The Cauldron

by Colin Forbes

  'Race you to the cliff-top.' she called out over her shoulder and began running down the track, fleet of foot.

  He let her get there first, running behind her. She had flopped down on the cliff summit. He sat down close to her and she moved herself away from him several feet. The heat beat down on them and soon Newman was aware that his shirt was pasted against his damp back.

  'What a lovely spot,' she remarked, glancing sideways at him quickly, then gazing out to sea again.

  'It's so very peaceful,' he agreed, stopping himself from moving next to her so their bodies touched.

  Was she playing hard to get? he mused. Her look had again aroused his deep interest. What sort of game was she playing? Playing? It crossed his mind that she reminded him of a playgirl, constantly anxious that men would notice her. He dismissed the thought as nonsense, but still the danger signal was reverberating at the back of his mind.

  They sat in the heat and watched the azure sea, the Venetia, still at anchor, distant yachts like white exclamation marks on the blue water. Vanity suddenly jumped up.

  Time to go,' she said in a cold voice.

  Newman was having trouble keeping up with her swift changes of mood. He talked to her part of the way along the track and then gave it up. She had not replied once. He decided he had had enough for the moment. He spoke as they reached the hotel.

  'I have to go out,' he said, walking towards his Merc.

  'Where are you off to?' she asked, following him.

  Her manner had mellowed and she was smiling at him. He smiled back quickly, unlocked the car, got behind the wheel. She leaned in the window he had lowered to get some fresh air inside the car - the interior was like an oven.

  'Bob, can I come with you?'

  'Sorry. It's a business appointment.'

  'You're not mad with me?' She gave him her most inviting smile.

  'Why should I be?'

  He smiled briefly back at her, switched on the engine. She leaned across him, turned it off. Then she stood back, arms by her side.

  'I'll see you for dinner here, then.'

  Saying which, she marched off into the hotel without a backward glance. He switched on the engine again and drove off. He had a long job to do. An urgent one.

  Newman was 'trawling' the pubs. He had earlier assembled Paula, Marler, Butler and Nield in their cars a distance from the hotel in the side lane beyond the drive which led to a dead end.

  With the aid of a map he had drawn up his plan. Each member of the team had an area to cover and would call at every pub in it. He gave Paula the hotels.

  'Your job,' he told them, 'is to find out if there is a local man with considerable influence in this part of Cornwall. I'm looking for someone who might control the network VB has established. You all have mobile phones -1 hid mine from Tweed.'

  'He doesn't trust the things,' Paula broke in. 'And I happen to think he's right.'

  'Listen to me. If anyone finds such a person they simply call me and say, "Spot on." That way I'll know someone has got lucky. I'll inform the rest of you with the same message. If I'm the one who has tracked our target, all of you come back here. Park at intervals along the road. Very little traffic comes down here. If I've hit a potential target I'll call you all and say, "Spot on, as you said." The last three words tell you I've located what we are looking for.'

  He had distributed maps to all of them showing their respective search areas. His own area was Forth Navas, the Helford River, and inland beyond. He adopted the same technique in every pub he visited.

  After ordering a glass of French dry white wine he struck up a conversation with one of the locals. He drank very little of the wine, taking it with him at a certain stage to the toilet where he emptied it in a cubicle.

  He had got nowhere with his casual conversations when he found himself in an inland village, Constantine. He sat next to a grizzled old inhabitant, had the same blank result. He asked the question when he was on the verge of leaving.

  'Is there any other pub in the area where I can get something to eat? They don't serve food here.'

  'Try the Trengilly Wartha Inn.' the old boy suggested. 'Go up top of hill...'

  He gave Newman exact instructions, which was fortunate because he nearly drove past the side road outside the large village. A notice indicated it was five hundred yards to the pub. Newman grinned wrily. Cornish distances seem to differ from everywhere else in Britain.

  'It's only thirty minutes.' he had been told many times when checking how far away somewhere was. He drove down a treelined lane, the trees forming an archway over the road. Again he nearly drove past his destination. A steep drive led up to the inn, a cream-washed building with a glassed-in room near the entrance.

