Death on the Lizard (34 page)

“Have a sip of coffee,” Kate said, and pressed the cup against her lips.

Jenna drank, glad for the hot liquid, and grateful for the firm chair under her and the four walls around her, for Kate's sturdy, practical presence. Her mind was whirling, the thoughts and feelings swirling and turning. She heard a loud, thudding noise, wondered what it was, and realized that it was the pounding of her heart.

“Tell me, dear” Kate said, pulling her chair closer. “Tell me what you saw. You were reading the words on the paper and . . .”

Jenna gripped Kate's hand and spoke through numb lips. “I was reading the words on the paper, and suddenly I saw . . . I saw a man . . . a man murdered.”

The words. The words she had written but had not written. The words which had come through her pencil onto the paper, the words of the murdered man. And reading those words just now, she had been drawn back into the dead man's last moment of life, his last fearful breaths, before—

“Murdered!” Kate was staring at her. “How? Who?”

“I don't know who,” Jenna said helplessly. “A man. He fell—he was pushed off a cliff. I saw . . . Oh, God, Kate, I saw the hands that pushed him!” She took a deep breath and let it out, and with her breath, the words, the awful words: “I know who did it.”

“You know? How do you know?”

“Because he wore a . . . ring,” Jenna said miserably. She shook her head. “Please, don't ask me about it now. I don't think I can bear to tell you.” She stood, felt herself swaying, and put her hands flat on the table to steady herself. “Just . . . come with me, Kate.”

Kate stood too, and put a steadying arm around Jenna's shoulders. “But you're not well, my dear. Come upstairs with me and lie down. You can't go out in this state.”

“But I have to!” Jenna cried frantically. “I must go now!” Sobbing, she pulled away from the comfort of Kate's arm. “And you must come with me, Kate. Please. Oh, please! Just . . . come.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

 
 
 
 
Andrew Kirk-Smythe had risen before dawn to breakfast with Charles Sheridan. After Charles had driven off to Mullion, Andrew went down to the Helford quay, where he climbed aboard the hired sloop, checked the rigging and sails, and cast off. The sea was calm, with a fair wind blowing from the south, rippling the water in a fine, friendly way. It was a perfect day for sailing, and as he tacked down the Helford River and into the fresher breeze around Nare Point, he found himself whistling cheerfully. The foam rushed under the lee-bow, the salt spray splashed on his fingers and misted his face, and the sun as it rose warmed his back and sparked from the tops of the great blue waves.

Grand sport, sailing, Andrew thought. He should do more of it—and the Lizard, with its bays and inlets, its deep rivers, was the perfect place. When all this was over, he would come back here, and drop round at Penhallow, and see how Jenna Loveday was getting on, and whether she had—

He frowned and tightened up on the jib. See Jenna Loveday? He was a fool. The lady was in love with someone else, someone who would inevitably break her heart. Even if he warned her, if he told her to beware of the fellow, she would not listen. Even if he told her who he himself was, and why he was watching Wolf (or Niels or Hans or whatever name the man had given her), it would make no difference. Even if he told her about the man Wolf had murdered, about—

The luff of the mainsail rattled as the wind shifted forward by a point, and Andrew fell off a bit to fill it, sailing farther in toward the rocks, then putting the helm down and tacking back to starboard. Settling himself, he took out a cigarette and lit it, turning his shoulder against the wind and cupping the match in his hands. He was a fool twice—once for loving her, and once again for imagining that he could change her mind and her heart. He would stop thinking of her, forthwith. Instead, he would think about the plan he and Charles Sheridan had discussed the night before, and this morning at breakfast. He would review its details and devices, try to see where it might go wrong, or how it might be improved. He would—

But of course, Andrew did nothing of the sort. He tried to concentrate on the plan, and failing that, on the magnificent cliffs and the booming surf and the seabirds flinging themselves joyously into the clearest of clear blue skies. But he could think of little else but Jenna Loveday as he sailed past The Manacles and Black Head, past the wireless station on Bass Point, past the light at the tip of the Lizard, and far enough out into the gray waters of Mount's Bay to jibe and let the mainsail full out for a fast run past Mullion Island and into Mullion Cove.

It was only as he began to occupy himself with dropping sail and the tricky business of maneuvering around the sea wall into the shelter of the cove that he was able to give his whole mind to the task at hand. He secured the painter to one of the iron mooring rings fixed in the sea wall, dropped the fenders over the side, and made sure that everything was stowed below. Then he climbed the stone stairs and followed the track which led past the lifeboat station, up the cliffside to the top and along the edge of the cliff, around Pollurian Cove, to the Poldhu Hotel. It was lunchtime, or perhaps a little past, and he was guessing that he'd find Dick Corey in the hotel pub.

He was right. Corey was sitting by himself, a glass of ale at his elbow, greedily tucking into a fragrant shepherd's pie. Andrew leaned over the table.

“Mr. Corey?” he asked pleasantly.

Corey looked up, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aye, Corey. That's me.”

“Good,” Andrew said, and without waiting for an invitation, pulled out the chair and sat down. “Wolf sent me,” he said. “I'm to tell you that there has been a change in plans.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

 
 
 
 
Kate would not have thought that Jenna had the strength to walk, after her fright, but she was running— to the French doors, out onto the terrace, and through the garden. The blue ribbon which tied her hair had come loose and her long locks flew around her shoulders.

“Where are we going?” Kate cried, running after her.

“To Frenchman's Creek,” Jenna said, over her shoulder. Her voice was high and breathless. “Don't ask questions, Kate. And please, don't say anything.”

Frenchman's Creek!
Beryl exclaimed.
It's the pirate, Kate! The man she's in love with. Niels!

Niels? Kate thought blankly, as a branch whipped across her arm. Does she think Niels has been murdered?

