James grinned and assured him that he was now a tourist. They’d updated the Merryweathers on their escapades the previous day and Stephen was delighted to learn that James was going to stop delving. Solving a mystery in a strange town was entirely different to within one’s own community. ‘A-at least around Cavendish, y-you can cross most of the residents off of y-your list. Here, we don’t know who’s who.’
They continued walking and chatted about all manner of things, from children to retirement; cooking and restaurants; films and television and, finally, friendship. James pondered on their own friendship. Stephen was a modern vicar who delivered his sermons in a different way, one that brought most of Cavendish to church every Sunday. He remembered the first sermon he’d delivered, the way he roamed up and down the aisle, rarely staying in the pulpit, being animated and putting in some humour. Perhaps it was his short stint as an army clergyman that made him so unique.
In turn, James was no ordinary Lord; preferring to drop the title where he could and step back a little from the class system. He knew he had the best of both worlds, able to enter the realms of the elite and use his status or leave it behind if it suited.
It worked for them and it worked for both couples and he knew their friendship would be a long-standing one.
They’d covered about a mile when they saw a lady, distressed, sitting on the grass about fifty yards back from the cliff edge. James followed Stephen as they quickened their pace toward her, suggesting on the way that she might have twisted an ankle or something. It was only when they got closer they realised who it was.
‘Good Lord,’ said James rushing to her side.
Flora Chenery sat there, bedraggled and confused. Her hair was windblown and tangled, her complexion grey and eyes red-rimmed. She flung herself at James and wrapped her arms around him. ‘I kept waving. No one saw me.’
He held her close. Stephen opened James’ rucksack and brought out the flask and a plastic mug.
James gently pulled her arms away. ‘Here, we have some tea. Come on, drink this, it’ll do you good.’
She accepted the mug as if it were gold dust and sipped the drink. She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Oh that’s lovely.’
Stephen brought out a Kit-Kat chocolate bar. ‘I-I have a couple of these. Take them, get some sugar into you.’
She’d clearly not eaten for some time. Her fingers trembled as she tried to take off the wrapper. Stephen helped her. James, meanwhile, untied the jumper that was around his waist.
‘Here, it’ll be two sizes too big for you but it’ll keep you warm.’
Flora let James manoeuvre her arms into the sleeves and popped the jumper on as if he were dressing a small child. ‘Good Lord, Flora, you look all in. Have you been out here all night?’
‘I don’t know. Whoever took me came back and let me go; put me here.’
‘You don’t know who did this?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember anything really. I watched the parade. Vic went back to open the shop and - yes, I heard a sound, someone behind me.’ She closed her eyes, trying to remember. ‘I thought it was just the crowds. Then I felt something on my neck.’ She rubbed the area. ‘Then I felt incredibly sleepy.’
James asked her to tilt her head. It was faint but there was a small pinprick on her neck. He asked Stephen to take a look. Neither of them spoke but they each knew what they’d seen. Someone had injected Flora Chenery.
‘Do you know where you were kept?’
She wrapped her hands around the plastic mug of tea. ‘No, no, I don’t, I was in such a daze. It felt like a cave. It was very cold. I was blindfolded. He guided me along.’
‘He?’
She shrugged. ‘He, she, I don’t know. Whoever it was didn’t talk.’
Stephen squatted down. ‘W-were you on your own in this cave?’
‘Yes. No.’ She met Stephen’s gaze. ‘At first I thought I was but I didn’t feel alone. I felt as if someone else was in the cave.’
‘Did this person walk you here?’ asked James.
‘I don’t know. I slept. I woke up here just a while ago.’
‘Apart from feeling a little groggy, how are you?’
She managed a brief smile but hadn’t the energy to reply. James encouraged her to drink her tea. He and Stephen got to their feet. ‘Stephen, do you want to stay here with her and I’ll dash back and alert the authorities.’
‘Of course.’
