The Valley of the Shadow Read online

  “What? I haven’t heard about that, Aunt Nell.”

  “He was the reason I had to go into the hotel, the Wellington, all dirty and dripping with blood. The manager was horrified, poor little man. Not at all what he was used to in his guests. But when he understood the situation, he came round nicely.” Eleanor told Megan about the kindly housekeeper. “You looked quite a mess, too,” she went on, “when Mr. Scumble just about shoved you into the ambulance. They took care of you at the hospital?”

  “The ambulance men cleaned me up and plastered me, and lent me a blanket so I was semidecent to walk into the hospital. Which reminds me, I’ve got to return Julia’s clothes.”

  “I’m sure she won’t mind waiting till it’s convenient. A nice girl. Oh dear, the fog looks as thick as ever!”

  They had reached the top of the hill down into Port Isaac. Here, too, the haunting wail of a foghorn could be heard.

  The village was very similar to Port Mabyn and Boscastle, somewhat larger than either. However, the harbour faced north, rather than west into the teeth of prevailing gales, and the harbour entrance was comparatively wide and straight. These advantages explained why it had an RNLI station and the other two did not.

  By the time they were halfway down the hill, Eleanor could see that the fog was in fact thinning. Dense patches loomed like ghostly monsters, yet here and there the sun shone through to glisten on the damp roadway. When Megan stopped the panda on the hard by the lifeboat house and slipway, the salty, seaweedy air wafted in through the open windows, stirred by its own motion, not the motion of the vehicle. The promised breeze was arriving, taking its own sweet time.

  A number of small boats moored in the harbour were tilting sideways as the ebbing tide abandoned them. The orange-and-black inflatable lifeboat, wreathed in swirls of mist, had already been dragged down on its trolley over the muddy sand to the edge of the water. A man in overalls and high rubber boots was examining the outboard engine. Another similarly clad stood near him, chatting. A third man, dressed in a yellow oilskin jacket, orange lifejacket, and what looked like black tights disappearing into yellow wellies, came out of the lifeboat house and walked towards the police car.

  “Stay there, Aunt Nell, while I find out what’s going on.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Sorry.” Megan smiled. “Please!”

  “I’ll stay.”

  The approaching man held out his hand. “DS Pencarrow?”

  Megan shook it. “You’re the captain?”

  “Technically, the coxswain, but yes, I’m in charge on board. ‘Skipper’ is what most call me. I’m a bank manager in everyday life. Larkin is the name. Pete.”

  “Oh yes, I had a word with you on the phone earlier. DI Scumble has explained matters to you … Skipper?” After a slight hesitation, Megan settled on the informal rank.

  “Yes. You’ve brought the map?”

  “My aunt has it.” Megan, slightly flushed, gestured at the car.

  Eleanor decided it was time to make her appearance. She rather wished she wasn’t wearing slacks. In view of her age, they detracted from her dignity, she felt. As she stepped out of the car, map in hand, Teazle bounded between the front seats and jumped out after her. Eleanor grabbed for the lead and her last shred of dignity vanished.

  She could only hope the lack wouldn’t prejudice the coxswain against the information she had obtained in such an unorthodox manner.

  Megan introduced Eleanor and Teazle. Larkin stooped to scratch between the dog’s ears. She wagged madly.

  “I’ve got a Newfoundland. This little girl’s about the size of his head. Come on in, Mrs. Trewynn, Sergeant, and let’s spread that map of yours on the chart table.”

  Eleanor had her Ordnance Survey map folded to display the correct section. She found it difficult to reconcile it with the much-larger-scale nautical chart. The chart confused her with its multiplicity of lines and numbers indicating the depth of the sea, hazards to navigation, currents, high-water mark, and low-water mark where hers was plain blue; and nothing but the odd landmark where hers showed towns, villages, farms, roads, and footpaths, in varying shades of green and brown.

  Even the margin between land and sea was much more complicated on the chart. Once Larkin had pointed out Lye Rock and the Saddle Rocks on both, she began to orientate herself.

  “Oh, I see. That’s Bossiney Haven, and that must be— Yes, there’s Rocky Valley, where we found him.”

