Today was “Happy” Penvose’s seventy-second birthday and he was determined to enter the galleries which stretched their long damp corridors out under the sea. Without pushing himself too hard, it took him three-quarters of an hour to negotiate the 2000-foot-deep shaft to the main level. It would take him twice as long to ascend. Though he had been down many times Penvose was an
experienced miner and carefully checked each section of the way for poisonous gases which might have gathered since his last descent.
At the bottom of the main shaft the tunnels were broad and high. There had been small falls of rock and subsidences here and there but “Happy” Penvose was able to make progress easily for about a quarter of a mile. After that the tunnels narrowed and led off in various directions to what had been the “faces” at which the miners had sweated long hours, wresting the tin ore from the rocky walls. At this point the old man set down one of his Davy-lamps, lit it, and left it burning. It would act as a beacon on the journey back. Shouldering his satchel, he set off down a narrow tunnel in which, after a time, he had to turn sideways to negotiate its slender, twisting route. Some time later he halted and paused for a cup of coffee from his Thermos flask. He was now further along the route to the undersea workings than he had ever been.
The old engineers’ plans of Wheal Tom showed that the undersea workings were at a depth of one thousand feet below sea level. Although the tunnel was damp and cold, “Happy” reflected that he had been wise to wear his sheepskin jacket, it showed no signs of flooding. When the sea had crashed in on the face workers back in ‘38 this immediate section had been sealed off and pumped dry to effect rescue work.
“Happy” pushed his way steadily along the dank tunnel, finding the coldness cutting into his chest and causing his breath to come out as a rasping sound. As he paused to catch his breath he became conscious of a strange far-away booming noise. It was like distant thunder. “Happy” bent an ear to the rock wall of the tunnel and heard the sound magnified, vibrating against the wall. He screwed up his face in puzzlement.
The sea! The answer came to him after a moment. He was listening to the sound of the waves breaking against the foot of the cliffs overhead. It was an unnerving thought. From this point he would have to proceed with extreme care.
He moved forward again; this time, in addition to his second Davy-lamp, he took out his powerful flashlight to examine the tunnel before him. It was so damp that a moss, which he could not identify, began to cover the walls of the tunnel and the rocky floor became sprinkled and then carpeted with a sandy soil. The smell of salt water, dank, foul water, assailed his nostrils and caused him to cough.
As far as he could recall the “face”, which was at the end of an incline shaft, was a third of a mile out under the sea. It was reckoned that it spread out almost as far as the Trevian Rocks. The incline was one of the reasons why the entire mine had not been flooded when the sea burst in.
After about fifteen minutes down this incline he came to a small man-made cavern from which three tunnels pushed out. The main one, “Happy” knew, would lead to the now sealed and flooded area. The other two were short stretches cut by engineers during their prospecting for new tin lodes.
“Happy” decided to make his investigation in the first of the two short galleries. He would have to be cautious for everywhere there were signs of flooding, though it was obvious that the area had remained dry since it had been pumped out all those years ago. Seepage, however, was still evident; water trickled through cracks in the rocks which separated him from the pounding, wild ocean above.
He looked carefully at the rocky walls, examining their formation and structure. He was engrossed in this task for about twenty minutes when a noise caused him to put his head to one side and listen.
There was a silence broken only by the distant roar of the sea far above his head. But there had been a noise. He tried hard to recall the sound which had disturbed his examination. It had been a squelching, sucking type of sound; like the noise made by a plumber’s plunger trying to unblock a pipe. He listened for several minutes but there was silence.
He sighed.
The sound that should worry him was the sound of water.
“Happy” turned back to his work. He had already spotted possible seams from which wolfram could be extracted. Wolfram, a native compound of tungstate of iron and manganese, was quite a valuable find. And where there was wolfram, tin ore was usually not far away.
It was then he noticed that there had been a rock fall some yards away, exposing a section of new tunnel. He gaped in surprise. The tunnel, which curved off into the distance, was smoothly bored; so smooth that it must surely have been made by machine. It was perfectly circular and about ten feet in diameter. He climbed into it and swung his torch around wondering when it had been cut. It seemed so very new. Then his sweeping beam caught on something which glinted dully in its light. He moved towards it and began to scratch at it with his clasp knife.
A little of the green mineral came away and lay in his palm.
A grin slowly broke across his face.
“Malachite, by God!”
Malachite was the basic copper carbonite ore.
He swung his torch to the side of the new tunnel, examining the seam.
“Copper!” he breathed. “Damn me, I’ve been looking for tin seams and now I’ve discovered copper.”
The first stretch of malachite looked pretty pure. His expert eye could pick out impurities. When refined it would probably produce about thirty per cent pure, a substance called copper mattee which could be used for alloying. Another section he came across was much purer and its seams widened out.
“It’s a fairly rich seam, Henry, my boy,” the old man chortled. “I knew Wheal Tom would deliver the goods!”
As the echo of his voice died away in the tunnel he heard the noise again. The squelching sound.
He frowned and flashed his torch down the tunnelway. There was nothing except blackness and a myriad shadows chasing themselves in the beam of the flashlight.
“Happy” shrugged and glanced at his wristwatch.
