by Carola Dunn
Nick was already heading back to his studio, so she closed the shop door and followed. He stood scowling at the canvas on one of his easels. “Isle of the Dead. The trouble is, it’s based on music that is based on a painting, and I can’t get the original painting out of my head.”
Eleanor ventured to take a peek. She couldn’t make head or tail of it, except that it was sort of mysterious and vaguely sinister. “This may be a silly idea, but could you call it something else?”
He grinned at her. “You never know. What would you suggest?”
“Ummm … Valley of the Shadow?”
“Why not? You’re thinking of Rocky Valley, aren’t you? That’s what inspired me in the first place. Have you heard how Kalith is doing?”
“He’s still alive, or was last I heard. The hospital’s being very cagy, even with the police. Or with CaRaDoC, at least. The Plymouth police— Oh, Nick, are you busy this evening? I don’t want to distract you from rethinking your picture, but I absolutely must talk about everything or I’ll burst. Jocelyn has one of those blasted parish meetings.”
“Come on up. We’ll have a … Did we finish off the whisky?”
“Not before I left!”
“Then you can have a tot and I’ll have a beer. All right, spill the beans.”
Eleanor told him everything, including Scumble’s suspicions of her being involved in the final stage of the plot, though not her own about Lois Prthnavi. “The thing is, I would have been if I’d been asked.”
“But you weren’t,” Nick said firmly. “And if you had been, you still wouldn’t have actually done anything to break the law, any more than that unfortunate fisherman. I’d have thought the police had far too much on their plates finding the real villain to worry about prosecuting the poor chap for conspiracy, if that’s the idea. They don’t seem to have much in the way of clues.”
“They know more than I do, and I have a feeling I just need to put the pieces together in the right order to make sense of it all.”
“Are you sure that isn’t just the whisky speaking?”
“Really, Nick! I wish you’d put your mind to it and help me think it through.”
“Then let’s start at the beginning, with Megan rescuing Kalith. Is there anything in that? Could there be something fishy in Julia and Chaz turning up so opportunely? Hardly. No one could predict Kalith’s taking to the water, nor when and where he’d end up.”
“No.” So much had happened since then that Eleanor hadn’t taken it into consideration. Now she remembered: “But Julia told me Chaz’s family is in shipping.”
“The Averys? I didn’t—”
“Avery? Is that his surname? Oh, yes, he told the inspector. How odd! The man in the phone box was Mr. Avery. Can it be a coincidence?”
“Seems highly unlikely. One of the kids did say Chaz’s father was going to pick them up from Boscastle the next day.”
“Julia said his father isn’t in the shipping business. A solicitor? Something like— Oh, an architect, I think. A very rude man.”
“Or a man too worried about what the shipping side of the family was up to to care about politeness?” Nick proposed.
“He was oddly dressed, almost like a halfhearted attempt at a disguise. And Abel Tregeddle mentioned a man trying to pump the boatmen in Boscastle harbour about smuggling, who wasn’t interested in history.”
They looked at each other.
“I haven’t yet returned Chaz’s clothes to him.”
“I promised Megan to get Julia’s back to her. I was going to post them, but I’ve got to drive to Bodmin tomorrow anyway … It’ll have to be after lunch.”
“Suits me,” said Nick.
TWENTY-SEVEN
DS Kenneth Faraday of Scotland Yard, alias the Boy Wonder, was waiting when Megan and Scumble went back upstairs after interviewing the Boscastle fisherman. Though “waiting” was too passive a word: Sitting at Megan’s desk, he had appropriated the reports on the case and was already halfway through them.
He stood up, good-looking as ever in his unobtrusive Savile Row suit. “Good evening, sir. Hello, Megan.”
“Evening, Sergeant.” Scumble sat down at his desk.
“Hello, Ken.” Megan was dismayed to find that, though she had long ago got over her infatuation, he still made her feel inadequate.
He smiled at her as if he knew. “Anything new, sir?”