He opened up his map to see exactly where they were. Scanning the area, he noticed a dirt track that must lead to a farm or some outbuilding. An ambulance could get up there easily. He marked their location with a pencil. ‘Right, I shouldn’t be long, we’re only about a mile from Polpennarth and it’s all downhill.’
His long stride and intermittent jog meant he was back at the car park in a few minutes where he was grateful to see a telephone box. He swung the door open and picked up the receiver. It was heavy and cold and, thankfully, in working order. He dialled 999 and cursed the emergency services for using a number that took so long to dial. A woman answered.
‘Which service please?’
James requested ambulance and police. He gave a brief overview of things and examined his map to give the best possible co-ordinates. ‘There is a dirt track running along there so I think vehicles can access it.’
The woman assured James that the correct personnel had been requested. He put the receiver down and rang the operator.
‘Ah, can you put me through to the Polpennarth police station please.’
With the right change inserted, James was connected to Inspector Wormstone. He gave a bite-sized version to the Inspector. From the noise in the background, James had caused him to jump from his seat.
‘Are you heading back there?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Stephen’s with her.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
‘Pick me up. I’m at the car park at the base of the cliff. I can’t do that hill a second time around.’
He rang off. Ten minutes later, James, Wormstone and Innes arrived. Innes knew the dirt track James spoke of and explained that the farmer used it occasionally. The ambulance and police had just arrived and were attending to Flora. Their diagnosis was that she was suffering from shock and exhaustion.
The Inspector asked quick questions that simply required a yes or no answer. Although she could give him no clues, he ordered the county police over. There were two policemen who had answered the call and Wormstone advised them this related to the kidnappings. With that, he had their full attention.
‘She’s not given us much but has given us an indication that she was in a cave. Any thoughts? You know this area better than I do.’
The men chatted amongst themselves and came up with three possible locations.
‘Right, I’ll clear it with your superiors, but I want all available men looking at these caves. Get the coastguard out, divers, whatever it takes. I want a thorough search of this coastline.’
The ambulance man handed James his jumper back and threw a huge blanket around Flora as he led her to his vehicle. Flora looked back and mouthed her thanks to him and Stephen.
The ambulance left, the two constables sped off and Innes waited by the Inspector’s car. Wormstone turned to them. ‘I wonder why he let her go?’
‘I know I’m not supposed to be concerning myself with this but I’d be happy to think about it. If I fathom something out, I’ll let you know.’
The Inspector was happy to accommodate that, thanked them for looking after Flora and told them to enjoy the rest of their morning. In less than a minute, Innes and Wormstone had driven off in the direction of Polpennarth.
Stephen let out a big sigh. ‘W-well, that was an e-eventful hour wasn’t it? Wh-where do you think she’d been?’
James steered Stephen back on the footpath and they carried on with their walk. He remarked that he hoped the police search came to something and they’d find one of the caves occupied. When he and Beth had
been looking at the smuggling boltholes during the previous year they’d found an amazing cave that took them some way back into the cliffs. Unfortunately, as the tide turned, it had put them in a dangerous position and threatened to sweep them out to sea. But large caves existed and it would be an ideal hiding place. If that was the case, then the kidnapper would have to have access to a boat. Did that put Johnny Sepp back on the suspect list? How accessible were these caves? It seemed an awful lot of trouble to hide someone. And still that same question nagged at him – to what purpose?
‘To r-repeat the Inspector’s questions, why do you think he l-let her go?’
‘Yes, I wondered that.’
‘Another one taken in plain sight. Whoever’s doing this is making g-good use of this festival.’
‘If it is a cave, that may explain the lights I’ve seen.’
Stephen pulled James back. ‘L-look.’
James stood fascinated as he watched the lady known as Nibbin prance and skip in a circle, waving two large feathers in her hand. She was about fifty yards away and behind her was what he assumed to be her house, although it was the most unusual dwelling he’d ever seen. It appeared to be made of layers of mud moulded into a large mound and shielded with sheets of old tarpaulin. She wore what he could only describe as a dress of rags that reached her ankles and had tied a saucepan to her head.
