Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  “Usually get some kind of weather.” Trewe shifted his eyes to the other man. “This is Sergeant Perstow.”

  Jon shook Perstow’s hand, as if this was a complete stranger and he couldn’t be camping, at this moment, in his garden. “How do you do?”

  “Very well, sar.” Perstow cleared his throat.

  Jon saw the round face turn pink and thought, the blooming idiot’s giving the game away.

  Trewe glared at Perstow. Perstow looked at the floor. Trewe stood. “Excuse us for one moment, Mr. Graham. I need to speak to the sergeant.”

  Trewe and Perstow stepped out.

  Jon glanced around Trewe’s office. It was definitely as uncomfortable as the man, and there was nothing to indicate his new wealth here. The shelves held few books, and those amounted to nothing more exciting than procedural manuals. There were no framed family photos, no awards, no medals, no indication of any hobby. An electric pencil sharpener held down a stack of papers, and there were papers and files stacked on the desk and on the floor. Cello-taped to the lampshade was a snapshot of a man standing with one hand on a cow, the other held a blue ribbon.

  Considering all he’d heard and read about Trewe’s character and drive, he should have made Superintendent by now. Something must have happened when he was with the London Met twenty years before, because it was at that time he abruptly put in for a transfer to his birthplace of Cornwall. He never pursued promotion from that point on. What had happened? Even after reviewing the files he had on the man, the mystery remained. The explanation for the transfer: personal.

  The two officers re-entered the room. Perstow’s hands were empty of papers, and Trewe’s demeanor had changed, become sharply alert. “You work for Complaints and Discipline, Mr. Graham? And you came all this way a month before the tourist season starts—to play in the sun?”

  Jon glanced at the stout man plopped beside him whose gaze seemed intent on the pencil sharpener. What game was Perstow playing? He had been sworn to secrecy about why Jon Graham’s holiday spot was in Perstow’s back garden, so why tell Trewe that Jon worked for Complaints? Hell, why not tell him he was camping in his garden and that they poured tea together every morning? He said to Trewe, “The job and the London weather do get a bit monotonous at precisely this time of year.”

  Trewe’s nostrils flared. “This department operates like clockwork. Is there any question o’ that?”

  “Why would there be?”

  Trewe’s square jaw worked back and forth. Under his thin skin along the sides of his face, the rippling muscles looked as though he did a lot of teeth grinding. Trewe sat behind his desk facing Jon. “We’ve interviewed you about finding the body. You gave your name and rank but not what department you’re with. Why the bloody hell not?”

  “I didn’t think my department had any bearing on your case.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve seen the posters of the missing girl.” That sounded natural enough. “I knew it was not my place to interfere with your investigation or I would have volunteered to help find her.” That sounded weak. He’d never been completely confident that he would know what to say once he met up with Trewe.

  Trewe made a noise in his throat that sounded like a growl. “On holiday, my arse! I wouldn’t mind a holiday about now. A few hours ago, a girl’s body—an American girl’s body—turns up in the surf. The media have swarmed. Just as I suspected, this is a bloody mess. I don’t need more complications, Mr. Graham. We can’t even get official identification without a face or teeth.” Trewe kept his gaze steady. “And now it seems we’ve suddenly become a favorite holiday spot.”

  “Planned to do some sightseeing.”

  “Haven’t you seen enough?” Trewe’s voice rose. He did not wait for a response. “Let us know your whereabouts after this.”

  It was a dismissal, but Jon didn’t want to leave just yet. “Actually, it seems a frivolous thing to be touring with a murder investigation under my nose.” Jon watched for a response. Perhaps this could be a lead-in to asking quite naturally if he could lend a hand.

  Trewe angled his chair. Shadows fell across his face. “A murder such as this is very rare.”

  Jon cleared his throat. “You’ve pinned it down to murder then?”

  “The child didn’t put the bag over her head and jam herself into the rocks. Let me be frank with you, Mr. Graham.” Trewe paused, eyes narrowed. “I don’t need London, nor do I need you to interfere in this investigation.”

  “I spoke to Trewe.” Jon was frying up an egg and juggling his mobile against his ear. The beans were hot and he was hungry. Nothing like runny egg and beans on toast.

