The Valley of the Shadow (11 page)

“What I’d really like,” said Nick, leaning forward over the steering wheel, peering into nothingness, “is someone else’s taillights to follow.”

They nearly missed the turn off the main road, but once in the lanes, driving was easier, if no faster, because of the vague, looming presence of hedge-banks closing in on each side. They met no other vehicles, no stray cows or sheep, not even a rabbit or a pheasant.

Though the drive seemed to go on forever, at last the crowding hedges ended as they reached what Eleanor thought of as the bungalow zone, where meadows were rapidly disappearing beneath the onslaught of summer visitors and retired people. The lights of the small self-service grocery appeared, fuzzily haloed. The fog was no less dense down here. It smelled of the sea.

Just where the slope steepened, entering the old village, Nick pulled over to the side of the road. “Whew, made it.”

“What … Oh, the Vicarage. Joce’s car. I forgot. I wonder whether they’re still up?”

“It looks as if they’ve left the lamp on over the front door.”

“We’d better pop in. Poor Teazle will be in despair, but another few minutes won’t make any difference.”

“Hold on a mo. I’ll go and see whether there’s a light in any of the windows. If not, I’ll just lock up the car and put the keys through the letterbox.”

Eleanor heard him tapping on glass. A moment later, a curtain was drawn back and she saw his silhouette against the light within. She rolled up the window, and as she got out of the car, she heard Jocelyn’s voice.

“Nicholas! I’m so glad you’ve made it back safely. Where is— Oh, there you are, Eleanor. Come in, do. What a foul night.” She swung the casement to and closed the curtain. A moment later the front door opened. “Come in,” she urged again. “Tell me everything.”

Nick followed Eleanor in, but he said, “Not tonight, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Stearns. Eleanor’s had a long, hard day, and I’ve been gripping the steering wheel with all my might and main for what seems like hours.”

“You both look frozen, and your hair’s wet. Come in by the fire, and I’ll make hot chocolate. The instant kind, it won’t take a jiffy.”

Eleanor realised her hair had collected moisture from the fog and was dripping down her neck. She had been too chilled to notice it. The sitting room, furnished with slightly worn prize pieces from the LonStar shop, was warm and welcoming. She and Nick exchanged a look and sank into chairs by the flickering driftwood fire.

Nick rubbed his eyes. “I don’t believe I’ve blinked once since we hit the fog.” He stretched.

“I’m very glad you were driving.”

Jocelyn reappeared. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, thanks, Joce. Very well, with the Prthnavis.”

“Only, there’s soup. Plenty of it, as Timothy’s not coming home.”

“What?” Nick exclaimed. “Don’t tell me the vicar’s stuck out in this fog somewhere on his scooter!”

“No, no. He was called out before it rolled in and they rang to say he’d stay the night.”

“Good. I can’t say I fancied having to go and look for him.”

The kettle whistled and Jocelyn disappeared again.

“Cocoa, and then home,” Eleanor said firmly. “I’m not staying up half the night talking.”

“Scumble warned us not to talk.”

Joce was back, with a tray. “Did I hear That Man’s name?” She handed out mugs of hot chocolate.

Gratefully warming her hands on the mug, Eleanor said, “The inspector told us we mustn’t tell anyone about what’s happened.”

“In the first place, I am not ‘anyone.’ In the second place, I already know most of it. If I’m left in ignorance of the rest, how can I help?”

Nick grinned, shaking his head. “I rather think Scumble would be much happier without our help, Mrs. Stearns.”

“I daresay. However, it is our duty to aid our fellow man, even if he’s a Hindu or a detective inspector.”

Once Jocelyn had rationalised her desire to interfere as her duty, nothing could stop her, and Eleanor wasn’t about to try.

Besides, she had the glimmerings of an idea of how she and Jocelyn might be able to help. The police search for the cave could not start until the fog lifted, but once they got going, it would be speeded up if the area they had to search was narrowed down. The sort of people who … The sort of people … The thought slipped away.

“Eleanor!” Nick rescued the tipping mug from her hand. “You’re half asleep. Come on, let’s head for home. We’re going to have to take it really carefully.”

“Eleanor, you’d better spend the night.”

“I’d love to, but I left Teazle at home.”

“Nicholas will let her out, won’t you, Nicholas.” It was a command, not a question, let alone a request.

“Of course,” Nick said meekly. “I’ll give her a Bonio and she can spend the night with me.”

