Trevega House

by Will North

  “Be quiet.”

  “Okay. But why are you here—you know, actually here in my bed?”

  “Because the surgeon said I was to keep you calm and comfortable until you could be up and about again,” detective inspector Morgan Davies said.

  “This is not making me calm.”

  “Shut up, you randy devil.”

  Morgan curled up against him and kissed his neck: “You scared me shitless, you bastard. Don’t do that again, okay?”

  “It wasn’t deliberate.”

  “Like that matters?”

  “You smell nice.”

  “I do occasionally bathe.”

  “No, something else…”

  “You really are awake, aren’t you? Well done. And that’s Eau de Lust perfume. I got it cheap at the Boots pharmacy in Bodmin if you must know. Very popular, it is.”

  “It isn’t and you didn’t.”

  “Okay, guilty as charged: it’s just lavender soap. But how about you keep quiet for a while and rest?” She spooned up to him, pressing her ample breasts against his back and slipping her arm around his belly, careful not to disturb the stitches in his chest.

  “This is nice,” he said. “Why didn’t we do this long ago?”

  “Because, detective sergeant West, we are both dim as posts, that’s why: two stubborn, stupid, scared middle-aged fools.”

  West nudged his bum against her lap. “So why now?”

  “Because I thought I was losing you.”

  “Just your luck you didn’t.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Okay. How’re my girls?”

  Calum was the single dad of two sharp-witted daughters: Megan, eight, and Kaitlin, eleven. Their mother had died three years before. Cancer.

  “Not to worry: they’re fast asleep. I read to them…from the manual of police procedure.”

  “No wonder they’re asleep.”

  “They loved it.”

  “They like you, you know,” Calum mumbled.

  “Yeah. Go figure…”

  She held him until his breathing slowed again and then slipped away to the guest room where Calum’s aging mother-in-law Ruth stayed when looking after his daughters. Sitting on the edge of the bed she admitted to herself that she was enjoying his recuperation, and her role in his family. But she also knew that in a few days he’d be tugging at the leash to get back to work.

  She smiled as she undressed. She felt the same, restless to return. They were both impossible.

  BEFORE HE LEFT his office Penwarren phoned Morgan’s understudy, detective sergeant Terry Bates. She’d been a detective sergeant for just over a year and would rise quickly in the force if he had anything to say about it. She picked up her mobile on the second ring and recognized the caller.

  “Sir?”

  The background noise was deafening.

  “Where are you, Terry?”

  “Umm...the Blisland Inn. Novak’s here too.”

  Of course: while Davies was taking care of West at his home after his surgery, she’d let Bates use her house, a renovated stone barn “with all mod cons,” near Brown Willy Tor and close to the Bodmin Hub. The Blisland Inn was the local pub. It was renowned for its extensive line of locally-brewed cask ales.

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  Bates looked at her phone: What the hell is this?

  “Half a shandy, sir.”

  “Novak?”

  “A pint of some ale called ‘Toast.’”

  “Good. I need you both.”

  Two

  NOVAK THREADED THEIR unmarked Ford Focus Estate down lanes so narrow only a single car could pass. Whether by time or intent, the lanes were sunken below ground level, the banks topped with vegetation-cloaked stone hedge walls. Tree branches knit together above so tightly it was as if their headlights were seeking a route through a dark green tunnel. From time to time, they had to stop and back up to a passing place to let an oncoming car by.

  “Bloody hell, I can’t even get out of third gear…”

  “Just be glad we can see their headlights coming...”

