Fethering 08 (2007) - Death under the Dryer (24 page)

“Well, what are we hoping to get out of our little trip? Based on the flimsiest of clues, we’re setting off to try and discover the Lockes’ lost Narnia. We must be out of our skulls.”

“You say the flimsiest of clues, but we have got the anagram of Biddet Rock from Treboddick.”

“Yes, but that could be a coincidence.”

“Unlikely.”

“All right, Carole, it probably is an anagram, but there’s no reason why it should have anything to do with the disappearance of Nathan Locke.”

“Do you think the girls knew it was an anagram? Chloe and Sylvia—or whatever their wretched nicknames are?”

“I wouldn’t think so. They’ve grown up with that Wheel Quest game. I doubt if they ever think about where the names come from.”

“So you don’t think they’d know where Nathan is?”

“I’d doubt it.”

“And do you reckon,” asked Carole, “that the person who made up the anagram was Rowley Locke?”

“It’d make sense, wouldn’t it, given what we know of his character?”

“Mmm.”

“So we’ve just got the one anagram,” said Jude, uncharacteristically negative. “I wish we had another clue to confirm that one. No, when I come to think about it, “wild-goose chase’ is a pretty accurate description.”

Carole was worried. She’d just relaxed into their journey. Her anxiety about Gaby had been relieved by the call to Stephen. And now her fragile equanimity was being threatened by Jude apparently being an unwilling partner in the enterprise. “Oh dear,” she said. “Do you wish we hadn’t come? You say it’s daft. Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“No,” replied Jude, her brown eyes sparkling. “I think it’s a
brilliant
idea.”

I
t was evening by the time they got to their destination. Treboddick was almost the furthest point of the British mainland, on the Atlantic Coast some miles north of Land’s End. Carole was not a speedy driver, and their journey had got slower as they progressed through Cornwall. She hadn’t been there since childhood holidays and the change that struck her most was the development of the tourist industry. Almost every house seemed to offer Bed and Breakfast, with such extra inducements as ‘En Suite Rooms’ and ‘Sky Television’. Every side turning was festooned with signs to hotels, pubs and other attractions. So many facilities were advertised that there seemed an air of desperation about their pleading. And the drabness of some of the towns their route skirted reinforced the suggestion that all was not well with the local economy.

Mopsa Locke had emailed directions to Jude, and they had a very clear map for the last part of their journey. After Penzance they had to turn north towards Newbridge, then take the road to Pendeen. From there on the route was on very minor roads and they certainly wouldn’t have found their way without the instructions. Carole drove cautiously along the high-banked lanes (“narrow, with passing places”), the Renault seeming to fit snugly between the sides as if on a green bobsleigh run. She sounded her horn frequently. What would have happened if she had met some demented local speeding in the other direction she did not dare to conjecture.

Finally they actually saw a sign to Treboddick, a mere three-quarters of a mile away. The road climbed upwards. They had glimpsed the sea many times on their journey and now, though it was invisible, they could sense its closeness. As the Renault breasted the hill, they suddenly saw the Atlantic in all its glory. The sun had just dropped behind the horizon, but its glow still flushed the sky. And outlined the jagged remnants of old mine workings on the clifftop, glowing through a twisted tower of rusty metal, the glass-free windows of a roofless pump house and the scattered rubble of other collapsed structures.

In strong contrast to this scene of dilapidation was the terrace of cottages a mere hundred yards away. Probably decayed too after the Cornish tin mining industry failed in the late nineteenth century, at some point they had been refurbished to a very high standard. The roofs were neatly slated and each of the four cottages had a white-fenced front garden with well-tended gravel path and beds of hardy shrubs and grasses. The cottage nearest the mine—presumably the one that the Locke family kept for their own use—had an extension built to the side that probably doubled its size.

The setting on that September evening was magically serene, but the landscape also carried hints of great harshness. The few trees leaned away from the sea, cowering as if in fear of its cruel potential. In a winter storm, when the rain and spray lashed against them, the little cluster of buildings would be a bleak—even frightening—place to be.

