by Simon Brett
In strong contrast to this scene of dilapidation was the terrace of cottages a mere hundred yards away. Probably decayed too after the Cornish tin mining industry failed in the late nineteenth century, at some point they had been refurbished to a very high standard. The roofs were neatly slated and each of the four cottages had a white-fenced front garden with well-tended gravel path and beds of hardy shrubs and grasses. The cottage nearest the mine – presumably the one that the Locke family kept for their own use – had an extension built to the side that probably doubled its size.
The setting on that September evening was magically serene, but the landscape also carried hints of great harshness. The few trees leaned away from the sea, cowering as if in fear of its cruel potential. In a winter storm, when the rain and spray lashed against them, the little cluster of buildings would be a bleak – even frightening – place to be.
The situation was certainly dramatic, a ready inspiration for any over-imaginative child who wanted to create an alternative universe. Carole wondered whether the old pump house had been the building which the young Rowley Locke had creatively turned into the Castle of Biddet Rock.
Adjacent to the furthest cottage there was a clearly marked hard standing area for cars, its only occupant a beat-up green Nissan so old that when bought it was called a Datsun. As Carole brought the Renault to a neat halt, a tall red-haired girl emerged from the largest cottage. If she hadn’t known who to expect, Carole would still have recognized her. Mopsa and Dorcas were absolutely identical twins. Though dressed in saggy jeans and a faded blue T–shirt, the girl still carried something of her sister’s Pre-Raphaelite elegance. She came towards them, beaming a professional welcome and lisped, “Mrs Metarius?”
“Yes,” replied Jude without hesitation. “And this is my friend Cindy Shepherd.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” said Mopsa, fortunately not seeing the thunderstruck expression on the face of the thin grey-haired woman. Carole was looking away, busy putting a lead on Gulliver. His long period of incarceration in the back of the Renault, compounded by the amazing new cocktail of smells that greeted him when he got out, had brought the dog to a peak of panting Labrador excitement.
“If you come with me,” said Mopsa, “I’ll give you the keys to Number Three and you can fill out the paperwork for me.”
She led them back to the door of Number One and said it was fine to bring Gulliver in. But given his ebullient state and the possibility of there being breakables inside, Carole instead tied the protesting dog by his lead to a ring attached to the stone frontage.
The interior of the cottage did not maintain the promise of its exterior. The hallway was untidy with hanging waterproofs and abandoned gumboots. And the sitting room into which Mopsa led them was also a mess. The table was covered with newspapers, magazines and congealed coffee cups; the grey plastic of the outdated computer on the work surface was smeared with many fingerprints. About the cottage hung the same air of neglect and lack of investment as in the family’s home in Chichester.
Mopsa herself also looked grubby. Her T–shirt wasn’t that clean and there was a mark of what looked like soot across the back of one of her hands. Despite all this, she made no apology for the chaos in the cottage and she seemed to share the general Locke view that people should take them as they found them – and be grateful for the privilege. The girl riffled through papers in an overfilled drawer, saying that she’d got some forms somewhere. Carole disapproved. Mopsa had had twenty-four hours to prepare for the arrival of her guests and appeared to have done nothing about it. And if the same standards of cleanliness were going to be maintained in Cottage Number Three, Carole felt the beginning of a complaint coming on.
“I’m sorry,” said Jude suddenly, “but could I use your loo? Been sitting in the car for ages, and dying to go since before Penzance.”
“Yes, of course.” Mopsa pointed down a passage. “There’s a little bathroom down there, through the kitchen.”
“Thanks. Maybe Cindy can sign the forms.” Unseen by Mopsa, Jude grinned at her friend and was rewarded by a furious glare.
“No, I’m afraid, Mrs Metarius – ”
“Please call me Jenny.”
“Right, Jenny. I’m going to need your name on the forms, because the booking’s been made on your card.”
“Oh, fine. Won’t be a minute.”
