“About what? I’ve done nowt wrong.”
He sounded truculent, and Alistair sighed. This interview was not going to be easy. He had warned Willett that it would easier to talk to Simon somewhere neutral, but the man had been adamant. Simon was his chief suspect now and he was going to do the thing properly. Joe Vercoe had tracked Simon to Vickery House, where he had been helping William plant potatoes, and had gone round to bring him in. Alistair was frankly surprised that Simon had agreed, but here he was, although angry and anxious about the reasons why.
“William said I had to come,” Simon said, as if in reply to the unasked question. “He said the inspector had questions, but I don’t know owt. What can I tell him?”
“Do you want me to stay with you? If Inspector Willett allows it?” Alistair asked, unsure whether Simon would see the offer as an insult. But the pale face before him flooded with relief, and Simon nodded.
“Please stay?” he asked hopefully. “William likes you. He trusts you.”
They fell silent, and Alistair found himself contemplating the silent figure next to him. He was uncomfortable with Willett’s explanations, and yet he felt there was something he wasn’t seeing. He was about to ask Simon about what Florence had said about him, when Willett returned to the room and settled himself behind the desk. His square jawed face bore a scowl, his close-cropped hair seemed to bristle with antagonism. Simon drew back even further into himself and looked suspiciously across the desk.
“May I sit in, Inspector?” asked Alistair.
Willett looked at him in some surprise. He paused, as if he was not sure what to do, then nodded brusquely as Joe took up a seat by the door, ready with pen and notepad.
“If Mr Cundy agrees, I don’t see why not,” Willet began. “I—”
“I do,” interrupted Simon. “I want him here.”
Willett did not look like he appreciated the interruption, but nodded again. “Fine,” he snapped, giving Alistair a sideways look of warning.
“You’ve been brought to my attention as someone of interest in this whole affair,” began Willett, looking closely for the first time at the figure in front of him, his lip curling.
“What affair?” asked Simon.
“The poisonings at Trevennen! Don’t play the innocent; it won’t work with me! Mrs Evans is in the morgue and her son nearly joined her day before yesterday. Strychnine and chloral hydrate poisonings, deliberate.”
Simon looked confused and glanced quickly towards Alistair before returning to Willett, whose cold eyes were taking everything in.
“I don’t know owt about any of it,” Simon said. “You must be mad if you think I’m going around poisoning people!”
Willett scowled.
“Do you think I’d poison Jamie! He’s my best friend!” said Simon fiercely. “I’d die before I’d hurt him. And I don’t have any drugs. I don’t take them.”
“But you were given a lot of drugs in hospital, weren’t you? I know all about you,” said Willett, indicating some papers in front of him. “You were in an asylum, several times. Now, there are two things guaranteed to be found in an asylum. Mad people, and drugs to keep them quiet. Did you steal from the hospital, bring a little back with you? Or perhaps you brought some back from France? Medic, weren’t you?”
His tone was rude, and Simon bristled at the aggression that boiled so clearly from his questioner.
“I’m not a thief!” he said, his voice hoarse.
“No, just a conchie who wouldn’t fight with the rest,” replied Willett cruelly.
Simon sat back with a jerk, his eyes like black holes in his white face. Alistair could feel the mixture of fear and anger that was building in him, and cursed Willett roundly for going about this whole thing the wrong way. He felt that Willett was correct in that Simon knew something, but he had difficulty believing that the man was behind both poisonings.
Willett changed tack. He leaned over and asked genially, like a snake teasing a rabbit, “What can you tell me about where you were when Mrs Creed disappeared originally?”
Simon looked surprised. “When Juliana were pushed off the Roscarrock?” he asked, hesitating for the first time.
“Mrs Creed, yes,” Willett corrected, his eyes narrowing at both the use of her name and the hesitation.
“You think I had summat to do with Juliana’s fall?” continued Simon, ignoring Willett’s correction. “I don’t think I were even here!”