  The only place he could park his car among the other vehicles was in the sun. When he climbed out it blazed down on him like a blowtorch. He went inside, found it was full of cricketers, dressed in white flannel trousers and shirts rolled up to the elbows.

  There was a jolly atmosphere and at the bar Newman deliberately ordered beer; it was something he never drank but it merged him into the crowd, standing with his jacket over his arm and tieless. He also ordered food. It was 2 p.m. - in the heat of the day.

  'Cheers!' he said to a youngish chap who had just raised his own glass.

  Tom Hetherington.' the red-faced youngster replied.

  'Bob Newman.'

  'Your face looks familiar. Not the foreign correspondent chappie, are you?'

  'I'm afraid so,' Newman responded with a grin. 'And I'm trying to find someone around here high enough up to give me information.'

  'A bigwig? That would be Colonel Arbuthnot Grenville at The Grange. You might get near him. I wouldn't. He's as snooty as hell. Thinks he's Lord of the Manor and all that.'

  'Arbuthnot Grenville? Sounds a funny name.'

  'Suits His Lordship, as you'll find out - if you ever meet him. Spends the summers here and then hikes off to California for the winters. Nice work, if you can get it, but how he manages it beats me. The Grange is mortgaged up to the hilt.'

  'How do you know all this if you've never met him?'

  Talk of the town - or rather the village - down here. I know it sounds like gossip, but he makes the mistake of quarrelling with servants, then sacking them. Servants can be nosy. They get their own back on him by spreading the dirt.'

  'You said he wintered in California. Any idea where?'

  'Place called Monterey. I looked it up on the map. It's south of San Francisco. You're thinking of trying to interview him? He won't see anyone except by appointment. At least that's what I hear. You're not thinking of living down here?'

  'No. You live here?' Newman asked.

  'Damned if I would. Join the runaways? Not on your life. I just come down here for the cricket for a month or so. I'm a stockbroker.'

  'Sounds as though the idea of living here appals you. And you made a reference to runaways.'

  'I wouldn't live here if you gave me a house. Lively as it is - if you have friends - down here in summer, it goes dead as a doornail from October on. Yes, I did call them runaways, didn't I? They've run from the routine of doing a daily job. Some weird types round here.'

  'I hope you'll excuse me while I sit down and eat. Do you know how to get to The Grange?'

  Hetherington reached over the counter, picked up the pad the barman used to write out orders, swiftly drew a map, starting from where they were.

  'As you'll see,' he went on, showing Newman the sketch map, 'his place is well outside Constantine. You'll see it from the road - only house around there, a granite job with tall chimneys. Mind you don't miss the turning I've marked with a cross.'

  'I'm very grateful for your help,' Newman said with a smile.

  'Any time.' Hetherington grinned. 'I'd love it if I read an article you'd written on him. He hates publicity, keeps a low profile. But I have a feeling you could bluff your way in. See you...'

  Newman ate his meal quickly, forgetting the second glass of be
er he'd acquired when he'd bought a round for Hetherington. Leaving the inn, he walked out into torrid heat. The car was like a furnace. He lowered all the windows, opened the sunroof to its fullest extent and drove off, his jacket neatly folded by his side.

  He stopped in a leafy lane, used his mobile phone, calling Paula first.

  'Spot on, as you said.'

  He spoke the last three words to her slowly, indicating he had probably found his target. Then he repeated the performance to the rest of his team and drove on. The sun glared in his eyes when he left the lane. Lowering the visor was no help - the sun was in high orbit and it persisted in glowing at him as he sat and roasted.

  In the middle of nowhere The Grange suddenly came into view. He had met no traffic on the side road and now he stopped, then stared. An aerial mast projecting above one of the chimneys was slowly telescoping downwards out of sight.

  'So, he has a secret and probably sophisticated communications system,' Newman said to himself. 'Interesting - especially for a man who sounds short of money.'

  Newman drove on until he reached the entrance to a drive. Wrought-iron gates closed. A speakphone in one of the stone pillars complemented the high stone wall surrounding the property. Reminded him of Mullion Towers.

