Malice in Cornwall Read online

  It was pretty clear he was in the soup. For all practical purposes, a bottomless pit below, a sheer rock wall above, and him marooned on a narrow ledge, perhaps four feet wide if he was lucky. His own little world perched between Heaven and Hell. The question was, How precisely had he got there? He surmised that he must have broken through the overgrown opening of the shaft and fallen some distance before ending up in his present location. So far so good. But he couldn't have fallen very far or he wouldn't have been in any condition to be contemplating the problem. Using his right arm. he levered himself painfully over onto his back. He tried to relax his cramping muscles.

  His eyes were growing accustomed to the attenuated light, and he was able to get some impression of the rock wall above him. Illuminated faintly from above, the face gleamed dully. He could see occasional darker striations that looked like cracks or shallow fissures. The light source was obviously the sky behind the screen of branches that covered the mouth of the shaft. It was difficult to say whether the opening was fifteen or fifty feet above him. Closer to the former, he reckoned, considering the fact that he had survived the fall more or less intact. He suddenly realized what a close call it had been. To have hit the ledge in the first place, and then to have remained there, was something of a minor miracle.

  He thought about what to do next. He didn't see that he had much choice in the matter other than to sit tight. Thank God he had told Jane he was going to the mine; they would undoubtedly come looking for him. He held his wrist close to his eyes. He searched the inscrutable face of his watch and then felt the broken crystal with his fingers. He guessed it was sometime in the midafternoon. He thought about Marion and the boys—quickly calculating the time difference—who were no doubt still happily tucked into their beds at the Chateau Whistler. Just as well they were away and wouldn't have to worry. Might as well get comfortable, he thought. He pushed himself into a sitting position with his back against the rock and his legs slightly bent. He winced as he touched his swollen knee.

  He closed his eyes and waited, his head aching fiercely, lulled by the pervasive murmur of running water. He didn't think anything of it until he felt the first cold trickle running down his neck. He shifted position only to find himself sitting in a puddle. He swore and struggled painfully to his feet. He looked up. The rock looked different now, shimmering in the gloom with a shiny glaze. He reached up and touched the wall. He could feel water running over his fingers and down his sleeve. He could hear it splashing on the ledge. He tried to think. It had been raining, he remembered; he could visualize the low berm of earth around the depression in the ground and the signs of erosion on the slope above. The berm had obviously been intended to divert runoff around the opening of the shaft, but since the upper side had been breached, any runoff from the hillside above would tend to collect in the depression and then flow down the shaft.

  He began to consider the potential implications of this and was at the point of wondering just how bad it could get when the trickle suddenly became a torrent. A sheet of water splashed down the wall, and although he moved as close to the edge of the ledge as he dared, he was soon drenched to the bone. He began to shiver convulsively. He would bloody well die of exposure at this rate. For the first time he noticed that the ledge was curved, about ten feet long and petering out at both ends. He knew that in the old days the miners had used long ladders to descend into and ascend from the mines each day. Strangely detached, he wondered if the ledge had something to do with ladders. He stared down into the blackness. It was the snakes that had him worried. His head was spinning. He knew now that he had to get out, that he couldn't afford to wait any longer. But he couldn't remember why. The idea had entered his mind fully formed, as it were, and when he tried to analyze it, the reasons eluded him. He just knew that he had to move.

  Facing the wall, and steadying himself with his right hand, he shuffled stiffly to his left, stopping a pace away from where the ledge, now only about two feet wide, ended abruptly. He pressed closely against the rock. He was no longer being showered with cold spray, and the curve of wall to his left looked dry. It appeared that the water was only flowing down the side of the shaft on which the ledge was situated—the uphill side in relation to the topography aboveground, presumably. Just beyond the end of the ledge there was a thin shadow—it looked like a crack or fault in the shaft wall—that ascended vertically for several feet before veering off to the right. The upper few feet of the crack were indistinct in the wash of light immediately below the opening of the shaft, but it appeared to continue right to the top.

