Morgan felt a bit better the next morning—well enough to put away a decent breakfast which Dominic had insisted he eat in bed. He didn’t feel dizzy apart from when he stood at the top of the stairs and looked down, but a moment with his eyes shut helped the symptoms pass. Dominic was great, providing precisely the right amount of help and fuss, and arranging to pick up any groceries they needed on the way back from the churchyard, where he was going to finish off his research. He’d arranged for a taxi to take him there and would bring Morgan’s car back with him, assuming it still had all its wheels intact.
Morgan was grateful for some time alone to gather his thoughts, telling himself that he’d overreacted the day before. He rang the nursing home to explain that he wouldn’t be in for a few days, and got a large dose of sympathy from the duty nurse. She reiterated the advice to avoid driving, to get plenty of rest, not to use any dangerous machinery, “and no climbing ladders or disco dancing,” she added cheekily.
“My disco days are long past. Anyway, don’t they call it clubbing now?”
“Don’t go clubbing either, then. We’ll see you when you’re better. Don’t go hurrying your recovery. We don’t want two of you to take care of.”
The remark had obviously been meant as a cheery joke, but it didn’t do anything for his still-fragile confidence. “Very wise. I’d be far too much trouble.”
Morgan ended the call, then went to open his much-neglected inbox. He managed about a half an hour before admitting defeat: he’d have to wean himself back onto working with screens. He made a cold drink and took it out into the garden, to sit in the sunshine and wait for Dominic’s return. The bloke seemed to be taking longer than anticipated; hopefully that was because he’d been successful at the graveyard rather than having found the car with all the tyres nicked.
He must have dozed off, waking with a start and a cricked neck at the sound of a car pulling up onto the drive. “I’m round the back,” he shouted when he heard the car door slam, not wanting to get up too quickly in case he fell straight back down again. “Come and join me.”
Dominic came around the side of the house. “What if I’d been a burglar?”
“At this time of day? They’ll all be tucked up in bed after last night’s jobs.”
“Car’s in one piece, if you were thinking some scrote might have wrecked it.” Dominic handed over the keys. “Fancy a cuppa? I’m gagging for one.”
“Please. Need any help?”
“No, it’s fine. Although if you’d like to supervise me putting away the groceries, that might be a good idea.”
“Yeah, okay. Not that I’m obsessed with what goes in which cupboard.” Not that he’d admit, anyway. “Actually, let me put the stuff away. I’m not a total invalid.”
“Cool beans.” Dominic took the bag of groceries inside the kitchen, however.
“Successful day?” Morgan asked, as he stowed away the milk.
“Yep, all round.” Dominic beamed as he filled the kettle. “Didn’t drive your car into a ditch, got all the shopping, made a bit of progress Lusmoore wise, but that can wait until I’ve got a mug of tea in my hand.”
Morgan’s enduring memory of Dominic, once the guy went back to London, was going to be him drinking tea: an image as powerful and endearing as him lying tousled in bed. “Thanks for being so helpful.” He kissed Dominic’s cheek and went back to the groceries.
“Got to help a mate in need.” Dominic, blushing furiously, carried on with making them a drink and something to eat.
They took everything through to the dining room—under those infamous, fateful beams—so Dominic could share the fruits of his morning’s labour.
“I couldn’t find a grave for Mary Lusmoore. Because it’s not there.” His eyes danced. “There was this old bloke pottering around who gave the impression he was ancient enough to remember the woman herself. He came over for a chat just as I’d run across a clump of Lusmoore plots.”
“You’re no doubt irresistible to older men.” Morgan chuckled.
“Ha bloody ha. He asked me if I was interested in local history, then took me into the vestry to show me the records. Turns out he was the verger, so had the keys.”
“See? He had designs on your body. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to go with strange men?”
“Oh, give it a rest. That funny turn hasn’t improved your jokes. He was probably grateful for somebody to talk to.”
“Okay.” Morgan held his hands up. “What did you learn?”
“That Mary Lusmoore hasn’t got a grave because she threw herself over a cliff, up on the headland not far from where Troilus went down. Her body was never recovered. She was old by then, and maybe a bit . . .” Dominic blew out his cheeks, clearly searching for words that wouldn’t re-ignite the flames of Morgan’s distress.
“She’d gone a touch senile? Batty? You can say it, you know. I think we’ve gone past walking on eggshells.”
“Thank God for that.” Dominic smiled. “Yeah, let’s settle for saying she was ‘eccentric.’”
“Eccentric it is. What else did Old Father Time say?”
