by Carola Dunn
Megan warmed her hands on her mug of coffee. She hadn’t realised how chilled they were. Charles had closed the locker and replaced its cushion. On top he put the cushion from the next section of bench/locker, which he opened to retrieve more blankets. Megan saw that each cushion had straps on the bottom, so that they could be used as floats in an emergency, if there weren’t enough life jackets to go round.
“Okay if I sit here?” she asked him, indicating the lockers on the opposite side of the cabin.
“Be my guest.”
She sat down, only to have to move a few minutes later when one of the men whom she’d noticed earlier on deck came down.
“Sorry,” he said, opening her seat. “Skipper says they may not be capable of climbing the scramble net and we’ll likely need the sling to help ’em up from the inshore.”
“Have you got two? The Bude boat…”
“Good point. Lucy may arrive before we’ve emptied the Belinda.” He went off loaded with tackle, balancing easily as he crossed the tilting floor.
Megan quickly finished her coffee. The smell of Oxo in the enclosed space wasn’t helping her nausea. With care, she negotiated the way to the stairs, handing her mug to Gavin as she passed.
He grinned. “You’re looking a bit green about the gills. You’ll be better in the fresh air.”
“I hope so.”
“Oops, forgot the camera. There’s one in here somewhere. Here you go, and an extra roll of film.”
“Terrific, thanks.” It was in a waterproof case with a long strap. She looped it over her head and put her arm through, so that it was safe against her side.
At the top of the stairs, she felt better at once in the briny air wafting into the wheelhouse. It wafted with more force than before, she noted, and the bank of clouds in the west hid the sun, though the sky above remained blue. The sea was too ruffled to retain its deep azure, but as far as she could tell, the swells hadn’t yet swelled. She hoped she’d make it into the cave and safe out to the Daisy D. again before they became breakers.
Charlie, at the wheel, winked at her. Kulick was on the radio, apparently talking to a helicopter pilot. Megan still had the binoculars hung round her neck. She stepped out on deck to see what she could see.
The Lucy must have extracted herself from the turbulent area faster than she had edged into it. She was skipping across the waves, more than halfway to the place where the Belinda had disappeared. Belinda was still out of sight. Megan tried to picture Larkin holding the inflatable steady while Maggie and Walter helped the refugees embark. Women and children first? Or those in worst shape? One too feeble to walk. One dead: Kalith’s mother?
Was Kalith still hanging on to life?
Kulick called to her, “The Coast Guard chopper’s on its way, Sergeant. I’m taking the Daisy a bit farther in, though we’ll have to move out again if the wind grows much stronger.”
Megan raised her hand in acknowledgement. The note of the engines changed.
As soon as they were under way, the joggling eased. The boat cut through the waves instead of sitting rocking on them. It didn’t last long, though. The sound died back to a purr, just as the bright orange of the Belinda reappeared.
The contrary motions of the two boats made counting heads impossible at that distance. The inflatable seemed to be crammed full. With any luck, Megan thought, the Belinda was carrying at least half of the Indians. In that case, Lucy could bring the rest of the ambulatory refugees, so that when Belinda took her to the cave it would stay and wait for her, rather than having to return to the Daisy D. and come back again to fetch her.
But there was the helicopter to consider, too. Megan had no idea how the lifeboats were going to handle that.
It was their problem, though. Hers was to make sure the Coast Guard understood that both the deceased and the patient were probable crime victims. The former must be autopsied; the latter guarded by the police and questioned as soon as possible.
Reluctantly interrupting her surveillance of the two inshore boats, Megan turned back towards the wheelhouse.
Kulick stood in the doorway, watching the inflatables through binoculars.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant?” He kept the glasses trained on Lucy and Belinda.
“I was wondering whether you’ve made it clear to the Coast Guard that they’re picking up victims of crime, not just accident or stupidity.”
“They know the police are involved. Your superintendent has talked to them—to HQ in Falmouth, that is, not the crew or the medic. Don’t worry, they know how to deal with it.”
“The helicopter will take the body as well as the patient?”
