Claire raised her eyebrows in query.
“An Anglican congregation, that is,” went on the vicar. “Scratch a Cornishman and you will usually find a staunch follower of John and Charles Wesley. Methodists to a man. My poor congregation consists of a mere half-dozen of the faithful.”
“I didn’t know my Uncle Henry was an Anglican,” frowned Claire.
“Oh, he isn’t. Actually he is what he fondly considers as an agnostic. For a man unsure of the existence of a god, he is deeply religious,” smiled Pencarrow. “No, your uncle and I meet up every Saturday for a game of chess and an argument of theosophical matters but that’s all.”
Claire glanced at the solemnly ticking grandfather clock in the corner of the dining-room and frowned.
“I can’t help feeling worried, Mr Pencarrow.”
The vicar spread his hands.
“No need, no need at all. Old Henry has been known to go off by himself for days at a stretch. He’ll turn up, contrite and full of apologies, don’t you worry.”
“But to prepare things for his birthday tea and then disappear…it doesn’t seem logical.”
“He’s getting a bit absent-minded in his old age, that’s all, my dear. He’ll turn up like a bad penny, just you wait and see. I wouldn’t worry at all.”
Claire returned the man’s smile.
“Goodness me!” the vicar cried, looking at the clock. “Here am I nattering on and it is nearly ten o’clock. I’m supposed to be working on my sermon tonight.”
He stood up.
“I’ll be on my way, Miss Penvose. Now don’t worry about old Henry. You know where to contact me if you need anything.”
He reached for his coat.
“I appreciate your help, Mr Pencarrow,” Claire said, taking his outstretched hand. “Thanks very much.”
“You may tell your uncle off from me when he returns,” said the vicar as he departed.
“Who’s there?” demanded Bill Neville, peering into the gloom.
A figure stirred.
“It’s me, Mr Neville. Just me.”
Neville heaved a sigh.
“What are you doing round here, Mrs Polruan?”
The old woman moved a step forward.
“You have been kind to me, Mr Neville!” she said. “The others, the villagers, they jeer at things which they don’t understand. Yet you have treated me courteously.”
“Courtesy never cost anything, Mrs Polruan,” returned Neville, fumbling impatiently for his latchkey. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“You can tell the girl — the Penvose girl — that she should return upcountry where she belongs.”
“Why should I do that?” demanded Neville, frowning. Then he suddenly remembered what Claire had told him about her encounter with Mrs Polruan. “You haven’t been very courteous to Miss Penvose, have you now? She only arrived here this evening and I gather you have told her that she was not welcome here.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I only warned her for her own good. There are dark and sinister forces at work here, Mr Neville. Forces that can do terrible harm.”
“What do you mean?”
Neville didn’t know whether to laugh or treat the crone seriously.
“I have cast the horoscope,” went on the old woman seriously. “The charts do not lie. Something evil is happening, something which is connected with the Penvose family.”
Neville chuckled softly.
“Now Mrs Polruan, I’m sure you are serious but I think you have made some mistake. Maybe you should check your charts again, eh?”
The old woman wheeled round bitterly.
“You think I am some eccentric old woman who is mad? I can hear the mockery in your tone. Beware, Mr Neville; beware of the thing that is coming. It will destroy us all. The charts do not lie. Tell Claire Penvose to go back, back home to London. All I know is that Penvose and Bosbradoe joining at this configuration of the planets means death — death and destruction! Tell her to go away, to go now!”
Neville’s mouth sagged open as the old woman hurried off into the gloom of the evening.
After Reverend Pencarrow had left, Claire cleared the table and began to wash up. She was more worried than she admitted. It was so totally unlike Uncle Henry to disappear when he was expecting guests. He would surely have let someone know where he was going to. She finished washing up and went carefully over the house once again without finding any clue to the mystery.
It was striking midnight when she decided to go to bed. She decided that she would go down to the village first thing in the morning and see the local police constable. There had to be some logical explanation for the mystery; perhaps the constable would know.
She had hardly climbed in between the cold sheets of the bed which had obviously been made up for her when she heard a noise downstairs.
Uncle Henry!
Her first thought was that it was her uncle returning.
She slipped out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown.
“Uncle Henry!” she called. “It’s me, Claire. Where have you been?”
But when she reached the head of the stairs the downstairs rooms were in darkness.
She switched on the lights and hurried down.
“Uncle Henry?”
There was no one about.
Then the noise came again.
She stood listening.
Yes! There it was; some noise, a definite movement. It came from the kitchen. Yet the kitchen was in darkness.
She switched on the lights and peered round. The room was deserted. Yet the sound must have come from here. She had heard it distinctly.
Then her eye caught the door to the cellars which stood in the kitchen. Claire strode across and opened it.
CHAPTER VI
Claire switched on the light and stood hesitantly at the top of the cellar stairs.
“Is there anyone down there?” she called, slightly nervously. “Uncle Henry, is that you? It’s me, Claire.”
There was no answer.
She waited for several moments and then sighed. Maybe she was hearing things. She half turned, her hand on the switch to turn the light out and go back to bed when she heard the sound again. It was an odd dragging sound, as if someone was pulling a heavy sack over a smooth floor.
