by Carola Dunn
“Don’t you dare say anything of the sort!”
“Right, baas,” said Tariro, laughing. “I’d better just let that formidable lady deal with it herself.”
They crossed the A39 and plunged again into the lanes. “Nearly there. And nearly dinner-time. If you’re lucky, Lady Bellowe will make Sir Edward wait until after eating to blast you to smithereens. I definitely need to fortify myself before facing him.”
The clouds still hung over the coast, so it was pitch-dark when Megan drove round the hotel and dropped Tariro at the tower entrance. She waited a moment to make sure the door was opened to him, then sped off round to the front.
The receptionist’s shocked stare suggested that her wanderings on the moor had not left her appearance unscathed. She hurried upstairs and knocked on Ken’s door.
She heard hasty strides crossing the room. The door opened. “Megan, where the hell have you … Good lord, what have you been up to? You look like something the cat dragged in. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. But—”
“You’ve missed all the excitement.”
“I have? What excitement?”
“What we came for, of course. Spies.” He stood aside. “Come in and I’ll tell you.”
“You’ve caught a spy?”
“Ssshh. Come on, come in. We can’t talk about it here.”
Right then, Megan didn’t give a hoot about spies. But it was easier to go in than to argue. She sank into the only chair, avoiding looking at the mirror. She didn’t want to see what it would show her. “Well? You’re serious? A nosy Chinese restaurant proprietor turned up?”
Ken sat on the bed. “No, a couple of Germans.”
“Germans? But—”
“Almost certainly East German, and the Russians get the DDR to do some of their dirty work for them. They don’t stick out like sore thumbs in the West, as Soviets tend to. Or perhaps they have interests of their own in Africa, who knows.”
“Who cares? What makes you think they aren’t perfectly ordinary West German tourists?”
“Who’ve been misinformed about the Cornish climate? Come off it! No, it was Nontando who gave me the tip-off. We were sitting in the car in the parking lot—”
“Snogging.”
“MYOB. At least I was here and keeping my eyes open.”
Megan could think of a rude response or two to that. She kept her mouth shut. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was jealous. Which she wasn’t. Her mind flew back to Nick … but she’d better listen.
“A couple with rucksacks came up the drive,” Ken went on. “Nontando recognised the woman at once. She’s a postgrad at LSE, in the English department.”
“Sounds perfectly respectable.”
“Good cover. The odd part is that she’s been sucking up to Nontando and a couple of other Zimbabwean students, although—and Nontando isn’t very specific about this. It must be painful. I gather she has a strong impression that the woman is uncomfortable around dark-skinned people.”
“Perhaps she’s trying to overcome—”
“Will you just listen, Megan, or we’re not going to get anywhere! In spite of the efforts that have been made to keep this bloody conference secret, it’s possible something about it and its location has leaked out. It’s possible—grant me this!—that the powers vying to gain influence in Zimbabwe are interested; otherwise you and I wouldn’t be here. It’s possible the woman and her companion are East German and have been sent to find out what they can. Right?”
“I suppose so. Why are they all so desperate to control a country that’s nothing but tobacco farms?”
“Because the tobacco farms are sitting on top of huge mineral deposits. Or next door anyway.”
“Oh! Tariro never mentioned that!”
“Nontando did.”
“You didn’t already know?”
“I don’t keep tabs on the economies of all our ex-colonies.”
“Good. That makes me feel better. So what did you do about Nontando’s German and her friend? Even if you knew for certain they’re spies, you couldn’t arrest them. And warning them off would just convince them they’re right.”
“Obviously. As soon as they’d disappeared into the hotel, I drove Nontando round to the back and immured her in her tower with dire threats about staying hidden. She doesn’t really care whether Sir Edward’s machinations are kept secret, and she doesn’t take to being told what to do, so I can only hope she’ll be sensible.”
“Didn’t someone say she favours the Chinese version of communism? They’re even worse than the Soviets for telling people what to do.”
Ken laughed. “She expects to be one of those telling other people what to do, à la Madame Mao. She made me climb over to the castle this afternoon.”
