‘Come off it. I strained my wrist. It’s as simple as that.’
‘And he’s having gloomy thoughts,’ Blake pointed out.
‘Who doesn’t, from time to time?’
Maris smiled at Don sympathetically. ‘So, what were these gloomy thoughts about?’
He sighed. ‘My father … and how he died.’
‘Not well, I assume.’
‘Alcoholic poisoning, if you really want to know. He wasn’t found … for several days.’
‘And when he was found, it was by you?’
‘Yeah.’ Don grimaced. ‘I’ve never felt the same about blue-bottles since.’
‘Christ,’ said Blake softly. ‘Sorry, Don.’
‘Do you often think about how you found him?’
‘Hardly ever.’
‘Till now.’
‘Wynsum Fry’s doing, you’re going to say?’
Maris nodded solemnly. ‘I am.’
‘I’m not swallowing that,’ Don protested. ‘She has no power over me. Bloody hell, I could catch a train back to London any time I like, couldn’t I? Then I wouldn’t be where you think she wants me.’
‘No. You wouldn’t. And your wrist would probably feel better. That’s certainly what happened to me whenever I went back to Exeter after a tussle with her grandmother. No accidents. No fear. No anxiety. My susceptibility felt stupid when I was a hundred miles away. But as soon as I returned …’
‘It all came on again?’
‘It did. To the rational mind – and I do have a rational mind – it seemed absurd. But there’s no gainsaying what we experience. When I confessed to Calensa Fry that I’d tried to deceive her, I was suddenly no longer accident-prone. I don’t believe that was a coincidence. Wynsum has come to resemble her grandmother more and more. Calensa was in her sixties when I first met her and she lived well into her nineties. She never lost her ability to intimidate me. It offended me, how easily she could do it.’
‘Did you take her up on the offer of help with your research?’
‘Rather against my better judgement, I did. I soon came to regret it. Not because I had any more bad experiences. Quite the reverse. Calensa claimed at first that she had no supernatural powers and merely practised a little psychological manipulation in order to sustain her reputation and hence her business. She said anything that happened to people was actually self-induced – nothing to do with her at all. I suppose she was double-bluffing me, daring me to write it all off as nonsense while I had good cause to know it wasn’t. And then, after several fruitless meetings, she gave me to understand there were some juicy trade secrets she could reveal if she chose to but there was something I’d have to do for her in return.’
‘What?’
‘She wanted me to accuse Jack Harkness – in print – of responsibility for her grandson’s death. I couldn’t have done that even if I’d wanted to, of course. There was no way I could shoe-horn a wild theory about Jory Fry’s drowning into an academic study of witchcraft. But Calensa Fry was unworldly in that sense. She thought I was a writer and she wanted her conviction that Harkness had murdered Jory written about.’ Maris shook her head as the memories stirred within her. ‘There was some kind of feud between the Harknesses and the Frys going back generations. Calensa told me they were on different sides in the Cornish rising of 1648.’
‘1648!’ spluttered Don.
‘Yes, I know. But the Frys don’t count time the way you and I do. For them, it doesn’t so much heal as congeal. They were tenants of Tredarvas Farm. It’s a ruin now. I went there whenever I met Calensa. She never came to me. We sat in the kitchen. Always the kitchen. I never saw further into the house. Calensa had married a cousin – another Fry – but he was dead by then. They’d abandoned the land, but stayed on in the house for a while. It was there Calensa declared her certainty to me that Jack Harkness had murdered Jory. Held him face down in the rock pool where he was found till he’d drowned. That’s what she claimed. On Saturday the first of August, 1970. It’s not hard for me to remember the date. She mentioned it often enough. Jory Fry drowned early that morning, the first of August. Lammas, which apparently was significant, though I never understood why.’
‘Did she have any evidence to implicate Harkness?’
‘None. Except that Wynsum, who was sent to look for Jory when he didn’t show up for breakfast, saw Harkness cycling away up the hill towards Mullion as she approached the cove. Which was enough for both of them.’
‘Where did the Harknesses live?’
