The Valley of the Shadow Read online

  Meekly, Eleanor looked round for a litter basket and dropped the papers in. A herring gull promptly swooped down to grab the greasy ball. Flapping off, it was attacked by three more gulls. The papers scattered in tatters.

  “So much for Keeping Britain Tidy.” Jocelyn changed into first gear and waited for the passing of a sudden stream of traffic, no doubt brought out by the disappearance of the fog. “Tell me about your Boscastle smugglers and your encounter with That Man.” She zipped through a gap between two delivery vans to turn right in front of a car pulling a small caravan. “And why are you stranded in Port Isaac?”

  Eleanor told her story as they drove up the hill, out of the village, and through rolling farmland. The lane narrowed, winding and occasionally zigging and zagging around ancient field boundaries.

  “Bother!” Joce exclaimed, interrupting a description of Eleanor’s efforts to prise the locations and secrets of the hidden caves from Abel Tregeddle. “I always forget how hopeless this road is. We should have gone the other way.”

  “This is definitely the long way round. Never mind, we must be nearly at St. Endellion.”

  “Yes, here we are,” Joce agreed, spotting an outlying bungalow. “How did Tregeddle know about the caves?”

  “Passed down through the family, for a couple of centuries, at least.”

  “Disgraceful!”

  “Of course, it must have been someone with similar knowledge who took the Chudasamas to the cave. Always supposing the story is true.”

  Stopping at the T-junction, Jocelyn turned to stare. “Megan wouldn’t lie. Do you think the boy was making it up?” She turned right on the B road.

  “No, not making it up. But his physical condition was pretty bad, and his mental condition may have been, too. Did you call the hospital, by the way?”

  “Yes. I said he was one of my husband’s parishioners. Much as I object to lying in principle, there are times—”

  “When it’s necessary to shade the truth for a good cause.”

  “Timothy and I tried to work out whether Rocky Valley is within his parish boundary. Unfortunately he’s mislaid the map. He’s quite worried about whether the boy can be considered a parishioner. You know how he is, charity first, then duty, then … But finish your story first.”

  “No, you tell me first how Kalith Chudasama is. Joce, why on earth did you turn right? We’re heading south.”

  “That’s part of it,” the vicar’s wife said, infuriatingly mysterious. “Kalith is still unconscious, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh dear!”

  “He had to have a brain operation, and they’re keeping him in a drug-induced coma because … Well, I didn’t really understand the rest. They’re hopeful of complete recovery but they won’t know for some time. Go on about Tregeddle, and I’m dying to hear what That Man had to say.”

  Eleanor continued her story. By the time she finished with That Man’s long-distance order to Megan to sail with the lifeboat and Megan’s departure in obedience thereto, they were on the A39, still heading south.

  “Joce, where are we going? And why?”

  “Truro. It came to me when Timothy was worrying about whether Kalith Chudasama is his parishioner. He’ll pray for him anyway, of course, but he wondered whether he ought to go to Plymouth to see him in hospital. It’s not only what you might call the geographical confusion over the parish boundaries. Also, he doesn’t know whether the boy is an Anglican, or even a Christian at all. What is it proper for him to do if he should be a Hindu or a Mohammedan? I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but I’m afraid Tim is a little vague about doctrinal questions, the dear man.”

  “Charity first, then duty, and doctrine last.” If at all, Eleanor amended silently. “I thoroughly approve. So we’re going to Truro to consult the bishop? I’m hardly the right person to take with you. And I shouldn’t have thought he’d be willing to discuss the vicar’s doubts with his wife, anyway.”

  “Not the bishop.” Jocelyn—remarkably—looked slightly shifty. “I don’t imagine you’re aware of it, but one of the canons at the cathedral is an Indian from East Africa.”

  “I remember your mentioning him once.”

  “The Reverend Dinesh. He came to England a few years ago, when things started getting sticky for Indians. He was personally threatened, I understand. The Church helped him enter the country, so he had no difficulty, but I wondered—”

  “Joce! You think he’s involved in smuggling people in?”