“That’s their decision, depending on conditions.”
“I ought to see it in situ first.”
“We’ll get you there as soon as we can, Sergeant. But understand, once the helicopter arrives, there’ll be no hanging about. Look, Belinda’s cleared the headland and Lucy’s going in.”
The two inshore boats were moving slowly as they passed in opposite directions. Both were outside the shadow of the cliffs, clearly visible. Through the glasses, it looked to Megan as if the skippers were talking to each other. Larkin was probably describing the situation in the cave and perhaps the best way to approach it. Then the Lucy went on at low speed into the shadows, while Belinda picked up speed, heading for the Daisy D.
By then, one of the Daisy’s crew was kneeling on the roof of the wheelhouse, with binoculars. “Three kids,” he called down, “and three adults. Looks like three women.”
With the six extras as well as the three crew members, the inflatable was heavily laden. It seemed to move sluggishly, through the choppy water rather than on top of it. When it came closer, Megan saw that the Indians were huddled on the floor. Larkin was at the helm, while Maggie and Walter sat on the tubular sides, holding on to the loops of rope, swaying as the boat ploughed on. They looked perfectly at ease, though neither they nor the skipper had life jackets.
They must have lent them to the women, as well as a spare. All three and the oldest child were wearing the bulky yellow jackets. Two of the women had their arms round smaller children.
As the Belinda pulled alongside the Daisy D., Megan moved to the stern, well out of the way. She watched the two crews work together to lift the children, then the women, from the inshore boat to the deck of the larger boat and help them into the wheelhouse on their way down to the cabin.
Unless Megan hung over the rail—an unwise move for more reasons than one, she felt—she didn’t have a very good view. The two younger children seemed lethargic, apathetic, but a boy of ten or so made an effort to pull himself up by the scramble net. Awkward in a life jacket too large for him, he hindered more than he helped as he was hoisted upward in the sling. He was chattering nineteen to the dozen.
The crew’s responses suggested he was speaking English, though Megan couldn’t make out his words. With any luck, at least some of the adults would be able to answer questions without an interpreter.
The last of them was brought aboard the Daisy D. and supported, half carried, into the wheelhouse. Kulick came out and leant over the rail, talking to Larkin.
Megan made her way forward, hanging on to the rail. She heard Kulick say, “The copter should arrive soon after you get back there. Good luck.” He turned to her. “Good luck, Sergeant.”
The crewman who had helped her earlier, when she bungled her arrival, passed down a rolled-up canvas stretcher to Walter and Maggie. Then he tossed down the borrowed life jackets.
“How are they?” Megan asked him. “Those people…”
“Not so hot. Not at death’s door, but hungry and cold. They’ve had nothing to eat for a couple of days, and that’s the kids and the one who’s expecting. For the rest, it’s been more like four or five days.”
“Oh Lord! One of the women’s pregnant?” No wonder Kalith swam for it.
“Five or six months, I reckon.” He threw down a couple of extra life jackets.
Larkin, Walter, and Maggie had all put on their numbered jackets. As Walter stowed the spares, the skipper called, “Megan! If you want to inspect the cave, we need to get a move on.”
Even with directions from above and a helping hand below, her descent into the inflatable was not much more graceful than her ascent from it. It didn’t help that the two boats were bobbing up and down irregularly, so that the distance between was constantly changing.
But Megan arrived safely, and Larkin at once swung the Belinda away from the Daisy D. He put on speed, the bow rising.
“How many more people?” Megan shouted to Maggie over the noise of the engine.
“Four men, one woman, and two teenagers in reasonable shape. One old woman who’s in pretty bad shape. And an old man who didn’t make it. He died just last night, they said. If it wasn’t for the fog…”
Megan was silent for a moment, then she said, “If we’d got things moving quicker!”
“If wishes were horses!” Walter said roughly. “It was only yesterday you found the bloke drowning, wasn’t it?”
