Buried in the Country

by Carola Dunn

“No? Well, all the same, I’m going to turn up every day and ask for you.”

  “Honestly, Nick, that’s not necessary. Sir—my host is a friend, and in any case, it’s a big hotel. There’s bound to be other people staying, even at this time of year.”

  “All the same … I’ll tell you what. You’ll have to walk Teazle. Let’s arrange to meet somewhere. You know the parish church, out on the cliffs south of the village?”

  “St. Materiana’s, yes. Did you know the name probably originated from Matrona, the Mother Goddess?”

  “No, really? But that’s beside the point. I’ll be nearby from, say, ten tomorrow morning. That should give you plenty of time to walk over after breakfast.”

  “Nick, look at the sky!”

  They had reached a high point of the road, with a clear view to the west. The mackerel sky had already passed to the east. Heavy black clouds were building up in the west, and in the distance the slanting columns of rain squalls marched across the sea.

  “It’s moving in fast. So much for my sunset.”

  “So much for walking to the church tomorrow. I’m more likely to bung Teazle out with instructions to walk herself.”

  A sudden gust buffeted the car. “It may blow over in the night,” Nick said hopefully. “Not the car, the storm. We can always shelter in the porch if there’s just a light rain.”

  “But you won’t be able to pretend you’re painting.”

  “I’ll take some photos of the interior. If you don’t come, I’ll go to the hotel and insist on speaking to you.”

  “Oh, Nick, honestly! I’m not walking blindfolded into danger. At worst, the company may be a bit sticky, but that’s what I’ll be there for, to help smooth over the sticky patches.”

  “All right, then, if it gets too sticky for your liking, give me a buzz and we’ll meet in the village for a drink or a cuppa or lunch, or whatever you fancy to cheer you up.”

  “Weather permitting, I’ll try to make it to the church. If I don’t, for goodness’ sake don’t kick up a fuss. You can be sure they have a very good reason for the secrecy.”

  “Can’t you just tell me who ‘they’ are?”

  Eleanor considered. “I can’t see how it could hurt to tell you that two of them are friends I’ve known for years.”

  “That does make quite a difference,” Nick admitted.

  “I did say you had no need to worry about me.”

  “Yes, you did.” He laughed. “I’ll be there in the morning anyway. Now I come to think of it, I bet paintings of the inside of the church would sell well if I can get the light right. It’s very old. And then, there’s your Mother Goddess.…” His eyes took on a faraway look.

  Eleanor hoped he could see the bends in the road through whatever visions loomed in his head.

  THREE

  From the top of the hill down into Port Mabyn, Megan saw the storm clouds piling up on the horizon. What a relief that her job in Tintagel was to be in the hotel, not the village!

  As she drove slowly down towards the bridge and the harbour, she glanced up at the window above the LonStar shop and wondered whether Aunt Nell was at home, or at least downstairs helping to sort donations. Nick Gresham’s shop next door looked deserted—yes, there was a CLOSED sign in the window. She went on, past the lawyers’ building and up to the car park to leave the car, then walked back down.

  She introduced herself to the secretary and showed her warrant card. “I understand Mr. Bulmer reported his partner missing. I’m here to get the details.”

  “He’s with a client at present, Miss … Should I call you Detective Sergeant?”

  “Miss is fine. Perhaps you could tell me what you know, while I’m waiting. Has Mr. Freeth ever gone off for a few days without explanation before?”

  “Never,” the woman said vehemently. “He’s very considerate and ever so proper in his ways. The one thing I did wonder…” She hesitated.

  “Yes? Oh, may I have your name? Just for the record.”

  “Florence Raleigh. Don’t tell Mr. Bulwer I said this. I don’t want him worrying. It’s just that Mr. Freeth is a great rambler. You know, he likes to go on long walks? So I did just wonder if he saw somewhere nice to walk as he was driving and decided to stretch his legs and had an accident. There’s places on the moors—he’s told me himself—where old mine workings and such aren’t properly fenced off. Or the cliffs, or even by a river and he slipped and fell in.”

