He looked sharply at Neville.
“And I will appreciate your silence on this matter.” Neville shrugged indifferently but Crowley bridled a little under the man’s offhand manner.
“We are not interested in any cloak and dagger theatrics, Lambert,” he said. “My duty is to find out what happened to Mr Penvose and Mr Pool. I know how to handle the press.”
CHAPTER XVI
The people gathered in The Morvren Arms gazed at Chief Superintendent Crowley with expectation. Adam Taylor was there with his BBC camera crew. Linda Truran stood by his side, notebook open. There was a man from the Press
Association who had arrived that morning having received some tip. There was Tom Fergus and his red-haired assistant Sheila Fahy. Claire and Neville crowded into the bar with several locals to listen to the police statement. Crowley was an old hand at handling press conferences. He raised a hand to still the several questions which were being put to him all at the same time and took out a slip of paper.
“Gentlemen, beg pardon, ladies and gentlemen, I have a brief statement to make.”
He paused and cleared his throat.
“Mr Henry Penvose, aged seventy-two, of Tybronbucca, Bosbradoe, disappeared from his home three, perhaps four, days ago so far as we have been able to ascertain. Mr Penvose was in the habit of exploring the nearby mine known as Wheal Tom. It is thought that he may have gone down the mine and met with an accident.”
He held up his hand to still another outbreak of questioning.
“Yesterday, Mr Henry Pool, of the Camborne School of Mines, was part of a search party which went down the mine to look for Mr Penvose. An eyewitness said that Mr Pool was savagely attacked by some animal, not yet identified, which seems to have become trapped down the mine. Efforts to locate Mr Pool’s body have been unsuccessful as have efforts to ascertain whether Mr Penvose was also attacked by this creature. A search by men of the RAF Regiment from Goonhilly Downs was called off at six o’clock this evening. The search will be resumed first thing in the morning. I have to add that the eye witness to the attack is certain that Mr Pool was killed immediately and we believe that there is little hope of finding Mr Penvose alive.”
Crowley folded the paper and put it back into his pocket.
“That is all I am at liberty to say at this stage. You may rest assured that you will be fully informed.”
“Question!” It was the Press Association reporter pushing forward.
Crowley nodded.
“You said a creature attacked Mr Pool. What sort of creature — was a description given?”
“I have said we have not been able to identify the particular animal. We should have something for you about that tomorrow.”
“Question!” Adam Taylor moved forward smiling. Bob, his chief cameraman, zoomed in on him with a hand-held camera. “A young boy of this village claimed he saw a creature in the cove here which he described as a sea serpent. Would the description of the creature which attacked Mr Pool tally with the description given by the boy?”
“No comment,” smiled Crowley.
“Very well, Chief Superintendent. At the same time that Mr Penvose disappeared, the remains of a fishing boat were found near the Trevian Rocks. The boat belonged to a local man named Billy Scawen who was hauling lobster pots that day with his son Jack. Is there any possibility this is a connected event?”
“None whatever,” returned the police officer. “We have coastguard reports on the matter and the events are not connected.”
This time Linda Truran took a step forward.
“A reporter working for the Sunday Independent has gone missing since yesterday morning. Do you have any comment on that?”
“The matter has been drawn to my attention and is being investigated,” replied Crowley. “Let me use this question as a timely warning to the representatives of the press and others not to go wandering around on their own in search of stories. If the person in question has attempted to go down the mine on his own then, of course, I cannot answer for his safety.”
“Seriously, though, Chief Superintendent,” interposed Taylor, “there has been a great deal of talk in these parts about a sea serpent, especially a legend concerning a creature called a Morgow. You now say there is a creature in the mine which is dangerous. Is there any possibility that such a creature as the Morgow exists?”
Crowley chuckled. It was a forced chuckle as he tried not to think about the description of the creature which Roscarrock had given.
“Come now, sir,” he said. “You really don’t expect a serious answer to a question like that?”
“So you totally dismiss such tales? Some local people consider them very seriously.”
“You’ve said it,” called Seth Treneglos from the back of the bar-room. “Some people! We ain’t all superstitious backwoodsmen!”
Crowley called for order.
“This really doesn’t concern us. You may argue about the existence of the Loch Ness Monster, the Morgow or whatever, at some other time. I can add nothing further to the statement I have already made.”
“One more thing, Chief Superintendent,” Tom Fergus stepped forward. His voice was quiet but demanded attention. “Would you say that these events have some connection with the fact that the mine known as Wheal Tom was used by the Ministry of Defence in the late 1950s for dumping dangerous nuclear waste?”
Crowley felt his jaw grow slack.
Inwardly he cursed. So much for Lambert’s security. This whole thing had become a blasted cock-up.
“Who do you represent, sir?” he asked politely.
“I am Tom Fergus, representative of the Society for Stricter Environmental Control and would appreciate a reply to my question.”
There was a growing hubbub as the locals in the inn began to realise the implications of Tom Fergus’s question.
“I am sorry, Mister Fergus. I can add no more to my statement.”
“Just a moment…”
“Question!”