“No, did she really? I must remember to congratulate her.”
“I think she’ll behave herself, though, at least as long as Sir Edward is her host. Once I’d stowed her away to the best of my ability, I went to have a chat with your barman pal. He couldn’t tell me much, because the Germans hadn’t been into the bar. They just arrived this afternoon, while we were out—”
“Ken,” Megan interrupted, noticing the time, “can you cut it short, or you’ll have to tell me the rest later. I really must go and make myself decent and report to Sir Edward. It’s quarter of an hour since I dropped off Tariro.”
“All right, long story short: Later on, I met them in the bar. We got matey and in the course of a friendly chat I mentioned that I’d come to Cornwall for a weekend with my girlfriend. We don’t see much of each other, I told them, since you had transferred down here to the Cornish police to be near your family but I stayed in town because I was happy working at Scotland Yard. They pricked up their ears at police and almost cringed at Scotland Yard. You should have seen their faces.”
“Ken…”
“I’m getting there. Inge suddenly remembered having promised to ring the aunt she’s living with, who’s not well. I suspect they’ll be leaving in the morning.”
“And how did you explain your girlfriend’s absence?”
“Lying down with a queasy tum after lunch. Another inducement to depart. I just had to hope if you came in, I’d be able to warn you before you blew it. Which brings us back to where were you?” He grinned. “And what are you going to tell Sir Edward to excuse your dereliction of duty? And taking whatsisname with you, into the bargain?”
“Nothing but the truth.” Megan stood up wearily. “I was hunting down a couple of murderers—acquaintances of ours, as it happens—and rescuing their hostages. Tariro was a great help.”
She left him speechless.
TWENTY-NINE
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Trewynn,” Dawson said apologetically as they drove through the outskirts of Bodmin, “I’ve been racking my brains to think of an excuse to drive you to Plymouth, but the guv’nor would go through the roof.”
“Good heavens no. I wouldn’t dream of asking you. Besides, I hope neither Nick nor Alan Freeth will be sent there. I wonder why they were brought to Bodmin?”
“The ambulance came from here, the one that picked them up. The other was from Launceston. That’ll be for the body, when the SOCO’s had a go at it and it’s brought down off the moor.”
“But Rajendra practises at Launceston hospital.”
“Dr. Prthnavi? He went with them in the ambulance. I’m sure he’ll hand them over to the best doc available.”
“Yes, of course, but…”
“I’ll tell you what, while you’re at the hospital waiting to find out what’s what, I’ll go and get us takeaway. You’ll feel better after eating something. At least, I know I will.”
“I am hungry. I hadn’t realised. That sounds like a good idea.”
“Chinese? Or there’s a nice little Indian place in Bodmin. I bet you like Indian?”
“I do, but if we’re going to eat in the hospital waiting room—if they let us—it had better be Chinese. Not everyone i
s keen on the smell of curry.”
“More fools them. The dog must be peckish, too. Does she like Indian?”
“If it’s edible, she’ll eat it.”
“Right, then, Indian it is. I’ve given myself a craving, talking about it. We’ll eat in the car.”
The very thought of food heartened Eleanor. When they reached Bodmin Cottage Hospital, she was ready to do battle for information if necessary.
Dawson stopped in front of the hospital. “I’ll wait for a few minutes in case they say there’s no news yet, or something. If you have to wait, we might as well go and eat in comfort and come back after.”
Telling Teazle to stay, Eleanor went through the swinging glass door into the lobby. The girl at the reception desk was on the phone. She smiled and nodded but put her finger to her lips.
“Dr. Vine, I have Mr. Coates for you on line one.” She pressed a couple of buttons on the phone; then her voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Prthnavi, there’s an urgent call for you on line two. Please respond ASAP. Dr. Prthnavi, emergency, line two.” She pressed another button and turned her attention to Eleanor. “Visiting hours seven to eight, madam.”
