The Valley of the Shadow (23 page)

When Jay finished, Megan felt she ought to make some sort of announcement, but she didn’t know what to say. Before the right words came to her, a sudden blast of wind buffeted the
Daisy D.,
nearly knocking her off her feet. Rain rattled on the roof.

“Better sit down,” Gavin advised loudly. “Hang on to the kids. Looks like we’re in for a proper blow.”

It wasn’t so much a blow as a series of blows, gusts and squalls that hit unexpectedly, with pauses between. Megan thought they must be more difficult to navigate through than any steady wind, especially as they were getting into the narrowing estuary and then the still narrower River Camel. She tried to suppress thoughts of crossing the bar with the sinister name.

Doom Bar! She shuddered. No one noticed because the lifeboat was shuddering too. Padstow was the skipper’s and crew’s home port, she reminded herself. They knew what they were doing.

As if at the wave of a wand, the water calmed and the wind gusts nudged instead of striking violently. Doom averted, presumably. They were past the bar, into the tidal estuary between low but sheltering hills. Slow but steady, the
Daisy D.
zigzagged between buoys, then came to a halt with a couple of gentle thumps. The sounds of feet and voices competed with the rattle of rain on the roof of the cabin. A heavy thud suggested the placing of a gangway.

One of the lifeboat crew came down the steps. “Sergeant, you’re wanted ashore. The rest of you, stay where you are, please, till we get things sorted out.”

As Jay translated for those who had not understood, Megan went up and out on deck.

The air was fresh and clean and wet. Rain dimpled the black water of the harbour. It danced on the stone paving of the quay, slanting down in the pools of light cast by lampposts and the beams of the headlights of a minibus, two ambulances, and two police cars, Megan saw as she climbed the gangway. She’d left the RNLI helmet and life jacket behind. Cold rain streamed through her hair and down her neck.

The tip of the quay, where they were moored, was closed off with steel barricades, manned by two coppers in rain capes.

Bodmin police? Padstow was in Bodmin’s district. Was she about to receive retribution for poaching in their territory? She was much too tired to cope with the inevitable ructions. The thought of facing the toadlike Superintendent Egerton made her feel physically sick … unless that was just the transition to footing that didn’t keep moving beneath her but felt as though it did.

A large man heaved himself out of the nearest panda car and came towards her. The brim of his hat shaded his face, but surely he was not large enough to be Egerton—

She wouldn’t have thought it possible to be so happy to see Detective Inspector Scumble.

“So you found ’em, Pencarrow.”

“Yes, sir. One dead, one in bad shape, but the children are okay. Three of them. Is Kalith—?”

“That can wait till tomorrow. You’ve had quite a day and I’ve got stuff to take care of here.” Turning, he walked her along the quay away from the lifeboat. “We picked up your car in Port Isaac on the way here. Don’t make a habit of leaving police cars about the place.”

“No, sir. My shoulder bag…?”

“In the car.” He opened the passenger-side door and spoke to the uniformed constable at the wheel. “Take DS Pencarrow back to Launceston.”

“Yes, sir.” The voice was that of PC Dawson, the Speed Demon, Terror of the Highways and Byways. Another terrifying journey—just what she needed.

At least he’d get her home as soon as humanly possible. She couldn’t wait to get out of her—

“When you’ve typed up your report, Pencarrow, you can go home. Be at the nick at eight in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Damn him! She should have known better than to think he sympathised with her “quite a day” to the extent of letting her postpone the reports till tomorrow.

She got into the car. Dawson had already started the engine and before the door had quite clicked shut he started backing at an alarming speed towards the barricade. As they zoomed in reverse through the narrow gap, Megan saw, beneath their uniform sou’westers, the faces of the local sergeant and his sole constable, and next to them a dripping figure in a felt hat and sodden mac, with a camera slung round his neck—David Skan, ace reporter of the
North Cornwall Times.

“Rain drove off the telly blokes,” said Dawson conversationally, still speeding backwards along the quay, “and the rest of the newspapermen hopped it to the nearest pub. Pity, really. You’re quite a sight for sore eyes in them tights, Sarge.”

Without much hope, Megan asked, “I don’t suppose you picked up my clothes in Port Isaac?”

“In the boot with your bag.”

