by Carola Dunn
“Wow!” The windowed wall behind him showed impenetrable fog. It filled the room with a pale, diffused light, its eeriness enhanced by the orchestral music coming from Nick’s record player.
It came to an end. Nick said, “Would you mind putting it on again at the beginning?” He remained intent on his painting.
Megan went over to the stereo, lifted the arm, and set it gently back at the beginning. Even to her uneducated ear, the music evoked the sea, the smooth swell and ebb of endlessly rolling waves. Though she loved the sea, it was definitely spooky. It sent shivers down her spine. Though that could have been because the room was decidedly chilly.
Turning away, she caught a glimpse of his picture in progress, which was equally eerie. “What is it?”
“The Isle of the Dead. Rachmaninoff.”
“Oh yes, I remember you talking about it.”
“I’ve got to catch this light. The fog’s suddenly crept up and it may go away any minute. Don’t distract me. I hope you haven’t come to bug me with official questions?”
“No, to thank you for pulling me out yesterday. And wondering if you know where Aunt Nell is.”
“She said something about going to Boscastle to ask fishermen about caves.”
“What? Why didn’t you stop her?”
“She’s an adult, Megan. I couldn’t stop her if I wanted to.”
“She’s a little old lady! And she could be running into danger!”
“I doubt it, but why don’t you go after her, if you’re worried. Boscastle’s not very big, and everyone in the village probably knows her. Someone will tell you which house she’s visiting.”
“When did she leave?”
He shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Half an hour? An hour? Hour and a half maybe.”
“You’re hopeless! You could at least have gone with her.”
“I’ve got work to do.” Nick turned back to his canvas.
“Bloody irresponsible!” Megan stormed out.
FOURTEEN
What Eleanor hadn’t reckoned on was that news of the rescue of a drowning man had spread. She should have expected it. Mr. Wharton, the manager of the Wellington Hotel, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Jellicoe, had no reason not to talk about the unusual events of the previous day. Eleanor’s dramatic entrance into the foyer, her still more dramatic call to emergency services, and the patching up of her minor injuries were inevitable fodder for gossip.
In cottage after cottage, she was invited into the kitchen for a cup of tea, with a bowl of water provided for Teazle. As she’d hoped, the husbands and sons who were fishermen were home, unable to go to sea, hanging about waiting for opening time. If the vicar’s wife had been with her, the visitors would have been ushered into the rarely used front parlour and the men would have made themselves scarce.
Polite queries as to Eleanor’s general health and well-being led to hopes that she had recovered from yesterday’s shock and thence to wondering about what exactly had happened.
After the second house, she declined the tea, but she repeated such details as she was able. Her listeners were disappointed that she couldn’t give an eyewitness account of her niece’s dramatic plunge into the billowing wave, not having been present. She had a feeling they would have liked her to make it up.
No one was aware that the man Megan had rescued was an Indian. Scumble had apparently succeeded in suppressing the fact. Eleanor didn’t know why he wanted it kept quiet, but it suited her. When she was asked about his identity, she just said he had been unconscious and unable to talk.
“Must ’a’ bin a furriner,” was the unanimous opinion, but by “foreigner” they meant not a Cornishman.
Only foreigners went sea bathing for pleasure and none but a great “gaupus” would choose Rocky Valley for a swim. Not that any of them had ever been there—hardworking people did not walk for pleasure, either, and taking a fishing boat into so narrow an inlet would be begging for trouble.
“It’s dangerous all along the cliffs round Bossiney Cove, isn’t it?” Eleanor asked ingenuously.
Sage heads nodded, but not until she reached the Hawkers’ house did her hint lead any further.
“Them cliffs, thet wurr where the Old Squire did his bit o’ wrecking,” quavered an ancient mariner seated in a rocking chair in the corner. His eyes were filmy with age, his hands knobbed with rheumatics.
“Now, Father,” said the lady of the house, a foreigner herself to judge from her speech, “the Old Squire died afore you was born.”
