Malice in Cornwall (5 page)

Dr. Harris's tiny sitting room, cluttered with books and papers, had a distinctly nautical flavor: a tarnished brass telescope mounted on a tripod at the front window, and on the adjoining wall a Victorian barometer, a ship's clock, and several framed photographs of a sleek ketch— the
Dulcinea
—crewed by a young man (a younger Dr. Harris?) and a smiling woman. At Harris's invitation he took a seat on a threadbare settee.

Powell stared at the wall behind Dr. Harris, transfixed. In a small alcove to the right of, and not visible from, the doorway hung a stunning painting of a familiar scene.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

Harris smiled. “Be my guest.”

Powell got up and went over to examine the painting. It was a watercolor, approximately two-and-a-half by three feet in size and simply breathtaking in its conception and execution. The artist had employed the brilliant transparency of light and the shifting fluidity of water to permeate and absorb the merest suggestion of solid shapes, which hardly seemed to be seen at all. Sea-swept cliffs, a colorful splash of cottages, and in the foreground a yacht, the whole overshadowed by the looming presence of Towey Head. The perspective seemed slightly odd, as if the artist had set out to show the space between objects as a greater or lesser concentration of light rather
than simply as physical distance. “It's bloody marvelous!” he said.

“Yes it is, rather,” Harris said quietly.

“I can't make out the signature.”

“Roger Trevenney. He lives near here, past Mawgawan Beach.”

“For a moment there I thought you'd lifted a Turner from the Tate Gallery.”

“I'd rather have Roger's painting, to tell the truth. Surprisingly, he's not that well known, but he's a genius nonetheless. He lost his daughter tragically some years ago and hasn't done much since. Paints for friends, mostly, and sells the odd one to make ends meet.”

“You know him, then?”

“Yes.”

“That must be the
Dulcinea
in the painting.”

“You're very observant, Chief Superintendent.”

“She looks a most excellent mistress.”

“Bravo! You don't sail by any chance?”

“Not anymore, I'm afraid.”

Harris nodded sadly. “A quick turn around the bay in my little Enterprise now and again, that's about my speed these days.”

“I'd very much like to meet him.”

Harris stiffened slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Trevenney.”

Harris frowned. “He's not very well—he really shouldn't be disturbed.”

That seemed to be that. “I see.”

Harris rubbed his hands together briskly. “Now, then, a little restorative is what the doctor ordered. Glass of wine?”

Powell smiled. “I would never argue with a medical man.”

Harris returned with two glasses of white wine. “I've a fondness for Burgundy, and ‘ninety-five was an excellent year.”

After the obligatory rituals, Powell took a lingering sip. He was impressed. “Very nice.”

Harris looked pleased. “There's more where that came from, Chief Superintendent.” He winked slyly.

Thus lubricated, Dr. Harris began to recount his life story. After qualifying in London some forty years ago, he had no idea where he wanted to settle down and practice. He came out to Cornwall for a holiday—to sow his wild oats, as he put it—where he met a young student working at a hotel in St. Ives for the summer (Helen Morrison, Powell learned, the smiling woman in the photographs). They found they had much in common—an affinity for the sea and sailing, in particular—and soon fell madly in love. Upon returning to London, they married, she finished her degree in fine arts, and Harris worked for a time as a resident at St. Bart's. They very quickly discovered, however, that life in the city was not for them. Throwing caution to the wind, they pulled up roots and followed their hearts back to St. Ives. He set up a family practice, and she opened a small art shop. That was how they had met Trevenney, Harris added as an aside. They acquired the
Dulcinea
and spent their summers sailing up and down the Cornish coast. The years passed happily.

“It was an idyllic sort of existence, looking back on it. We were deeply in love, living the life we'd chosen in the most beautiful spot on earth. I suppose deep down one
realized that it couldn't go on forever, but one is never really prepared for the end.” He paused. “Helen was killed in a car crash in nineteen-eighty.”

“I'm sorry,” Powell murmured.

“Ah, well, Chief Superintendent, the grim reaper is no stranger to either of us. Now, a bit more wine, I think.”

