The Morgow Rises!

by Peter Tremayne

  This would teach Andy Shaw, she thought bitterly. He could have had an exclusive story had he treated her right. Well, hard luck! He could go and whistle for the exclusive story now.

  Bill Neville waited until Claire had moved to the far side of the cavern to examine it before drawing Constable Roscarrock’s attention to the splatterings of blood. Roscarrock’s lugubrious face became etched with worry.

  “I suggest you wait here with Miss Penvose, Mr Neville,” he whispered. “Mr Pool and I will go up this gallery and see what we can find.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Neville. He moved off to distract Claire’s attention as Roscarrock signalled the little mining surveyor to accompany him down the tunnel.

  “God! The air is really fetid down here,” observed the policeman as they moved into the stygian gloom.

  “This gallery should have been completely blocked off after the survey,” Pool said, frowning as he swung his torch to and fro. “That’s odd!” He halted abruptly causing Roscarrock to bump into him.

  “What is it, Mr Pool?” the policeman asked anxiously.

  “It’s a new tunnel.”

  The beam from his torch revealed a round, smoothly bored tunnel nearly ten feet in diameter which ran off at right angles to the tunnel they were traversing.

  “It’s very odd,” repeated Pool. “Can’t think what sort of precision tool was used to bore this.”

  “What do you mean, Mr Pool?” queried Roscarrock.

  “It’s just that this tunnel shouldn’t be here. One thing is for certain — it was made recently. Do you know if Mr Penvose has actually been working down here with heavy machinery?”

  Roscarrock looked bewildered.

  “So far as we knew, the old man was just exploring the place. There’s been no sign of any equipment coming into Wheal Tom.”

  “Well, it’s odd. Very odd.”

  “Come on, we’d better move up a little further.”

  After a few yards they found that the tunnel broadened and opened out into an area which must have been a rest area for the mine workers. The tunnel here was blocked off with boulders and stones. To one side of the cavern was a deep pool of brackish water. The smell was putrid and caused both men to catch their breaths.

  Roscarrock suddenly exclaimed.

  Pool followed the line of his torch beam to the edge of the pool.

  “Oh my God!” cried Pool, raising a trembling hand to cover his mouth. The nausea welled in his throat.

  Laying by the pool on the dirty sand floor of the cavern was a severed hand. It was as if it had been torn off — a piece of mangled, bloody flesh.

  Roscarrock, fighting for control of his senses, stared at the horrifying object.

  As he did so he became aware of the waters in the pool moving, rippling slightly and then — bubbling, like water coming to the boil. Thin evil smelling vapours began to rise from the surface like steam.

  “Let’s get out of this quickly!” whispered the big policeman.

  He turned and hurried towards the tunnel entrance.

  At the entrance he realised that Pool was not following. He turned. The little surveyor was standing gazing at the bubbling waters as if mesmerised.

  “For Christ’s sake, Pool, get moving! Come on, man!”

  Roscarrock’s voice echoed through the cavern.

  Pool did not seem to hear him. He made no movement; his eyes were anchored to the waters.

  Then the waters broke.

  Roscarrock’s eyes bulged with fear.

  A large black shadow shot out of the waters; shot straight for the frozen figure of the little surveyor.

  Pool screamed once and then…then there was nothing.

  Suppressing a cry of terror, Roscarrock turned and ran down the tunnel, ran as he had never done in his life, forgetting his dignity and his fourteen stones of bulk. He ran knocking into the sides of the tunnels, scraping his hands, legs and arms and tearing his clothing. He burst into the larger cavern where he had left Bill Neville and Claire. They wheeled round to gaze in astonishment at the terror on the constable’s face.

  “What’s happened? Where’s Pool?” demanded Neville.

  “We thought we heard a scream,” Claire said.

  Roscarrock gasped for breath.

  “It’s got him!”

  “What has?”

  “Listen!”

  Back along the tunnel they could hear a noise; an ominous threatening sound; a sound like a sucking, squelching, like a plumber using a plunger to unblock a difficult pipe.

