Ann Granger (23 page)

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Authors: That Way Murder Lies

BOOK: Ann Granger
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At that moment, Ted, at the bar, caught Meredith’s eye, winked and raised his glass to her in salute.
‘Oh, wonderful,’ she said. ‘Now he thinks we all live in a
ménage à trois.’
‘I’m beginning to think it myself,’ said Markby gloomily. ‘I really do understand how Jeremy Jenner feels.’
‘Let’s hope Ted doesn’t find out about Merry and me going down to Cornwall, then!’ said Toby. ‘Cheers!’
When Alan Markby had referred to Cornwall as a quiet part of the world, he hadn’t been thinking of the effect of the Easter holidays on a renowned tourist destination. The roads were clogged and they made slow progress. The interior of the car was stifling. Meredith had drunk her bottle of water and they had eaten all the boiled sweets.
‘There’s another caravan up ahead,’ said Toby obligingly when they found themselves stuck in yet another tailback. The road here was little more than a lane between high banks bright with pink flowers.
‘Thanks. How much further is it to this cottage of Alison’s?’
Toby consulted the map. ‘Not far. Fifteen miles.’
Meredith groaned. Fifteen miles might just as well be fifty in present circumstances. She looked at her wristwatch. This was all going to prove a ghastly mistake.
Toby, on the other hand, had cheered up since they had entered the county and no amount of traffic problems could quench his enthusiasm.
‘I love this area. I used to come down here with my parents during school holidays. I remember sunbathing on the beach at Daymer Beach and, later, learning to ride the surf at Polzeath. That was when I was much older, of course. In our earlier years, my brother and I used to scramble over the rocks seeing what we could find in the pools, and several times we nearly got cut off by the tide. It comes in very fast along this stretch of coast.’
‘Where is your brother now?’ enquired Meredith.
‘He’s a marine biologist. He puts that down entirely to those seaside holidays in Cornwall. But he’s working in Australia now.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘Retired to Portugal,’ said Toby. ‘Well out of it. They were sorry to hear about Fiona, of course. But I doubt they’ll be coming back here for the funeral.’
It was the first mention Meredith had heard of funeral arrangements for Fiona Jenner. ‘Has the coroner released the body?’
‘Not yet, but Jeremy’s putting pressure on. The thing is, Chantal will stay until Fiona’s decently sent on her way and the rest of us have to put up with it. I think Jeremy was all for throwing her out of the house before she’d been in it five minutes, but Alison wouldn’t hear of it. The funeral is going to be an awkward affair. There’s that girl in London, Tara. She’ll want to be at the service. I pointed that out to Jeremy but he mumbled that he meant it to be family only. I said that in the circumstances Fiona had looked on Tara as family. But that didn’t go down well, and I didn’t get a proper reply. I think she’s been on the phone to him.’
‘Tara Seale has?’
‘Yes. At least, I’m fairly sure. It’s difficult to be absolutely certain because, as I said, Jeremy won’t talk to me about it. I think he’s annoyed now that I went up to the flat and found Tara there. But it was all his idea! I overheard him talking to Alison. Tara was mentioned followed by something about her having no rights. My guess is that Jeremy is trying to freeze her out and I think that’s unfair. She was Fi’s partner, after all. I think Jeremy wants to get her out of the flat. It appears Fiona didn’t make a will. The whole thing is basically rather petty. I had thought Jeremy had a more generous nature, at least a modern attitude. He seems to be turning into an aggrieved Victorian paterfamilias. I think that he and I are heading for a vigorous disagreement about it, but I don’t want to row with him just yet, not while he’s got so much else to worry about. Even so, I’m not going to let him freeze Tara
out. It’s not right. It’s not what Fiona would have wished. It’s downright cruel, if you ask me. He’s not going to get away with it. I won’t let him.’ Toby gave a determined nod.
‘He’s grieving,’ Meredith reminded him. ‘Grief doesn’t listen to reasonable argument. Give him a week or two.’
