The Morgow Rises!

by Peter Tremayne

  “Have you had a breakdown?” he asked again.

  “It’s the clutch, I think,” answered Claire, turning towards the car with a hopeless shrug of her shoulder.

  Neville climbed into the driver’s seat and jiggled his foot on the loose clutch pedal. Then he climbed out and peered under the hood.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, like a doctor making a diagnosis. “Your bulkhead has split around the clutch cable. There’s nothing to anchor it, that’s why it’s broken loose. There’s nothing wrong with the cable.”

  “Is it an expensive job?” she asked apprehensively.

  “I shouldn’t think so. It’s a common design fault of these models. You would think they’d reinforce the area where the cable comes through the bulkhead. You just want a mechanic to fix a couple of metal washers around it.”

  Neville paused.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Bosbradoe.”

  “Are you staying there?”

  “Yes; with my uncle.”

  “Then it’s no problem. I can run you into the village and you can get Seth Treneglos at the local garage to come out, collect your car and fix it.” He smiled. “I’m William Neville, by the way.”

  Claire automatically extended her hand.

  “Claire Penvose…oh,” she widened her eyes. “Are you the William Neville — the thriller writer?”

  Neville gave a modest grin.

  “Well, the name’s Neville and I do write thrillers,” he admitted.

  “My uncle mentioned that you had moved into Tymur

  Cottage, just near his house. I’ve read quite a few of your books and enjoyed them.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Miss Penvose…Penvose,” he frowned. “You would be “Happy” Penvose’s niece, then?”

  Claire nodded.

  “Well, I’m delighted to meet you. Let’s get your bags transferred into my car and we’ll be in Bosbradoe in no time.”

  As Claire turned to open the boot of her car she suddenly caught sight of the silhouette of the old woman seated on a rock at the top of the nearby hill. The old woman’s strange conversation swam back into her mind causing her to shiver slightly.

  “Excuse me, Mr Neville,” she asked in a low voice, “but have you ever seen that old woman before?”

  Neville turned in the direction she indicated and screwed up his eyes. Then he relaxed his face and nodded.

  “Oh, that’s old Mother Polruan. Haven’t you ever come across her before? The people in Bosbradoe call her the local witch.”

  CHAPTER IV

  It did not take Bill Neville long to drive the six miles across the bleak moorland, through the dark forests of pine trees, along the open stretch of road which ran parallel to the cliff tops and into Bosbradoe. Yet, by the time Neville drove past the sign announcing the approach to the village, Claire and he were chatting like old friends. Neither of them could really analyse why. Perhaps it was a comparability, an inner spark, which brought down the barriers of reserve that most people erect when trying to communicate with each other. Neville found himself rejecting the observation of Oliver Wendell Holmes that “without wearing any mask we are consciously aware of, we have a special face for each friend”. With Claire, one didn’t need a “special face”; one could be relaxed and natural. He found himself thinking in the old cliché — it was as if he had known Claire Penvose for fifteen years instead of fifteen minutes.

  Bosbradoe stood near the top of a long stretch of rugged granite cliffs which rose some four hundred feet above sea level. Once the village had consisted of a cluster of thick-set stone cottages through which a tiny path ran down to a small cove — a tiny haven amidst the forbidding cliffs — where the old harbour had been built. The village had not altered much except that the tiny pathway was now a tiny cobbled street which only pedestrians could traverse. The old fishermen’s cottages still clung defiantly to the sides of this cobbled street as it wound its way down to the harbour. Down one side of the street, partly underground now, there plunged and splashed a stream. The main road passed this cobbled street at a right angle constituting Fore Street which ran through the main part of the village, by the shops, chapel and The Morvren Arms — a low, rambling building which was little different in design from the old fishermen’s cottages. A creaking wooden board displayed a picture of a mermaid, for that was what morvren meant in the old Cornish language. Beyond the village, the road wound up across the cliffs towards the ancient Norman castle of Breaca, no more than a crumbling stone tower, around which a few guest houses and a solitary hotel, now closed with the end of the tourist season, stood apart and above the main village. Beyond Castle Breaca stood the ruins of an old mansion, Tymernans, which had been burnt in mysterious circumstances in the early nineteenth century. And beyond that, perched on the very edge of the cliff top, stood the tall black silhouette of Wheal Tom’s engine house, thrusting skyward like a black accusing finger. In its shadow stood Henry Penvose’s house of Tybronbucca. A quarter of a mile further on lay the trackway to Kymur Cove where the pleasant whitewashed cottage — Tymur Cottage — stood.

