A Cornish Revenge (The Loveday Ross Cornish Mysteries Book 1)

by Rena George

  Merrick nodded. He was warming more and more to this young woman. She inspired confidences, which in the world of journalism, was no bad thing. ‘There came a time when we almost didn’t manage to keep going,’ he shrugged. ‘One of the other magazines offered to buy the title, and my father was on the point of accepting until I persuaded him not to.

  ‘So instead of selling, we gave Cornish Folk a make-over.’ He hesitated, and said quietly. ‘Sadly, we had to lose some staff…not what any of us wanted, but those were difficult times.

  ‘Instead of a monthly issue we produced six double issues a year. It helped the cashflow and our loyal readers stayed with us. Eventually the circulation began to climb back, and we reinstated the monthly issues.’

  He pushed his fingers through his hair and Loveday guessed it was a frequent gesture. ‘We still produce the magazine on a shoestring,’ he smiled to himself and shook his head, ‘And sometimes we fly by the seat of out pants, but we get there.’

  He looked directly at her. ‘As long as we can go on giving our readers a quality product that supports and speaks out for the local community then we are doing our job.’

  Loveday nodded earnestly and Merrick smiled again. ‘So there you have it. We’re not very glamorous perhaps, and you won’t make your fortune working with us, but if you care enough about good people and still want to join us…then the job is yours.’

  Loveday hadn’t needed to think about it. Her hand shot across the desk and she grinned at her new boss. ‘When can I start?’ she’d said.

  She was still smiling at the memory as she jogged along the beach ten minutes later, and still wondering about Merrick’s friendship with the big detective. There was a taste of salt in the tangy air, and a breeze had sprung up, creaming the tops of the waves. A sudden image of the body in the cove flashed through her mind, making her shiver. Would she ever get the horror of it out of her head?

  The policemen had asked for her camera. When she didn’t turn up with it as promised, he’d be suspicious. But what did she care? There would be nothing of interest in any of the pictures anyway. Even so, she was curious now as she turned and headed for home.

  The camera was still in the satchel along with the rest of her equipment. She pulled it out and switched on her laptop. As it whirred into life she extricated the camera’s memory card and slid it into the computer.

  There were 138 pictures on the card. She’d forgotten to erase the ones she’d taken last week. Identifying the clifftop shots, she put them into a separate file and viewed them as a full screen slide show…nothing special about these. Then she gasped as the shots she’d taken when she first saw the body flashed across the screen.

  The man was staked out spread-eagled below. She could even zoom into his face if she chose. Her hand went over her mouth. Sam Kitto mustn’t see these. His opinion of journalists was already low enough. She replayed the slide show and squirmed at the very thought that she could have taken such pictures. But it had been a reflex action, her journalist training kicking in. It wasn’t as though she ever planned to use them. But she knew the detective might not see it like that. Saving the images into her laptop, Loveday ejected the card and put it back into her camera, and then she deleted the shots of the cove. Sam Kitto wasn’t going to see them.

  She jumped as someone knocked the front door. Not Cassie; she always came through the kitchen. The young PC who stood there was tall and thin with a round, red face.

  ‘Miss Ross? DI Kitto has asked me to collect a camera.’

  Loveday went back to her sitting room and removed the camera’s memory card again. ‘I think this is what he wants,’ she said, sliding it into an envelope.

  The constable cleared his throat and Loveday noticed the colour in his cheeks had deepened. ‘I believe I have to collect the camera as well,’ he said.

  Loveday shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ She was beginning to feel sorry for the young man. ‘I need the camera for work,’ she explained, smiling. ‘Your inspector will find all he wants here.’ She held out the envelope and the constable took it.

  The police car was hardly out of the drive when Cassie tapped the back door and walked in. ‘You’ve been holding out on me, girl,’ she said.

  ‘Enlighten me,’ Loveday said.

  ‘Your dishy policeman…Was that him again?’

  ‘That was a very young, still wet behind the ears, PC.’

  ‘Not the one with the come to bed eyes who came last night then?’