‘A cottage down at Mullion Cove. That’s where Jack’s father kept his crabber.’
‘And Jack was how old at the time?’
‘Fourteen,’ said Blake quietly.
‘So he could just have been out for a bike ride like any other fourteen-year-old boy.’
Maris nodded. ‘Quite.’
‘This is all bullshit then. And absolutely bloody nothing to do with me.’
‘Ah, but I’m afraid it is.’ Maris looked genuinely regretful. ‘I imagine Wynsum sees you as someone with access to Harkness. And therefore as someone she can use to punish him for what she believes he did.’
Don groaned. ‘Has she ever said why Harkness might have wanted to do such a thing?’
‘To kill off the male line of the Frys.’ Maris shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s preposterous. But she’s convinced. Like her grandmother before her. And she doesn’t think Harkness’s sins ended with murdering her brother.’
‘No? What other—’ Don’s phone began to ring. ‘’Scuse me a second.’ He fished it out of his pocket. It was Robin Pawley. Don wondered at once if he had news of the Wortalleth West planning application. ‘Sorry. I’d better take this.’ He scrambled up. ‘It won’t take long.’
Don headed to the front door, which stood open to a cooling breeze.
‘I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon, Robin.’
‘Don’t suppose you did. But I happened to bump into John Troke on my way to work this morning. The very man in the Planning Department I was intending to contact on Monday. He gave me some rather interesting information I thought I should share with you.’
‘Right.’
‘Well, the whole thing’s a little … delicate, actually. It’d be better if we could discuss it face to face.’
‘OK. But—’
‘I’m stuck in the office until lunchtime, but maybe I could drive down to Wortalleth West afterwards. I’d like to have a look at the place anyway, considering we’re likely to be taking it on.’
Don had been careful to make no promises and strongly suspected Fran would veto Pawley’s involvement anyway. He also suspected the supposed delicacy of the situation was just a pretext for nosing around the house. But he could hardly point any of this out. ‘All right. If you’re happy to come down.’
‘No problem. I should be with you by two o’clock.’
‘OK.’
‘One thing, though. Have you run into a chap called Mike Coleman?’
‘Who?’
‘That sounds like a no.’
‘It is. Who is he?’
‘I’ll explain when we meet. What John Troke told me was, er … puzzling, shall we say?’
‘D’you want to explain what you mean by that?’
Pawley paused lengthily for thought, then said, ‘No. It’ll have to wait. I’ll see you at two.’ And then he was gone.
Don had missed a call from Fran earlier, while he was in the Wortalleth West dead zone. Deciding to let her stew a while longer, he turned and headed back into the cottage.
Maris looks at me sharply as Don hurries from the room. She’s got a good heart, but her brain’s so keen she can sometimes be just too perceptive. I don’t like feeling people can see inside my head. But with Maris I have to put up with it. It’s in her nature.
‘So, Blake,’ she says, pitching her voice low, ‘Harkness wants to sell Wortalleth West.’
‘His wife wants to. Technically, she owns it, according to Don.
’
‘It’s unsettling for you, of course. But you could see the sale as a chance to untangle yourself from Harkness and the Frys.’
‘Not to mention the Glassons, right?’
‘If you prefer, I won’t tell Don what I was about to.’
‘No. You should finish now you’ve started.’
‘You’ve only known him a couple of days, Blake.’
‘It feels longer.’
‘Something’s going on, isn’t it? Something beyond Wynsum Fry and all this ancient history.’
‘Things have turned kind of weird.’
‘Just weird? Or dangerous?’
There she goes again. There’s no fooling her. There never has been. ‘Here’s Don,’ I murmur.
He shambles back in. ‘Sorry,’ he says with a shamefaced smile. He sits down. ‘Where were we?’
I decide to take the lead, to show Maris I really don’t want her to hold back. ‘Maris was just going to tell you Calensa and Wynsum Fry also believe Harkness had a hand in Jane Glasson’s disappearance.’
‘What?’
‘It’s true,’ says Maris. And then she describes an encounter with Calensa Fry six months after Jane Glasson vanished in June 1996. Calensa and Wynsum had left Tredarvas by then and were living in a bungalow near Helston football ground.