“Oh, yes, you were,” said Willett smoothly. “You were given a lift back to Sancreed on that very day by Miss Helena Clevedon. She met you in Penzance and drove you back, leaving you at Visick House.”
Simon looked around wildly as the inspector’s words sank in and he realised the meaning behind them.
“I left straight away, I think. My head was in a mess. I weren’t… I were ill a lot then. I do remember Jamie talking about it, but that were afterwards.”
“You were seen at Trevennen the next day,” Willett replied instantly.
“I don’t remember!”
Willett’s lip curled as he heard the panic in the boy’s voice. There was a satisfied look in his cold eyes as he watched Simon twisting on the chair, looking from himself to Joe, taking notes quietly, then to the door. Simon’s breathing quickened, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead and upper lip. Alistair leaned over and put a hand on his arm.
“Simon, calm down,” he said quietly. “Inspector Willett has been asking questions of everyone involved. Inspector, may I talk to you for a moment?”
Willett followed him outside, closing the door firmly behind them and standing in front of it. Alistair knew exactly what plan was forming in his head and it was with great difficulty that he persuaded Willett not to arrest Simon on the spot.
“He’s guilty as sin,” stated the inspector coldly. “Look at him. A couple of simple questions and he’s sweating like he’s just run a mile.”
“I saw a scared young man. That’s all. I take it Joe told you about Simon and how he came home?”
“He did,” replied Willett curtly, the sneer back on his face. “That chap may not have known what he was doing three years ago, but I don’t believe that now. If he poisoned Mrs Evans and her son, then he did it knowing full well what he was up to. A couple of days on his own in jail might loosen his lips a bit. It’s worked on better men than him.”
Alistair was angry and frustrated. “Dammit, man, you have no proof,” he retorted, beginning to lose his temper. “And Simon won’t react well to being put in a cell. If you want to cause a relapse, that’ll be the way to do it. You won’t get a confession. He’ll be in a straitjacket.”
Willett was annoyed. “I trust my gut, and it’s telling me that Simon Cundy knows more about this whole mess than he’s letting on. He’s not stupid. Mad, maybe, but cunning. He needs a sharp lesson, that one, and a couple of days in a cell might bring him to his senses.”
“Or send him round the bend completely. Lock him up, and you’ll have the vicar and Dr Cundy down here faster than you’d want. Mrs Cundy too, and you want to avoid that, believe me.”
Finally, Alistair prevailed and Willett grudgingly allowed Simon to leave, promising him that he would have more questions to ask soon and telling him not to even think of leaving the area. Simon rushed from the building like the hounds of hell were after him. In a way, Alistair thought, they were. Willett had his teeth into this and was not going to let go easily.
“There had better not be another murder, Mr Carr,” said the inspector dourly as Alistair made to leave. “Because if there is, you’ll be to blame.”
Alistair grabbed his hat and left the building as quickly as he could. He was led to Simon by the sound of someone being sick, and found him crouched beside the station, throwing up into the drain. The convulsions were violent. Simon had to hold himself against the wall, and the paroxysms seemed endless. Alistair waited aside until the man’s body had finished heaving, then passed him a clean handkerchief. Simon looked at it withou
t comprehension for a moment, then straightened himself and took the linen with a shaking hand. He wiped his mouth, breathing unevenly.
“He wants to lock me up,” he said, his voice rough. “Don’t let him, please, Mr Carr. I can’t be shut up like that.”
Alistair sighed in frustration.
“Simon, if you know anything, then tell him. it’s entirely possible you saw something. Perhaps you don’t even know what it was. Just think carefully.”
Simon leant against the wall, his hair a wild black mess against the whitewash. His eyes closed.
“I don’t know owt,” he muttered, running a shaking hand over his head. “I need to see Jamie. Can you take me back to him?”
Alistair was uneasy at the request. Jamie was still not allowed to get up out of bed; with Bob Cundy’s prediction of a slow recovery, the sight of Simon in such a pitiful way would not be good for Jamie at all.
“I don’t think Jamie’s up to it just now, Simon. He still needs rest. Let me take you to see Jean instead.”