  He got out of the car, pressed the button on the speakphone.

  'Who is it?' a voice demanded. Abrupt,

  'Robert Newman. To see Colonel Arbuthnot Grenville.'

  He imagined the owner liked the use of 'colonel'. There was a pause.

  'What is your occupation.'

  'Foreign correspondent,' he replied laconically.

  'How many articles have you written recently?'

  'Not many. Not since I wrote Kruger: The Computer Which Failed.'

  'Made you a packet, didn't it?'

  'I get by.'

  "The gates will open. Drive up to the main entrance.'

  The conversation ended. Newman smiled to himself as he went back to his car. He had seen a flash of sunlight off something in a first-floor window. Grenville had been studying him through field glasses while he spoke. But he felt sure it was because he was known as being a rich man since he wrote the book which interested Grenville. Money spoke volumes.

  He drove slowly down the drive after the electronically operated gates had opened. In his rear-view mirror he saw them closing behind him. A careful man, Grenville. Newman observed everything during his progress up to the house.

  No guard dogs. No sign of guards patrolling the grounds. Grenville, he suspected, was a man of very limited means.

  Probably just able to keep this place going, he was thinking. Flower beds neglected. The lawn Californian brown, due to the scorching summer, plus the lack of gardeners to water it. Yet Cornwall had the highest unemployment rate in the country. Should be easy to get help.

  The white paint on the window frames and ledges was peeling off. The pillars supporting the large entrance porch were cracked. No sign of maintenance anywhere. And yet he could afford a very expensive telescopic aerial and, presumably, the accompanying costly communications system. Unless someone else had paid for that?

  Parking his car, he climbed four stone steps to the double entrance doors made of heavy wood and iron-studded. The right side opened and a tall, slim man stood framed in the doorway.

  'Enter, Newman.'

  Newman entered, walked into a large hall with a woodblock floor which hadn't seen polish for a long time.

  The door was locked behind him while he waited. His host, back stiff as a ramrod, showed him into a large sitting room furnished with couches and coffee tables.

  'Sit there,' he ordered.

  Newman glanced at his host and sat there.

  'Time for a sundowner,' the colonel declared. 'Whisky your tipple?'

  'The sun hasn't gone down,' Newman pointed out.

  'Bloody thing should have done. Whisky your tipple?' he repeated.

  "That will do fine.'

  Newman studied Grenville while his host went to a cocktail cabinet, the best piece of furniture in the room. Grenville would be about sixty, he estimated. He had grey hair brushed neatly back over his head, a trim grey moustache, quick movements. Under bushy brows his ice-blue eyes missed very little, and his hawklike nose gave him an air of command. Despite a touch of arrogance in his manner there was a wry twist to his mouth which suggested to Newman he had a cynical sense of humour.

  'Cheers!' he said after handing a glass to his guest.

  'Cheers!' said Newman. 'I haven't seen anyone else since I arrived. Surely you don't live here alone?'

  'Why shouldn't I?' asked Grenville a trifle aggressively as he sat on another couch facing Newman. 'A so-called housekeeper - local woman - comes in three times a week. Cooks for me, leaves meals for the intervening days and keeps the place in order. But you didn't call here to ask me about my domestic arrangements.'

  'I just happened to be in the area and heard you were its most dominant resident.'

  'Just as you happened to be in Oklahoma City and wrote the truth before anyone else - that it was not foreign terrorists who were responsible.'

  'I'm intrigued by the unusual mixture of people down here who are exiles from other parts of Britain.'

  'Exiles?'

  'That was the word I used.'

  'Suppose you're referring to the types who've fled to here from the great metropolis, London.'

  'Yes.'

  'I find it curious myself.' Grenville said evasively.

  'And there has been a strange murder down here. At Forth Navas. An inhabitant called Adrian Penkastle. Stabbed to death in his home.'

  'Heard about that.' He took his time trimming the end off a cigar, lighting it. 'So that's why you're on the prowl?'

