Buried in the Country

by Carola Dunn

  “Pencarrow. What’s up? Better be something worth ringing me on a Saturday afternoon!”

  “You wanted to be kept up-to-date, sir, on those London types.”

  “Caught them up to some funny business, have you?”

  “Sort of. Well, nothing criminal. They’ve got hold of a community directory—at least I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.”

  “Pretty sure, Pencarrow?”

  “Sir, the shop and post office where he obtained it was just closing. I couldn’t have gone in without a fuss, and I am supposed to be undercover. You told me not to contact Constable Yarrow directly, so—”

  “All right, all right, describe the damn thing and I’ll have someone get onto him.” He listened without interruption while she described the booklet. “Got it. You’re saying they’re planning something in Tintagel.”

  “All I’m saying is that they seem to be looking for someone local. Could be a confederate who’s lying low here, or someone they have a grudge against. Or one person who’s both.”

  “Hmm. Did you get a snap of them yet?”

  “No, sir. As I’m supposed to be trying to avoid attracting attention, I haven’t had a chance.” Attack being the best form of offence, Megan went on, “Have you heard back about the van’s licence plates?”

  “Not a chance till Monday earliest, and since the licensing people moved to Cardiff, they’ve been slower than ever. Could be a week, unless you can give me a solid reason for requesting priority.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then you’ll just have to keep an eye on them as best you can.”

  “Which won’t be very well, sir, unless you take me off this security job. I and … my colleague have to take the persons concerned for a walk on the cliffs this afternoon.”

  “What the hell? No, don’t bother to explain. I’d rather not know. You know I can’t take you off that job without orders from above, barring an emergency, much as I’d like to. All I can do is send over one of our plainclothes constables to give Yarrow a hand. Best of luck, Pencarrow. Just don’t, for pity’s sake, let any of them fall off a cliff.”

  With that cheerful word of advice, he hung up.

  Which would irritate him more: if she rang back, or if she failed to let him know that Freeth had been found? Biting her lip, she redialled.

  “Sir—”

  “Not you again, Pencarrow!”

  “Sorry, sir, but I didn’t have a chance to tell you about the missing lawyer, and as the chief constable was interested…”

  “All right, all right,” Scumble grumbled. “So you’ve found him, have you?”

  “I’ve found out where he is. Should I go to see him, sir?”

  “Use your bloody initiative, Pencarrow! If you want your hand held, go and ask the Boy Wonder. I daresay he’ll oblige.” Again he hung up.

  That was a low blow, Megan thought. She wanted to let off steam about his unreasonableness to someone who would understand, and at the moment, unfortunately, that meant Ken.

  She turned away from the phone cubby and saw Aunt Nell waiting a few yards away, looking anxious.

  “Megan, I left in such a rush down in the village, I forgot to tell you.… I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Ken, though I’m sure, being a police officer, he’s properly discreet.”

  “To give the devil his due, he is. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, really. I just felt you ought to know that Alan Freeth—”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Nick told me where he is.”

  “He did? I thought he’d decided not to. I wasn’t going to tell you his whereabouts, just that you can stop searching for him. If you ever began. And he says he’s written to Roland Bulwer.”

  “Good. Then I needn’t bother him. I was wondering how to fit in a visit.”

  Aunt Nell frowned. “Only, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that he’s in some sort of trouble. Or rather, his friend is.”

  “Bulwer?” Megan asked, startled. “Aren’t his troubles over, now that his straying lamb has turned up safe?”

  “Not him. Mrs. Mason, his friend here. The one he and Nick are staying with. Didn’t Nick tell you about her?”

  “He said she and Freeth are … ‘very pally,’ I think his words were. Just how ‘pally’ are they?”

  “None of my business, nor yours. But I can tell you this: She’s ill, the sort of thing that could carry her off any day, or she could live for years if she’s careful. Alan’s very concerned about her. The thing is, it seemed to me he has another reason to be worried about her, besides her health.”