“Yas.” The wobbly head nodded. “An’ didn’t me granfer work for un? The stories un told we! It warn’t just the wrecking. Seems like there warn’t a business he didn’t own. Mining, quarrying, shipbuilding, buying and selling—farm stuff and ship stuff, and stuff that hadn’t paid no duty. An’ the women! Never married but that fond o’ women un were.”
“Father! That’s enough. Your granfer hadn’t ought to’ve talked like that to children.”
Assuming she was objecting to the women rather than the avoidance of duty, Eleanor pressed on with the subject that interested her. “He was in league with the smugglers, was he?” she asked. “The squire, I mean.”
The old man cackled. “Waren’t nothing going on hereabouts wi’out his say-so.”
“The caves must have been useful for hiding contraband till it was safe to bring it ashore. From the cliff walks, you can see quite a few caves.”
“Yas, but ’tain’t the ones you can see as they used. Stands to reason, if you can see ’em, so can the revenuers. There’s a couple or three you’d never find wi’out summun showed you. Granfer used to take us seal hunting—”
“Seal hunting!”
“Waren’t much in the way o’ smuggling b’then. O’ course, smuggling or hunting, you wouldn’t want to take a boat to them caves lessn it were dead calm and slack o’ the tide, but Granfer reckoned it were worth the risk. Sealskins and oil brought in a fair bit in them days. The seals sleep in the caves, see. You go in with a bright light and take ’em by surprise.” He rambled on about the bloody details, his voice sinking to a mumble as his daughter-in-law scolded him.
Eleanor realised she wasn’t going to get precise information from him about the location of the hidden caves. She turned to his son, who was sitting warming his hands on his mug of tea, one eye on the clock. “Did he ever take you, Mr. Hawker?”
He shook his head. “Not much call for seal oil these days! Nor much in the way of smuggling neither, and what there is, it’s drugs, which is what I don’t hold with.”
“I should hope not!” said Mrs. Hawker. “Funny you should ask, though, Mrs. Trewynn. Didn’t you say, Jack, there was a bloke yesterday, poking about down the harbour, asking about smuggling?”
“That’s right. He were hanging about when we come in wi’ the catch. Odd sort of bloke.”
“Odd?” Eleanor queried. “In what way?”
“I dunno.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It’s usually emmets wanting to know about the old days, or summun writing a book, or a copper’s nark—you can tell them a mile off. But this bloke, he was tearing along, too hurrysome to wait for answers.”
Trying to rush a Cornish fisherman was a mug’s game, Eleanor knew. He needed time to consider what he was going to say, whether the subject was smuggling or merely the weather.
The weather— “How long do you think the fog will last?”
“Might stay put a day or two or three. Might come creeping ashore later. Might disappear with the ebb o’ the tide. What we need is a nice sou’westerly to blow it away. I got lobster pots out there need tending.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “You’ll excuse me, Mrs. Trewynn, I’m meeting me buddies at the Napoleon for a game o’ darts.”
“I must be going, too.” Eleanor got up. She turned to thank old Mr. Hawker for his stories, only to find him fast asleep, still rocking gently.
Mrs. Hawker found a little something for the LonStar shop—salt and pepper shakers in the form of monkeys dress
ed as clowns. “A present from my sister-in-law. Fair turns my stomach those two sitting on the table staring at me. But summun’ll like ’em, I don’t doubt. I’ll just wrap ’em in a bit o’ newspaper for you.”
The garish clowns were added to the bits and bobs in Eleanor’s basket. She hurried round the corner to the house that was her main target, hoping she wouldn’t find Abel Tregeddle already departed for the Napoleon Inn. She hadn’t wasted her time, though. She knew now that there were indeed concealed caves in Bossiney Cove. With that information she might be able to pry the location from Abel.
He had told her a certain amount of smuggling still went on in Boscastle. He was a chatty man and had probably said more than he intended. The cagey way he had then shut up on the subject had suggested to her that he was involved. He must surely be familiar with the caves. Whether he’d be willing to tell her was another matter.
He’d certainly be curious about her reason for asking.
