by Carola Dunn
“Perhaps they worked out how to read the map,” said Megan as Tariro reported to Launceston.
The road was wider and straighter than the lane along the Fowey. Inevitably the van pulled away again. They left hedges behind, though. As they ascended gradually towards the moors, Eleanor caught glimpses of the roof of the van over the banked stone walls.
Better still, she had a clear view when it reached a Y-junction and branched off to the left.
“Towards Upton,” she said with satisfaction. “If only Dawson gets there in time to head them off!”
Rough moorland spread on either side now. Weirdly shaped gorse bushes and hawthorn rose from the rough, tussocky grass and heather, and sheep grazed freely right beside the road. Tariro was thrilled by the sight of a herd of wild ponies. Here and there, the incongruous ruins of mine engine houses remained as tumbledown witnesses to the industrial history of this desolate place.
Eleanor loved the moor—on a sunny day. With low clouds hiding the crest of the hills and wisps of mist drifting across their way, it was dank and unwelcoming.
“Perfect for the Hound of the Baskervilles,” Tariro commented.
The windscreen started fogging up. Megan wound down her window a few inches. The chilly air battled the car heater for supremacy. Overall, the heater won, but cold currents circulated. Eleanor was glad to be wearing a warm jacket.
The road narrowed. Contending with sheep, ponies, and mist, Megan slowed down.
“L6, Dawson is at Upton. How far away are you?”
Frowning at the map, Eleanor said, “About three miles? We haven’t gone through Minions yet.”
Tariro relayed their position. “Bad driving conditions,” he added. “Patchy fog, getting worse.”
“Can you see the target vehicle?”
“No. Not for several minutes.”
“Could it have turned off the road without you seeing it?”
“Yes,” said Eleanor, “but none of the turnings appear to go anywhere. At least till we get to Minions, they’re just farm tracks. And even the streets in Minions all seem to peter out at farms or quarries.”
“They could have gone off the road and doubled back,” Megan said gloomily.
“Roger, L6. L13 is coming to meet you.”
“I hope he isn’t going to run into us!”
Scumble’s voice took over from Tina. “Pencarrow, if you meet Dawson without seeing the van, you’ll have to turn back and see if you can find it. All roads east are covered, so they can’t leave Cornwall, but if they go to ground—I’m worried about the witnesses—hostages—or whatever they are.”
“Believe me, sir, so am I.”
“So find ’em,” he growled. “Launceston, over.”
Eleanor, busy with the map and with looking out for the van, had managed to put Nick’s plight to the back of her mind. Now the full force of the horror flooded back. Was he still alive? And if so, what was Victor Stone’s purpose in kidnapping him and poor Alan Freeth?
Freeth was going to be upset by Mrs. Mason’s death. Upset, or devastated? Eleanor couldn’t guess. Their relationship was still a complete mystery.
Realising her attention was wandering, she dragged it back to focus on the road ahead. The white mist, perfect camouflage for a white vehicle, eddied and swirled past as the car set it in motion. Ahead, apart from the slow, steady drift from west to east, it was still. Which must mean it hadn’t been recently disturbed, which meant the van was not just ahead. But whether it had passed long enough before for the air currents to disperse or had turned off somewhere behind them, there was no way to know.
Eleanor dismissed her fruitless speculation as the Minions sign appeared. Before she spoke, Tariro had reported it.
The village might as well have been deserted for all they saw of its inhabitants, though curtained windows glowed dimly. A couple of side streets led off their road, “But they don’t seem to go anywhere,” said Eleanor again as they passed the Cheesewring pub, a welcoming lamp illuminating its sign. “That looks very inviting,” she added wistfully.
“Doesn’t it!” Tariro exclaimed.
Megan braked. “There’s no reason on earth why I shouldn’t drop you off here. My guv’nor would be delighted.”
“Not likely!”
“No thank you, dear. I won’t be able to relax until I see Nick safe and sound, and as long as I might be able to help—”
A police car with a flashing blue light pulled up next to them on the opposite side of the street, blocking it.
“Dawson,” said Megan, opening her window all the way.