  “What sort of reason?”

  “I have no idea. That’s what’s so frustrating. I wish I knew whether there might be a way to help. As it is, what can I do?”

  “You could call on her again, Aunt Nell, and try to find out what’s wrong.”

  “Not today. It would look frightfully pushy. And I can’t on Monday. I’ve got to get the Incorruptible repaired. Or at least find out if it’s possible.”

  “I’d forgotten about the car.”

  “After the storm last night, it’s probably sitting in several inches of water. Oh well, I’m sure Mrs. Mason has worse problems.”

  “Maybe I will drop in this afternoon after all. I may be able to get some indication for you. How long is it going to be before Tariro and the girl— The girl! It can’t be her that Ken— But he’s always fallen for blondes. I don’t believe it.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, dear. I’ve noticed several hints, in both directions. From him and from her, I mean. You aren’t upset, are you? You’ve really got over him?”

  “Oh yes,” Megan said firmly. “I wish her luck, that’s all. She’ll need it. What time do you think they’ll be ready to go?”

  “Sir Edward said a couple of hours, and that was a bit after two. A couple of hours could mean anything, though, or Nontando and Tariro could decide to cut the session short.”

  “Damn, I’d better not risk it.”

  “How’s this for a plan: You have to drive up to the cliff paths anyway, so instead of taking the nearest way—up Vicarage Hill to the church—you can go up the lane that leads to Mrs. Mason’s.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called, if it even has a name, but as Nick described it, it’s the first right off the B3263 going south, just where the main road makes a sharp turn inland. Her house is right at the end, where it peters out into a farm track. It probably started as a shepherd’s cottage. You pop in for a minute while the rest walk on; then you can catch up.”

  “Brilliant, Aunt Nell.”

  “I hope either you or Ken has a big-enough car for me and Teazle to squeeze in.”

  “I’m driving an 1100, so it’s possible, but I’ve got a better idea. Ken can take the girl—”

  “Nontando. She has a name!”

  “Sorry. I’ve been thinking of her as just another of Ken’s flock of totties. Obviously, Sir Edward wouldn’t have chosen her if she was a dim-witted dolly-bird.”

  “He wouldn’t have chosen her if he’d realised she was a woman, to tell the truth.”

  “Nor me, or that’s the impression he gave me.”

  “He was quite put out. I’m not at all sure he even knew that there is such a thing as a woman detective. He’s a bit behind the times.”

  “Telling me! Not that he hasn’t got company. Yet he asks you for help. How does he reconcile it with his notion of the proper place of women?”

  “My dear, men are just as capable as women of believing six impossible things before breakfast. If not more so.”

  Megan laughed. “Too true. How are the talks going, or am I not allowed to ask?”

  “I don’t know the details. Presumably Sir Edward sees progress, or he’d give up. My part has been reasonably successful. Nontando and Tariro are at least on civil terms, which they weren’t at first. Some of the credit must go to Ken. If you ask me, a new man in Nontando’s life has eased
her grievance against Tariro.”

  “I hope she doesn’t expect it to last. Maybe you should warn her.”

  “Not on your life. She’s an adult. Also, I doubt she’s looking for anything permanent. She’s very serious about her studies and her country’s politics.”

  “I wish her luck. He’s not a bad bloke, on the whole. He’ll give her a good time till he moves on. I’d better get back to him now and see what he thinks about splitting up for the walk.”

  “And I must get back to Gina before she thinks I’ve been kidnapped. Come on, Teazle.”

  Megan walked slowly back to where she had left Ken. As so often happened, she felt much better after talking to her aunt. In the face of her common sense and kindness, intractable problems melted away, or at least were reduced to a size that could be tackled.

  If only Ken would just stay out of her life!

  He wasn’t where she had last seen him. For a moment she stared blankly at the neat pile of newspapers on the low table, then she sat down and shuffled through them, looking for a note, some cryptic indication of where he had gone.

