Malice in Cornwall Read online

  “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—

  Powell's train of thought was interrupted as the car plunged abruptly into a vast puddle of indeterminate depth. A sheet of muddy water smacked the windscreen, completely obscuring his view of the road ahead. He dared not stop with the wheels churning and slipping in the soft mud. Eventually he felt the tires begin to grip on harder ground, and the car lurched slowly ahead up an incline. Suddenly, there was a glare of lights through the blurred windscreen and a horn tooting insistently.

  Instinctively Powell wrenched the steering wheel over, sending the car into the ditch with a jarring thump. A battered Land Rover rattled by, passing mere inches from Powell's right wing mirror. He caught an impression of a man driving, staring fixedly ahead. Powell's heart pounded as he attempted to regain his composure. He could have sworn the driver was Jim Porter.

  Having prevailed upon a local farmer to pull him out of the ditch with his tractor, Powell eventually arrived back at the Wrecker's Rest, soaked to the skin and in a foul mood. Mr. and Mrs. Polfrock parted like the Red Sea as he stormed up to his room. After a hot bath and not a little reflection on the morning's events, Powell, blissfully heedless of Robbie Burns's advice to mice and men, had decided on a plan of action. It was almost noon, so he wandered downstairs on the off chance that either Black or Butts had returned for lunch. They had agreed, after the appropriate assurances from Butts that there would be no more unpleasant surprises of any kind, that in light of recent developments it would be prudent to transfer their base of operations from the pub to the guesthouse.

  Sergeant Black and Chief Inspector Butts were already in attendance when Powell strolled into the dining room. Engaged in an animated conversation, they looked up only when Powell sat down.

  “I hope I'm not interrupting anything,” he said dryly. “What's on the menu?”

  Black grinned. “Chicken Madras, sir.”

  Powell glared at him. “Don't toy with my emotions, Black. I'm in no mood.”

  “Black mentioned that you liked curry, sir,” Butts piped in, looking pleased with himself, “so I, er, took the liberty of mentioning it to Agnes and she's whipped something up.”

  Good Christ. Powell thought, they'll kill me with kindness. “Splendid,” he said unconvincingly.

  “While we're waiting, I've got a few things to report,” Butts continued. “You remember Katherine Reynolds, our missing boater from Torquay? Her fiance has identified the ring on the hand we found in Tebble's cellar as belonging to her. And I just got word from Forensics on the cart; they managed to come up with some fiber samples that are similar to the kapok in the life jacket she was wearing.”

  Black grunted with satisfaction. “So our theory about Tebble and the Riddle was right.”

  “It looks that way,” Butts said. “There's one more thing.” He concluded with admirable efficiency, “the police surgeon has filed his report on Tebble. He puts the time of death somewhere between noon and two o'clock Saturday afternoon.”

  “Anything else turn up at the Old Fish Cellar?” Powell asked.

  Butts shook his head. “We're still working on it.”

  “How about you, Black? Find any smut?”

  Black chortled. “Not exactly, sir. But I did have a chat with Mrs. Halford, the proprietor of the teahouse. Nice old lady, likes to talk. Anyway, she let slip that somebody offered to sell her a barrel of sherry a couple of years ago. You wouldn't like to guess who it was, would you, sir?”

  “You know I don't like guessing games, Black.”

  “Our friend next door, Tony Rowlands.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” He looked at Butts. “Do you know anything about this?”

  Butts looked a little sheepish. “Well, sir, it's no secret that sort of thing goes on.”

  “You're not going to start making excuses, are you, Butts?”

  “I suppose I was, in a way, sir. These days we barely have enough manpower to deal with the big things and we're not able to do a very good job of it.”

  “What else is new?” Powell sighed.

  “There's something else. Mr. Powell,” Black went on. “I bumped into Jenny Thompson at the teahouse. I took her aside and had a word with her. She claims that Rowlands was at the pub all day Saturday. When he wasn't working out front, he was in the back doing the books.”

  “That's interesting. Tell me, Butts, do you know anything about her living arrangements?”

  “I understand she has a room above the pub.”

  “What about Rowlands?”

  “The same, as far as I know.”

  “I wonder if they share the same bathroom.”

  Butts shrugged. “It wouldn't surprise me.”

  “We'd better follow that up,” Powell said. He then went on to describe his interview with Linda Porter that morning and his subsequent close encounter with her husband on the drive back to the village.

  Black extended his lower lip thoughtfully. “I wonder if her husband saw the boat?”

