The Valley of the Shadow (12 page)

“‘Five and twenty ponies, trotting through the dark,’” Jocelyn warbled unexpectedly. “‘Brandy for the parson, ’baccy for the clerk.’”

“Exactly. All the little harbours along this bit of coast were havens for smugglers, especially Boscastle. I imagine most of the population knew what was going on, though only a very few would know how to find the secret caves. I bet the secret was passed down from father to son.”

“Someone must still know, or those people wouldn’t be there.”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Not that making sense necessarily means it’s true,” Joce pointed out. “All the same, you’d better mention it to Megan, in case That Man hasn’t thought of it. If they find out where to look, they can go straight there as soon as the fog clears.”

“The trouble is, smugglers might refuse to give information to the police.”

“You mean they’re still smuggling? I thought we were talking about a couple of centuries ago.”

“The duty on brandy and tobacco is still high,” Eleanor reminded her. “And there’s always drugs, I’m afraid. Not to mention people.”

“People! Yes, of course, someone local must be involved.” The vicar’s wife was appalled. “What a dreadful thought!”

“Or at least someone with local knowledge. Someone who used to live here perhaps,” Eleanor said comfortingly, “or who knew enough to ask the right questions about the location of the caves. Local fishermen couldn’t possibly set up an international scheme of this scope. It’s on a different level from slipping across to Brittany one dark night for a few crates of bottles.”

“They do that? The Boscastle fishermen?”

“So someone let slip once, though he didn’t admit to doing it! But, you see, I do know people there, and they do talk to me.”

“You meet them when you’re collecting for the shop, I suppose. Eleanor, asking awkward questions is a very different matter from asking for donations. It could be dangerous. And you don’t need to remind me that you’ve been in dangerous situations in dangerous countries—”

“Life is dangerous. It invariably leads to death. But there’s a tendency to try to put the end off as long as possible.” She was tempted to add,
even among those who expect to go to heaven
. “It’s just possible I may be able to save an entire family from premature departure from the earth. Perhaps they’d be rescued in time without my help. Perhaps they don’t even exist. But how can I not try?”

Jocelyn shook her head in foreboding. “Well, when you put it like that … I have a lot to do this morning, but I suppose I can put it all off to go with you. Not before Timothy gets home, though.”

“Never mind. I do think I should go right away, because if the fog dissipates, the people I want to talk to may go out fishing. I’m sure Nick will go with me if I ask him.”

Eleanor had no intention of asking Nick to accompany her, and she was glad Joce wasn’t coming. People would be much more likely to talk to her if she was on her own. She was quite confident of being able to defend herself, should the unlikely necessity arrive. When she had started working in some of the more dangerous parts of the world, Peter had insisted that she learn Aikido.

She continued the practice, though those days were behind her. It was good exercise and helped her achieve mental tranquillity. She had kept it secret, sure that people would scoff at a white-haired old lady involved in the martial arts.

The moment she stepped out of the door, she heard the foghorn wailing up at the lighthouse. She realised she’d been distantly aware of its sound, muffled by walls, since she woke up.

She walked down the hill. The LonStar shop, with her flat above, had wisps of mist curling about it, and a haze enveloped Nick’s gallery next door. The bridge was still invisible. She remembered with relief that the Incorruptible was in the car park at the top of the hill, beyond the vicarage, though she couldn’t remember why they had decided to leave it there rather than in its shed on the far side of the bridge.

Both the LonStar shop and Nick’s still had their
CLOSED
signs displayed. Eleanor, finding her keys in the pocket of her jacket for once, unlocked the side door beside the shop. She went past the stairs, out through the back door, and down the footpath that ran behind the row. Looking in at Nick’s wide back window, she saw him hard at work in his studio, as expected. At this time of year, he didn’t waste the shortening hours of natural light.

Teazle lay beneath his three-legged easel, her nose on her paws. When Eleanor tapped on the glass, the little dog sprang up and rushed at the window, barking. Her bark changed to a whine as she recognised Eleanor; her stubby tail wagged her entire rear half.

Nick looked round. Having waved his palette at her, he placed two more careful dashes of paint on the canvas, put down brush and palette, and came over to open the window.

