Malice in Cornwall (17 page)

“I won't take any more of your time, Mr. Trevenney. You've been most helpful, and I promise that I'll let you know the moment there is anything to report.” As Powell demolished the last of his biscuit, he remembered something. “There is one more thing. When we were discussing Tebble's possible motives in connection with the Riddle, the possibility that he knew the identity of your daughter's assailant, you seemed about to mention something …”

“Oh? What could it have been? I can't imagine …” He trailed off into a pensive silence.

“Not to worry. If you think of anything else, you can call me at the Wrecker's Rest.” Powell rose to leave. “Please don't get up. I'll see myself out.” He hesitated. “Take care, Mr. Trevenney.”

Trevenney stared out the window at the fog, his attention miles way. It had begun to drizzle and rivulets of water were streaming down the glass. “What? Oh, yes, yes, of course,” he said faintly, a puzzled expression on his face.

Powell got back to the Wrecker's Rest around four o'clock and found Sergeant Black and Chief Inspector Butts conferring in the dining room over a cup of tea. Butts had taken a room in the guesthouse and planned to remain in Penrick for the duration of the investigation.

Powell collapsed wearily into a chair. “Anything to report?” he asked.

“A few interesting tidbits on Nick Tebble, sir,” Butts said.

“I'm all ears.”

“For starters, he was fifty-two years old—”

“That would make him twenty-two when the Trevenney girl was murdered,” Powell interjected.

“Right. Now here's the curious thing. He doesn't seem to have ever worked for a living.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there isn't any employment history or tax records. Nothing. Not even a driver's license.”

Powell frowned. “Perhaps he had a private income.”

“If he did, sir, it must have come out of thin air. He didn't even have a bank account, at least not under his own name.”

Curious, but then Powell imagined that Tebble would have been more or less self-sufficient out at the Old Fish Cellar—fishing, growing his own vegetables, and what have you. “What about his parents?”

“Both died years ago. And there are no other surviving relatives, as far as we've been able to determine.”

“A bit of a mystery man,” Sergeant Black observed.

Butts nodded, a troubled expression on his face. “It looks that way. He was about my age, but I never had much to do with him when I was a lad.” He looked at Powell hesitantly. “Er, I've taken the liberty of asking Agnes about him, sir …” He let it hang.

“Oh?”

Butts cleared his throat awkwardly. “You know what Agnes is like, Mr. Powell—you have to take her with a grain of salt—but I think you should hear what she has to say.”

Powell glanced at Black who was grinning broadly. “All right, if you think it would help.”

Butts left to fetch Mrs. Polfrock and Powell looked at Black. “What do you think, Bill?” he said.

“I think it's a funny business, Mr. Powell.”

Powell sighed. “Any ideas?”

“I'd like to follow up on the smuggling angle; it's been bothering me. A bit of wine here—” he screwed up his face “—some dirty magazines there. It seems like small beer, but I think there's a connection somewhere.”

“Why don't you do that. I'm going to—” He was interrupted by Butts, who had returned to their table with a reticent Mrs. Polfrock in tow. Powell stood up. “Mrs. Polfrock, this is indeed an unexpected pleasure. Please sit down.”

“Yes, well, anything I can do to help,” she said, refusing to meet his eye. She was strangely subdued.

Butts must have laid down the law, Powell thought.

“Buttie tells me that you have something to tell us about NickTebble.”

A sudden flash of the familiar Mrs. Polfrock. “He was a bad ‘un, Mr. Powell. He got what he deserved, if you want my opinion.”

“Agnes, really!” Butts protested.

“Interfering with dead bodies like that, and God knows what else! It's perverted!”

A minor clatter in the front hall. Mr. Polfrock fleeing the scene? Powell wondered. “Do you have any idea why he might have done it?” He observed her closely.

“He was a bloody loony,” she said dogmatically, as if there could be absolutely no doubt about it.

Powell formulated his next question carefully. “What prior evidence do you have that Nick Tebble was, er, unbalanced?”

“Unbalanced, that's a good one, that is!” She laughed harshly.