“That somebody had written a history of the church and its graveyard. I couldn’t get a copy because there was only the original there and that must have dated back a hundred years. So close enough to the time of the events to have a reasonable chance of being reliable.”
“Shame you couldn’t have brought it home.” Morgan could imagine how Dominic would have been. A dog with two tails couldn’t have matched his delight at finding a new piece of evidence.
“I got a photocopy. They had a little desktop-printer thing that somebody had donated that they used to run stuff off. I got the whole history of the church being modernised, along with some more relevant stuff.” He opened the document wallet he kept all his odds and ends in, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Have a shufti.”
The page wasn’t easy to read, a not-very-good copy of what must have been a fairly illegible original, but Morgan could make out enough to tell it primarily concerned Mary’s father, Harold, whose grave he had found. He shrugged off a frisson at the memory of what had followed that discovery, concentrating on Harold’s tragic story. Three of his children had pre-deceased him; and Mary—his eldest—had cared for him to the end of his life. That seemed to contradict the story of her being a spiteful woman, unless she’d changed later.
She had fallen to her death some ten years after he died, her cousins saying that it had been a terrible accident but the speculation being that she’d committed suicide, perhaps at never having come to terms with her father’s death.
“Sad, isn’t it?” Morgan held the text up to a better light. “Do you think she actually threw herself off the cliff in guilt at having killed Lawson?”
“It’s as reasonable a theory as any. Or maybe he’d broken her heart and she’d never got over it.” Dominic ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in untidy spikes. Morgan resisted the temptation to smooth it again; that could wait for an hour or two. “Or perhaps the stories we were told all arose afterwards. Folk trying to explain away why a devoted daughter had turned so odd.”
“People love to be wise after the event. Like when somebody commits a murder out of the blue. Everybody says they always had their suspicions.”
Dominic nodded. “It would have been worse if they’d had the tabloids back in those times. Or social media.”
“Bane of modern life.” Morgan handed back the paper. “I wish I’d been able to come with you to get that.”
“So do I. I missed having you there to share our triumph, albeit it was a small one.”
Morgan noted the our, but his recent antagonism at such presumptions was starting to fade. If his funny turn in the churchyard had taught him anything, it was to value what you had to hand when you had it, and let the future sort itself. “Maybe I could come to the museum with you tomorrow? If I promise not to faint?
Dominic narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see how you feel. You’re still supposed to be resting.”
“I’d like to do something, rather than sit here on my arse. I need to. I want to feel normal again.”
“You will feel normal. As normal as you’re ever likely to get. Just don’t rush things for the sake of a day or two.” The endearing expression of concern in Dominic’s face went straight from Morgan’s eyes to his trousers.
“There’s something else I could do, to feel like myself.” Morgan left his seat, edged round the table to where Dominic was sitting; he had already turned in his chair, clearly anticipating what was to come. “It takes two.”
“Of course it does.” Dominic slipped his arms around Morgan’s waist to pull him close. “And while my conscience tells me I should be saying no, that it’s barely twenty-four hours since you were taken ill, I’m willing to ignore its voice for once.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Morgan leaned in for a kiss. “I’m feeling fine now, but if you want to help me up the stairs, like I’m an old man, I won’t mind.”
“Very tempting.”
They managed the stairs one by one, Morgan so preoccupied with being kissed he almost forgot to worry whether he’d feel dizzy. When they got to the bedroom and the big, firm bed, their big, firm, and desperate body parts made it plain the time was right to couple again.
It wasn’t the most energetic bout of lovemaking he’d ever had, Dominic treating him as though he were made of glass and Morgan trying not to get annoyed at the fact. Once he’d reconciled himself to it, the experience became curiously stimulating, like stepping into a new territory without the aid of maps, or treading through a minefield, each step both dangerous and thrilling. Maybe he’d have to have another funny turn if this was one of the outcomes.
Dominic had suggested a safeword—bloody Milton Keynes again—if things became uncomfortable, but it hadn’t been needed. They fell into that same routine they’d established: a mixture of doing what they knew the other liked and exploring new options.
Perhaps at least part of the funny turn had been psychological, because once Morgan was lost in lovemaking, he didn’t feel the slightest hint of dizziness or anything other than pleasure. Extreme pleasure.
They dozed afterwards, until Morgan came to with a start as a dream of walking with Dominic along the cliffs turned nasty.
“Eh?” Dominic murmured. “Are you having a nightmare?”
“No. Yes. Not the ship dream, anyway.” Morgan tried to get the vision clear in his mind, but it was already hazy. “We were up on the cliff path, you and me. You tried to knock me over the edge.”