“Morning, Eleanor. You’ve come for Teazle.” He handed her out and she enthusiastically licked Eleanor’s face. “She’s been good company. I might have to get a dog for myself. Any news?”

“Only that the fog’s thick right up and down the coast, so they won’t be able to start searching yet. I don’t know about Kalith Chudasama’s condition. Jocelyn’s going to ring the hospital later, hoping they’ll be willing to give information to her in her semi-official capacity.”

“She should have the vicar ring in his official capacity. With her standing at his elbow to remind him what he’s asking about. Sorry, I’ve got to get back to the paint before it starts to dry out. Took me an age to get exactly the right shade.”

“I’ll see you later. Thanks for having Teazle.”

“She’s welcome, anytime. By the way, don’t let her kid you: She’s had breakfast already.”

Eleanor laughed. “Thanks. We’re off to Boscastle. I know some fishermen there who must know about caves.”

She put Teazle down. Usually she’d go snuffling in the blackthorn and gorse beside the path, but now she anxiously stuck to Eleanor’s heels. They went upstairs. Eleanor changed into slacks, then they walked up to the car.

The cart wheels—of course! Luckily, someone had got them out of the backseat.

Today, on the drive to Boscastle there were no glimpses of blue sea. As she came down the hill into the village, the bridge and the long low buildings along the stream were invisible. Once fishermen’s cottages and net sheds, they now housed gift shops and cafés, as well as the youth hostel. Eleanor hoped Julia and Chaz were all right. Once they were up on the cliffs they’d have a beautiful day for hiking, but the first part of the path would be hard to find.

Luckily, Eleanor didn’t have to cross the bridge, as the main part of the village was on the south hillside of the valley. She turned off the main road and found a spot to park, tucked well to the side on a narrow street.

She wanted to talk to one particular person. Now that all she had to do to reach his house was to walk round a couple of corners, she found Jocelyn’s warning lingering in her mind. Though she honestly didn’t believe she was in any danger, it might be just as well to call first on a few other people who had given her things for LonStar in the past. It would be a sort of camouflage for her real purpose, she hoped.

THIRTEEN

The India Palace was a modest shop-front restaurant in Camelford’s High Street, just a couple of doors down from the tiny police house. Megan parked her unmarked car, not difficult so early in the morning, and went to pay a courtesy call on the local constable. A notice on the door announced that he was already out on patrol. Anyone in need of assistance was advised to dial 999 in case of emergency; for other information, the Launceston police station number was provided.

Glad not to have to explain her errand, Megan walked along to the India Palace. A
CLOSED
sign hung crooked between the spotless glass of the door and the white blind hiding the interior, with a smaller sign giving hours of opening. The main window, to one side, was also covered by a blind. Gold lettering on window, door, and fascia announced the name of the business. It was unlicensed, so the name of the owner did not appear.

A faint smell of exotic spices lingered in the doorway. Megan’s mouth watered. Though their menu couldn’t compare to the Indian restaurants of London, she had had excellent takeaway from the India Palace. She wasn’t sure how her stomach would react to curry for breakfast.

Listening, she heard footsteps inside, and the sound of furniture being moved.

She couldn’t see a bell, so she knocked on the glass.

Sudden silence inside, followed by a woman’s voice speaking rapidly in a strange language, a shrill reply, and a scurry of feet. Then a large lorry rumbled by behind her—the High Street was also the A39. When it had passed, she was about to knock again when she heard a heavier tread within. The edge of the blind was pulled back and a man’s round, brown face stared at her.

She didn’t want to announce her identity in tones loud enough to reach him through the glass. A greengrocer was busy setting out his wares on the pavement just across the street, and next door but one, a butcher had come out to gaze in admiringly at his neat display in the window. If they heard that plainclothes police were visiting the Indians, rumours would fly.

Megan took out her warrant card and pressed it against the glass.

The man read it. He looked alarmed, but that was the normal reaction of any perfectly law-abiding citizen.

He nodded, then fiddled with a chain and the latch. The door opened a few inches. “Yes, officer? What is it?”

“Are you the owner, sir? Or the head of the family?”

