by Carola Dunn
“This is theirs,” said Julia, slowing as she steered close to the nearest yacht. The Andromeda, anchored at the bow, seemed huge compared to the sailing dinghy. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
“Very nice,” said Nick.
“I’ve been out on her a couple of times, but Chaz isn’t allowed to take her out without a proper crewman, though in a pinch one person can handle her in good weather if you don’t raise sail.”
Easy for two, then, Eleanor thought, exchanging a glance with Nick. Captain Paul Avery and his henchman Lenny? It seemed more and more likely.
Julia cut the engine, tilted it forward over the back of the boat, and beached the Calliope on a patch of sand. Nick had already taken off his shoes and rolled up the legs of his jeans. They both hauled it a few feet farther up, then Nick handed Eleanor out. A rowboat lay on the sand nearby, tethered to a half-buried post at the base of the cliff.
“Chaz has his own sailing dinghy, like Calliope only fancier, with a bigger outboard. In the boathouse, I expect.” Julia pointed to a small building with wide doors opening onto the beach. “With their speedboat.”
Nick and Eleanor were more interested in the stairs leading up to the house, between hedges of scarlet and purple fuchsia.
“Might have been better to drive round,” Nick muttered. “Do you think you can make it?”
“Of course. Though I’ll admit I’d rather not have to. Just don’t rush me.”
She made it to the top, happy to note that Nick and Julia were also slightly out of breath. French windows looked out over a granite-paved terrace with a low parapet, to the river and the docks beyond. From the house, the Averys could keep an eye on their ships when they were in port.
“We’d better go round to the front door,” Julia said, but someone had spotted them through the window, and Chaz came out.
“Hello, Mrs. Trewynn, Julia, Nick.”
“I’m returning your things.” Nick handed over the polythene bag of clothes. “With many thanks for the loan.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“I brought them down the river,” said Julia. “That’s why we’re on the terrace.”
“That’s okay.” Chaz seemed jittery. “Umm, will you come in for a drink, Mrs. Trewynn? If you’re not in a hurry. Actually, my grandfather and Dad would like to meet you.”
Eleanor managed not to look at Nick. Was it a perfect opportunity or a case of Won’t you come into my parlour…? The former, she hoped, as she said, “Thank you, Chaz, I’d like to meet them.”
The long, high-ceilinged room was comfortably furnished and decorated with bits and pieces from all over the world. The parquet floor was spread with beautiful oriental rugs. Eleanor recognised a Maori mask and an East African ancestor statue—and the large man who came to greet her, though he wasn’t wearing a reefer jacket and nautical cap now.
Rupert Avery didn’t appear to recognise her. He introduced himself and his father, Captain Avery, a tall, lean man with silver hair, who rose from his chair with the aid of a stick and limped forward.
Provided with a sherry from a locked cabinet, Eleanor sat by a driftwood fire with the two elder Averys, each with whisky and soda. Julia chose a bitter lemon, Nick and Chaz beer, and the younger trio drifted to the far end of the room.
On the small table at Rupert’s elbow was a copy of the latest North Cornwall Times. Normally, it circulated no farther south than St. Austell.
Captain Avery opened the proceedings, the interrogation, explanation, defence, or obfuscation, whatever was to come. “Charles told us about your part, and Mr. Gresham’s, in saving the unfortunate young man who nearly drowned in Rocky Valley,” he said. His eyes wary, he gestured at the newspaper. “We’ve been reading about this dreadful affair. I’ve done considerable business with the Nayak family, and in my travelling days, they were most hospitable when my ship called in Mombasa. I’m desperately sorry for their plight.”
Rupert broke in. “My father would like to do something for these people, though I understand the … er … gentleman he used to deal with … er … died in the course of their journey and he’s not personally acquainted with any of the others. We thought you might be able to suggest a way to help them.”