‘I’d come down for Christmas and I stopped at Sainsbury’s to stock up with food. Calensa was the last person I expected to meet there. She didn’t seem in the least surprised when we almost literally bumped into each other. It would be easy to believe she’d planned it. Ninety or not, she was still as spry as ever. And as sharp-witted. She asked if I’d bought the West Briton. Said there was a letter in it from Andrew Glasson – “that Glasson party” as she called him – appealing for information about his daughter. Not the first such letter, she said. “Shall us tell ’im or will you?” she asked. I told her I didn’t know what she meant. So she leant close to me and said, “’Arkness took ’er. You knows that, don’t ’ee?” I assured her I didn’t. Wynsum hove into view at that point, pushing a trolley. Calensa told her I didn’t believe her and Wynsum said, “People never believe truth till they’m forced to.” Then they beetled off together.’
‘This was just another fantasy of the Frys’, right?’ says Don.
‘I assumed so. I still do. After all, Harkness had only the most tenuous connection with the Glassons.’
‘How tenuous?’
‘Well, there was a café in Mullion called Sea Breeze. It closed about five years ago. I saw Harkness there quite a few times back in the nineties. He was always very distinctive, in his linen suits, reading the Financial Times. As it happens, Jane Glasson worked there as a waitress during school holidays before she went to Cambridge. I recognized her when her photograph was in the West Briton at the time of her disappearance. I remember being served by her. She was friendly with the customers. Charming, in fact. So, I suppose it stands to reason she must have spoken to Harkness.’
‘Along with scores of other people stopping by for coffee.’
‘Quite true. It’s hardly significant in and of itself.’ No. But it’s haunted me ever since Maris first mentioned it: the idea of a connection between Jane and Harkness, the vanished girl and the man of mystery.
‘It’s kind of you to have told me all this, Maris,’ says Don, though he doesn’t look specially grateful. ‘I’m not sure there’s anything I can do about the Frys, though, or their crazy theories. I don’t believe Wynsum Fry’s cast some kind of spell on me. I don’t believe in spells. It’s as simple as that.’
Don stands up. Looks like he’s planning to leave. Looks like he’s settled on leaving, in fact, as his best defence against having to accept Wynsum Fry might actually be a witch. Then he grimaces. Something’s wrong. He draws a deep breath. He’s definitely gone pale. ‘Excuse me,’ he says and hurries out, heading for the front garden.
Maris looks meaningfully at me. ‘I’m afraid poor Don’s in denial, Blake,’ she says, with a sorrowful shake of the head.
‘Shouldn’t think he’s ever experienced anything like this before.’
‘I know the feeling. I remember it well.’
‘What should I try and persuade him to do?’
‘Leave. Or give Wynsum some evidence to use against Harkness. Those are the only choices before him. Unless …’
‘Yeah?’
‘He follows the advice I was given.’
I look hard at her. When she first told me what the advice was, I thought it sounded like a step through a doorway better left closed. And apparently she’d thought the same. ‘You didn’t follow it, Maris.’
‘I made my peace with Calensa, after a fashion. So, I didn’t have to consider … extreme measures. I hope Don doesn’t have to either.’
‘Yeah.’ I look her in the eye. ‘So do I.’
I catch up with Don out front. He’s looking less pale. Dandy’s followed me out and is gazing curiously at him. I don’t ask if he had to leave the house because he felt sick. It’s pretty obvious. He looks angry and ashamed all at the same time.
‘I don’t need all this,’ he complains. ‘I’m just an estate agent, for God’s sake.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. There doesn’t seem to be anything else I can say.
‘Witchcraft doesn’t exist. Not in England in the twenty-first century. And even if it does …’
‘You’re not susceptible to it, right?’
He nods glumly, totally unconvinced by his own argument. ‘Right.’
‘OK. What now, then?’
‘What now’ turns out to be a drink, which Don reckons he badly needs. He makes it into Mullion and we go to the Old Inn, near the church. We sit outside, me with a half of fizzy cider, him with a pint, which he gets down pretty much before he sits down, then goes for a refill, muttering that he obviously doesn’t have to worry about drinking and driving now.
