“… indigenous world views, earth-connected spirituality—”
The disembodied voice from the loudspeakers came to the rescue by resuming its tranquil monologue: “And now, as the beautiful Isle of St. Mary’s comes into our near view, its rocks reveal the ravages of time and tide, against which—”
Everyone took this as a signal to gather up belongings and move toward the exits. After quick handshakes all around, Julie and Gideon found themselves out on deck in the disembarkation line as the ferry slid sidewise up to the Hugh Town quay.
“What did you think of Victor?” a smiling Julie asked.
“Interesting. Not that I had a clue to what he was talking about.”
“No, nobody does. But he is interesting.”
“Why did Kozlov choose him? Is it just one more way of annoying the establishment?
“No, I don’t think so. I think Vasily is simply a genuinely open-minded person who doesn’t write off people because they don’t happen to agree with his own views on science.” She paused for a beat. “Not like some people I know.”
“Hey…” Gideon said, laughing.
Julie pointed to a green promontory topped by a low, gray, undeniably Elizabethan castle that was surrounded by a walled, star-shaped keep.
“That’s Garrison Hill,” she said, “and that’s Kozlov’s place on top of it. Star Castle.”
“Looks nice.”
“It is. There’ll be a van on the dock to pick up our bags for us, and we’re early, so what do you say we stretch our legs a little and walk up to the castle? I’ll give you a tour of Hugh Town on the way. It won’t take long.”
“Love to.”
Hugh Town was more village than town, a narrow, quarter-mile-long neck of land connecting Garrison Hill to the rest of the island, bordered by Town Beach on one side and the brilliant white sand of Porthcressa Beach on the other. Only three streets wide, it had a couple of banks, a chemist, three or four pubs and hotels, as many restaurants, a not so super “supermarket,” and a few guest houses and craft shops. All in all, a quiet, pleasant, prosperous, not overly quaint British village of the sort that had once been typical of England but was rarely to be found now, certainly not within fifty miles of London.
Its particular glory was in the rock gardens and in the cascading masses of flowers that were everywhere, sustained by a subtropical climate that felt more like Bermuda than Britain. Even with stopping often to admire the plantings, in less than an hour they had covered every foot of Hugh Street, the Strand, and the Parade, had walked up Garrison Hill Lane, and had entered the castle grounds through a massive stone gateway with 1593 carved deeply into the lintel.
Seen from inside the thick walls, Star Castle was not quite as impressive as it had seemed from the dock. A squat three stories high, with little in the way of ornamentation, it had been built with fortification in mind, not high living. It had stood without apparent decline for over four hundred years now and looked good for another four hundred at least.
Kozlov was not there to greet them. They were met in a tiny office-reception area by his secretary, a pale, soft man—like some delicate, vulnerable crustacean that had come into the light without its shell—who presented a quiet but distinctly starchy mien. (“I am Mr. Kozlov’s majordomo. My name is Mr. Moreton.”) He showed them to the guest rooms on the second floor, and opened a door on which there was a marble plaque: the duke of Hamilton room.
Inside it was sparely but comfortably furnished: a big four-poster bed, two chairs, an ancient armoire, and a folding writing desk.
“And who was the Duke of Hamilton?” Gideon asked. “Was he a guest here?”
“He was a prisoner in this room in the year 1643. The rooms, you see, are named for the many notables who have been imprisoned here.”
“Ah. And what did the duke do?”
“I understand his loyalty to the monarchy was held in question. He was believed to be a supporter of Cromwell, although there is room for doubt on the matter.”
“Last year,” Julie said, “I was next door in the Sir John Wildman Room. He was imprisoned for being disloyal to Cromwell and supporting the monarchy.”
“Times change,” Gideon observed.
Mr. Moreton’s hand swept the surroundings. “I’m told the duke found his lodgings here quite comfortable.”
“And I know we will too,” said Julie.
Pleased, Mr. Moreton brushed a finger along either side of an immaculately trimmed, pencil-thin mustache. “The reception is at six,” he told them. “A number of local dignitaries have been invited.”
“Thank you, Mr. Moreton,” Gideon said.
“Dinner will be at seven-thirty, in the dungeon. Madam. Sir.” He closed the door soundlessly behind him.
“Now there’s a line that hasn’t been heard since The Addams Family,”“ Gideon remarked when he’d left. ”Dinner in the dungeon. What do we get, gruel?“
“I doubt it,” Julie said, laughing. “As dungeons go, it’s pretty nice. You’ll see, you’ll be impressed.”
“I’m already impressed. I never met a real major domo before.”
A few minutes later, with their bags open on the beds, she paused in her arranging of the bags’ contents in the armoire. (This was a task that always fell to Julie. The alternative was chaos, bewilderment, and wrinkled clothes.)