  “Of course not. A clergyman … and he’s rather quiet and shy. But if it were members of his own congregation … Well, you never know, do you? I thought it might be worth talking to him.”

  Eleanor tried to hide a smile. “Under cover of the vicar’s dilemma? Really, Joce, how jesuitical.”

  “He might merely have heard something useful,” Jocelyn said defensively. “Do you think it’s a waste of time?”

  “No, no, doctrinal doubts must be resolved. Seriously, no, it’s not a waste of time when there doesn’t seem to be anything else helpful we can do.” But she had a niggling sense that there was something she could do, if only she could make the right connections between all the bits and pieces lurking in the murky recesses of her mind. “As you say, you never know.”

  “Well, then!”

  “Isn’t it a bit beneath the vicar’s dignity to have his wife asking advice for him?”

  “My dear Eleanor, surely you realise by now that Tim has absolutely no sense of his own dignity or the dignity of his position. If he did, he would not go buzzing about the countryside on that horrid motor scooter.”

  “In that case, you wouldn’t have a car always available in which to do your own buzzing about the countryside.”

  Jocelyn sighed. “Very true. I must count my blessings.”

  “And I’m sure none of his parishioners respect him the less for his humble Vespa. Look, there’s the cathedral.”

  From a distance, the neo-Gothic cathedral dominated the county town of Cornwall. An ancient river port, a city in name if not in size, Truro appeared as a mere backdrop to the three towering spires.

  Once they reached the bottom of the hill, crossed a bridge over a tributary of the Truro River, and entered the narrow, cobbled streets, the cathedral seemed less overpowering than ever present. Built at the turn of the century on the site of a previous, much smaller church and a few adjoining buildings, Truro Cathedral had to make do without the spreading lawns of a close. But every side street, every alley between shops, offices, and houses, offered a glimpse of the pale gold Bath stone cladding the Cornish granite bones of the walls and towers.

  They were lucky enough to find a place to park in a small cobbled area right in front of the cathedral. As they walked towards the twin-arched porch, several people came out. Jocelyn moved to one side to avoid them and Eleanor veered the other way, so they entered through different arches. Inside the porch, Eleanor was held up by meeting an acquaintance who was giving visitors from the Midlands a tour.

  When she managed to get away and go on through one of the doors into the nave, Jocelyn was waiting with an impatiently tapping toe.

  “Where have you been? I was just about to come and look for you. I was afraid you might have fallen on the cobbles.”

  “Just because I tripped while running on a rough, rocky path yesterday…! Never mind. Sorry.” Eleanor explained the delay. “Now that I’m here, where do we find Canon Dinesh?”

  “I asked a verger, who thinks he’s in his office. It’s not actually in the cathedral. We’ll go out by the south door.” She led the way into the south aisle.

  “Joce, I don’t think I ought to be present when you’re discussing Timothy’s difficulties.”

  “You’re right, it would be awkward. But you’ll have to be there to talk about the smuggling. I don’t see how we can do them in reverse order.”

  “As the theological quest is designed to soften him up for the interrogation—”

  “Really, Eleanor! And in the cathedra
l!”

  Once again she apologised, adding, “It’s true, though; admit it. I’ll tell you what, I’ll just stay here in the cathedral and try not to be sacrilegious, then come and join you in … what?… quarter of an hour?”

  “All right.” Jocelyn explained how to find the cathedral offices and went off.

  Eleanor was tempted to take a seat in a pew. She was tired, and she needed to consider how to tackle the clergyman about his possible collusion with smugglers. But the place was quiet, in spite of an unexpected number of people wandering about—holiday makers fleeing the fog on the north coast, perhaps. She was afraid she might fall asleep.

  Crossing to the north aisle, she went to visit the ebony Madonna. In the circumstances, the black mother and child seemed appropriate. She bought and lit a candle, not that she expected the gesture to help Kalith, his mother, or the rest of his family, but it couldn’t hurt. If a statue of the Buddha had been available, she would have lit incense, or garlanded four-armed Lakshmi with marigolds.