  They reached the two-lane B3266, turned, and sped west. After five miles, following Penwarren’s directions, they were again on a twisting single-lane road passing through Tresinney, Quitecombe, and Watergate. Ten minutes later they turned sharp right into the private drive marked by a small slate sign that said simply, Poldue. The drive was hemmed by high stone hedges that even in daylight would have blocked any view of the fields on either side and was paved with smoothly-raked crushed granite the quartz crystals of which glinted in the headlights. After less than a tenth of a mile they entered a spot-lit cobbled courtyard. There was a two-story stone barn roofed in lichen-pocked slates on the left side of the yard and a rank of one-story stables along the right. As they stepped out of the car, invisible horses whinnied at the intrusion. Ahead was the hip-roofed Georgian manor house, built like the other buildings in the compound of smoothly-fashioned blocks of Bodmin granite. The house rose to two stories from a kind of stone plinth elevated above ground level. There was a formal entry porch with a Doric pediment supported by four stone columns. Two bay trees, their branches trimmed into matching green-leafed globes, rose from white Chippendale-inspired planter boxes that flanked each side of the entry, adding a touch of softness and color to the austere facade.

  The front door, painted in black enamel so shiny it still looked wet, opened just as they reached the top of the broad steps. A woman stood backlit by the light from within. Bates presented her warrant card.

  “Detective sergeant Terry Bates. This is detective constable Novak.”

  “I’m Jan Cuthbertson,” she said, ushering them inside. “I live here with my parents. Thank you for coming at this late hour.” And to Terry’s unasked question, she added: “We have a sensor which tells us someone is approaching and it switches on the exterior floodlights automatically. It is lonely out here on the moor. My father is very careful.”

  Terry frowned: “There isn’t much criminal activity around here…”

  The woman paused for a moment, then turned away: “It’s just…it’s just who he is.”

  Terry guessed the woman was early-twenties: broad shouldered, a bit taller than average, with wide-set eyes that had green-tinged irises. She wore tight black jeans and a droopy dove gray jumper that looked to be well-worn cashmere. Her hair was an unruly mass of wavy blond and brown strands that fell to between her shoulder blades. She was handsome rather than pretty and reminded Terry of a young version of that American actress, Katherine Hepburn. The woman regarded constable Novak with more than passing interest.

  “Please come through to the kitchen,” she said, leading the way along a hall that was nearly as chilly as the air outside. “I have a fire going there. I have tea as well, but tonight, under the circumstances, I’m having whisky. How about you two? Not while on duty I expect…”

  “Tea would be fine,” Bates said as they followed her toward the back of the house.

  “Please do sit,” she said to them, gesturing to a large round pine table.

  They did so and while Ms. Cuthbertson switched on an electric kettle, Terry looked around the room. At the west end of the kitchen there was a gaping stone hearth topped by a blackened granite lintel, beneath which a log fire smoldered. The table stood almost out of reach of the direct warmth of the fire. Four unwelcoming ladder-backed wooden chairs ringed it. The seats had brightly-colored cushions covered in an abstract floral pattern in ivory, gold, rust red, and royal blue. They looked like they’d seldom been sat upon and it occurred to Terry that she could not imagine a family sitting comfortably at this table so far from the hearth. The whole seating arrangement looked like something a decorator thought should be there to complete the room.

  The floor was covered in storm-gray slate flagstones, their edges softened by the wear of ages. The low wood plank ceiling was supported by thick lime-washed oak beams. Modern raised panel wood cabinets, but similarly lime-washed to l
ook old, were arrayed along two sides. The counters were topped with polished granite that held the colors of tiny beach pebbles. In place of the big cast-iron AGA cooker Terry had come to expect in grand houses, there stood instead an even more imposing six-burner gas La Cornue French cooker with two ovens. It was faced in dark blue enamel with stainless steel trim and gleaming brass handles and knobs. Like everything else, it was spotlessly clean and looked seldom used. Adam rose to carry the tea tray to the table, earning a smile.

  Terry picked up her mug. It was Earl Grey. Not her favorite; too much Bergamot. The young woman took the chair closest to the fire. An opened bottle of Talisker, a single malt whisky from the Isle of Skye, stood next to an already half-filled tumbler.

  “Artie called to say you were coming…” Ms. Cuthbertson said.

  “Artie?”

  “Your superior, I assume: Arthur Penwarren? He’s a family friend, you see.”

  Bates was instantly wary; her boss had said nothing about a connection. Maybe it was a test. She noticed Novak raise an eyebrow as he opened a small black notebook.