Powell waited patiently. He noticed that Butts was fidgeting in his chair.

“Well, they would hardly let him out of the house, would they?” she said.

“Who? His parents?”

“Who else?”

“Would you care to elaborate, Mrs. Polfrock?”

She was obviously unhappy at being pressed for a logical explanation of her beliefs. “I can't explain it. He was never right from the start; that's all I know.”

Powell sighed. He had dealt with her type so many times before. “Is there anything else you'd care to add?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “I know you don't believe me, but mark my words, he was a bad ‘un.”

Later, sitting alone with Sergeant Black, Powell was vaguely ill at ease. What was it Rashid had said in his inimitable fashion that night at the restaurant? Never trust a tiger that changes his spots. One thing was certain: Agnes Polfrock had remained true to character. And oddly enough, he was inclined to believe her.

Black was obviously puzzled at his superior's apparent change of heart about their landlady. “I'm not sure I understand, sir. Are you saying that you think there might be something to what she said about Tebble?”

Powell looked at him.
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes.”

“Sir?”

“The American poet, Walt Whitman.” He felt a twinge of guilt; it wasn't likely that Black would have studied him in his evening class.

Black, unfazed, nodded his head knowingly. “Right.
Leaves of Grass
, isn't it, sir? I've been meaning to read it.”

Powell looked at him in amazement. “You're one of a kind, Bill, did you know that?”

Black smiled shyly. “That's what the missus is always telling me, sir.”

The next morning, after a brief conference over a surprisingly digestible Wrecker's Rest breakfast (Powell felt he owed the gesture to Butts in the interest of promoting family harmony), they each went their separate ways. Given the paucity of information about Tebble's background, Butts was off to oversee a more intensive search of the Old Fish Cellar to make sure they hadn't overlooked anything, and Sergeant Black planned to spend the day poking around Penrick in search of dirty books, as Powell had pointedly put it.

For his part, Powell had originally intended to take the day off. Or, more precisely, to spend it with Jane Goode, reconnoitering the local bays and coves in Dr. Harris's Enterprise. The day, however, had dawned wet and dreary, and in any case she had refused to abandon her writing (she was on a roll, apparently) and Powell, feeling slightly put out, was at loose ends. He felt a bit guilty about letting the side down, but he was at the point in the investigation where he felt he needed to get above the mental clouds for a while. He drove off in the rain, clad
in oilskins and lulled by the rhythmic slapping of the wipers, with the vague intention of exploring the old mine he'd passed on the way to Roger Trevenney's. Butts had confirmed that this was the presumed location of Ruth Trevenney's murder. But on the spur of the moment, he changed his mind and decided to pay a visit to the Porters.

The little group of cottages at the base of Towey Head looked drab and forlorn in the teeming rain. The Porters' back garden resembled a mud wallow for hippopotami with bits of green poking out here and there. Powell knocked on the door. He glanced next door. There was no sign of Dr. Harris's car, and he wondered if he was off ministering to Roger Trevenney. Linda Porter's face appeared in the window. There was a flicker of recognition, then the door opened. She was dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater, her hair pulled primly back.

“Chief Superintendent, this is a surprise. You'd better come in or you'll catch your death. Here, let me take your jacket. To what do I owe this, um, pleasure?”

“I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” Powell said lamely.

She smiled. “Well, I must have made quite an impression on you.”

“It's my bulbs, actually.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“With all this rain I'm worried the rot's set in. Back in the garden in London, I mean. I wanted some advice.”

She laughed doubtfully. “Your must be joking! What's this all about?”

Powell serious now. “It's a technique they teach us at
police school to put someone at ease when you're about to interview them.”

She looked at him. “Oh, I see. You'd better come and sit down, then.”

The tiny living room looked even more shabby than Powell remembered it. “By the way, is Mr. Porter about?” he said.

“Gone to the village.”

“I'll get right to the point, Mrs. Porter—”

“Would you care for a drink, Chief Superintendent?”

“Er, no, thank you.”

“I'll have one, if you don't mind.”

