‘We have to return the horses to the stables near Fowey. There’ll be a minibus waiting to drive you back to Camelford.’
‘Well, at least we don’t have to trot back,’ a young woman giggled to her friend.
‘I couldn’t do it,’ Abigail admitted. ‘Every bone in my body feels broken.’
The guide smiled to her, he had heard it all too often before.
‘Now before you all go in I have to tell you, the inn was the haunt of smugglers and it is indeed known to be haunted. Those of you who have read Jamaica Inn, the author got the idea to write the book having ridden here and got lost in the fog and discovered the inn.’
‘Have you any dates for this?’ a woman asked.
‘Plenty of books inside to buy about the subject, and various free leaflets. And, of course, books by Daphne Du Maurier.’ He spat his chewing gum into the palm of his hand. ‘There is also a smugglers museum inside, and a gift shop.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, by the way, remember when we spoke about Brown Willy, well, there are caves below Brown Willy that were once used by smugglers.’
His audience looked adequately impressed, chatting their way into the inn. Guthrie let Abigail go ahead, so that he could stay close to Katie.
When they re-emerged from the inn the weather had dramatically changed. The blue skies and sunshine were nowhere to be seen, replaced by a damp, grey mist.
Waiting behind to light up a cigarette, Guthrie watched the others mount their ponies and trot off. After a few drags he climbed onto the large dapple grey.
In the near distance he could hear the trotting of hoofs, but it was too foggy to catch them up.
Cantering was also proving hard work, as the sky began to spit rain.
The clip clop of hoofs disappeared into the mist.
A sudden gunshot. His horse reared up.
‘Whoa!’ Grabbing the reins tight with one hand, he tried to reach for his gun. The horse reared up again on its hind legs.
Above them, the haunting whistle of a buzzard filtered through the fog, bringing with it a torrent of rain.
Another shot rang out. It just missed the animal’s head.
Now he was being bumped up and down out of the saddle like a bucking bronco. Unable to hang on any longer Guthrie was thrown to the ground. The horse bolted.
Lying on the soggy wet ground he held his gun close, ready to shoot.
‘Guthrie, are you okay?’ the voice belonged to Abigail. ‘I heard those shots. I think they’re hunting rabbits or deer.’
‘I’ll live,’ he replied curtly, struggling up onto his feet. He did not trust her. After all, she was supposed to be his protection, and yet, had conveniently failed to spot the gunman. Interestingly, she had also been the first person there after he fell. Had she in fact, been the one shooting the bullets?
As he stood on the puddled earth, pounded by the heavy rain, he knew that this had not been a real attempt on his life, this was just a warning.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Meadery was a large granite building next to Redruth library. There were a few of these themed restaurants around Cornwall. The interior was designed as a medieval castle with an upstairs balcony area.
A pretty young wench wearing medieval costume comprising of a white off the shoulder blouse, and a long, rust coloured skirt with a small apron, escorted Guthrie across the ground floor of the restaurant and up the wooden stairs. Dressed in a smart grey suit he resembled a businessman rather than a biker, although the Harley was parked outside.
The pre-booked table was in one of the balcony stalls. A small lamp sat in the centre of the table flickering gently. The interior walls of the restaurant were decorated with impressive paintings of knights and shields and all things Arthurian. Even the piped music had a medieval air. This was his favourite place to chill for an evening, although the high backed wooden stalls were not too comfortable.
The waitress returned with a jug of elderberry mead. Pouring himself a small goblet full, he put it to his lips. The liquid tasted sweet and cool, ruby red, made from honey but highly potent.
Just about to take another sip his mobile rang.
‘Gut’rie.’
‘Oh, hi, Katie, did you get home okay last night?’
‘Yes, got to work on time.’
‘That’s good, bet you’re battered and bruised, I know I am. You should have let me pay for a taxi...’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I’m in Redruth having a meal with friends.’
‘Oh, oi’m also in Redruth, in my flat.’
Guthrie was taken aback. He had presumed that Katie lived at the bee farm.
‘Where is your flat?’
‘Top of the hill. Can oi see you tonight after your meal? Oi’m a bit scared, think someone is watching my flat.’