And Jude disappeared. Carole was also feeling pressure on her bladder after the long drive, but her willpower would force her to wait until they got into their cottage. Anyway, it hadn’t been that long since they’d stopped at the service station near Exeter. What was Jude up to?
Mopsa didn’t seem about to initiate conversation, so Carole observed that it was very beautiful at Treboddick and asked whether the girl had lived there long.
“Not full-time, no. But the place has been in the family since before I was born, so I’ve been coming here all my life. You know, for holidays and weekends.”
“Very nice too.” Carole wondered what she could ask next. She must be careful. Carole Seddon might know quite a lot about the Locke family, but Cindy Shepherd certainly didn’t. And why on earth had Jude chosen such a ridiculous name? Cindy was far too young for her, apart from anything else. And it was also common.
She decided that even a complete stranger might ask Mopsa if she lived there on her own, and did.
“Yes, at the moment. Some of my family’ll probably be down soon.”
“So do you work round here?”
The girl looked affronted. “This is my job. I run the lettings of the cottages.”
“Oh yes, of course, I’m so sorry. You told Ju – J – Jenny.” It didn’t seem to be much of a job. Taking the odd phone call, checking the website. When business was as slack as it appeared to be, the duties could hardly be described as onerous. And when she had got something to do, like getting the forms ready for new visitors, Mopsa didn’t appear to have done it.
Carole looked round the room for some other prompt to conversation. Fixed on two pegs over the fireplace was an old–fashioned single-barrelled shotgun. Gesturing to it, she asked, “Is that a trophy or something? An antique?”
“Antique it may be,” Mopsa replied, “but it still works. I use it when the rabbits get too close to the gardens.”
There was another silence, which the girl appeared quite happy to have maintained until Jude returned, but Carole thought she ought to say something more. “I suppose you’re very busy here during high summer?”
Mopsa jutted forward her lower lip. “Not as busy as we should be. People don’t seem to be coming in the numbers they used to. And there’s lots of competition in self-catering accommodation.”
“Yes, I’m sure there is. We saw all those signs on the way down, offering ‘En Suite Bathrooms’ and ‘Sky Television’.”
“We don’t have that kind of stuff here,” said the girl with an edge of contempt. “Why, do you want an ‘En Suite Bathroom’ and ‘Sky Television’, Cindy?”
Carole winced. She didn’t know whether she was more offended by the name or the suggestion. “No, I certainly do not,” she replied icily.
Further awkwardness was prevented by Jude’s return from the bathroom. As ever, her presence lightened the atmosphere. She signed the necessary form, listened to Mopsa outlining the small amount of housekeeping information new tenants required, and gratefully took the handful of crumpled flyers and brochures for local attractions.
“I’ll show you Number Three now. Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Ooh yes. Is there by any chance a pub relatively nearby, where we could get something to eat?”
Carole’s instinctive reaction was: again? But we had a pub meal at lunchtime in Lyme Regis. And we haven’t even looked at the Welcome Pack in the fridge.
The pub Mopsa had recommended was the Tinner’s Lamp in the village of Penvant, about three miles distant. Since she reckoned they stopped serving food at eight-thirty, Carole and Jude had only the briefest
of visits to their cottage before hurrying off for supper. They did just have time to register, with some relief, that the standards of housekeeping in the rental properties were higher than in the Lockes’ own cottage. (Probably there was a local woman who sorted them out, while Mopsa was responsible for her Number One.) Then Gulliver, tantalized by his brief taste of aromatic freedom, was once again consigned gloomily to the back of the car.
Very little was said on their way to the Tinner’s Lamp, and Jude was pretty certain she knew the reason for her neighbour’s frostiness. As soon as they had delivered their order at the bar, she was proved right. The pub was another stone-built building of considerable antiquity, but again skilfully and sympathetically modernized. There weren’t many customers, but those present seemed definitely to be locals – not rustic fishermen with Cornish accents, but retired solicitors of the last generation to enjoy nice index-linked pensions.