“You’re thinking of Mary Lusmoore. Your imagination turns everything into a dream.”
“Doesn’t everyone’s? No, don’t answer that, my head’s too befuddled.” He didn’t particularly want to discuss his dreams, his imagination, or whether his brain worked differently to other people’s. “I haven’t dreamed about Troilus since you were here before, and I don’t want to risk my thoughts going down that line.”
“Okay. I’m banning talk about anything to do with my research today. You can spend the whole evening slagging off James if you want.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m not sure it would help my medical condition.” Morgan sighed, stretched, and snuggled down again. “Another kip, then you can tell me about your childhood holidays. We talk far too much about me.”
And so much introspection didn’t help his mental state one bit.
Monday evening had been quiet: a movie on the telly, a meal out of the freezer, and a bed shared companionably, as a result of which Morgan felt better on Tuesday, not having suffered any dizziness since the previous morning. He agreed—reluctantly—to another day indoors, so he didn’t jeopardise his recovery. And when Dominic set off in his hire car for his appointment at the museum archives, Morgan had another, more successful, stab at his emails. He managed a bit of work, although the movement of items across the screen became disorienting, forcing him to abandon design in favour of some urgent paperwork. He tried not to entertain the thought that he’d be affected long-term and not be able to return to his business. Why the hell did he have to always look on the bleak side?
As his thoughts were determined to taunt him, he had to show defiance—he could manage to get along just as normal. He decided to make some soup for lunch, to prove that simple things like chopping onions or peeling carrots weren’t beyond him, and that he could be trusted with a pan on a hob.
When Dominic returned, he came straight to the kitchen. “Smells good,” he said. “Almost as good as you.” He landed a butterfly kiss on Morgan’s neck.
“Thanks. I hope it tastes okay.”
“I’m sure it’ll taste as good as you do too.”
“Smoothy. Being a nursemaid clearly suits you. You’re coming out of your shell.” Morgan returned the kiss. “Any luck at the archives?”
“A bit. Mostly they verified what we’d already come across. Which is good in itself, because I never trust any one source. A bit like the internet—you might get lots of mentions of something, but if they all eventually come back to a single source and that’s unreliable, you’re stuffed.”
“That happens with written records too. One naff bit of scientific research gets perpetuated until proven wrong.”
Dominic grinned. “Yeah, scientific ‘proof’ isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Like these.” He took two eggs from out of the storage rack, then turned them in his hands. “Good for you, bad for you: no idea what the current medical opinion is.”
“My opinion is they’re about to fall on the floor if you keep jiggling them. I’ve enough to do without clearing up egg yolk.”
“Talking of enough to do, did you make an appointment at the doctor’s?” The overly casual question exposed the fact that Dominic must have been dying to ask it.
“Yes. Next Tuesday, because I couldn’t pretend it’s urgent. Gives me time to screw my courage to the sticking place.”
“Yeah, well make sure you don’t screw yourself out of it. I’ll be ringing that evening for an update.”
“Yes, matron.”
“I’ll bloody ‘yes, matron’ you if you don’t stop it.”
“Promises, promises.” Morgan slipped his arms around Dominic’s waist. “Maybe I need a bed bath or something. Fancy playing nurse?”
“Yes, but not at the moment. I want my lunch. I’ll play nurse later if you play kitchen maid now.”
“It’s a deal.” Sex, food, and a joint interest in a small patch of history. There were worse things to base a relationship on.
Morgan happily got on with the last bits of the soup-making, cutting bread, getting out some cheese and the like. He went to wash the cheese board as it had a distinctly dodgy appearance, and caught a glimpse of the distant sea and a hint of a cloud over the Devil’s Anvil. It was only once he was back stirring the soup that he realised he hadn’t felt uncomfortable seeing that view, hadn’t automatically thought of ships and wrecks. Maybe at last, under Dominic’s empathetic care, he was getting somewhere in this battle against his thoughts. Maybe he’d make so much progress in the following week that he wouldn’t have to confess all at the doctor’s, although that could risk Dominic’s wrath if his almost telepathic abilities sussed out that Morgan had bottled things again.
“You’re rather pensive.” Dominic’s voice over his shoulder snapped Morgan out of his reverie.
“I’m always pensive. You should know that by now.”
“Not when we’re in bed.” Dominic gently stroked his arm. “You seem really relaxed then.”
“That’s different.” On all counts. “Come on. Lunch.”
After they’d eaten, Morgan, feeling constrained at being stuck indoors, insisted they go out into the garden. If Dominic twigged that—against all precedent—Morgan had made them take their chairs to a spot where the rocks were in view, he didn’t mention the fact. They sat in the sunshine, poring through what had turned up in the archives.