After Harris had returned with their glasses replenished, he continued, “I sold everything about ten years ago, the
Dulcinea
, my practice, and leased this place. It's quite nice, really. Penrick is fairly quiet most of the year. It gets a bit hectic during the summer months, but nothing like St. Ives or Perranporth. It's a pleasant enough life; I do a bit of gardening to pass the time …” He suddenly looked very tired.

Powell cleared his throat. “Sir, you said before that you'd been expecting someone like me to call. What did you mean, exactly?”

Harris was suddenly angry. “It's about bloody time someone put a stop to it! Whoever is responsible for this—this abomination—should be put away for a very long time! Do you know how much suffering it's caused already?”

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure that I understand …”

Harris looked embarrassed. “Please forgive me, Chief Superintendent, it's—it's just that it simply cannot be allowed to continue. I mean, I'm pleased that the police have finally been brought in, that's all. I assume that's why you are here.”

“You're referring to the so-called Riddle of Penrick, I take it?”

Harris nodded wearily.

Powell examined his host closely, without appearing to do so. “Have you seen it yourself?”

Harris seemed slightly offended by the question. “No, of course not. It's obviously a load of rubbish, a malicious prank of some kind.”

“But you said that someone has suffered as a result of it…”

Harris shrugged unconvincingly. “Well, you know, reporters snooping around, the invasion of one's privacy, and now the police.”

Powell was disappointed. “I see. You're a man of science, Dr. Harris; assuming you're right about the Riddle, do you have any idea what it might be?”

Harris hesitated before replying. “I reckon it's an animal carcass of some kind, done up to look human and then dragged onto the beach at night.”

Powell was doubtful. “But why would anyone go to so much trouble?”

Harris fixed him with a penetrating gaze. “That's the question, isn't it?”

Powell fired a shot in the dark. “Is there anyone you can think of who might be able to point me in the right direction?”

Harris seemed to consider the question carefully. “There are basically two kinds of people in Penrick, Chief Superintendent: locals and outsiders. And two subclasses of outsiders, come to that—those like myself and the young couple next door, for instance, who have chosen to live here; and the mobs of holidaymakers who swarm into our fair village each summer. Putting it diplomatically, one could say that the locals have an ambivalent attitude toward tourists, who are, sad to say, the
mainstay of the local economy these days, and a major source of aggravation. A seasonal stampede of cash cows might be the best way to describe it. I like to think we permanent transplants are generally better tolerated. To answer your question: No, I don't think I can enlighten you further, but you should at least be aware that there are various interests to consider.”

An intriguing and somewhat ambiguous answer that nonetheless skirted the main issue: Who stood to gain by the Riddle? Powell drained his glass. “I won't take up any more of your time, Dr. Harris. I'm grateful for your hospitality.”

“Don't mention it. Pop in anytime. I'd welcome the company,” he added a bit wistfully. “The pub has a decent cellar, by the way.”

Powell smiled. “I'll keep it in mind.”

On a whim, Powell walked over to the neighboring cottage, picking his way through the cluttered yard, and knocked on the door. There was no answer. As he walked back along the Sands toward the village, immersed in his thoughts, he noticed that a damp mist had rolled in from the sea. Dr. Harris had aroused his curiosity; he was a likable chap, but he had responded in a very personal way when the subject of the Riddle had come up and then tried to gloss over his reaction. Who was suffering? And what exactly was the cause of it? Surely not some elaborate hoax—that became increasingly implausible the more he thought about it. Whistling tunelessly, he had no doubt that he would be seeing Dr. Harris again.

A sudden fierce squall raged outside. The rain, driven by gusts of wind, rattled like handfuls of gravel tossed against the windowpane. Powell and Black sat bleakly in the Residents' Lounge of the Wrecker's Rest while Mrs. Polfrock held forth on a dizzying variety of subjects, relentlessly plumbing the depths of banality and narrow-mindedness for the benefit of what was, for all intents and purposes, a captive audience.

After enduring a dinner that consisted of underdone lamb chops anointed with a substance resembling motor oil, accompanied by soggy chips and tinned sweet corn (the vegetable
du jour
, according to the menu), Powell and Black had been on their way out to the pub to lick their wounds when they were cornered by Mrs. Polfrock, who had herded them as expertly as any sheepdog into the Residents' Lounge. She liked to mingle with the guests, was the way she put it, which is to say she liked to pry as obtrusively as possible into their personal affairs.