Interesting! Eleanor thought. David Skan’s article hadn’t squeezed in either her connection with the LonStar shop or her lifelong connection with the worldwide charity. She was pretty sure neither Julia nor Chaz had been within hearing of any mention of her work. Had the Averys been investigating her background, and—presumably—Nick’s after Chaz told them about Kalith’s rescue? Chaz must surely have revealed then that Megan was a police officer.
“It would probably be best to wait a few days and see what the Nayaks need,” she said. “One can’t say they’re comfortable, exactly, but they’re no longer in a desperate state.”
“You’re in touch with them, then?” Captain Avery asked eagerly.
“Oh yes. I’m sorry to have to tell you that there’s been another death—Mrs. Chudasama, mother of the young man who was pulled from the sea.”
The old man groaned.
“Have they told you how they reached England,” Rupert asked, “and came to be stranded in the cave?”
“Certainly.”
“And the police as well, I suppose.” Rupert glanced at his father, who looked ill.
“Of course. The Nayaks couldn’t provide any names, but even the tiniest clues just may help. With two dead, the police have to regard it as—”
“Police!” The howl burst from a huge man who rushed into the room, wildly waving a scimitar.
Or, in the context, probably a cutlass. The irrelevant thought flitted across Eleanor’s mind as she realised he was focussing on her. She sprang to her feet.
This she could cope with, in spite of the climb up the stairs. She had practised the sequence of moves appropriate for such a situation so often as to make it virtually instinctive. Not that she had expected ever to have to use it in earnest …
He swung the sword as if to cleave her head in half, but the blade sliced only air.
Without conscious intent, Eleanor had ducked under her attacker’s arm. She pivoted lightly, placing one hand on the back of his upper arm, the other on the forearm. A nudge of her hip sent him sprawling facedown, as if he’d caught his foot on the edge of the rug. The weapon flew from his grasp.
It was just a matter of using his own momentum against him. She hoped it had happened so fast the onlookers failed to grasp that she had assisted his fall.
The others, aghast, had been slow to react, apart from a horrified gasp, “Paul!” from his father, and Teazle’s furious barking—from a safe distance.
Shouting incoherently, Paul was already struggling up from the floor. Rupert put his foot on the cutlass. Nick grabbed Eleanor’s hand.
“Run!”
Julia on their heels, they made for the stairs down to the river.
Nick shepherded the women ahead, Julia first. Halfway down, Eleanor’s knees went wobbly. She absolutely had to stand still for a moment. A commotion above drew her attention. At the top of the stairs, Rupert and Chaz were grappling with Paul.
Nick glanced back. “Keep moving.”
“Come on!” urged Julia.
Teazle had already reached the beach. Eleanor set off downward again.
At the bottom, Nick dodged past her and ran to drop the dog into the dinghy and help Julia launch it. Eleanor looked up again, just in time to see Chaz fall over backwards on the terrace. A moment later, with a cry of terror, Rupert came tumbling down the bank. Paul started down the steps.
Rupert’s fall was stopped by a large ceanothus. Eleanor turned back to go and try to help him, but Nick swooped upon her, picked her up, and carried her through knee-deep water to the boat. Julia already had the outboard in place. It started easily now it was warmed up. They moved away from the beach, the propeller stirring up mud.
Paul seemed to be treading
cautiously, as if he were dizzy, but he soon reached the bottom. With the strength of a madman, he wrestled the rowboat into the water.
“He’ll never catch us in that,” said Eleanor.
“No,” Julia agreed, “but he’s rowing to the yacht. Andromeda can do double our max speed, or more.”
“At least he’s left the cutlass behind.”
“Bloody lucky you ducked so fast and he tripped on the rug!” said Nick. “I thought for a moment you were done for, Eleanor. But he’ll find something on the yacht. A boathook or a marlinspike, whatever that may be.”
“We have a boathook too,” Julia pointed out as, fighting tide and current, Calliope chugged upstream into the misty gloom. “Not that it’s much comfort. All he has to do is run us down.”
