by Carola Dunn
“But excellent English.” She smiled at him. “Which is a great help. And luckily Kalith speaks at least enough to bring us looking for you.”
“He speaks as well as I. If he was able to tell you so little, he must indeed be in bad shape.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you more recent news. Coxswain Kulick might be able to find out.” They both looked at the skipper. He was peering into the gloom. The sky had darkened without Megan’s noticing, And the Daisy D. was definitely tossing about more than she had been. “But on the whole I’d rather not distract him. As soon as we land…”
She wondered what they would face when they arrived at Padstow. The promised ambulances would probably take them to the Bodmin hospital, the closest. Would the Bodmin district police be there, or would Scumble manage to wangle his way into staying in charge? Immigration officials? If it came to a battle between the immigration people investigating unlawful entry and the police investigating homicide, who took preference?
Time would tell. And meanwhile, Megan had to make the best of the time left to her.
“Do you know where the ship went after leaving Mombasa, Jay?”
“Through the Suez Canal. That part was obvious from all the stopping and starting, as well as dictated by geography.”
Megan tried to picture a map of that area of the world and failed dismally. “The Horn of Africa?” she ventured.
He grinned. “Yes, round it. Gulf of Aden, up the Red Sea and via the canal to the Mediterranean. The ship made several stops. I have no idea where.”
“You didn’t by any chance count the days between ports of call?”
“I think my uncle did to start with, going by his watch and the arrival of meals. But it began to seem pointless. Day and night were alike. We were never allowed to leave the hold. We could neither see nor hear anything beyond it.”
“Any guess at the cargo?”
“Trying to guess was one of our chief entertainments,” he said dryly. “I don’t know about other holds, but ours was mostly stacks of big hessian bales. They had a sort of greasy, animal smell. We decided, probably wool—unwashed fleeces. Therefore, probably Australia or New Zealand.”
Megan perked up. “That gives us somewhere to start! How did you get from the ship to the cave?”
“Hazardously! We were lowered one by one to what I think you’d call a motor yacht. At night, of course.”
“With its name carefully hidden, I assume. At sea? In a harbour?”
“At sea.”
“City lights on the horizon?”
“Not that I saw. Perhaps on the other side of the ship.”
“But you didn’t notice the sort of glow in the sky that a big city always makes?”
After a moment’s thought, he shook his head. “No.”
“Pity. Though it does mean Falmouth isn’t ruled out. It’s small enough not to have that sort of halo.”
“Falmouth?”
“A port in southeast Cornwall. Oh, maybe you don’t know, your cave is on the North Coast of Cornwall, which is the southwesterly tip of England. How long were you on the yacht?”
“Through one day and into the next night. Then they anchored. We could hear the chain let down. After a while, they let us all up on the deck. It was very dark, no light but a couple of torches. Two men. They showed us a stack of boxes and told us they contained supplies for us. That was when we found out we were not to be put ashore at a place where we could find our own way inland. The man giving the orders—”
“One of them definitely seemed to be in charge?”
Jay hesitated. “I think so. I had the impression that he was the boss, the captain of the yacht, maybe the owner. He had an educated voice, or so it seemed to me. The other said very little, and his accent was so thick I couldn’t understand much of it. A common seaman, I think.”
“Foreign or local? Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t know. It’s too much to hope that you saw their faces.”
“They both wore caps—hats—that covered their faces, all but the eyes and mouth.”
“Balaclavas. They were well prepared.”
“Yes, except … But I’ll come to that in a minute. The captain explained that it was too dangerous for so large and conspicuous a group to travel together. We were to wait in a safe place for a day or two, then we’d be picked up a few at a time and taken to various nearby harbours.”
“He didn’t say where? Name any places?”
“No. We and our few suitcases were transferred into a rowboat, two or three at a time along with a couple of crates of supplies in each boatload, and taken to the cave. Kalith and I were last as they needed our help with the last boxes.”
“Did both the men appear to know how to get to the cave?”