  Loveday narrowed her eyes, laughing. ‘Have you been spying on me?

  ‘How else can I find out things if you don’t tell me?’

  Loveday shook her head, but she was still smiling as she re-packed her equipment satchel. ‘Ok. I’ll tell you exactly what happened yesterday.’ She made coffee as she described how she and Lawrence had found the body in the cove. Cassie listened, blinking in disbelief as the story unfolded.

  ‘But that’s awful. Why didn’t you come knocking on my door yesterday?’

  ‘The police asked us not to discuss it with anyone. The only people I’ve spoken to are the ones who were there when we found the body.’

  Cassie pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘It was on Radio Cornwall news this morning, but I’d no idea you were involved.’

  ‘Did they name the dead man?’

  Cassie shook her head. ‘I think they are still trying to identify him. What did the young copper want?’

  ‘The policeman – the dishy one, as you described him, who called last night - wants to look at the pictures I took yesterday.’ She was regretting deleting the cove shots now. Could that be construed as withholding evidence? If she was honest, she had no idea why she had done it, apart from this worrying feeling of guilt.

  ‘Is he married?’ Cassie had perfected the art of looking innocent when she asked a loaded question.

  ‘Cassie, for heaven’s sake! How should I know?’

  Cassie tapped her ring finger. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice if he was wearing a ring?’

  Loveday grabbed a cushion from a kitchen chair and swiped at her, laughing. She’d absolutely no idea if Sam Kitto was married. She turned so that her friend wouldn’t see her mouth twitch. But he was definitely not wearing a ring.

  ‘OK, I get the message.’ She gave Loveday a good-natured scowl. ‘If you’re not going into the office, why not come with me to Falmouth Marina. There are a few bits I still need to check over on the Blue Lady. In fact,’ she added decisively, ‘Come across and have lunch with us.’

  Loveday was about to protest when Cassie cut in, ‘Oh, don’t look like that. It’s just soup and a sandwich.’ She tilted her head and grinned. ‘Even you can manage a salad sandwich.’

  Loveday relented. She liked Cassie and her family. It had been her lucky day when she rented the little cottage in the grounds of Cassie and Adam’s, big house. Their children were adorable, and Loveday was always secretly flattered when they called her ‘Auntie Loveday’.

  After lunch Loveday drove them to the marina. ‘You’re about to get a taste of how the other half lives,’ Cassie said, giving directions into the marina’s parking area.

  ‘What if your clients are not on board?’ Loveday asked, as her friend reached into the back of the car for the black leather case that was her travelling workshop, and produced a set of keys.

  ‘They’re up north somewhere at the moment,’ she explained. ‘But they trust me – at least Magdalene does. I don’t know the husband, not that it matters because it’s Magdalene’s boat.’

  Loveday looked around. There weren’t as many yachts as she’d expected. But Cassie explained it was getting late into the season and some owners had already started to remove their vessels.

  Loveday didn’t know much about boats, but the Blue Lady was a stunner by any standards. It was white, and sleekly elegant, with three dark blue flashes running from bow to stern. Cassie unlocked the door and the smell of affluence wafted out as Loveday followed her down three steps into
what felt like a mahogany palace. Ahead, between two banks of seating, upholstered in a sumptuous blue fabric, was a dining table. Beyond that in the bow of the boat, Loveday could see two double berths in the same luxurious fabric. To her left, a cooker and tiny sink gleamed in the galley, and more berths were visible in the stern. The polished mahogany walls continued behind them, where a small office space with a desk had been fashioned into another corner.

  Loveday gazed around her. Every nook and cranny had been utilised. It was a marvel of technology. ‘It’s amazing,’ she said. ‘How do they manage to pack away so much in such limited space?’

  ‘Oh it’s an art, all right,’ said Cassie, ‘You should see the business end up top.’

  Loveday spun round. ‘Have you done all this, Cassie?’

