became engaged. By Tuesday it had sunk to the depths when he had been flown, at a moment’s notice, right into the thick of a deepening international incident, replacing a badly injured fellow Naval Officer. No-one she loved had ever been in a life-threatening situation before. And confronting the possibility that Tim might not return, was like having every nerve in her body systematically shredded by a fine cheese grater. Without anaesthetic.

  Tim had intended taking her to meet his parents, Sir Charles and Lady Kelfield, that weekend, and his mother had rung, urging, ‘You will still come, won’t you. We’re so looking forward to meeting you.’ Tim was the youngest of six children, and Blue had been amused to discover that even her own family wondered how she, who’d spent her formative years touring the world with a rock band, would fit in with the landed gentry. Blue, herself, had as few doubts about that as she had over anything else in life.

  Her unusual childhood had given her a lack of awe, a serene confidence, and down-to-earth attitude towards people from all walks of life. Ideal qualities for her career in journalism.

  A warm welcome awaited Blue at Kelfield Hall that Friday evening. And when Lady Agatha showed her to the Peacock Room, which boasted a four poster bed and a magnificent painting of a peacock, Blue declared in genuine admiration, ‘Oh, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘I’m so glad you like it, my dear.’ Lady Agatha crossed the room to draw the curtains. ‘Every prospective Kelfield bride for centuries has slept in this room at some time. I did myself.’ She put a hand lightly on Blue’s arm. ‘We’re riddled with traditions here, I’m afraid. Our main claim to fame is that a Kelfield fought against the Spanish Armada, and every generation since has seen at least one son enter the Royal Navy.’

  Enthralled as Blue was by the Peacock Room, her fears for Tim’s safety prevented her from sleeping. Searching for something to read, she opened a drawer and found an old journal, written by Harriet Tilling in 1805, in her eighteenth year. What it revealed was to affect Blue in a manner she wouldn’t have believed possible.

  Sleep came eventually, only to be broken just after five by the shrill cry of a peacock. The sun was already shining through the curtains, and Blue jumped out of bed. The view from the window was breathtaking. Beyond the courtyard were some attractive Italian-style formal gardens, with a striking statue. To the right, magnificent lawns reached down to a lake, and in the middle of the lawns stood a youngish, solitary oak tree. None of which she’d seen the previous night, when she’d arrived in the twilight after a long drive.

  As she stood enjoying the beauty of her surroundings, to her astonishment, a carriage pulled by four striking grey horses, swung into the courtyard. Two liveried footmen hurriedly unloaded a huge trunk, watched by a tall, fair-haired young man in an old-fashioned Naval uniform of a navy coat, white knee-breeches and waistcoat. At that moment a young woman in an ankle-length muslin dress flew out of the house crying, ‘John – wait!’ A second later they were locked in each other’s arms. ‘Come home safely, my darling.’ The words were very similar to those Blue had expressed to Tim a few days earlier.

  Cold with shock, Blue slipped back under the duvet. An hour later she awoke with a start, and stunned that she could have fallen asleep again after such a weird experience, she got out of bed and rather warily, looked out of the window ----and gasped. The statue had gone. So had the peacock, but what really made her mouth hang open was the oak tree. The young tree that she’d seen earlier was now fully grown and quite magnificent.

  Blue sat down hard on the bed and told herself to be sensible. Captivated by Harriet’s dramatic and vividly written journal, she’d simply had an incredibly lifelike dream. Hardly surprising, she reasoned, opening the journal again.

  January 2: I have not seen my darling John for over a year. I pray he will return soon. His letters are full of the honour of sailing with Lord Nelson and of his longing to give the French fleet a thrashing.

  January 15: John writes everything that is proper about Papa, and regrets his absence at that dreadful time. He promises we shall be married when he comes into his godfather’s fortune on his 21st birthday in November. But I fear his parents will not permit it. I am often invited to Kelfield Hall to stay with John’s sister --- Isabel is my greatest friend and everyone is very kind to me. But since Papa gambled away Mama’s entire inheritance, including my marriage portion, I am no longer an eligible match for a Kelfield.

  February 7: Today I found Mama prostrate on the sofa, being revived by that odious Septimus Grissom, whom Papa used to bring home --- and I learned Mama had been keeping a dreadful secret from me. Two days before Papa collapsed and died , he staked our house (left to Mama by Grandpapa, Sir William Burn), on the turn of a card. Mr. Grissom says we must pay him the value of the house, or get out. ‘Give me this pretty chicken, though,’ he said, pinching my cheek with his fat, grasping fingers, ‘and I’ll wipe the slate clean.’

  I gasped with horror, for he is over fifty, with a stomach so large he can barely squeeze through the doors. Misunderstanding my reaction, he protested, ‘I mean marriage. Nothing less.’

  ‘I don’t care what you mean,’ I declared vehemently. ‘I’ll never marry you.’

  He forced up my chin and looked straight into my eyes. ‘Never, eh?’ he sneered. ‘When your Mama and five precious brothers and sisters are turned onto the streets, I fancy you’ll soon change your mind.’