“We’ll talk in the morning,” promised—or threatened—Jocelyn.

*   *   *

Eleanor was awoken early by daylight filtering through the blue-striped cotton curtains of the Stearnses’ spare room. The room faced west so the morning sun didn’t shine in, but the light was not the grey gloom of a foggy day. A flood of relief swept over her. She would not have to embark upon the awkward embassy she had envisioned undertaking in the slim hope of speeding the search for the cave.

She stretched, a necessary precursor these days to getting out of bed, especially a bed other than her own. Stiffly, she clambered out, stretched again, and padded barefoot to the window.

The rising sun gleamed on the windows of the houses opposite and the lantern of the Crookmoyle lighthouse at the top of the slope beyond them. But when Eleanor looked down the hill to her left, the bridge and the harbour were invisible beneath a white blanket of cotton wool.

The fog had abandoned the high ground; over the water it still clung. It might be local and short-lived. Or it might hang along the entire North Coast for days, keeping frustrated fishermen in port and foiling the rescue of a desperate family.

TWELVE

Megan arrived back at the nick just as the first faint hint of dawn lightened the eastern sky. The duty sergeant had warned her that her boss was still in, had been there all night, so she took up two mugs of coffee. It was from the bottom of the urn, barely hotter than lukewarm, but better than nothing.

She found Scumble at his desk, on the telephone, eyes red and bleary. He took his mug from her and gulped greedily, listening as he drank.

“All right, if you say so, who am I to argue?” he said at last, in the tone of heavy patience that failed to disguise his impatience. “You’ll let me know at once? Yes, of course.” He slammed down the receiver.

“What’s up, sir?”

“The bloody watch officer of HM sodding Coast Guard says it’s too f … frigging foggy to search.” He had long ago given up an initial attempt not to swear in Megan’s presence, but he still drew the line at certain words. “Hell, it’s foggy on the coast more often than not! What use is the Coast Guard if a bit of fog stumps them?”

“It must be a really bad one.”

“Isn’t that what they have radar and sonar for? Bloody useless gits.”

“They probably can’t take radar and sonar equipment in a small boat.”

“Whose side are you on?” the inspector snarled. “He says he won’t risk the lives of his men, but what about the lives of the stranded family? It’s the RNLI who have to do the dirty work, anyway. The Coast Guard ‘coordinates operations’ and sends in a copter if needed.”

“Maybe he’s taking into account that we aren’t absolutely sure—”

“As far as I’m concerned, they’re British citizens out there and in danger, unless I get definite evidence to the contrary.”

“Yes, sir.”

The phone rang and Megan answered: “DS Pencarrow.”

“It’s the skipper of the Port Isaac lifeboat, Sergeant.”

“Put him through.” Megan relayed the information. Rubbing his eyes, Scumble picked up his receiver, then gestured to her to take the call.

“This is Pete Larkin, Sergeant,” said a sober voice. “Bad news, I’m afraid. The fog’s so thick we can’t even get down to the lifeboat house. I rang Bude, and it’s the same up there. Boscastle, too—I talked to a chap I know there, hoping we might be able to get a fishing boat on the job. The Padstow all-weather boat went out earlier, to look for other survivors—or bodies. It’s on station beyond the fog line, a couple of miles out, but the inshore boats won’t be able to get going till it thins. Sorry.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting us know. Any idea when it might clear?”

“That’s anyone’s guess. The Met Office says there’s a front coming in, but they won’t say when it’s due to arrive. That’ll blow it away, if it hasn’t already lifted. You never can tell.”

“How far inland does it reach, in your area?”

“Oh, no distance. It’s sitting on the water like a goose on its nest. From a hundred yards up the hill, you can see Lobber Point. The harbour’s invisible, though. Don’t worry, I’ll call in the crew as soon as there’s any hope of launching.”

“Thank you, Captain Larkin.” Megan looked at Scumble. He shook his head: no further questions. “We’ll get back to you if there’s any news at this end.”

Scumble hung up. “News? There isn’t going to be any news till those buggers get moving.”

“It does sound hopeless to attempt a search at present, sir. I was thinking of news from the hospital. Or did you talk to them before I got here?”

“They’re supposed to ring here if Chudasama’s condition changes.”

“You know how hospitals are. The last thing on their minds is letting anyone know what’s going on.”