  “That’s right. I hear you pulled him out, Sergeant?”

  “With help. And the sea was calm.”

  “All the same, a nasty spot, that inlet. Well done.” He turned back to the chart table, picked up Eleanor’s map, and peered at the pencilled arrows. “Right, Mrs. Trewynn, what’s going on here? DI Scumble said you’re going to suggest where we should start looking.”

  “Yes. You see—”

  “Don’t bother with explanations for now. I’ll ask if I need to know. Just tell me what these signify.” He placed a fingertip on each arrow in turn.

  “They’re all hidden caves. I’m sure Mr. Scumble told you that. The top one—the northernmost one—can’t be seen until you’re really close.” She repeated the description she had given Scumble. “The middle one is half full of water even at the lowest tides. But if you take a boat right to the very back, it turns a corner and slopes upwards. Mr.… He said it opens out into quite a big, dry cavern.”

  “Mr. Anonymous, huh?” Larkin glanced at Megan. “Well, it’s none of my business, as long as he’s given you a straight tip. And the southern one?”

  “It’s in the crevasse between Lye Rock and the main headland. The gap is quite narrow—a ‘gut,’ he called it—and the cave is on the southwest side, facing northeast, so its mouth is almost always in shadow. The gut is sometimes dry, sometimes underwater, but there’s no reason for anyone ever to go there.”

  “Except smugglers?” He grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell tales, not that I know anything to tell. That’s the lot, those three?” He pencilled in matching arrows on the chart.

  “I got the impression there may be others, but not in Bossiney Cove.”

  “As I told the inspector, there’s general agreement that your chappy is most unlikely to have survived if he entered the water anywhere outside Bossiney Cove. He’d have had to swim or be swept by currents right round Lye Rock, through the dangerous passage between it and the Sisters—these offshore islets here. But he’d be equally unlikely to survive coming into the cove from the north. You got him out at low tide, didn’t you?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “Hmm. The main current flows up the coast with an incoming tide and back down, to the southwest, with the ebb, but there’s a couple of hours when it’s not sure what it’s doing. Sounds as if he went in at the beginning of the slack—sensible, if he was aware of it.”

  “He must have started out in the cove, then,” said Megan, grasping the point though somewhat confused by the currents.

  “I’d say so. In any case, whatever the main current’s direction, water swirls into the cove and splits up in all directions, dependent on the topography. Which is rearranged by big storms. The rocks and currents within the cove are so changeable they’ve never been charted. Boaters are advised to stay clear.”

  “But you’ve been there? The lifeboat has, I mean.”

  “Oh yes! Bossiney Haven has a nice beach at low tide that disappears at high tide. Benoath, too. People explore and don’t pay attention. We’ve had to go in to bring them out. A couple of times, I’ve seen a lobsterman setting or checking pots there, in calm weather, when I’ve sailed up that way. I reckon the know-how is passed down from father to son, though I’ve come by it the hard way.”

  A man and a young woman hurried in, staring at Eleanor and Megan.

  “What’s the gen, Skipper?” the man asked.

  “Cave rescue. We’ve got a family, number and condition unknown, reported stuck in a cave, probably in Bossiney Cove.”


  “Bossiney Cove! A million caves!”

  “A family?” said the woman. “Not too many to fit in the Belinda, I hope. Nowhere nearby to land them, not where they can be got out easily.”

  “The Bude inshore is coming and the Daisy D. is already there, waiting to pick them up if necessary.” The coxswain eyed the woman. A sturdy figure, wearing dungarees and emanating a faint smell of cows, she looked confident and fit for anything.

  “I’ve been heaving bales of hay,” she said belligerently, “while Walter’s been lounging behind his counter.”

  Walter opened his mouth to retort.

  “Don’t say it,” the coxswain warned. “All right, Maggie, you’ve made your point. Get suited up, the two of you.”

  They collected their kit from a bank of lockers. Maggie disappeared through a door on the far side, the man behind a curtain in one corner. From behind it, he grumbled, “Complicates things having a woman on the crew.”

  “She pulls her weight, Walter.”

  “I know, I know.”

  A couple more men came in.

  “What’s up, Skipper?” one asked.