  ‘Just the fabrics…and a few other refinements.’ She put her case on the table and took out a file and pen. ‘The refurb is all but complete. I just need to check that the fitters have done their job and that everything meets with the specifications of the client.’

  ‘Who did you say they are?’ Loveday asked, wandering around the cabin for a closer inspection.

  ‘Magdalene Carruthers. She’s an interior designer. I think this was a kind of experiment to see if she could break into the yachting market.’

  ‘You mean she’s going to pinch your business?’

  Cassie laughed and shook her head. ‘Magdalene’s not interested in working on boats. But people who own expensive yachts also have grand houses, so we can put business each others’ way. It works really well, actually, and anyway, Magdalene has pots of money in her own right, she doesn’t need to pinch my business.’

  ‘What about Mr Carruthers?’

  ‘I don’t know much about the husband, except that his name’s not Carruthers. I caught a glimpse of him climbing aboard one day when I was in the car park. He’s some kind of legal eagle, I think. They’ve only recently moved to Cornwall from Cambridge. That’s where Magdalene started her business in her maiden name and it just stuck.’

  ‘Carruthers of Cambridge does sound familiar,’ Loveday said, racking her brain for the connection.’

  ‘She’s the daughter of Judge Henry Carruthers, You remember him? He used to sit on all the big court cases.’ She grinned, ‘The ones nobody else would touch.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Loveday said as the penny dropped. ‘I remember now. But didn’t I read something about him dying?’

  ‘That’s right, a few years back. That’s where Magdalene’s money comes from.’

  ‘I see,’ Loveday said, continuing her prowl around the boat. There was a watercolour of the Blue Lady on the wall, and she went to take a closer look. She gasped when she saw the signature. ‘Lawrence painted this?’ She asked incredulously, wheeling round to stare at Cassie. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Cassie said. ‘I introduced him to Magdalene.’

  Loveday’s eyebrow arched.

  ‘She asked if I knew anyone who could paint.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought of Lawrence.’

  Loveday remembered the broody landscapes that had hung on the walls of the St Ives gallery. ‘It’s not his usual kind of thing,’ she said.

  Cassie came to stand behind her. ‘He’s come a long way since the early days, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Has he? I don’t know much about how he got started, he never talks about it.’

  ‘You’re right, he is a bit of a mystery man. I met him when he first moved to Cornwall, about five years ago. In those days he would paint anything people were willing to pay for.’

  Loveday gaped at her. This was not the Lawrence she knew.

  Cassie was thinking back to the day she’d spotted the scruffily dressed, bearded man sitting on the beach sketching St Michael’s Mount. She’d been surprised at the quality of the drawing and asked if he ever painted boats.

  ‘We got chatting,’ she explained, ‘ He was scratching a living painting the more picturesque pubs and cottages and selling the finished pictures to the owners. We agreed a price for a painting of Adam’s boat.’ She smiled, remembering, ‘It was Adam’s birthday present that year.’

  ‘Lawrence has never told me any of this.’ Loveday said.

  Cassie frowned thoughtfully ‘No…he’s not one for talking about his past, is he?’

  Loveday well knew his skillful avoidance of subjects he did not want to discuss – and his life before Cornwall was one of them. She turned back to the painting, and felt an involuntary shudder sweep through her. Why would he keep something as innocent as this a secret?

  Inspection over, Cassie began packing her files away, then noticed the slightly open drawer in the office area. She 'tut-tutted'. What had the fitters been doing in that part of the boat? They’d had strict instructions to leave it alone. She got up and slid the drawer closed. It had been empty anyway. Magdalene and her husband wouldn’t be naïve enough to leave private papers just lying about. After one final check around, Cassie nodded her approval. ‘I think we can go, now.’

  They went back up the polished steps and, satisfied the Blue Lady was once again locked and secure, walked slowly back along the pontoon to the car.

  On the drive home Cassie clicked on the car radio, and they listened in silence to Radio Cornwall’s latest news bulletin. The Borlase man, as Loveday had now come to think of him, was the first item.

