Malice in Cornwall (12 page)

Climbing and sailing had been his passions as a young man, but both had fallen to the wayside over the years, victims of the various encumbrances that seemed increasingly to complicate his existence, weighing him down like Jacob Marley's chain. But such thoughts were far from his mind as they came around Towey Head on a beam reach with the wind off their port side.

He turned the dinghy to windward and came around, sheeting in the mainsail until they were sailing close-hauled parallel to the shore about two hundred yards off. “Jane, come back here and take the helm, would you?”

She made her way unsteadily aft, changing places with him, and clutched the tiller in a death grip.

“We're sailing close to the wind now, so keep your wits about you. You want to keep the mainsail sheeted in, but not too tight. If you get into trouble,” he added, declining to explain exactly what he meant, “just turn into the wind to slow down and, if necessary, ease the sheet a bit and slacken the sail.” He settled himself amidships and began to scan the rocks with a pair of binoculars. “A little to starboard,” he directed. And then, “Steady as she goes.”

“You're crewing now, so watch it, mate!” she warned.

Powell grinned and gave her a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain!”

Just beyond the rocks of Towey Head a small cove and a drab stone house set on the shore at the base of the cliffs came-into view, a small wooden boat hauled up on the rocky beach. Powell focused the binoculars on the
sign over the door, reading the words aloud. “The Old Fish Cellar,
Dulcis Lucri Odor”

“What does it mean?” Jane said.

“Profit smells sweet.” A decent education still very occasionally proved its worth. “It's a relic of the pilchard fishing days; it's where they used to salt the fish down.”

“I think that's where that bloke lives—the one who got into the row with Tony Rowlands the other night.”

“Really.” Powell searched his memory. “Nick Tebble, isn't it?”

Jane nodded. “A bit of a local character, apparently.”

“So I gather.” Powell consulted Wilcox's map. “That stretch of sand up ahead is Mawgawan Beach.” He glassed the rocks systematically for several minutes. The beach gradually fell behind them, more rugged coastline, a low jutting point crowded with piping oystercatchers, and then a small cottage perched above a tiny teacup of a bay. “That must be Roger Trevenney's cottage. He painted the picture of Towey Head that hangs in Dr. Harris's parlor.”

“I was admiring it this morning. It's brilliant.”

Powell looked at Wilcox's map again. “Somewhere between the Old Fish Cellar and Mawgawan Beach there's supposed to be an opening in the cliff face, an old mine tunnel of some description. I didn't see it; we'd better go back and have another look. Do you think you can handle it?”

She gulped. “Handle what?”

“We need to turn the boat around until we're sailing on a broad reach in the opposite direction.”

“A broad reach?”

“With the wind behind us, off our port quarter in this case. Remember?”

“Right. Would you mind running through the procedure again?” She had turned deathly pale.

Powell smiled reassuringly. “We're presently on a starboard tack. We need to gybe, that is fall away from the wind to port, rum the stern through the wind, and establish a port tack with the wind aft. To carry out the maneuver the mainsail has to be completely slackened off then swung around to the other side. Unlike coming around into the wind, gybing is done when the boat is moving at full speed, so the timing can be a bit tricky. And in this case we have to watch that we're not blown onshore.”

He neglected to mention that gybing is considered the most difficult of sailing maneuvers and is the point when dinghies are most liable to capsize. However, the winds were moderate and he had concluded by then that his companion was a quick study. And he'd be poised to take over the helm if she got into trouble. He went over the various steps and commands in detail and then asked her to repeat them until he was satisfied that she had the routine down pat. He knelt down and pulled the centerboard up halfway so the boat would slip to leeward at the critical moment, thus lessening the degree of heel and the danger of capsizing. Better to be safe than sorry. He got back into position. “Whenever you're ready,” he said.

She positioned her feet apart. “Right.” She took a deep breath. “Stand by to gybe!”

“All clear!” Powell sang out.

She slackened off the mainsail while he eased the jib.

The dinghy began to turn before the wind. It seemed to take forever for the boat to come around and all the while
they were drifting rapidly toward the rocks. Her heart pounded. She willed herself to move, but her body would not respond. The cliff face loomed about fifty yards off now and she could pick out individual rocks glistening like black fangs amongst the foaming chaos of surf.