“Was it?” She thought back: Rocky Valley, the ambulance, the hospital, Kalith’s brief consciousness, a few hours sleep while DI Scumble did his utmost to persuade his superiors to move, then dashing hither and yon, ending with her unexpected embarkation on the lifeboat. “Yes, you’re right. It feels like forever.”
“There you are, then. You made sure they were found soon as poss, and now you’ve got to concentrate on nailing the bugger that dumped them.”
“They didn’t tell you who it was, did they?”
“That’d be too easy.”
“We didn’t exactly have time for a conversation,” said Maggie. “We were too busy sorting out how many we could take and getting them quickly and safely into the boat. The little boy talked a lot, but I can’t say I made much sense of what he was saying.”
“Too noisy,” Walter agreed.
A few minutes later, Larkin cut their speed as they neared the twin headlands. The Lucy passed in the opposite direction, the crew waving. Besides the three of them, she carried three men and a boy and girl in their midteens.
The Belinda went on, with caution, into the tiny bay. Maggie and Walter, boathooks at the ready, started watching over the sides for rocks. Megan gazed ahead at the black hole of the cave. She really, really didn’t want to go inside it. Yet there were people who explored not only caves but potholes for fun! How bad could it be?
“I haven’t got a torch!” she realised aloud.
“We do,” the skipper told her, “and an electric lamp.”
“It’s not completely dark in there,” said Maggie. “Watch out to port, Skipper. Okay. There’s a hole in the roof that lets in a bit of daylight. It must go right up to the top of the cliff, I should think. It’s not very wide, and it’s crooked, so you can’t actually see the sky.”
“An old mine shaft, I bet!” Who had mentioned dangerous mine shafts in the cliffs? Probably Julia or Chaz, hikers with an interest in geology. “I shouldn’t be surprised if the smugglers used to use it as an alternative access to the cave.”
“Damn good thing it’s there,” Walter grunted. “When they ran out of water, they managed to catch rain running down. Knocked the top out of an old barrel.”
Megan hadn’t thought about lack of water. No one could survive long without it, nowhere near as long as without food. “Thank goodness they weren’t driven to drinking seawater,” she said.
Contemplating the refugees’ ordeal, she stopped worrying about her own venture into the bowels of the earth.
The walls of the cave, the curved roof, were about them now. The outboard barely murmuring, the boat proceeded under its existing momentum. The water was calmer than outside, rocking them gently. Walter produced a large rubber torch, clicked it on, and shone it towards the back. Megan saw a small patch of sand and rounded pebbles, sloping up to jumbled boulders, enclosed on three sides by the rocky walls.
“But where—?”
Walter swung the beam to the right. “You’ll see as soon as you get out on the beach.”
The Belinda grounded gently. “Walter, Maggie, get the stretcher out and the old woman on to it. Megan, I’ve got to move back into radio reception range. Here’s the lamp. You go and do your stuff. I’ll be back as soon as the copter arrives.”
Megan helped the others unload the stretcher and a spare life jacket. She grabbed the lamp and, shining it to the right, walked a few steps up the slope. The right-hand wall turned out to be a sort of buttress. Behind it was a narrow gap, about thirty inches wide. The sides looked rough-hewn and the ramp beyond too smooth to be natural.
The lamplight showed a middle-aged Indian man standing at the top. He bowed, palms together. “Namaste.”
Megan had forgotten what Aunt Nell had told her the word meant, but it seemed proper to return the greeting.
“My name is Nayak. You have come to help my sister?”
“Yes, sir.” She decided explaining that she was a police officer might upset or confuse him. “We’ve brought a stretcher, and a rescue helicopter should be here any moment.”
“I thank you.” He turned and led the way into a cavern that seemed quite spacious but must have been a tight fit for a dozen people or so to live in. Carrying the stretcher, Walter and Maggie followed Megan.
Mr. Nayak’s sister lay to one side, bundled in rugs. Her eyes were closed, her breathing stertorous. Another woman, his wife, sat cross-legged beside her. On the other side of the cave, the dead man had a single rug pulled up over his face. At the far end was a neat stack of cardboard boxes.
Megan set the lamp on a projecting rock and got out the camera. “Let me take a couple of photos before you move her.”