“Oh, God,” Kate whispered. “But then who . . . who did he kill?”

Kate's breath caught. Beryl's leaps of fancy were often wrong, but in this case, she had to be right.

The path angled more steeply as they neared the water. Kate held her skirt up out of the leaf-litter and grabbed at a sapling to slow her forward momentum. The trees were thick around them, the leaves like a green vault overhead, shutting out the sky and throwing an eerie shadow, like a green veil, across everything. An unnatural stillness seemed to have fallen over the woods. No leaves stirred, no birds called, no squirrels chattered. The only sound was the rustle of their passage along the path, and the sound of their breathing.

Then Jenna, ahead of her, stopped and put up a hand. Kate stopped, too. Through the trees, she saw the bright glimmer of sunlight on water, and off to the left, a little distance away, the outline of a sailing yacht, moored to the bank under an overhanging oak.

“Shall I wait here?” Kate asked in a low voice.

“No,” Jenna said. “Come with me, please.” She turned with a brittle smile. “Oh, he's not going to hurt us, if that's what you're concerned about. I wouldn't put you in danger, Kate.”

Kate shook her head. “I only thought you might want . . . privacy.”

“No,” Jenna replied, and held out her hand. “Actually, I need you with me to keep me true to my purpose. What I've come to do is painful. I'm afraid I won't be able to do it.”

Without a word, Kate took her hand. The path leveled out and made a turn to the left, to follow the shoreline. As they came within ten yards or so of the boat, Kate smelled the rich odor of coffee brewing and bacon frying. Jenna raised her voice.

“Niels,” she called. “Niels!”

A moment later, a man in a gray woolen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, put his head and shoulders out of the galleyway and turned in their direction. Kate got a good look at his face. He was blond and sun-browned, and his eyes beneath the brim of his yachting cap were an almost brilliant blue. His face crinkled into a smile as he saw Jenna, but the smile faded when he realized that she was not alone.

“Jenna,” he said, in a foreign-sounding voice. He turned to look full at Kate. They were standing on the bank, now, within arm's reach of the boat's mooring. He studied Kate. There was a fierceness behind his eyes, she thought, and something so cold that she felt chilled through. Then he seemed to dismiss her, as if she were of no consequence. He turned back to Jenna. “You've brought a friend. Well, good.” The smile was back. “You can both join me for breakfast. The coffee is ready, and there's—”

“No, Niels.” Jenna's hand tightened on Kate's. “I've come to tell you that you must . . . go. Today. Now.”

He came up another step out of the galleyway, and his face showed the first signs of emotion. But it was not deep concern, or disappointment, or even regret. He was, Kate thought, merely puzzled. “But I thought we had agreed—”

“No,” she said.

The man's eyes, now wary, went to Kate, as if he were considering what he could say in her presence. “Is it your daughter's death? I've told you I had nothing to do with that.” His voice became stern. “It was not your fault, either, Jenna. You cannot—”

“I know,” Jenna said. She cleared her throat, and Kate could feel her trembling. “That isn't the reason, Niels—if that's your name. You've killed a man. There's blood on your hands.”

“Blood?” He looked at his hands, then held them up, palms out, as if to show her that they were clean. Kate caught the flash of a gold ring. She could not be sure at this distance, but she thought it was a match for the ring Jenna wore. He tilted his head. “How melodramatic. Really, Jenna, I hardly think—”

“The man on the cliff,” she said. “You pushed him off. I
saw
it.”

His smile, suddenly vivid, showed very white teeth. “Oh, come now, my dear. You could have seen nothing of the sort. You weren't . . . it didn't happen.”

“You're right,” she said. “I wasn't there. But it did happen and I saw it, Niels. All he wanted was to go back to Bavaria, and you killed him.”

“Bavaria!” The man's mouth hardened and he took another step up the galleyway, into full view. Kate suddenly found herself wishing that they were somewhere else. Jenna might be confident that they were not in danger, but she was not so sure. He wore a holstered pistol on his hip.

“If you are so confident of the facts,” he said stiffly, “I suppose there is no point in attempting to argue, to make you see reason.” His eyes flicked to Kate and back again to Jenna. “What do you mean to do about it, my dear?”

Jenna spoke with a surprising authority, Kate thought, especially considering the gun. “You have until noon to leave, Niels. After that, you'll have to deal with the constable. I don't want to, but I'll tell him everything.”

“An empty threat, without proof,” he said dryly, as if he were amused. “So. You are giving me fair warning. Is that it? Slip my mooring and be gone, or else?”

“I
am
giving you fair warning. Because I . . . loved you once.”

“Past tense, is it?” He sighed. “I am truly sad, Jenna. I hoped you would come with me, when my work was done here. We could have had at least some time together. It would have been . . . such a pleasure.”

Jenna appeared not to have heard. “But only until noon. Do you understand?”

His face hardened into grimmer lines. “I do. But you don't, you know. There's a great deal at stake here, my love, and much more to this than you can possibly—”

“Yes,” Jenna said, and now the fierceness was all in her. “And I don't
want
to know it. All I want is never to see you again, Niels.”

There was a faint trace of feeling in his face now, but whatever emotion he felt twisted his mouth into a wry shape and brought a deep bitterness to his voice. He put his hands on his hips, the tips of the fingers of his right hand brushing the gun.

Kate tensed, ready to flee. But he could aim and fire faster than they could run. If Jenna was wrong about him—

But she wasn't.

After a moment, Niels dropped his hands, shrugged, and half-turned, taking a step backward down the galleyway. “Very well, my dear,” he said lightly. “I'm not the sort of man who outstays his welcome.” He raised his cap. “Goodbye, Jenna Loveday.”

And then he disappeared down the galleyway. In a moment, they could hear him whistling cheerfully.

The tune was “Rule, Britannia.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR