by Will North
Andrew smiled. “Spatial sense.”
Lee pulled up a chair beside West and scrunched up her freckled nose. “So, what’s the verdict?”
“Sorry?”
“The fire! How’d it happen? You’ve been in there. You should know by now!”
“Lee…” Nicola cautioned from the other side of the table.
Andrew interrupted: “If you are even at liberty to say, Sergeant West.”
West looked at Penwarren, who nodded.
“I called in an expert fire scientist we often use,” Calum said to the girl. “He and the chief fire investigator with the Cornwall Fire and Rescue Service believe the fire was not accidental. It was set. In addition, my people found some evidence to support this theory, but of course we have only just begun investigating.”
Lee jumped from her chair. “I knew it! Drew and Jamie and me, we’d been working on that cottage. There was nothing there that could have caused a fire, just stone and wood!”
“Lee?” Andrew said.
“I knew it! I sensed it as soon as I got there, running after Randi. Something or someone had been there.”
Everyone seemed speechless.
Finally, West asked: “How old are you, Lee?”
“Eleven. Almost twelve. So what?”
Calum shook his head, delighting in the feisty girl. “You know what? I have two daughters, one about your age, the other a little younger. Kaitlin and Meagan, they’re called. You’d like them. But I reckon you’re way smarter than both my girls combined.”
Lee shrugged. She didn’t know where this was going.
“So, I have a proposal for you.”
Lee cocked her head to the right but said nothing, the picture of skepticism.
West looked around the room and saw no cautions.
He leaned close to her. “Can we make you a part of our investigative team? Would you like that? Working with me and Detective Inspector Morgan Davies? She’s quite famous, you know…”
Davies leaned back in her chair and shot Penwarren a look. His face showed an almost imperceptible smile.
The girl had barely survived a horrible flood and had lost both parents. Morgan admired her spirit and understood: Like Lee, Morgan had lost her entire family. In her case it was the 1966 Aberfan coal tip disaster in her native Welsh village. A collapsed mountain of coal waste wiped out an entire generation of children, including her brother, in an elementary school that was swept away. In the end, it also resulted in the loss of both her parents as well: her father by suicide, her mother by grief and insanity.
As a result Morgan had been listening to Lee at a level deeper, perhaps, than the others would ever understand. It was because of her intolerably random loss that Lee now questioned everything. She understood. They were both instinctive and impatient searchers for answers. It was why Morgan had entered the force: to find answers, to serve justice. But she knew there would be no answers for this girl, no comfort for her losses. She knew because, in the final analysis, there were none for her, either. There was only the carrying on, the searching. What Lee had, at least, was a new family that loved her. Morgan looked across the table as she considered Calum’s proposal and caught Nicola’s smile, which said: Yes, Lee needs this job.
Finally, Lee responded: “What’s my pay?”
West did not laugh. Nicola tried to speak but he held up his hand to stop her.
“What, Detective Lee, is your favorite thing in the whole wide world?”
“Besides Randi?”
“Yes, your favorite treat, perhaps…”
“Chunky Choc ices!”
“She’s addicted, poor girl,” Andrew volunteered.
“What if we made sure you had a proper supply of Chunky Chocs? Would you help us?”
Again, the girl considered. She was a thinker, not an impulsive.
“I suppose so,” she said finally.
West nodded and shook her hand.
“You’re hired.”
“Right then,” Davies said, taking charge. “Where do we start?”
The girl looked at her as if she were daft: “With the murdered animal, of course!”
“The cow?”
“Bullock. Cows give milk. Bullocks are beef. Don’t tell me you don’t think this is connected? The murdered beast? The fire? I’m sure of it. I wish Flora was here. We sense things, we two do. She could explain it better than me.”
“With respect, Lee…”
“Detective Lee.”
Morgan tried not to smile too broadly. “With respect, Detective Lee, we don’t yet have any evidence to connect these two incidents. You see, our job as detectives, yours and mine, is to collect evidence that might make that connection, if there is one, evidence that would lead to a criminal conviction before a judge. Right now, we have two random events, both suspicious, I’ll agree. But they could easily be unrelated. Do you understand?”