  Bakewell asked, “Wasn’t keen to include you in the investigation, then?”

  “No, he was not.” Jon transferred his food to a plate.

  “Hmm … So Trewe’s only interested that you happened into Perrin’s Point just as a murder occurs?”

  “As if I planned it. And he knows I work in Complaints and is suspicious why I’m here.”

  “Keep your head down for the time being. You’ve got my permission to stay as long as you need to.”

  “What I’ve been thinking is,” Jon said, using his free hand to cut the toast into bite-size pieces with a fork, “if, say, I was ordered onto this investigation team, I’d have a real inside chance at figuring out Trewe.”

  “It would be the natural progression of things. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He rang off.

  Jon set his plate on the small fold-out table beneath his bank of monitors. He lined up his flatware beside the plate. If it weren’t that he was trying to get close to Trewe, he wouldn’t want to get involved in this investigation. His hand tightened around his glass of water. It’s a horrible murder, and of a child. He looked down at his congealed egg. He had no appetite.

  17

  Friday, midafternoon

  Jon sat across from Perstow in his cramped caravan. “Why?”

  “I tried, sar. But he can see through me every time. Tol’ him I recognized you from an interdepartmental communiqué.”

  “Weak.”

  “I could not think of a thing else. Sorry, sar.”

  Jon rubbed his face, weary. “You’ve got other things to worry about. Go about your business and don’t let on about anything else concerning me. Understood?”

  “Understood. Sorry, sar.”

  After seeing the portly man out, Jon decided to treat old man Tavy to the drink he’d promised him. Even if Jon wasn’t part of the investigating team, he was a policeman. Despite a lack of invitation, he would find a way in.

  “Tavy’s house is at the back of the village,” Sergeant Perstow had told him as he handed him a hand-drawn map of the lanes to follow.

  The lane he turned on had a sign that read “Unsuitable for Caravans.” The deep rutting would have made navigation by such a thing impossible. Jon drove his motorcar until he came to a rough path no wider than two people could manage walking abreast, then parked and started walking.

  The lane wove downward. Hedgerows on both sides leaned inward so that the lane became a tunnel. He quickened his pace. The closing in made him gasp for breath. The wind whistled through the gorse. Several species of entangled vines were green and beginning to flower. Below the hedge was a drystone wall, the flat stones laid in a distinctive herringbone pattern. No one made them like that anymore.

  Down and around, he came to a gate where he picked his way across a water-filled cattle grid and pushed aside a rusting bar. The resulting ruckus was enough to wake Hades.

  The thatched cottage was nestled deep in the earth. Beech trees crowded all around it like brooding giants. The starkness of the whitewashed cottage and the deeply set, shuttered windows gave it the effect of a skull peering from the shadows. The thatch appeared as worn as its owner had. At Jon’s approach, rooks scattered up into the sky—black, fluttering specks picked up and carried by the wind. The birds returned with a racket like duck-hunter calls gone mad.

  Slightly askew ove
r the door, a small sign read “The Combe.”

  Jon knocked on the door and waited. No response. He watched a bee hover up drunkenly from beneath a window. He knocked again, listening. No sound from within. He had just about given up when he heard a step. With a loud clanking and clattering of chains, the door opened and the dog’s wide, black nose poked out, followed by the old man’s face.

  “Back, Chelsea!” Tavy’s voice sounded far off and a thousand years old. Without a hat, his pure white hair, long and wispy, stood out all over his head. He could be mistaken for a Merlin wizard. From his eyebrows down, his skin was weather-wrinkled red. His smooth, pale forehead seemed glued on like an afterthought. He glared at Jon. “An’ ye’d be a-wantin’ … what?”

  “Tavy, how about that drink at the pub? I owe you.”

  The old man began to shut the door. “Don’t feel ye must pay up.”

  “Wait! So … I want information from you. I’m buying.”

  Tavy smiled his toothless smile. “I does like an honest man.”

  Ducking behind the door, he reappeared with his beat-up, brown felt hat crushed to his head. He crooked his walking stick under his arm and closed and locked his door. More than happy for an outing, Chelsea did a four-step waltz around them as they made their way back down the shaded lane to Jon’s car.