  One more careful step to the left and he could reach out with his left hand to feel the crack. His fingers curled around the edge. Three to four inches wide and just about as deep. He reached up as far as he could. It seemed fairly uniform. He ran his hand over the wall between him and the crack. Rough with the occasional small nubbin to serve as a hold. He felt slightly giddy but, once again, without being able to think about it rationally, he knew what he had to do. Right foot on the end of the ledge, left hand grasping the edge of the crack at about head height, straddle the intervening section of wall with his left leg and then jam his foot in the crack. Pull himself over, get his right hand in quickly above his left and his right foot above the left one”. Should be a piece of cake, he thought illogically.

  The problem was somewhat reminiscent of the Moonlight Sonata on Scafell, a climb he had pioneered with his mates in the Cambridge Mountaineering Club. Not as difficult as it looked—a “Hard Very Severe” at most—but very exposed, and accomplished at night after having consumed considerably more beer than was prudent under the circumstances. It did not, however, seem to occur to him that his knee was an unknown quantity, that brogues were not the most suitable footwear for rock climbing, and that he would have no rope to stop him should he fall.

  He again reached out with his left hand and grasped the edge of the crack. He swung his left leg out with a painful grunt, taking all of his weight on his right leg. Could be worse, he thought grimly. Gritting his teeth, he somehow managed to wedge his shoe into the crack. His heart was racing and he was breathing rapidly. He was committed now, spread-eagled on the face between the crack and the ledge, the abyss below. The next move would be the tricky one. It is a maxim in rock climbing that one endeavors at all times to maintain three points of contact with the rock; that is, one only moves one hand or foot at a time. Then if one of the three holds fails, the climber still has two points of contact to prevent a fall. In this instance, he had to move his right hand and right foot over to the crack more or less simultaneously, pulling himself over with his left hand and taking most of his weight on his left foot.

  He made an effort to concentrate on his breathing, trying not to think about the drop below him. He exhaled sharply, then with a decisive movement swung himself over, jamming his right hand into the crack. He cried out, desperately scrabbling with his right foot to obtain purchase. Eventually he was able to lodge it in the crack, and he clung to the rock, gasping convulsively. With a sudden clarity of mind, he grasped the extent of his predicament. He didn't have the strength to hold himself in the crack indefinitely—his left leg had begun to twitch spasmodically (“sewing machine leg,” in the climber's vernacular) and he could no longer feel his fingers. Basically, he had two choices: get up quickly or fall.

  He looked up. He thought he had about ten feet more to climb before the crack curved off to the right, at which point he thought he might be able to reach the lip of the shaft, or possibly grab on to a branch and hoist himself up. The climbing itself looked fairly straightforward, but in light of his rapidly hemorrhaging strength, he reckoned his chances were fifty-fifty at best. He resisted the temptation to wallow in either noble or maudlin sentiments. He couldn't afford to waste the energy.

  He began to move up mechanically, grunting in pain with each movement of his right leg. Left foot, right hand, right foot, left hand. Tears filling his eyes. Don't think about it, keep the rhythm going, blood str
eaming from his knuckles now, muscles screaming. The crack slanting off to the right, he was able to stand on the lower edge now, cold spray on his face, the rock wet to touch. Reach up swimming against the current, need to breathe, his dead fingers curling over a tiny crumbling edge, shoes scraping against slimy rock, falling back. Branches breaking above, his wrist suddenly caught in a firm grip, pulling him up.

  A large white face looming like a full moon. “Good God, Mr. Powell, what in heaven's name are you doing? You've scared us half to death!”

  CHAPTER 19

  The Stern Inquisitor, the Tender Angel of Mercy, and the Man in the Moon waxing and waning as Powell slipped in and out of consciousness. Yin and Yang, Heaven and Hell, Torment and Redemption.

  Then the Man in the Moon low in the sky, shaking him. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Powell, but we have to wake you every hour to see if you're all right.”

  I'll be all right if you'll jus' let me sleep, he thought.