  Powell's response was cut short by the arrival of Mrs. Polfrock with the promised chicken Madras. They made polite noises as they tucked in, tentatively at first, then with increasing enthusiasm. Powell had to admit that it wasn't half bad. The curry sauce had no doubt come from a tin, but, after all, it's the thought that counts. The only t
hing missing was Mr. Polfrock playing the sitar in the corner.

  There was a sudden flurry of activity in the front hall, and a moment later Mrs. Polfrock was hurrying back to their table. “A telephone message for you, Chief Superintendent,” she said breathlessly. “From Roger Trevenney. He said to come quickly—he said it was urgent!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Powell wasn't looking forward to the drive out to Roger Trevenney's cottage, but the rain had let up to an intermittent drizzle and there was a hint of brightness in the western sky. He switched on his mental automatic pilot, and before he knew it he was turning into Trevenney's driveway.

  He knocked on the door but there was no response. He waited a few seconds and then knocked again, louder and more persistently this time. He wondered if Trevenney had gone out, but soon he heard a faint noise behind the door. A few moments later the door opened slowly, and Trevenney, gray faced and gaunt, was bracing himself against the door frame, motioning for Powell to come in.

  “Here, let me help you, sir,” Powell said, concern in his voice.

  Trevenney waved him off and shuffled slowly down the hall, holding one hand against the wall, with Powell close behind him. At the sitting room door, he turned, staggered a few feet into the room, and then collapsed into an armchair.

  Powell could hardly believe it was the same man he had spoken to yesterday. He stood over Trevenney, who was breathing heavily, eyes closed. “Can I get you something? A glass of water or a cup of tea?”

  Trevenney slowly opened his eyes. “You're most kind, but no, thank you,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I'm not sure how long I can … I mean to say there is something I must tell you.”

  “Perhaps I should call Dr. Harris…” Powell volunteered.

  Trevenney smiled weakly. “Peter was out to see me this morning. That man should have been somebody's mother. Don't worry yourself, Chief Superintendent. As I explained yesterday, I have good days and bad days. This is one of my bad days. I'll be all right.”

  Powell was doubtful but realized there was little he could do. Trevenney had closed his eyes again. Powell quietly pulled up a chair and sat down opposite the old man. “You said it was urgent, sir,” he prompted gently.

  Trevenney opened his eyes again and looked at Powell. “I was going to tell you yesterday, but I—I lost my … I mean to say it somehow slipped my mind. I can't imagine how.”

  “You can tell me now, Mr. Trevenney.”

  “Yes, I must. But please call me Roger. I think we know each other well enough by now, don't you?”

  Powell smiled. “Of course we do, Roger. My name is Erskine by the way.”

  This seemed to make the old man happy. He pushed himself up in his chair with renewed vigor. “It was when we were talking about the second possibility.”

  “I'm trying to recall…”

  Trevenney drew a shallow breath. ‘The possibility that Nick Tebble knew the identity of Ruth's murderer.”

  “Oh, yes. Go on.”

  “It's the telephone call, you see.”

  “Telephone call?”

  “I received a call. From a man. He said he had Ruth's diary. He said it provided the key to the identity of her killer. He said he would call me again, then he rang off.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “That's the part I'm not sure about. It's my damned head, not working properly, you see. I think it was about a week ago, but sometimes it feels like it was yesterday, or a year ago. I don't know. Time seems all jumbled up these days.” He shook his head in exasperation.

  Powell leaned forward. “I want you to think about this very carefully. Did you receive this phone call before or after you first heard about the Riddle?”

  Trevenney's face contorted as he tried to concentrate. “I remember I was very distraught at the time. Before receiving the call, I mean. So I'm sure it was afterward.”

  “You said it was a man. Are you certain?”

  “I think so. But the voice was sort of muffled.”

  “Any distinguishing characteristics, an accent, anything like that?”

  Trevenney looked crestfallen. “I'm sorry, I just can't remember.”

  Powell experienced a sinking feeling. “Did this person ever call back?”

  “No. Do you think he will?” His eyes hopeful.

  “I wouldn't be a bit surprised,” Powell lied.

  Trevenney seemed to brighten slightly at the prospect.

  “When he does, I'll make detailed notes so you'll have something more to go on.”

  “That's the ticket.”

  “Before you go, Erskine, I feel bound to tell you that I haven't been entirely forthright with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I mean, I'm not the long-suffering saint I might appear to be at first glance.”

  “Roger, you needn't—”

  “No, I'm simply a father like any other. You must have children of your own …”

  Powell swallowed. “Yes, two boys.”

  “Fine lads, no doubt?”

  Powell nodded.

  “Then you can imagine, what it's been like for me all these years. Do you know what kept me going?” A feverish intensity in his voice.

  Powell stared at him.