“I can add no more,” insisted Crowley, withdrawing from the converging reporters. He turned and strode from the inn.
Claire and Neville turned towards the bar. They needed a drink.
“I feel sorry for him,” Neville muttered after a while. “That idiot Lambert hadn’t prepared him properly. It’s not a thing that you can hide…this business of dumping nuclear waste.”
“The Government has managed to hide it for twenty-five years,” observed Claire. “But the whole situation is getting like a nightmare.”
Noall pushed his way over.
“I’ve laid out your lunch in the snug. Oh, er, miss…I haven’t told the reporters you are Henry Penvose’s niece, otherwise…well, you know what they are like.”
Claire gave the landlord a smile of appreciation.
“That’s alright, Noall, but I’m afraid they know already.”
Crowley was facing Lambert angrily across the desk in Roscarrock’s office.
“No, of course Neville and Miss Penvose didn’t tip off the reporters. I don’t know how they got wise to the fact but, damn it, man, I should have been prepared.”
Lambert merely frowned, lost in his own thoughts.
“This whole business seems to have got out of hand. I’ve been on the telephone to my chief and find that in the sixties there was some stupid mix-up. The mine was sold back to the private sector and all the documentation about its secret usage was mislaid. The mine should not have left government hands at all. I simply can’t understand it.”
“You seem more concerned with that aspect of things, doctor, than the discovery of this animal and the disappearance of…”
Lambert interrupted.
“Well, I can’t believe your constable’s report of a giant worm. I’d say the man was either a superstitious fool or was too fond of the bottle.”
The telephone prevented Crowley from making an angry retort.
The Chief Superintendent picked it up.
“Yes, Crowley speaking. Oh,
it’s you, Group Captain. Yes, I understand. No, I have no expectation of finding either man alive. Absolutely none. No, I quite understand
about your manpower shortage. Yes, we will go down tomorrow for one more day.”
He replaced the receiver.
“I was hoping we could get another section out of the RAF Regiment so that we could press on with a search tonight.”
Lambert frowned at him.
“Do you believe Roscarrock’s story?”
“He’s a reliable man with a good record in the force,” replied the Chief Superintendent. “I believe he saw some animal — yes.”
He sat back.
“He saw something, Lambert. I’ll guarantee that. I am not saying what he saw. In a dark mine things can get distorted but he did see something — something which attacked Pool and I think the same something attacked Henry Penvose. Maybe it has attacked this reporter who has gone missing.”
He scratched the tip of his nose reflectively.
“As far as I am concerned, you and your department will have to deal with this business of nuclear waste. The press are certainly on to it and you’ll have to sort it out. My job is to find out what happened to these missing people and discover what animal is trapped down the mine.”
“Fair enough, Chief Superintendent,” shrugged Lambert. “I’ll borrow the telephone for a while.”
Crowley left Lambert frowning with concentration as he began to make his calls.
Five miles off the coast of Bosbradoe the grey seas of the Bristol Channel were already darkening as dusk approached. Although there was a freshening wind, it blew off the land and did not disturb the sea unduly. Ploughing steadily through the swells was the 823-ton coaster Bristol Enterprise. She was a utilitarian ship, hardly more than a steel box, with one boiler and engines aft, and the thin high funnel of the coal-burning craft rising from a grubby engine casing which also housed two full-time engineers and the small galley where a solitary cook-steward did his best to prepare meals for a ravenous crew. Above the casing were two lifeboats. From the for’ard part of the casing to the short forecastle head the steel deck was broken by the superstructure of the bridge house, mounted on a little block of cabins and a small chartroom. The Bristol Enterprise was an old-style coastal ship of 195 feet in length with a hold for’ard and one aft. At this precise moment in time her cargo was grain seed and she was bound for Liverpool, swinging from Bristol through the blustery Bristol Channel on a course for the Irish Sea.
Captain Richard Eastman had come to coasting in his middle age after spending his early life in deep waters. He had been at sea more than forty years, mostly in command of Bristol Channel world wandering tramps of the Reardon-Smith line. He had been a deep-sea master mariner until he had married and felt he should be at home regularly and more often. He had been captain of the Bristol Enterprise for five years now. It was a happy ship, well-disciplined and with two good supporting officers as first and second mates.
Now the Bristol Enterprise was digging her bluff bows into the short seas as the spray swept high over the decks. The foredeck ran with cold seawater but the coaster was alright. She had weathered far worse in the countless times she had been up and down the channel. In fact, her crew said that if they left the old lady — as they fondly called her — alone, she would find her own way to port.
Eastman lent against the wheelhouse door looking at the flying spray morosely.
“It’s going to get rough soon,” he said to Davies, his second officer who was on watch.
“Westerly gale, sir,” replied the man. “Westerly gales usually blow themselves out when they turn north. It ought not to last.”
Eastman grunted agreement.
“Just as long as it calms when we get into the Irish Sea. That’s one stretch of water I like to avoid if the weather’s cutting up rough.”
He peered forward. The seawater was swirling high around the coaming of the for’ard hatch but the steel battens and locking bars above the hatches were doing their work. There was no sign of movement anywhere.