Eleanor tried to work out how little of the story she’d need to tell him. Not everything, she decided, but enough to upset Mr. Scumble. Too bad. She was quite willing to risk his wrath to do anything that might help the lifeboat men find those poor people quicker.
The Tregeddles’ cottage opened directly onto the narrow street. A large grey cat was asleep in the sun on the slate windowsill, its tail hanging down. The tip twitched. Teazle was usually very good with cats, but this was too much for her.
Barking, she reared up against the wall, dancing on her back legs. The cat whisked its tail away just in time and stood up, back arched, hissing and spitting. Naturally this incited Teazle to further frenzy.
As Eleanor pulled her away, the front door swung open.
“What the…!?” The small, wiry, weatherbeaten man recognised Eleanor. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Trewynn. Sounded like there was an Alsatian going for our Smoky. Quite a voice your little un’s got, hasn’t she?” He bent down and scratched under Teazle’s chin. By now the Westie’s rear end was wagging madly, while the cat was already apparently asleep, his tail carefully tucked up under his chin.
“I’m sorry. It was very naughty of her.”
“No harm done. Out collecting, are you?” He peered into her basket. “Looks like you’re doing nicely. Come in, come in. The wife was saying just now she has summat or other for your shop and she hoped you’d drop in soon.”
Eleanor hesitated. He had his cap in his hand, apparently on the point of going out, and he was the one she really wanted to talk to. But as he waved her in, Teazle accepted the invitation, dragging on the lead. Taken by surprise, Eleanor followed. Abel Tregeddle shut the front door and came after them.
Naturally, Teazle headed straight to the kitchen. The door was open and she trotted in, Eleanor in tow. Mrs. Tregeddle, a stout woman busy at the kitchen table, looked round at the click of toenails on the lino.
“Mrs. Trewynn, how nice to see you. Set yourself down, do.” She tossed a scrap of the meat she was chopping to Teazle. “We bin dying to hear what happened yest’day.”
“I told Mrs. Trewynn as you got summat for her shop,” Abel chided.
“I ’spect I can find something. You’ll have a cuppa, Mrs. Trewynn.” She filled the kettle at the sink and set it on the gas.
Eleanor was still sloshing about inside from the tea she’d already drunk, but Abel was more likely to stay and chat with a cup in his hand, she thought, so she accepted. Too late, she realised that having invented a donation to inveigle her in, he wasn’t likely to leave before hearing about the rescue. Resigning herself to further liquid intake, she recounted the story again, her own minor part and what the others had told her.
All the talking was giving her a dry throat. When the tea was made, she sipped it gladly.
As before, she omitted the young man’s race. She stressed the drama of Megan risking her life to save a stranger. “It’s a beautiful spot, but dangerous. Do you know it, Mr. Tregeddle?”
“Yas,” Abel admitted. “Took a boat in once, when I were a young duffer. But it’s risky even at high tide in a calm sea. No use setting pots if you can’t be sure when you’ll be able to check ’em.”
“A funny place to go for a swim,” said his wife, “but these young lads’ll do anything for a bit of a thrill. In a bad way, was he?”
“He was still unconscious when the ambulance took him away. But I heard later that he came round, just briefly, and he said something rather odd.”
As one, the Tregeddles leant forward eagerly. “What’d he say, then?” asked Abel.
“He said his family were stranded in a cave. What no one can work out is how they reached the cave in the first place, and if they could get in, why can’t they get out?”
“That’s easy. Went in by boat, climbed out to explore, didn’t tie it up secure. Landlubbers in a hired boat, could be. First thing a seaman learns is to be sure of his knots.”
“Oh, yes, that might explain it. The awful thing is that the lifeboat won’t be able to go looking for them because of the fog.”
“Whereabout is this cave supposed to be?” he asked warily.
“The boy couldn’t explain. It must be somewhere in Bossiney Cove, don’t you think? He couldn’t have survived a swim from farther away.”
“Likely not.”
“There are lots of caves. If they have to search all of them, I hate to think what condition the family will be in by the time they’re found—if they’re found. I’ve been told there are hidden caves, used by smugglers. I remember you saying, Mr. Tregeddle, there’s still some smuggling going on.”