‘I’ll come up now, call the police.’
‘No point, he only drives here after the pubs have shut, he was watching last night. But oi took his number plate, it’s an RAF truck type thing.’
‘Okay, I’ll come over later, what’s your address?’
‘Oi’ll meet you outside the Collins Arms pub and take you there. The pub’s just at the top of the hill on Fore Street?’
‘I’ll be there about 10.’
He felt slightly guilty for not inviting her to the Meadery, but he doubted Jonathan would be impressed. Hurriedly he made another call, cancelling a pre-existing appointment for later that same evening.
He had only just switched off the mobile when Piran arrived, shortly followed by Jonathan. Like Guthrie they were both wearing grey suits, although Jonathan had accessorised with a bow tie.
‘Piran, you look awful,’ Jonathan said, pouring himself some of Guthrie’s elderberry mead wine from the jug.
‘Got caught in the rain, I think a storm’s brewing.’
‘So you survived Alton Towers?’ Jonathan quizzed his son-in-law.
‘Polly had a wonderful time.’
‘Did my daughter go?’
‘No, she said she had other engagements.’
‘Looks like you’ve been doing some digging, Jonathan.’
‘Yes, Guthrie, I was gardening yesterday, and can’t seem to get the earth out of my nails,’ Jonathan complained, cleaning his nails with a cocktail stick.
‘Olivia had me digging yesterday too. Wanted me to water the lawn and rose bushes. Anyone know of a decent gardener?’
‘I’m sorry, Piran, I’ve no idea,’ Jonathan replied. ‘Incidentally Piran, I’m really not happy with Polly hanging around with that council house boy. I want you to do something about it.’
Piran stared wide eyed, his jaw visibly dropped. Even Guthrie wondered if this was the moment when his friend would stand up to his father-in-law.
Just then the waitress arrived with their drinks. Guthrie wondered if there would be an atmosphere all evening, but the waitress was young and pretty, and Piran had seemingly forgotten all about the comment.
‘So how are your family, Jonathan?’ Guthrie used the opportunity to digress, referring to the children from his second marriage.
‘Tamsin and Charlotte, sweet girls, bit of a handful sometimes for my poor wife Gemma.’
‘Polly sent you this from her holiday.’ Piran handed Jonathan the gift-wrapped package.
With childlike excitement he tore open the wrapping. It was a musical carousel. As he wound the key the carousel began. The bright horses and their riders moved to the tune of Eine Kleine Nacht Musik.
‘How beautiful. Polly knows I love horses,’ he sighed, as if he might cry at any moment. ‘She knows how I used to love to play this tune on my violin.’ He held the musical box tight, as if it were his most treasured possession.
Guthrie took the opportunity to view his surroundings and inhale the ambiance. A jester was laughing beside him on the wall of the alcove. Vibrant colours painted so lifelike, that the jester eerily looked as if he were just another customer at the end of the table. The medieval
music continued to resound about room.
Turning round to peer over the balcony, he could see the diners below on the ground floor. How happy they all looked, one table celebrating a birthday party, another just a family night out. High above them the large banners, some with diagonal cut edge, hung mid-air waving gently in time to the music.
On his own table the drinks were flowing thick and fast, although he tried to limit his alcohol intake. He and Piran had both chosen chicken in the rough for their main. Jonathan had chosen scampi in the rough. Naturally they ate with their fingers.
‘Funny that mead wine comes from honey,’ Guthrie could not resist saying. ‘Did you know that the scientist who discovered that queen bees are inseminated by drones outside the hives, was a blind guy called Huber?’
‘Can’t see how he could have done that?’ Jonathan said, munching through his chips.
‘He couldn’t see how he did it either,’ Guthrie laughed, taking another sip of mead wine. ‘Didn’t a couple of popes use the bee symbol?’
‘You’re thinking of St. Ambrose. He had a fetish for bees and virginity,’ Jonathan elaborated.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Piran exclaimed. ‘Olivia was telling me that her aunt thinks the man who drowned in Belgium, you know the one that was recently in the local paper who stayed in Redruth? Well, she thinks he visited her neighbour Vivienne and...’