Lee narrowed her eyes. “You use your rules, I’ll use mine. Okay?”
Calum West stifled a chuckle. “Oh Lord, we’re creating another Morgan Davies…” he said.
“SO, WHAT DO you two think? A connection?”
Davies and West were back in the DCI’s office at the Bodmin hub Thursday morning, the day after the fire. Penwarren, whom everyone on the team privately called “Mister” out of respect, was as usual standing. Light thick and gray as fog filtered through the windows and a thin mist obscured his beloved view of the fields beyond.
“Statistical anomaly, nothing more,” Morgan answered: “Two unrelated data points.”
Penwarren looked at West, who shrugged. “Personally? I wouldn’t want to underestimate that girl, Lee.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Calum, don’t go all wet just because she reminds you of your daughters…” Morgan said.
“She doesn’t, Morgan. Not in the least. But you know who she does remind me of? Tegan. Tegan St. Claire, the girl your witch friend Tamsin Bran adopted two years ago after the Chynoweth case. You didn’t notice? Don’t tell me you don’t see the similarity: smart, but with something else? An inner sense? Or are you privately denying it?”
“That’s nuts.”
“Is it? Okay, so she’s not clairvoyant like Tegan. Not yet, anyway. But I believe Lee when she says she senses things the rest of us don’t. I looked it up. It’s called clairsentience.”
“May I interrupt?” Penwarren asked.
“No, wait!” Morgan held up her hand. “Are you telling me you believe in all this Cornish woo-woo stuff, Calum West?”
West smiled. “I don’t dis-believe, Morgan. And that’s how we differ. I try to keep an open mind, because what I believe or don’t doesn’t matter. And I think that kid’s idea that there’s a connection between the butchered bullock and the fire bears at least consideration.”
“You’re not in charge of this investigation, I am.”
“Indeed, you are. But if you don’t mind, I’ll just continue studying those two scenes. For example, there’s a fragment of a batch number pressed into that bit of lighter cube packaging my people found. I reckon the manufacturer might know where that batch might have been shipped: Liverpool? Aberdeen? Cardiff? Or was it Cornwall? And, if so, to which merchants? Are they local? Like to look into them? Happy to pass them on.”
“If you two are done,” Penwarren said enjoying this altercation, “I should like to suggest that Calum’s still within his appropriate remit when it comes to that packaging material. His people found it during their site search. That’s scene. He’ll enter it into evidence, file the information in the HOLMES II database, and then it will be yours to investigate, Morgan.
“HOLMES II! Who was the clown who cobbled together that name: Home Office Large Major Evidence System? Was that the best they could do? Are we in some kind of Conan Doyle story in The Strand magazine back in Victoria’s reign?”
“Morgan, the database, whatever its name, is efficient. We now have a system for cross-checking all the evidence collected in a given case. Are you c
omplaining?”
Davies shook her head as if shaking off noise. “No. It works, okay? But the name is still ridiculous.”
“Agreed. May we move on now? I’ll speak to Sir Michael shortly about these goings on.”
“Ah yes, the mysterious Sir Michael. Where the hell is he? People are almost killed in a fire on his property and he doesn’t show up?”
Penwarren closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temples: “Do you perhaps read a newspaper now and then, Inspector?”
“I try not to. Reporters are idiots and the news is depressing. I’ve got plenty of bad news in my own job every day, thank you very much…”
Penwarren ignored her. “If you had done, perhaps you might have learned there were four simultaneous terrorist bombings in the London Underground last week: fifty-two people were killed and more than seven hundred others were injured.”
“Yeah, I’ve read the official reports. Barbaric.”
“British-born Islamist suicide bombers, they were. Guess who’s tracking the sources of their financial support as a consultant to MI5?”
Morgan’s broad shoulders sagged.