Eleanor glanced at the clock above the girl’s head. It was ten past eight already. “I just wanted to enquire—”
“All the medical staff are busy. We just had a couple of patients arrive in A & E, so—”
“They’re the ones I want to enquire about.”
“The doctors are still evaluating them. You can wait, but unless you’re next of kin, you’d do better to phone in the morning.”
Eleanor had to admit that she was not next of kin. She was trying to decide whether to wait or rush out in hopes that Dawson was still there, when Dr. Prthnavi appeared, struggling into his overcoat. Eleanor went to help him.
He greeted her with unexpected enthusiasm. “Namaste, Eleanor. Is it possible you are able to assist me? A patient of mine is about to give birth. A nervous young woman, and there are complications. I came by police car and ambulance, so I have no means to reach her. If you could drive me—”
“I came by police car, too.” As she spoke, Eleanor hustled him towards the door. “If we’re lucky, he’ll still be— Yes! Mr. Dawson, Dr. Prthnavi has an urgent case and no transport. Would you mind taking him—”
“Launceston way? Right, hop in, Doc.”
“There you go, Rajendra, you couldn’t be in better hands.” Faster hands, anyway.
“You coming along, Mrs. Trewynn? Or I can come back for you.”
Eleanor hesitated, but she was desperately anxious to know about Nick and Freeth. “I think I’ll stay, then. Thanks so much, Mr. Dawson.”
She waved them off, then realised they’d left in such a hurry that the dog was still in the car. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed aloud. Teazle would be worried but safe, she assured herself. Dawson wouldn’t be gone long, with an emergency giving him an excuse to drive fast. Thank goodness the fog had cleared.
Meanwhile, she might as well pop along to the Indian restaurant and have a bite to eat. She really was extremely hungry.
Some forty minutes later, she returned to the hospital feeling much better and more hopeful. The receptionist was typing now. She looked up, not at all pleased to see Eleanor back, but she said, “I told Dr. Vine you’re a friend of Dr. Prthnavi. He said he’d have a word with you if you returned. Could I have your name, please? I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Mrs. Trewynn. Thank you.”
Eleanor took a seat in one of the excruciatingly uncomfortable plastic chairs lined up against the wall. The people—men, no doubt—who designed such things without regard to human anatomy ought to be forced to sit in them for a few hours before they started mass production.
After five minutes, her back hurt, which it rarely did, regardless of her age. She got up and strolled over to look out of the glass door, wondering how long Dr. Vine would keep her waiting and how long it would be before Dawson came to pick her up. A vaguely familiar car pulled up just in front of the hospital.
From it the tall, stooped form of Roland Bulwer extricated itself, not without difficulty. He went round to the other side to open the driver’s door, and Jocelyn Stearns stepped out.
She was wearing a beautiful tapestry coat that Eleanor hadn’t seen before. Though dressed almost entirely from the LonStar shop, Joce was undoubtedly the best-dressed vicar’s wife in Cornwall. To be fair, she always had one of the other volunteers price clothes she wanted to buy, though she did have the advantage of making her choice before they were moved from storeroom to shop.
She advised Eleanor on her purchases, too, but Eleanor just didn’t have the right figure for elegance.
As Eleanor opened the glass door to go and greet her and Mr. Bulwer, the rear car door opened and a plaintive voice said, “Jocelyn, my dear, I’m afraid I can’t undo the safety belt.” The vicar had come with them. Timothy Stearns’s usual transport was a Vespa. On it he tootled happily and accident-free round his parishes, but somehow he still hadn’t managed to master the intricacies of the newfangled seat belts.
“Coming, dear. Eleanor! I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“It’s a long story, Joce. Mr. Bulwer, I’m so sorry Alan was hurt.” She offered him both her hands and he took them in a convulsive grasp. His hands were icy. “I was just waiting for the doctor to come and tell me how he’s doing, and Nick. Come inside.”
Ever courteous, he gave her his arm and opened the door for her, though he was much more in need of support. As the door swung to behind the Stearnses, the receptionist rose to her feet and began a flustered protest, and a large, pink, harassed man in a white coat, stethoscope round his neck, arrived from the rear. His face was rosy as a baby’s, and thinning white hair with the scalp showing through added to the overall impression of pinkness.