  “He was married to my aunt, Rebecca, you see. They often came up from Penzance to visit in the old days when he was posted there. My aunt has a successful clothing shop on Causewayhead. They divorced, though, some years ago, but he still came by on occasion, as if it were his duty, the sweet man. But we haven’t seen him for a while.” She grinned: “Handsome devil is he still?”

  Terry smiled. She could imagine her boss charming any woman of any age, but always at a gentlemanly remove.

  “My parents are out tonight,” the woman continued, turning her attention to Novak and ignoring Terry’s higher rank. “I called my father about what I found, of course, but it’s the Landowners’ Association monthly meeting at the Old Inn at St. Brewards. Members of the Commoners Association also attend when invited. It’s important. They all share the moorland, you see, and work out issues at these meetings.”

  Terry tried to think what was more important than a dead body. “Share? What does that mean?”

  “Oh, I thought everyone knew…”

  “I’m new to this part of Cornwall.” She tilted her head toward Novak. “We both are from West Penwith originally.”

  “Oh. Right then. Well, the land on and around Bodmin Moor is held by several large landowners, technically called Lords of the Manor. It’s not a royal title or anything, just what estate owners have always been called here. Each manor has its own in-bye land but it also owns and is responsible for managing a part of the commons.”

  Novak stopped his note-taking. “I’m sorry, in-bye?”

  “That’s the improved private pasture land, hedged fields and so forth, at lower elevations. The commons is the open upland moor. But the lords must provide rights of use of the moor to the commoners in the area.”

  “Sounds feudal,” Terry said.

  The woman smiled: “And indeed it is; our family has owned the Manor of Poldue for centuries. My father, Randall Cuthbertson, carries on the tradition.”

  “So these ‘commoners’ who share the moor…help me out here: Who are they?”

  “They’re mostly just neighboring farmers whose land adjoins the manor estate and moor. Some lease their land from the manor, some own freeholds. We have to provide access to them for grazing, cutting peat, gathering wood, and the like. But mostly it’s grazing rights: sheep and cattle.”

  “You said meetings like the one tonight are to resolve issues. Are there conflicts?”

  The woman stiffened: “For the most part, my father’s relationships with our neighbors have been friendly and cooperative.”

  “For the most part? I should think that the ‘lords’—that’s really their title?—would have disagreements with the commoners now and again about the use of the moorland, no? Perhaps someone abusing those common grazing rights to the detriment of others…?”

  “It happens, but not often. There’s a lot of peer pressure for everyone to act responsibly. Pretty much everyone wants the best for the moor, its habitat and wildlife and, of course, for the grazing animals.”

  “Would your father agree?”

  “Oh yes, I should think so. He’s been a leader at these meetings, working hard to be fair to all. It’s all about consensus.”

  Terry doubted this and pushed her tea aside. “Let’s focus on late this afternoon, shall we?”

  Jan drained most of what was left in her whisky tumbler.

  “According to your phone report to Devon and Cornwall Police, you were on Rough Tor late this afternoon when you heard birds fighting, am I right?”

  Cuthbertson nodded but did not look up: “Carrion crows and a buzzard hawk.”

  “And you were on the moor because…?”

  “Because it’s my job; I survey the vegetation for the estate. I studied land management at college. Sometimes I walk north almost to Davidstow Moor and the Crowdy Reservoir, but yesterday I went south, following the footpath along our stream—it’s a tributary of the Camel River. I went as far as Gorgelly Farm, which belongs to one of our commoners. From there, a rough farm track runs northeast to the foot of Brown Willy. It passes the remains of a Bronze Age field system and two Neolithic stone circles. Can you imagine? They’ve been there more than four thousand years!”

  Terry ignored the digression. “And then I gather you climbed all the way up to the summit of Rough Tor? Why?”

  “For the view. From there I can see much of our land and I can tell, even though autumn’s coming on, how the moor is faring just by its color.”

  Novak looked up. “Its color?”