“I’d better get going if I’m to wash up and get ready for young Claire.”
He had not forgotten that his young, attractive niece from London was arriving that day to spend a late vacation with him and help him celebrate his birthday. Old “Happy” was fond of Claire. She was his only surviving relative, the daughter of his youngest brother William who had broken with the Penvose tradition of mining, trained as a mechanic and bought a garage in London. Poor William. He and his wife had been killed in a car accident in the very year that “Happy” arrived back in Britain. Claire had been only eighteen, just leaving school to take a job as a secretary. “Happy”, as her only surviving relative, stood in loco parentis as her guardian. Now Claire was twenty-three, his guardianship had ended, but his niece was a regular visitor to “Happy’s” Cornish home and had frequently lectured her uncle on the dangers of his obsessive exploration of Wheal Tom.
“Happy” chuckled loudly.
Well, Claire was in for a shock! His lonely searches, which had caused the inhabitants of Bosbradoe to dub him as an eccentric, had finally paid off; not in tin but in copper. That would put the ailing economy of Bosbradoe on its feet again. It was going to be a good birthday celebration after all.
Still chuckling at the thought of how he would break the news to his niece, he climbed out of the smoothly bored tunnel, completely forgetting the mystery of its existence, and turned down the shorter tunnel back into the small cavern.
The squelching sound came again. This time it was distinct. Nearer.
“Happy” halted in mid-stride and swung his torch around. There was nothing there but shadows. It must be the seepage. The whole place would have to be shored up and reinforced before they went to work on the copper seam. He would have to persuade the Ministry’s mining safety regulations officer that the place was perfectly safe for operations.
He stepped out i
nto the cavern, giving a side-glance at the tunnel which led to the flooded area of the mine. It made him shiver to think of all those tons of sea-water gushing through these very tunnel ways. He was about to enter the incline tunnel back towards the main workings when the noise came again.
It was very loud; in fact, it was right behind him.
Startled, he swung round, raising his torch.
His eyes started from his head, his mouth dropped open foolishly. An inarticulate sound began to rise in his throat. From his suddenly nerveless hand the flashlight fell, its beam snapping off. Only his second Davy-lamp, clipped to the harness of his satchel, still lit the cavern with its dim flickering light. He could not move. He was rooted to the spot, terror etched on every line of his face. His mouth was working, working until the sound struggled from his larynx and the deserted mine workings resounded to one wild, terrified scream; a scream which echoed and re-echoed down the empty galleries.
Then there was silence.
CHAPTER III
Claire Penvose was in a happy mood as she drove along the road which led over the rugged landscape of Bodmin Moor towards the village of Bosbradoe. She was in love with the scenery. Although she had made the journey several times since her uncle, Henry Penvose, had retired and taken up residence in the village, she never ceased to marvel at the beauties of the landscape. The road led like a narrow asphalt ribbon through a patchwork of green and brown untouched countryside, criss-crossed by the silver strips of rivulets with Garrow Tor, Rough Tor and Brown Willy pushing upwards like precipitous mountains on the horizon. Bleak but beautiful.
The autumn presented a splendid vista on the moor. The fronds of bracken and the leaves of the trees had turned yellow, brown and russet, and the heather blooms had already faded and fallen. A few late blackberries added to the colour of the roadside, nestling along the grey stone walls. Across the brown and green patchwork of the moor, the arcs of hills, the texture and fabric of granite rocks, the grass and heather made strange contrasts. And here and there in the criss-cross pattern, the swift rush of autumnal waters, small brooks flowing with swift vigour and full throated voice, washed into the muddy sediments of stately pushing rivers.
Claire preferred this time of year above all other seasons. It was a restful period of good weather, late enough for the hordes of tourists to have disappeared but still temperate enough to enjoy the pastel shades of the changing countryside before the onset of winter.
Bosbradoe was not far away now. Claire braced herself in expectancy. Soon she would swing round the range of low hills and catch the first tang of sea-salt in the air and see the sea’s long, low level, sparkling in the soft sunlight. She always felt a lump in her throat as she caught her first glimpse of the whitewashed cottages of Bosbradoe nestling in a crevice in the jutting granite cliffs. Although she had been born and brought up in London, she still regarded the village as “home”; as her village. She was always conscious of the generations of Penvose graves squashed together in the tiny graveyard behind the grim, unfriendly looking Wesleyan chapel at the end of the village.
Automatically she found herself changing down and slowing the car as a flock of sheep started to spill on to the roadway some distance ahead. She brought the vehicle to a halt, listening to the shrill chorus of bleating protest as the sheep were driven from a gate on one side of the road through a gate on the further side. The shepherd, an old man with a brown, weather worn face and bright eyes, smiled at her and touched his cap before shutting the gate after his flock.
Claire gave an answering smile, put the car into gear and accelerated away. She felt so much more relaxed than ever she did when driving in London. She glanced casually at her wristwatch. She would get to Bosbradoe about five o’clock; time enough to have a bath and relax after her long drive before joining Uncle Henry in his birthday celebration. She wondered whether she would have to listen to another of his lectures on the potential wealth of Wheal Tom. She found herself smiling broadly. Poor Uncle Henry; he did have rather a fixation about the mine.