  She recognised instantly the sound of his approaching footsteps. “Oh, there you are!” she said in heartfelt relief.

  He grinned. “Happy to see me?”

  “Happy to see you haven’t been carried off by Russian spies. It would have been such a bore to have to rush to the rescue.”

  “I thought it would be a good idea to check that your little white van is still in the car park. As it is, large as life and twice as natural. Didn’t you say the number plate was filthy?”

  “Yes, I could barely read it, even close to, with my torch.”

  “The rain last night must have come down so hard, it bounced off the asphalt and washed them down. The front one, at least, is fairly clean and clear. I didn’t go round the back. Did you have a nice chat with your guv’nor?”

  “Not how I’d describe it. He just wants the impossible, as usual.”

  “I’ve always considered that to be the essential function of chief inspectors. Keeps you on your toes.”

  “Maybe I could manage if I had three feet.”

  “Our friends from London; Sir Edward; what’s the third?”

  “Not something you need to know about.”

  “Okay-ay. Allow me to commiserate anyway from the depths of my ignorance. How about a cuppa, as it looks as if we’ll be out merrily hiking at teatime?”

  “Good thinking. Let’s see if we can have it in the bar, where we can watch the van. And I have to talk to you about the hike.”

  The obliging barman agreed to arrange for tea. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your suspects,” he informed them in a low voice. “The tough always drinks Guinness, so I reckon he must be Irish, though he don’t sound it. Borough-born and -bred, if you ask me, me being a Londoner meself. And t’other one drinks vodka, usually neat. D’you reckon he’s a Russki?”

  Megan and Ken raised eyebrows at each other. “Does he sound Russian?” Megan asked.

  “Not that I can tell,” the barman said regretfully. “More posh, if you get me. Another thing, the con-man type started to call the tough something beginning with S and got an elbow in the ribs that made him wince. He changed it to ‘Vic,’ pretty quick.”

  “The plot thickens,” said Ken. “That’s the lot?”

  “Yeah, they’re not the sort to chat at the bar.”

  “Thanks.” The pound note he slid across the counter was swiftly pocketed.

  “My pleasure. Tea for two coming up.”

  They took a table by the window. Megan had a view across the car park, though she couldn’t actually see the van because of the protruding portico. She could see the exit drive, however. Adrian Arbuthnot and Victor Jones couldn’t leave without her spotting them.

  “Irish? Russian?” she queried.

  “I can’t see what finger the IRA can have in this pie. Our Russian?”

  Megan shook her head. “There is no art to find a man’s nationality in his favourite tipple.”

  “Oh, very clever, ha ha. Though I agree with you. No Russian spy worth his salt would touch the stuff.”

  “I wish I could guess—”

  “Wait a minute! I’ve remembered his ugly mug. The S gave it to me. Victor Stone, sent down for manslaughter. Strong-arm robbery, a specialist—in fact, an expert—with a sandbag. He was very fast, and very clever at hitting just hard enough in just the right spot to knock out his opponent for just long enough, but he didn’t reckon on someone’s thin skull, and the victim died. His brief persuaded a soft-minded jury he hadn’t intended to kill the poor chap.”

  “I have a vague memory.… Long time ago?”

  “Yes, he got quite a stretch. Must have been back when I was on the beat.”

  “Me too.”

  “Are we growing old?” Ken misquoted.

  “Oh no, not us. He had a nickname—S again! Wasn’t he called the ‘Sandman’? That’s why I remember him at all. Banks, jewellers, goldsmiths, wasn’t he? Not corner shops.”

  “I think so.”

  “What on earth is there in Tintagel that he’d consider worth knocking over? I’ve walked round the whole place, and there’s nothing.” Megan gazed out over the car park and the drive to the village spread out at the bottom of the hill. She could also see the sky to the southwest. “Oh no, more clouds on the horizon!”

  “Not another storm! I’m not mucking about on the cliffs in a gale.”

