“And the broth — what the devil is that?”
“Kiddly Broth, my dear child,” returned Neville, assuming the air of a pompous lecturer, “is a broth made from bread, marigold heads and scifers — the local herb something like a small shallot but more grassy looking. You boil it all with butter, pepper and salt.”
“How do you know all about Cornish cooking?” demanded Claire in surprise.
“I have a great fondness for food, surpassed only by my fondness for wines.”
“Which reminds me, cauliflower wine, did you say?”
“Ignorant child!” frowned Neville. “Gilliflower wine — gilliflowers smell like cloves.”
The first dish was brought and Claire had to admit that it tasted better than it sounded.
“Traditional cooking at its best,” observed Neville, smacking his lips appreciatively.
“You’re a strange man,” reflected Claire.
“Most writers are, otherwise they would lead normal lives and not have this appalling urge to flatter their egos.”
“How do you know so much about Cornwall?”
“I like absorbing local knowledge wherever I go. For example, did you know that there is no such town or village as Tintagel?”
Claire grinned.
“So where are we now?”
“We are in the village of Trevena. Generations of visitors have mistakenly called the village by the name of the local castle. Now Trevena is seldom used as the place-name. Thus the mistakes of the ignorant of yesterday become the facts of today.”
“Well,” said Claire spiritedly, “I know that King Arthur came from Tintagel.”
Neville shook his head sadly.
“Wrong, my child. That was a tale invented by the dreadful Geoffrey of Monmouth writing in the twelfth century some six hundred years after a Celtic chieftain of that name began to make a name for himself fighting the English invaders of his country.”
“You mean King Arthur was not an Englishman?” Neville held up his hands in mock horror.
“My dear girl, and you say that Cornish blood runs in your veins! No, in spite of the fact that we English have very happily accepted Arthur into English mythology, he was a Celt, evidence pointing to the fact that he was a Cornish chieftain, and he did happen to be an arch enemy to the English.”
“But I thought Arthur built Tintagel Castle. I’ve always associated Merlin with Tintagel, too. I used to think it was such a romantic place.”
“Reginald, Earl of Cornwall, built the castle about the middle of the twelfth century and old Merlin is simply a legend without any historical foundation. And as for Tintagel being romantic…it is a grey, hoary, breezy place and not at all beautiful.”
They fell silent as they tackled the main course.
“How’s the maggot pie?” grinned Neville.
“Muggerty Pie,” smiled Claire. “Really lovely. I’m glad you made me come.”
“So am I,” returned Neville fervently. Then: “We’ll finish with Squab Pie — a sort of apple pie to the uninitiated — and Cornish cream and coffee.”
Andy Shaw reached out for the bedside table and fumbled about for his packet of cigarettes. He found them, lit one and inhaled the smoke deeply.
“That’s a disgusting habit, Andy,” yawned Linda Truran, turning on her side towards him.
Andy grinned back at her.
“So is drinking, they tell me, but I’m not going to give that up either.”
He reached out an arm and she moved forward to nestle against the crook of his shoulder. He smiled contentedly. It had taken him a good meal, two bottles of wine and a lot of silly protestations to get the girl to come up to his room. Once there the old Andy Shaw charm had worked like magic. He had been right. Linda Truran was very bedworthy. It was pleasing to his ego to fulfil an ambition which had been annoying him for a whole year.
“Andy?”
“Mmm?”
“You will put in a good word for me with your news editor?”
“He’s not your type, darling.”
Linda leaned forward and bit him hard on the shoulder.
“Ouch!” he protested.
“Don’t be silly, Andy. You know what I mean…I don’t want to stick around the Cornish Times forever. If you tell your editor about the spadework that I’ve done on this story…”
“You’ve been a great help, Linda,” Andy returned in a rather patronising tone.
She felt annoyed.
“Help? If there was any justice I ought to get a by-line on the story.”