  Roscarrock’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “For Christ’s sake — it’s coming! It’s coming! Get moving! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  His fear communicated itself to them for both Claire and Neville turned and followed the flying form of the policeman from the cavern. Running, moving swiftly, fear lent them speed as the hairs on the napes of their necks rose at the conjured image of an awful presence moving swiftly through the long dark tunnels after them…overtaking them.

  Chapter Fourteen “And you are sure that Mister Shaw has not returned?”

  Noall looked at the puzzled face of Linda Truran and shook his head.

  “He hasn’t been back all day, miss.”

  Linda Truran glanced at her wrist watch. It was nearly nine-thirty. Damn the man! She wanted him to come back and see Adam Taylor and his BBC Television crew and realise that Linda Truran wasn’t the sort of person he could play around with. She was going to show him. But where the devil was he?

  “Another drink, Linda?”

  Adam Taylor eased himself on to a stool by her side. He was feeling pleased with himself. He had a nose for stories and, having talked with a few of the locals, he felt that something odd was happening in Bosbradoe. Whirlpools, people disappearing, the young boy claiming to have seen a sea serpent. It could all mesh together into a nice little story.

  “Has the search party come out of the mine yet?” Taylor asked, motioning to Noall to refill the girl’s glass.

  “I’m going to ring the local constable’s cottage in a minute,” replied the girl. “I tried half an hour ago and it was engaged, so they might be back.”

  Constable Roscarrock jumped nervously as the telephone jangled on his desk. He glanced across to where Bill Neville and Claire Penvose sat huddled together their faces drawn into pale masks. Roscarrock reached forward and picked up the receiver.

  “Roscarrock, Bosbradoe police.”

  He listened in silence to the voice at the other end.

  “Yes, Chief Superintendent. Yes, there will be a complete written report of the incident. No, certainly not. I always refer the press to the press officer at Bodmin divisional headquarters. What’s that? Yes, we will stay here. Within an hour? Very well.”

  He put down the telephone and gazed at it in silence. Then he reached for a glass on his desk and took a hurried swallow of the amber liquid.

  “That was my boss,” he announced unnecessarily.

  “Does he believe us?” whispered Claire.

  Roscarrock shrugged. The three of them had fled Wheal Tom and hurried to Roscarrock’s cottage where the constable had immediately reported to his sergeant in Tintagel who had then reported the matter to division at Bodmin.

  “The Chief Superintendent says we are to wait here. We are not to say anything to anyone, especially not to any members of the press. He is joining us by helicopter within the hour.”

  Neville stirred uncomfortably.

  “It seems incredible. You say that some animal killed poor Pool?”

  Roscarrock nodded.

  “Animal, creature, something,” he shrugged.

  Claire raised a white, shock-stained face.

  “You think the same…same creature killed Uncle Henry.”

  “I’m afraid, Miss Penvose, there is little doubt of it.” He could not bring himself to tell the girl about the severed

  hand. He was still trying to persuade himself that he should believe the testimony of his own
eyes. The sound of Pool’s scream still echoed in his ears.

  “The Chief Superintendent is very anxious we do not move from the cottage nor see anyone.”

  The telephone interrupted him. It was Linda Truran.

  Berlewen Polruan drew her shawl more tightly across her thin shoulders and strode purposefully into the night. She carried no torch nor did her lynx-like eyes need artificial aid to guide her through the pathways around Bosbradoe. Her bright eyes were as perceptive as a youngster’s eyes and held an almost uncanny ability to see in the dark. There was little which escaped their darting observation. In addition every inch of the Bosbradoe coastline was etched like a map in her mind. She strode along the twisting pathway which snaked its way along the back of Wheal Tom, down by the grim grey ruins of Breaca Castle, along the cliff top. She knew every turn and dip of the pathway as it skirted the edge of the precipitous granite cliffs.

  There was a cold breeze blustering in from the sea but Berlewen Polruan was oblivious to its icy fingers.