The situation was certainly dramatic, a ready inspiration for any over-imaginative child who wanted to create an alternative universe. Carole wondered whether the old pump house had been the building which the young Rowley Locke had creatively turned into the Castle of Biddet Rock.

Adjacent to the furthest cottage there was a clearly marked hard standing area for cars, its only occupant a beat-up green Nissan so old that when bought it was called a Datsun. As Carole brought the Renault to a neat halt, a tall red-haired girl emerged from the largest cottage. If she hadn’t known who to expect, Carole would still have recognized her. Mopsa and Dorcas were absolutely identical twins. Though dressed in saggy jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, the girl still carried something of her sister’s Pre-Raphaelite elegance. She came towards them, beaming a professional welcome and lisped, “Mrs Metarius?”

“Yes,” replied Jude without hesitation. “And this is my friend Cindy Shepherd.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” said Mopsa, fortunately not seeing the thunderstruck expression on the face of the thin grey-haired woman. Carole was looking away, busy putting a lead on Gulliver. His long period of incarceration in the back of the Renault, compounded by the amazing new cocktail of smells that greeted him when he got out, had brought the dog to a peak of panting Labrador excitement.

“If you come with me,” said Mopsa, “I’ll give you the keys to Number Three and you can fill out the paperwork for me.”

She led them back to the door of Number One and said it was fine to bring Gulliver in. But given his ebullient state and the possibility of there being breakables inside, Carole instead tied the protesting dog by his lead to a ring attached to the stone frontage.

The interior of the cottage did not maintain the promise of its exterior. The hallway was untidy with hanging waterproofs and abandoned gumboots. And the sitting room into which Mopsa led them was also a mess. The table was covered with newspapers, magazines and congealed coffee cups; the grey plastic of the outdated computer on the work surface was smeared with many fingerprints. About the cottage hung the same air of neglect and lack of investment as in the family’s home in Chichester.

Mopsa herself also looked grubby. Her T-shirt wasn’t that clean and there was a mark of what looked like soot across the back of one of her hands. Despite all this, she made no apology for the chaos in the cottage and she seemed to share the general Locke view that people should take them as they found them—and be grateful for the privilege. The girl riffled through papers in an overfilled drawer, saying that she’d got some forms somewhere. Carole disapproved. Mopsa had had twenty-four hours to prepare for the arrival of her guests and appeared to have done nothing about it. And if the same standards of cleanliness were going to be maintained in Cottage Number Three, Carole felt the beginning of a complaint coming on.

“I’m sorry,” said Jude suddenly, “but could I use your loo? Been sitting in the car for ages, and dying to go since before Penzance.”

“Yes, of course.” Mopsa pointed down a passage. “There’s a little bathroom down there, through the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Maybe Cindy can sign the forms.” Unseen by Mopsa, Jude grinned at her friend and was rewarded by a furious glare.

“No, I’m afraid, Mrs Metarius—”

“Please call me Jenny.”

“Right, Jenny. I’m going to need your name on the forms, because the booking’s been made on your card.”

“Oh, fine. Won’t be a minute.”

And Jude disappeared. Carole was also feeling pressure on her bladder after the long drive, but her willpower would force her to wait until they got into their cottage. Anyway, it hadn’t been that long since they’d stopped at the service station near Exeter. What was Jude up to?

Mopsa didn’t seem about to initiate conversation, so Carole observed that it was very beautiful at Treboddick and asked whether the girl had lived there long.

“Not full-time, no. But the place has been in the family since before I was born, so I’ve been coming here all my life. You know, for holidays and weekends.”

“Very nice too.” Carole wondered what she could ask next. She must be careful. Carole Seddon might know quite a lot about the Locke family, but Cindy Shepherd certainly didn’t. And why on earth had Jude chosen such a ridiculous name? Cindy was far too young for her, apart from anything else. And it was also common.

She decided that even a complete stranger might ask Mopsa if she lived there on her own, and did.

“Yes, at the moment. Some of my family’ll probably be down soon.”

“So do you work round here?”

The girl looked affronted. “This is my job. I run the lettings of the cottages.”