“Now!” Powell shouted.

His voice galvanized her into action. Frantically hauling in the mainsheet, she pulled the boom amidships. “Gybe oh!” she cried hoarsely and then pulled the tiller toward her, ducking as the boom swung over. She moved over to the port side, easing the mainsheet. Under Powell's direction, she mechanically trimmed the mainsail and adjusted the tiller, rounding up on a new course heading toward the point of Towey Head. She felt numb, drained of any capacity for further action.

“Well done!” Powell said, grinning boyishly. He felt his muscles beginning to relax. Best not to mention that he had been within a split second of grabbing the tiller. He felt a twinge of guilt; he had to admit that he'd been testing her. Yet all things considered, she had passed with flying colors.

When Jane was able to relax a little, the reality of the situation suddenly struck her. Her face burned as she realized what a close call it had been. “We might have been killed!” she protested.

Powell was already searching the shoreline with his binoculars. “Nonsense,” he said in a matter-of-fact manner. “A few more lessons and you'll be well on your way to becoming a sailor.”

God, he could be irritating at times! Still, she had to admit to a growing sense of accomplishment. She had
overcome her fear and done something she would never have considered attempting on her own. She studied Powell unobtrusively. Slightly past his prime, but still attractive in an understated sort of way. And he exuded a reassuring air of competence, although she sensed something else below the surface. She couldn't help wondering what he was really like underneath the professional veneer … She suddenly checked herself. What are you thinking, woman? He's a married man (the ring had not gone unnoticed), and you don't need any complications in your life right now. You've got a book to finish and besides—

“There it is! Directly off the beam, halfway up the cliff face. Do you see it?” He handed her the binoculars.

She manipulated the glasses awkwardly with her left hand, keeping her right hand firmly on the tiller. She examined the sheer face. “Yes, I think so.” There appeared to be the dark mouth of a tunnel, too symmetrical to be natural, with a rusty stain streaking the gray granite down to the sea. She lowered the glasses. Once you knew what to look for, the feature was obvious to the naked eye.

“It's an adit, draining one of the old tin mines,” Powell explained. “The minerals stain the rock red; I'll tell you a story about it later. For now, why don't we take in the sails and I'll row us in to Mawgawan Beach. I'm feeling a bit peckish, how about you?”

Anything to get her feet on solid ground again, she thought. The sun was beating down now and the wind had died to an intermittent breeze. A picnic lunch on the beach began to look quite appealing. And she could use
the opportunity to pry some details about the case from Powell. “Prepare the jib halyard,” she ordered crisply.

The beach was enclosed on three sides by towering cliffs. Waves slid languidly onto tawny sand, immaculate white gulls mewed overhead, and a hazy, aquamarine sea stretched as far as the eye could see.

Powell filled Jane Goode's wineglass from the unmarked green bottle that Dr. Harris had provided and then replenished his own. “Is it just me or have you noticed that there seems to be an almost Dionysian abundance of good French wine available in this corner of Cornwall?”

“Who's complaining?”

“Certainly not I, but I'll bet you haven't seen a bottle with a proper label on it. If I had a suspicious nature, I'd think that somebody was smuggling the stuff in by the barrel.”

Jane knew from her background research for her book that the north coast of Cornwall used to be notorious for smuggling in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when vast quantities of brandy and tobacco, to name just two of the most valuable commodities, were imported illegally from France to circumvent high import duties. She frowned slightly. “Now that we're all one happy family in Europe, it wouldn't make any sense, would it? I thought you could bring back as much duty-free booze as you wanted nowadays.”

“Up to a point, provided it's for personal use. But not everyone can afford to pop over to France for a couple of liters of wine whenever the urge strikes. So there's still a lot of alcohol that gets smuggled in by the lorryful.” Powell paused for a sip of what Dr. Harris had accurately
characterized as a surprisingly bold merlot. A faint smile. “However, one wouldn't wish to seem impolite by asking. Pass me another piece of that cheese, would you?”

She eyed him shrewdly. “You were going to tell me about that old mine tunnel.”

