Buried in the Country Page 2

  Not really, she decided with a sigh as she parked the Traveller in the lot at the upper end of the village.

  She and Teazle walked down through the opes, the maze of steps and passageways that gave access to all the houses not fronting the single street. In the tiny sheltered gardens, early daffodils swayed in the freshening breeze, often surrounded by a carpet of purple, yellow, and white crocuses.

  The dog was perfectly happy to climb into the Incorruptible and repeat the trip. On the way down, a gust of wind threw a spatter of rain at them.

  * * *

  The next morning, it was still raining, a determined drizzle that seemed set in for the day. The meadow by the stream was underwater, but the bridge was unaffected and the post arrived at the usual time. With it came the expected letter from Sir Edward.

  It was in an unofficial envelope, addressed by hand. Only the initials on the back flap told Eleanor whom it was from. He was serious about secrecy, she realised. She mustn’t tell even Jocelyn, who had brought up her post after noticing it on the floor inside the street door in the passage below.

  “Something interesting?” she asked.

  “What? Oh, sorry! No, not particularly.”

  Joce gave her a sceptical look. “I must get back to the shop. I’ll leave you to read it in peace. You won’t be out collecting today, I imagine. There’ll be water all over the roads. I wondered if you could lend a hand in the stockroom for a while? Miss Macy sent word she has a cold and won’t be in.”

  “Yes, of course.” She wasn’t permitted to serve in the shop, as she had only to look at the cash register for it to stop functioning. “I’ll be down in half an hour or so.”

  As the door closed behind the vicar’s wife, Eleanor tore open the envelope. Tintagel! They were to meet just a few miles up the coast, at the King Arthur Hotel, a massive Victorian excrescence about half a mile from the centre of the village. Perched on the cliffs overlooking the castle ruins, it was generally regarded as a blot on the landscape. These days it would certainly not have got planning permission.

  Though exposed to the weather, it was at least accessible. Sir Edward confessed that he had wanted to go to the Scillies, but in view of the stormy long-term weather forecasts, Gina had put her foot down. She would act as hostess.

  If Eleanor would arrange to arrive on Friday afternoon, in time for tea, it would be much appreciated.

  That was all. No hint as to which particular conflict was to be the object of their efforts at reconciliation. Even Sir Edward, it appeared, considered Eleanor’s function to be nothing more than spreading sweetness and light, as Gina’s was to make sure the accommodations were in order and everyone was comfortable.

  Eleanor would have liked a chance to prepare her thoughts in advance for whatever knotty situation she was about to plunge into. She was annoyed.

  London, February

  “Hello, Freddy.”

  “Sandman!”

  “Ssshh, don’t use that name.”

  “Sorry. You’d better come on in.”

  “What a dump. Sunk in the world, haven’t you.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “How much a week are you blowing on the Devil’s wheel, mate?”

  “Not that much. It’s hard to find a straight wheel in London, and I can’t afford to go back to the Riviera. When did you get out?”

  “Couple of days ago. I’ve been looking for your sister.”

  “She moved.”

  “That’s bloody obvious, innit. You always were a fool. Dunno why your old man wasted his money sending you to that fancy school. Heard he died while I was inside?”

  “Ages ago.”

  “That’s a shame. Smartest man in the business, and not flashy. Never once suspected, was he? Must have put away a packet. So how come you’re living in this dump?”

  “I went down for another stretch. Just a few months, but he said if I couldn’t make a go of it straight or crooked, he washed his hands of me.”

  “Don’t whine. It’s pathetic. Gets on my nerves.”

  “Sorry, S—Vic.”

  “Does this mean you can’t pay what your old man owed me for the last haul before I was sent down? The interest’s been mounting up while I’ve been on the Moor, you know.”

  “Not my problem. My father left the lot to my sister. She sends me an allowance, barely enough to scrape by.”

  “Ah, now that makes me even keener to talk to her. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Pull the other one.”

  “She moved while I was inside and she never told me. Buried herself in the country somewhere. Said she didn’t want me hanging about.”

  “I don’t blame her. But you must have some idea where she is, if she’s sending money.”

  “I get cheques in the post.”

  “What’s the postmark? Where’s the bank?”

  “I never looked.”

  “God, don’t you have any initiative?”

  “There didn’t seem much point. She wouldn’t give me an extra penny if I went on bended knee.”

  “We’ll see about that. Meantime, I hope that couch is comfortable, because you’ll be sleeping on it till the next cheque arrives. Got any smokes? And a beer would go down a fair treat.”