He frowned at the four intruders and asked, “Mrs. Trewynn?”
“I’m Eleanor Trewynn. Dr. Vine, I presume. I’ve come to ask after your two A & E patients, Nicholas Gresham and Alan Freeth.”
“I’m afraid I can give information only to close relatives.”
“That’s all right. I’m Nick’s aunt.” At least he wasn’t insisting on next of kin, unlike the receptionist. “Aunt” was a permissible fib, Eleanor considered, in anticipation—or at least in hope—of becoming his aunt by marriage one of these days. Joce gave her a shocked look.
“And I, Doctor,” said Timothy in his gentle manner, “I am the vicar of Port Mabyn. Both Mr. Gresham and Mr. Freeth are my parishioners.” He patted Jocelyn’s shoulder. “This is my wife and my right hand, Mrs. Stearns.”
“Very well. And…?” Vine turned to Roland Bulwer.
“I’m a lawyer.” His voice was tightly controlled. “The name is Bulwer. Alan—Alan Freeth—is my partner, and I hold his power of attorney.”
“It’s most unorthodox,” the doctor complained. He hummed as he considered his options in the face of such unorthodoxy. “You’d better all come through here.”
They followed him into a small office walled with grey metal filing cabinets. Seating himself behind the desk, he waved the ladies to a pair of the nasty plastic chairs in front of it, leaving the men to stand.
“Yes, well.” After this unilluminating beginning, Vine took a pair of rimless spectacles from his breast pocket, put them on, and peered over them at his audience. Then he straightened some papers on the desk and set them aside with neat precision. He ran his hands through what was left of his hair.
“Doctor, please!” burst from Bulwer.
“Hm. I daresay the police have informed you that my patients’ injuries are the result of some sort of criminal activity.”
“Dear me,” said the vicar, “this is very shocking and most distressing.”
Dr. Vine ignored him. “As a result, I have to be more than usually cautious in what I say, so as not to compromise their investigation. I can tell you that both have severe contusions over their entire bodies. Mr. Gresham says both were hit on
the head with a blunt instrument. My colleague, Dr. Prthnavi—an acquaintance of yours, I gather, Mrs. Trewynn?”
“Yes, indeed. A good friend.”
“Dr. Prthnavi has found indications that such is the case. He’s better versed in these fine distinctions than I, being a police surgeon. If it is so, then Mr. Freeth appears to have been hit considerably harder than Mr. Gresham. In Dr. Prthnavi’s expert opinion. The significance of the difference, if any, is a matter for the police.”
“‘Out of practice,’” Eleanor murmured, “because of being in prison.”
“What? What’s that?”
“Just something I ought to tell the police, if I didn’t already.”
“Never mind that,” cried Bulwer. “How badly is he—are they hurt?”
“Gresham is badly bruised, has a cracked rib or two, both shoulders wrenched, with a possible torn tendon, and what appears to be a mild concussion. He should be out of here in twenty-four to forty-eight hours. He spoke of someone called Megan. I’m not sure who…” He looked at them interrogatively.
“Megan is my niece,” said Eleanor. “I’ll see her tomorrow, if not tonight, and I’ll pass on any message.”
“Perhaps I’d better write it down.” He took a prescription pad from his pocket and scribbled a few words. Eleanor hoped they were more legible than the majority of prescriptions.
He didn’t fold the paper and, his writing being surprisingly clear, she couldn’t help reading it as he passed it to her. “Give Megan my love.” She had to suppress a smile as the doctor continued.
“Freeth, I’m afraid, is not so lucky. Besides even worse bruising, his concussion is severe. I would prefer that he be in a hospital with more facilities, but I believe moving him is a worse choice. I have requested the advice of a brain specialist from Plymouth. He’s on his way.”
Bulwer buried his head in his hands. “Oh lord, oh lord, oh lord!” He raised a haggard face. “May I see him?”
