by Peter Leslie
"That's clear enough," April said. "You have never turned a double lighthouse — and, I suppose, you've never turned a Porphyry one in black?"
"Porphyry?" the boy said, astonished. "Not a lighthouse. Neither in black nor any other colour. That's a new one, I must say: a black Porphyry lighthouse!" He chuckled.
"Sir Gerald Wright thinks so too. He even sent his wife to get hold of one the other day, just after the murder. There was nothing for her, though."
"You know what I think of Sir Bleeding Gerald," the boy said.
"I know," the girl replied. "But I don't know what I think of him. Since he's a man of so many parts, with so many conflicting opinions about him, I think the least I can do is manoeuvre a chance meeting with this Lothario!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN: A WALK OVER THE CLIFFS
THE following day was a Saturday. For the present, the weather seemed to have cleared: after the rainstorm which had lasted all night, a Force Seven gale had blown away the clouds and whipped the breakers along the cliffs into a battlefield of exploding foam. Inland at the head of the valley, however, where the bare trees took the brunt of the wind's fury, the circus field was relatively sheltered and there was quite a crowd of locals profiting from the pale winter sunshine.
Mark Slate sauntered in with a mob of giggling youths and girls soon after two o'clock. There was still a policeman on duty at the gate but he was deep in conversation with a tanned man who was wearing a fisherman's cap. Canned music blared from a juke-box somewhere in the middle of the sideshows and there was a lot of shouting and laughter competing with the cries of the barkers, the snap of rifles from the target booths, and the screaming of teenagers in a miniature hall of mirrors.
Children darted and tumbled between the knots of people gathering outside the kiosks.
Slate was heading, as unobtrusively as possible, for April's caravan. She had left it unlocked so that he could sit there, unseen and unheard, and talk to her over their Communicators while she made a reconnaissance of Sir Gerald Wright's big house on the cliff top beyond the Tor. The booth was being looked after by Sara, the equestrienne, who seemed to have taken a fancy to the girl from U.N.C.L.E. and had at once offered to deputize for her when April had pleaded urgent family business in Truro.
He threaded his way past a group of swarthy country boys crowded around a red-faced man in a tight brown suit who seemed to be knocking all the coconuts from their stands, and wandered up towards the canvas immensity of the Big Top. The sewn panels, battened down but bellying slightly in the wind, were drying out from grey to a bleached white.
In the aisle between the two rows of trailers, all was quiet: the fairground sound-effects were muted to a distant cacophony of three different jukeboxes playing different tunes with, a little nearer, an overlay of maniac laughter relayed from a tape loop in one of the "novelty" booths.
By the caravan in which April was staying, he paused to check that nobody was in sight, and then trod purposefully up the short ladder and went inside. Through the window above the narrow bunk bed, he gazed out over the cascade of slate roofs spilling down the valley to the harbour with its tangle of swaying masts. Somewhere along the wind-swept coastguard path which clung to the cliffs beyond, April was tramping towards Sir Gerald's house. Experimentally, he pulled the Communicator from his pocket, drew out its telescopic aerial and thumbed the call button.
The girl's immediate answer took him by surprise. "Channel open," she said; "and don't think I don't envy you, sitting there in my nice warm trailer while I'm up here in the teeth of a gale! Thank goodness I wore my thickest trousers and a sheepskin coat!"
"I only half expected a reply, as a matter of fact," said Slate. "I fancied you might not yet be far enough away from the madding crowd to talk. You must have made good time. Where are you?"
"Just rounding the corner of the headland below the Tor, where the cliffs dip down to Tregunda Cove. The Wrights keep a small boat there, I believe. A few more yards, and I shall be out of sight of Porthallow and in sight of their house up above the cove."
Involuntarily, the agent raised his eyes and stared once more out of the window. At this distance, even had he known where to look, a human figure would be indistinguishable against the great sweep of the Tor; it was hard enough to pick out the path to the old coastguard station, charting its sinuous course across the moorland with an occasional patch of fuchsia or briar or valerian showing dark against the Cornish heath. Yet somewhere on that jagged skyline was the owner of the melodious voice which was now proceeding from the pen-shaped instrument in his hand.
