Buried in the Country

by Carola Dunn

  Raining! If it was just the rain! But Launceston, in its sheltered valley, probably hadn’t felt the full power of the gale-force wind. “Yes, sir.”

  “Mind you don’t blow off the cliff.” He hung up, fortunately, so Megan’s retort was uttered to a dead receiver.

  Though she had a pocket torch in the shoulder bag that accompanied her everywhere, she’d have to go up to her room to get her parka. How much longer would Ken be gone? She didn’t like leaving the suspects unguarded, even if she hadn’t a clue what their goal was.

  The guv’nor didn’t take kindly to being made to wait. Megan went upstairs and changed into her wet slacks and shoes, wishing she had brought more clothes with her. A few minutes later, she trudged across the car park towards the glimmer of the white van. The wind had abated somewhat. It still blew rain at her and reduced visibility, but it didn’t seriously impede her progress.

  No wonder she hadn’t read the number at the station. The plate was filthy. The sides of the van were splattered with road dirt, but the plate was even dirtier than the filthy weather could account for. Crouching, she examined it in the beam of her torch.

  Beneath the overlying grime, smears of mud obscured the figures—deliberately, she was sure. Even staring from a couple of feet away, she could only just make them out. The middle letter was O. She was pretty sure most O’s were Birmingham-issued. The men claimed to be Londoners … but the registration was C, so the van was a few years old and could have changed hands more than once.

  She wondered for a moment whether she ought to clean off at least some of the muck to make it legible, in case the van had to be followed later. The men would probably notice, though. The rear plate would be less obvious—but still risky. One of them, at least, was bound to go and open the doors to put their luggage in, not to mention swag, if any. Besides, she was reluctant to sacrifice her handkerchief.

  Of course, the plates could have been stolen. Come to that, the van was quite likely stolen, and might even have plates from a different vehicle. Nonetheless, Megan memorised the numbers and letters, then went round to the rear to make sure the plates matched, which they did. She noted the make, and checked both side panels to make sure neither had any identifying marks, however faint, perhaps hastily painted over. She found nothing.

  By then, the hood of her parka was soaked through. Chilled, her trousers clinging uncomfortably to her legs, she hurried back to the hotel. All she wanted was a hot bath, and a hot drink to sip while lounging in it.

  Instead, she squelched her way to the telephones. Scumble answered on the first ring.

  “Pencarrow, sir.”

  “What took you so long, Pencarrow?”

  Her answer was an enormous sneeze. It took her by surprise, so she just had time to jerk the receiver aside.

  “All right, all right, I heard that. Give me the number, quick, and go get yourself a hot toddy, on me.”

  Sometimes—occasionally—the guv’nor wasn’t so bad. Thankfully she gave him the information, including the condition of the plates. “By the way, DS Faraday is reporting the two men to Sir Edward.”

  “But you agree they’re not likely anything to do with him? Just remember, Pencarrow, you’re only on loan to the pen-pusher. If your bad lads start any funny business on our turf, your first duty is to CaRaDoC.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He grunted. She took that as a good-bye and hung up before he could come up with any further orders.

  On her way to the stairs, Megan glanced round the lobby. No sign of the dubious pair, nor of Ken, though he must surely be back from the tower by now. She was in no condition to check thoroughly or poke her head into the bar. A few people gave her curious stares as she passed. She must look a complete disaster.

  Plodding up the stairs, she relinquished the idea of a bath. Someone ought to be down below, keeping an eye on things. Ken was probably having a cosy man-to-man chat with Sir Edward over a glass of whisky. Strictly speaking, the men from London were not his problem as long as whatever mayhem they contemplated was planned to take place in Cornwall, as was almost certain. They couldn’t be just passing through. Cornwall wasn’t on the way to anywhere else.

  Once again she changed into dry clothes and spread the wet ones on the radiator. They were so soggy now, there wasn’t much hope that they’d dry by morning.

  Downstairs again, Megan gave the lobby a quick scan. No Ken still, and no “bad lads.” The latter she spotted as she entered the bar lounge, at the corner table where she and Ken had sat earlier. The room was about half-full now, the last diners having been chased from the restaurant, which was closed, as a sign on the door attested.