  “It’s possible, of course. There aren’t many hikers at this time of year, so he might not have been found. But I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about it.”

  “No, I do see that. I just thought I ought to mention it.”

  “I’m glad you did, Mrs. Raleigh. We never know what scrap of information might help. Even knowing that you share Mr. Bulwer’s concern is helpful.”

  “I s’pose you wouldn’t know whether to take it seriously, if—” She broke off as footsteps sounded in the entrance hall outside the open door of her room.

  A couple passed, followed by a tall, thin man, slightly stoop-shouldered. His greying hair, thick and wavy, was on the long side, adding to his scholarly air. He ushered out his clients and came into the secretary’s room, with a questioning glance at Megan.

  “Mr. Bulwer, this is Detective Sergeant Pencarrow, about Mr. Freeth.”

  His expression brightened. “Thank you for coming, Sergeant. If you’ll excuse me just a moment, I’ll tell Mrs. Raleigh what needs doing with these papers; then we’ll go to my office.”

  Megan was prepared for a wait of several minutes, but his instructions to his secretary were as concise as he’d promised. He led the way to a room that gave an impression of prosperity. Megan mentally noted the fact but concentrated on the man. He offered her a seat in a comfortable leather chair and took the second one in front of his desk, as if his concern for the missing man was more personal than professional. Or was she reading too much into a simple action?

  “I rather thought the police weren’t going to take Alan’s disappearance seriously,” he said.

  “We take all missing persons reports seriously, sir. I’m afraid that doesn’t always mean we can do anything about them. Do you have reason to suspect he may have run off with funds entrusted to him?”

  “No! Absolutely not. Alan is absolutely honest and trustworthy.”

  Did the gentleman protest too much? “So Mr. Freeth is not suspected of wrongdoing, and he’s a competent adult. Does he have any serious medical condition?”

  “No. Healthy as a horse.”

  “Would you mind explaining to me why you are concerned enough about his absence to report it?”

  “He’s never before gone away without … without discussion beforehand. He’s very reliable, conscientious. He wouldn’t deliberately miss appointments with clients.”

  “Were any of them urgent?”

  “Well, no, not really, though people tend to believe their own concerns are urgent.”

  “He’d know he could rely on you to cope, sir.”

  “I suppose so. Yes, of course.”

  “How long have you been in practice together, if that’s the right term?”

  “Seventeen years, give or take. Before that, we took articles at the same firm in London. Then I bought a partnership down here. A couple of years later, Alan joined me.”

  “You know each other very well, then.”

  “Obviously. That’s why I’m … anxious. It’s just not like him. His note said he’d be gone overnight. And he didn’t take enough clothes for longer.”

  “When, exactly, and where did you receive the note?”

  “Midday Monday. He went out to call on a client, by appointment, at eleven o’clock. To be precise, the appointment was at eleven. Mrs. Raleigh says Alan left about quarter to.”

  “I assume he drove?”

  “Certainly. We keep our cars just up the hill, in the car park.”

  Megan nodded. “And the note?”

  “Mrs. Raleigh went into hi
s office a little before one. Not having seen or heard him come in, she wasn’t sure if he had but went to see if he wanted anything done before she went out for her lunch hour. She found the envelope on his desk, propped up to face the door. It had my name on it, so she brought it straight to me. It said—”

  “Did you by any chance keep it?”

  “Ye-es.” Bulwer sounded wary. “It’s … upstairs. We live ‘over the shop,’ you see. Do you have to read it?”

  “No, not at this point, sir. But please don’t dispose of it. Would you tell me what it said, please?”

  “Just that he’d been called away urgently and would be gone overnight.”

  “Nothing about whether it was business, or family, or a friend in need?”

  “Nothing but what I’ve told you.”

  “No hint of where he was going. You must see, sir, that even if we had your sense of urgency—”

  “Which you don’t. Don’t worry, Sergeant, I understand.”

  “Even if, there really isn’t much we could do.”

