Malice in Cornwall Page 12

  Jane shook her head doubtfully. “I still don't see how he pulled it off. Getting it back and forth, for instance, and never getting caught in the act.”

  “Oh, our Nick was a cagey bugger. He carries the body between the Old Fish Cellar and the Sands in his skiff at night. Then he dumps it on the beach, doctors it up with the fungus, and hides out in the towans where he can keep an eye on things. An unsuspecting passerby out for an evening stroll along the Sands stumbles onto the thing and, not surprisingly, flees for dear life—present com-pany excepted, of course. When the coast is clear, Tebble loads the corpse back in his skiff and heads home for the salt cellar. Buttie's lads found an old cart in the towans that Tebble may have used to move the body around. He could easily have used it to pack his skiff a short distance into the towans as well, which would explain why none of the witnesses ever reported seeing a boat. Brilliant, don't you think?”

  Jane Goode smiled crookedly. “You or Tebble?”

  “Very funny.”

  “What went wrong then? Why was the body still there when we went back?”

  Powell shrugged. “You remember the storm that night? There was a short piece of frayed rope attached to the life jacket. Tebble probably tied the body to a rock or an anchor of some sort to keep it from getting away from him. The rope must have broke. We'll probably never know for sure.”

  She took a sip of her wine. “It sounds plausible enough, but you haven't answered the most important question of all.”

  “You mean the sixty-four thousand dollar question, as our American friends say: Why did he do it?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Exactly. Any ideas?”

  Powell looked at her with amusement. “What do you think?”

  She scoffed. “It's obvious, isn't it?”

  “Really?”

  She glanced around the pub to make sure no one was watching them and then said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Ruth Trevenney is the key, I just know it!”

  He was about to say something when, predictably on cue, Sergeant Black walked through the door and made a beeline for their table.

  Powell sighed. “Yes, Black, what is it?”

  Black's expression was serious as he sat down. He looked at Jane Goode then back at Powell. Powell nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “This afternoon, back at the Old Fish Cellar, sir. Something was bothering me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It suddenly struck me. It was Tebble's skiff. I'm certain it was the same one I saw pulled up on the beach near the Porters' this morning.”

  Powell said nothing and stared into his empty glass. The atmosphere had suddenly grown oppressive, as if a storm were brewing.

  Jane Goode fidgeted impatiently until she could bear it no longer. “So?”

  Powell ignored her. He looked up at Black. “What men call gallantry, and Gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry.”

  “My thoughts exactly, sir.”

  Powell caught up with Dr. Harris the next morning as he was returning home from church, which perhaps explained the old man's philosophical turn of mind. He had obviously heard about the murder.

  “Whatever else we may like to think, Chief Superintendent, it is death that defines the human condition. My own profession is no more than a charade, a well-intentioned but ultimately futile attempt to delay the inevitable. False hopes are a doctor's truck and trade; we're really no better than witch doctors in that respect. If you take away the advances made in reducing infant mortality in the past century, medical science has done very little to extend the human life span beyond our allotted fourscore and ten.” He shook his head sadly. “And the tragedy is that most of us fritter away our lives in pursuit of meaningless gratification.”

  Powell nodded neutrally. “Did you know Nick Trebble?” he asked quietly.

  “Not really. I'd see him from time to time in the village. He was always rowing back and forth in that little boat of his.”

  “I understand he was a bit of a loner.”

  Harris sighed. “We're all very much alone in this world, each in our own way. But I think that's true. The only time I can recall seeing him in what one might call a social situation was in the Head, but even there he usually sat by himself.”

  “He must have had some friends or associates. Did you ever see him over at the Porters’, for instance?” Powell persisted.

  Harris gave him a circumspect look. “Not that I can recall.”

  “I hope you don't mind answering all these questions.”

  A paper-thin smile. “Not at all, Chief Superintendent; it makes me feel useful. But there must be a point to it.”

  “There is, actually, now that you mention it. I need to know about Roger Trevenney.”