  She went to the bar. The barman was not quite as spruce and alert as earlier, but he had a smile for her.

  Smiling back, she said, “I bet three-quarters of the people in here have complained to you about the weather.”

  “You wouldn’t be far off. What’ll it be?”

  “A hot toddy. I got rather wet.”

  “Rum or—”

  “No, wait a minute. I’d better not.” It had been a long day, and at least for the present she was the only pair of eyes on duty. What if she fell asleep? Where the hell was Ken?

  As if reading her mind, the barman said, “Here he comes. I’ll be back in half a mo, when you’ve decided.” He went to serve another customer.

  Megan leaned back against the bar and watched Ken cross the lounge. His face was laughingly guilty, but he had a jaunty spring in his step. “Sorry,” he said as he reached her.

  “Sir Edward must have had an awful lot to say. I hope you made notes, or you might forget all you have to tell me.”

  “It wasn’t actually all that much. As a matter of fact, I stopped for a bit of a chat.”

  “With Aunt Nell?”

  “Well, no. With the student I drove down here.”

  “The one who had you zigzagging all over southern England. Female, by any chance?”

  “Yes, actually. Didn’t I mention her?”

  “You did not. It’s nothing to do with me. We’re only pretending to be a couple, remember. Which was entirely your idea. I could hardly deny it when you walked in and—”

  “Have you decided what you want, madam?” asked the barman, altogether too close behind her.

  “Yes, thanks. I’ll have that rum toddy after all.”

  “Sir?”

  “Seltzer with a dash of bitters.” To Megan, Ken added, “Someone has to stay awake.”

  “My guv’nor rang up and had me go out to get the van’s number plate. I got soaked, again.”

  “Hard lines. Now why do I get the feeling that sooner or later we’re going to have your chief and Sir Edward at odds?”

  “I’d back the guv’nor against any pen-pusher—his description, not mine. What did Sir Edward say when you told him about our chummies?”

  “He rather pooh-poohed them. They didn’t sound at all the type he was expecting.”

  “What type is he expecting?”

  “Probably a pretty straightforward colonial or ex-colonial who believes in the settlers’ cause. He thinks it’s unlikely Smith’s government would resort to hiring a spy, but if they did, they’re not so unsophisticated as to pick someone whose looks invite suspicion.”

  Megan frowned. “If he’s right, then those two are my pigeon.”

  “I wish you the joy of them,” said Ken. “Excuse me a moment. Nature calls.”

  The barman returned with their drinks. He leaned across the counter and said quietly to Megan, “You’re rozzers, right? Busies?”

  “Damn, is it that obvious?”

  “My old man was a bobby. ’Sides, spend all my time watching people, don’t I. That’s what my profession’s all about. To me, it’s plain as the nose on your face, but I don’t s’pose anyone else has noticed. I’d have to be thick as two planks not to see you and your ‘boyfriend’ don’t give a sh—a hoot about each other, not in a romantic way, even if you did give him a key.”


  That was debatable, Megan thought. “Anyone else watching us?”

  “Not so you’d notice. Nothing more’n a casual once-over in passing.” He gave Megan the once-over and his eyes gleamed. “Here, if he’s not—”

  “You’d better stop right there, mate. I take it you’ve also been watching those two men sitting over in the corner?” She didn’t look their way.

  Nor did the barman. “Couldn’t hardly miss them, could I.”

  “They haven’t been watching us, Ken and me?”

  “Don’t think so. Should I be watching them?”

  “We don’t have any evidence. Just coppers’ instinct. But if I was you I’d have a word with whoever handles your night security. If anyone?”

  “Night porter. I’ll warn him, no kipping tonight. Ta for the tip. They’re ugly buggers.”

  “Dress up the tall one and take a few years off, and he might have been quite a ladies’ man.”

  “On the con?”

  “We have no evidence,” Megan said again. “By the way, they both registered as Londoners. Have you heard them speak?”