  ‘Police are still trying to identify the body of a man found in Borlase Cove two days ago. It’s understood that the body was partially covered by water when discovered by members of the public on the remote cove. An air sea rescue helicopter from RNAS Culdrose was scrambled to the scene, but it was too late to help the casualty. The body was recovered by the St Ives Lifeboat. The results of a post mortem are expected later today. A spokesman for Devon and Cornwall Constabulary said no further comment could be made at this stage.’

  For a moment neither of them spoke, then Cassie said, ‘It’s a weird way to kill anybody…I mean, staking him out, like you told me, to drown like that. The poor man must have gone through agony.’

  Loveday shivered. ‘Thanks, Cassie, I’ve been trying not to think about that.’

  ‘It’s how the Cornish used to deal with folk who betrayed them, you know…in the old days.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘You know…when all the little fishing communities around the coast were involved in smuggling. If one of their own shopped them to the authorities they would take that person down to a deserted beach and tie them down to drown.’ She glanced up. ‘Just like that poor man.’

  ‘You don’t believe that?’

  But Cassie nodded. ‘Oh, I think it’s true. There’s a pub along the coast from here where they say a former landlady met that very fate.’ She gave a shudder. ‘Gives you the creeps just thinking about it.’

  She glanced at Loveday. ‘Why don’t you come over to us this evening? Adam and the kids will keep you too busy to brood on all this.’

  ‘Thanks, Cassie, that’s kind of you, but I’ve already made arrangements with a long scented soak in the bath.’

  At five o’clock Magdalene Carruthers’ red sports car swept up the wide gravel drive, coming to a halt at the point where the house came into view. She sat staring at the fluted columns flanking the front door, imagined climbing that short flight of steps, sliding her key into the lock – and shuddered. She still couldn’t believe what she and Martin had done. Her hands shook and she steadied them on the steering wheel as she moved the car forward to park at the rear of the building.

  Trenmere, the impressive Georgian villa, had been her reward for agreeing to move to Cornwall with Paul eighteen months before. It had been a mistake, of course. Not even the Blue Lady could make up for having to leave her old life behind. The pungent, sickening smell of the lilies hit her as soon as she opened the front door. She hated the austere white blooms. He knew it, which was why he insisted on having them.

  ‘Lilies might not suit you, my love.’ She could still hear the sneer in his
voice. ‘…But they suit me just fine. So you’ll have to put up with them.’

  Magdalene was suddenly back in that church, walking behind her father’s coffin, eyes fixed on its mass of creamy white lilies.

  She was in the house now and the suffocating fragrance was everywhere. She felt a wave of nausea rise in her throat. Grabbing Paul’s flowers, she hurled them through the open front door. The porcelain vase shattered on impact, sending feather-light petals cascading in all directions. She stood back and surveyed the mess – a futile gesture, which she immediately regretted. But everything had changed now. There was no going back.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Detective Constable Amanda Fox extricated the pen she had absent-mindedly pushed into her tangle of ginger curls and used it as a pointer to run down the list in front of her. She and Sam had been going through the reports in the tiny room that the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary economically described as his office. The crime scene had yielded nothing apart from the metal tent pegs and twine used to pin down the body. He looked across the desk at her. He liked Amanda’s brusque, no nonsense approach to the job. You knew where you stood with people like that, although she did have a tendency to antagonize some witnesses.

  An involuntary smile flickered across his face as a picture of her on the cliff top taking Loveday’s statement came into his mind. He could see the journalist, a determined tilt to her chin, no doubt giving as good as she got. Maybe, he conceded, Amanda didn’t intimidate everybody.

  ‘I’ve been through these at least three times,’ she sighed ‘and there’s nothing.’ She held up her hands in defeat.

  ‘There’s never nothing,’ Sam said. ‘It’s there…we just haven’t found it yet. What about the journalist woman’s pictures?’ He resisted referring to her as Loveday, even if it was how he thought of her.

  ‘Completely useless,’ Amanda said, not quite able to suppress the satisfaction. ‘No sign of any murderer hiding in the bushes.’