  An awkward silence.

  Eventually Harris spoke. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything, starting with his daughter.”

  Harris sighed heavily. “I see.” He then went on to relate the story of Ruth's murder, how she just disappeared one afternoon, the macabre circumstances in which her body was found, the fruitless murder investigation that followed, and finally the impact the tragedy had on the village. And then some thirty years later, the resurrection of painful memories by the Riddle, with its crude and rather obvious implications.

  The account was essentially similar to the others Powell had heard, until Harris got around to the subject of Roger Trevenney himself.

  “Roger was a wonderful artist, as you've seen yourself. Still is, come to that, although he hasn't painted much in recent years.”

  Powell's attention was drawn once again to Trevenney's painting in the little alcove in Dr. Harris's sitting room. He walked over and searched the impressionistic seascape for hidden clues.

  “You see, Ruth's death took it out of him,” Dr. Harris was saying. “He'd lost his wife some years before, and Ruth was everything to him.” He looked at Powell with watery eyes. “I can understand how he must have felt. He told me years later that he seriously contemplated suicide. It was only the thought of what Ruth would have wanted that deterred him.” Dr. Harris suddenly looked very frail. “And there was something else …” He hesitated. “I think Roger was determined to discover the identity of his daughter's murderer.”

  This caught Powell's attention. “What gave you that idea?”

  “Roger is basically an optimist, which is rather amazing considering what he's been through. In a way, I think the thought that Ruth's murderer might eventually be brought to justice has kept him going.”

  “I'm getting the impression that you know him quite well.”

  “I've been his physician for years. After my Helen died, Roger and I became close friends, two widowers seeking companionship, I suppose.”

  Powell nodded understandingly. “When I first came to see you, you mentioned that Roger was not very well. What did you mean?”

  “He has an inoperable brain tumor. Glioblastoma multi-forme is the medical term for it. At best, he has only a few months to live. He has his ups and downs, but as you can imagine, this ghastly business has taken its toll. I looked in on him yesterday morning and he seemed very weak.”

  Powell didn't know what to say. “I'm sorry.”

  Harris grew philosophical again. “Ah, well, Chief Superintendent, the human condition, remember?” A lengthy silence. “There's something about this place that seeps into your soul,” he said eventually. “The barrows and mounds and stone circles that mark the ancient graves.” He looked at Powell. “Death, like the sea, is ever present.”

  Powell was troubled by Dr. Harris's morbid tone. He spoke carefully. “I'm going to have to talk to Mr. Trevenney.”

  Harris stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “It's Tebble, you see,” Powell said gently, “I didn't mention it before, but it appears that the Riddle was his doing, and that's probably why he was killed.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Powell decided to pay a visit to the Head alone. Sergeant Black was off running some errands, and Jane had
secluded herself in her room to write. Another newspaper story, Powell wondered, or was she finally getting down to work on her novel? He arrived at the pub before noon hoping to have a quiet word with Tony Rowlands. Except for the publican, the bar was empty.

  “Chief Superintendent. Long time, no see.” He slurred his words slightly: he had obviously been drinking.

  “Hello, Tony. How goes the battle?”

  “Can't complain. Even if I did, no one would listen. Ha ha!”

  A false note sounded in Powell's mind. “Terrible thing about Nick Tebble …”

  The smile never left Rowlands's face, but his eyes were brittle. “Yeah, well, he was a bit of a nutter, that one.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Powell kept his voice even.

  “I mean he was a bit strange, wasn't he? What he did to that body—it makes my skin crawl.”

  The word had obviously got out. “But I wonder why somebody would want to disembowel him with a spade,” Powell mused.

  Rowlands shrugged. “Beats me. Transients, maybe? I heard there was some kids camping down at Mawgawan Beach.”

  Powell stared at Rowlands. “Why do you suppose he did it?”

  “What?”

  “The Riddle.”