Again he nodded. “I am both.” These places were all family businesses. “I have the health certificate. We have papers.” His English was heavily accented, not like Chudasama’s, let alone Dr. Prthnavi’s.

“I’m not here about those, sir. I need to talk to you. Routine enquiries.”

As always, the formula soothed. He closed the door briefly, took off the chain—pretty pointless with all that glass—and opened the door, moving backwards. The room was a forest of chair legs sticking up from the tabletops; more of a copse, really, as it was a very small restaurant. They must do well with takeaway meals.

“Come in, please. My name Mr. Khan. Is allowed to offer a cup of tea?”

“I’d love one, thank you, Mr. Khan. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

Turning, he fired a stream of incomprehensible words at a youth in school uniform who leant against the wall at the back of the room, by the swinging door that presumably led to the kitchen. The boy went out.

“My son.” Mr. Khan bustled over to a table for two, lifted one of the upended chairs, and set it down on the floor. He wore a heavy gold ring, with a raised pattern of leaves on the head. “Please, sit.”

As Megan stepped across, he took down the other chair, then went to fetch a white tablecloth, which he flipped onto the table with a practised gesture.

“You don’t need to put on a cloth for me,” Megan protested.

The boy stuck his head back into the room. “Mum says, chai or English?”

“Miss?”

“That’s Sergeant. What is chai?” She addressed the question to the son. “I’ve seen it on menus but never tried it.”

“It’s tea with milk and spices, Sergeant. Not spicy hot.”

“I’d like to try it.” In the interests of community relations and a friendly interview, and hoping it wouldn’t upset her empty stomach.

He called something back into the kitchen, then said, “Dad, I’ve got to run or I’ll miss the bus.”

“All right, Achmed, run, run.” Adding something in his own language, Mr. Khan flapped his hands at his son. “In sixth form,” he said proudly to Megan, “take A levels. He very good at numbers. Mathematicals, physics. And speak English good, too.”

“So do I speak good English, Daddy.” A girl of nine or ten came through from the kitchen, carefully carrying a cup and saucer. She set it down in front of Megan, the gold bangles on her slim brown arm jingling. “Here you are, Miss Sergeant. My brother said you’re a policeman, but you don’t look like one.”

Mr. Khan spoke sharply to her. Megan held up her hand to stop him.

“I’m a detective. We mostly don’t wear uniforms. Sergeant is my rank, not my name. I’m Detective Sergeant Pencarrow. What’s your name?”

“Lily. It’s an English name
and
Indian.”

“A pretty name. Lily, I need to talk privately to your father. Perhaps you could bring him a cup of … chai?” She waved Khan to the other chair.

He nodded at his daughter and sat down gingerly on the edge of the seat. In the short time before Lily came back, Megan tried to frame her first question. Scumble hadn’t told her what to ask, a mark of confidence that left her floundering. Usually, before they started an interview, they had more to connect someone to a crime than their race. And this time they weren’t even sure a crime—or what crime—had been committed.

Lily returned with a cup for her father and a plate of fried potato chunks, which she set before Megan. “Achmed said you didn’t have breakfast, Detective Sergeant Pencarrow, so Mummy made this for you.”

“That’s very kind of her, but I can’t accept—”

“This is not a bribe,” Khan said, agitated. “We do nothing bad. No reason for bribe. Potatoes! You can accept potatoes, Miss Detective. Is not business, is what we have for breakfast. Eat, eat!”

Embarrassed, Megan apologised. Lily, hovering anxiously, laid a knife and fork and napkin by the plate. She gave Megan a tentative smile, then scurried out at a word from her father.

Megan took a bite. Tears sprang to her eyes and she felt her face turn scarlet. Mrs. Khan had not made allowances for Western taste buds, reinforcing her husband’s statement that this was what the family had for breakfast.

Somehow Megan managed to swallow the mouthful and followed it with a cautious sip of chai—milky and sweet, not spicy hot, as Achmed had promised. It soothed her fiery tongue enough to enable her to speak.

Her prepared words had gone up in metaphorical flames. “Do you know many other Indians in this area?” she blurted out.

He shook his head. “Not many. Hard for wife—she speak only few words of English. Is one family, in Bodmin, in restaurant business, like us. Always busy, like us.”