  “Let's have a look at him, Sergeant.” The Stern Inquisitor bending over and shining a light in Powell's eye. First the left, then the right. “Pupils responding normally. How's the leg?”

  “He was moaning in his sleep.” The Tender Angel's concerned voice.

  “Here, let's have a look at it.”

  Powell wide-awake now. “Ouch! For God's sake, take it easy.”

  Dr. Harris smiling. “Back in the land of the living, are we?”

  Powell looked perplexed. “What's going on?”

  Harris studied his demeanor. “Why don't you tell me?”

  Powell looked around the room. The curtains were parted slightly; it was dark outside. He was in his room at the Wrecker's Rest. Sergeant Black and Jane Goode stood beside his bed looking on anxiously. Dr. Harris was on the other side of the bed, face expressionless. Powell tried to think. His head throbbed and his knee ached. “The mine,” he said hesitantly. “I must have had an accident.”

  Black cleared his throat, as if he were about to say something.

  “No need to think about that now,” Dr. Harris interjected. “You need to rest. One of us will check in on you from time to time.”

  Powell mumbled something and then closed his eyes.

  “He's had a nasty time of it,” Dr. Harris said, “but there shouldn't be any permanent damage. The effects of the concussion should wear off in a few days.” He sipped his coffee. “Very thoughtful of your sister-in-law to put a pot on, Chief Inspector.”

  Butts grunted.

  Dr. Harris looked at Black. “And see that he has that knee looked at.”

  Black smiled forlornly. “I'll do my best.”

  Jane Goode shook her head. “Why would anyone do it? It just doesn't make any sense.”

  Black's expression was deadly serious now. “Well, I'm bloody well going to find out.”

  Butts drew himself up in the manner of someone taking charge. “Right. According to Dr. Harris, here, Mr. Powell is going to be laid up for a day or two. Have a chat with him tomorrow morning, Black, and see if you can find out what happened.” Butts glanced speculatively at Harris.

  Harris sighed. “It should be all right, provided he's feeling up to it.”

  Butts nodded. “Then report back to me. We still have to talk to Rowlands and Jim Porter, but that can wait until we know exactly where we stand.”

  Black seemed about to say something but evidently thought better of it.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right, then. I'm going to turn in.”

  There was a polite round of good-nights.

  After Butts had gone, Dr. Harris turned to Black. “Do you suppose this attempt on Mr. Powell's life is in some way related to what happened to Nick Tebble?”

  Black looked at him. “It would be one hell of a coincidence if it wasn't.”

  Harris nodded absently. “Yes—yes, I suppose so.”

  “May I say something now?” Jane Goode sounded a trifle annoyed.

  “Yes, of course, ma'am.”

  “Assuming that Powell was hot on somebody's trail, what could he possibly have known that you or Buttie didn't know? It doesn't make any sense to me that a fox trying to put the hounds off his trail would gain anything by trying to kill one of the hounds. It would only intensify the chase, wouldn't it?”

  “An interesting analogy, Ms. Goode,” Black said. “But to carry on with your animal theme, we've all heard about the cornered rat, haven't we? You're right about one thing, though,” he concluded grimly. “It'll intensify the bloody chase, all right.”

  The next morning Powell awoke feeling almost human. The back of his head was tender to the touch with a hint of dried blood, his knuckles were scraped, and his knee ached dully. He felt like he'd been soundly stomped in a particularly boisterous scrum. According to Jane Goode, Dr. Harris had gone home but would be looking in a little later. The highlight of his day, so far, had been Jane serving him breakfast in bed: two lightly poached eggs with a sliced tomato, a stack of dry brown toast kept warm in a linen napkin, a pot of marmalade, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “You must be telepathic,” Powell said.

  “I am, actually.”

  Powell feigned a look of alarm.

  “Relax, your secret's safe with me. If you must know, Sergeant Black has given me complete instructions on how to look after you. Feed three times daily and change paper once a week. By the way, your wife doesn't do this sort of thing for you, does she?”

  “Not on your life. She's a liberated woman.”