  “Cave rescue. I’ve got a crew, Walter and Maggie. You can help with the launch. What’s the fog doing?”

  “Breaking up fast. The foghorn shut off its bloody racket a couple of minutes ago.”

  “Good. Get on the radio and tell Falmouth we’re on our way, would you, Jerry? Des, see if you can find— Oh, Maggie, that was quick.”

  “Have to prove I can change as quickly as a bloke, don’t I!”

  “Good. Now find an outfit to fit Sergeant Pencarrow, here. She can’t go in a skirt.”

  “What!” Megan exclaimed. “I’m not—”

  “Didn’t your boss warn you?” asked Larkin. “He wants you along with us. Something to do with evidence at the scene of the crime and questioning witnesses? I didn’t follow all that.”

  “The bastard! Sorry, Aunt Nell. No, he did not warn me.”

  “Perhaps he thought of it after we left,” Eleanor said soothingly.

  “He could have radioed the car.”

  “Very inconsiderate of him. Perhaps we were out of range? But of course you’ll go, dear. Just leave me the keys of the car—”

  “Aunt Nell, he’d kill me if I let you drive a police car. Ring someone to fetch you.”

  “Here you go, Sergeant.” Maggie handed over a bundle—of what, Eleanor couldn’t make out—together with a bright yellow oilskin jacket emblazoned RNLI and a pair of yellow wellingtons. “They shouldn’t be too bad a fit. Ever put on a dry suit before? No? I’d better give you a hand. Change in the loo.” She pointed at the door she had used. “There’s not much room, so you can put the lifejacket on out here. Stick your head out when you’ve got the woolly bears on and—”

  “Woolly bears?”

  “Thermal undies. These here. Don’t decide you can do without the woolly bears underneath.”

  “You may think it’s a warm day, but it’ll be bloody freezing once you get out there,” Jerry agreed, hanging up the radio mike.

  “Once you’ve got ’em on, I’ll give you a hand with the dry suit.”

  “Make it nippy, Sergeant! We’re ready to launch.” The skipper strode out, carrying a helmet, his chart, and Eleanor’s map. Walter followed. Megan disappeared into the loo.

  “You take care of her, Maggie,” said a small, bright-eyed old man in ordinary clothes. He’d kept well out of the way before and Eleanor hadn’t noticed him. “I don’t hold with taking civilians out.”

  “She’s a copper,” Maggie pointed out. “You want to tell the police what they can’t do? Ready, Sergeant?” She joined Megan in the loo.

  “I’m shore helper,” the old man told Eleanor, “ground crew, as you might say. I take care of things here while they’re out. On the boats for twenty-five years, I was. Nice little dog.” He made encouraging noises at Teazle, who went to be petted.

  In a remarkably short time, Maggie reappeared. Megan followed a moment later, putting on the yellow jacket and walking awkwardly. “Borrowed clothes again,” she moaned.

  “You’ll have to leave your bag, miss. I’ll lock it up, never you worry.”

  “All right, but I must have my notebook.” She took it out and handed over the shoulder bag. “It’ll fit in this pocket; I hope it’s waterproof.”

  “More or less.” He helped her don the lifejacket. “There you go.”

  “Thanks. And thank heaven it’s calm. But just as well I didn’t get any lunch, I suppose. Wish me luck, Aunt Nell.” Putting on the helmet, she hurried after the others.

  “I do, dear,” Eleanor called after her. She took her leave of the old man and went out.

  With a group of tourists and locals, she and Teazle watched the shore crew haul the Belinda into water deep enough to float her shallow draught. She chugged between the quays and out of the harbour. The fog had vanished. In the sunshine, the water glittered like the silvery scales of a giant fish.

  Fish. Lunch. She was starving. She decided to ring Jocelyn and see if she was free to pick them up. If not, she’d try Nick. And then she’d go in search of fish and chips, or a pasty, she didn’t mind which.

  The plight of the stranded family might well include hunger, she thought. She should have suggested that the skipper take supplies. But probably the larger Padstow boat would have food aboard. Boat or ship? She had no idea how big the Daisy D. was, not that she had any idea how big a vessel had to be to count as a ship. It was, she gathered, big enough to take more people on board than the Belinda. That was all that mattered.