  She came to a small headland and halted, peering into the darkness towards the whispering sea below.

  She stood there quite still and silently and then, slowly, her lips framed the words in the old Cornish tongue: “Kemereugh wyth, y te an Morgow! Take care, the Morgow comes!…Ah, if only I could see it!”

  She sighed deeply and made to turn back but a movement far below made her pause, cock her head to one side and stand listening.

  Yes; there it was again. A strange scrabbling sound.

  “Kemereugh wyth, y te an Morgow.”

  She repeated the words aloud, triumphantly.

  Bending forward, her frail body moving eagerly, Berlewen Polruan began to descend the small path which ran, step-like, down the face of the granite cliff. No local would have descended that pathway, not even in daylight. But Mother Polruan knew Bosbradoe, knew every crack and cranny, every nook and crevice in those forbidding cliffs, knew all the accessible and inaccessible places. She began to scramble down the path as sure footed as the choughs and gulls which nested there. Without pausing she plunged on towards the brooding black waters below.

  The sound of a whirling engine brought Roscarrock to his feet.

  “What is it?” Claire asked.

  “Helicopter, miss. It must be my Chief Superintendent.”

  The helicopter was whirling overhead and very low.

  Bill Neville jumped to his feet.

  “Hadn’t we better guide him down? It’s pitch black out there.”

  Roscarrock looked dubious.

  “The Chief Superintendent told us not to leave the cottage…but,” he shrugged, “I don’t suppose he meant it literally.”

  He opened a drawer and took out a couple of flashlights.

  “You stay here, miss. Come on, Mr Neville, we’ll be able to guide him down on to the green.”

  He led the way out of the cottage which fronted a small green area of some fifty square yards which served as the village green where the traditional Cornish May Day bonfires were lit or where the summer fetes were held. Several local people were coming out of their cottages and staring up into the darkness.

  Not far above them the black outline of a helicopter was hovering. Two beams of light were shining from its spotlights on to the ground as the pilot tried to make out a safe landing spot.

  “Stand over there, Mr Neville,” cried Roscarrock above the noise of the engine, “and shine your torch up. I’ll stand here.”

  Neville took up his position and then in conjunction with the policeman, he shone his torch towards the ‘copter and then lowered the beam to the ground. They repeated this action several times and slowly, very slowly, the pilot began to lower his machine to the ground. It came to a halt without any perceptible jar.

  Two figures swung out of the ‘copter and ran, crouching low under the still whirling blades, towards the constable. The leading figure, a sour-faced man, caught sight of the constable’s uniform.

  “Are you Roscarrock?” he snapped.

  “Aye, but who…”

  “Damn it, man!” snarled the figure. “Didn’t your Chief Superintendent tell you to remain in the cottage?”

  “Yes, but when we heard your ‘copter trying to land we thought we’d better give you a hand down,” interposed Neville, coming to the indignant constable’s assistance.

  The sour-faced man turned on him.

  “You must be Neville. Damn it! Get back into the cottage at once!”

  Without waiting for a reply to his curt order the man turned to where two uniformed constables, who had apparently followed him out of the ‘copter, stood apparently waiting orders.

  “Hold those people back,” he called, nodding to the milling locals, drawn by the intriguing spectacle of the helicopter.

  Frowning, Neville and Roscarrock rejoined Claire in the office of the policeman. It was obvious that the sour-faced man was a person of some authority and that he knew what he was doing. He had followed them in.

  “Perhaps you’ll have the courtesy to tell…” began Neville but the man merely waved him to silence and turned to his colleague who was carrying a case.

  “Check them out, Charlie,” he snapped.

  The man, Charlie, set down his bag and opened it to reveal some sort of machine with something which looked like a hand microphone. They watched in bewilderment as Charlie made connections and then pushed the microphone object towards Roscarrock, then Claire and then Neville. There was a series of faint clickings from the machine. The man reeled off some figures in a muttered breath while the sour faced man noted them in a little black note book.