  “The con man talks BBC. Could be from anywhere. The brute, I’ve only heard a few words, but being a Londoner meself—”

  “I couldn’t have guessed,” she teased.

  He grinned. “Being a Londoner meself, I’d say the Borough is his home ground.”

  Ken returned in time to catch the barman’s last words. He frowned at Megan. “You didn’t tell—”

  “I didn’t need to. We’re just not lovey-dovey enough to fool such a keen observer of human nature.”

  “That can be changed.” He put his arms round her and kissed her mouth. Megan was pleased to discover that the Boy Wonder’s kiss moved her not at all.

  The barman laughed. “None of that stuff in my bar, if you please.” He moved away.

  She reported their conversation to Ken. “It can’t hurt to have another pair of eyes on those two.”

  “I suppose not. Though their staying at the hotel doesn’t necessarily mean their target is at the hotel. Could be something in the village.”

  “I doubt it. I’m pretty sure there are no big houses. It’s mostly tourist traps like Arthur’s Round Table, and those won’t have much in the way of receipts at this time of year.”

  “All the same, one of us should go and poke about a bit tomorrow. It’s your patch, so you’re elected unanimously. I hope you have a good umbrella.”

  “Bastard,” Megan said without heat. “As it happens, Scumble has already told me to scout the place, and he says the storm is forecast to blow over by morning. It’ll be good to get out and get some fresh air.”

  Ken grinned. “Your trick. Was your guv’nor interested only in our shady acquaintances, or did he spare a thought for the matter that brought us here?”

  “I hadn’t told him yet about them when he gave the order. I might pick up a trace of an inquisitive stranger, but I can’t see that I’m at all likely to find out anything about those two, unless I was lucky enough to happen to see them in commission of a felony.”

  ELEVEN

  Waking on Saturday morning, Eleanor was instantly aware that something had changed. Eyes closed, still heavy with sleep, she listened. She had fallen asleep last night to the sound of rain beating against the windowpanes so violently, she hadn’t been able to leave the window a few inches open, as was her custom. Now, through closed window and curtain, she heard faintly the cries of seagulls. Light sifting through tinted her eyelids rosy.

  “Wuff?” A cold, wet nose poked her cheek.

  “And wuff to you, too. Didn’t I tell you not to get up on the bed, you cheeky beast?” The bright eyes peering into hers showed not a trace of guilt. “All right, I’ll take you out, but I hope you’re not in a hurry, because you’ll have to wait till I’m dressed.”

  Slipping on her dressing gown and slippers, Eleanor went to the window and drew back the curtains. The sun shone down on Barras Nose, the headland’s rough grass and granite outcrops ending abruptly at the drop to the sea, lapis blue streaked with white-capped rollers. The storm had blown over; it was a glorious day.

  There was no knowing how long it would last and it was too good to waste. Eleanor was determined to keep her appointment with Nick at the church on the cliffs on the far side of the village, no matter what Sir Edward’s plans.

  At breakfast, whether because of the weather or a good night’s sleep, everyone seemed to be in a better temper than the previous evening. Nontando and Tariro were, if not cordial, at least scrupulously polite to each other. Gina’s headache was gone. Sir Edward’s mood was hopeful instead of discouraged. Only his secretary, Henry Payne, seemed unchanged. He was a reserved, distant man, with stiff manners and no personal warmth.

  When Eleanor announced her intention of taking Teazle for a long walk, Sir Edward muttered but voiced no objection. He and Payne and the two young Africans were going to get down to serious talks right after breakfast.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Gina. “I need to buy a couple of things in the village.”

  “Yes, do come.” Eleanor was quite sure that her friend would not stir a step beyond the shops, so the semi-clandestine meeting with Nick would not reach Sir Edward’s ears.

  They walked down to the village at a strolling pace that allowed Teazle, though leashed, ample time to sniff every interesting smell she noticed. Eleanor found it far more wearisome than her usual brisk pace. They passed Castle Road, which led down steeply to the Haven and the island, and came to Vicarage Road.