“So, let’s be clear: nobody’s died here in Cornwall. But scores did in London. You think Sir Michael doesn’t care about his own family, his own estate? Of course, he does and he’s been in touch. But he is also a man of honor and duty. There’s a reason for that ‘Sir’. He’s had to focus on the bigger threat. No matter how hard it is for him, our local problems do not compare. He’s got a job to do. Am I understood?”
He waited for a response and got silence.
“And we do, too,” he continued. “Right now, we have nothing with which to frame a case. We have two possibly unrelated but no less serious incidents. I hope it goes no further, but we may be waiting for a third. When and if one occurs, we’ll set up an incident room, probably at the Camborne nick; St. Ives is too small. For now, we wait. Understood?
“Meanwhile, Morgan, you have a mini-holiday at the Zennor Arms tonight. Dinner and room already arranged. Talk to locals about Trevega House and the incidents there. You’ll have time this afternoon to go home and pack an overnight case.”
Penwarren turned to face the windows. It was not a matter for discussion. The meeting was over.
Davies had never seen Mister so upset. She thought she understood: Penwarren felt powerless to look after the family of his old friend. Powerlessness was not a condition to which the DCI was accustomed.
Nor was it hers.
Seven
THE WANING LIGHT was filtered as if through gauze early Thursday evening when Morgan ducked beneath the thick stone lintel over the front door of the Tinners Arms high above the Atlantic cliffs in the tiny village of Zennor. The low-slung inn was built of massive blocks of granite, the ancient stones blotched with orange and cream colored lichen like age spots. The pub, she’d learned from her police laptop, was founded in 1271 to serve the masons re-building St. Senara’s Church, itself originally established in the sixth century. The church sat on a low rise just across the lane from the pub. The name Zennor was, in fact, a corruption of Senara.
She was surprised at the pub’s narrow, nearly windowless interior, only perhaps twenty-five feet long and half that wide. Gaping fireplaces built of stone slabs that seemed made of prehistoric megaliths anchored each end. Though nearly summer, there was a small wood fire glowing in the hearth closest to the bar. A Jack Russell terrier basked in its warmth on the flagstone floor.
The low ceiling was made of wide wood planks supported by beams blackened with smoke and age. There was ample seating in the outdoor garden terrace overlooking the ocean, but no one lingered there now that the day had cooled. The interior was furnished simply with high-backed wood settles, long and narrow sawhorse tables and, here and there, round tables and chairs with handmade seat cushions. Though it was early, several of the seats were occupied by patrons who went silent the moment the stranger entered.
“Ms. Davies, unless I miss my guess,” the stocky middle-aged chap behind the bar said. His hair was short, iron gray, and stiff as a bristle brush.
“You a mind-reader, then?”
“Rather few of our customers arrive with an overnight case, ma’am. I’m David Moss, landlord here. Shall I have someone take it to your room?”
She smiled. “Thank you, David, but I’m perfectly capable.” She parked her bag, perched on a backless wooden stool at the bar, and looked at the wide array of ales on offer, for the Tinners was clearly a Free House. “It’s been a long drive; so many people on the road this time of year. I’m parched. How about a pint of Doom Bar?”
“Dimpled mug or jar, ma’am?”
“Jar, and if you ‘ma’am’ me again I’ll slap you silly.”
He caught her grin and passed her a small bowl of salted nuts.
“Morgan’s fine,” she said, digging in.
He looked the woman over. “She certainly is,” he said. She was displaying her best assets in a scoop neck black merino jumper.
“Go on now, you rascal, and let’s have that pint.”
“Will you be having dinner…Morgan?”
“Yes certainly, but I need to slow down a bit first.” She nodded in the direction of the folks at the tables. “Natives friendly?”
“Absolutely, but as they’re Cornish, they can be a bit shy.”
She took her pint to the long table closest to the fire. “May I join you here?” she asked. There were two men in farmers’ dark blue coveralls on either side of a petite, bird-like woman she figured to be the wife of one of them.