“But there isn’t any justice in the wicked world of journalism, you know that. It’s dog eat dog. Anyway, I’m thankful to you for the tip. It’s going to be a great story.”
A cold feeling seized the girl.
Was he going back on his promise?
She sat up, oblivious of her nakedness, although less than an hour ago she had been shy and coy before him. Her eyes blazed with a dangerous light.
“What do you mean?”
“Look, love,” said Andy, stubbing out his cigarette, “for some reason best known to yourself, you rang me up and gave me a lead on what should turn out to be a good story. It won’t win the Pulitzer Prize but it is a good story none the less. But your tip doesn’t give you exclusive rights on it.”
“But you agreed, we agreed before you came down. I would help you write the story if you helped me get a job on the Independent.”
“I am a mere reporter on the Independent. It’s not up to me, love. Anyway, you have to serve your indentures with the Times. It’s unethical to break your contract.”
“But you were going to explain things to your news editor.”
“I know what he’ll say. A girl who would sell out her own newspaper is not to be trusted. It’s called loyalty.”
Linda Truran was furious, perhaps more furious because Andy Shaw had hit upon her guilty conscience. She knew she had behaved wrongly. A journalist’s first loyalty was to the newspaper which employed him or her and she, because of a fit of pique with her editor, had tipped off a rival newspaper. Her career in journalism would be over before it begun if her editor found out. All the same, she had trusted Andy Shaw. The smooth talking…!
“Was getting me into bed, seducing me, part of your journalistic technique?” she demanded bitterly.
He chuckled.
“No. I would have come down here for that even if there hadn’t been a story to go with it.”
He managed to catch her wrist just before her open hand made contact with his cheek.
“Grow up, love,” he said, still grinning. “You wanted to do it just as much as I did.”
She felt a twinge as he hit another weak spot. He was right. She had sexually fancied Andy Shaw and had allowed him to act out his rather laboured and cliché ridden seduction technique without too many protests. The truth made her even more angry and she struggled helplessly in his grasp.
“You bastard!” she hissed.
The cold soft flesh of the naked girl struggling against him in the bed aroused Andy Shaw. Grasping the girl’s arms by the wrists he twisted her over on her back, pinioning her arms by her head. He paused, astride her threshing body, to regain his breath. As he brought his face down to hers he gave a grin of triumph. Oh yes, there was hate in her eyes, but it was a hatred mingled with desire. After a few moments, she stopped struggling and met him with a passion that was equal to his own.
Driving back with Bill Neville, Claire felt a curious mixture of well-being and anxiety. She was happy in Bill’s company but, nevertheless, she was still anxious about Uncle Henry. She sat back in her seat watching the white beams of the
car’s headlamps pick out the dark shadows of the tree-lined roadway. To the left, now and again, came glimpses of the low dark expanse of sea with the moon now and then picking out a flicker of white as foam lipped long, low rollers came crashing shorewards. Neville reduced speed and dropped to a lower gear as he came to a twist in the roadway which would then begin to c
limb in a curve and meander its way towards the coast road which ran along the high cliffs towards Bosbradoe.
“It’s been a nice evening, Bill. Thank you,” Claire suddenly said. It had been the first time she had spoken since they left Tintagel.
“I enjoyed myself, too, Claire,” Neville replied.
“I’m glad you persuaded me to…”
She paused, frowning.
“Do you see a fire, Bill?”
Neville glanced curiously towards her.
“Fire?”
“Just on the right of the road, on the hill.”
Neville could see nothing in the darkness of the night.
“Wait until we turn the next bend,” Claire advised. “Now…yes, see it? A sort of bonfire.”
Neville slowed the car.
“That’s odd,” he muttered.
“Odd?”
“It’s as if someone has lit a bonfire in the middle of Men-Du.”