  “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  “I just go where I’m told, sir. I’ll report to my superiors and they’ll make the decision as to whether to act. I’d better have the make, model, and licence plate of his car.” Megan wrote them down, then stood up. “If he doesn’t return and you haven’t heard from him by Monday, I expect they’d reconsider. By the way, do you happen to have a photo?”

  “Yes. I’ve kept a recent print handy in case you wanted it.” Bulwer opened a desk drawer and handed her a snap.

  “Mr. Freeth wears glasses.”

  “He’s always been shortsighted. He can’t see much without them. Another reason for worry.” The lawyer rose and shook her hand. “Thank you, Sergeant. I … I can only hope he’ll be home by then.”

  As Megan walked down the road, she realised she hadn’t asked whether he had got in touch with family and friends to see if anyone knew where Freeth was. But, in spite of Bulwer’s excessive reaction to his partner’s absence, the solicitor was too intelligent to have omitted such an obvious first step.

  She was sure Bulwer had not been entirely straight with her. He had hesitated a couple of times in a way that sounded evasive, though it might be the vestiges of a stammer overcome. He was genuinely worried about Alan Freeth; that much was obvious. After more than twenty years of friendship, they were close. They both lived “above the shop,” and Bulwer knew what clothes were missing.…

  Aunt Nell would tell her what was what.

  Megan went through the side door and up the stairs to knock on her aunt’s door. No response. She tried the door. For once it was locked, so she took out her key and let herself in.

  “Aunt Nell?”

  Silence. Teazle would have responded even if Aunt Nell was in the loo.

  Nick would have been her second choice as a source of information. His absence left only the local copper, who was probably out on his beat, driving around the nearby villages, or the vicar’s wife. The prospect of tackling Mrs. Stearns on such a touchy subject made her quail, but Scumble wanted reliable local information about Freeth and Bulwer. Jocelyn Stearns, if she was willing to talk about them at all, would be accurate and discreet.

  In Aunt Nell’s flat, Megan changed into the slacks and peach-coloured pullover she had brought with her. The door locked behind her, she went downstairs, outside, and in through the shop door. A volunteer was ringing up a sale. She and the customer both nodded to Megan.

  “Good afternoon. Do look round. If you need help, I’ll be with you in a moment.” The volunteer returned to the complexities of the ancient cash register.

  “Excuse me, is Mrs. Stearns in today?” Megan asked.

  “Yes, she’s in the stockroom. Just knock on the door at the back.”

  She did as she was bid. Another volunteer was helping Mrs. Stearns to arrange clothes on a rolling rack. Megan asked for a word in private.

  “Dolly, would you take those through now, please? What is it, Megan?”

  “Do you know where my aunt is, Mrs. Stearns?”

  The vicar’s wife frowned. “No, I don’t. Not just out and about; she said she’d be away for a few days. She didn’t tell you?”

  “No. I’ve been very busy. She may have rung several times and missed me.”

  “You just missed her. She left an hour or so ago. Sorry I can’t help.”

  “Maybe you can. I hoped you could tell me a bit about Freeth and Bulwer.”

  “They are excellent solicitors.”

  “Perhaps I should have said Alan Freeth and Roland Bulwer.”

  “I do not approve of gossip.”

  “I’m a police officer, Mrs. Stearns. I need information, not gossip.”

  “I suppose I’d better not ask why. What do you want to know?”

  “Are they … a couple?”

  “My dear Megan! The law is surely no longer concerned with—”

  “Not with their … relationship.” Megan picked her words with care. “However, if they … have an emotional attachment beyond friendship, it could explain Mr. Bulwer’s anxiety over Mr. Freeth’s unexpectedly prolonged absence. Without, that is, postulating awareness of some hazard that he’s unwilling to divulge.”

  Mrs. Stearns was obviously dying of curiosity, but after her condemnation of gossip, she couldn’t very well try to ferret out details. “Yes, they’re a ‘couple,’ with considerable emotional attachment, I presume.”

  “What is the attitude of the village people in general?”

  “They ignore it.”

  “They never gossip about it?”