The detective constable had already opened his. In the passenger seat beside him, a uniformed officer was reporting their meeting. Another stepped out from the backseat, closing the door behind him.
“The guv’nor sent an extra man for you, Sarge. No sign of the van?”
“It’s vanished. Must have driven off up a farm track.”
The bobby in the street walked round the back of Megan’s car.
Dawson tut-tutted. “If they watched you drive past and then went back the other way, we’re f—fried,” he amended as he noticed Eleanor’s face beyond Megan.
“There’s a Bodmin car on the way.”
The bobby came to the front passenger door, saw Eleanor, turned towards the back door, and opened it.
Megan asked, “They couldn’t have passed you in the mist?”
“Not a chance. It’s pretty clear back to Launceston.”
“It’s coming in from the west.”
The bobby slid into the backseat and yelped as Teazle greeted him with her usual enthusiasm.
“It’s all right,” said Tariro, “she doesn’t bite.”
Looking back, Eleanor saw the constable do a double-take. “U-u-uh…” he stuttered, fending off Teazle’s licks. “Uh, I’m glad to hear it. Thank you…, sir.”
Meanwhile, Scumble’s voice came over the radio. “So between you, you’ve lost them? Let’s hope they’re just lying low. Each of you continue in the direction you’re facing and investigate every possible turning.”
“Yes, sir,” said Megan, and Eleanor heard Dawson echo the words from the other car.
“All right, get going.” As the cars began to move, he added grimly, “And in case you were wondering, Mrs. Mason’s death was homicide.”
In silence, Megan drove on a few hundred feet, then turned left off the road. A track, little more than wide enough for a single car, led straight ahead, and another went off to the right. Between them was a car park. She stopped.
“Homicide,” said Tariro, his voice hushed. “That means it was murder?”
“Murder or manslaughter,” Megan said curtly. “That’s for a jury to decide. No one in the car park. We’ll keep left.” She continued along the track, which disappeared into the mist ahead.
A moment later, Dawson’s flashing blue light appeared on their left.
“Aunt Nell?”
“The map doesn’t show these tracks. The scale’s too small. Or do I mean big? He must have turned back to check the side street.”
Tariro pointed: “Look, there’s a bit joining our track to his.”
As he spoke, Dawson saw it too and turned towards them. His car and Megan’s met nose-to-nose at right angles. Eleanor rolled down her window.
“Hello, Mrs. Trewynn,” Dawson said cheerfully. “Sarge, d’you want us to check this one or will you?”
Megan leaned across in front of Eleanor. “You might as well, as you’re on it already. For pity’s sake, turn off your roof light. You can use it when you’re sure you want them to know who and where you are.”
“Right y’are, Sarge.” The blue light went off.
“And no headlamps.”
“Headlamps just reflect off the fog anyway. Good job we’ve got fog lamps.”
They all gazed up the slope to where the low clouds met the higher ground as a solid-looking bank of dense fog, lying like a barrier across the hillside. The patches of mist they had encou
ntered so far were mere tatters from its edge. More abandoned mine engine houses stood like watchtowers guarding the moor.
Eleanor glanced at the dashboard clock. The sun was just setting somewhere beyond the fog. Increasing darkness wasn’t going to make it any easier to save Nick and Alan Freeth.
Dawson backed away at an alarming speed. At a more moderate pace, Megan continued up the track. It had grass growing up the centre. On both sides was the tough mooorland grass, relieved by twisted hawthorns, patches of gorse and heather, and randomly scattered boulders.
“Your name, Constable?”
“Barnicot, Sergeant.”
“Well, Barnicot, for reasons I won’t go into, I have with me my aunt, Mrs. Trewynn, and … If we’re to work together, we need names. And Mr. Tariro, whose name is not to be bandied about, Barnicot, if you value your badge.”
“Mum’s the word, Sarge.” Not unnaturally, the constable sounded baffled. He was a comfortingly large, solid individual.
“All the windows open, please, and everyone, keep your eyes open.”