  “Oh, that. Like I said, he was bonkers. Didn't like tourists, for one thing. If you want my opinion, I think he did it to scare people off.”

  Powell affected an air of puzzlement. “It had the opposite effect, surely.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The newspaper stories, the notoriety; I even saw a sign in a shop window the other day: Home of the Riddle of Penrick”

  Rowlands a bit edgy now. “Well, like I said, Nick wasn't exactly an intellectual giant. Now, if you don't mind, Chief Superintendent, I should be getting on with—”

  Powell was undeterred. “Knew him well, did you?”

  An impatient sigh. “Not well, no.”

  “You've been in Penrick—how long now?—some thirty-odd years?”

  “That's right.”

  “I imagine old Nick was one of your regular customers.”

  “He came in for a drink now and then.”

  “By the way, do you happen to know how old he was?”

  “Early fifties, I would imagine. Does it matter?”

  “He was in here the other night, as I recall.”

  Rowlands's expression tightened. “What of it?”

  “You were having a disagreement about something.”

  “It wasn't important.” An attempt to sound casual.

  Powell looked at him mildly. “Oh? I seem to remember you telling him you'd break his bloody neck, or words to that effect.”

  “What are you driving at?” Rowlands blurted out.

  “That's what you said.”

  “Well, I mean, he'd had too much too drink, hadn't he?

  So I cut him off. When he made a fuss, I asked him to leave. That's all there was to it.”

  Powell didn't believe a word of it. “I have to ask you about your whereabouts yesterday afternoon, Tony.”

  Rowlands shook his head in disbelief. “I was here serving you and Sergeant Black when he was killed.”

  Powell let the silence stretch out. Eventually he spoke.

  “How do you know when he was killed?”

  Rowlands flushed. “I don't know … I just assumed …”

  Powell drained his pint, letting him stew. “Thanks, Tony. I must be off. We can continue this little chat later.”

  Powell drove south along the coastal road, preoccupied with his thoughts. At intervals narrow hedge-enclosed lanes branched off to the west, descending by way of steep, narrow valleys toward the sea. He'd already passed the turning to Dr. Harris's and the Porters’, and the one to the Old Fish Cellar; he was looking for the track that led eventually to Roger Trevenney's house. The sea and sky were a dull gunmetal gray and a light mist hung in the air. The landscape was reduced to a wash of pastel colors in the flat light; drab green fields crisscrossed with the ubiquitous gray stone walls, and here and there an occasional sad cow. Off to his right loomed the dark shape of an engine house, the stone and brick chimney jutting into the sky like a medieval keep. He wondered if it marked the location of the old mine workings where Ruth Trevenney's body had been hidden.

  It seemed to Powell, as he negotiated the bumps and potholes, that the murder of Nick Tebble and the gruesome discovery at the Old Fish Cellar only provided further tantalizing clues to the tragic events of thirty years ago. From what he knew, Tebble didn't strike him as the type of individual who would perpetrate an elaborate hoax like the Riddle for a lark. He was convinced now that the intent had been deadly serious. Serious enough for Tebble to have got himself killed. He wondered how old Tebble would have been when Ruth was murdered— twenty-one or twenty-two? Perhaps he'd been sweet on Ruth. Maybe he had some idea who killed her, and the Riddle was his attempt to flush out the quarry. But if that was the case, why not go to the police?And was it likely that the murderer of Ruth Trevenney would have remained in Penrick all these years? Somebody forty years old at the time would be over seventy now.

  And what about Tony Rowlands, the not-so-jolly publican, who gets into a very public altercation with the victim less than a week before the murder? Most intriguing of all was the possibility that Black had caught Tebble and Linda Porter in flagrante delicto a few hours before Tebble was murdered. The fact that his skiff was pulled up on the beach near the Porters' cottage was certainly suggestive, as was Black's description of the man he saw running up the back lane, who sounded suspiciously like Jim Porter. Powell frowned. Too many questions and not enough answers.