“Who’s there?”
Her voice cracked in tension.
Claire had not been brought up as a nervous child. She did not believe in ghosts, ghoulies or long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night. If anything did bump in the night it was usually due to a human agency.
She strode across to the old-fashioned kitchen range and took a poker from the grate. Gripping this in her hand she went back to the cellar stairs and started down.
The cellars at Tybronbucca consisted of four large rooms, each of which had been fitted with powerful electric lights by Henry Penvose. He used the cellars as workrooms as well as storage areas. Being an old house, the cellar complex contained several other recesses with underground passageways and rooms which Henry Penvose had either boarded off or left to gather dust. These areas he had not bothered with as regard to fitting illumination.
Claire halted at the foot of the stairs.
“Who’s there?” she demanded again in a firm voice.
Her voice echoed back at her from across the cellars.
She peered carefully round in the lighted areas. They were deserted. She moved forward; the poker felt clammy in her hand.
“Is anyone there?”
She spoke loudly, more insistently than before.
There was no reply.
Claire walked forward a few paces and slipped, grabbing at a work bench to save herself measuring her length on the stone slab floor. The floor was wet; a slimy wetness like rocks washed constantly by the sea.
She sighed.
Uncle Henry ought to clean the cellars more often to prevent damp. She glanced round again and heaved another sigh. She must have been mistaken. Per
haps it was a stray cat or something which had somehow found a way into the place. She walked carefully back to the stairs and went out, switching off the lights.
In the kitchen she made herself a cup of tea and took it back to bed with her. She tried to read a while to take her mind off the mysterious non-appearance of her uncle and finally, exhausted, fell into a deep sleep.
It was nine o’clock when she woke up with the pale autumn sun streaming through the window. She lay in the warm bed for a moment knowing that some sound had caused her to wake. There was a crunch of gravel outside. Uncle Henry! She threw back the bed covers, ran to the window and opened it.
“Morning, miss.”
A tousle-headed milkman stood outside grinning up at her.
“Oh,” Claire recovered herself. “Good morning.”
“Is Mr Penvose about, miss? I wanted to check about this order for an extra pint as from today. Was it silvertop or goldtop milk?”
Claire bit her lip. Uncle Henry had been expecting her then, he had not forgotten that she was coming down.
“Make it silvertop,” she called to the waiting milkman.
“Thank you, miss.”
She turned back into her room, listening to the rattle of bottles and then the noise of the milk van being driven away. She drew a bath in which she luxuriated for half an hour before climbing out, dressing and going down to the kitchen.
She collected the milk from the doorstep and found a packet of cereal in a cupboard. She drank several cups of tea with her cereal, then wandered through the house wondering what to do. Where had her Uncle gone? Eventually she returned to her bedroom, changed into jeans and sweater, put on a stout pair of walking shoes and her anorak and set off to the village.
She would ask the advice of the local constable.
Constable Roscarrock was rather harassed. Bosbradoe was usually a sleepy little village where hardly anything unusual happened, certainly not events of great pitch and moment. But since the mysterious disappearance, and presumed drowning, of poor Billy and Jack Sea wen, his district inspector had been on the telephone several times demanding reports. Roscarrock had just spent what seemed an age dealing with reporters, who had been ringing up for details. Doggedly, he had referred them to the police press officer at Bodmin but they had been persistent. If he were to question suspects in the way those reporters had questioned him, he would be on the carpet for harassment!
Roscarrock sat in the front room of his cottage which also served as his office and station house for Bosbradoe and district. He was sipping his morning tea and nibbling at a pasty. Constable Roscarrock was a big man who liked to eat well. At eleven o’clock every morning he insisted on two cups of tea and a pasty. His favourite, in which he was now indulging, was star-gazing pasty which was a meal in itself. His wife, Jessie, made star-gazing pasty like no one else. He smiled contentedly as he bit into the suet pastry and herring. Jess was a good cook. She was not good looking but he’d rather have a good cook than a good looking
woman. What was the old Cornish proverb? Kissin’ don’t last — cookin’ do. Aye, there was truth in that. Well, at least it took his mind off the problems of the Scawens’ accident.
He glanced up in annoyance as a knock came on the door.
He put down his pasty, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and called “Come!” in a stentorian voice which he fondly imagined fitted the dignity and image of his office.
Claire Penvose entered.
Roscarrock came to his feet.
“Ah, Miss Penvose; I heard down at The Morvren Arms that you were visiting your uncle. What can I do for you?”
Claire came straight to the point.
“Uncle Henry, my uncle that is, is not at home. In fact, I can’t find out where he is and…well, I’m worried. I’m scared he might have had an accident.”
Roscarrock sat down again and gave an inward groan.
Why did everything have to happen in Bosbradoe at the same time?
“Have you any reason to believe he’s had an accident?” asked the constable in a heavy voice.
Claire raised a shoulder helplessly.
“Not really. He was not at home when I arrived yesterday evening and he hasn’t shown up this morning.”
Roscarrock fingered his moustache absently.