  She wished there was something she could do to help, but even if she’d managed to persuade them to take her, she and Teazle would only have been in the way.

  She went to find a phone box. This time her call was not urgent, so naturally no one was occupying the box. Picking up Teazle, who always refused to enter the small, enclosed space on her own feet, she opened the door.

  As it swung closed behind her, she found herself muttering, “Ship. Ships.”

  Teazle licked her cheek. “Chips” was one of her favourite words. Putting the dog down, wiping her face, saying, “All right, fish and chips for lunch,” Eleanor lost the tenuous thread of thought that had resulted in her mutter.

  She was sure it had been important.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Jocelyn, it’s—”

  “Eleanor! I’ve been so worried about you. I thought Nicholas was going with you, but he didn’t know where you’d got to. He was quite rude when I rang him. He said Megan had been round to pester him—”

  “It’s all right, I’ve seen Megan. And Inspector Scumble. I haven’t got enough change to explain just now. I’m in a phone box in Port Isaac, and—”

  “Port Isaac! What on earth—? No, tell me later. Eleanor, I’ve had an idea. Something Timothy said … Are you coming home now?”

  “No car. Could you possibly come and pick us up? No rush.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks, Joce. We’ll find somewhere to sit near the harbour.”

  “I’ll find you. I’m on my way.” Jocelyn rang off before Eleanor could ask her whether she had phoned the Plymouth hospital for news of Kalith Chudasama’s condition.

  With a newspaper-wrapped bundle of cod and chips, Eleanor found a seat on a bench overlooking the harbour. Teazle sat directly in front of her, a mesmeric gaze fixed on the paper and its contents.

  The only other occupant of the bench was a wrinkled, weathered ancient. He looked as old as the elder Mr. Hawker, but he had all his marbles. He exchanged a nod of greeting with Eleanor when she arrived, bright blue eyes assessing her, then he returned his attention to the harbour. Most of the small boats now lay on their sides in the sandy mud, only those nearest the quays still afloat.

  Eleanor, with help from Teazle, ate quickly. Jocelyn didn’t approve of eating in the street. Though Eleanor had been brought up with the same taboo, after all her travels she considered it ridi
culous. Still, Joce was doing her a favour coming to fetch her, so she wanted to dispose of the evidence.

  As soon as she fed the last scrap of batter to Teazle and balled up the greasy newspaper and supposedly grease-proof paper, her neighbour on the bench addressed her. “I were pulled out o’ the sea by yon, I were. Back when she were a proper boat, not a bitty canvas thing. I allis comes down to watch when she goes out. I don’t hold wi’ young maidies on the boats.”

  “Grace Darling,” said Eleanor.

  He gave her a toothless grin. “Oh, aye, I were forgettin’ her that went out in a rowboat and saved the shipwrecked sailors, hundred years sin’ and more. Eighteen hundred and thirty-eight, that were. You’ve the right of it, there, missus. Saw you gettin’ out o’ that there polis car, I did, and talking wi’ the coxswain.” He paused invitingly.

  “My niece is a police officer.” Eleanor evaded the implicit question. No doubt he’d find out soon enough what the lifeboat’s mission was today. It wasn’t for her to enlighten him.

  “Ah.” He shook his head. “I don’t hold wi’ young maidies in the polis. What’ll they think of next?”

  Unable to answer the question, she said lamely that the police seemed to grow younger every year.

  “Ah, well, I don’t have much to do wi’ they. I be a law-abiding man.”

  Eleanor had been wondering whether it would be worth asking him if he knew anything about local smuggling. His firm claim of rectitude decided her against. They chatted for a little longer about the fog, and then Jocelyn arrived and Eleanor excused herself.

  Teazle recognised the car and pulled her towards it. She and Jocelyn were not particular friends, but Jocelyn was associated with the vicar, who almost always carried something pleasantly edible in his pockets for his parishioners’ pets. Eleanor opened the door and the little dog scrambled in.

  As Eleanor was about to follow, Jocelyn sniffed and said in tones of strong disapproval, “Fish and chips. Do get rid of the papers before you get in, Eleanor. The car will stink of frying fish.”