  “Revenge. The thought that I might one day get my hands on the bastard that killed my Ruth. Does that surprise you?”

  “It would surprise me if you didn't feel that way.”

  Trevenney sagged into his chair. He closed his eyes again and sighed deeply. “Thank you for letting me get that off my chest. I know I can rest easy now.”

  “I'll do my best, Roger. I promise.”

  “I know you will.” A long pause. “Goodbye, Erskine.”

  Powell was deeply troubled; he had a feeling he would not see Roger Trevenney again.

  On the way back to the village, Powell turned in to see Dr. Harris. “I missed you this morning,” he said simply.

  Harris looking at him strangely. “I went to see Roger.”

  “Yes, I know. I've just come from there. He's very bad, isn't he?”

  Harris nodded. “I've just made arrangements to have him moved to hospital in St. Ives. He'll be better off there.”

  “I don't think he's going to like the idea much.”

  “I'm only doing what I think is best for him,” Harris said stiffly.

  “Yes, yes of course you are.”

  A strained silence.

  Eventually Powell spoke, “This may not seem like the appropriate time, but I must ask you something.”

  “Yes.”

  “You mentioned before that you'd never seen Nick Tebble over at the Porters’. What about Tony Rowlands?”

  “Do you mind me asking what this is all about?”

  “I shouldn't have thought you'd need to ask.”

  “I've never been much of a busybody, Chief Inspector.”

  “For Christ's sake, just answer the question!” Powell exploded.

  Harris was clearly taken aback. “No, I haven't seen Rowlands next door, actually.”

  “Has Mrs. Porter had any gentleman callers in the last month or so?”

  Harris thought about it for a moment. “There was someone about a week ago—I remember now—it was young Wilcox.”

  “Was Mr. Porter home at the time?”

  “I can't remember. I'm sorry.”

  “There's just one more thing. You said you went to see Roger Saturday morning. Do you remember what time you drove back?”

  “Sometime between noon and one o'clock, I think.”

  “You didn't happen to pass anyone, did you?”

  He frowned. “Why, yes, I did meet someone on the road.”

  Powell waited.

  “It was George Polfrock.”

  “Going the other way?”

  “Yes.”

  Powell sighed. “Thank you, Dr. Harris.”

  “This is about Ruth, isn't it?”

  “It's always been about Ruth.�
�

  “I'm sorry about before …” His eyes watery.

  Powell placed his hand on the doctor's shoulder. “I'm the one who should apologize. Now, go and see to your friend.”

  When Powell got back to the guesthouse, he cornered George Polfrock in the front hall. The elusive proprietor of the Wrecker's Rest, upon spotting Powell coming through the front door, had been about to duck into the dining room, but Mrs. Polfrock, who happened to be coming out at the same time, provided a fortuitous and formidable barrier.

  “I was just going to have a word with your husband, Mrs. Polfrock,” Powell remarked breezily.

  Mrs. Polfrock's eyes narrowed. “Would you like me to sit it? Perhaps I could …”

  Powell winked at her. “Man talk, I'm afraid.”

  She turned on Mr. Polfrock and glared at him. “When you're done, I've got some chores for you to do.”

  Powell noticed that Mr. Polfrock wasn't exactly turning cartwheels across the floor at the prospect of being interviewed, and he had definitely turned a whiter shade of pale. “Now, then, why don't we step into the Residents' Lounge, Mr. Polfrock?”

  The little man acquiesced silently, resigned apparently to whatever the fates had in store for him.

  Powell arranged two chairs so that the escritoire in the corner of the room would be within view of them both and then invited Mr. Polfrock to sit down. He took a seat opposite and smiled evenly. “I've been looking forward to having this little chat for quite some time now.”

  ‘Oh?” Mr. Polfrock said in a small voice.

  “You don't mind if I smoke?”

  Mr. Polfrock looked alarmed. “Agnes doesn't…”

  Powell lit a cigarette and reached over to the coffee table for a saucer to use as an ashtray. “Now, George, where to begin? You don't mind if I call you George?”

  Mr. Polfrock shook his head nervously.

  “You aren't a shooting man, by any chance, are you, George?”

  Polfrock swallowed hard, seemingly unable to speak.

  “Great sport, shooting. I have an old Westley Richards detachable lock gun. Inherited it from my father. It's over sixty years old, but it's as sound as the day it was built. Do you know what a gun like that costs nowadays? Five thousand pounds, I reckon, twenty thousand for a new one. I certainly couldn't afford it. Makes one think, doesn't it, George? One should really keep a gun like that locked up, don't you think? Any gun, for that matter. One can't be too careful with all the break-ins and burglaries these days. You don't happen to own a shotgun, do you, George?”