local eccentric. Seen at all hours of the day briskly walking the lanes and coastal paths, forever poking his walking stick into interesting piles of rubbish or using it to test the depth of puddles, he was affectionately known as Colonel Stick. The spritely octogenarian was wearing his usual shabby tweed trousers, highly polished but down-at-heel brogues, frayed shirt, MCC tie, shiny navy-blue blazer and his ever-present gnarled stick was clutched in his equally gnarled right hand.
‘Welcome, Colonel,’ called Simon as the old boy came forward to shake his hand. ‘Glad you could come.’
The Colonel stood up as straight as he was able and saluted. ‘I’ve never missed a show in my life and I’m not about to start now.’ His voice was plummy and surprisingly strong. Simon supposed it must be the result of many years barking orders on the parade ground.
‘Come and sit next to me, Colonel.’ Queenie patted the chair next to her. ‘I’ve got some aniseed twists to keep us going.’
‘Thank you, madam. How very generous,’ beamed the Colonel.
Simon returned to the front of the hall and started proceedings: ‘Welcome, everyone, and thank you for sparing the time to come and help with this most important and urgent issue. I am grateful to Audrey Tipton for agreeing to take the minutes, and—’
Audrey stood up and immediately took charge. ‘I need a roll call of all attendees. Please state your name and occupation when I point at you.’
Simon sighed and sat down. He was the first to be pointed at. Wearily he said, ‘Simon Canter. Vicar of Pendruggan.’
Scribble, point.
‘Queenie Quintrel. Postmistress, Pendruggan.’
Scribble, point.
‘Colonel Irvine. British Army. Trevay.’
Scribble, point.
The scout master and his wife, the leader of the amateur dramatics society, four members of the chamber of commerce and three local residents.
When the scribbling and pointing was finally done, Simon once again got to his feet and stated the case for action.
By the end of the sixty-minute meeting they had all agreed to post fliers in every window and write letters to the council and their local MP. Mrs Audrey Tipton volunteered to draft those letters, assuming, possibly rightly, that she and Geoffrey knew better than anyone how to compose an important epistle. They would certainly be awkward customers for the council to deal with. Never in her life had Audrey been content to take ‘no’ for an answer, and her husband could vouch for that – out of her hearing, obviously.
*
Piran was hunched over his laptop at Helen’s kitchen table, an enormous pile of ancient copies of the Trevay Times stacked at his elbow.
He’d been sitting like this, growling and grumbling, for a couple of hours. ‘Bloody wild-goose chase. The Pavilions ain’t old enough to have any history.’
Having left Penny to make her entreaties to her famous friends, Helen had come home and made a coffee for Piran before abandoning him to his growling and whingeing. She was now ensconced in her cosy sitting room with Jack, Piran’s devoted Jack Russell. The pair of them were snuggled on the sofa, absorbed in an old black-and-white film on the television. It was just getting to the bit where Bette Davis’s character would utter the famous line ‘fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night’ when there came a shout from the kitchen:
‘Helen – come ’ere.’
‘Just a minute.’
‘Come ’ere now!’
‘What’s the magic word?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ His chair scraped on the floor and he marched in with a yellowing newspaper in his hand.
She paused the film. ‘What?’
‘Look ’ere. It’s a review for the opening night of the Pavilions back in 1954.’
She read silently for a moment or two then looked at him. ‘And …?’
‘Look at the photo.’
She looked. It was a picture of two men on stage. One wearing a loud checked suit and a trilby jammed on his head, the other with a monocle and a swagger stick under his arm. The caption read:
Marvellous Max Miller and Pavilion theatre manager Walter Irvine delight audiences at the opening night of Trevay’s latest attraction.
She looked up at him, wrinkling her brow. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Look carefully at the man with the stick under his arm. Does he seem familiar?’
She peered closer. ‘Erm … no …’
‘Walter Irvine?’
She shook her head.
‘Better known as Colonel Stick?’
She gasped and looked again. ‘Really?’
‘I’d bet Jack’s life on it.’
Hearing his name, the terrier lifted his head from his paws and wagged his tail.
*
Simon parked his old Volvo outside the vicarage. The large bag of fish and chips on the seat next to him smelled enticingly of warm paper, hot grease and vinegar. He tucked the package under his arm and got out of the car. Immediately the front door opened and Penny flew out, wrapped in a huge beige cashmere poncho and carrying a fat plastic documents folder. She locked the door and kissed her husband.
Simon never failed to be blown away by the fact that this glamorous, exacting, talented, lovely woman was his. He returned her kiss and, blinking soulful chocolate-coloured eyes through his spectacles, he held out his free arm for her to take. ‘Evening, Mrs Canter. Good day?’
She arranged her chic sunglasses on the top of her head and beamed up at him. ‘Great! You? How did the meeting go? Audrey unbearable?’
‘Not bad. Meeting pretty good. Audrey rather helpful.’
‘Excellent.’ The two set off down the vicarage path to walk the short distance across the green to Gull’s Cry. ‘Thanks for getting the chish and fips. Helen wouldn’t tell me what’s going on, but she sounded so excited I reckon Piran must have found something.’
*
‘Pass the ketchup would you, Pen? Thanks.’ Piran squirted a large pool of sauce on the open packet of chips. They hadn’t bothered getting plates out, preferring to eat them straight from the paper wrapping.
For a while the only sound was satisfied munching as everyone tucked in. Then Helen wiped her fingers on a piece of kitchen towel and kicked off the conversation.
‘Simon, you start – how did the meeting go?’
He told them about the plans for fliers in windows, leaflets through letterboxes and letters to the council.
‘Good for Audrey and Geoff. That’ll keep them busy. Who else was there?’
Simon duly listed the attendees, finishing: ‘… and Queenie, of course. She took Colonel Stick under her wing – kept him quiet with aniseed twists.’
Helen paused with a chunk of cod halfway between her plate and her lips. She darted a look at Piran, who shook his head as a warning for her not to say anything just yet.
‘What?’ said Penny, immediately spotting what had passed.
‘All in good time,’ Piran answered infuriatingly. ‘Penny, your turn – any of those actor types in your address book come good?’
Penny clapped her hands together, thrilled with what she had to tell. She moved her fish-and-chip paper to one side and opened the document wallet that had been sitting underneath.
‘I