  “Did I not make myself clear, Megan? I do not listen to that kind of talk.”

  “Sorry. The Church’s attitude hasn’t changed, though, has it?” Pure curiosity prompted the question.

  “All Timothy—my husband—will say is, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ Or he talks about the woman taken in adultery.”

  “‘He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone,’” Megan dredged up from memory.

  “‘Let him first cast a stone.’ And after all, adultery is one of the commandments, whereas … the other matter is part of all that tedious stuff about shellfish and pork and mixed fabrics. Jesus said nothing on the subject. Though Paul … but he also said women must be silent in church,” Mrs. Stearns added in an outraged tone.

  “I expect the vicar likes a slice of bacon for breakfast.”

  “He never notices what he’s putting in his mouth, but I cannot suppose eating bacon to be sinful.”

  From which Megan gathered that the vicar’s wife liked bacon and was as willing as the villagers to overlook Bulwer and Freeth’s relationship. Probably it had dawned on everyone only gradually as the two partners’ bachelorhood prolonged itself to unlikely lengths. “I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Stearns. I must be on my way. Thanks for your help.”

  As she departed, via the door to the passage and so to the street, Megan decided she would write up a report on Freeth and Bulwer once she was settled in the King Arthur Hotel, which sounded like a deadly dull assignment. It would give her an excuse to avoid Ken’s company. Scumble might be impressed by her conscientiousness. Though probably not.

  As she passed Nick’s shop again, she noted that it was still closed. Stepping closer, she saw a paper Sellotaped to the window above the CLOSED sign, advising the public that the gallery would reopen the following week.

  At this time of year, sales of his work were slow, so it wasn’t surprising if he’d taken a few days off, perhaps for a painting trip. All the same, she was annoyed that he hadn’t let her know. She had gone out with him a few times, and even stayed in with him more than once. Her irregular schedule—as well as living twenty miles apart—made it difficult to arrange meetings.

  He had no duty to notify her, she reminded herself. Besides, as she’d told Mrs. Stearns, she hadn’t been easy to get in touch with for the past week or so. Maybe he’d tried without success.

  Reassu
ring herself didn’t help. She drove back to Launceston feeling altogether fed up.

  FOUR

  When Eleanor and Nick reached Tintagel, rain had not yet started falling, but the clouds had moved in with amazing speed, bringing early twilight. The wind had risen, too, blowing steadily from the southwest.

  “The Weather God’s reminding me to be grateful I’m not on my way to the Scilly Isles,” said Eleanor.

  “Huh? Your friends wanted to go to the Scillies in March?”

  “No, they didn’t. That’s why I’m grateful.”

  “So these are the people you visited—”

  “Nick, don’t. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “‘Loose lips sink ships.’ Now what was their name?” he teased.

  “Nick!”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the villains. I don’t even know who they are or what they want.”

  “Nor do I. Don’t try to find out.”

  “I wouldn’t have a clue how to begin. So you are expecting trouble!”

  “Not the sort of trouble you want to protect me from. Just someone trying to find out what’s going on. As far as I know.”

  “As far as you know.”

  “I don’t actually know anything,” said Eleanor, exasperated. “Just that it—whatever ‘it’ is—is so hush-hush, I won’t be told till I get there. You’re leading me on to imagine all sorts of nonsense.”

  “You’ll get the answers soon enough.”

  They had to drive through the village to reach the hotel. Apart from its legendary association with the legendary King Arthur, Tintagel was a typical Cornish village, the cottages built of Cornish granite, some whitewashed, with lichened slate roofs. Many had window boxes already bright with daffodils and crocuses, even a few hyacinths.

  The street forked. The left-hand branch led down towards Tintagel Haven, a rocky inlet too narrow and dangerous for a harbour, the tiny beach accessible only by steep steps at low tide. Also down there was the hazardous isthmus connecting the mainland to King Arthur’s island, with its ancient ruins. Nick took the right-hand branch, going up to the hotel.

  Looming darkly through the gathering gloom, the towers at each corner added to the impression of a sinister mansion in a gothic novel.