Stephen stood rooted to the spot. ‘Y-you want to speak to her, don’t you?’
James grinned. ‘Rather.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
He heard Stephen groan as they made a tentative approach. Nibbin appeared oblivious to the outside world and continued dancing and shouting. At first he thought these were the ramblings of a lonely woman but as he listened, he realised this was something quite different. She chanted in a raspy voice.
‘Treat those who are good with goodness; treat those who are not good with goodness. Thus goodness is attained. Be honest to those who are honest; be honest to those who are not honest. Thus honesty is attained.’
James answered Stephen’s quizzical look. ‘If my memory is correct, I believe this is ancient philosophy; a quotation from Lao Tzu.’
Stephen shrugged with an ‘if you say so’ expression and they continued watching Nibbin hop and spin.
‘The measure of a man—’ She stopped, mid-stoop. Her gaze bored into them. ‘Psh, psh,’ she muttered as if swatting them away. Her gaze eventually fell on James. ‘The measure of a man....’
James felt pleased with himself as he remembered the quote exactly. ‘The measure of a man is what he does with power. Plato, I believe.’
To his surprise, Nibbin stood up straight, broke into a broad smile and put her hands on her hips. ‘There are two things a person should never be angry at.’ She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him.
‘Ah, this is Plato, too. What they can help and what they cannot. Is that correct?’
‘Very good. Tea?’
James accepted for the pair of them and they followed her into her den, having to duck through a low-framed opening secured by driftwood. The dwelling was built against a slope in the ground and Nibbin had smeared mud and peat across the walls in the way that he imagined Celtic people had done thousands of years ago. He was quietly impressed. This was an abode shielded from driving rain, cool in the summer and snug in the winter.
‘I say, this is rather cosy.’
As Nibbin collected an old tin kettle, Stephen nudged him toward one of the sloping walls. James stepped forward to see old newspaper cuttings from the local paper stuck there, showing various stories of the mad woman of the moor. One showed a large photograph of Nibbin with two angel wings strapped to her back. He turned to the woman.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong but you don’t strike me as the mad woman of the moor.’
Nibbin, a lady he put in her mid-sixties, raised an eyebrow and lit the camping gas stove. Stephen helped her manoeuvre some old cushions for them to sit on.
‘Is that something you do purposely?’
She gestured for them to sit. ‘That’s for you to find out. Where would the British be without an eccentric or two? Have to keep that tradition alive.’
Stephen chuckled. ‘Y-you mean you live out here p-pretending to be mad?’
‘Oh I am mad.’ She spooned tea into a brown Betty teapot and set three chipped cups and saucers in front of them. While waiting for the water to boil, she told them about her father who used to be a lecturer and her uncle was a scientist in the armed forces who went AWOL. She spoke in a matter of fact way as if all families had the same background.
‘And your mother?’
‘She was wacky. Put in an asylum. Died years ago.’
‘B-but this is a pretence, isn’t it?’
The water boiled and Nibbin filled the tea pot. ‘Dad climbed off the merry-go-round; had a breakdown. Never recovered. He and Uncle built this place. They raided dustbins and tips picking up old blankets and tarpaulin. Made this a home from home. Dad died when I was twenty three. Uncle lived here. He tunnelled through that little gap – built another place. He died. I use it now. It’s a two-room squat and I love it.’
James peered through to see a mattress and some blankets. ‘Good Lord.’
‘He was Nobbin. I was Nibbin.’
‘I-I beg your pardon?’
‘Uncle devoured Cornish folklore, created two mischievous piskies and made up stories about them. Nibbin and Nobbin.’
James was beginning to understand this woman. ‘And you prefer people to see you as Nibbin, the mischievous piskie?’
‘Perceptive of you, Mr …?’
James apologised and introduced himself and Stephen. ‘We’re on holiday.’