  “Slightly above normal readings, doctor, but within general safety standards.”

  The sour faced man, addressed as “doctor”, seemed to relax.

  “You’d best check the room. Are you three wearing the same clothes as you wore down in the mine?”

  Roscarrock nodded.

  “Hmm. That’s good. Anyone else in the cottage?”

  “My wife…”

  “Check her out as well, Charlie.”

  “Now just a moment, what is this?” demanded Roscarrock.

  The sour faced man ignored him and went to the door.

  “Come in Chief Superintentent, it’s all clear,” he called.

  A uniformed officer entered and closed the door behind him. Roscarrock came uneasily to attention.

  “Perhaps you can tell us what is going on?” It was Bill Neville who interrupted the silence.

  The Chief Superintendent took off his hat. He was a silver haired man in his mid-fifties with a bluff, genial face and humorous blue eyes.

  “I am Chief Superintendent Crowley,” he said, slipping into the chair behind Roscarrock’s desk and motioning them to be seated. “Let me introduce you to Dr Lambert of the Goonhilly Scientific Establishment. The other gentleman is his assistant.”

  Crowley paused.

  “Following Roscarrock’s report about your search of the mine known as Wheal Tom, I referred the matter to the relevant government department. The information I received put me in touch with Dr Lambert here. The authorities took such a grave view of the matter that a helicopter was requisitioned from the RAF Station at Goonhilly to fly Dr Lambert and his assistant to Bodmin, collect me and a couple of men, and to come on here immediately. Incidentally, thanks for helping the ‘copter to land but you should have remained in this cottage as your instructions. The pilot is used to making night landings.”

  “We had to check you out first,” explained Lambert.

  “And just why did you think we needed to be checked out — for radiation contamination?” asked Neville.

  Claire and Roscarrock turned to look at him with surprise.

  “What makes you suppose that we were doing that, Mr Neville?” asked Lambert quietly.

  “I know a geiger-counter when I see one,” returned Neville, “It is also common knowledge that Goonhilly specialises in radiation and nuclear research. So why? What is the connection? What has
it to do with an old disused tin mine?”

  “You seem to know a lot, Mr Neville,” observed Lambert.

  “It’s an occupational hazard for a writer,” replied Neville.

  “Please,” interrupted Claire, “just tell us what is going on.”

  “Nothing you need worry about, Miss Penvose,” said the police officer.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Neville. “Miss Penvose’s uncle has disappeared down Wheal Tom. Now it seems that this extraordinary creature which Roscarrock saw attack Pool has also attacked and killed Mr Penvose. And you tell her not to worry.”

  “Calm yourself, Mr Neville,” replied the policeman unperturbed. “Things will be explained in good time. We’d best start with some explanations from you. Roscarrock, you’d better give us a verbal report of what happened.”

  The burly constable swallowed nervously.

  Adam Taylor smiled broadly.

  “It looks as though you’ve tipped us off on something really good, Linda.”

  The girl bit her lip.

  “I thought Constable Roscarrock sounded odd when I rang him. The way he kept insisting I speak to his superiors showed he was hiding something.”

  “Yes, but what? That’s an RAF helicopter. So far as I could tell there were three uniformed policemen and two civilians in it in addition to the crew.”

  They were standing on the edge of a small group of locals who were staring at the helicopter while the four man crew lounged nearby smoking.

  “The authorities are taking things seriously,” murmured Taylor, “Whatever those things are. I wonder if the RAF boys will talk?”

  He sauntered across to them and addressed a young man who wore the insignia of a Flight Lieutenant.

  “Excuse me, I’m from the BBC. My name’s Adam Taylor…”

  The pilot peered at him.

  “So you are! You’re the chap who broadcasts on State and People.”

  Taylor preened himself. If there was anything he liked it was being recognised.

  “Where do you chaps come from?”

  The pilot grinned broadly, his teeth flashing in the darkness.

  “Now it shouldn’t take a good reporter like yourself much effort to work that one out from the squadron markings.”