  “I don’t live on the coast, so I’m no expert, but it looks to me like the kind of low cloud layer that drifts in and hangs there. Could be a bit of drizzle but probably just overcast or mist, depending how high it is. Stratus, is it?”

  “Don’t ask me. Not a beautiful sunny day with a boundless view of the sea followed by a glorious sunset?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Perhaps Non—they will decide not to go.”

  “I doubt it. When Tariro first saw this building last night—as much as he could see through the storm—he said it looked like a prison. I think they’ll be raring to get outside. As Aunt Nell wants to go too, with Teazle—”

  “As a matter of fact, I asked her to come with us.”

  “You did?”

  “Don’t sound so startled. I like your aunt. Besides, she’s supposed to be persuasive, isn’t she? We’re going to have to persuade our charges to keep their heads down as we drive through the village.”

  “And they’re going to want to see the sights. It’s a point. I was going to suggest we take both cars, as there will be five, plus dog.”

  “Sir Edward and/or Payne may decide to join us.”

  “Heaven forbid! In that case we’d have no choice but to split up, but we might as well anyway. Besides not being crammed in, the two of them wouldn’t have each other’s support in going against Sir Edward’s wishes. You take Nontando and I’ll take Tariro and Aunt Nell.”

  Ken grinned. “You’ve tumbled to it, eh? I must say, I never thought I was the sort to fall for a coloured girl, but I’ve never met any girl like her, black, white, brown, yellow, or blue. She’s—”

  “That’s quite as much as I want to hear,” Megan said firmly. “Here comes our tea.”

  SIXTEEN

  Returning to the sitting room, Eleanor found Gina playing a game of patience on the writing table by the window.

  “I am sorry to have deserted you for so long. I didn’t expect to be gone more than a couple of minutes.”

  “It’s quite all right. I’ve had two out of three games come out already, which hardly ever happens. This one is looking quite promising.…”

  “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  Gina turned a couple more cards, sighed, and collected the pack together. “You’d think I’d know by now that ‘promising’ doesn’t promise anything. You told your niece and her colleague about the proposed outing? I hope they weren’t too upset.”

  “Not noticeably. Well, Megan was surprised but not upset. Ken—DS Faraday—wasn’t ve
ry happy, but I talked him round.”

  “Just what you’re so good at, Eleanor,” Gina said warmly. “You seem to know him quite well.”

  “He turns up every now and then. I gather his superiors prefer to send an officer who’s familiar with the local police, on the rare occasions when they have to send someone. He and Megan used to work together when she was in London.”

  “Ah, I see. I have the impression he and Nontando were making eyes at each other, as we used to say. I was a little concerned that Megan might be upset.”

  “She has no reason to be upset,” Eleanor prevaricated. Her opinion was that Megan was well rid of Ken.

  “I’m so glad. Sergeant Faraday has known Nontando only since yesterday—but really, young people nowadays are in such a hurry!”

  “Plus ça change…”

  “Autre temps, autre moeurs,” Gina retorted. “Well, they’re old enough to sort things out for themselves.”

  She put the cards away in the desk drawer and they moved over to the comfortable chairs by the fire. Eleanor asked her friend, a keen theatre-goer, about the latest plays in London. Gina gave her an exhaustive—and exhausting—analysis, including a fair share of theatrical gossip, and assured her she would always be welcome to stay if she came up to town to see a few shows.

  Eleanor put in an occasional “Good heavens!” or “Not really?” or “That sounds interesting,” as appropriate, while half her mind pondered the puzzle of Alan Freeth and Rosie Mason.

  Was it possible she, and a good many others, had misinterpreted a close friendship between Bulwer and Freeth as a closer, more intimate relationship? Eleanor didn’t think so. Jocelyn, for one, was convinced they were homosexual though she would have preferred not to believe it. While inclined to be judgemental, Joce was always fair.

  Yet Freeth had gone off without explanation to assist Mrs. Mason. They must have been very good friends in childhood.