“You are a newspaper reporter?” Nayak asked in alarm.
“No, nothing like that. But the scene has to be documented.” She didn’t tell him reporters would certainly be waiting when he and his family were landed. She snapped a couple of pictures of the sick woman. “Okay, go ahead.”
Maggie and Walter had unrolled the stretcher. While they eased the sick woman on to it, Megan went over to the deceased. She looked to Nayak for permission, and he nodded resignedly. Folding back the rug, she photographed his father’s wasted face, then carefully covered it again and stood for a moment with bowed head.
She became aware of a curious, regular thumping noise. Maggie was the first to recognise it. “The helicopter. It sounds weird down here. The noise must be coming down the mine shaft. Come on, Walter, let’s go. Mr. and Mrs. Nayak, you’d better come too. Here, put on these life jackets. Need help?”
“My father…”
“We’ll be right back for him, don’t worry.”
Maggie helped the woman into the life jacket while Walter gave her husband a hand with his. With a last glance at his dead father, he followed the stretcher.
Megan took a couple of pictures of the stack of boxes, then went in for close-ups. Almost all were printed with the names of the contents: tinned everything. Tinned peas, salmon, baked beans, tomato soup, sardines, peaches, Spam, corned beef, fruit cocktail, and one box that had contained rye crisp-bread. None of it looked as if it would appeal to Indian tastes. Now all the boxes contained empty tins, washed out—presumably in seawater—and piled up higgledy-piggledy.
She frowned. It must have taken more than one man and a lot of hard work to lug this lot into the cave. Why bother if the people were to be abandoned?
TWENTY
When Jocelyn dropped her and Teazle off outside the LonStar shop in Port Mabyn, on their return from Truro, Eleanor was unhappy.
She felt less and less certain of the value of the information she had gleaned from Abel Tregeddle. Not that he had lied to her, but did it actually have any relevance to Kalith Chudasama’s plight? Had Megan correctly interpreted what the young man had said? Or had her favourite niece embarked on a possibly perilous expedition based on a trail of uncertain inferences—or, in colloquial langua
ge, a load of codswallop?
Jocelyn’s dark forebodings had infected her and she felt in need of an antidote. She went to see Nick. His particular combination of pragmatism and cheerful insouciance was just what she wanted.
“Come on, Teazle, we’ll catch him just before the shop closes.”
Nick had turned the sign on the gallery door to CLOSED and was just locking up as they arrived. He turned the key back and opened the door.
“Come on in. Hello, Teazle.” He stooped to rub between her ears. “Just let me pull down the blind. There. Cuppa?”
“No thanks, I’ve just been taking tea with a canon. But don’t let me stop you.”
“Nothing could. What’s wrong, Eleanor?”
“How do you know something’s wrong?” she asked crossly.
“I’m an artist. I see faces. Come upstairs and sit yourself down.”
Nick’s flat was one large room, only the bathroom walled off. His bed was unmade, but otherwise it was quite neat. All over the walls were pinned what he called sketches, some at least partly coloured though Eleanor had always thought of a sketch as being black and white. “Ideas, trials, and reminders,” he’d once explained to her.
The furniture was sparse, a heterogeneous lot he’d picked up here and there, some from LonStar, some from auctions, whatever caught his eye. The only objects of any value were his collection of LPs and his stereo—or hi-fi, or whatever the latest term was for a gramophone. He had another down in the studio.
He put on a record.
“What’s that?”
“Dowland. Lute. Soothing.”
Eleanor sank into the chair she found most comfortable. A rocking chair originally upholstered in crimson brocade, it was now a dusty pink except in the cracks, but its springs had held up against the passage of time, perhaps because Nick didn’t find it comfortable. Rocking, she poured out her story, her fears and uncertainties, while he heated water on the gas ring by the fireplace and made himself a pot of tea and a couple of boiled eggs.
“I must have missed lunch,” he said thoughtfully, as Eleanor finished her tale of woe. “Sure you won’t have a cup of tea? There’s plenty.”