  The dog took up the rear seat. The smell was powerful in the closed up car. Jon lowered a rear window for the dog’s drool to drip down the inside and the outside of the glass.

  Passing fields of green-turned-platinum-in-the-sunshine corn shoots, they drove to the Napoleon Inn at the top of the village. The whitewashed, two-storied building melded into surrounding cottages. It was hard to distinguish which part was pub and which was the rest of the neighborhood, but it looked inviting with its shiny mullioned windows and squat door. With no car park, he had to search tiny side streets for a space. After parking and locking up, they set off. As they rounded a corner on foot, Tavy paused and pointed to a wooden sign set into a wall. “You know where the name came from?”

  “No.”

  “Long ago, a man by name of William Bone was the landlord. The story goes that one day ’e went off to thet Napoleon war. When ’e came back they called ’im the Napoleon man. ’Nother story ’twas the ’riginal name was ‘Boney’s Bar’ till the Napoleon War, and the young men was inscripted ’ere. Anyway, any’ow we just calls it ‘the Nap.’ ” He bared his vacuous grin again.

  “Quite old, then.”

  “Yep.”

  The dog beat them to the door, her tail waving and nose pointed at the door’s handle. Through an outer door and past an inner courtyard, they entered the pub. The noise of the late afternoon crowd of four dulled on their entrance. Then a shout arose from a thin-faced man behind the bar, “’Allo, ’allo! ’Ere’s Tavy to grace us, lads. Who’ve you brought with you?”

  Tavy waved an arm. He led Jon to a table by a huge fireplace where a tiny flame smoldered in the grate and blew a low whistle. “Here, Chelsea.”

  The dog seemed to find a familiar spot, settling quickly.

  “What’ll you have, Tavy?” Jon asked.

  “Bob’ll know what I want.”

  Jon made his way around the empty tables to the bar. He placed his order for two, apparently the house specials. The room had a wet-cave smell suffused with the odor of cigarette smoke. A rusting, Firestone/Mobil Oil sign was tacked to a wall next to some handwritten score sheets. A dartboard had three darts stuck to it. The mantel over the fireplace held empty, dust-covered brandy bottles, brass candlesticks, and black and white, unframed photos of various people casually posed. Walking sticks and canes hung from the ceiling. There was a metal one much like the one his grandfather had used before he died. A few baseball caps hung from the canes. The place was a regular home from home.

  He needed to locate the gents’. He asked Tavy.

  “Ooo-er! I’ll have to show you the trick.” Tavy arose and made his way to the wall. Jon followed. There wasn’t anything but the fireplace until the old man pressed a brick on the hearth with his foot. A part of the wall, next to the hearth, opened inward.

  Jon didn’t know what to think. “What’s this then?”

  “An old building. Shouldn’t be too surprisin’. Smuggler’s country after all.” Tavy pointed down the narrow passageway lit by dim bulbs that hung from the ceiling. “You just follow this hall down a bit and you’ll find the loo on the left. Come back this-a-way, press this knob and the door’ll open.”

  With an inward shiver, Jon followed the instructions. He hated it. “The Hidden Loo” is what the pub should be called. After coming down the low-ceilinged hall with the claustrophobic walls, he found the gents’ to be brightly lit, clean, and surprisingly modern.

  The journey had not been without the odd feeling of suffocation that would overtake him whenever he found himself in a closed-in space. He did not totally relax until he rejoined Tavy. Chelsea lifted her massive head and winked at him, which left him with the oddest feeling that she understood his problem. The low mumbling and occasional display of noisy emotion from the game tables in the next room drowned out the radio that crackled from behind the bar. Jon wondered whose taste ran to Peruvian goatherd yodeling, until he observed the barman adjusting the knob and heard a twanging folk song belt across the room.

  “Yer don’t look well, son,” Tavy said as Jon sat.

  He knew he had sweat marks showing at his arm pits. “I don’t care for enclosed places.”

  “Eh?”