At the solid wooden bar Carole had asked for white wine and been a little surprised to be offered a choice of five, including a Chilean Chardonnay, for which they inevitably plumped. Why did she imagine that, being so far from the metropolis, the Tinner’s Lamp would not rise to the sophistication of a wine list? Pure Home Counties prejudice. Jude had then ordered a pasty – “Well, after all, we are in Cornwall” – and Carole, feeling suddenly very hungry, had surprised herself by doing the same. Then, when they were ensconced at a small table between the bar and the open fire, Carole voiced the resentment she had been bottling up.
“Why on earth did you have to call me Cindy?”
“It was something I came up with on the spur of the moment,” replied Jude in a tone of well-feigned apology. “I should have worked out names for us before, but I didn’t think. It just came to me.”
“Well, I wish something else had ‘just come to you’. Cindy! I mean: do I look like a Cindy?”
“We none of us have any control over the names our parents gave us.”
But Carole wasn’t mollified by that. “We might, however, hope to have some control over the names our neighbours give us.”
“I was thinking on my feet, and all I knew was that it was important to come up with a name that had the same initials as your real one.”
“Why’s that?”
“Oh, really, Carole. Haven’t you read any Golden Age whodunnits? The bounder who’s masquerading under a false identity is always given away by the fact that the name he’s chosen doesn’t match the initials on his monogrammed luggage.”
“But I haven’t got any monogrammed luggage.”
“Ah.” Jude suppressed a giggle. “I knew there was a fault in my logic somewhere.”
“Cindy…” Carole muttered again despairingly.
“Putting that on one side,” said Jude, “I do have a result to report from my carefully engineered loo-break at Mopsa’s cottage.”
“What? You didn’t really want to go?”
“Not that much. But I thought…there we were actually in the place. Maybe it was a good opportunity for a little snoop.”
“And what did your little snoop reveal?” asked Carole, slightly miffed that she hadn’t thought of the idea. “Did you see Nathan Locke sitting in his hideaway, planning further murders?”
“No, not quite that. But I did see two steaks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know I had to go through the kitchen to get to the loo…”
“Yes.”
“Well, on the work surface there was a meal being prepared. And there was a chopping board which had two slabs of steak on it.”
“Suggesting that Mopsa wasn’t just cooking for herself?”
“Suggesting exactly that, yes. Now, all right, maybe she’s got a local boyfriend…some rough-hewn Cornish lad who is even now enjoying his hearty steak prior to enjoying the delights of Mopsa’s wispy body…but if she hasn’t…well, it might suggest that Nathan is on the premises somewhere.”
“If he is, he must be pretty well hidden. Don’t forget that the police searched the place.”
“Yes, but if Mopsa was warned they were coming, there’d have been plenty of time to get Nathan out for the duration. There must be lots of places to hide along the coast round here.”
“Maybe…” Carole didn’t sound convinced.
“Oh, come on, at lunchtime you were getting at me for talking about a wild-goose chase. Now you’re the one who’s going all wet blanket. I think those two steaks are going to be very significant. They’re the closest we’ve got so far to confirmation that Nathan Locke is down here.”
“Hardly confirmation. There could be a lot of other explanations. Mopsa might just have an exceptionally healthy appetite.”
“She’s very thin.”
“But very tall. Must need a lot of fuel for all that length.”
Jude’s conviction was not to be shifted. “No, I’m sure she was cooking for two.”
“We shouldn’t really have come here then. Should be at Treboddick, watching out to see if a boyfriend has arrived.”
“Too late now. And, looking at what’s just coming out of the kitchen, I think by being here we made the right choice.”
Carole also looked up to see the chubby landlord’s wife bearing two plates, each swamped by a huge Cornish pasty. “This right, is it? Some people want them with veg, but you didn’t ask for that, did you?”
“No,” said Jude. “A proper Cornish pasty’s got lots of veg inside, hasn’t it?”
“You’re right, my lover.” The woman set the two plates down on the table. The smell that rose from them was wonderful. The pastry was solid – not the nasty flaky kind that features in so many mass-produced pasties – and there was a neat finger-pinched seam along the top of the plump oval. “And the pasties at the Tinner’s Lamp are certainly proper ones. Now do you want any sauce?”