TWENTY-NINE
The Falmouth harbourmaster, Captain Edwards, had kept Megan and Ken waiting. His secretary, a steel-haired woman wearing steel pince-nez, told them there was a problem with the papers of a foreign-registered ship calling at the port. Captain Edwards had had to go on board to examine them. She didn’t know how long it would take to resolve.
“Liberian,” she said with a sniff. “Their paperwork is more often out of order than not.”
“Perhaps you may be able to help us, Miss Lewis,” Megan suggested, reading the nameplate on her desk. This was no totty from the typing pool.
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “if you’ll tell me what you want, I’ll see what I can do.”
“First, we need the names of ships—freighters—arriving in Falmouth during these few days.” She reached for a convenient memo pad, wrote down the dates, and pushed it back.
“That’s easy enough.”
“And where they sailed from?” Ken offered his most charming smile.
Uncharmed, Miss Lewis frowned at him. “The last port of call is the best I can do without authorisation. Excuse me.” She went through to the harbourmaster’s office.
Megan caught a glimpse of wide windows on three sides, offering a view of the entire waterfront.
“Man-eater,” Ken whispered. “You’ll definitely do better with her than I would.”
“Yet the Met still won’t give women detective rank.”
“It’s coming. When it happens, will you come back?”
“I’ll be past retirement age, I expect.”
“In the next year or two. The rear guard is steadily losing ground. There’s a black woman officer now, and I’ve heard there’s an Indian woman recruit in training.”
“I bet they have a hell of a time of it, poor things.”
“So I hear, but it is progress, you must admit.”
“I wonder whether CaRaDoC is ready for an Indian officer.”
“Jay Nayak? You think they’ll stay in Cornwall?”
“I have no idea. It was just a thought. Hush.”
Miss Lewis returned, memo pad in hand. Pointedly ignoring Ken, she handed it to Megan, who thanked her.
The top page named the British Destiny and listed the shipping line—BP, country of registration—Britain, home port, the last port of call, and the captain’s name. Megan flipped through. Five or six pages were filled with Miss Lewis’s neat handwriting. She tore them off and returned the pad.
“Anything else I can help with, Officer? I do have work waiting for my attention.”
“My colleague and I will just take a look at these. We can’t really decide what further information we need until we see what we have here.”
They retired to the window, which had a limited and extremely dull view of several utilitarian concrete and metal buildings. Megan shuffled the first page to the back, and after a quick glance, the second.
Avery Shipping sprang out at her from the third.
“Ha!” she said softly.
“Got it?”
She showed him: SS Pendennis Point, Avery Shipping, Britain, Falmouth, last call Gibraltar, Acting Captain … “Acting Captain Stuart Vandon—Damn!”
“That’s what we want,” said Ken. “The captain was on the yacht, remember, not on the ship, at least according to the child. Go and ask the man-eater—”
“I’d rather she didn’t know that’s the one we’re interested in.”
“Then ask her something about one of the others, as well.”
Megan nodded and went over to the desk. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but could you tell me what BP stands for? BP Shipping, here.”
“That’s British Petroleum. Oil tankers and such.”
“And what exactly does ‘Acting Captain’ mean?”
“It could mean the captain fell overboard en route and the first officer took over. Sometimes if the ship doesn’t call at her home port, the captain will have a tender take him off as they pass and leave the mate to bring her in to her destination. In this case— That’s the Pendennis Point you’re talking about? That would be Captain Avery, a local gentleman. Avery Shipping, you’ll have noticed. He lives just across the river. He probably went ashore as soon as they docked and left his first mate to complete the formalities.”
Or perhaps he was met by his yacht in mid-Channel and went aboard along with a company of refugees. “Is Stuart Vandon a local resident?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Avery Shipping will have his address, of course.”
“Yes, of course. Thanks.” Megan went back to Ken. “You heard? Any more questions will confirm her suspicion it’s the Averys we’re after.”