“Earlier you said what you’d found was ‘mostly’ verification, but you keep smiling like a cat that’s got the cream,” Morgan pointed out, with a grin. “So what else did you find?”
“A poem. It’s in here somewhere.” Dominic rummaged among a pile of documents.
“A poem?”
“Ballad, rather than poem, and not a very good one, either.” Dominic brandished a sheet of paper. “More McGonagall than Masefield.”
“I see what you mean.” Morgan, smoothing out the copy, winced at some of the wording. “Crappier than the stuff you get down the folk club. And that’s saying something.”
“Are your local groups as bad as that?”
“Aren’t they always bad?” Morgan rolled his eyes. “Only fit for students and tourists. Strip away the flowery wording from this, though, and it tells an interesting tale.”
“That’s what I thought.” Dominic nodded. “If this is based on the true story or at least part of that story, it could give us a real clue to what went on.”
“Yep.” According to the ballad, Mary Lusmoore and Midshipman Lawson tried to get something from the wreck, some treasure she really wanted that had belonged to his mother. He said he’d retrieve it, as a sign of true love. He failed, even when he’d tried the obligatory three times. “It’s always three attempts, isn’t it? The magic number.”
“It wasn’t magic for him. He failed, and she went mad.” Dominic wrinkled his nose. “That last part might be true. The three attempts I’ll take with a pinch of salt. If Troilus broke on those rocks, there wouldn’t have been much of a hull left to dive onto.”
“Exactly. Although the bit about bunging him over the cliff in the very place she later took her own life, full of remorse, might have a grain of truth in it too.” Morgan rescanned the ballad, rolling his eyes again at the terrible lyrics. “Are we reading too much into this? Is it any more trustworthy, in terms of real life, than Thomas the Rhymer or whatever?”
“That’s what I wondered, all the way home. I was hoping you’d be a voice of reason.”
Morgan grinned. “Fat chance of that. Although I’ve got a reasonable question for you. Does this doggerel predate that book you saw, or postdate it? Are the two from the same source, based on each other or independent?”
“That’s about seventeen questions.” Dominic took the paper back, peering at it again. “And there’s another option: are they both part of somebody trying to drum up a romantic legend that might motivate people to visit the area? Stoking up the tourist trade isn’t a new phenomenon. Medieval monks were at it.”
“Pretty naff attempt, then, because it didn’t work. Porthkennack is hardly overrun with ‘Ye Olde Mary Lusmoore tea rooms’ or whatever.”
“True.” Dominic glanced heavenward. “Here, I don’t like the look of that.”
“I agree.” A leaden-grey bank of cloud was blowing in from the Atlantic, threatening to dump its contents sometime in the not-too-distant future. They gathered up their bits and pieces, just making it into the house as the first drops of rain hit the flagstones.
“That’s a bloody shame. It was nice getting some fresh air.” Morgan grimaced out of the window. “Honest to God, I need to get out for a while, and farther than the garden. I’m getting sick of these four walls.”
“Don’t try too much, too soon. It’s only been a few days you’ve had to put up with it. You’d have been no use in Colditz, would you?” Dominic’s forced chuckle couldn’t entirely conceal his concern.
“Maybe I should dig a bloody tunnel under the hedge. I’ve got to stretch my legs.” Morgan grabbed Dominic’s arm. “You can drive. I’ll let you mother hen me as much as you want. Let’s go and do something, even if it’s having another ice cream in the park.”
“Too wet for that, now. What about a pint at the pub? Is that sufficiently leg stretching if we don’t park too close to it?”
“That sounds like a great idea. So long as you won’t argue if I really do have a pint and not a Diet Coke.”
“That’s a point. The doctor said no alcohol, right?”
“Spoilsport. Not a chance of a half of mild?”
“Hm. I suppose that should be okay. As long as you lay off the Chough’s Nest, and if you feel vaguely woozy, you go straight on to the lemonade.”
“Yes, matron.”
“You get worse.” Dominic groaned.
The talk of Chough’s Nest had given Morgan an idea. “We’ll go and see if Harry’s in the Sea Bell. Tell him what we’ve found. What you’ve found,” he corrected himself, although this felt like a joint venture now, and Morgan was happy to take the credit vicariously. “He’d like that.”
“Excellent idea. I need to top up my beer levels—that stuff never tastes the same from a bottle.”
“I’ll give him a ring.” Funny how the reluctance to contact Harry had also faded away. The bridge had been crossed.