As they approached the mass of fog, the track became narrower and rougher, its edges ill-defined. The car jolted over stones and into potholes. The shaking would have reduced the Incorruptible to its component parts, Eleanor thought, with a sigh, about her car, doubtless irremediably rusted by now.
The fringed edge of the fog, which had looked so solid, was as ill-defined as the track. At first, mist billowed around them, yellow in the fog lamps’ glare, barely impeding visibility. It thickened as Megan drove on, until she stopped and said, “Barnicot, you’re going to have to hop out and walk in front with a torch. Do you have one? Good. Otherwise, we’d end up in a bog or take out the transmission on one of those rocks.”
The constable hopped. He walked on at a fast pace, keeping the torch beam playing on the driver’s side of the track and casting an occasional nervous glance behind him. Megan kept the car a steady couple of yards from his boot heels.
“If they came up here and drove off the road,” said Tariro, “we’ll never see them.”
“We have to check anyway.”
“If they have any sense at all,” said Eleanor, “they’ll have stayed on the track. You don’t know the moors, Tariro. They’re full of hazards, from bogs to old mine shafts.”
“Poisonous snakes? Man-eating beasts?”
Megan laughed. “You don’t have to worry about any but the human beasts. And if we find them, you’re to leave them to me and PC Barnicot.” She paused, but if she was waiting for his consent, she didn’t get it. She didn’t press him. “Aunt Nell, I haven’t any reason to think they’re any more familiar with the perils of moorland than Tariro. They’re townees.”
“Victor Stone was in the prison on Dartmoor. He’s sure to have heard stories about escapees lost on the moors.”
“I wish I knew more about him. That type often believes mistakes are something only other people make. Too clever by half. That’s why they land behind bars.”
The fog thinned for a few yards. On one side, a stretch of sedge and marsh grass was a timely example of the dangers of wandering on the moor, as Eleanor pointed out to Tariro.
“Got it. Green means don’t go.”
The grey veil closed in again. PC Barnicot trudged on for a hundred feet or so, then stopped and waved the torch at the car. Megan stopped and he called out, “Looks like something went off the track here, Sarge. Can’t tell how long ago.”
“I’ll take a look.”
Tariro followed her. “Need a native tracker?”
Barnicot stared at him.
“Are you one?” Megan asked.
“No, actually. Sorry, I was being facetious.”
“Pity. Take a look anyway.”
The three of them bent over the side of the track, shining three torch beams on whatever Barnicot had seen. What was it? Eleanor had to know. She and Teazle went to join them.
The track veered slightly to the right at that point. Splitting off leftward was a much fainter track, a stretch a few feet wide where the grass grew thinly.
“It’s where one of them old mine railways used to run,” said Barnicot. “The grass still don’t grow proper ’cause the rails were fixed to slabs of stone from the Cheesewring quarry. They took ’em up—the rails—for salvage in the first war.”
“Thanks for the history lesson, Constable,” Megan said tartly.
“’S true. My granfer was a miner.”
“I daresay. More to the point, it’s obviously now more for hikers than vehicles.”
“But look here, Sarge.” Barnicot crouched and pointed. “If you slant your torch from the side, you can see the grass along that way is flattened-like about a wheel width apart.”
“Constable Barnicot is your native tracker!” crowed Tariro.
“Well spotted, Barnicot,” Megan said. “The grass would spring back quite quickly, I imagine. It does look as if they went that way.”
Eleanor didn’t fancy driving along the old mine railway, with barely a few inches clearance on either side. “Both tracks are going towards the Cheesewring,” she pointed out. “And the one we’re on is much wider. It’d be awfully easy to drive off the side of this one.”
“You’re right, Aunt Nell. There’s a fair chance they’ve come to grief not too far away. Let’s go and see.”
Not the response Eleanor had hoped for. Suppressing a sigh, she climbed back into the car with Teazle, who gave a yip of protest.
“For pity’s sake, keep her quiet, Aunt Nell. We don’t want her broadcasting our approach.”
Eleanor put her hand round the little dog’s muzzle and said softly, “Hush!” It usually worked, at least for a while. Teazle curled up in her lap, a warm spot in the cold twilight.
Megan turned down the loudspeaker.