Miss Lewis was watching them. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Officer? If not, there’s a coffee machine downstairs while you’re waiting for the harbourmaster. I’ll let you know as soon as he’s able to see you.”
Ignominiously dismissed, they went downstairs and found the machine. A shilling or five new pence bought a plastic cup of coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, all dispensed through the same nozzle. Megan had chocolate, knowing from experience that it best disguised the taste of the others. She let Ken get his coffee first.
He took a sip and grimaced. “I sometimes think the worst thing about being a copper is the amount of truly disgusting coffee and tea we drink.”
“I dunno. It’s cheering in a way to find that so many other people are stuck with coffee just as bad as we get at the nick.”
They took their drinks outside, to stand in the sun where they could see the big ships and therefore, presumably, the harbourmaster on his return.
“Don’t you think we have enough information already to tackle the Averys directly?” Ken proposed.
“I’d say yes if it wasn’t that we have a very good chance of getting more soon and quite easily. Where the Pendennis Point had been, for instance, and whether it stopped at Mombasa on the way back.”
“She. Aren’t ships always she?”
“I simply can’t seriously talk about the Pendennis Point as if it was female. A confirmation that it carried wool would be useful, specially if Captain Edwards can tell us how to find out about the marks on the bales that Jay and the others noticed. We may be able to persuade him to tell us a bit more about Captain Avery and the rest of the family. If Chaz is a typical example, I’m not impressed.”
“Edwards may be a friend of the family, in a place like this.”
“But we have to ask,” Megan insisted.
“It’s your case.”
They finished the drinks and bunged the cups in a litter bin. The sunny afternoon was clouding over and held an autumnal chill. They decided to walk towards the wharves, hoping to meet the harbourmaster. Several ships of varying sizes were berthed there. Men and cranes were at work loading two and unloading another as lorries came and went. A third ship was being painted. The farthest away, Megan guessed, was the one having trouble with its papers. There were also two in dry dock, one being built, one repaired, as far as she could make out.
At last a man in navy blue approached them, a sheaf of papers in his hand. The sleeves of his reefer jacket had gold stripes at the wrists and his cap had a badge with a gold oak wreath and crown, remindi
ng Megan of Pal’s description of the captain of the freighter.
She stepped forwards. “Captain Edwards?”
“Yes?”
“We’re police detectives, sir. We have an appointment with you. I’m DS Pencarrow, and this is my colleague, DS Faraday.”
He was obviously disconcerted to be faced with a woman detective. “Ah, indeed, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Let’s go up to my office.” He fell into step beside Ken, and as they walked, complained to him about the difficulty of dealing with ships registered under flags of convenience, usually Liberia or Panama.
Ken made polite, noncommittal noises. Megan wondered whether she ought to leave the coming interview to him, given the harbourmaster’s obvious preference. But as Ken said, it was her case. Though he’d read the reports and talked it over with her, he couldn’t possibly be as much in command of all the ins and outs as she was.
Entering Edwards’s office, Megan studiously avoided admiring the view, which he’d probably regard as a typical feminine distraction. When he waved them to seats in front of his desk, backs to the windows, Ken cooperated by moving his chair farther to one side and to the rear. He took out his notebook. She threw him a grateful glance and dived in.
“Captain, we’re investigating a serious crime. Two people are dead. I hope we can count on your cooperation.”
“Of course, of course, though I can’t imagine how I can possibly help you.”
“That’s for us to find out, sir.” Go for the simple, unfraught stuff first. “Your secretary has kindly given us a list of the ships in port at the relevant time, including previous port of call. Do you keep records of where they started out from, where they called on the way, and their cargoes?”
“Only the origin of any freight unloaded here, and what it consisted of. I take it you’re interested in one particular vessel, not the whole list Miss Lewis supplied?”
“The Pendennis Point, sir.”
He frowned. “The Averys’ ship. Under Captain Paul Avery’s command.”
“Yes, sir, but we understand Captain Avery was not aboard when it … she arrived in Falmouth.”