“I’m not sure. The seaman was rowing. The captain was in the front, directing him, but that could have been so he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder. Also, the captain had a very powerful torch he turned on when we got close, and a pole he used to fend off from rocks. You went there, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Part of my job.”
He nodded. “Then you’ll understand that we were surprised and alarmed to see where we were expected to wait. But what choice did we have?”
“None, realistically. The men went with you into the cave?”
“The seaman led the way, carrying a box. Kalith and I managed the last one. The captain sent the seaman back to the boat. The women were crying and my children were frightened. My grandfather asked if there was not somewhere more civilised where they, at least, could stay while waiting to be picked up. The captain said—he was sneering—that beggars can’t be choosers. My grandfather told him we were not beggars. Perhaps unwisely, but he had dealt honestly with us until that moment, bringing us all the way from Mombasa.”
“You’re sure he was running the show the whole time?”
“Well, no. I assumed so, but the yacht may have been his only part in it. Anyway, we paid someone extremely well for the journey, and I’m certain he got his share. Everything was well planned, well prepared, as you said. I don’t think the plan included demanding more money when we’d so nearly reached our destination. It seemed to me he just decided at that moment, suddenly, he wanted more.”
“Why do you think so?”
“The way he looked. There was a paraffin lantern, quite bright. I saw his face change, what I could see of it—his eyes and his mouth. A book we read at school, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—Do you know it? It was like that. One minute he was helping us, the next he was telling us everything had cost more than expected and he needed more money to pay the man who was to pick us up.”
“And again, you had no choice. Would you recognise him? His eyes, his mouth, his voice?”
“If you ever find him, I think so. I’m pretty certain.”
“We’ll find him. You’ve given me plenty to start with. My boss, DI Scumble, is bound to come up with a long list of questions I should have asked. One thing I know he’ll want is all your names. We’d better begin with your grandfather—I’m very sorry we arrived too late for him.”
“He saved my children by giving them his share of the food. His memory will be always honoured.”
Megan couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound trite, so she was silent for a moment, as she had been beside the old man’s body.
Coxswain Kulick chose the moment to say, “Sergeant, we’re going to get pretty busy here shortly, as we turn into Padstow Bay. The storm’s coming up fast and will likely hit as we cross Doom Bar into the Camel estuary. The two of you will have to go back to the cabin.”
“Yes, sir.” To Jay, she said, “That’ll work better, actually, because you can point out each person as you give me the names.”
They went down. Gavin was stowing the galley equipment. Most of the refugees seemed much revived after the hot drinks, and the little boy, Jay’s son, had stopped retching. He ran to Jay, who picked him up and held him as he talked to the family briefly in
their own language—Goodge-something? Megan hoped she had written it down.
He included her name and rank, so she assumed he was introducing her. The words “detective sergeant” appeared to excite some consternation. Jay spoke again, soothingly.
Then he went round the cabin giving her all the names and, in English, their relationships. At her request, he also told her which of them spoke English. She scribbled madly, hoping to be able to interpret her notes later, and to find out the proper spellings. An attempt at a family tree might be useful, too.
When Jay finished, Megan felt she ought to make some sort of announcement, but she didn’t know what to say. Before the right words came to her, a sudden blast of wind buffeted the Daisy D., nearly knocking her off her feet. Rain rattled on the roof.
“Better sit down,” Gavin advised loudly. “Hang on to the kids. Looks like we’re in for a proper blow.”
It wasn’t so much a blow as a series of blows, gusts and squalls that hit unexpectedly, with pauses between. Megan thought they must be more difficult to navigate through than any steady wind, especially as they were getting into the narrowing estuary and then the still narrower River Camel. She tried to suppress thoughts of crossing the bar with the sinister name.
Doom Bar! She shuddered. No one noticed because the lifeboat was shuddering too. Padstow was the skipper’s and crew’s home port, she reminded herself. They knew what they were doing.
