Fergus wheeled round.
Something was moving up behind them.
Sheila started to scream and, mercifully, sank into unconsciousness before the dark shapes converged upon them. For Tom Fergus the end was not so merciful. It took him ten minutes of agony before he stopped his frenzied shrieking.
CHAPTER XVIII
“Do you think that you’re doing a wise thing?” asked Constable Roscarrock as he watched Jack Treneglos preparing his ketch for sea.
It was dawn but a thick sea mist hung low over the cliffs and seascape, cutting visibility down to a few yards.
Treneglos looked up at the figure of the burly policeman standing on the quayside slightly above him and grimaced.
“Life must go on, Morgow or no Morgow, sea mist or no sea mist! How can a fisherman feed his family if he is scared to venture out?”
“Aye, Jack, but it might be dangerous out there. Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait until things have been sorted out?”
“Then I’d be waiting until doomsday, wouldn’t I?” sneered Treneglos. “’Sides,” he reached into the wheel-house and took out an ancient double-barrelled shotgun, “I’m not going unprotected.”
Roscarrock eyed the gun moodily.
“Hope you have a licence for that,” he said automatically.
“Don’t’ee worry,” grinned Treneglos. “It’s all legal like.”
Charlie Treneglos’ figure suddenly emerged through the mist hurrying along the quayside.
“Morning, Jack,” he called, with a nod to Roscarrock. “Ready to cast off, then?”
“Aye; just you and me this trip, Charlie,” muttered Treneglos. “The others have taken notice of too many old wives’ tales about sea serpents.”
Charlie shrugged.
“They’ll come when they get hungry.”
Roscarrock looked out to sea, the mist was still thick and rolling. Visibility could only be as far as ten yards.
“How can you go out in this?” he demanded.
“I know this mist,” returned Jack. “It’ll clear in two hours, mark my words. And if I can’t navigate out past Trevian Rocks in mist or at night then I shouldn’t be handling a boat at all.”
He turned for the wheelhouse while his brother cast off the ropes.
Roscarrock watched the ketch pull away from the stone quay and push into the mist which quickly swallowed it up.
Claire awoke and yawned. For a moment she wondered where she was and then the terrifying events of the night came back to her. She shuddered and pushed herself up on the pillows. Bill Neville’s bed was warm and comfortable. There was an assuring womb-like quality to the jumble of sheets and blankets which cocooned her. The tiny bedroom was bathed in a warm light as the early morning sun filtered in through the flower-patterned curtains which hung at the window. Outside came the screaming cries of the sea birds. Claire sunk back and closed her eyes.
For a moment or two she transported herself back to being a little girl on holiday in Cornwall with her parents. In a moment she would get up, have breakfast and go out to play on the sandy beach. Everything was alright. There were no problems in the world. Yes; the delicious smell of bacon and eggs, coffee and toast came to her nostrils. She could even hear the fat sizzling in the pan.
With a sigh, she opened her eyes again.
Well, she suddenly realised with surprise, part of her sensations were real enough. She could smell breakfast and there was movement in the next room.
After a moment of indecision, she flung back the bedclothes and leapt out, feeling a little ridiculous in Bill Neville’s spare pair of pyjamas which were many sizes too large for her. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and smiled. Well, at least she was respectable. She gave the trousers a hitch and marched to the bedroom door.
In the living-room the couch lay abandoned, the blankets strewn across it. She wondered if Neville had passed a comfortable night there and felt guilty for ousting him out of his own bed. She moved across to the kitchen, following the delicious aroma of fresh coffee. Bill Neville was crouched over the stove trying to scoop some fried bread from the pan. He looked up with an expression of dismay.
“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed,” he said.
She sniffed appreciatively.
“Really, Bill, are you trying to fatten me up?”
She examined the percolator.
“The coffee smells good.”
“It’s my one vice — I must have good fresh coffee in the morning.”
Claire moved to help him but he shook his head.
“You just sit down at the table. I’m the breakfast king here and I won’t tolerate anyone interfering in my kitchen while I’m in charge.”
Meekly Claire sat down as he instructed and watched as he dexterously laid places for both of them, produced cups and poured coffee and then placed a large plate of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread on the table.
She sipped at the coffee appreciatively.
“It’s really good, Bill.”
“I told you I was the breakfast king,” he said, a little embarrassed, cutting fresh bread for toast.
“It’s a beautiful morning, too,” she added, looking through the window.
“It wasn’t earlier,” he replied. “When I got up there was a thick mist everywhere. It only started to clear about half an hour ago.”
When he had seated himself opposite her and taken a few sips at his coffee, he let his eyes become serious.
“How are you feeling this morning, Claire?”
She pulled a face.
“Much calmer than last night. I’m sorry. I became a little hysterical.”
“That’s alright. I had a word with Crowley a few moments ago. His men didn’t find anything but they did find a trace of something in the cellars.”
“A trace? Of what?”
“They don’t know.”
Claire shuddered.
“Can there really be a creature such as Roscarrock described? What is it?”
“I’d be lying to you if I said I knew, Claire. Whatever it is, there is nothing supernatural about it as old Mother Polruan would have us believe.”
