Mal found himself grinning back. “Bet the rest of the family were dead chuffed. You got any more information about her? She sounds well cool.” He could see her now, dressed up in men’s clothes, a pistol in each hand—if they’d had pistols in them days. Maybe just a cutlass—and forcing some rich entitled bastard to walk the plank.
“There’s a book,” the guide said dismissively. “Romantic codswallop, if you want my view. All about her running off to be with one of the village lads, too lowborn for the family’s taste.”
Mal had picked up a copy of The Beautiful Buccaneer in what passed for a gift shop anyhow, and had read a couple of chapters since then. He kind of liked it, but it was pretty clear the author hadn’t been aiming for historical accuracy. Lots of corsets and heaving bosoms, which Mal didn’t have a problem with, but he was fairly sure posh young ladies who’d persuaded their brothers to give them a quick fencing lesson one afternoon weren’t actually able to fight off ten hardened swordsmen at once, all while sailing a ship single-handed cos the crew had gone and got themselves captured again.
The old boy’s parting suggestion had been a trip down to the naval museum and a poke around in their local history archive, which was why Mal had headed there today. Not that he’d made it very far before getting that phone call from Mum . . .
Ah, sod it. Sometimes you just needed a hug even if it meant you’d have to talk about stuff.
Mal got up and took the lane back to the Sea Bell.
Tasha was on her own behind the bar when he got back, so Mal didn’t go straight over to speak to her. He could wait until her boss had come back from the cellar or the gents’ or wherever the hell he’d got to. Jago Andrewartha was a slow-moving old bastard who ruled over the pub like he was King Arthur himself, which must make the locals on their barstools his knights.
Mal had a little snigger at the thought of that lot on horseback, armour gleaming in the sun. For his eleventh birthday, his mum had taken them down to Hever Castle to watch the jousting. His sister had whinged on about it being boring and stupid and why couldn’t she have spent the day with her boyfriend instead, but Mal had loved it. He’d wanted to try it himself, but Mum and Dad hadn’t had the money for horse riding lessons even if they’d been able to find anywhere local that did them. And anyway, round where he lived, poncing about like you reckoned you were posh could get the shit kicked out of you if anyone heard about it, so it was probably just as well.
Rats were his thing, not horses. Grief for Hermione slammed into him again. Shit. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood for company after all—
“Mal!” Tasha yelled out, waving at him. She held up a pint glass with a clear question in her eye. Half the Round Table had turned to look, like they hadn’t just seen him at lunchtime—seriously, didn’t some of these old codgers have homes to go to?—so there was nothing for it but to nod at Tasha and head on up to the bar.
She was already pulling him a pint of Rattler Cyder, which Mal had tried on his first night here and decided he liked better than the local beer. Plus, it had to be healthier, didn’t it? It had proper Cornish apples in. Hermione had liked apples . . .
“You all right, babe?” Tasha asked.
Jago loomed up behind her like he’d come from nowhere. He’d been in the cellar, then. “You’ve got a face on you like a wet weekend,” he rumbled before Mal could answer.
“So? He don’t have to be all happy-smiley if he don’t wanna.” Tasha gave her boss a pointed look.
Fuck, Mal was sick of this. “Had some bad news from home,” he said shortly.
“Sorry to hear that.” Jago gave him a nod and moved deliberately to the other end of the bar, where the locals were clustered.
Tasha leaned on the bar, her eyes wide. “What’s up?”
“Mum called. Hermione’s died.”
“That’s one of your rats, innit? Oh, babe. Come here.” She leaned even further and gave him a hug. It’d have been a lot more comforting if they hadn’t had the bar between them, but then again, Mal could feel tears pricking at his eyes already. Shit.
“’S all right. ’M all right.” He pulled back and tried to smile. “Hey, I met a bloke at the museum. He’s coming here tonight.”
“You don’t hang about, do you? What’s he like? Fit?”
“Not bad. Tall. Blond. Got a beard. Sorta geeky.”
“That your type these days?”
Mal shrugged. “Haven’t got a type, have I? I’m an equal-opportunities lover.”
“Everyone’s got a type.”
“Yeah? What’s yours?”
Tasha made a face. “Bastards, mostly.”
“Yeah? What about you and Ceri? Been wondering about you two for, like, years.”
“We ain’t known her years. Not even one. And we’re mates, that’s all, you got that? Now are you gonna drink that drink, or just sit and watch the bubbles all night?”
Mal could take a hint. She’d been a bit touchy about Ceri lately—something to do with her going off to work abroad for six weeks with her college mates when term ended, Mal reckoned. “Gimme some dry roasted to go with it?”
“They’ll make your breath stink, they will.” She still handed over the bag of nuts. “Make sure you clean your teeth before you snog Tall, Blond, and Geeky.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Tasha gave him the finger, then went to serve a customer with a smile like butter wouldn’t melt.
Seven o’clock. At the Sea Bell. That was what Jory had agreed to—or at least,