Nibbin pulled over the only armchair in the cave, a moth-eaten affair that James was glad he hadn’t been offered. She explained she only had the one chair for a reason. ‘No one visits. They think I’ll gobble them up. And to be honest, I don’t like visitors. Happy for them to think I’m some sort of cannibal.’
Stephen noticed a certificate propped up on the side. ‘Philosophy? You d-did a degree?’
‘Mmm.’ She looked at James. ‘You studied?’
‘I did, but not philosophy. I take a passing interest in philosophical quotes. They fascinate me. Where did you study?’
‘Cambridge. You?’
‘Oxford.’ He accepted his tea. ‘Do any of the villagers come and see you?’
‘Two. Gretchen brings essentials and books. Bidevin brings pasties.’ She reached across for a long clay pipe and filled it with tobacco. ‘Not just on holiday, are you.’
James took this as a statement rather than a question. He exchanged a bashful look with Stephen and explained that he’d taken an interest in the disappearances in the village. Stephen added more detail about James’ hobby in crime and how he’d helped to solve a number of mysteries back in Cavendish.
‘H-he’s really rather good. Even George, the DCI up there, consults him n-now and again.’
She drew on her pipe and untied the saucepan on her head. ‘Proper little Sherlock. You say you had been looking into the mystery. You’ve stopped. Why?’
James splayed his hands. ‘Nibbin, there are a few hundred residents plus tourists here. I couldn’t begin to fathom out who kidnapped those men or why. I don’t know these people from Adam.’ He added that the two attempts on his life were a sure way to get him to step back.
‘Gretchen said you’ve rattled the cage of one particular resident.’
He sat up with a start. ‘Really? Who?’
‘Hilda Roscarrock.’
Stephen remarked that Hilda appeared to react in an odd way around the wives of the men who were missing. He went through their observations about how sympathetic she was, yet how she hinted that things would now be better. His eyes darted from James to Nibbin. ‘Y-you don’t think she’s killed th-them do you?’
Nibbin concentrated on stirring her tea. James thought she’d make a good poker player. Not even a twitch of
a response.
‘Nibbin, you’re in the village a lot. You must have seen something?’
‘I didn’t see the men disappear.’
‘You don’t believe it’s Knockers or Old Bogey.’
Nibbin snorted. ‘I’m offended you’d suggest it. Nonsense. You shouldn’t give up though. If someone wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now.’
James frowned. ‘Do you know who’s responsible? Is it Hilda? I thought it might be Jonah. He had affairs with the wives.’
She tutted and told him not to bother with Jonah. ‘Fancies himself as Casanova and had his fingers burnt. Seeks his women along the coast; not so close to home. Hilda knows those wives better than you think.’
Stephen asked if the missing men had anything in common.
She kept quiet for some time and then took their half-drunk cups of tea away. ‘I don’t like people. People make life complicated. Gretchen and Bidevin visit but don’t stay. They know not to stay. But I have to live alongside them, I can’t be involved. I don’t know who’s involved. But if you find these men, I do know what to tell them. You may not understand it but they should.’ She met James’ eyes. ‘You’ll be able to explain it when the time comes.’
She flung some scraps of paper and pencil at him. ‘Write it down.’
James frowned at Stephen then picked the paper up.
‘Tell Colm Fiske: it’s easy to be angry, but to be angry with the right person, to the right degree, at the right time, for the right purpose and in the right way – that’s not easy.’
James jotted it down and remembered the quote, an abbreviated version by Aristotle.
‘Tell Bevis Allan: if there’s such a thing as a good marriage, it’s because it resembles friendship.’
Stephen held a hand up with a look of triumph. ‘Ah, I’ve quoted that one myself, that’s Michel de Montaigne.’
‘To that stubborn stick in the mud, Enoch Pengilly: No man should bring children into the world who’s unwilling to persevere to the end in their nature and education.’
James scribbled and explained to Stephen they were back to Plato. ‘And Flora Chenery? You know we found her just along the cliff-top here.’
Lord James Harrington and the Cornish Mystery Page 17