When he comes back, I ask if he’s decided to stay for another night at least. He says he hasn’t decided anything. Then he tells me what the phone call at Maris’s was about.
‘When I‘ve heard what Pawley’s got to say, I might be able to fathom out what to do.’
‘How’s the wrist now?’
‘Great. So long as I don’t try to use it.’
I think about admitting I could drive the MG for him. And I think about sharing with him the dewitcher’s advice to Maris. But I don’t do either. Maybe Pawley’s got the answer to the panic-room mystery. Then again, maybe not. Until we know, nothing’s clear. It probably won’t be even when we do.
Don’s phone rings. He looks at it, but he doesn’t take the call. He lets it go to voicemail.
‘Who was that?’ I ask.
He sighs. ‘Fran.’
‘Keeping her in the dark?’
‘It’s only what she did to me. I’ll speak to her when I’m good and ready.’
‘What you said to Maris about catching the train back to London. You could do that, y’know. Any time you like.’
‘Would you come with me if I did?’
I wait a beat before I answer. ‘No.’
He puffs out his cheeks and looks despairingly at me. ‘Leaving is the smartest move, Blake.’
‘I’ve never been smart.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘All right. Here’s me trying to be smart. You can’t prove or disprove Harkness murdered Jory Fry. Not after nearly fifty years. Agreed?’
He frowns, wondering where I’m going with this. ‘Agreed.’
‘But if you could prove Jane Glasson was alive and well and Harkness had nothing to do with her disappearance, that’d mean the Frys were wrong about something, wouldn’t it?’
‘I … suppose so.’
‘This is what I’m thinking, Don. Follow Maris’s example. Go and see Wynsum Fry. Tell her you’re looking for Jane and that, if you can find her, hey, who knows what she might reveal about Harkness? She should be all for it, shouldn’t she? If Maris’s example is anything t
o go by, your wrist’ll suddenly be OK.’
‘But … I’d have to mean it. I’d have to go ahead and look for Jane.’
‘You could make a start. We could track down Holly Walsh. See what she has to say about her mystery benefactor.’
‘We?’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘I thought you wanted to stay here.’
‘I don’t want to run, Don. This wouldn’t be running. Important difference.’ And it would mean trying to find Jane. Trying to put one family at least back together.
Don flexes his right hand, wincing as he does it. ‘My wrist isn’t going to get better just because I go and grovel to Wynsum Fry.’
‘Sure about that, are you?’ I look him in the eye. ‘There’s one way to prove it, isn’t there?’
Time. I think of it – its untouchability, its elasticity – as Don sits there, reluctantly composing an email to Holly Walsh. The sunlight moves a marbled shadow of Don’s half-empty beer glass across my hand. I’ve seen a photo of the Old Inn, dating from early last century. There are no trees around it. You can see clear beyond it to the masts of the Marconi radio station up on the headland above Poldhu Cove. The pub windows are open. It looks like summer. There’s a bicycle propped against the wall. It’s the same place. But the masts have gone. The trees have grown. The owner of the bicycle is dead. Like we’ll all be. One day.
Don shows me the message. We’re friends of Andrew Glasson. We’re trying to find out what happened to Jane. We think you may be able to help. Can you contact us?
‘Send?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Send.’
Don was preoccupied by the weirdness of Wortalleth West: an emptiness that was somehow solid, a hollowness that was somehow filled. He did not know if Blake imagined how they looked on the camera screens Dale had told her would have been installed in the panic room. He hoped she did not. Because he had. And his skin crawled every time he thought of it.
Blake took herself off to her workshop, saying there were things she needed to catch up on. It seemed more likely to Don she wanted to avoid meeting Robin Pawley, though quite why he could not decide. Maybe she had no wish to advertise their … what was it exactly? Friendship? He had no children and Blake had made it clear her father played no part in her life. It was strange to feel faintly responsible for her, as Don did, despite telling himself he did not need to. Strange – but somehow good.
Panic Room Page 10