  “Childhood trauma. Locked in a cupboard accidently. Mum found me catatonic or some such. That passageway to the loo gave me the creeps, is all.”

  “Ghoulies and ghosties an’ things that go bump in the night.” Tavy hooted and slapped his knee. “Should ’ave asked for the direct route.”

  Oh yeah! Funny, Jon thought. The barman put the drinks on the bar. Jon went up and paid for them and carried the brimming glasses back to the table.

  Tavy set about finishing his off without taking a breath. He set his empty glass down hard, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and gaped at Jon. “Ordered the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “A brave soul to drink the cider.”

  Jon considered his drink. The murky amber liquid didn’t look dangerous. “You mentioned seeing the mother of the girl, walking on the cliffs?”

  “Yeah, ’er.”

  Jon took a swallow—bitter but not bad. Here we go, he thought, I’ll have to drag it out of him. “What day was it?”

  “Day tha’ girl disappeared.”

  “Have you seen the mother more than once?”

  “More ’n once.”

  “Time?”

  “Late. Early. An’ all in between.” Tavy stared pointedly at his empty glass.

  Jon’s immediate thought was that the old man spent a lot of time wandering about. He caught the pointed stare and went to the bar to order another round.

  The barman winked at him. “Watch yer pocketbook. An’ watch yerself, if yer not used to the cider.” The barman grinned at the room in general, which precipitated a round of loud guffaws.

  Jon nodded his thanks and paid for it. The stuff seemed harmless enough, going down smooth as silk after the bitter passed. He walked back to the table and set the full glasses in front of his new friend. The room tilted. He fell into his seat.

  Tavy chuckled, “Gotta take it slow, son.”

  Chelsea heaved a sigh and stretched out making her the longest dog in the world for a moment.

  Tavy began to drink, slower this time. He placed his drink on the table, leaned toward Jon and laid his finger against his nose. “The first time, her looked fer the world like a lost waif—a spirit—gave the heart a rare leap till I recognized ’er.”

  The old man sat for a moment staring past Jon to some distant, unreachable point. “Late at night on the cliffs … ’tis dangerous.” The words creaked out of the old gent slowly.

  Jon leaned forward. “She walks along the cliffs?”
>
  “Yeah—aurrrrugh,” Tavy hacked out with a sputtering, gloopy clearing of his throat, as if he needed a bucket to spit in. He made do with a handkerchief. “Can’t sleep. Not as fit as I used to be. Worked the mines when I was a young’un. Closed ’em down, the mines. Took the wind out o’ Cornwall’s sails.”

  “You saw Mrs. Butler …” Jon prompted.

  “Yeah, ’er.”

  “What did she say when she saw you?”

  “Didn’t see us. Didn’t see t’ other one neither.”

  “What other one?” Jon noticed Tavy had finished his drink and was eyeing the food being consumed at a nearby table. It was nearer evening than noon. Jon intercepted his stare. “Would you like something to eat? It’s late. I shouldn’t have kept you.”

  “No, no … well, erm … if you’ve time to hear more … Bob’ll know what I like.”

  Jon went to the bar, and before he opened his mouth, the barman told him the fish and chips were sizzling in the fry vat, enough for two if he wanted. Unless, of course, he wanted crab; he could always provide a crab.

  A horrid picture flashed through Jon’s mind of tiny crabs exiting a hole in a sack.

  “Don’t think I want anything with crab in it just now, thank you.”

  Someone next to his elbow turned to Jon and said, “That decision ’ll see ye roight.” There were a few muffled snickers.

  Jon told the barman whatever Tavy was having would be fine. He returned to the table, feeling as if he’d landed in a foreign country. “Didn’t know what to order.”

  Tavy moved his head to glance toward the bar then back to Jon. “Just plain good food—the best thing ’ere.”

  “You were saying Mrs. Butler didn’t see …”

  Tavy nodded. The fading afternoon light from the windows darkened the deep-as-trenches furrows on his leathery face. “I’ve seen ’er walkin’. At the same time, an’ so ’s ’e.”

  “He?”

  “Don’t know. Too many clothes about his head, the dark … Some’pin about him, though.” He shook his head; his face shuttered. “Some’pin familiar.”