"What exactly are your plans, April?" he asked. "I'd like to know the form so that I can keep in touch mentally, as it were, if for some reason you have to make short, cryptic comments later — or if you can't come through at all, for that matter."
"All my comments are cryptic." The girl's voice had a hint of mockery in it. "And they'll certainly be short if my breath has to cope with climbing against this wind much longer! But, so far as I know, my aim is to stray from this straight and anything-but-narrow path as soon as I'm within reasonable distance of chez-Wright..."
"Straying from paths when he's around seems an easy task, from what I hear!" Mark observed.
"... and then to try and strike up an acquaintance with him by wandering onto his property and — as they say — engaging him in light conversation. I understand from spies in the circus that he customarily spends Saturday afternoons at home… and that his wife usually goes into Helston shopping at the same time."
"Okay. On your own pretty head be it! When can I expect to hear from you?"
"Give me a half hour. I should be approaching the property then, and I can give you a clearer idea of what's what. At the moment, all I can say is that those coastguards must have had feet of iron!" April sounded more breathless than ever as she picked her way along the rocky track.
Mark glanced at his watch, peered through the window to check that all was clear, and slipped out of the caravan. It seemed a little colder. He looked up at the sky and saw that the sunlight was now filtering through an immensely high gauze of cirrus which some stratospheric wind had teased out from the west.
The sideshows were more crowded still and the youth of Porthallow, red of face and long of hair, were thronging the two small arcades of pinball machines, laughing boisterously and indulging in ritual horseplay with the linked-arm duos and trios of girls. Ephraim Bosustow, a false grin scything his face, was acting as barker outside the sham gypsy caravan in which his wife consulted her crystal ball, and the middle brother — Mark had never heard his christian name — was twirling his waxed moustache at the clients in the shooting gallery. The biggest crowd of all was encircling the Bingo stall, where the widow of the late Harry Bosustow chanted the traditional couplets as she raked in the revenue that she was in due course going to conceal.
Slate smiled at Sara Bosustow behind the counter of the Serpentine souvenir booth and strolled towards the gate. Really, he thought, apart from the absence of someone pestering the clients to have their photographs taken, the circus was going about its daily business as though the blackmailer had never existed...
He was a few yards from the gate when somebody hailed him. He swung round. Superintendent Curnow, blue eyes twinkling, was talking to the man on duty.
"Hallo, there, Mr. Slate," the policeman called. "What are you doing up here, eh? Soaking up a bit of our local colour or trying to make your hotel expenses at the Bingo stall?"
"Taking an afternoon off, if you must know," the agent grinned. He walked over and shook hands. "How are your enquiries going? May we, the public, expect an early arrest?"
Curnow's expressive face darkened. "I'm not too sure of that," he said, "and that's the truth. We can't make up our minds whether the two murders are connected or not. On the one hand, there are things about the manner of them, the particular kind of callousness involved, that make me think they are; on the other hand, despite the fact that both victims worked here, there see
ms little doubt that there is nothing motive-wise to connect them... As a matter of fact, I'm on my way to Harry Bosustow's caravan now to collect all his negatives. We received an anonymous tip-off today that there might be something there — and while we don't normally act on anonymous letters, we have to explore every avenue we can in a murder case, don't we?"
"How do you mean 'something there'?" Mark asked. "Haven't you gone over the caravan? — If you don't mind my asking, that is."
"Naturally we have. But we didn't actually take out each individual negative and project it; we just saw the kind of thing they were and, as it were, filed them away for future reference. Our unknown helper seems to think there may actually be a clue in the subjects of these pictures. So we have to look just in case."
"I see. Any other developments?"