‘Oh, do me a favour, Piran, we’re not going to spend the rest of the evening discussing an elderly woman’s imaginings,’ Jonathan protested.
Guthrie dipped his fingers in the finger bowl and wiped them with a serviette.
‘You haven’t let me get to the point,’ Piran almost pleaded. ‘Guthrie, to be honest I rarely visit Olivia’s aunt, Ada Beckerleg, she’s Phyllis’s sister.’
‘Who is Phyllis?’
‘Olivia’s mother.’
‘Phyllis is my ex-wife,’ Jonathan muttered.
‘Oh, yes, of course, I’ve met her.’
‘She’s let herself go,’ Jonathan scorned. ‘Like her daughter.’
Guthrie looked to his friend, wondering when he would get a backbone.
‘Apparently Aunt Ada found her neighbour’s cat dead in the road and a bee was in its mouth, or perhaps by its side, I can’t quite remember,’ Piran said excitedly. ‘But the interesting thing is the bee was gold and black. Jonathan, what colour was the bee that stung that Stella Johnson who used to work with Guthrie?’
‘I presume yellow and black,’ Jonathan replied, wiping his mouth with the serviette. ‘It’s of no consequence.’
‘Oh, I think it is,’ Guthrie smiled. ‘What happened to the insect that killed the cat, did the vet take a look at it?’
‘Well, actually, I’ve brought it with to show you, Olivia suggested it.’ Piran opened a piece of tissue paper containing the gold and black striped corpse.
‘Ha-ha, it looks more like an orange humbug than a bee,’ Jonathan laughed.
‘Perhaps it was fed saffron,’ Guthrie smiled.
‘Oh, don’t be foolish, Guthrie, bees eat nectar and suchlike.’
‘So what do you think?’ Piran asked, watching Guthrie examine the insect. ‘Could it be the same type of bee that killed the Johnson woman?’
‘Well, depending...’
‘I appreciate that you read philosophy at university, Guthrie, Jonathan interrupted. ‘Perhaps that’s why you go into such depths.’
‘Jonathan, Guthrie needs to clear his name and prove he didn’t kill that woman, surely you understand that.’
‘So tell me, how’s work, Jonathan?’ Guthrie tried to lighten the mood. ‘It must be nice working in a private hospital.’
‘Yes, very nice. Not like the Royal Cornwall Hospital, the place Piran still insists on calling Treliske. That’s far too overcrowded. Well, like all NHS hospitals really. Although I have to admit the new wing does look rather splendid.’
‘Yes, I was very impressed,’ Guthrie agreed.
‘Of course, if one joined up with something like Bupa they’d send you to my hospital. Piran’s with Bupa.’
‘But the NHS isn’t all bad, Jonathan,’ Piran responded. ‘My grandmother had a knee replacement at St. Michael’s in Hayle and was extremely satisfied.’
‘Well, all I can say, Piran, is, that you get what you pay for. At my hospital patients get clean toilets, hygienic staff, respect at all times, no libellous medical notes, afternoon tea and cakes. And no waiting lists.’
‘Yes, but they pay through the nose,’ Piran replied. ‘Every sugar lump or painkiller goes on the bill at 100 times the going rate.’
‘I believe you have left your job, Guthrie, I thought you might have stuck at it a little longer,’ Jonathan digressed, as if to hit back indirectly at Piran who had been winning the debate.
‘Yes, I know you both went to a lot of trouble getting it for me, but I was offered a better job with better prospects and salary.’
‘Oh, really. Well, then, you were right to take it,’ Jonathan conceded. ‘May I ask who your new employer is?’
‘I’m back working with the MOD.’ Then turning towards Piran, he said, ‘I have a confession to make.’
It was drizzling as Guthrie left the Meadery, now wearing his leathers. Hoping he was not too much over the limit, he lit up and then climbed onto the Harley. It was only 9.50 yet the sky was black. Slightly dizzy from his overindulgence of alcohol, he smoked his way along Bond Street, and then turned the corner into Fore Street. A group of teenagers were standing on the corner smoking. They did not seem to notice him as he revved up the road past John Oliver’s, Redruth’s bookshop. Both the London Inn and the Red Lion public house were full to heaving as usual. The hill got markedly steeper at Jim’s Cash and Carry and Berryman’s pasty shop.