“Well, “Happy”, beg pardon, Henry Penvose has been known to disappear for three or four days at a time. You know how he is, miss. He goes down old Wheal Tom with a knapsack of food and forgets all about time. Don’t you worry. Give him a few days and he’ll turn up.”
Claire shook her head.
“But he knew I was coming down yesterday. You see, it was his birthday. He even invited Reverend Pencarrow along for a celebration. The table was all laid out but he didn’t turn up.”
Roscarrock sighed.
“Well, miss, you know your uncle as well as I do. I’d say he forgot all about it. He can be vague at times.”
Claire nodded agreement; she knew about her uncle’s inexactitude.
“What…” she had trouble forming the question that lurked in the back of her mind. “What if he’s had an accident down Wheal Tom?”
Roscarrock smiled reassuringly.
““Happy” Penvose?” he shook his head. “I know we all get on to him from time to time about going down that mine alone but it is hard to believe that your uncle would have such an accident. He knows that mine like the back of his hand. He’s spent a whole lifetime down mines. I would put that thought out of your mind, miss, really I would.” Roscarrock could see the girl wasn’t reassured.
“Tell you what, miss. You give him until tomorrow morning. If he hasn’t turned up by then, why, I’ll come up to Wheal Tom and we’ll see if he is down her or not.” Claire hesitated. She would have preferred immediate action.
While she was hesitating the telephone rang. Roscarrock picked it up with an apologetic smile at Claire.
“Hello? Yes, Roscarrock speaking…”
His face grew suddenly grave and he came to his feet, standing to attention almost comically, Claire thought.
“Yes sir…no, no further developments. The coastguard was down here until late yesterday afternoon. They plan a further sweep by helicopter at midday in case there’s a chance of recovering the bodies. What’s that, sir? No, I’m afraid I can’t think of any peculiar local conditions to explain matters. Yes, sir.”
Roscarrock put down the phone and stared at it for several moments.
“My boss,” he sighed, stirring himself and glancing at Claire. “It’s about the Scawen tragedy.”
Claire waited for him to continue and when he didn’t she cleared her throat.
“What about my uncle?”
Roscarrock frowned.
“Oh yes. Well, my advice to you is not to worry. We all know how your uncle tends to wander off by himself. But if he hasn’t turned up by tomorrow, I’ll take a look down Wheal Tom. That will settle your mind about him having an accident. Tell you what, I’ll bet you a pint to a couple of pasties that old “Happy” Penvose will turn up hale and hearty before the day is over.”
As he was speaking, Roscarrock ushered Claire to the door and she found herself reluctantly walking down the path. At the gate she shrugged off her annoyance. Perhaps the constable was right. Her uncle was vague about time.
She turned up the hill, away from the village, and retraced her footsteps towards Tybronbucca. As she walked along the narrow, winding road, past the burnt-out old ruins of Tymernans, she realised there was a familiar figure walking towards her from the opposite direction.
It was an old woman, her old flower print dress flapping around her and a cardigan hardly protecting her frail form from the sea breezes.
“Good morning, Mrs Polruan,” said Claire as the old woman came abreast of her. Claire made a point of speaking to her because she felt sorry for the old lady after their encounter the previous day, especially when Bill Neville had explained she was regarded as the local witch. She was obvious
ly a lonely and friendless woman. Odd, thought Claire, that she had never encountered her on previous visits to Bosbradoe.
The crone halted and darted a look at Claire with her curious bright eyes in a bird-like motion.
“Is it a good morning, my love?”
“I’m not sure what you mean?” Claire countered, a little disconcerted by the old woman’s abruptness of manner.
“Didn’t I warn you against coming to Bosbradoe?”
The old woman gave a grimace.
“Henry Penvose lived his allotted three-score and ten but you are young…you should go back upcountry now, now before it is too late.”
Mother Polruan suddenly held her head to one side as if listening to something. Then she turned, screwing her eyes towards the distant black specks of the Trevian Rocks.
“It’s begun. Aye, it’s begun already…Be warned, Claire Penvose! Be warned!”
She turned and began to move away with a scuttling-like motion.
“Hey!” cried Claire, indignantly. “You can’t go like that! You’d better explain what you mean by…”
She broke off suddenly, a feeling of dizziness coming over her as if the ground were shaking beneath her feet.
It was shaking.
Claire stumbled a few paces and fell to her knees.
CHAPTER VII
Jack Treneglos manoeuvred his ketch passed the end of the quay which stuck out seawards like a squat concrete finger. It was a calm clear day. There was hardly a cloud to be seen in the sky and the autumn sun was warming on the skin. The slapping of water along the hull of the ketch was almost drowned out by the chugging of its engine and the fretful, lonely cry of the gulls sweeping in varying circles around the mast heads. Once clear of the granite headlands which stood sentinel to Bosbradoe Cove, Treneglos stood the bows of the ketch seaward. His brother, Charlie, came aft, chewing on his thick-stemmed pipe which he rarely lit.
“Fair weather, Jack,” he murmured, entering the wheel house.
Jack Treneglos nodded.
“Reckon we might catch a shoal or two running off Trevose Head.”
The Morgow Rises! Page 4