“That’s as may be.”
“Suppose they chanced to come across one of the smugglers’ caves, and that’s where they’re stuck? That could be why no one has seen or heard them. They might never be found.”
Mrs. Tregeddle was aghast. “Oh, Abel, the whole family dead!”
Abel’s lips set in a thin line.
Eleanor played what she hoped was her ace in the hole. “The boy said his mother is dying. Even if he was exaggerating, even if they find them in the end, any unnecessary delay—”
“Abel, his mam! You can’t…” She faltered as her husband glowered at her.
“My niece risked her life.” Eleanor spoke quietly. He met her eyes, and she held his gaze. “What would you risk? Information given to me in confidence would be passed to the authorities without any mention of where it came from.” She paused. He looked down sulkily at the table, his weathered cheeks flushing. “What would you have to lose? A couple of convenient hiding places. Against several lives.”
FIFTEEN
Megan was late picking up DI Scumble.
“Where the hell you been, Pencarrow?”
For once the question was justified. Megan, having learnt from experience to turn the car in the narrow lane outside his house before announcing her arrival, had no excuse to delay answering.
“In Bodmin, sir.”
“Bodmin! Am I going to have to explain to Mr. Bentinck why he’s getting a complaint about trespassing from Egerton?”
“I hope not, sir,” Megan said cautiously.
“You got permission? From DI Pearce?” “Scepticism” was too mild a term for his tone.
“Well, not exactly. I didn’t think he’d be likely to give it. And I was in a hurry, because of picking you up, sir.”
He sighed heavily. “All right, explain.”
“I went to Camelford first, of course. I’m convinced the people at the restaurant there don’t know anything.”
“A good detective is never convinced without incontrovertible evidence.”
Megan bit her lip. “I’m pretty sure.”
“That’ll do to be going on with. I’ll withhold judgment till I read your report.”
“I asked whether they knew any other Indians locally. I think—I hope—I managed to make it sound like casual chitchat.”
“Hmm.”
“Mr. Khan mentioned a family running an Indian restaurant in Bodmin. I had no idea there
was one. I tried ringing the super—Superintendent Bentinck, that is, not Egerton—but he was busy. It seemed to me important to get to them right away, so I went.”
“As you’re not too worried about repercussions, I take it you’re convinced they know nothing that requires further investigation.”
“I’m pretty sure, sir.”
“You were lucky. If we’d had to pull them in for further questioning, you’d have been knee-deep in the sh … soup. Not but what we still may be,” he added gloomily, “if you’re wrong about them. Anything else I need to know about?”
“Well … From Camelford, as I was so close to the coast, I went over there to look at the fog. It really is incredibly thick, sir. From the LonStar shop, you could hardly see the gallery next door, let alone the bridge and the harbour.”
From the corner of her eye she could see the scowl he aimed at her. She concentrated on slipping the car in front of an ancient lorry chugging round the roundabout towards them. As a distraction, it didn’t work for long.
“Port Mabyn,” he said in a long-suffering voice.
“It’s the closest point on the coast to Camelford, sir.”
“I daresay. So, how is Auntie doing today?”
“I don’t know, sir. At least, I suppose she must have recovered okay, because she apparently went to Boscastle looking for smugglers.”
“She what?” Scumble exploded.
“That’s what I was told.”
“Who by?”
“Gresham.”
“Oh, him. Did you check with Mrs. Stearns?”
“No, sir.” She’d nearly gone straight after Aunt Nell, until she realised what the time was. Aunt Nell couldn’t really come to any harm. Everyone knew her … “I was in a hurry to get to Bodmin and back to pick you up.”
“Late,” he grumbled, coming full circle.
Megan dropped him off in front of the nick, in the Market Square (actually a triangle), and parked the car in the police lot behind St. Mary Magdalene.
“How many dents? Scratches?” asked Sergeant Orton, the mechanic in charge. “Does it need petrol?”
“None; and I didn’t look at the gauge.”