  Neville drew into the car park of The Morvren Arms, for the inn stood next to the village’s only garage which was run by Seth Treneglos, the younger brother of Jack and Charlie. Seth, a burly man in his late forties, came across the garage forecourt, wiping his hands on an oily rag, as Neville and Claire came out of the car park and walked towards the garage.

  “Morning, Mister Neville. Morning miss…why, it’s Miss Penvose, isn’t it?” He smiled in recognition. “We haven’t seen you down these parts since last autumn. Come down to stay with your uncle, have’ee?”

  Claire nodded.

  “My car has broken down about six miles out on the moor road.”

  “It’s the clutch,” interposed Neville. “It’s come loose from the bulkhead.”

  “I know the problem,” Seth Treneglos nodded. “Give me the keys, the make and number and I’ll nm out and pick it up now.”

  Claire complied.

  “If it’s what I think it is, I’ll probably have it ready by tomorrow afternoon. It’s just a question of reinforcing the bulkhead. Are you staying at Tybronbucca?”

  “Yes, with my uncle.”

  “Then I’ll give you a telephone call when it’s ready.”

  Seth Treneglos shifted his gaze to Neville. Although Neville had lived in Bosbradoe slightly less than a year and was still regarded by some as an “upcountry man”, he was more or less accepted by the majority of the villagers.

  “Have you heard the news, Mister Neville?”

  Bill noticed a mask of seriousness descend on the garage owner’s face.

  “I’ve been in Bodmin most of today,” he answered. “What’s up?”

  “Old Billy Scawen and his son Jack have gone missing. Reckon as they be drowned.”

  In a village as small as Bosbradoe it was impossible not to know everyone and Neville had drunk with Billy and young Jack Scawen in The Morvren Arms on many occasions. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “But everyone says Billy is the best fishermen in Bosbradoe,” he exclaimed. “It seems unlikely he would be the sort to get drowned.”

  “The sea’s a tough mistress, Mister Neville. That’s why I determined to stay on dry land. My brothers Jack and Charlie found parts of old Billy’s dinghy floating out by the Trevian Rocks. No question that it was his. One smashed board still had the name plate attached to it.”

  “Has the coastguard been informed?”

  “Aye. A ‘copter has been up and down the best part of the afternoon. But there’s been no sign.”

  “It’s bad news.”

  “Aye; well I’d best go and get your car, Miss Penvose. It’s about six miles out, you say?”

  Claire nodded. They watched as Seth Treneglos climbed into his breakdown truck and turned out towards the moor road.

  “Would you like a drink before I run you up to Tybronbucca?” asked Neville, nodding towards The Morvren Arms. />
  Claire hesitated and then grinned.

  “That would be nice,” she said.

  “Did you know Billy Scawen?” he asked as they crossed the car park towards the pub.

  “Uncle Henry mentioned him in his letters but I don’t think I ever met him,” she replied. “You know, I love the sea and yet, at the same time, I fear it. It doesn’t matter how experienced you are, it can still claim you in the end.”

  “Old Billy was regarded as one of the best seamen in these parts. He knew the coast like the back of his hand.”

  They passed into the bar of The Morvren Arms.

  Half a dozen locals were sitting morosely around a log fire which was roaring in the large old-fashioned fireplace at the end of the bar. Jack and Charlie Treneglos were the centre of their interest. Charlie was in the middle of expounding a theory about the wreck of Billy Scawen’s dinghy. He paused and glanced up as Neville and Claire entered.

