Malice in Cornwall Page 9

Wilcox studied Powell's face carefully before replying. “I mean that someone must have taken an active part in it, dragging the thing onto the beach at night when the tides were right, leaving it where it would likely be found, and then removing it before anyone could get a good look at it. It wouldn't be easy.”

  The same idea had been running round the back of Powell's brain as an admittedly far-fetched possibility, but hearing someone else articulate it caused a familiar thrill to surge through his body. It was the sensation he experienced when all of his faculties were humming along in tune. “And they'd have to keep it hidden somewhere between times,” he mused.

  Wilcox pulled a face. “Not a pleasant thought, is it?”

  “But why would anybody go to all the trouble?”

  “It does seem pretty bizarre.”

  Wilcox's description of the local currents was consistent with what Powell had been told by the coastguard officer in Falmouth. Time now to get to the real reason for his visit. “You mentioned to Sergeant Black that some people in Penrick were making a connection between the Riddle and the murder of Ruth Trevenney.”

  Wilcox appeared to hesitate, then he shrugged. “There's been some talk going around. It's no secret.”

  “What do you think, Colin?”

  He met Powell's steady gaze. “I can tell you what I know about it, if that would help.”

  Powell nodded.

  “My father told me the story,” Wilcox began in a quiet voice. “I was still in nappies when it happened. Ruth Trevenney lived with her father in a cottage up along Mawgawan Beach. He still lives there. He's quite a well-known artist, used to be a leading light in St. Ives before it got too trendy,” he added parenthetically. “Anyway, one day Ruth just disappeared. It was in ‘sixty-seven, I think—she was sixteen or seventeen at the time. A massive search was undertaken, involving local volunteers, the police, and the coastguard, but to no avail. A few days later, her body washed up on the Sands with its throat slit. The girl who discovered it was high on acid at the time, and it created quite a stir in the media. The police later discovered that Ruth's body had been thrown down an old mine adit that drains to the sea. You can see the opening in the cliff between the Old Fish Cellar and Mawgawan Beach. There was a heavy rain and the body ended up in Penrick Bay. Even today after a good rain, contaminated drainage from the mine workings discharges from the tunnel and stains the sea red. There's some around here that say it's the blood of Ruth Trevenney.”

  “You mentioned the Old Fish Cellar.”

  “It's where they used to salt the pilchards down, just past Towey Head.”

  “Go on.”

  “The murderer was never found. There were lots of rumors flying around at the time: drug smugglers, the hippies who used to hang out around Mawgawan Beach, you name it. Everyone had their own pet theory, apparently.”

  “And your father?”

  Wilcox did not look up. “I don't remember him voicing an opinion on the subject, and I never asked. I do know that Ruth and her father were well liked around here.”

  No point in beating about the bush. “So is someone actually suggesting that the Riddle of Penrick is Ruth Trevenney's ghost, or something to that effect?”

  Wilcox smiled wanly. “Not in those words exactly, but you have to admit there's an eerie similarity. And we Cornish are a superstitious lot.”

  “Hmm. Could you draw me a rough sketch showing the relative location of Mawgawan Beach, the Trevenneys' cottage, the Old Fish Cellar, and the mine drainage tunnel, so I can get my bearings?”

  “No problem.” He went off to search for a pen and paper.

  Powell was beginning to weave together in his mind a number of hitherto unrelated threads. A body that glows in the dark like an hallucination, the sensitivity of the local police to an incident that bears a disturbing resemblance to a previous unsolved murder, and the outrage of Dr. Harris, the friend of Roger Trevenney. Still, a connection with something that happened thirty years ago seemed improbable. More likely it was somebody pulling a prank, as others had suggested. An unfortunate accident somewhere along the coast, the body washes up on the Sands, and some yob takes advantage of the situation. A tasteless joke at best, a misdemeanor at worst. But why couldn't he convince himself? He emptied his glass.

  Wilcox returned and drew a map of Penrick Bay and the section of coastline immediately to the southwest. In a neat hand he made various notations on the map. When he was satisfied, he handed it over to Powell.

  Powell examined the sketch. “That helps considerably. Thanks.” He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.

  “Not at all.”

  “I won't take any more of your time, Colin, but I may need to talk to you again.”

  Wilcox smiled. “You know where to find me, Chief Superintendent.”

  A real charmer, Powell thought as he got into his car. As he turned around in the driveway, he had the feeling that Wilcox was watching him.

  CHAPTER 9

  The boom swung around and Powell felt the sea surge under the plywood hull as the little Enterprise heeled over and began to pick up speed, the mainsail thrumming in the wind, spray flying from the bow.

  “Take in the sheet!” Powell called out to Jane Goode, who had her hands full wrestling with the jib.

  “What sheet?” she shouted, her voice edged with panic.

  “That line in your hand, the bloody rope, woman!”

  “Then why didn't you say so!” she retorted, pulling it through the cleat like he had shown her during their test run in front of Dr. Harris's cottage. But now they were nearly half a mile offshore with nothing between them and North America but water, and the rocks of Towey Head were coming up quickly on their left—er, port side, she corrected herself. And she'd already forgotten what a spinnaker was, or was it a luff?

  Powell grinned at her. Hair flying in the wind, her face flushed, she looked wonderful. The last of the morning fog was burning off. and it promised to be a fine day. A fresh westerly was blowing and lines of white horses advanced across a vast blue meadow of sea. What better way to use Colin Wilcox's map to familiarize himself with the local coastline and get the juices flowing besides?

  Jane Goode, however, viewed the situation rather differently. A rash acceptance of Powell's proposal in the Head last night, induced by a surfeit of wine, she supposed ruefully; a mighty struggle with Powell to launch Dr. Harris's thirteen-foot sailboat that morning; and now she found herself drenched with spray and hanging on for dear life as the tiny dinghy, leaning over at an alarming angle, sliced through the choppy waves. More than anything else, she was angry at herself, at her own sense of incompetence. She had always considered herself fairly athletic—she had excelled in a number of sports at school and still tried to keep fit biking and jogging. But she was cautious by nature and didn't like to jump into anything new without first doing her homework. If she had wanted to try sailing, for instance, she would have enrolled in a course of sailing lessons, not agreed to go out in a gale in a minuscule boat with a suicidal maniac who seemed intent only on showing off. Men, they were all the same! But she'd be damned if she'd let him get the better of her. Clenching her teeth, she checked that her feet were hooked securely under the toe strap and then hung her rear end out even farther over the gunwale.

  Gannets plunged offshore, a pair of gray seals frolicked in their wake, and Powell's spirits soared. He loved the wind and spray in his face. Every faculty finely tuned to the elements and the lively response of the dinghy. If he had been alone he would have whooped for joy. He had almost forgotten what it was like, but he supposed it was like riding a bicycle—one never lost the knack.

  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 natur
e, 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.”