There came an appalling noise — like hundreds of tin cans rattling after being dropped from a height. Claire tensed. The car did not swerve but the sound continued and the vehicle coasted on, losing speed. She braked slowly and, as she brought her foot down on the clutch, she found the clutch pedal loose and useless. The car came slowly to a halt, the engine turning idly.
Claire switched off and sat for a moment, her heart thumping a little erratically. It felt as if the clutch had gone but she really didn’t know anything about the mechanics of the car. Half-heartedly she climbed out and lifted the bonnet. She realised how useless the exercise was even before she performed the operation. One part of a car’s engine looked pretty much the same as another to her, in spite of the fact that her father had been a motor mechanic.
She bit her lip and looked about her. It was still about six miles to Bosbradoe and there were no telephone kiosks nor garages before that. Damn it! Unless a car came by she was going to have a long walk.
She turned back to the car and reached for her handbag. As she swung round her eyes widened and a small scream, half surprise, half fear, came to her lips.
An old woman was standing a few paces away on the other side of the road.
“Don’t’ee be afraid, my love. You needn’t mind me.”
The old woman’s voice was a cackle of amusement.
“I…I’m sorry,” stammered Claire. “It was just that I didn’t see you there.”
She found herself gazing into a pair of bright eyes. They shone with a peculiar intensity so that Claire found it quite impossible to tell whether they were grey, blue or green. The old woman had a craggy face, deeply lined with the features dominated by a beak of a nose — the sort which is politely referred to as “Phoenician”. Her thin lips were drawn back in a crooked smile showing yellowing, decaying teeth. She was clad in an old flower print dress and cardigan, her back bent over a blackthorn walking stick. She gave a cackle of laughter.
“Few people see what’s in front of them, my love.”
Claire frowned, not understanding.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never beg for anything, my love,” cackled the crone. “If you are not able to take what you desire then you deserve nothing.”
Claire smiled uncertainly, deciding that the old woman was slightly eccentric to say the least. She turned back to her car and took out her handbag. There was nothing for it but to walk to Bosbradoe.
“I wouldn’t be walking to Bosbradoe if I were’ee, my love.”
Claire started, turned and gazed at the old woman curiously. It was as if she had read her thoughts.
“Why not?”
The old woman gazed at her with her bright peculiar eyes.
“There be bad things happening down Bosbradoe way. Bad things. Do’ee go back upcountry. Leave this place. It be wrong to chance fate. Bad things be happening. I feel them in the air, sense them with my body.”
Claire stared at the woman, slightly perturbed.
Trust her luck to come across a mad woman on a lonely stretch of moorland road.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t say you have not been warned, Missy Penvose. I warn’ee now.”
The crone suddenly closed her eyes and let out a wail.
“Kemereugh wythy kemereugh wyth, y te an Morgow.”
“What did you say? How did you know my name? Who the devil are you?”
The questions tumbled from Claire’s lips as her brain tried to cope with the situation.
Far down the road the distant drone of a motor-car engine caused the old woman’s eyes to flicker open and a look of apprehension to etch her features. Abruptly she turned and scurried through a gap in the stone wall which bordered the road.
“Hey wait!” cried Claire. “You haven’t told me what you mean. Who are you?”
The old woman paused, looked back at Claire and performed a curious circle-like motion in the air with her left
hand.
“May Bel the Lifeforce protect’ee, child. Remember what I say. Shun Bosbradoe. Return upcountry!”
Leaving Claire standing open-mouthed in astonishment, the old woman turned and scurried away up the rocky hillside with the agility of a mountain goat.
Claire roused herself as the motor-car came into sight, heading along the moorland road in the direction of Bosbradoe. She raised a hand and waved it down. Its driver slowed and swung his vehicle in behind Claire’s car and halted.
“Have you broken down?” asked the driver, climbing out.
He was a debonair-looking man in his mid-thirties. Tall, lean and tanned. For a moment Claire felt a resentment at his appearance — the stereotype hero, the sort that made young girls think of darkened corridors and turning door handles. Yet, when she looked more closely at his broad, open face, his firm chin and a mouth which seemed to wear a grin as its natural expression, and his obviously unassumed air of boyish honesty, she found an answering smile coming to her lips.
William Neville’s mind at that moment was actually acting true to his physical stereotype. He was thinking of seduction. Not that Claire Penvose was beautiful; her forehead was a little too broad and prominent, her chin a little too aggressive, to apply that epithet. Yet her widespaced grey eyes, her naturally red full lips, peach coloured skin, surmounted by wispy corn coloured hair made it an attractive face. And behind the physical mask there was some inner vitality, a bubbling sense of humour, a sense of fun, that made one happy just looking at her. Neville gave a swift glance at her lean, almost boyish figure which, clad in tight jeans and a white blouse, was perfectly proportioned. The image of Claire Penvose caused him to catch his breath and, at the same time, wonder why. He had certainly seen more beautiful and physically attractive women before. Perhaps the attractiveness came in that bubbling sense of vitality, the unpretentious humour of the girl.
The Morgow Rises! Page 2