They jolted over the ridge. Bumping over the stone sleepers, they followed Barnicot. He walked on ahead up the middle of the path, his torch held behind him now, so that Megan could aim the car at the centre. She had little room for error.
Eleanor kept watch out to the side, staring into the fluctuating fog, straining to see into its depths, sometimes an intangible wall, sometimes pale, filmy veils. If only the murderous pair had chosen a bright-coloured van to make their getaway! The grassy ground on her side was not very different-looking from the surface of the path. If they had driven off course, they could have gone quite some way before encountering trouble.
A little farther on, the path was edged with sizeable boulders that must have been cleared out of the way to put the rails in. For a few hundred feet, Megan had no fear of going astray, but the fog closed in denser than ever, so they moved no faster. Eleanor blinked and rubbed her tired eyes.
The constable, still in the vanguard, turned and waved his torch. Megan stopped the car and he came back to speak to her.
“The rail bed’s cut through solid rock just ahead, Sarge. There’s stuff tumbled down from the sides that you don’t want to hit.”
“All right, Barnicot.”
“There’s a bit of a stream wandering down the slope, but it’s not deep. I reckon rainfall off the hill gets funnelled down the zawn and scours it out, ’cause there’s no grass growing. Plenty of mud for tyre tracks, though. For sartin sure, someone came this way since the rain last night.”
“Good! You go on ahead and see how it looks farther on. “
The constable strode off. He disappeared after a couple of yards into dense fog that some quirk of nature had collected in the cutting. It was darker in its depths than on the open moor, too, the rugged walls on either side shutting out what little light remained. They were barely visible, though not much more than an arm’s length from the car. How high they reached was impossible to tell.
Megan drove up the chasm at a slow but steady pace. The car jerked over unavoidable rubble, but after a short distance they were back on the grass-grown stone sleepers. The mist had once more thinned, but night was almost upon them.
Teazle raised
her head. Conscious of the movement and afraid she might bark, Eleanor glanced down. “Hush, girl.”
Teazle’s nostrils quivered, then flared. She stood up on her back feet, front paws against the bottom of the window frame. Head high, she sniffed the air. Looking up at Eleanor, she whined.
“Megan, the dog smells something.”
“A rabbit. A sheep, a horse, a fox—”
“Or a person, a person she knows.” Tariro’s eyes gleamed as he shifted across the seat to Eleanor’s side of the car. Their gazes strove to pierce the grey veils in the near dark.
“Rubbish!”
“You never know, Megan. Do stop for just a moment.”
“Look!” Tariro managed to shout in a near whisper. He pointed. “Over there. No, it’s gone. No! Look!”
At that moment, Barnicot swung round and waved his torch wildly. Megan stopped the car and he came back at a run.
“They went off, Sarge! Somewhere near here. Just ahead, one of the blocks of the rail bed has sunk a bit, crooked-like. The dip’s full of mud, but there’s no tyre marks.”
Tariro jumped out of the car.
“Stop!” Megan hissed at him. “I’m not having you disappear next.” She got out and went round the front of the car to meet him. “As it is, I dread to think what Sir Edward’s going to say. What did you see?”
“A light.”
“Headlights?”
“No, a rectangle. Like a window, but tilted.” He pointed again, and Megan stared. “It’s gone again. The mist keeps moving.”
“There’s a bit of a breeze coming up. With luck, it’ll clear out the lot.”
Eleanor felt on the floor for Teazle’s lead, hooked her up, and got out to join them. Teazle tugged on the lead. When Eleanor didn’t follow, the little dog squatted and peed, then returned resignedly to Eleanor’s side. All four humans gazed in the direction Tariro was pointing, and suddenly there it was, just as he’d described it, a tilted rectangle of pale yellowish light.
“The back doors of the van,” said Megan.
“Looks like it came to grief,” Barnicot suggested. “Quarter of a mile or so, I reckon. Want me to take a look, Sarge?”
“No. Let’s not rush blindly into a situation we don’t understand.” In Megan’s voice, Eleanor heard an echo of her own fear that in the back of the van they would find the bodies of Nick and Freeth.