  February 8: I have spent a wretched night, but there is no escaping the truth. I have no choice but to accept Mr. Grissom. I do not know how I shall bear it. Mama suspects him to be a card sharp, but he has Papa’s signature on a document and we can do nothing.

  February 10: Today Mr. Grissom called for my answer to his proposal. ‘Very well,’ I agreed, adding as haughtily as I could, ‘However we cannot announce our marriage while I am in mourning for Papa. It would be most improper.’

  He grabbed my wrist. ‘I know your little game.’ His face was so close to mine I felt the heat from his breath. ‘You’re expecting that Kelfield boy to rescue you --- well, I won’t wait.’

  ‘In that case,’ I retorted, recklessly following my instinct, ‘I shall make it known that you cheated my father........’

  ‘Prove it,�
�� he hissed. But I had seen the momentary fear in his eyes, and knew I had hit on the truth.

  ‘You cheated him,’ I stormed. ‘I knew it.’

  Mama believes his purpose in offering marriage is to force his way into the upper crust of society, and perhaps that is why he finally pronounced, ‘Very well then. I’ll wait until the year is up. I’ll show your toffee-nosed friends that Septimus Grissom is every bit as good as they are.’ Sticking his podgy thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, he mocked, ‘Besides I can’t wait to see your face when that Kelfield boy finds out the mess your family is in. Mark my words, you won’t see him for dust then.’

  March 26: I know it is my duty to call off my understanding with John, but I shall wait until he returns home. I cannot write the words, for fear he should read them just before a battle.

  May 30: Mama and the children will be safe once I marry this ogre. But if I could find the courage I would murder him.

  August 16: John is home on leave at last, and it is just the same between us. The Victory is anchored off Portsmouth, and Lord Nelson has returned to Lady Hamilton at Merton. John is full of tales of his hero, of chasing the French fleet to the West Indies and back. ‘By heaven, Harriet,’ he said. ‘There is no man like him!’ Then John asked what I had been doing to acquire such hollow eyes and haggard looks while he was away, and he made me tell him everything. ‘You goose, Harriet,’ he said. ‘I shall pay your Mama’s debts.’ He hugged me tightly. ‘You don’t imagine I would permit you to marry that scoundrel, surely?’

  I put my head on his shoulder and wept, which he found somewhat disconcerting, but when I disclosed my desire to murder Mr. Grissom, he shouted with laughter. ‘You --- commit murder,’ he gasped between paroxysms, mopping his eyes. ‘On my last leave, I know for a fact that you were cornered for an hour by a mere spider.’

  I am the luckiest woman alive, for no-one could be kinder, but I must be patient, for John can do nothing until he is 21.

  September 13: I am in despair. The French fleet is back in Cadiz, blockaded by our brave sailors. John is recalled and Lord Nelson is rejoining the Victory to command the fleet. John says the coming battle will be decisive. The whole of England knows Lord Nelson will not shirk his duty, and I know John will not shirk his. They will both be in the thick of it, and I fear for my beloved. If he is killed, all my happiness will be at an end, and I shall be forced to marry Mr. Grissom.

  No wonder she’d had such a realistic dream. Hearing sounds of life in the house at long last, she hurried downstairs to find out the latest news. Tim’s mother looked decidedly distressed and Blue burst out, ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We mustn’t panic, my dear, but there’s been some exchange of fire.’

  ’Tim?’

  ‘His ship is involved, yes.’

  ‘I see,’ Blue gulped, and found she was shaking.

  ‘Charles has gone to London – he has contacts at the Admiralty and will ring if he finds out anything.’

  How Blue got through that dreadful day she never quite remembered. It passed in a haze. Her nerves were in tatters, but exhaustion finally overtook her that night and she fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke, just before daybreak, the house was silent. Not wishing to disturb anyone, she picked up the journal again.

  September 14: Septimus called and smirked, ‘So that Kelfield boy refused to bail you out, just as I predicted.’ I bit my lip and said nothing. ‘Lost your fiery tongue, eh? Well, I’ve fixed everything with the vicar. November the tenth is the day, my pretty. A year and a day after your Papa died. I’ll not wait one day longer, mind.’

  November 1: Today is John’s 21st birthday, and still no news. Isobel has invited me to Kelfield Hall for a week, and I go tomorrow.

  November 6: I love the Peacock Room above all others in the Hall. Yet, will I ever see it again? Rumours reached us today that Lord Nelson won a great victory last month, but at the cost of his life. There is no news of John, and his father has gone to London to discover what he may. By daybreak, I shall know my fate.

  The journal ended abruptly at this point, and Blue feared the worst. But before she had time to think of what Harriet must have suffered, the shrill cry of a peacock drew her, apprehensively, to the window. The statue was back and the tree had shrunk in size. A mud-spattered carriage and horses driven at breakneck speed stopped abruptly in front of the Hall, and a man dashed in. She heard a commotion downstairs, and the next instant someone hammered violently on her door. Blue’s heart pounded. Harriet had slept in the Peacock Room on that fateful night. The hammering became more insistent, and Blue, who never backed away from anything, wrenched open the door and, for the first time in her life, fainted.