‘No one’s listening to anyone just now, that’s the trouble.’ Toby folded the map carefully into a neat rectangle. ‘I don’t have time to wait for Jeremy to change his attitude, anyway. He’s got to be made to see Tara has to be included right now. Alison would be kind to Tara, I’m sure, just as she’s tried to be kind to Chantal. But I can’t ask for her help with this. Since that last letter came, Alison’s been as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof. She’s given up on Chantal and it’s not just the moment to talk to her about Tara, I’m afraid. Turn right here!’
Meredith turned right and found to her great relief that they had left the traffic behind them. They now followed a narrow twisting lane which led them up hill and down dale until they reached a pub, two or three cottages and a ramshackle garage.
‘This is the village,’ said Toby confidently.
‘Are you sure?’ Meredith peered doubtfully at the two petrol pumps sited in isolated splendour before a large dilapidated building bearing a board reading: G. Melhuish. Repairs. Tyres and Exhausts. MOT.
‘Must be, it’s on the map. We go on for a quarter of a mile towards the sea.’
The sun was starting to go down when they finally reached their destination. The cottage stood in an exposed position atop the cliffs with a magnificent view of the River Camel estuary below. As Meredith got out of the car, the wind caught her hair and sent it flying wildly around her head. She could smell the salt spray of the sea rushing up the beach below. There was no one to be seen and the red glow of the setting sun bathed them in a strange, other-worldly light. The cottage, a curious affair, half stone and half timbered, looked as if it might have started life as some kind of barn. She mentioned this to Toby.
‘I think it did.’ Toby’s expression, flushed with the dying sun’s rays, was almost exalted. ‘Alison said there was a story that smugglers kept their illicit cargoes in it during the eighteenth century. But every old building along this part of the coast will tell you a similar tale. Mind you, they did land contraband along here in the bad old days, in the smaller bays like Trebarwith and Tintagel or Boscastle and, of course, at Polperro. Sometimes the excise cutter would intercept and arrest the smugglers but they had their work cut out. Informers didn’t last long and local people kept their mouths shut. No one saw anything wrong in it. The most respectable ladies bought their tea at the back door late at night. The West Country has always been at odds with authority.’
‘“Brandy for the parson, ’baccy for the clerk”,’ Meredith quoted Kipling, but Toby was pulling their suitcases from the car and didn’t hear her. She turned back to the odd little building which was to be their base.
It had the abandoned air of a habitation which wasn’t lived in except for occasional weeks here and there. There was life, however, in the form of a dozen small rabbits hopping about the front garden. At the human approach they scattered, bouncing away across the dry turf in a dozen directions.
‘There must be a warren nearby,’ Meredith commented.
Apart from the rabbits, the only other sign of life was an occasional seabird wheeling overhead. As a holiday cottage, a place to get away from the hurly-burly, it would be ideal. As a place to retire to and live out your final days, much less so. Freda Kemp, thought Meredith, must have been very lonely in her last years. She must have looked forward eagerly to her niece Alison’s visits. Even the daily visit from her cleaner, Mrs Travis, must have assumed a huge importance.
‘Mrs Travis,’ said Meredith as they opened the front door. ‘We ought to try and find Mrs Travis.’
‘Will she still be alive?’ Toby asked.
‘Why not? She had a ten-year-old son way back then, twenty-five years ago. She probably wasn’t much more than my age now,
in her mid-thirties. She can’t be more than in her sixties at the most, and we ought to be able to find her.’
‘She didn’t like Alison,’ warned Toby.
‘So, we won’t mention Alison.’
They carried their provisions in from the car and stashed them in the cupboards and fridge. The cottage was comfortable and attractive, furnished inside with modern pine pieces. Quick inspection of the neat kitchen showed that it was equipped, as such lettings usually were, with the standard six of everything in the way of crockery and cutlery. Alison must have cleared out everything reminding her of her aunt. Only in the living room did two old but nice rugs suggest they might have survived from earlier days. There was a splendid wide-screen television set. In a cupboard, in case the weather turned against the holidaymakers, they found a supply of board games and much-thumbed paperback novels.