“Bit of a chill out there this evening. I hope you don’t mind my sharing the fire.”
The men shook their heads and made muttering noises. The woman, her long, mouse-brown graying hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, stood and waved her in.
“Of course, of course, girl!” she piped. She was not much taller standing than sitting. “Always grand to have a newcomer. You staying long then?” she said as she sat again.
“Sadly not, just the night,” Morgan answered after taking a long pull from her pint. “I wanted some time off and to see the old church and, of course, the famous mermaid chair.”
“Know about that, then, do you? Mermaid’s said to have lured the church warden’s son to live with her in the sea. Long ago, that was…”
“You reckon she did?”
The woman grinned. “No, but I reckon the story’s good for the church’s donation box. But you really must see the ancient mermaid carving on the end of that little pew. Lovely it is, and centuries old.”
Morgan leaned down and stroked the nearly catatonic Jack Russell’s warm wiry coat. The dog sighed but did not move. “I don’t imagine there’s much news down here but for that mermaid chair,” she said as if to the dog. “But I read—I think it was in The Cornishman—that there was a mysterious fire in a farm building just north of here. Am I remembering that correctly?”
The man sitting opposite her lifted his flat cap. “You are. Name’s Eldridge. Eldridge Biggins.” His face was weathered but handsome nonetheless. She guessed him to be about fifty. “I farm just down the road at Boswednack. This here’s my sainted wife, Alice.”
The woman nudged his shoulder and smiled.
“Morgan’s my name. I know, strange name for a woman, but I’m Welsh. They have odd notions about names up there.”
“You’re welcome here, you are Morgan,” Alice said, interrupting her husband. “But that fire up the road? Let me tell you: it’s a mystery to us all. Arson is what we’ve heard. But those folks at Trevega? They be honest and hard-working. Fixing up the old estate, is what we hear they’re doing. Adopted an orphan girl as well. We know her here; she’s out in the countryside walking a lot and stops in here with her dog to fill her water bottle. Lovely child and wicked smart in the bargain. Why’s anyone want to go and give those people trouble? Makes no sense to us around here, no sense at all.”
Her husband nodded but added nothing.
&nb
sp; “And then there’s that butchered bullock,” the younger man volunteered.
“Bullock?”
“Yeah, a week back, maybe more,” he said. “Throat slit is what we heard, right in the middle of a field and left to die. Most of us we graze livestock hereabouts, the soil’s too thin for plows, but our butchering is humane, done at an approved facility. Not in a field. Someone sick in the head is what we all think.”
Morgan looked at their nearly empty glasses and went to the bar. “My round, David, please.”
Her tablemates smiled when she returned. “Mighty kind, Ms. Morgan,” Alice said.
“And also my pleasure. Now let me ask, if you don’t mind: if no one hereabouts, none of the neighbors was involved as you say, why do you think these strange events happened at all? They surely do seem malicious; at least that’s how that fire sounded in the newspaper.”
Eldridge looked at her hard. “You a reporter, then?”
Morgan laughed and waved a dismissive hand: “No, no, couldn’t write if my life depended on it; I’m just the curious sort. It’s a terrible habit and gets me in no end of trouble sometimes. But I do like a puzzle. You reckon it’s maybe someone with a long-standing grudge? Or maybe the fact that they adopted that girl you mentioned? Sure seems a head-scratcher to me.”
“To us, too,” Alice piped, as if Morgan had pried open the lid of her thoughts. “Just plain wrong. And no one here is that bloody-minded, either. We all know each other, you see. Practically in each other’s pockets we are, year after year. Families go way back.”
“That include the family at Trevega?”
“Oh yes. They go way back, too, the Rhys-Jones’s do. Made their fortune in the tin and copper mining in the eighteen hundreds. Bought their land off of my Eldridge’s great, great grandfather, they did. Been here ever since. Good farmers and good neighbors. That Sir Michael—he’s the oldest now—he’s a lovely man and can be counted on to make a donation for the church fete and any other thing that needs supporting around here. A fine gent…”