She got up, poured herself half a glass of gin, and returned to her chair. She pulled her long legs under her. “You were saying, Chief Superintendent… ?”

He studied her closely. “I imagine you've heard about Nick Tebble.”

She brushed an invisible strand of hair from her face. “Yes, it's terrible isn't it? A quiet little village like Penrick—to think that there's somebody around here who could do something like that.”

“Had you ever met him?”

“I'd pass him on the road occasionally or see him in the village, that's about it. I got the impression he tended to keep his own company.”

“That's what everyone keeps telling me. Did he ever come here, Mrs. Porter?”

She thought for a moment. “Not that I know of, but you could check with Jim.” She met his eyes with a steady gaze.

“I'll do that.” Powell was beginning to have second thoughts. She was either a consummate actor, or perhaps
Black had been mistaken about Tebble's skiff. Or if it was Tebble's boat, he supposed there could be another explanation for its presence near the Porters' cottage that morning. He wasn't convinced one way or the other at this point.

“I get the distinct impression you're driving at something, Chief Superintendent. Why don't you just ask me straight out?”

“Perhaps that would be best, Mrs. Porter.” He cursed silently. He had hoped to catch her unprepared, but she had either anticipated his strategy or was simply being forthright. “My associate, Sergeant Black, had occasion to be in this neck of the woods on Saturday morning around ten o'clock. He had intended to pop in and ask you a few questions, but he indicated that you, er, had a visitor at the time.”

If Powell had been looking for a reaction, he could not have been disappointed.

She turned as white as a ghost. “It's—it's not—not what you think… I mean Jim and I, we… he must have been mistaken …” She drew her arms around herself.

“Nick Tebble's boat was pulled up on the beach not fifty yards from here,” Powell persisted.

She looked at him incredulously. “Nick Tebble?” Then suddenly a flash of comprehension in her face. “You don't mean… I can't believe you thought that I…” She looked at Powell, shaking her head slowly. “I don't know whether to laugh or cry. My God, Chief Superintendent, it wasn't Nick Tebblei”

“Who, then?”

“I don't see that my personal affairs are any of your business.” A hint of defiance echoed in her voice.

An interesting choice of words, he thought. “My business, Mrs. Porter, is finding out who murdered Tebble.”

She averted her eyes. “Would you promise not to tell anyone?”

Powell's tone turned sharp now. “This is a murder investigation, not a bloody pajama party.”

“Jim would kill me if he found out.”

“Perhaps you should have thought about that before you—”

“The last thing I need is a sermon from you! I suppose you're as pure as the driven snow!” Her eyes flashed angrily.

Powell did not think a reply necessary. For the first time he became aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the house. He counted the seconds to himself, as if reciting a mantra.

Eventually, Linda Porter broke the silence. “I can't tell you. Surely you can understand that.”

Powell sighed wearily. “Let me review the facts, Mrs. Porter. Nick Tebble's boat was seen parked outside your cottage Saturday morning while you were engaged in sexual relations with somebody inside. And I'm assuming from what you've already told me that it wasn't your husband. If you were with Tebble, you may have been one of the last persons to see him alive.”

“Sexual
relations!
What a quaint phrase. All right, Chief Superintendent, I'll satisfy your voyeuristic appetite. I don't know whose bloody boat it was, but I bloody well know who was screwing me! It was Tony Rowlands, if you must know.”

As Powell drove back to Penrick the visibility was reduced to no more than a few feet, and the rain was drumming a loud tattoo on the roof of the car. Even with the wipers at full speed, he could hardly see where he was going. Linda Porter's revelation had thrown him off balance. He realized that he would have to talk to Rowlands again at some point, although there was probably no rush now; she would no doubt get to him first. Handling Jim Porter, the cuckolded husband, would be trickier. The direct approach would no doubt be decidedly unpleasant for both of them. For obvious reasons, he normally preferred to hold off in such cases until he'd determined whether any information the husband could provide was relevant to the investigation. In this instance, however, Porter may have witnessed his wife's indiscretion, which opened up some interesting possibilities—