Read A Rather Remarkable Homecoming for Free Online

Carlo business. Of course, it could simply be that he was sheltering his money in Monaco as a tax dodge. Rollo has lived most of his life receiving a monthly “allowance” from his father’s estate, which is tightly controlled by his mum, and she won’t give him a penny more. So, Rollo tends to “supplement” this income with gambling. Sometimes he wins, which is fine. Sometimes he loses, big, and this usually results in a hasty departure in the dead of night from his Monte Carlo hotel.
    “So where are you going this time?” Rollo asked, his mouth full of roast potato.
    “Cornwall,” I said. I paused, since Jeremy and I had sworn confidentiality about any further information on this case.
    “Really?” Rollo said with interest, taking a healthy slug of his wine. “Been a long time since I’ve gone to Port St. Francis. Nice house Beryl had. Can’t imagine what a place with that view would go for now. Loved it when I was a little kid. Didn’t see much of it once I grew up. Must have changed a lot.”
    Something in his face indicated to me that Rollo was perfectly aware that the family elders considered him persona non grata . Well, it’s hard to remain a welcomed guest when you constantly harass your old aunties for money. Poor Grandmother Beryl and Great-Aunt Penelope used to dread Rollo’s arrival, then breathe a sigh of relief when he disappeared. But until now, I hadn’t realized that Rollo actually knew how his aunts felt about him, and why they had stopped inviting him to visit.
    “Frightful long drive, Cornwall is. That’s why I didn’t pop over to Beryl’s house more often,” he said lightly now, as if it had been his choice to stop summering there. “Got friends there now, do you?”
    “Right,” Jeremy said noncommittally.
    “Which route will you take?” Rollo asked, and they launched into a spirited guy-discussion about which highway is best for driving out to “the West Country” for the weekend: Take the busy M5 . . . or take the A303 to the M3? I have seen people come to near fisticuffs at dinner parties over this debate.
    Allow me to weigh in here. I say, a road is a road is a road. And a highway is a highway is a highway. So no matter what route you pick, the final result after hours of driving is the same: a physically challenging, slightly nerve-wracking haul, which in traffic jams can become the true test of a marriage. But I was still keen to go.
    Finally, when Jeremy had yawned enough times, Rollo took the hint and rose to go home. As I walked him to the front door, he whispered conspiratorially to me, “Off on another case already, aren’t you?”
    There was no point in denying it, so I just smiled mysteriously.
    “Remember, I am on e-mail if you should require my services,” Rollo advised in a low voice so Jeremy wouldn’t hear. The truth is, Rollo has actually been extremely helpful to us on previous cases . . . in those dicey moments when you need a thief to catch a thief.
    “Simply say the word, my dear girl, and I’m ‘in’,” Rollo whispered with a grin. “After all, life in London has been so very dull without you.”

Part Two

Chapter Four
    C ornwall once belonged to the Celts, who arrived from Europe in the Iron Age with their mysterious culture of Druid high priests and their strange rock formations like Stonehenge. Some folks say that the map of Cornwall resembles an inverted map of England: that is, if you could take the western tip at Land’s End, pick it up and plunk it north where Scotland is, then Cornwall itself is practically the same shape as England.
    The Romans, however, thought Cornwall was shaped like a horn of plenty, which may account for why they called it “Cornovii” from the same root for “cornucopia” or the horn of plenty. And the Romans certainly got “plenty” of tribute from the Celts, but somehow they all managed to do business together for awhile—until the brutal invasion of the Angles and the Saxons, who contributed the