  “If you don’t mind, Gina,” she said, “I’ll walk Teazle up here, so that I can let her off the leash. Don’t bother to wait for me. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  “I could tell you were itching to be off. I wasn’t sure Edward wouldn’t change his mind and try to stop you if you went alone. He has rather a bee in his bonnet about this meeting, I don’t know why. He’s not usually like this.”

  “Because of the many sympathisers Smith has in this country, including politicians, I should think. And young people being involved, perhaps.”

  “Young people are so unpredictable these days,” said Gina vaguely. “I’ll see you at lunch, if not before. Have a pleasant walk.”

  The air was still chilly, but the sun was warm on Eleanor’s back as she and Teazle made their way up the hill towards the church. St. Materiana’s was nearly half a mile beyond the village. It perched on its cliff-top, silhouetted against the pale blue sky, as if the world ended just beyond it. Low-profiled and solid, with a square, sturdy tower, it had withstood for eight hundred years everything the Atlantic gales flung at it.

  The road jogged to the right. Teazle led the way straight ahead, up a couple of steps between stone benches, into the churchyard.

  The burial ground boasted no sombre, symbolic yews, for the thin soil could not support trees. Bedrock was not far below the surface. Yet the path led between tombstones aplenty, standing and flat, a mausoleum or two, a half-dozen crosses. Noting that many of the flat memorial slabs were laid on top of stone walls a foot or two high, Eleanor wondered whether anyone had ever been buried a full six feet deep.

  All the graves were surrounded by the typical wiry grass of the cliffs. A few clumps of pink thrift were already in bloom in spots sheltered by tombs. Rabbit droppings here and there explained Teazle’s twisting nose-to-the-ground course. She ignored the sheep droppings, and the three sheep who raised their heads from grazing between the monuments to stare at her in alarm. Sheep were forbidden, as she well knew.

  Nick came down the path to meet them. Teazle scampered ahead to give him a rapturous greeting.

  “Morning, Eleanor! Delighted to see you haven’t been carried off by spies.”

  “Isn’t it a glorious morning? I was worried about you driving home in the storm last night.”

  “It was so hairy, I didn’t.” He stroked his unshaven chin. “Which is why I’m a trifle hairy. Just when I was wondering what on earth I was going to do, I saw a B
and B sign without a ‘Closed’ addendum, so I stayed there. The landlady told me when I arrived that she actually was closed, but she took pity on me. Mrs. Mason, a very nice lady.”

  “I am glad you found shelter. In Tintagel?”

  “No, over there.” He gestured to the south. “In the middle of nowhere. Do you want to walk on the cliffs or sit down for a bit?”

  “Let’s walk.”

  They had reached the church porch. They turned in the direction Nick had waved, where a short path led to the continuation of the lane. A few yards farther on, the lane ended in a turnaround, and they joined a footpath along the cliffs. Rough ground tumbled steeply towards the cliff’s edge and the sea beyond. From a patch of gorse in bloom wafted a fragrance like coconut.

  “How kind of Mrs. Mason to let you stay.”

  “She’s letting me stay a second night, too, so I’ll be able to keep an eye on you.”

  “Nick, you didn’t tell her about—”

  “Of course not. I still haven’t a clue what you and your friends are up to, and I didn’t even breathe a word about you. I sort of gave her the impression I was going to paint, as I probably shall if the weather holds. She has one of mine in the house and she recognised my name.”

  “That was a lucky coincidence. Your fame spreads far and wide.”

  He grinned. “Or at least a dozen miles from home. Speaking of coincidence … Someone both you and I know is also staying with Mrs. Mason.”

  “Oh? Who? Teazle, come back here! I’m not climbing down the cliff to rescue you!”

  “Alan Freeth.”

  “Mr. Freeth! That is a coincidence indeed. Especially as Megan is looking for him.”

  “Megan? He’s wanted by the police? You don’t think he’s spying on your gathering, do you?”

  “Good gracious, surely not! Such a pleasant man, and so generous with his time for LonStar. Do you suspect him?”

  Nick frowned. “It doesn’t seem at all likely. He’s lived and worked in Port Mabyn for ages, since before I ended up there.”

  “You don’t happen to know where he came from?”

  “London.”