His answer led only to a sigh of pain. Alistair recognised that the other man was on the point of collapse and took his arm gently. Without another word he led him up the hill towards the church, and didn’t leave him until he was tucked up on the cot in the summerhouse, trembling under the blankets. Jean was sitting alongside, her pretty eyes cold with anger. She fetched a basin of bread and milk and then fed it to Simon, spoonful by spoonful, like she would one of her children. Wiping his face with a cool cloth, she then sat by the cot, holding his hand and crooning to him. Alistair waited until he saw Simon’s eyelashes flutter down to his cheeks and his breathing slow, then walked back to the house and found William in his study.
“I should have gone with him,” William said. “I cannot believe myself that Simon is in any way involved with this. I suppose I thought that Inspector Willett would see the same. I was wrong.”
Alistair hastened to reassure him.
“There was nothing that you could have done, William, believe me. There’s nothing we can do to interfere with the police investigation. The best thing for the moment is that someone keep an eye on Simon. His mental state is worrying me. He says he doesn’t know anything, but he appears worried. Something is making him anxious. Can you keep him here? He must not come to the house at the moment. Jamie is in no fit state to be coping with any of this. He can’t be of any use to Simon until he’s well.”
William agreed instantly, although his face was grave. “Where will this end, Alistair?” he asked.
Alistair looked at him.
“I do not know.”
Chapter 29
Only at extreme low tide could one walk round the cliffs from the tiny cove below Trevennen to reach Sancreed itself. Once or twice a month the sea receded adequately for a strip of damp sand to appear at the base of the cliffs, for an hour or so only. Enough time to clamber down the wooden staircase and strike out across the exposed sand, skirting the Island and hugging the cliffs tightly before rounding the eastern point that led to the harbour.
Alistair had discovered this piece of information on his promenades over the past week. He ascertained from Sylvia that this would be the best day to try the walk, and he set out after a solitary early breakfast. Bearing in mind her warnings about time, he trotted quickly down the wooden stairs and struck out eastwards under the cliffs. There was the sensation of bladderwrack popping under his boots, and the unmistakeable smell of beached seaweed drying in the sun; the rocks and pools along the cliff base were covered in the viscous green of sea lettuce. The trip did not take long, although by the time he reached the harbour, he reckoned that the tide was nearly turning.
He pulled himself up the narrow footpath, panting and hot; the sun was pouring down by now, and it showed promise of being a very fine day. Taking a bend in the track with a leisurely stride and a whistle on his lips, he found himself face-to-face with a small ginger-haired girl. She was playing with an ancient Dutch doll, much chipped around the black-painted head and feet, and looked up as he hove into view, regarding him gravely.
“You just made it,” she said. “Tide’s on the turn.”
“I rather thought that,” he replied and sat down next to her. “I’m glad I didn’t stay down there for a paddle.”
He looked out over the harbour, the sun reflecting in broken lines on the soft waves, and further out to the horizon, where the specks of boat sails could just be seen. Taking a paper bag of peppermints from his pocket, he offered it first to the girl. She grinned at the unexpected treat and chose a sweet carefully, popping it into her cheek immediately.
“Thank you,” she said. “I like peppermints.”
“Me too.”
They sat companionably and crunched the sweets as the curlews swung around above them, harried by a huge seagull who scented the possibility of food. When she had finished, she licked her lips, then turned to him.
“Came round from Trevennen, did you?” she asked.
Alistair smiled, amused at her prepossession. He judged her to be nine or ten years old at most, dressed in a stuff frock that had been let down several times, judging by the increasingly dark strips of fabric that bordered the hem. Her boots were old and well-mended, and the stocking tops above them hand-knit. All in all she looked like what she was, a local child, probably of one of the many fisher families. And yet her eyes sparkled with intelligence and wit, and she bore herself with all the composure of Mrs Keppel at the opera.
“I did,” he replied, offering the bag again. She chose another mint, holding it delicately between her fingers as she looked up at him.
“How is he? Mr Jamie, I mean.”
