Page 82 of The Cornish Cream Tea Bookshop
Liam was staring into his cup of tea, his brows lowered.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘If you think I’m going to involve you in my events at A New Chapter, then you’re absolutely right.’
‘It was all such a long time ago. Nobody would recognisemeas an author. Bryan Mailer never went public. Hardly anyone knows we’re the same person.’
‘Then we need to change all that: get these books out there again – getyouout there. You’ve clearly not lost the bug, or you wouldn’t be writing your memoir. I can’t believe I didn’t twig what was going on! Did you write all these shorthand?’
‘Of course. Computers haven’t been around forever, have they?’
Ollie grinned. ‘I can’t wait to tell Thea!’
‘Now hang on, Ollie.’
‘What is it?’ She knew she was coming across like a giddy schoolgirl, but this was incredible news. It was almost,almost,the best thing that had happened since she’d moved to Cornwall.
‘They’re a few old stories that were popular several decades ago, and I doubt anyone would care a jot that I wrote them.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Ollie said. ‘I really, really do. Does Melissa know about them?’
‘No. I finished writing them in the late Seventies. Briony was a teenager then, and Melissa wasn’t born until eighty-eight, so the books were all put to bed long before she was old enough to be aware of them.’
Ollie looked around Liam’s study, the window still open, letting in air that made the curtains shift and the decorations dance. It was the study of a writer: of course it was. She couldn’t believe she’d been so blind to it. She looked at the book, the title that was so familiar:The Legend of Kerensa’s Handprint.
‘So you based all your stories around well-known Cornish legends?’ she asked. ‘So many of them correspond with thebook you lent me. People love that blend of fact and fiction. When you think about the way true crime and thrillers have merged, or the scripted reality shows likeMade in Chelsea,it’s just—’
‘Ollie.’ Liam put his hand on her knee, stopping her in mid flow. His apprehensive look morphed into something else: something more apologetic.
‘What is it?’
‘Your little book of Cornish legends?’
She nodded.
‘I wrote it. There’s no name on there, because it was a …’ He huffed out a breath. ‘It was a marketing tool conjured up by my publishers: a companion piece. An anonymous book of the supposedly famous legends that accompanied the stories.’
‘Youwrote that too? Wow!’ Her mind began to race. ‘How did you unearth all the details? They’re so thorough. All the history, that’s—’
‘Ollie Spencer,’ he said firmly. ‘I made themallup. All those legends. I invented them in the Roskilly and Faith books, and I invented them for the book you’ve been carrying around with you.’
The whirling thoughts in Ollie’s mind came to a sudden halt. It was as if she’d walked into a brick wall. She blinked. ‘But … but no. But I … I saw the handprint. Max and I found one of those incredible shells. This is not …’
‘I’ve lived here all my life,’ Liam said. ‘I know the landscape like the back of my hand. I found shells on that beach, and they were so stunning, so unusual, I invented a story around them. I found that rock with the markings, and thought it looked like a handprint. I imagined how onecould have got there. I wanted to map the landscape, to work meaning into what I found on my long, solitary walks. This place is beautiful, and I wanted people to find that out for themselves. What better way than to imbue it with history: tragedy and love; unsolved mysteries; ghosts?’
Ollie pressed a hand to her mouth. Her shoulder twinged, but she ignored it. ‘I’ve been following them,’ she said. ‘Max and I …’
‘I thought it might help you get to know the area a bit more: help you find your feet here. And when you started taking Max with you, well … I can’t say I felt guilty, because it had achieved what I’d been hoping for. It had brought you closer to Port Karadow, and the people in it. My whimsical tales captivated you, and perhaps stopped you worrying so much about the bookshop: about moving here, all on your own, to start your new life.’
Ollie sipped her tea, even though it was lukewarm, and tried to get it to sink in. Liam was a writer: he was Bryan Mailer. He wrote books about myths and mysteries, and he’d created the legends she’d been so caught up in, that she’d asked Max to help her track down.
‘I suppose the ruins of a church haveto havesomekind of sinister story attached to them,’ she said.
‘I’m so sorry, Ollie. I just—’
‘What on earth are you sorry for?’ She laughed. ‘This is amazing news!’
Liam sat back in his chair. ‘It is?’
Ollie pressed her lips together to stop her idea bursting out of her before she was ready to explain it. Liam had said it was all behind him, which meant she needed to tread carefully. She would work everything out and come up witha failsafe plan. Her thoughts back to racing, she got up, went to the desk and offered Liam another mince pie.