Powell's spirits were sinking rapidly like a piece of 43
Cornish granite dropped into the Atlantic Ocean. Things were not turning out exactly the way he had planned. His initial reaction at being offered the assignment in Cornwall had been one of guarded enthusiasm. Something a bit out of the ordinary: curious happenings on the Cornish coast, himself ensconced for the duration in some picturesque seaside hotel, with Keith Floyd presiding over the kitchen, wineglass in hand, burbling happily about fresh English ingredients lovingly prepared. More to the point, he had badly needed a break from the usual day-to-day drudgery and domestic turmoil. He had already decided with considerable reluctance to forgo his annual salmon fishing holiday in Scotland with his old Scottish mate and colleague, Alex Barrett. The last time around they had become embroiled in a messy murder investigation, the personal implications of which Powell was still trying to sort through. He and Barrett were planning to get together in September for a bit of rough shooting, but September seemed a long way off.

Not that he hadn't had some reservations about taking the case. First off, there was the possibility, indeed the high probability that the Riddle of Penrick would turn out to have a perfectly mundane explanation, the end result being that he would have squandered a precious Murder Squad assignment. More ominous was the fact that Sir Henry Merriman, Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, had offered it to him in the first place. Powell was convinced—irrationally, he knew—that Merriman had it in for him. Sir Henry was a ruthlessly ambitious and calculating sycophant, which tended to compensate, careerwise at least, for his considerable shortcomings. His latest fixation was the planning of a multimillion-pound police
theme park and museum in central London called The Police Experience (“a day of chills, mystery, and suspense for the whole family”). This at least had the advantage of diverting his attention away from legitimate policing issues where he could do some real damage.

Powell was the very antithesis of Merriman. Throughout his career he had been promoted, not through any particular desire on his part to climb the bureaucratic stairway to heaven, but by virtue of an intuitive bent that bordered on brilliance and an ability to get the job done, even if his methods were somewhat informal at times. His talents had been recognized early by his superiors, but not always by himself.

In the end, his desire for a change of scene had won out, and thus it was he found himself in the Residents' Lounge of the Wrecker's Rest being subjected to the tedious pontificating of Mrs. Agnes Polfrock.

“It's them students at Mawgawan Beach and them others besides,” she was saying, “running around in the altogether, having orgies and I don't know what else. It's disgusting.”

Powell tried in vain to picture in his mind what the
what else
could be.

And Mr. Polfrock, imagining perhaps the curtailment of his frequent birding expeditions with his spotting scope to the cliffs overlooking Mawgawan Beach, muttered, “What bloody rubbish!”

“I couldn't agree more, Mrs. Polfrock,” Powell remarked breezily. “One must maintain certain standards. I'll have a word with Chief Inspector Butts. The local constabulary will no doubt wish to keep, er, abreast of such activities.” Good Christ, how was he going to put up
with any more of her drivel? He belched silently. He held Sergeant Black, whom he had instructed to gather sufficient culinary intelligence in and around Penrick so they could avoid any such unpleasant surprises, and who now refused to meet his eye, personally responsible.

Mrs. Polfrock nodded smugly. “Do have another piece of gateau, Chief Superintendent.”

“Nice bit of cake, that,” opined Mr. Polfrock.

“Married are you, Mr. Powell?” Mrs Polfrock inquired out of the blue.

Before Powell could formulate an appropriate reply, he heard the front door slam and a few seconds later a woman, cloaked in a purdah of dripping oilskins, burst into the room.

“I've bloody seen it!” she cried. She seemed more excited than upset about it, whatever
it
was.

“What is it, woman?” Mrs. Polfrock snapped irritably.

“On the beach, down along the towans!” the woman replied breathlessly. “The Riddle of Penrick. I've solved it, but—wouldn't you know it?— I left my damn camera behind!” She stood in the middle of the room blinking incredulously at her audience. “How can you just sit there—doesn't anyone want to see it?”

Powell rose to his feet and introduced himself and Sergeant Black. “I for one am champing at the bit. Lead the way, Ms., er … ?”