It seemed as though the news of Jamie’s poisoning had not missed anyone at all. Alistair looked at her. She looked back, clear-eyed, genuinely interested. He decided not to sugarcoat his answer.
“He is getting better, but he was very sick.”
She nodded, a little grimly, then looked at the peppermint again before tucking it away in a pocket and patting it secure.
“Where do you hail from?” he asked.
“The Trevennen cottages,” she replied. “Along past the Home Farm.”
Alistair was interested. “The ones near the railway?”
She nodded. “My uncle drives the train,” she said with a touch of pride. “If you like trains, you should talk to him.”
Alistair thought that Margaret had mentioned the train driver. One of the Roskellys, he remembered. He asked if that was correct. She seemed pleased at his knowledge.
“My uncle Gerry. He’s married to Gracie and lives next door now. Do you know, when they were courting,” she said, in a conspiratorial tone, “he used to stop the train there on her day off and she would run down with his supper? And she would kiss him!”
There was a trace both of wonder and disgust in her tone, and Alistair was hard pushed not to laugh. Deciding that he would take her advice about talking to her uncle, he presented her with the remainder of the sweets and sixpence, for which she thanked him with a wide, gap-toothed grin, and she and the doll watched as he set off again. The wind had dropped and the sun blistered down. Although it did not take him long, he was sweating when he got there. Behind the cottages, digging in one of the gardens, was a tall man, who looked up as Alistair approached.
Alastair thought at first that it was David Roskelly, but as he got closer, he realised that the build of this fellow was slimmer, and the moustache was at present much less pronounced.
“Mr Roskelly?” Alastair enquired.
The man grinned and stuck his spade into the half-dug bed.
“Gerard Roskelly, at your service, sir,” he replied.
“I am Alistair Carr. I am staying up at Trevennen with the Creeds.”
“Want to talk to me about something, sir?”
“I would, if you can spare me the time. I have some questions about the train that runs along by here, and I understand that you have driven the line for the last few years?”
&nbs
p; “I have, and I’ll be happy to answer whatever you care to ask.” He paused and looked shy. “Mrs Creed used to visit us regular. She and my gran got on well, although you wouldn’t have thought it, her being all the way from China and my gran never having gone further than Redruth. She used to come by with treats for the old lady. Brought her medicine and fancy food. Listened to all her stories of the old days. Gran liked that very much. She was right upset when Mrs Creed vanished.”
He paused. “It’s a hot morning, Mr Carr. What would you say to a glass of beer while we talk. It’s home-brewed—better than anything you’ll get at the Lugger even.”
When the beer arrived, cool and dark in the glasses, Alastair had to agree. “Is this your own work, Roskelly?” he asked, savouring the cool bitterness against his tongue. “It’s a very fine brew indeed.”
“Me and my dad. We do it together. The brewing shed is sacred property around here. The one place you won’t catch any of the kids. They’d get their hides well tanned if Dad found them monkeying around in there.”
This was the opportunity Alistair had been awaiting.
“I was talking to a small girl earlier, near the harbour. Red hair, about nine years old?”
“My niece. Gillie is my sister’s first. What did she say?”
“She told me that you sometimes stopped the train for a minute or so on the afternoon run, to see Mrs Roskelly. Before you were married?”
Gerry blushed. “I did. Not for more than a minute or two, though. You have to run slow along the bank there anyways. Too much of a curve and a bit of a hill, you can’t go round fast. Gracie was in service then, over at the Hall. If I was working and she was off, she would come over to visit her mam. I would stop the train and she would run down to say hello. Bring me some supper.”
Alastair refrained from mentioning the kisses, although Gerry Roskelly coloured a little anyway.
“So it didn’t happen every week?”
Gerry shook his head. “No. The housekeeper at the Hall was a good woman. She tried to give the girls the days they wanted. She knew they liked to go home and help out. And meet their sweethearts,” he added with a sly smile. “But sometimes it wouldn’t work out and Gracie’d have to take her day off when I was working.”
The Dead Woman Who Lived Page 44