  For a minute or two she watched the candle flame flickering in the currents of air as people passed and entrance doors opened and closed. Then she walked on to the Chapel of Unity and Peace.

  Here she did sit down to collect her scattered thoughts. She tried to centre her being as she would before starting her Aikido practice, shutting out the world yet conscious of her precise place in it. But tranquillity was hard to achieve. As soon as she closed her eyes, the cathedral, seemingly so quiet just moments ago, echoed with footsteps shuffling, tapping, thudding on the paving stones; though voices were hushed, they were buzzing all about her.

  She gave up as the cathedral clock chimed the quarter. Five minutes to get to Canon Dinesh’s office and she couldn’t remember whether Joce had said to turn left or right when she reached the street.

  A helpful verger gave her directions. She went out by the south door. In the short time she had been inside, the sky had filled with mackerel clouds, small, fleecy puffs delightful in themselves but presaging bad weather. If a storm came in, the chances of a continuing search for Kalith’s family diminished to the vanishing point.

  Eleanor found the cathedral offices. Jocelyn had told the secretary she was expected, and she was ushered straight into Canon Dinesh’s room. There was a desk, adorned with a plain gold crucifix and a colour photo of a woman wearing a turquoise sari with a gold border and several gold chains round her neck. However, the canon and Jocelyn were sitting by a small driftwood fire in two of a trio of well-stuffed armchairs, intended, presumably, to make those consulting him more comfortable, less intimidated.

  Not that the canon looked intimidating. He was a short, chubby man with a round, solemn face, considerably darker than Kalith, with quite different features. That didn’t mean they were not related. But even if he had no connection with the Chudasamas, his own family might have arrived in the country illegally. He just might know something that would lead to the smugglers responsible for Kalith’s family’s plight.

  As he stood to greet Eleanor, the skirts of his black cassock made him look even shorter and tubbier. Jocelyn introduced them and they shook hands.

  “Do sit down, Mrs. Trewynn,” he said in a soft voice without a distinguishable accent. “Mrs. Stearns tells me you’re in no hurry, and I usually take tea at about this time.”

  The secretary brought in a tray. Jocelyn took it upon herself to do the honours. While she poured, Canon Dinesh said to Eleanor, “I understand you were present when the unfortunate young man was rescued from the sea?”

  “Not exactly. I went for help when he was spotted. It’s terrible to think he’d have died if we hadn’t happened to walk that way and found him just in time.”

  “But the Good Lord sent you, and I shall pray for his swift recovery.”

  “I’m so sorry for his family, not knowing where he is.” Eleanor accepted a cup of Earl Grey from Jocelyn, declining a bourbon biscuit—not her favourite and she was still full of chips. “Kalith seemed very worried about them, from the little he was able to say. Do you have a family, Canon?”

  “Yes, indeed. My wife and children and my wife’s sister came from Africa with me, several years ago, before the law was changed. We have no relatives there now, though many in India.”

  Eleanor continued to probe the subject as far as she decently could, without asking directly whether he was aware of any smuggling. She was pretty sure he wasn’t. She would leave it to the police to ask that question if necessary. Jocelyn would kill her if she confronted him and upset him.

  The secretary came in to remind the canon of another appointment. They parted with many expressions of mutual esteem and many earnest promises from the Reverend Dinesh to pray for the sufferer and his family.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Jocelyn as they walked back to the car.

  “I don’t believe he has any personal interest in the Chudasamas, though their situation distresses him.”

  “He’s a gentle soul. I agree, I didn’t see the slightest sign that he suspected they might have arrived illegally.”

  “The trouble is,” said Eleanor gloomily, “they might not. Perhaps he simply went for a solo swim and no one has reported him missing because no one was expecting him, and he was raving when he talked to Megan. It’s all too plausible. If the authorities decide that’s the case…”

  “Unless Kalith wakes up and clarifies things, they might stop the search,” said Jocelyn. “We can’t let them get away with that, when there are—or may be—several lives at stake. Let me think.”