As if at the wave of a wand, the water calmed and the wind gusts nudged instead of striking violently. Doom averted, presumably. They were past the bar, into the tidal estuary between low but sheltering hills. Slow but steady, the Daisy D. zigzagged between buoys, then came to a halt with a couple of gentle thumps. The sounds of feet and voices competed with the rattle of rain on the roof of the cabin. A heavy thud suggested the placing of a gangway.
One of the lifeboat crew came down the steps. “Sergeant, you’re wanted ashore. The rest of you, stay where you are, please, till we get things sorted out.”
As Jay translated for those who had not understood, Megan went up and out on deck.
The air was fresh and clean and wet. Rain dimpled the black water of the harbour. It danced on the stone paving of the quay, slanting down in the pools of light cast by lampposts and the beams of the headlights of a minibus, two ambulances, and two police cars, Megan saw as she climbed the gangway. She’d left the RNLI helmet and life jacket behind. Cold rain streamed through her hair and down her neck.
The tip of the quay, where they were moored, was closed off with steel barricades, manned by two coppers in rain capes.
Bodmin police? Padstow was in Bodmin’s district. Was she about to receive retribution for poaching in their territory? She was much too tired to cope with the inevitable ructions. The thought of facing the toadlike Superintendent Egerton made her feel physically sick … unless that was just the transition to footing that didn’t keep moving beneath her but felt as though it did.
A large man heaved himself out of the nearest panda car and came towards her. The brim of his hat shaded his face, but surely he was not large enough to be Egerton—
She wouldn’t have thought it possible to be so happy to see Detective Inspector Scumble.
“So you found ’em, Pencarrow.”
“Yes, sir. One dead, one in bad shape, but the children are okay. Three of them. Is Kalith—?”
“That can wait till tomorrow. You’ve had quite a day and I’ve got stuff to take care of here.” Turning, he walked her along the quay away from the lifeboat. “We picked up your car in Port Isaac on the way here. Don’t make a habit of leaving police cars about the place.”
“No, sir. My shoulder bag…?”
“In the car.” He opened the passenger-side door and spoke to the uniformed constable at the wheel. “Take DS Pencarrow back to Launceston.”
“Yes, sir.” The voice was that of PC Dawson, the Speed Demon, Terror of the Highways and Byways. Another terrifying journey—just what she needed.
At least he’d get her home as soon as humanly possible. She couldn’t wait to get out of her—
“When you’ve typed up your report, Pencarrow, you can go home. Be at the nick at eight in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Damn him! She should have known better than to think he sympathised with her “quite a day” to the extent of letting her postpone the reports till tomorrow.
She got into the car. Dawson had already started the engine and before the door had quite clicked shut he started backing at an alarming speed towards the barricade. As they zoomed in reverse through the narrow gap, Megan saw, beneath their uniform sou’westers, the faces of the local sergeant and his sole constable, and next to them a dripping figure in a felt hat and sodden mac, with a camera slung round his neck—David Skan, ace reporter of the North Cornwall Times.
“Rain drove off the telly blokes,” said Dawson conversationally, still speeding backwards along the quay, “and the rest of the newspapermen hopped it to the nearest pub. Pity, really. You’re quite a sight for sore eyes in them tights, Sarge.”
Without much hope, Megan asked, “I don’t suppose you picked up my clothes in Port Isaac?”
“In the boot with your bag.”
“Thanks.” All very well, she thought, but here she was stuck with yet another outfit that had to be returned to its owner.
TWENTY-TWO
Eleanor opened one eye, squinted at the alarm clock, and closed it again. Ten to eight. She was in no rush to get up. The drumming of rain on the slate roof was no incentive to leave the warmth of her bed.
She cast her mind back to last night. Megan had phoned, interrupting Jocelyn in mid-harangue. She had rung up Eleanor’s flat first, of course, and then the vicarage, to Timothy’s utter bewilderment. Nick’s was her last attempt. She had, Nick said later, apologised handsomely for having bitten his nose off earlier, though he was far too much a gentleman, he declared with a laugh, to disclose the reason for their falling out.