“No. Just that we’re ninety-nine percent certain the original intention was not to maroon the family. Arrangements had been made to have them picked up.”
“Made by whom, sir?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out!” Scumble snapped. “The boatman can’t tell us. Accommodation address in Plymouth—which may not be London but is a sizeable city, an international port with a shifting population. Payment made by giro from the main Plymouth post office. We let him go. He’s a Boscastle native. He’s not going anywhere. Pencarrow, get me Plymouth and let’s hope to God the bloody-minded super I talked to before is off duty tonight! Faraday, finish up that lot so you know what we’re talking about.”
Ken pushed the phone across the desk to Megan. It took her several minutes to get put through to a chief inspector, who said the superintendent was unavailable. “Can I help, Sergeant?”
“Just a moment, sir,” she told Scumble, who picked up his phone, happy not to have to deal with the obstructive super.
“Megan,” said Ken in a low voice, “I’ve got a couple of questions.”
“Ask away.”
“You’ve given up trying to get the names of their relatives already in this country?”
“The boss says it’s not really our business—so far, at least. If some other agency wants to follow it up, that’s up to them.”
He nodded. “Reasonable. And the relatives will lie low of course, especially once it gets into the press. I haven’t seen any news items, papers or on the box, by the way, and this all started two or three days ago.”
“It’ll break tomorrow, when the local paper comes out. I couldn’t prevent their cub reporter interviewing the Nayaks. The telly missed it because they came ashore in filthy weather and the cameramen had all retired to the nearest pub.”
“You did a good job there, pulling this chap out.”
“All in a day’s work,” said Megan, blushing, “though as a matter of fact, I was off duty at the time. Any more questions?”
“Yes. Is it certain that the bloke you call the ‘captain’ knew how to get to the cave, or could it have been his crewman leading the way?”
“Good point. Jay—Ajay Nayak, the ex-copper—was in the last boatload, so he wouldn’t have seen. I ought to have asked someone from the first load.”
“Can’t think of everything. You seem to have covered it pretty thoroughly.”
Scumble put down the phone. “Now that’s a man I wouldn’t mind working with! He’s sending a man right away to the accommodation address.”
“Newsagent’s,” Megan murmured to Ken.
“The post office will have to wait till the morning. He’ll send someone first thing, when they open. Not that there’s much chance of getting a description of whoever set it up, at this stage. It couldn’t very well have been the captain, as he was at sea. Probably Lenny. If we can find him, the post office or newsagent people may be able to identify him.”
“Lenny’s the man who crewed on the yacht?” Ken asked.
“That’s right, according to Gopal Nayak. What I want to know, Sergeant, is where you come into all this business?”
“In the end, sir, the agencies concerned decided they couldn’t begin to deal with the illegal entry of these people until the criminal investigation is completed. So my instructions are to help you in any way possible.”
“And report back.”
“Well, naturally, sir, I’m expected to turn in a report.”
“Huh. You’d better go to Falmouth with Pencarrow tomorrow. You may conceivably be of some use to her. Know anything about shipping
?”
“No, sir, afraid not.”
“Pity. You’ll be questioning the harbourmaster, and it always helps to know what you’re talking about, especially as we haven’t much to go on beyond a youngster’s memory of a flashing lighthouse. You have an appointment at half two. A busy man, apparently.” The phone rang. “Damn, what now?”
Megan got it. A smile spread across her face as she listened. “Thank you, sir, thank you very much.” She hung up. “The Plymouth chief inspector, sir. Kalith Chudasama has come round and the doctor says we can probably talk to him tomorrow, after ten a.m., if the consultant says he’s well enough.”
Scumble actually smiled. “Well done, Pencarrow. You—” Brrr-brrr. “Dammit, what now?” Impatiently, he grabbed his own phone. His face darkened. “All right, Eliot, I’ll be with you in … half an hour. Switchboard, get me a driver.” He slammed down the receiver and stood up. “I suppose it’ll be Dawson,” he said gloomily to Megan.
“What’s gone wrong, sir?”