“You’re right.” Sighing, he rubbed his eyes again. “Jesus, I’m tired. Give them a buzz.”

It took ages to get through to someone who knew something and was willing to tell. The night shift were just going off, unwilling to be delayed, and the day shift had to bring themselves up to date with what was going on. At last, Megan spoke to the sister of the surgical ward.

“Chudasama, Kalith? Yes, I have his chart here. It looks as if he came out of the theatre in good shape. Intracranial bleeding—the surgeon thinks he’s stopped that, and with a bit of luck the swelling will go down now. This sort of case, it takes a bit of luck,” she added with professional cheerfulness. “He’s young. That’s in his favour. And it seems he’s fundamentally healthy, though recently he’s not been getting enough to eat.”

“Can he talk?”

“Talk? I should say not! Even if he was physically capable, which he isn’t at present, I’m sure Doctor won’t want him trying for at least a couple of days. I really must run, Miss…”

“Sergeant. Cornish police, Launceston station. You will keep us informed?”

“Yes, certainly, I’ll make a note. Bye now.”
Click
.

“Fat chance!” Megan snorted.

“Fat chance of what?”

“Of them keeping us informed. She ‘made a note.’ He was basically healthy but recently he hasn’t been getting enough to eat. So presumably his family’s running out of whatever rations the smugglers left them, if any.”

“The bastards! When will he be able to talk?”

“She reckons he won’t be allowed for a couple of days. At least. Even if he’s able.”

“If he starts babbling, the Plymouth force should let us know. But let’s hope we’re talking to the family long before two days have passed.” He yawned. “Right, I’m glad you asked about fog inland. Good thinking. You can drop me off at home for a couple of hours kip, and run on down to Camelford to see the Indian restaurant people. Last night, I just had someone ring and ask if they knew of anyone missing.” He checked his watch, heaving himself out of his chair. “They should be up and about by the time you get there.”

So much for breakfast, Megan thought. But if she was nice to the restaurant people, or if they had guilty consciences and wanted to placate her, perhaps she’d discover what Indians had for breakfast.

*   *   *

Jocelyn gave the last of the breakfast dishes a final vehement swipe with the tea towel and put it away. “Family in a cave! It sounds like sheer nonsense to me. His mind must have been wandering.”

Eleanor pulled off the rubber gloves Joce made her wear for washing up—she never bothered at home. It was still early. After trying for half an hour to go back to sleep, she had tiptoed down to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. In spite of her care, Jocelyn had heard her and come down. They had decided they might as well dress and eat.

“It’s possible he was muddled,” Eleanor said now. “I haven’t spoken to Megan, so I don’t know what sort of state he was in at the time, just the inspector’s end of the conversation. But as long as it might be true, we have to act as if it’s true. At least, I do, and the police do. Mr. Scumble certainly seemed to be taking it seriously. There’s no reason you need be involved, of course.”

With a martyred sigh, Jocelyn sat down at the kitchen table. “I can’t see what you hope to do. The weather forecast said the coast is fogged in all the way from Hartland Point to Kelsey Head. Even if it was clear, you couldn’t compete with the lifeboat people in searching for this mystery cave.”

“Not
searching,
exactly.”

“And supposing it exists, how on earth did they come to be stuck in it?”

“That’s what gave me the idea.”

“What idea? What
do
you mean, Eleanor?”

“Of course, it’s the difficult situation in Kenya and Uganda that makes it particularly likely just now.”

“You told me the young man Megan saved was Indian! Now you’re saying he’s African?”

“No, no. Well, sort of. Indians have been trading with East Africa for centuries, and naturally some settled there. Then the British brought in Indian labourers to build the railways, and lots of them stayed after the work was finished. Now the Africans are getting their independence from the Empire—”

“I do listen to the news, you know. They don’t want the Indians staying any more than they want the British. Unfortunate, but understandable.”

“Unfortunate” was not the word Eleanor would have used. She found it heartbreaking that those who had suffered from racialist discrimination should be so quick to discriminate against others.

As Jocelyn claimed to be in the picture already, Eleanor decided to skip long explanations. “My guess is that they’re trying to get into the country without the proper papers. Someone brought them as far as the cave, but the arrangements to pick them up went wrong. The cave couldn’t be one of those easily visible from offshore, one that lots of people know about, or they’d have been spotted. It must be one of the old smugglers’ caves, where they hid cargoes until it was safe to bring the goods ashore.”