“But what sort of creature is it? Could there be such a thing as a sea serpent?”
“The Morgow, you mean?”
Claire nodded.
“You remember what little Johnny Treneglos claimed he saw?”
Neville poured himself another cup of coffee.
“It’s no use speculating. Those RAF boys are going down again today. They will probably capture it.”
“I want to get away from here, Bill. I want to go back to London and recover my sanity.”
Neville reached out a sympathetic hand.
“I’m afraid the police will want you to stay until after their investigations have finished. Then there will probably be some form of inquest.”
“Inquest? Oh yes. It seems so hard to realise that Uncle Henry is dead.”
“It’s the logical conclusion, I’m afraid.”
There was a silence.
“I can’t go back to Tybronbucca,” Claire said after a while. “And The Morvren Arms is full of reporters.”
“You can stay here as long as you want,” Neville offered, adding, “The sofa is comfortable enough for me.”
Claire smiled softly.
“I can’t let you do that, Bill. I’ve interrupted your work, now I’m interrupting your sleep.”
“The work can go to hell for a bit,” declared Neville. “At least until this is all over. You are more important.”
Their eyes met and held each other’s gaze for several moments.
“Am I, Bill?” Claire asked softly.
“I’m in love with you, Claire.”
It was a simple, unequivocal statement.
Claire felt a colour come to her cheeks. She smiled happily.
“I’m glad about that.”
She reached out and took his hand across the table. He pressed it.
&nb
sp; “We’ll go and pick up your bags from Tybronbucca later this morning.”
She nodded.
“And you will stay here until this business is cleared up?”
“I’ll stay,” she replied quietly. Then she grinned coquettishly. “But you don’t have to put up on the sofa.”
Jack Treneglos was happy. The nets had pulled in a rich harvest. Sea serpent or no sea serpent, at least he had a decent catch to bring back to Bosbradoe. He hummed a little as he swung the wheel. He had been right. The mist had cleared up and it had been a glorious day. It would not be long before he reached Bosbradoe now. He could see the tall black sentinels of Trevian Rocks clearly in the distance.
“Jack!”
It was his brother Charlie’s startled cry.
He came hurrying aft to the wheelhouse.
“Something’s abeam of us, in the water.”
“Take the wheel, Charlie,” snapped Jack, reaching for his shotgun and loading it from a box of cartridges. As his brother took the wheel, he hurried along the deck and peered at the spot Charlie had indicated.
It was like a dark bundle floating idly. Jack Treneglos examined it carefully. There seemed no immediate danger. He placed the gun on a hatch cover and picked up a boathook. The bundle came easily to the side of the ketch.
It was a body. The body of a red-haired girl.
Jack Treneglos had seen too many tragedies at sea to be squeamish. He gritted his teeth and heaved the body out of the water, over the side and on to the deck.
“Oh Christ!” he cried looking at the corpse.
The lower half of the torso, the legs, had been tom away. There was only the head, arms and upper torso left. The eyes stood wide and staring, the face was contorted in what seemed an expression of extreme terror.
Treneglos turned and grabbed a canvas awning, jerking it down over the obscenely shattered flesh. Then he leant over the side of the ketch and threw up.
“What is it, Jack?” called Charlie from the wheelhouse.
Jack Treneglos walked slowly back along the deck and entered the wheelhouse. Without saying anything he opened a cupboard, took out his medicinal brandy bottle, poured himself a liberal shot and threw it down his throat. He coughed and took a while to recover.
“A body, Charlie. Tom pretty bad.”
“Scawen?”
Jack Treneglos suddenly realised that the bodies of Billy and Jack Scawen had not been recovered. He had almost forgotten about them.
“No. A girl, a redhead. You remember that girl who was staying in The Morvren Arms last night with that bloke from some weird society or other? Upcountry people, they were.”
Charlie frowned.
“You mean the young girl with the fellow who was going on about pollution and such?”
Jack Treneglos nodded.
“I reckon it’s that girl.”
“But how did she…”
Jack interrupted him.
“Christ knows what’s going on, Charlie. I’m beginning to think old Mother Polruan was right about her curse on Bosbradoe.”
Charlie’s eyes suddenly widened and he raised a hand towards the distant Trevian Rocks.
“Jesus! What the devil is that on the rocks, Jack?”
Jack Treneglos peered forward. His jaw dropped.
CHAPTER XIX
Chief Superintendent Crowley paused at the bottom of the main shaft of Wheal Tom and turned to Dr Lambert and his assistant who were examining their geiger-counter readings.
“Are we pushing straight on to the undersea levels?” Lambert nodded absently.
“That’s the area we haven’t explored. Strange though…” Crowley frowned.
“What?”
“The radiation activity has gone up marginally.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s strange,” replied Lambert. “We’ll keep an eye on the readings, anyway.”
Crowley turned.
“Sergeant Jones!”
The RAF man stepped smartly forward.
“Do you have the chart of the mine?”
The sergeant produced it and Crowley examined it in the light of his torch. It was easy to plot a course to the undersea workings but they were heading towards an area which was marked on the Government map in red with the symbol for radioactive material.