It was as he neared the Collins Arms when he spotted Katie. She was peering out of an alleyway near the pub. Before he had a chance to get off the bike she ran over to him.
‘There they are!’ she pointed to a vehicle parked just up the road. ‘That’s them, Gut.’
It was an RAF wagon. The driver turned on the engine and pulled away.
‘You go inside and lock the door.’
‘But, Gut, don’t leave me.’
‘Just lock your door, call the police if anyone returns. I’ll be back soon.’
The wagon continued to race along Mount Ambrose with Guthrie close behind, heading towards the A30. Perhaps he should phone Brian and get it sorted now, he thought. But it was late, Brian was probably at home with his family.
It was raining heavily by the time he reached the dual carriageway. Doing his best to keep the bike upright as he splashed through the deep puddles of uneven tarmac, he accelerated to 60 mph. But, instead of the RAF wagon increasing its speed, it slowed down, and turned off the dual carriageway heading in the direction of Portreath. But, by the time he neared the hamlet of Bridge he had lost them.
By now the sky was raging, as lightning electrified the sky followed by roars of thunder. Thinking about turning back, he slowed down at the junction. But the memories of Stella and the need to find her killer overpowered his fears.
At the top of Tolticken Hill he noticed the security gates were open. Instead of stopping, he rode directly onto the RAF base towards the airfield. It was then when the shot rang out. Guthrie had been hit, they had been waiting for him. The bullet pierced his upper arm, exploding inside. The Harley skidded along the wet road and landed in a nearby field behind a hedgerow.
‘Ahh!’ the pain sliced through him. The blood was thick. His chest wet from the flow bleeding through his leathers, the heavy downpour washing the blood from his body into the sodden earth.
Struggling across the rough ground like a worm, he tried to make his way to the airfield. His breathing was shallow, he knew that he did not have long. After crawling for only about thirty meters, sweating profusely, he collapsed against a tree trunk.
It was a good thirty minutes before he attempted to remove the injured arm from the sleeve of his
jacket. But, by then, the blood had already coagulated and glued the skin of his arm to his shirt sleeve and jacket. A tug of the sleeve and the clot detached from his skin, Guthrie’s green eyes rolled back in pain as the blood flowed. Taking his knife, he sliced through the shirt sleeve to use as a tourniquet, but the pain from the bullet made his arm feel like it was on fire, melting the flesh.
Suddenly he heard voices, struggling to steady himself he decided to have one last try to get to the airfield. As the blood leaked from the soaked tourniquet, he was regretting not having confided in Abigail, knowing that he might not even live to see this through. But he could not trust her, not after finding the L47A1 7.65 mm RAF pistol in her bag.
The sky was pitch black. The storm was howling across Nancekuke Common, small branches had blown off the trees flying through the air flying onto the runway. Then came the lightning; illuminating the hill lighting up the perpetrators, lighting up Guthrie.
‘He’s here!’ a voice shouted through the gale. ‘Let’s finish him off now.’
Unable to run, Guthrie tried to drag himself away from view, but slipped on the wet leaves. His wound was weeping, his whole body now soaked in blood. Heart racing. Shaking, dizzy, he rolled into the bushes. Wriggling through the undergrowth like a dying snake. The winds rushed through his ears, the gorse stinging his flesh as they shouted his name into the air, lost in the storm. His breathing was shallow; he did not know how much longer he could remain conscious.
‘Hail Mary mother of God, blessed be the fruit of thy womb...’ His heart was beating oddly, like a hammer, his head ached, and his vision was blurred.
A voice rang out through the elements, ‘I’ll split you open from your throat to your dick, you black bastard!’
‘Holy Mary Mother of God pray for me...’
With his one good arm, he struggled to reach for his mobile, and then tapped out Brian’s number?
Was the face real which suddenly pressed up against his face?
‘I got the fucker!’ the man yelled, pointing a revolver at Guthrie. But the others did not hear through the storm. Guthrie hallucinated that he had lashed out spontaneously with a knife, knocking his assailant to the ground. Dreamt that he grabbed the revolver and pressed it to the man’s temple.
Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Page 15