  In silence they got into the car and Jocelyn negotiated the one-way streets back to the A39.

  “Bother,” Eleanor said as they left the town behind them. “If I’d known you were going to carry me off to Truro, I could have brought the clothes Megan and Nick borrowed and returned them to Julia and Chaz. They both live near Falmouth, I think.”

  “But you didn’t bring the clothes. I wish I knew who’d make a decision like that. Someone local, or someone in London? Plymouth?”

  “I don’t know. Is the Coast Guard part of the Navy?”

  “I don’t think so, but in any case, it’s useless to try and influence the military mind. The RNLI, though … Their mission is saving lives. If they threaten to quit, the press … perhaps the Race Relations Board, though that would probably take too long. And in the end it’s always a question of money. Could we persuade them to regard it as a training exercise?”

  “Joce, I’m sure they’ll keep searching as long as there’s the slightest hope.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. Bureaucracy! The Church will have to get involved. I’m afraid Canon Dinesh is not a very forceful person.”

  “What does a canon do?”

  “Do you really want to know?” Jocelyn asked ironically.

  “Not particularly,” Eleanor admitted. “I just don’t want to dwell on what Megan and the lifeboat men may be finding. Or not finding.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Megan hung on to a loop of rope as the skipper, at the outboard in the stern, piloted the lifeboat between the quays. Walter and Maggie perched on the sides, facing each other, apparently at ease. The Belinda cleared the headlands and swung northward. As soon as they were far enough from shore not to tangle with lobster pot lines, their speed increased. The bow rose at an angle. Spray flew back on either side and spattered Megan’s face and helmet.

  The sun had sucked up the last wisps of mist. The sea glittered as if a fortune in silver coins miraculously floated on the surface. No wonder seamen always had creases at the corners of their eyes.

  Megan reckoned the boat was about sixteen feet end to end, with the covered bow taking up a good chunk and the outboard another. The puffy, inflated sides narrowed the space inside. Gunwales? Perhaps they didn’t count as gunwales in an inflatable, if that was the right word to start with. Although she had grown up near Falmouth, Megan’s experience of boats was limited to ferries, cross-Channel and otherwise, and a rowboat on the Penryn River as a ch
ild.

  “Get on the radio, Maggie, and give Falmouth our numbers,” said the skipper. “Don’t forget to tell them DS Pencarrow’s wearing the sixteen.”

  When Maggie had reported in and signed off, Megan asked her, “What difference do the numbers make?”

  “In case of … accident. They won’t be notifying the wrong family.” She shouted backwards, “We’re lucky with the weather, Skipper. Couldn’t be calmer.”

  “For the present. Till that front they forecast rolls in.” He hoicked a thumb at the western horizon. Megan saw a dark line marking the meeting of sea and sky.

  “What about the tide, Skipper?” asked Walter. “On the turn, isn’t it?”

  “That’s why we’re in a hurry. Let’s hope we make it to Lye Rock while the gut’s dry, for a start. I wouldn’t want to be caught in there when the current’s running.”

  Megan, out of her element and a trifle shaken by Maggie’s explanation of the numbers, said, “What I don’t quite understand is, if the approach to these caves is so difficult and dangerous, how did the smugglers manage it? Presumably they’d prefer to work under cover of dark nights and stormy weather.”

  The skipper nodded. “A good question. Familiarity, I suppose. I doubt they’d tackle that area in really bad weather, but at sea a very little light goes a long way because it reflects off the water. As well as having experience of safe channels, I imagine they’d use a narrow boat with shallow draught, flat-bottomed, even, and they’d have someone in the bow with a pole to feel for unexpected rocks. As I told you, things move.”

  “And we don’t know where the channels were to start with,” Walter pointed out pessimistically.

  Maggie jeered, “I swear that load of gloom you carry around is going to sink you one of these days, Walter. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  “I’ll have to take you aboard the Daisy D., Sergeant—”

  “Megan.”

  “Megan. To show your map to Tom.”