  “We’ve had a few early frosts and the bracken ferns are already turning rust brown, as they do. Higher up, around Rough Tor the grasses have begun to yellow. But the fall rains also turn the bogs deep green and there are still bits of purple heather and yellow tormentil blooming here and there. If you know the moor, these color changes can be beautiful.”

  The woman’s eyes drifted, as if to that view, and she seemed to have run out of words.

  Bates prompted: “But then there was this noise, some birds fighting below?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t see them until I walked north to Showery Tor and could see down toward Rough Tor Mire. It is very rare for those birds to attack on the ground. I wondered whether it was one of my mother’s beloved ponies caught in the mire.”

  Bates’s caught the sarcasm: “Beloved ponies?”

  “Oh yes, my mother fashions herself as the guardian of the wild ponies of Bodmin. There are hundreds of them. It does not endear her to the others who graze livestock on the land. The ponies overgraze and their hooves rip up the fragile moorland surface.”

  “So this mire: that’s like, what, a swamp?” Novak asked.

  “Yes and no; it is water saturated peat, in some spots known as a ‘quaking bog’ because its surface is so unstable. Rough Tor Mire is one of them. The ground looks harmless enough, but stray onto it and you sink and the more you struggle to get out the more stuck you become. The bog builds over centuries because there is a granite plateau beneath it that keeps the rain from draining away. Vegetation grows and dies and eventually forms peat. Often, the granite is only a foot or two beneath the surface and when your feet get down to the base you can wade or crawl out. But not Rough Tor Mire; it’s deep; no one local would ever go near it.”

  “And yet you did…” Terry said.

  “I was worried. I can’t explain it. Something there was just not right. I did not go far.”

  “This mire is known to be dangerous?” Terry asked.

  “Absolutely, and it is well marked on the Ordinance Survey map most walkers use.”

  “When you were up there this afternoon did you see other walkers?”

  “No. It’s late in the season and it was also late in the day. Weather was closing in. No one wants to be up on the moor when the weather gets filthy. It’s rain, mostly, but you can also get closed in by mist and lose your bearings. The mist slips in from the west and soon
you can only see a few feet ahead of you. All the other landscape features dissolve into gray. If you don’t know how to read the land, you can get lost.”

  “So do you think this body—this person—was someone who got lost in the mist?”

  “No, the day had been dry. The day before as well. The mist only rolled in after I found…whoever it is. All I saw was the head. And the birds.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment as if to blot out the image and then pour herself another measure of Talisker.

  “Male or female? Did you recognize the face?”

  “It was just a head!” she said, her voice rising. “The hawk was tearing at the face! No eyes, no flesh.”

  “Long hair or short? Color?”

  “Good lord, what do you want from me? It was horrible!”

  Bates looked at the clock above the kitchen sink. It was past ten.

  “Yes, of course; must have been awful for you. As I am sure you can appreciate, we will not be able to investigate the scene until daylight. You have been through a lot this evening; will you be all right until your parents return?”

  The woman’s eyes flashed. “I am not a child, detective.”

  “I did not mean to suggest that, Ms. Cuthbertson, believe me. But it is not every day one discovers a dead body.”

  Three

  A SILVER SHIV of light sliced through the cloud layer that lay low and heavy like an old and discolored gray duvet above the moor the next morning as a neoprene-clad police diver rose from the black water of Rough Tor Mire. He pulled off his orange face mask and gave thumbs up to signal that he’d secured the body. Then he lay as broad and flat and still as he could on the bog’s quivering surface to keep from sinking.

  Rafe Barnes, Calum West’s civilian SOCO deputy, nodded to two of his crew. They threw a coiled rope out to the diver and, as if reeling in a tuna, hauled him back to solid ground. Then they did the same for the body, which the diver had roped beneath its armpits. Barnes watched the two men struggle and joined them, their rubber Wellies slipping on the wet peaty turf as they pulled. The mire made a sickening sucking sound as it released its victim. The body that finally emerged was barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled: a man, certainly, but a man whose face was horribly mutilated. They laid him on a sterile white plastic sheet and the frosty clumps of deer grass beneath crunched as the body settled.