  The terrain became rougher, pastureland gradually giving way to bracken and boulders with thickets of blackthorn, brambles, and sharp-pricked gorse. And there, just ahead, a narrow lane swinging off to the right toward the sea cliffs. He descended into the thickening fog. He passed a scattering of outbuildings, ghostly shapes in the mist, and eventually, at the foot of the hill, he could see the outline of a house. He parked his car and got out, the roar of the sea below, and experienced a sense of excited anticipation. It was as if this moment had been preordained.

  He was greeted at the door by a tall, slightly stooping man with pale, sharp features and thin white hair. The man smiled wanly. “Mr. Powell, I presume. Please come in. I hope my directions were clear.”

  “Perfectly clear, Mr. Trevenney.”

  They shook hands.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Powell said. “I've admired your painting at Dr. Harris's.”

  Trevenney smiled modestly. “You're most kind, but I haven't done anything that good for years. Here, come into the front room and sit down. I'll get us some tea.” Trevenney, a little unstable on his feet, placed his hand momentarily against the wall.

  Powell protested, “You needn't trouble yourself—”

  “Nonsense! I'll be right back.”

  Powell made himself at home and took in his surroundings. Despite the gloom outside, the little cottage was bright and cheery. A woman's touch, he would have thought if he hadn't known better: chintz curtains on the windows, a vase of cut flowers on the coffee table, and a log fire crackling in the grate. The focal point of the room hung on the wall above the mantelpiece: a portrait of a young girl in a white dress kneeling in a meadow bright with wildflowers, an impression of massive rocks and a translucent sea as a backdrop. The style was undoubtedly Trevenney's, and the emotional presence of the girl in the painting was almost palpable. She seemed to be looking directly at him, her eyes slightly puzzled. He didn't notice Roger Trevenney entering the room.

  “My daughter, Ruth,” Trevenney said quietly.

  “She's very beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was.” It was stated simply, as a matter of fact, without a hint of sadness. He placed the tea things on the coffee table. “I'm sorry I can only offer you a few biscuits. I don't get out to the shops much these days.”

  “Shortbread is my weakness, Mr. Trevenney
.”

  After pouring the tea and settling himself, Trevenney took a moment to catch his breath. He regarded Powell with apparent interest. “Peter has told me all about you, Chief Superintendent.”

  “Peter?”

  “My old friend Dr. Harris. He keeps me up-to-date with what's happening in the world.”

  Powell smiled. “What's he been telling you, then?”

  “I know that he's told you about my illness. I wanted to let you know that I'm having one of my better days, so you needn't concern yourself with that. I'd much rather you were completely frank with me. Agreed?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” Powell experienced a sense of relief. Acutely aware of his own mortality, he had never been much good at dealing with such matters, but his host's candor put him at ease.

  Trevenney went on to describe the futile courses of chemotherapy and radiation treatments and the emotional roller-coaster ride that is a cancer patient's life. Finally, he had arrived at the point where he was content to let nature take its course. He spoke in a detached, matter-of-fact manner, and Powell was struck by the quiet dignity of the man.

  “Now, Chief Superintendent, I trust with that out of the way we'll be able to concentrate on the business at hand.” Trevenney concluded.

  “I'll try to be brief, sir. Can I assume that Dr. Harris has told you something about my reasons for coming to see you?”

  Trevenney raised an eyebrow. “You want to know how much I know, is that it?”

  Powell smiled. “Something like that.”

  With a trembling hand Trevenney took a sip of his tea. “I know why you came to Penrick. And now, of course, there's that business out at the Old Fish Cellar …” He left it hanging.

  Powell looked up again at the portrait of the girl hanging on the wall behind Trevenney. He searched her eyes for inspiration.

  It was as if Trevenney read his mind. “Over the years I've come to accept what happened to Ruth, Chief Superintendent. I can't say that talking about it isn't difficult for me. but now that my innings are almost up, I want only to see justice done before I finally join my wife and daughter.”