The wind was shrieking now through the sparse steel rigging, round the few tunnel stays and ventilators. The stokehold and engine room ventilators were swung away from the wind for their big mouths would suck in the rain and spray and shower it upon the lone fireman shovelling coal in the gloomy firehold.
Eastman felt the big, slow moving propellers of the Bristol Enterprise screaming a little every now and then as the screws came partially out of the water. It was going to be a rough ride but nothing he had not faced before.
“Sir!”
He turned at the curious tone in his second officer’s voice.
“Sir, there’s something out there…I can’t quite make it out…something…”
Eastman reached for his night glasses.
“Where away, mister?”
“Starboard, sir,” replied the officer, forgetting protocol and flinging out his hand in the direction.
Eastman stared through the rain-and sea-splashed windows of the wheelhouse into the gloom of the early evening.
“I can’t see anything. What was it?”
The second officer looked unhappy.
“It was some…something like a…well, damn it, sir, a creature.”
“A creature?” Eastman raised an eyebrow.
“I only saw it for a moment, briefly,” admitted the second officer. “It was like a huge snake…but it must have been fifty feet long at least.”
Eastman sniffed suspiciously
“Have you been drinking, mister?”
“Sir, I swear…”
“Christ!”
A bellow of fear came from the helmsman. The man was staring for’ard, his face ghastly white.
Eastman followed his gaze.
A great black object like a coil of rope, but incredibly thick, was slithering over the forecastle head. In the gloom and spray Eastman could not see where it began nor where it ended.
He stared at the thing with incredulous eyes.
“What in hell’s name…?” he began.
“Look, sir!” cried the second officer, a choking sound of terror in his voice.
Eastman blinked.
“Another one. Jesus, sir! they’re attacking the ship!”
The second mate was right.
Eastman whirled round.
“Raise the owner on the radio-telephone. Quickly! And break out the ship’s firearms.”
The wide-eyed radio operator crouched over his set.
Eastman peered back for’ard.
“There are either a dozen of them or else that thing is colossally large and wrapping itself round the ship,” he breathed. “But that would mean it’s size…”
“Contact, sir,” cried the radio-operator.
Eastman snatched the microphone.
“Bristol Enterprise to Ryder Headquarters…”
A sleepy-eyed operator in the head office of the Ryder Steamship Company of Bristol heard the incoming signal and adjusted his set.
“Ryder Headquarters, receiving you strength seven. Over.”
“Bristol Enterprise, Bristol Enterprise…we are being attacked! Attack…!
The operator frowned at the tinge of hysteria in the voice. He recognised it as that of Captain Eastman, master of the Bristol Enterprise, and pursed his lips.
“What’s your trouble, skipper. Say again. What’s your trouble? Over.”
The voice suddenly screamed and the receiver fell silent, a silence broken only by the crackle and snap of angry static.
CHAPTER XVII
Sheila Fahy stepped out of the bath and stood looking at herself, somewhat critically, in the mirror. The steam from the bath had clouded it a little and she reached forward to wipe it clean. At twenty-two years of age she had an excellent figure, well proportioned, but she felt that her bottom was perhaps too broad and her breasts too full. She knew that she was attractive. Her abundance of copper red hair tumbled down to her shoulders, offsetting her heart-shaped face.
Her green eyes enhanced her appearance although she considered her freckles and white skin were drawbacks. She had full and sensual lips and when she smiled, the smile suited her features.
She took a towel and started to dry herself slowly.
She was thinking of Tom Fergus. He was a dark, wiry man with a mop of tousled hair and Sheila Fahy was attracted to him. Perhaps the physical attraction lay in the fact that Fergus was the opposite in physical make-up to her, for she could not stand men with the same pale colouring and freckles as herself. She had worked as Tom Fergus’s secretary and personal assistant for three months. She had not joined the small staff of the Society for Stricter Environmental Control because she was interested in ecology. It was simply a good job as jobs went and it had the attraction of taking her out of London quite a lot, staying in hotels on expenses drawn from the membership of the society. Fergus did all the work and she merely recorded what he asked her to.
At first she had found Fergus to be very “proper”; after all, he was married with two young boys. But she had noticed that he was becoming more familiar with her. Oh, nothing blatant. Surreptitious touching. Making remarks that were full of innuendos. Sheila gave a broad smile as she wondered how much longer it would be before Fergus summoned up the courage to make a pass. She wouldn’t mind in the least, she reflected. He was an attractive man and she was a very sensual and simple person when it came to physical pleasure.
She started to brush her teeth when there came a soft tapping on the door. She rinsed her mouth out with her tooth-mug and reached for her silk wrap.
Tom Fergus stood awkwardly in the doorway.
“You aren’t in bed or anything, are you, Sheila?”
“No. I’ve just had my bath. What is it, Tom?”
“Can I talk to you for a moment?”
Sheila held open the door and motioned him to come in, wondering whether he had finally obtained the courage to make the suggestion to her.
“I’ve just had an idea, Sheila…” he began.
She pouted suggestively.
“Oh?”
The Morgow Rises! Page 12