The Loner

The Loner

A Polvellan Mystery

Rachel Ennis

The Loner
is the third in the Polvellan Mysteries, a warm-hearted series set in beautiful Cornwall.

When Jess Trevanion goes to deliver some plants to John Preece, a reclusive neighbour in Polvellan village, she is shocked and saddened to find him dead. When talk turns to the funeral arrangements, Jess's sadness becomes resolve when she realises that, like herself, very few people knew the real John Preece – although he'd lived in the village for many years, his background is a mystery. Jess uses her investigative skills to research John's family, and is surprised and horrified by what she finds out.

Meanwhile, Jess also discovers the story behind Marigold's, a famous local venue, and her relationship with old flame Tom Peters continues to progress.

Grateful thanks to Phil Dawson for his advice on submarines.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Other titles by Gilli Allan

Chapter One

Jess Trevanion refilled her log basket and closed the shed door. After four days the rain had stopped and the sky was a clear blue. She breathed in cool air that felt freshly washed. The scent of frying bacon made her mouth water, though it was less than an hour since she'd eaten her healthy bowl of porridge. Maybe she'd treat herself later in the week.

Hauling the heavy basket inside, she set it down by the woodburner, then went out again to carefully place the flowerpots containing her surplus tomato plants into a black plastic bucket.

Apart from the occasional dash down to the shop and helping at the over-sixties lunch club, she had been stuck indoors since the weekend. But an upside to the bad weather was that she had made a start on researching the origins of Marigold's, the café in town.

Jess's little cottage was her haven. Though only a quarter the size of the family home in Truro, which was lost along with all their money when Alex died, she loved it and was happier here than she had ever expected to be. But right now she craved exercise and a change of scene.

Taking the plants to John Preece, the loner who lived in Briar Cottage at the end of the road between the village and the marina, offered an ideal excuse to abandon her laptop for a couple of hours.

Warm sun was drying the tarmac but the ditches were full of water and puddles dotted the roadside. Cotton wool balls of cloud sailed across the sky on a breeze whose edge made her glad of her pink, padded jacket.

‘Taking your bucket for a walk, Jess?' Eddy Nancholas called out of the open window of his truck as he hauled a broken-down car to his garage.

‘It doesn't get out much, Eddy,' she called back. He drove on with a grin and a wave.

Her brisk pace relaxed tight muscles and tension gave way to a sense of well-being. New leaves were unfurling on sycamore, ash, and oak. Red campion, white wild garlic, and swathes of bluebells patched green hedgerows with bright colour.

Spring was her favourite season, and nowhere was the season more beautiful than in Cornwall. Coachloads of visitors would visit gardens open to the public and marvel at the jewel colours of rhododendrons and azaleas that thrived in the acidic soil.

It took her nearly forty minutes to reach John Preece's cottage. She peered over the chained and padlocked gate, surprised not to see him at work in his large garden. Laid out in rectangular plots separated by narrow paths, it produced enough vegetables and fruit both to feed him and supply the village shop.

There were still some winter greens in one plot. In others, leaves of early potatoes fountained from ridges of rich brown earth. Rows of bamboo frames stood ready for peas and beans to climb. A thick layer of mixed kelp and compost covered a fourth plot and a fifth was freshly raked and waiting for seeds. Blackcurrant and gooseberry bushes, raspberry canes, and apple trees filled the rest of the space. A small greenhouse stood against the hedge between a large compost heap and a wood store.

‘Mr Preece?' Jess called. ‘I've brought some tomato plants.'

The wooden door to an old stone shack in one corner was ajar. Jess called again. Then, for the first time, she dropped her bucket inside the gate and climbed over after it.

‘Mr Preece?' She looked inside the shack. Shovels, forks, hoes, and rakes hung tidily from wooden pegs fixed to a plank which was nailed to the rear wall, with a billhook, scythe, and sickle alongside. A wheelbarrow leaned against the left-hand wall. Flowerpots of varying sizes were stacked under a wooden bench and shelves above held wooden seed trays.

Pulling the door closed behind her she walked up the path to the front door and knocked. ‘Mr Preece? It's Jess Trevanion. All my tomato plants germinated this year so I've got far too many. I thought you might like some.'

He had to be here. He wasn't in the village because in the lean-to next to the wood store she could see his bicycle and the homemade trailer he towed behind it. She walked round to the back of the cottage.

‘Mr Preece?' He wasn't there and the door was shut.

She should go. But what if he'd been taken ill? It was three years since she had returned to the village where she had been born and had lived until marrying Alex. Coming home had taught her a lot. Here people looked out for each other, even if it wasn't always appreciated. She couldn't just walk away.

Returning to the front she shielded her eyes, leaned over the wooden bench, and peered through the small window. She saw the back of an armchair angled in front of the grate. Her heart gave an unpleasant jolt as, beyond it, she glimpsed a bare foot with a shabby slipper twisted underneath.

Moving to the side of the window she was able to see the rest of him clad in blue and white striped pyjamas, his head on the stone hearth. Shock tingled over her skin.

She dropped the bucket on the paving slab outside the door.
She should phone someone. Annie had been a district nurse. No, first she had to get inside and see how badly he was hurt.

She gripped the knob. Expecting the door to be locked she was already looking around the tiny open porch for a shelf or a stone that might hold a spare key. But to her surprise the door opened. She hesitated.

He was an intensely private man. Walking into his home was an invasion of privacy. But she couldn't just leave him lying on the floor. As she opened the door wider the smell caught in her throat.