  “Evening, Mr Neville. Heard the news, have’ee?” Neville returned the greeting of the local man.

  “It’s a bad business,” he said.

  “It is that,” sighed Noall, the moon-faced landlord, unfolding his arms where he had been leaning across the bar. Then he caught sight of Claire and smiled.

  “Why, Miss Penvose. Have you come down for a holiday, then?”

  Claire returned his greeting.

  “What will it be? The usual pint of Devenish for you, Mr Neville? And what will you have, miss?”

  “Make it half a pint of St Austell,” replied Claire.

  While Noall was drawing the beer, Neville turned to Jack and Charlie Treneglos.

  “There’s no doubt that Billy and Jack Scawen were in the dinghy, is there?” he asked, at the same time offering them a drink.

  “I have one in hand already, Mr Neville,” replied Jack Treneglos. “’Fraid Billy and Jack have gone to Davy Jones. They were out by the Trevian Rocks this morning, hauling up their lobster pots. Old Billy knew that spot well. So did young Jack, come to that. Been out on his own and with his dad countless times. From the look of the wreckage we picked up, it seemed as if the dinghy were flung at the rock face and smashed to bits…but there’s no tide as I know of that would do that and only an amateur would let their dinghy come close in to the rocks to lose control. It’s a mystery.”

  Neville picked up the beer and, with a nod to the men, led Claire to a nook in the bay window.

  “I suppose this sort of thing must happen all the time somewhere or other along the coast,” reflected Claire as she gave a tentative sip at her drink.

  “What’s that?” frowned Neville.

  “People who make their living from the sea being drowned in accidents.”

  He pursed his lips.

  “You’re right but when it happens in a place like this, where everyone knows the victims, it makes the event more significant.”

  For a few moments they sipped their beers in silence.

  “Are you down here for long?” ventured Neville.

  “Two weeks.”

  “Your uncle is quite a character, isn’t he?”

  “Eccentric, you mean?” smiled Claire.

  “Well, there is that bee in his bonnet about Wheal Tom. The locals seem to think he’s a bit off his rocker…oh, not nastily so, you understand,” he added quickly for fear of offending her. But she nodded agreement.

  “It’s his birthday today,” she confided. “That’s why I’ve come down. He’s seventy-two and yet he still goes down that mine on his own. I think it’s dangerous at his age.”

  “At any age,” affirmed Neville. “That mine has been in a state of disuse for forty years or more.”

  “My uncle is stubborn.”

  Neville found himself looking at the aggressive thrust of Claire’s chin and wondering whether stubbornness ran in the family.

  “What do you do in London?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  “I’m an assistant public relations officer for a magazine group,” she said.

  “Really? I used to be in public relations before I found a thriller formula which people liked reading.”

  “I thought your strength was that you were not a formula writer; that your books are successful because you don’t follow a formula?”

  “Not writing my thrillers to a formula is my formula,” he grinned disarmingly. “Like another half-pint?” He indicated her empty glass.

  Claire looked at her wristwatch and pulled a face.

  “I really must go. My uncle will be waiting.”

  “Okay. I’ll run you up to Tybronbucca.”

  They went out, exchanging goodbyes to the locals, still engrossed in the mystery of Billy Scawen’s disappearance. As they drove up the road by Castle Breaca, Neville asked: “Could we meet for dinner one evening soon?”

  There was a boyish eagerness in his voice.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good. I’ll probably see you tomorrow or give you a telephone call to arrange it.”

  He swung the car round the shoulder of a low hill and turned off the narrow roadway through the entrance to the estate which divided the great hedges of privet, veronica and escallonia, and led to the old mansion. He halted before the door and handed out Claire’s cases, gave a cheery wave, and drove off.

  Claire watched him go with a smile. Then she turned, frowning. The house was in darkness and, strangely, her uncle had not come out to greet her. The house was shrouded in the gloom of early autumn evening. She bit her lip. What was Uncle Henry up to now? Surely he had not forgotten his birthday and the fact that she was arriving to stay with him?