Megan was safe. That was all that mattered. Apart, of course, from the rescue of the Indian refugees. Megan had passed on a bit more of the story than David Skan had known—or revealed. It was sad that the old man was dead, but all the rest might have died as well if Eleanor hadn’t stuck to her guns about the smugglers’ caves.
Nick had called for a celebration and brought out the whisky bottle again. Jocelyn accepted a small tot. Eleanor had already emptied her first glass, but she hadn’t refused a second. That must be why she had slept so late—
She sat bolt upright. Twenty to ten, not ten to eight! The phone was ringing downstairs, and, “You must be bursting, Teazle! Past time to go out.”
“Wuff,” said the little dog hopefully, jumping off the bed.
Eleanor threw back the duvet, reached for her dressing gown, and thrust her feet into her slippers. The phone fell silent.
“Oh bother! Come on, girl.”
Teazle scampered down ahead of her. She had just reached the door when the phone resumed its plaintive ring-ring, ring-ring. Eleanor grabbed the receiver.
“Sorry, I must let the dog out. Back in half a tick.”
The flat door opened to stairs going down to a semipublic passage. It was used only when goods arrived to be carried back to the storeroom, though, and by LonStar volunteers going to the loo by the street door. Fortunately, almost all the volunteers were women. All the same, Eleanor belted her dressing gown more securely about her as she followed Teazle to the back door.
She had forgotten to bring the key, but luckily it wasn’t locked. Or unluckily, if Jocelyn happened to find out. Today was her day to run the shop, so doubtless she was there now, preparing to open for business.
As Eleanor turned the handle, the door was flung open by a blast of cold wind and rain. It crashed against the wall. Teazle darted out. Eleanor, her dressing gown wet all down the front, battled to close the door. Jocelyn popped out of the stockroom.
“What on earth…? Oh, it’s you, Eleanor. Filthy day! But the st
reet is sheltered from that howling gale. I’d go out the front if I were— You’re not dressed yet!”
“Teazle had to go out. And someone rang. I asked them to wait and left the receiver off the hook. I must run.”
“If that dog has any sense, she’ll have done her business and want to come straight back in. I’ll help you with the door.”
Between them, they managed to open it just far enough for Teazle, already sodden, to zip back in. They slammed it shut and Jocelyn reached towards the keyhole.
“The key must have fallen out.” She scanned the floor.
“It wasn’t locked,” Eleanor confessed. “Sorry.”
Taking her own keys out of her pocket, Joce gave her a look but refrained from comment. She was beginning to resign herself. Eleanor had long since explained that she’d lost the habit of locking up after spending much of her life in places where people’s homes had no doors, let alone locks. If she’d ever had the habit. In her childhood, in the country, people didn’t—
Teazle shook vigorously, spattering them both. Jocelyn looked down at her clothes—smart as always but not silk today, thank goodness—and pursed her lips.
“It’s just water,” Eleanor pointed out. “She didn’t have time to get muddy.”
“You’re almost as wet as she is. You’d better go and get dressed. Your caller will have rung off by now.” Joce beat a hasty retreat as Teazle braced herself to shake again.
They went back upstairs. Eleanor shut Teazle out on the landing while she went in to fetch the dog towel. The phone had reverted to the purr of the dialling tone, so she hung up. It immediately began to ring.
She picked it up. “I really can’t talk now. I’ve got a soaked dog and I’m pretty wet and chilly myself—”
“Aunt Nell!”
“Hello, Megan. Sorry, dear, but—”
“DI Scumble wants to talk to you.”
“Tell him I’ll ring back in quarter of an hour.” Eleanor hung up, picturing with some pleasure the inspector red-faced and spluttering. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry with Megan. Oh dear, she had been rather rude. Perhaps … She reached out to the phone, but Teazle barked impatiently.