“Again, a proper Cornish pasty shouldn’t need any sauce.”
“You’re right again, my lover. But we get so many emmets down here who want to smother them with ketchup and brown sauce you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Have you had a busy summer?” Carole yet again envied her neighbour’s ability to slip effortlessly into conversation with total strangers.
The landlord’s wife pulled a glum face. “Not that good. Weather’s been fine, but the tourists’ve stayed away. Nope, lot of people round here have felt the pinch. All the B & B’s and what-have-you been half-empty. So where are you two staying?”
“Treboddick.”
“Ah.” There was a wealth of nuance in the monosyllable. The landlord’s wife knew exactly where they meant, and exactly who ran the place. And she had some reservations about the owners. “Don’t think they’ve had a great summer either. Worse than most people round here, I reckon.”
“We’ve only just arrived, but it looks to be a beautiful spot,” Carole contributed.
“Oh yes, no question about that. But everywhere in Cornwall’s beautiful. You’ve got to provide more than beauty if you’re going to get the punters in.”
“‘En Suite Bathrooms’ and ‘Sky Television’?”
“All that certainly. But you got to do a bit more. Make your guests welcome, not treat them like you’re doing them a favour by letting them stay in your place.”
The implicit criticism struck a chord. Mopsa’s lack of interest in them and lack of preparation for their arrival was characteristic of the Lockes. Rowley welcoming guests to his precious Treboddick would no doubt be even more condescending.
“How long’re you staying down here?”
“Oh, probably just till the weekend.”
“Well, it’s a lovely area for walking. And if you want to go out for a day’s fishing, just let me know. My brother can organize all that for you.”
They thanked her, but thought it unlikely that they would want to go out fishing.
“He does just pleasure trips too. There’s some bits of the old mine workings and that you can only get a good view of from the sea.”
“Well, tha
nk you. We’ll bear it in mind,” said Carole politely.
“Looks like there was a mine at Treboddick,” Jude suggested.
“Oh, certainly, that’s Loveday. There are mines all along the coast here. Hence the name of this pub. Tin mining was very big in the mid-nineteenth century. That and smuggling, of course. There’ve been attempts to revive it since – the tin mining I’m talking about now – but not very successful. If you want to see how it works, though, they’ve got this kind of working museum just down the coast at Geevor. That’s worth a look. Most of the places, though, it’s just ruins. Particularly of the pump house. A lot of the mine workings was under the sea, so they had to be constantly pumping the water out.”
“It looks like the remains of one of those at Treboddick.”
“You’re right. About all there is left of Wheal Loveday.”
Carole and Jude exchanged looks. Of course! Now they really had got something. They’d both known that the Cornish word for a mine was ‘wheal’, but neither of them had made the connection. They’d never seen it written down, but now they both felt sure that what they’d observed the young Lockes playing was ‘The Wheal Quest’ with an ‘a’; and that its inspiration definitely came from Treboddick.
∨ Death under the Dryer ∧
Twenty-Six
Whether because of the long drive or the Tinner’s Lamp’s excellent pasties and Chardonnay, both Carole and Jude slept exceptionally well that night. By her standards, Carole in fact overslept, waking at seven-thirty in a panic about getting Gulliver out before he soiled the cottage floor. Neither of the women were big breakfasters – except on those days when Jude suddenly felt like an All-Day Special – and they made do with the rather meagre Welcome Pack which Mopsa had left in their fridge.
It was warm enough for them to sit in the little back garden and look out over the sea as they finished their morning drinks – herbal tea for Jude, black instant coffee for Carole. Gulliver panted restlessly at their feet, the loop of his lead round the leg of a chair. His nose was giving him lots of impressions, the most dominant being that they were in excellent walking country. If the smells around the cottage were good, how much better might they be along the coastal path. “So we’re here,” said Carole. “What do we do now?” Jude looked out across the Atlantic, apparently not ready to commit herself.