  “I think I'm going to hit you with this,” Jane Goode said, holding something behind her back. With a flourish, she produced a cane, a blue ribbon tied in a bow just below the crook. “I thought you might find it useful.”

  “Thank you, Jane. I'm truly touched to know that you think of me as frail and decrepit.”

  “Any more of your cheek and I'll hand you over to Mrs. Polfrock.”

  “I'll have you know that Mrs. Polfrock is a perfectly charming woman.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You have hit your head, haven't you?” In spite of the banter, she had been keeping a close eye on Powell. Dr. Harris had instructed her to look for any signs of confusion or other unusual behavior, but to her considerable relief, he seemed to be acting normally, at least as far as she was able to tell.

  ‘“Don't worry, Jane.’

  “What?”

  Powell smiled. ‘“I'm the one who's telepathic. You've been watching me out of the side of your eye ever since you came in here. I can assure you that I'm not out of my head.” If I was, he thought wistfully, I'd have invited you into bed with me.

  “Powell,” she said hesitantly, “perhaps if Yd gone with you. as you'd asked, none of this would have happened. I—”

  “Nonsense. I'm fine, honestly.”

  “‘Well, if you're sure. I'll get Sergeant Black.”

  “What?”

  ‘“Toodle-oo.”’

  Powell felt slightly cheated as she left the room and Black squeezed in beside the bed to take her place.

  “Good morning, sir,” Black said cheerfully.

  ‘“I've had better,” Powell grumbled. “‘What's up?”

  “Er, I wanted to have a word, sir. About yesterday, about what happened out at the mine.”

  “That!” Powell said sheepishly. “There's not much to tell, really. I was poking around and stumbled onto an old mine shaft.” Powell went on to explain how the opening had been covered by bushes and how he'd fallen through.

  There was an awkward silence. “I don't think it happened quite that way, sir.”

  “What do you mean?” Powell asked sharply. “I was there, after all!”

  “What I mean is, sir, there is evidence that someone, er, assaulted you.”

  “That's ridiculous! What evidence?”

  “An iron pipe with blood on it, lying beside the opening. And there was blood on the back of your head, sir.”

  “I fell down a mine shaft, what do you expect?”

  Black per
sisted. “I think this person struck you on the back of the head with the pipe. You fell forward, broke through the foliage, and ended up down the hole.”

  Powell could think of nothing to say. It was almost as if he'd known all along it had happened that way. He looked up at his colleague. “What a bloody job, eh, Bill?”

  Black nodded glumly.

  “It's bad enough that someone tries to kill me, then, half out of my head, I do my bloody best to finish the job. I don't know what I could have been thinking.” He shook his head in disgust. “Sometimes I seriously wonder if I'm past it.”

  Black smiled hopefully. “All's well that ends well, sir.”

  “Thanks to you, Bill.”

  Black grinned. “Always happy to lend a hand, sir.”

  “Yes, well, what are we to make of it, then?”

  “I was hoping you'd be able to shed some light on the matter, sir.”

  “Yes, I suppose—” It hit him like a load of bricks. “Porter!”

  “Sir?”

  “You'll remember I talked to him on the way out to the mine …”

  Black swore violently, out of character for him. “Of course! My head mustn't be screwed on right.”

  “He doesn't seem the type, somehow, but we'd better have Butts pull him in for questioning. In any case, he was working beside the road; he may have seen somebody else go by.”

  “I'd like to talk to him, sir.”

  “Do you think that would be wise?”

  A lengthy silence, then Black sighed heavily. “Probably not.”

  “Why don't you go and fetch Butts, while I rack my brain a bit.”

  After Black had gone, Powell threw back the duvet and struggled stiffly out of bed. He picked up his new cane from the foot of the bed and hobbled around the room in his shorts. He felt slightly dizzy at first, but the sensation soon passed. He found that if he held his right leg straight and kept his weight off it, the discomfort was bearable and he could get around quite well. He carefully lowered himself back down onto the bed and began the Herculean task of getting dressed.