“Thanks.” All very well, she thought, but here she was stuck with yet another outfit that had to be returned to its owner.

TWENTY-TWO

Eleanor opened one eye, squinted at the alarm clock, and closed it again. Ten to eight. She was in no rush to get up. The drumming of rain on the slate roof was no incentive to leave the warmth of her bed.

She cast her mind back to last night. Megan had phoned, interrupting Jocelyn in mid-harangue. She had rung up Eleanor’s flat first, of course, and then the vicarage, to Timothy’s utter bewilderment. Nick’s was her last attempt. She had, Nick said later, apologised handsomely for having bitten his nose off earlier, though he was far too much a gentleman, he declared with a laugh, to disclose the reason for their falling out.

Megan was safe. That was all that mattered. Apart, of course, from the rescue of the Indian refugees. Megan had passed on a bit more of the story than David Skan had known—or revealed. It was sad that the old man was dead, but all the rest might have died as well if Eleanor hadn’t stuck to her guns about the smugglers’ caves.

Nick had called for a celebration and brought out the whisky bottle again. Jocelyn accepted a small tot. Eleanor had already emptied her first glass, but she hadn’t refused a second. That must be why she had slept so late—

She sat bolt upright. Twenty to ten, not ten to eight! The phone was ringing downstairs, and, “You must be bursting, Teazle! Past time to go out.”

“
Wuff,
” said the little dog hopefully, jumping off the bed.

Eleanor threw back the duvet, reached for her dressing gown, and thrust her feet into her slippers. The phone fell silent.

“Oh bother! Come on, girl.”

Teazle scampered down ahead of her. She had just reached the door when the phone resumed its plaintive
ring-ring, ring-ring.
Eleanor grabbed the receiver.

“Sorry, I
must
let the dog out. Back in half a tick.”

The flat door opened to stairs going down to a semipublic passage. It was used only when goods arrived to be carried back to the storeroom, though, and by LonStar volunteers going to the loo by the street door. Fortunately, almost all the volunteers were women. All the same, Eleanor belted her dressing gown more securely about her as she followed Teazle to the back door.

She had forgotten to bring the key, but luckily it wasn’t locked. Or unluckily, if Jocelyn happened to find out. Today was her day to run the shop, so doubtless she was there now, preparing to open for business.

As Eleanor turned the handle, the door was flung open by a blast of cold wind and rain. It crashed against the wall. Teazle darted out. Eleanor, her dressing gown wet all down the front, battled to close the door. Jocelyn popped out of the stockroom.

“What on earth…? Oh, it’s you, Eleanor. Filthy day! But the street is sheltered from that howling gale. I’d go out the front if I were— You’re not dressed yet!”

“Teazle had to go out. And someone rang. I asked them to wait and left the receiver off the hook. I must run.”

“If that dog has any sense, she’ll have done her business and want to come straight back in. I’ll help you with the door.”

Between them, they managed to open it just far enough for Teazle, already sodden, to zip back in. They slammed it shut and Jocelyn reached towards the keyhole.

“The key must have fallen out.” She scanned the floor.

“It wasn’t locked,” Eleanor confessed. “Sorry.”

Taking her own keys out of her pocket, Joce gave her a look but refrained from comment. She was beginning to resign herself. Eleanor had long since explained that she’d lost the habit of locking up after spending much of her life in places where people’s homes had no doors, let alone locks. If she’d ever had the habit. In her childhood, in the country, people didn’t—

Teazle shook vigorously, spattering them both. Jocelyn looked down at her clothes—smart as always but not silk today, thank goodness—and pursed her lips.

“It’s just water,” Eleanor pointed out. “She didn’t have time to get muddy.”

“You’re almost as wet as she is. You’d better go and get dressed. Your caller will have rung off by now.” Joce beat a hasty retreat as Teazle braced herself to shake again.

They went back upstairs. Eleanor shut Teazle out on the landing while she went in to fetch the dog towel. The phone had reverted to the purr of the dialling tone, so she hung up. It immediately began to ring.

She picked it up. “I really can’t talk now. I’ve got a soaked dog and I’m pretty wet and chilly myself—”

“Aunt Nell!”

“Hello, Megan. Sorry, dear, but—”

“DI Scumble wants to talk to you.”