  She stepped towards the door and noticed that it was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and carried her suitcase into the darkened hallway, then felt round for the light switch.

  “Uncle Henry!” she called, her voice echoing in the cavernous recesses of the old house.

  There was a sound like the scraping of a shoe on an upstairs floorboard.

  Claire relaxed and smiled.

  “It’s only me. Uncle Henry,” she called. “Sorry I’m late. I broke down on the moor. Where are you?”

  She turned and pushed the door shut behind her.

  Footsteps dragged down the gloomy stairway.

  “Uncle Henry…?”

  She turned, the smile vanished and she felt herself go cold.

  A tall man, clad completely in black with only the white of his thin face giving relief to his sombre appearance, stood at the foot of the stairs in the half-light. It was not her uncle.

  CHAPTER V

  “I really must apologise for startling you, my dear,” said the man in a dry but friendly voice. “Do you remember me? Simon Pencarrow.”

  The man moved further into the light.

  Claire managed to pull herself together and relax her tensed body.

  “Of course. Reverend Pencarrow, Uncle Henry’s chess partner friend.”

  The minister’s thin lips quirked in a smile.

  “Indeed. I am delighted to see you down here again, Miss Penvose.”

  Awkwardly, Claire took his limp outstretched hand.

  “Where is Uncle Henry?” she asked, looking round curiously. “You haven’t set him off into one of his moods by beating him resoundingly at chess?”

  Reverend Pencarrow shrugged.

  “No, I really just arrived here myself. I was just trying to ascertain where Henry was. He appears to be out, which is strange. I checked the date in my diary…it was today that he was expecting me for dinner. It is apparently his birthday.”

  “That’s right,” Claire frowned. “He was also expecting me to join him.”

  She moved off and opened the door of the dining-room. Turning on the light she saw that the table had already been laid for three places.

  “Well, it certainly looks as though he was expecting us,”

  “I wonder where the old…where your uncle can have gone to?” muttered Pencarrow.

  “Have you looked round the house?” asked Cl
aire.

  “I was just doing so when I heard you arrive. I thought for a moment you were Henry.”

  “Well, I think we’d better have a look round. He was

  clearly here earlier on and expecting us, so he can’t have gone far.”

  Pencarrow nodded.

  “It’s most strange,” he said as he followed her lead.

  Bill Neville was smiling as he braked his car to a halt outside Tymur Cottage. There was something delightfully attractive about Claire Penvose. Neville, for all his debonair appearance, usually avoided female contact as far as he was able. It had been three years since Veronica, his ex-wife, had run off with an accountant. Damn it! Had run off with his accountant! The divorce proceedings had been pretty messy. That was partly the reason why Neville had shut himself away in Bosbradoe — miles from his former home in London.

  He had sworn to avoid all female entanglements in the future, preferring to put all the blame for the breakdown of his marriage on Veronica. Yet, deep down, he knew that he should shoulder some of the fault. He had been too absorbed in his work to realise what was going on, to realise Veronica’s loneliness and frustration because he was always engrossed in his particular dream world — a world in which she could never enter, a world from which the nature of his work barred her. He had been too selfish in that respect. Anyway, it was too late now. The divorce had finally come through and that was that. That was…until this afternoon when he had met Claire Penvose. He had not felt this quickening excitement since he was a teenager. He was already looking forward to seeing her again.

  He climbed out of his car and started to search for his latchkey.

  There was a movement in the shadows near to his door.

  Pencarrow sipped his tea appreciatively.

  “How long will you be staying in Bosbradoe on this visit?”

  “Only for two weeks, a short holiday.”

  “Perhaps I will see you on Sunday?” ventured the vicar.

  “I’m afraid I’m not a churchgoer, Mr Pencarrow.”

  The vicar sighed.

  “Alas, no one is these days. You’ll forgive me for trying? Here in Bosbradoe things are especially difficult to drum up a decent congregation.”