  When she came round, Lady Agatha was rubbing her hands. ‘It was stupid of me to knock on your door at daybreak,’ she said. ‘But I had to tell you the wonderful news. Tim is safe.’

  She insisted on Blue, euphoric with relief, getting back into bed. While tucking the duvet around her she spotted the journal. ‘Oh – you’ve been reading about Harriet,’ she said, in a pleased voice.

  Blue was conscious of a constriction in her throat. ‘What happened to her? Did John survive?’

  ‘Well, by all accounts, he was badly wounded at Trafalgar, and not expected to live, but his father raced home through the night and fetched Harriet. Somehow, she nursed John back to health. They did marry, and what’s more, they had eight children.’

  As Blue reflected upon her experiences in the Peacock Room she decided that what she had witnessed defied logical explanation, and that she should concentrate instead on what was important. Tim was safe. In truth, that was all that mattered.

  Yet, she knew she’d never forget what she saw when she wrenched open the door of the Peacock Room. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing travelling clothes and boots common to the nobility in Nelson’s time. A man she recognised from a portrait in the hall. A man who’d held out his hand and said, ‘Come Harriet --- John needs you.’

  LOVERS

  At the age of seven, I promised that when I inherited the family heirloom, I would never, ever, part with it. Breaking that promise seemed unthinkable. Until now. But, as I explained to my cat, Henrietta, while opening a tin of cheap cat food, ‘When life kicks you in the teeth, sacrifices have to be made.’

  She sniffed the inferior meal, and looked up at me plaintively. Then, as if she really understood what had happened since I lost my job, she began to eat. Henrietta shared my life, and she was entitled to the truth. ‘Life is getting pretty scary,’ I admitted.

  I’ve tried to find another job – so far, without success. I have no relatives to turn to, and now the building society is threatening to repossess my one-bedroom flat. I’ve tried in vain to sell the flat, and I’ve sold everything else of value – except the heirloom.

  It’s a wonderful painting of a young couple gazing into each other’s eyes as they walk hand in hand through a meadow. I have always loved it. The man’s eyes are particularly intriguing. In them, I see love, laughter, kindness and dependability. I murmured to Henrietta, ‘That is the kind of man I want. Someone decent. Someone who keeps his promises.’ My ex-husband had broken every one of his. He, I later discovered, had cheated on me even before I walked up the aisle. Marriage to him has left me wary of all men.

  As for the heirloom, it wasn’t only the joyous quality of the picture that made it special. The girl with the radiant smile was my own great-grandmother. And the tall, dark-haired young man with the expressive eyes was the artist himself. The painting had been his present to her on their engagement. Sadly, only a few weeks later, in that year of 1916, the artist was dead. One of thousands killed during the battle of the Somme.

  My great-grandmother, who lived well into her eighties, was lucky enough to find love again. Shortly before she died, when I was seven, she explained that the painting would be mine one day. And that was when I made my solemn promise never to part with it.

  Selling the heirloom would be like selling my sou
l, only I didn’t know what else to do. A week had passed since my most recent job interview and I’d heard nothing. Meanwhile, I’d read in the local paper that the BBC’s Antiques Roadshow was coming to our town. Here was my chance to discover whether the painting had any value.

  The morning of the Roadshow brought the final ultimatum from the building society, and I sank onto my one remaining chair in despair and put my head in my hands. A little later I set off for the Roadshow, only to find the queue already stretched a long way out of the leisure centre, where it was being held.

  Resigning myself to a long wait, I was just beginning to wish I’d brought a book with me when a loud, accusing voice broke into my thoughts. ‘You’re standing on my snake.’

  I shrieked involuntarily and hurriedly lifted one foot. My accuser, a boy of about five, snorted in contempt. ‘Not that foot, stupid. The other one.’ Everyone laughed, and I flushed as I realised the snake was purely imaginary.

  The boy didn’t seem to be with an adult and I enquired, ‘Have you come here by yourself?’

  ‘Course not,’ he scoffed. ‘My dad’s gone to buy an ice cream to keep me quiet.’ And he confided, ‘I’m to stay here and not talk to strangers.’ He looked at me curiously, ‘Are you a stranger?’

  I nodded, and then asked him the name of his snake, but he simply pressed his lips together as if belatedly adhering to his father’s instructions. At that moment, a slim, dark-haired man appeared clutching an ice cream. The boy thanked him and said, ‘This stranger stood on my snake and now he can’t slither any more.’

  The man met my eyes and smiled. ‘I’m sorry. Has Daniel been making a nuisance of himself? The snake is----‘

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said, smiling back into the twinkling eyes. ‘It’s quite all right.’ And I turned to Daniel. ‘I know what will make your snake better.’ Daniel looked at me warily. ‘Honest,’ I said. ‘All he needs is a lick of your ice cream.’