Meredith went to sleep that night listening to the roar of the incoming tide as it surged up the estuary until it reached the rocks below the cottage. Once there, the waves growled angrily against the base of the cliff. The creak of the house timbers mingled with the sea noises. It made her more than ever conscious of the loneliness Freda Kemp must have endured. Endured, she thought, was the word. Why hadn’t she sold up and moved somewhere livelier? Perhaps her decision to stay had been due to a wrongheaded obstinacy. She had made her choice and she would stick with it. But people differ in their idea of lonely. Perhaps Freda hadn’t felt her isolation. There were people who were happy enough on their own. Freda might have been one of them.
 
The following morning was bright and clear. Their attempt to find Mrs Travis was held up, however, by Toby’s insistence that they climb down to the beach.
‘Because the tide is nearly out now,’ he said simply.
Meredith didn’t know what time the tide had turned but Toby was right. It was racing back towards the open sea, slowly exposing
the yellow sands. Luckily, they hadn’t to scramble down the rocky incline using hand- and toeholds. There was a concrete stairway from the cliffside path to the beach below. The sand, now that they’d reached it, could be seen to be dotted with wormcasts, shells, the occasional dead crab and odd strands of seaweed. In places the smooth surface was broken by groups of large boulders. The rocks here were pale grey with tinges of pink and blue. Meredith discovered that, if viewed through sunglasses, the pinks and blues became quite startling. In the far distance someone was walking a pair of large dogs which gambolled happily along the water’s edge, splashing in and out of the shallows. Otherwise they were alone. Toby seemed to have regressed to his childhood, clambering over the boulders and exclaiming in delight over tiny finds of crabs or shrimps in the rock pools. Eventually Meredith dragged him sternly away.
‘Look, we came down here to try and find some clue or other to what’s happened back at Overvale. We won’t do it like this.’
Regretfully Toby followed her back to the steps and they climbed up to the road at the top.
‘Where first?’ he asked.
‘It’s too early to try the pub. Let’s go back to that garage. I could buy some petrol and ask a question or two, just casually.’
But when they drew up at the garage, that also seemed to be deserted. They got out of the car and looked about them.
‘There must be someone about,’ Toby fretted. ‘The doors are open.’
At that moment there was a clang from inside the large rickety building and the sound of a robust oath. They made their way towards it.
Meredith stepped out of the bright sunlight into the interior and a shutter seemed to come down before her eyes, isolating her in a world of darkness which smelled strongly of oil and grease. Then her eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light and she saw she was surrounded by all the contents of a garage workshop. Something moved at the far end and a bear-like figure
materialized, coming towards them, wiping his hands on a grimy rag.
‘Hello,’ he greeted them. ‘What can I do for you, then?’ He looked even bigger close at hand, clad in extremely dirty overalls and strong boots. He had a mop of curly hair and very bright blue eyes which made her think of Alan. Meredith guessed him to be G. Melhuish, owner and chief, if not sole, mechanic.
Meredith put in her request for fuel. As she sorted out the money to pay for it, she wondered how to begin a general conversation. But she needn’t have worried. They were strangers, the first visitors of the day, and the garage owner was keen to talk to them.
‘Down here on holiday, then?’ he asked affably, leaning one blackened hand against the nearest pump.
‘No—’ began Toby but was overridden by Meredith.
‘Yes, but not a proper holiday. Just a couple of days.’
‘Where are you staying, then?’ The man looked from one to the other of them as if fixing them in his memory.
‘At the cottage along there, on top of the cliff.’
‘Ah, the old Kemp place,’ he said, and scratched his chin leaving a smear of grease.
‘I understand it belongs to a Mrs Jenner,’ Meredith said carefully. ‘Who are the Kemps?’
He gave her a canny sideways look. ‘Only one of them, an old lady. She used to live there. It’ll be a while back now.’
‘But everyone still calls the cottage after her? Why is that?’ Meredith affected wide-eyed innocence but had the feeling he wasn’t fooled by it.
‘She died,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I knew her. Before my time.’ He pushed himself away from the pump. ‘Well, got to get some work done! I hope you enjoy your stay.’
His desire to chat seemed to have evaporated. He began to amble back to the garage.
‘Can you tell us whether there is there a shop around here?’ Meredith asked loudly.

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