Claire stared. She had not realised that they were this close to Bosbradoe. Men-Du, the Black Stones, were a small circle of standing stones on a hill not far from the village. Men-Du was classed as a megalithic monument — a rough circle of several up-standing stones averaging about seven feet in height. Some of them had fallen and a few had been carted away by intrepid builders over the ages. Claire had only seen them once and had been invoked with a strange feeling of the mystery of the past, for the circle had been erected and used by the ancient Celts in ceremonial and religious functions. The locals in Bosbradoe had their own legend. Centuries ago, in the days when the Phoenicians were said to have traded with Cornwall, some pagan Africans came ashore and started to perform a dance to their heathen deity. Round in a circle they danced invoking their god until St Piran, the patron saint of Cornwall, angered at their blasphemies arrived and turned them into pillars of dark granite stone — hence the name of Men-Du, the Black Stones. It was a nice legend but not one to take a deal of notice about.
Neville stopped the car and was looking up the hill in the direction of the sound of the crackle and roar of the flames.
He started to climb out.
“Where are you going?” asked Claire in alarm.
“It’s alright,” returned Neville. “I’m just a country boy at heart. I want to check that the fire is under control and not likely to endanger the surrounding woods. You’d be surprised how much damage is done by tourists lighting fires and going away, leaving them smouldering. The fire starts up and — hey presto! — acres of woodland and grazing land are destroyed.”
Claire could understand his attitude.
“Alright, Bill. I’ll come with you.”
He took a torch from the glove compartment of his car and she followed him to a wooden stile where a dark signpost jabbed towards the hill with the legend “Ancient Monument — Men-Du” on it.
“Mind yourself getting over the stile, Claire.”
Neville climbed over first and turned to help her across. She reached forward and placed her hands on his shoulders and leapt down. They stood for a moment face to face, close together. It seemed natural that he should continue to hold her, his hands gently against her back. She made no protest as he brought his lips to touch hers, softly, warmly.
A cackle of laughter made them spring apart.
“Who’s there?” demanded Neville, swinging his torch along the pathway before him.
A figure flitted between the stones at the top of the hill.
Neville began to walk towards them.
“Be careful, Bill!” cried Claire.
“It’s alright. I think I know who it is.”
She followed him up the well-trodden pathway to the black silhouettes of the ancient monument.
In the centre of the stone circle a bonfire was burning fiercely.
Neville and Claire halted before it and stood peering round.
“Who’s there?” he demanded again.
A low chuckle answered him.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Claire Penvose. I knew you would come.”
The voice was almost falsetto.
“Come out, Mother Polruan,” answered Neville, annoyance in his voice. “We have no time for play-acting.”
From behind the red-gold flame of the bonfire, the bent figure of Mother Polruan stepped forward and stood looking at them, the light from the fire making her eyes seem like dancing hot coals. She ignored Neville.
“I have been waiting for you, Claire Penvose,” she said again.
Neville felt Claire shudder and reached out an arm to encircle her shoulders.
“Come now, what the devil are you playing at, Mrs Polruan?” he said. “We saw the fire and stopped to see whether it was out of control. Have you been lighting fires up here? You should know better. This is an ancient monument.”
“Ancient? Yes. But no monument. This is a special place. A place where those who have the knowledge may communicate, may make supplication.”
“The old lady’s round the twist,” whispered Neville.
Mother Polruan laughed her high pitched cackle.
“Listen carefully to me, Claire Penvose. What I have to say, I say to you. Twice I have warned you to leave Bosbradoe. Twice you have ignored my warnings. Now for the third and last time — go! Go quickly. Death approaches this place. It is in the chart of the heavens. Death approaches — death for many. Man sows the wind and reaps the whirlwind. What man creates destroys him. Go!”
Claire bit her lip.
“I do not understand you, Mrs Polruan,” she said.
“Your uncle is dead.”
Claire caught her breath.
“How do you know that?” Neville’s voice was harsh.
“I know. It is written.”
“Please,” Claire’s voice was a cry of desperation. “Please, why don’t you say what you mean? Why do you talk in riddles?”