"Not in the case of Miss Duncan, no. But the pathologist in Penzance passed on a message from the lab that may have a bearing on Harry Bosustow's murder. It seems there were traces of paint behind the knees of his trousers — and it's a paint sold by ship's chandlers. Carries a built-in rust-inhibitor and an anti-saltwater-corrosion agent."
"So it looks as though...?"
"It looks as though it's a clue to the craft he was taken out and drowned in. Marked his trousers when he struggled as they pushed him over the gunwale, I guess. Poor devil."
"It's fresh paint, is it?"
"Oh, yes. Been painted pretty recently, the lab said, otherwise it'd never have come off in sufficient quantities to register like that— specially after a few hours of immersion."
"Can you trace it to any specific boat here?"
"Not here, no. I had thought perhaps he might have been taken off in one of the crabbers — he was pretty friendly with some of the crews. But there's not but five fishing boats left in Porthallow today, and every one of them's blue and black with a white line around her waist."
"The paint was none of those colours, I assume?"
"Bless you, no. Didn't I say...? No, it was a very unusual colour — and that may be a help or it may be a hindrance; it all depends. All we know for certain is that there's no craft in Porthallow painted that way."
"What was the colour?"
"It's a kind of orangey-red. Oriental Dawn, they call it!" Curnow chuckled. "The names they think of! But it's an odd colour for the outside of a boat, and that's the truth."
"It couldn't have been from the inside? From a cabin, for instance?"
The policeman shook his head. "No. That's one thing they were sure about. It came from a gunwale. They can tell by the way it's come off on the material, for one thing. For another, there were traces of salt in it. And fish scales."
"So all you have to do is look for a boat…
"With a hull in Oriental Dawn. Exactly. As I say, it may be a help or it may be a hindrance... Here, I say, look at the time! I must be getting along for those photos."
"Good luck, then," Mark said.
"We shall probably need it, Mr. Slate. We shall probably need it... I say, I do like that coat! Those short overcoats are very practical, aren't they… I could do with one like that when I'm out on the moors sometime with the Customs and Excise boys!"
The agent smiled at his unabashed enthusiasm and began to walk back towards April's caravan. He must leave Curnow time to start ferretting about in the locker below the bed before he re-entered the adjacent trailer…
Sara Bosustow called him over as he passed the Serpentine booth. "Saw you talking to the Law," she said. "Haven't they arrested Handsome Gerry yet?... I can't for the life of me think why they don't pull him in. Everyone but them knows he's the one as killed Sheila... and it wouldn't surprise me if he done in poor Harry too." Her smouldering eyes filled with tears at the memory.
"Don't worry, Sara," he said. "I'm sure they'll pull in the murderer as soon as they have all the evidence they need — whoever it is." He waved and went on.
Round a corner behind the sideshows, he almost ran full tilt into Curnow again. The Superintendent was talking to Ernie Bosustow — and the boy's face was dark with rage. "... call off your rotten tails and leave me alone," he was saying defiantly, "or, so help me, I'll turn round and land one of the bleeders such a swipe as he'll never forget! Give a dog a bad name, that's your motto, isn't it? Just because I got a bit of a temper, then I'm the one must of done it."
"That's enough of that, Bosustow. Drop it now," Curnow grated — sounding very different from the slow-spoken saloon-bar friend Mark had just left.
"Drop it, is it?" the boy raved. "Just because you're determined to railroad me into gaol for a murder someone else committed, I'm supposed to sit tight and say 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir' and 'Thank you, Mr. Curnow' — is that it?"
"You know that isn't true —"
"I know a social climber when I see one, and I know the real murderer has a handle to his name — so I know, too, how much chance I have of getting a fair trial! And talking of trials, why don't you arrest me? Go on, take me in... I'll come. Arrest me! Maybe a jury would give me a better deal than I get here."
"I'm a patient man, lad, but if you don't button that lip..."
Slate rolled his eyes heavenwards and turned back. Neither man had seen him. If he hurried round the other way, he could make the caravan before the policeman reached Bosustow's next door.