“Tell him I’ll ring back in quarter of an hour.” Eleanor hung up, picturing with some pleasure the inspector red-faced and spluttering. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry with Megan. Oh dear, she had been rather rude. Perhaps … She reached out to the phone, but Teazle barked impatiently.

First things first.

Fifteen minutes later, she sat down with a cup of tea, dialled the Launceston police station, and asked for DI Scumble. “This is Mrs. Trewynn. He’s expecting my call.”

She hoped to speak to Megan first, but she was put straight through to Scumble.

“All dried off, are we?” he said sarcastically. “I take it it’s raining on the coast. You’ll be glad to hear Launceston is sunny.”

“How odd. Nice for you, but—”

“Because I want to see you here, as soon as you can make it, if not sooner.”

“Why can’t you come here?” Eleanor asked indignantly. “You could get here much quicker than my car can get to you.”

“Because I’m extremely busy. I appreciate it’s possible you are too, and that your business is more important to you than providing further assistance with the case in which you have already been involved. I can’t make you come.”

“If there’s really something I can do to help … All right, I’ll come. I hope it’s not so urgent that I can’t have breakfast first.”

“Breakfast!” said Scumble, in the voice of a man who has been up and at work for several hours already.

“And the Incorruptible probably needs petrol,” Eleanor thought aloud. “Ummm … This may sound silly, Inspector, but I can’t remember where I left the car.” A wordless explosive sound reached her ear. “Let me see: I drove the Incorruptible to Boscastle, and then went to tell you … and Megan drove us both to Port Isaac in a panda car. And then Mrs. Stearns picked me up there.” Better not to mention the futile trip to Truro, though it had given her an idea, which she couldn’t quite call to mind … “So the Incorruptible is still parked in Launceston,” she concluded, “unless it’s been towed away.”

“You win,” the inspector conceded bitterly. “I’ll send a car to pick you up.”

In spite of the police car taking about half as long to cross the moors as the Incorruptible would have, Eleanor had time to feed Teazle and herself and wash up before the street doorbell rang. Peering down through the rain-washed kitchen window, she saw a panda below, parked with two wheels on the pavement, as was necessary to allow other vehicles to negotiate the narrow street.

She clipped Teazle’s lead to her collar, gathered up handbag, raincoat, and umbrella—whatever Scumble said about the weather in Launceston, one never could tell—and went down. The uniformed constable awaiting her was the boy who had asked her only yesterday whether she could manage the stairs at the police station.

Blushing, he saluted her. “PC Arden, madam.”

“We’re ready to go,” she said with a smile.

He looked at Teazle, blinked, and opened his mouth. Nothing came out—fortunately, since Eleanor had no intention of leaving the dog behind. She hoped he wouldn’t get into trouble with Scumble.

Teazle had no intention of being left behind. As soon as the constable opened the car door, she jumped up on the seat and popped over the gear lever to the back. She sat in the middle, stumpy tail thumping, always happy to go for a ride and unconcerned as to where she was going.

Eleanor, on the other hand, spent the journey wondering just what Scumble expected of her. It seemed most unlike him to actually request her help. She didn’t have any further help to offer, now that the Indians had been found and rescued. Was he going to insist on her giving him the name of the fisherman who had told her about the caves? She had promised Abel Tregeddle she’d keep him out of the picture.

What other reason could Scumble have for wanting to talk to her? She worried about it the whole way to Launceston.

It rained until they started down off the moor. The slow-moving storm seemed to have stalled on the heights, as if held at bay by the towering boulders of Brown Willie and Rough Tor. As promised, Launceston itself was bathed in sunlight.

When Eleanor walked into the station, the sergeant on duty smiled at her benevolently. “Mrs. Trewynn, for DI Scumble, right? And how’s the pup today?” Teazle wagged her tail but continued to head for the stairs. Picking up his phone, he laughed. “She knows where she’s going. I’ll let him know you’re on your way, Mrs. Trewynn.”

Led by Teazle, Eleanor reached Scumble’s door just as Megan opened it. “Hello, dear. Good morning, Inspector. I’ve been thinking and thinking, and I can’t imagine any way I can help you.”

“I don’t know that you can,” he said sourly, “but my superintendent had a call late last night from some VIP at the Commonwealth Relations Office vouching for your credentials.”

“Sir Edward Bellowe?”