“Eliot ran the mugger to earth. He’s holed up with his girlfriend and baby and threatening to set fire to the place if they try to arrest him. You can go home now, Pencarrow. Tomorrow: Plymouth, Bodmin, Falmouth. I hope you know what to do. I’m off.” He strode out.
“Fire engines,” said Ken wistfully, “sirens, ambulances. It’s a pity to miss the excitement. Hospital and harbourmaster sound awfully dull in comparison. Come on. I’m going to take these reports with me and reread them tonight, but I’ll buy you dinner first. White Hart any good?”
“Typical provincial hotel fare. It’ll do. We’ll go dutch.”
“Independent, that’s what I’ve always liked about you, Meggie—Megan.” But it didn’t stop him liking long-legged blond models better. “You buy me a drink, and I’ll spring for dinner.”
Dinner at the White Hart would put a hole in Megan’s budget. They might have the same rank, but London pay was better, and Ken had private means as well. Besides, she was too tired to argue, and starving. Had she eaten lunch? She couldn’t remember. “Okay. Thanks.”
“You can pay me back by telling me all the bits that didn’t make it into the official reports.”
“Sing for my supper. All right. You never know what might help tomorrow.”
They managed to get a table in a corner of the dining room. Over excellent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, she filled in the story, in a low voice. She couldn’t avoid talking about Aunt Nell’s part in the investigation, which was embarrassing and, she found out too late, unnecessary, as he hadn’t recognised the name Eleanor Trewynn. He thought it was very funny.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell the world your aunt is turning into a second Miss Marple. She was mixed up in the jewel theft business, wasn’t she? It sounds a bit risky, though, sending her to find your smuggler.”
“We didn’t send her,” Megan said indignantly. “It was entirely her own idea. And what’s more, she’s probably the only person who could have done it, the only person the original informant would have talked to.”
“I must say, Boscastle sounds like a hotbed of villainy.”
“It’s always had a bit of a reputation. I read a history— Oh hell!” The words escaped rather louder than she had intended. She ignored the disapproving glances cast her way but lowered her voice again. “Avery. Chaz. I knew there was something!”
“Chaz Avery? The laddie who helped to pull you out? Would you mind explaining these oracular utterances?”
“I read a history of Boscastle. Avery owned most if not all of it in the first half of the last century. He was the squire and a magistrate, but by all accounts he was a first-rate villain. He had a finger—or a fist—in every available pie: buying and selling, fishing, mining, smuggling, even wrecking. And shipbuilding.”
“And Chaz is a descendant?”
“Don’t you think? Must be on the wrong side of the blanket. Avery never married, but he was a womaniser and one of his women could have taken his name. Chaz’s family is in shipping. He lives in Falmouth.”
“So knowledge of the caves might have been passed down, along with a tradition of shipbuilding, or involvement with ships. It’s pretty persuasive.”
“And gives us a whole lot more to present to the harbourmaster! It’s a nuisance that the local directory doesn’t cover that area. We’ll—I’ll have to go back to the nick—”
“Not on your nelly. Relax, Megan. It can wait till morning. You look fagged out.”
“Thanks a lot!”
“In a charming way. Pudding? I’m going for apple tart with clotted cream.”
* * *
When Megan reached the nick next morning, the duty sergeant told her Scumble had talked the mugger out of his hole in the early hours of the morning. “No damage done,” he said cheerfully, “except having been all sweet reason there, he came back in a tearing temper. But he won’t be in till after lunch and you’ll be well away. He said you’re to go ahead with yesterday’s orders. Report in when you can.”
“Plymouth, Bodmin, Falmouth. We’ve got directories upstairs, but can you round me up a street map of Plymouth, Sarge?”
“Sure thing, Sarge.” He grinned at her. “Taking the boyfriend with you, are you?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Megan tried to say it lightly. “I worked with him in London.”
“Odd how he keeps getting himself sent down here.”
“Didn’t you hear? After two visits, his superiors consider him an expert in the ways of the local yokels in this uncivilised corner of the country. Any coffee going?”