“Is that the area where the nuclear waste was deposited?” he asked Lambert.
The scientist nodded, glancing over Crowley’s shoulder. “There is no danger and we will check the readings. If they go up appreciably then we will have to send a couple of men forward in the radiation suits.”
Crowley rubbed his nose.
“You don’t think the radiation has affected this animal, whatever it is, do you, Lambert?”
“I deal in science, Crowley, not science fiction. But I’ll speculate for you. There might be a link. Nuclear waste was stored in this mine in the “bad old days” before we knew all the ramifications of such storage. The reports of odd happenings might be somehow linked. However, I would say there is a ninety-nine per cent certainty that they are not. Shall we proceed?”
Crowley frowned.
He did not like Lambert’s surliness but he had to put up with it.
“Very well,” he muttered. “Sergeant Jones, you can start moving your men forward.”
They set off at a brisk pace through the broad tunnelways for about a quarter of a mile. After that the tunnels began to narrow and lead off in various directions but the sergeant, frequently consulting his chart, pushed rapidly onwards along the complex of cold, damp tunnels.
“We are under the sea from here onwards, sir,” he whispered to Crowley. Awe edged his voice.
They halted and listened to the strange booming sound — a sound like distant thunder.
“Can’t say I like this!” whispered one of the airmen with a shudder.
“Shut yer yap!” snapped Sergeant Jones. “No one’s asking you what you like or dislike.”
Lambert turned to his assistant.
“Take a reading.”
The man fumbled with his equipment.
“Readings varying, doctor. It’s swinging between seven and nine per cent above the norm.”
Lambert swore under his breath.
“I might have known. There is some leakage.”
Crowley peered at him nervously.
“Is that dangerous?”
“No, not unless we remain permanently exposed or unless the level increases.”
“You said there is some leakage?”
“Theoretically, there should not be, but we can’t argue with these readings. The radiation levels are abnormal.”
“Should we press on?”
“Of course,” snorted Lambert. “There’s no danger yet.”
Johnny Treneglos burst into the bar-room of The Morvren Arms causing heads to turn in his direction.
“A wreck! A wreck! Come quickly!”
Adam Taylor was the first to spring to his feet.
“Come on, Bob,” he yelled. “Get your camera, we might get a story out of this.”
Noall came out from behind the bar.
“Where’s this wreck, boy?”
“Out on the Trevian Rocks,” gasped the lad. “You can see it quite clearly from the quayside.”
Linda Truran followed Taylor and his BBC crew while Noall brought up the rear with several locals. Outside they bumped into Claire and Bill Neville walking through the car park. They looked at the people spilling down the cobbles towards the quay in amazement.
“Hey, Noall!” cried Neville, catching sight of the moonfaced landlord. “What’s up now?”
Noall did not pause.
“Johnny Treneglos says there be a wreck on the Trevians,” he cried over his shoulder. Claire and Neville hurried after the crowd.
“Christ! There it be!” called one local, pointing.
It didn’t need his indication to pick out the wreck. A twisted mess of steel and iron was wedged between the black granite pillars of the
Trevian Rocks. The bows and a good third of the for’ard part of the vessel were below water level while the stem rose high and dry, its screws a good ten feet above the waterline, held firmly in the cleft of the rocks.
“Jer,” cried Noall to Jeremiah Trevaskis, a local fisherman who was one of Jack Treneglos’ regular crew, “Jer, do’ee get on the phone to the coastguard and then go find Roscarrock. He’s probably up at Wheal Tom.”
The man went off at a run.
Neville pushed his way through the small group to Noall’s side, Claire trailing after him.
The sight of the wreck was spectacular.
“Why has no one seen it until now?” demanded Adam Taylor, at the same time directing his cameraman to angle certain shots of the ship.
“Thick mist this morning, mister,” returned Noall. “It didn’t lift until a while ago.”
Neville was gazing at the wreck in perplexity.
“You know, it’s peculiar, Noall,” he said slowly. “There was a choppy sea last night but it would take a tropical hurricane or cyclone to throw a ship as big as that out of the water and into that crazy position.”
Noall frowned; Neville was right. It hadn’t occurred to him before.
“Well, it had to happen late last night or early this morning. There’s another thing…I can’t see any wreckage on the foreshore. Wonder if there be any survivors?”
He turned to young Johnny Treneglos.
“Do’ee nip back to the pub, boy, and fetch my glasses which hang behind the bar.”
The boy sped away.
Adam Taylor touched Neville’s arm.
“You’re right, Mr Neville. It would take a mighty sea to throw that twisted hulk upon those rocks. Any ideas?” Neville shook his head as the boy came scampering back with Noall’s glasses. The landlord took them and focused on the wreck.
“It’s a coaster,” he muttered. “I can’t see her name but…by God! Her lifeboats are still hanging astern. Her crew could not have had time to use them.”
He looked uncertainly at Neville.
“It could be there are people still aboard.”
“We’d better take a look then,” Neville said softly.
Noall nodded.
“That’s my dinghy with the outboard down there,” he said, pointing to a solitary boat moored at the end of the quay.
The Morgow Rises! Page 14