He had only just closed the door and sunk, panting, to the bed when the bleep of his Communicator told him that April was ready to talk again. He snatched it from his pocket and pulled up the aerial.
"Channel open," he said crisply. "How goes the walk?"
"Freezing!" the girl's voice said. "But the breakers down below the path as you walk round the corner into the cove are something to write home about. Fabulous!"
"Plenty of spray for you?"
"Mark, the cliff must be nearly a hundred and fifty feet high there — and it seems as though some of the big ones are going to wet the top when they break! The seagulls are being tossed about like confetti!"
"We note your remarks and are pleased that you are happy in your work. To return to the subject of the operation, however— where are you now?"
"Like all your generation, you're an anti-romantic!"
"Comes of being an anti-hero, I suppose. I always was fashionable."
"Is it fashionable to be corny? — Don't answer that. I'm up above the cove now. I've just passed a coastguard station — a kind of wooden hut on a bit of the cliff that rises higher than the rest. I don't think it can be used any more. Everything is boarded up and closed."
"No, it isn't. There's none between here and Coverack. That's used any more, I mean... Tell me, just how does the land lie there?"
"Well, as I said, the cliffs are about a hundred and fifty feet sheer, then there's a kind of grassy shelf, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide, along which this path runs. And then above that the ground shoots up again — not a cliff but a steep slope with rock outcrops — until it reaches the Tor. Beyond the cove, the cliffs are much higher, much wilder — but the ground on top of them is practically flat, with fields and things."
"So the total height is less than the Tor?... Wright's house is at the head of the cove, is it?"
"Yes, it's just come into sight as I walk along. It's a big, low rambling place with thatched roofs. There's a little valley — the stream runs out into the cove — and it's tucked away among a grove of trees there. Looks as though there are a dozen rooms or more and quite a few outhouses."
"Any sign of life?"
"It's so sheltered it's difficult to see, really. But there are two cars — a big Citroen and a shooting brake — and I think I heard a couple of shots a few minutes ago. Presumably Joyful Gerald is out after the dinner."
"You be careful, miss. There are no other houses there, I suppose?
"No. The only way down to the cove itself is a steep set of stairs carved out of the rock: it's completely surrounded by cliffs. There's a small boathouse on a ledge at the bottom, a slipway slanting down to the beach, and then the sand it
self. That's all. At the moment, there are about ten lines of rollers sweeping into the cove — it's one of those long, narrow ones — and the sand looks pretty wet!"
"You've got the Tor behind, cliffs and fields on the far side of the cove, and this house in the valley. What's inland — beyond the house?"
"You can see the road climbing the valley until it reaches the moor — where the land has dropped away from Trewinnock Tor. And then the moorland itself seems to have flattened out a bit there. I'm just... Oh, yes! Mark, I've just rounded a rock outcrop and of course you can see the whole DEWS station laid out before you, where the moor flattens out. The masts and reflectors are about a half mile inland from Wright's house — he must have a marvellous view of them! — and the blockhouses and everything are another quarter of a mile beyond that."
"Then the road to the house must be a private road, just going there and nowhere else, which passes fairly close to the station?"
"I guess so... Mark, I'm leaving the path now. There's a stile with a footpath leading inland and a notice saying that trespassers will be prosecuted... I'll call you back."
Fifteen minutes later, Slate was summoned to the Communicator again by another series of bleeps.
"Mark!" — the girl's voice was full of suppressed excitement "I've just seen the man himself. He's out with a shot gun — and believe it or not, he's actually wearing tweed plus-fours... you know, those baggy Norfolk breeches that tuck into woollen socks! He looks like a New York ad for whisky!"
"Has he seen you?"
"Oh, yes. He waved and he shouted and he tried to warn me off in various ways — then he started to come towards me, since I steadfastly refused to understand him. A moment ago, he started shouting something again, but I pretended not to hear. He's down in a dip now — we're quite near the house — and as soon as he breasts the rise I'll have to stop talking."