He chewed thoughtfully. “Do you know about Roger Trevenney's daughter Ruth?”

She shook her head. “Is there any reason I should?”

He looked at her carefully. “She was murdered near here in the Sixties. According to some of the locals, there are uncanny parallels between the circumstances surrounding her death and your Riddle.”

“I haven't heard that,” she said, defensive.

He could not resist a little jab. “Since you're a journalist I naturally assumed …”

She flushed angrily. “An amateur, you mean—not a professional busybody like yourself?”

He smiled. “Actually Sergeant Black bumped into a local fisherman who let it slip. They made me take a management course once where I learned that a good leader should be content to bask in the reflected glory of his or her able assistants.”

“Do you think you could possibly get on with it?” she said testily.

Powell related the story as it was told to him by Colin Wilcox. “It seems that tunnel in the cliff face drains the very mine where the murderer disposed of Ruth's body. Whenever it rains, the tunnel discharges a flow of rusty water to the sea. The blood of Ruth Trevenney, according to some.”

Jane shivered. “Lovely.” She paused thoughtfully. “But perhaps that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“When I first started asking questions about the Riddle, people seemed… I don't know, sort of reticent. I assumed at the time that they were reluctant to talk about it because I was an outsider, not to mention the fact that the incident had brought a certain notoriety to Penrick. But maybe there was more to it than that; an echo of a past tragedy, the terrible murder of one of their own. I didn't feel comfortable prying, somehow.”

Powell laughed. “A reporter with tact; now there's an oxymoron.”

“Like a sensitive policeman,” she retorted.

“Ouch! I suppose I deserved that.” For the first time he was aware of looking into her eyes. He smiled selfconsciously. “Truce?”

Jane Goode's gaze was unwavering. “Why not?”

Powell cleared his throat. “Yes, well, getting back to the murder of Ruth Trevenney, any connection with the Riddle has to be considered a long shot at this point, but I suppose it can't be ruled out. At the very least I'll have to review the file on the case.” He could already anticipate Buttie's reaction to that particular suggestion, more unwarranted prying by outsiders into local police affairs. “I'd rather not bother Roger Trevenney,” he continued. “He's not very well, apparently, and I'd prefer not to open old wounds if I can avoid it.”

A hint of sensitivity after all? Perhaps she'd been a little harsh in her judgment. Although it annoyed her to admit it, Powell continued to fascinate her. Absolutely insufferable one minute and something quite different the next. But what exactly? Once again, she couldn't put her finger on it. A certain vulnerability, although one would
hardly expect that in a policeman whose sensibilities had no doubt become jaded by … There she was, doing it again! Would she never bloody learn? Then she heard the sound of Powell's voice.

“I'd be interested to hear your opinion.”

“My—my opinion?”

He nodded. “You basically have all the information I have now. What's your conclusion?”

She eyed him warily. “I'm not sure I want to play a Watson to your Holmes, if that's what you have in mind.”

He laughed. “It's not like that at all. I solemnly promise that I will never utter the word ‘elementary’ in your presence. I simply want to know what you think. You've taken an active interest in this thing from the start; you must have some ideas.”

“I'm surprised you'd wish to consult with an amateur,” she said skeptically.

“Look, Jane, I'm serious. I'm beginning to get a funny feeling about this business, and I'd appreciate an objective opinion, that's all. I don't know you very well, but I already have good reason to trust your judgment.” A twinkle in his eye. “After all, we've gybed together.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “I suppose I should feel flattered. But you're right; I have thought about it. Quite a lot, as a matter of fact. Not because I've wanted to—it's kept me from my novel, which I doubt I will ever finish— it's just that the whole thing is so damnably strange. I suppose it's the storyteller in me, but like you I've come to the conclusion that there must be something more to it. Something sinister, I think.”

“Those are your words, not mine,” Powell rejoined sternly.

She swept the hair from her face in a gesture of impatience. “You know what I mean. Someone has obviously gone to a lot of trouble to pull this thing off. It's not your run-of-the-mill prank. We're dealing with a dead body, after all, not graffiti on someone's garden wall. And you'll have to admit that the glow-in-the-dark fungus was a brilliant touch, no pun intended.”