“There is no riddle to death, child. There is nothing in Bosbradoe for you but death and misery. Leave Bosbradoe to mourn and lament for the thing that is coming.”
“What thing that is coming?” sneered Neville.
“That which the ancients warned us of — Kemereugh wythy y te an Morgow.”
“I insist you tell me how you know my uncle is dead,” Claire’s voice was a sob.
The old woman took no notice but raised her hands palm outwards towards the night sky.
“Kyneugh war an re a vew!”
Her voice was sharp with an hysterical edge to it.
“Gwreugh drem waren re nag us genys!”
“Enough of this nonsense, you old harridan!” snarled Neville, seeing how upset Claire was. “How dare you scare Miss Penvose with this rubbish?”
He advanced a step.
“If you have some information about her uncle, come out with it now or come and see Constable Roscarrock!”
He made to grasp the woman by the arm but just then a sharp wind blew across the hill and a shower of sparks dislodged themselves from the fire and scattered over Neville’s coat. With an exclamation he stepped backwards and started to pat frantically at them. Claire made an effort to pull herself together and hurried forward to help him.
The old woman disappeared into the darkness. They could hear her voice echoing back.
“Puptra a dheweth…puptra a dheweth…all things end!”
CHAPTER XII
Linda Truran came down to the bar-room of The Morvren Arms, which also served as the dining-room for those guests which the inn catered for, and slumped into a chair. In season the inn catered for a dozen guests, usually the overspill from the local fifty-bedroom hotel which closed from mid-September to mid-April. Linda had received a begrudging permission from her editor to stay in Bosbradoe for a day or so to see if there were any newsworthy developments. The Morvren Arms offered simple fare but well presented.
“Morning, miss,” Noall, the landlord, greeted her with a plate of bacon and eggs.
“Is Mr Shaw about?” she asked, sipping at the orange juice already placed on the table
.
“He was up early, miss. I think he has gone out.”
Linda gave a bitter smile.
“Has he now?”
She was determined to cut Mr-Male-Chauvinist-Shaw down to size. She ate her solitary breakfast deep in thought. Over coffee she took her address book out of her purse and flicked through its pages until she found a telephone number. She drew back her lips in a hard grin.
“That’s it!” she exclaimed softly. “This is where Mr Andy Shaw gets his come-uppance!”
“What did you say, miss?”
Noall was gazing at her in surprise.
She shook her head and went to the telephone.
It was not that she regretted her sexual adventures of the previous night. It had been enjoyable. She started to smile at the memory but then wiped the expression from her face with a frown. No, it was the double game that Andy Shaw thought he could play with her. She had given him a damned good story on the understanding that she work with him on it and that he would use his influence to get her a job with the Independent. But Andy Shaw thought he was the big man — the great reporter. Very well! He would be made to realise that he was just one of a crowd. She dialled a number.
“Hello? BBC? Put me through to extension One-Seven-Seven. Yes, I want to speak to Adam Taylor of the State and People programme.”
Claire was just finishing her first cup of coffee when Bill Neville knocked on the kitchen door.
“It’s a fine morning,” he said breezily as he entered. “My, that’s real coffee! It smells good.”
Claire took out another cup and poured.
“Black or white?”
“Black, no sugar,” replied Neville. Then: “Have you recovered from Mother Polruan’s pantomime last night?”
Claire grimaced.
“She’s a strange woman. She frightens me. How does she know things like…well, you know.”
“Don’t let her fool you, Claire,” replied Neville, sipping his coffee appreciatively. “The old lady is a charlatan. A bit of psychology, a bit of audacity, and she can make you believe that she knows everything about anything. It’s just a lot of mumbo-jumbo. Take my word for it.”
He glanced at his watch.
“It’s about time we met Roscarrock and Pool for our second foray down Wheal Tom. Are you sure you want to come along?”
The Morgow Rises! Page 8