He glanced into his own mug, half full of cold, muddy liquid. “I’ll have young Arden make some fresh. He’ll bring it up, and the map.”
“Ta, Sarge.”
“Oh, by the way, you seen the paper this morning?”
“The local rag? No.” She hurried on her way before he could tell her about it.
Ken arrived before the coffee. He slung a couple of newspapers on the desk in front of her, the front page of the North Cornwall Times and the Guardian folded back to an inner page.
The local paper’s headline blared, “Heroic Rescue by Local Cop.” Beneath it was a head-and-shoulders photo of Megan, looking particularly po-faced, perhaps because it had been cut from the one taken when she’d had to escort her aunt down the hill in Port Mabyn in the course of her duties. Below the fold was a picture of the Rocky Valley inlet, taken in stormy weather with waves breaking against the cliff in showers of spray.
“You dived into that?” said Ken.
“It was calm that day,” Megan said defensively, turning to the inner page.
A smaller headline read, “‘My cousin saved us,’ says Gopal Nayak.” There was a photo of the three Nayak children, two solemn, wide-eyed little ones and Pal with his enchanting grin. For some reason, it made her want to cry. She hurriedly folded the papers and put the Falmouth district directory on top.
“I’ve found several Averys,” she said. “Rupert Avery, architect. That would be Chaz’s father. Business address in Falmouth, home address in Flushing—Mr. and Mrs. Rupert Avery.”
“Flushing? Isn’t that in the Netherlands?”
“Maybe it was founded by Dutch traders? It’s across the Penryn River from Falmouth, and it’s where Victorian merchants and ship’s captains built their mansions.”
“Aha!”
“Paul Avery, same address. Perran Avery, same address. They all have separate phone numbers, though.”
“One big happy family? Or not, as the case may be.”
“Perran must be Chaz’s grandfather.”
“Why?”
“Just a guess, but Perran’s an old Cornish name. Rupert, Paul, and Charles—”
“Point taken. That’s it?”
“In the family mansion. But there’s Avery Maritime, Worldwide Freight Shipping, with an office on Duchy Wharf.”
“Bingo!”
PC Arden came in with a mug of coffee and the Plymouth map. “Coffee for you, Sergea
nt?” he asked Ken.
“No, thanks.”
“It’s no worse than the muck at the Yard,” said Megan, sipping.
“But I just had a splendid breakfast at the White Hart. Let’s have a dekko at that street map.”
They pored over it. “Here’s Greenbank Hospital.” Megan put her finger on it. “Now we just have to hope they haven’t changed the one-way streets again since this was printed.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s much too early to ring the Plymouth nick about the post office and newsagent’s.”
“Might as well drop in while we’re there.”
“Yes. I’ll leave a message in case they ring here.” She gulped down the last of the coffee. “You ready to go?”
Megan at the wheel of the unmarked car, they drove south in hazy sunshine, for the most part through rolling farmland, and across the Tamar Bridge. The hospital was easy to find, a vast Victorian spread with wings branching in every direction. She pulled into a spot in the car park with five minutes to spare.
“Your driving is much improved,” said Ken as they got out and started towards the building.
“I do a lot here. I never got much practice in London.”
“Megan, you ought to come back. You’re wasted here. And we make a good team.”
“We’re not doing this interview as a team, though. Apart from the doctor not allowing more than one visitor at a time, Kalith doesn’t need your intimidating presence.”
“Me! Intimidating!” He sounded injured. “You’re thinking of your boss.”
“Not your manner, idiot, though I know you can put it on with the best. But white, male, stranger, police.”
“You’re white and police, and the chances of him remembering you after what he’s been through are slight, if you ask me. But you’re right.” He sighed. “The doctor’s unlikely to let us both see him. You’re the obvious choice.”
“Besides, I’m authorised to be here. You, I suspect, are not.”
“Plymouth? Oh hell, Devon. Yes, I’ve got clearance only for Cornwall. It’s all yours.”
“Do you want to go for a walk?”