“Oh yes, of course, I’m so sorry. You told Ju—J—Jenny.” It didn’t seem to be much of a job. Taking the odd phone call, checking the website. When business was as slack as it appeared to be, the duties could hardly be described as onerous. And when she had got something to do, like getting the forms ready for new visitors, Mopsa didn’t appear to have done it.

Carole looked round the room for some other prompt to conversation. Fixed on two pegs over the fireplace was an old-fashioned single-barrelled shotgun. Gesturing to it, she asked, “Is that a trophy or something? An antique?”

“Antique it may be,” Mopsa replied, “but it still works. I use it when the rabbits get too close to the gardens.”

There was another silence, which the girl appeared quite happy to have maintained until Jude returned, but Carole thought she ought to say something more. “I suppose you’re very busy here during high summer?”

Mopsa jutted forward her lower lip. “Not as busy as we should be. People don’t seem to be coming in the numbers they used to. And there’s lots of competition in self-catering accommodation.”

“Yes, I’m sure there is. We saw all those signs on the way down, offering ‘En Suite Bathrooms’ and ‘Sky Television’.”

“We don’t have that kind of stuff here,” said the girl with an edge of contempt. “Why, do you want an ‘En Suite Bathroom’ and ‘Sky Television’, Cindy?”

Carole winced. She didn’t know whether she was more offended by the name or the suggestion. “No, I certainly do not,” she replied icily.

Further awkwardness was prevented by Jude’s return from the bathroom. As ever, her presence lightened the atmosphere. She signed the necessary form, listened to Mopsa outlining the small amount of housekeeping information new tenants required, and gratefully took the handful of crumpled flyers and brochures for local attractions.

“I’ll show you Number Three now. Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Ooh yes. Is there by any chance a pub relatively nearby, where we could get something to eat?”

Carole’s instinctive reaction was: again? But we had a pub meal at lunchtime in Lyme Regis. And we haven’t even looked at the Welcome Pack in the fridge.

The pub Mopsa had recommended was the Tinner’s Lamp in the village of Penvant, about three miles distant. Since she reckoned they stopped serving food at eight-thirty, Carole and Jude had only the briefest of visits to their cottage before hurrying off for supper. They did just have time to register, with some relief, that the standards of housekeeping in the rental properties were higher than in the Lockes’ own cottage. (Probably there was a local woman who sorted them out, while Mopsa was responsible for her Number One.) Then Gulliver, tantalized by his brief taste of aromatic freedom, was once again consigned gloomily to the back of the car.

Very little was said on their way to the Tinner’s Lamp, and Jude was pretty certain she knew the reason for her neighbour’s frostiness. As soon as they had delivered their order at the bar, she was proved right. The pub was another stone-built building of considerable antiquity, but again skilfully and sympathetically modernized. There weren’t many customers, but those present seemed definitely to be locals—not rustic fishermen with Cornish accents, but retired solicitors of the last generation to enjoy nice index-linked pensions.

At the solid wooden bar Carole had asked for white wine and been a little surprised to be offered a choice of five, including a Chilean Chardonnay, for which they inevitably plumped. Why did she imagine that, being so far from the metropolis, the Tinner’s Lamp would not rise to the sophistication of a wine list? Pure Home Counties prejudice. Jude had then ordered a pasty—“Well, after all, we are in Cornwall”—and Carole, feeling suddenly very hungry, had surprised herself by doing the same. Then, when they were ensconced at a small table between the bar and the open fire, Carole voiced the resentment she had been bottling up.

“Why on earth did you have to call me Cindy?”

“It was something I came up with on the spur of the moment,” replied Jude in a tone of well-feigned apology. “I should have worked out names for us before, but I didn’t think. It just came to me.”

“Well, I wish something else had ‘just come to you’. Cindy! I mean: do I look like a Cindy?”

“We none of us have any control over the names our parents gave us.”

But Carole wasn’t mollified by that. “We might, however, hope to have some control over the names our neighbours give us.”

“I was thinking on my feet, and all I knew was that it was important to come up with a name that had the same initials as your real one.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oh, really, Carole. Haven’t you read any Golden Age whodunnits? The bounder who’s masquerading under a false identity is always given away by the fact that the name he’s chosen doesn’t match the initials on his monogrammed luggage.”