  'Interesting that the Venetia was - still is - standing offshore at the time of the murder. I heard in a pub today that one of the locals in Forth Navas heard a powerboat taking off at speed down the Helford River soon after Penkastle was murdered. He was sailing back along the river at the time - the local I'm referring to.'

  Grenville watched Newman, listening but saying nothing as he puffed on his cigar. Newman went on, making up the next bit.

  'Another local in his boat near the mouth of the Helford watched the powerboat speed back to the Venetia. I've reported this to the police.'

  'A most public-spirited action.' Grenville commented.

  'You've heard of Vincent Bernard Moloch?' Newman continued.

  'Vaguely. Where is all this leading? I'm confused.'

  'You don't strike me as a man who is ever confused. The Venetia belongs to Moloch. Or VB, as he is often called.'

  'I see. Why are you telling me all this?'

  'Because you are the man with most influence in this part of the world. You know everything that's going on here.'

  Grenville smiled in a most engaging way. His whole hawklike face lit up when he smiled. Then he chuckled as he tapped the ash from his cigar into a glass bowl.

  "This is very comical, Newman. You credit me with being Master of the Universe - a title which I understand originated in America. You have elevated me to a status which I don't deserve. True I hold the occasional party at the Yacht Club in Forth Navas, but that hardly justifies your description of me. Think I'll just have another whisky on the strength of what you've just said. You'll join me?'

  "Thank you, but no. I'm driving.'

  'Frankly, I'm mystified why you came to me. But I will say I enjoy your company. Do enlighten me. You are intriguing me no end.'

  He said this while helping himself to another drink at the cabinet. When he turned round, still smiling, Newman had the thought that he was a handsome man when he dropped his military style upper-crust manner. Someone who would be attractive to the ladies and probably treat them with a natural courtesy.

  'Well, Newman, why choose to come to me?'

  He had returned to his couch. He raised his glass and sipped at the contents. His observant eyes watched his guest over the rim of his glass.

/>   'I told you,' Newman persisted. 'You are the well-known figure round here. Seemed the obvious person to come to as I'm trying to get to know this unusual community.'

  'Makes me sound like a father figure.' Grenville chuckled again. 'But I do know that there are people who dislike me. "That old fool of a colonel living in the big house which is falling round his ears."'

  'Others seem to like you,' Newman went on, using his imagination. 'Otherwise they wouldn't come to your parties at the Yacht Club.'

  'Really?' Grenville smiled again. 'Supply free nosh and booze and you can get plenty of feet under the table.' He sipped more of his drink. 'Living alone here is - well, a lonely business. So now and again I mix with some of the locals. You ...' he pointed the cigar at Newman, 'are invited to my next party. May I ask where you're staying?'

  'At Nansidwell Country Hotel, Mawnan,' Newman replied promptly.

  'I know the proprietor. Nice chap. I also knew Adrian Penkastle,' he said suddenly. 'I was shocked to hear of his murder.'

  'Knew him well?' Newman enquired quietly.

  'Only casually. I know he drank a little too much. That he was short of money - what the Americans call a loser. Don't agree. He could be very amusing, was a clever mimic. Had us all rolling in the aisles.'

  'Sounds likeable.'

  'He is - was.'

  'Did you ever meet Moloch?' Newman asked without warning.

  'Heavens, no. I gather no one ever does. Keeps very much to himself - or so I was told in Falmouth. Got a great barn of a place somewhere out in the wilds.'

  Newman checked his watch, stood up. His host immediately stood with him.

  'You're not off yet? Stay a little longer. I'm enjoying our conversation.'

  'So am I, but I must leave now. We can always meet again sometime.'

  'Make that a promise...'

  Grenville escorted him not only to the front door but out to his car. In the distance the gates were beginning to open. Grenville must have touched a concealed button.

  'Safe journey,' he called out, waving him off.

  * * * *

  On his way back Newman's mind was in a whirl. He couldn't make out Colonel Grenville. On the one hand there had been the moment when he saw the aerial telescoping. Then his host had made several references to America. On the other hand he seemed a very British character with a personality which was attractive. And he'd made no secret of the fact that he'd known Adrian Penkastle.