‘Mr Preece? It's Jess Trevanion.'

Something about his utter stillness turned unease to dread. Moving closer she saw that blood from a wound on his temple had trickled over the granite edging the hearth and had dried dark. His pyjama bottoms were wet and stained brown, which explained the smell.

His eyes were half-open. She touched his face. The skin was cold and felt waxy. He had been dead for hours. She pressed a hand to her chest, felt her heart thudding hard against her palm. Seeing the old plaid blanket flung over the armchair, she was tempted to cover him.
No, she mustn't touch anything.
He would have hated being seen like that.
He was dead and beyond caring
.

Queasy and light-headed, she went outside closing the door behind her, sat down on the wooden bench under the window, and took out her mobile. She waited for a signal. Nothing. Walking down the path to the gate, holding the phone high, she turned slowly. As soon as she had three bars she pressed 999.

‘Emergency. Which service do you require?'

Jess had to clear her throat before she could speak. ‘Police. I've found a body.'

Chapter Two

Half an hour later, just as Jess was wondering whether to phone again, she saw a flash of white beyond the garden gate as a police car drew up. A single uniformed officer appeared, putting on his cap.

Jess hurried down the path. ‘I'm Jess Trevanion. It was me who phoned.'

‘PC Davey.'

‘You'll have to climb over.'

‘I see you did,' he said, jumping down and starting towards her. ‘Why?'

‘I brought some tomato plants,' Jess pointed to the bucket. ‘Mr Preece loves –' she corrected herself, ‘loved his garden, as you can see.' She gestured. ‘My neighbour and I sometimes have bulbs, plants, or seedlings left over, so I bring them here. I expected to see him working. I called out several times.'

He stopped at the front door. ‘Then what?'

‘I looked – No, first I walked round the back in case he was there. Then I looked through the window and saw him on the floor.' Jess rubbed her upper arms.

‘How did you get in?'

‘The door was unlocked.'

‘Did you touch anything?'

She shook her head. ‘Just his face. I didn't know if … It was cold. I knew he was –' she gulped. ‘Sorry.'

‘You're doing fine. What did you do then?'

‘I came outside, called 999, and sat on the bench until you arrived.'

He nodded. ‘Stay out here.'

He went inside. Jess remained on the threshold watching as he rested his fingers against John Preece's neck. She assumed he was checking for a pulse. There would be procedure to be followed even when it was obvious the poor man had been dead for hours.

He stood up. ‘Can you move out of the light, Mrs Trevanion? I need to check the scene.'

She stepped to one side, still watching. ‘What are you looking for?'

‘Drugs, weapons, anything suspicious.' He slowly turned a full circle, studying the room. ‘I don't suppose you'd know who his doctor is?'

Jess shook her head. ‘You could try the practice that runs the village surgery.'

He clicked a button on the radio attached to the top of his equipment-loaded, sleeveless jacket and murmured something Jess didn't catch. Using a digital camera he photographed the entire room, the position of the body, and the slipper.

Then he picked up the slipper and examined it. Jess could see the sole had come away from the upper by a couple of centimetres, enough to catch on the edge of a rug. Putting the slipper to one side, he crouched, lifted Preece's head to examine the wound and the hearth, and took photos of both. His radio squawked and he listened, murmured something else, and clicked it off.

‘He's not registered with the practice. I'm going to look around the rest of the place.' It was a long time before he came out and checked the lock before pulling the door closed.

‘What do you think?' Jess's teeth were chattering.

‘Looks like he tripped on the rug and hit his head on the granite hearth as he went down.'

Feeling shaky, she sat on the bench. John Preece would have sat out here with a mid-morning mug of coffee or a lunchtime sandwich, looking over the garden he had worked so hard to create, thinking about the next season's planting. Jess's eyes stung and a lump rose in her throat. She coughed.

‘You all right?' PC Davey asked.

She nodded. ‘It's just so sad. All his hard work … Did you find anything to say who his next of kin is?'

He shook his head. ‘How long has he lived here?'

Jess thought quickly, remembering what Gill had told her. ‘It must be fifteen years.'

‘Fifteen years yet there isn't a scrap of paper.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘No letters, bills, bank statements. All the stuff most people have. I suppose he might have it hidden away. But he lived alone so why bother?'

‘What happens now?'

‘Once my sergeant has confirmed there's no suspicious circumstances, and after the doctor has been to certify death – not that there's any doubt but we have to do everything by the book – the coroner's officer will attend, then the b – the deceased,' he corrected himself, ‘can be taken to the hospital mortuary.' He took a notebook from one of his many pockets. ‘Tell me again what happened. Let's begin with how you knew him. You said his name was Preece?'

Jess nodded. ‘John Preece. I don't know him, not really. I don't think anyone does – did. He loved his garden and sold his surplus fruit and veg to the shop. He always brought it early in the morning, as soon as Gerry opened. I bought some of his leeks yesterday and made leek and potato soup.' Now he was dead.

‘Did he ever go to the pub, get drunk?'

‘No. If he had I would have heard. There are no secrets in a village. The worst anyone could say of him was that he was antisocial.'

‘In what way?'

‘He never spoke. I often walk this way to the marina. If I saw him in the garden I'd say good morning or good afternoon. He never replied. Sometimes he'd nod. But most of the time he just ignored me.'

‘Rude.'

‘Not really. It was my choice to speak, his choice not to. Everyone accepted the way he was. He simply wanted to be left alone.'