  “You know I only drink vodka.”

  “That’s right, keep your breath clean for the ladies. Have to step out for some Guinness, then, won’t you, mate?”

  TWO

  Cornwall, March

  “The DCI wants to see you, Pencarrow,” announced the desk sergeant as Megan entered the Launceston police station. “Pronto. As in an hour ago.”

  “Oh hell! I knew I should have taken the time to stop for lunch on the way back. Do you know what for?”

  He shrugged. “Been a naughty girl, have you?”

  She glared at him. He put his hands up in front of him in a gesture of surrender.

  “Don’t bite my head off! D’you rather I asked if you’d been a naughty boy?”

  “No, sorry. It’s just that bloody Inspector Bruton in Bude.… Never mind. Is Scumble in a bate?”

  “Not more than usual. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Megan hurried up the stairs. The headquarters for the northern region of the Constabulary of the Royal Duchy of Cornwall was a three-story building on the Town Square—actually a triangle. It would not house CaRaDoC much longer. The local force would soon move to a boring modern structure on the outskirts of the small town.

  For now, Detective Chief Inspector Scumble had a pleasant view from his office window, a glimpse over the buildings opposite the castle ruins and the green hills beyond. However, responding to his “Come in,” Megan had eyes only for her guv’nor.

  “Sir?”

  “What took you so long, Pencarrow?” The irritable question was for form’s sake. “You get it sorted?”

  “Yes, sir. There wasn’t much to it, just a bit of a kerfuffle in a caravan park. They’ll rent to anyone at this time of year, Gypsies, ‘travellers,’ hippies, you name it. The beat bobby could have dealt with it, but Inspector—”

  “Never mind that now. Get your report to me as soon as you can. No hurry.”

  Megan looked at him in surprise. Usually he wanted a typed report yesterday. “Something’s up?” she ventured.

  “A lot of tomfoolery,” he growled. “First, we have a report of a missing solicitor.”

  “How long?” She took out her notebook.

  “Left four days ago after saying he’d be away overnight.”

  “But, sir, if we chased after every adult male who—”

  “You know that, Pencarrow. I know that. Superintendent Bentinct knows that. Do you want to explain the facts of life to the chief constable? This bloke’s partner rang up Major Amboyne direct. They’re on some committee together. And the CC is very particular about staying on the right side of lawyers. Bleak House syndrome, the super calls it.”

  “We did Bleak House at school.
It’s about a family beggared by lawsuits.”

  “So I’m told. The CC doesn’t seem to be doing too badly. Doubtless there are different levels of beggardom. Anyway, the result is we have to at least make a show of taking it seriously, which means you go and get the details.”

  “What’s the name, sir? And where?”

  Scumble glanced at his memo pad. “Freeth, Alan Freeth, has gone AWOL. A very sober, responsible, reliable individual, according to Mr. Bulwer, who has had to placate a number of clients who had appointments with him.”

  “Freeth and Bulwer? Sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “Port Mabyn. Friends of your auntie, I daresay. Maybe she can give you the lowdown on this Freeth character.”

  “Is that permission to stop in and see Aunt Nell, sir?”

  The chief inspector sighed gustily. “I suppose so. Briefly. Then, unless you have some idea where to look for the missing lawyer and barring an emergency, you can take the rest of the afternoon off—”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “Let me finish my sentence, Pencarrow. At half six, you’ll meet the southbound train at the station here. Unmarked car. You’ll drive a couple of passengers to Tintagel. A young chap and his minder.”

  “Minder? A child? A witness?”

  “An Oxford undergraduate student and a civil servant.” Scumble shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”

  “Two men. How will I recognise them?”

  “Not that many people this early in the year. Two blokes getting off together.”

  “That should help,” said Megan ironically.

  “I’ll be giving you an envelope—sealed—with official instructions. I imagine they’ll tell you how to recognise the pair. Bowler hat, red carnation in the buttonhole, and Times in hand, for all I know. Tight-furled umbrella goes without saying.”

  “I take these two to Tintagel? It’s just up the road from Port Mabyn. It would make more sense to see Bulwer after I drop them off.”

  “Ah, but you won’t be dropping them off. You’re to stay on as security detail.”

  “That’s a job for a uniform, sir!”

  “Undercover. The CC wants to send a female detective officer, and you’re still the only one in CaRaDoC.”

  “What? I don’t understand, sir.”

  “I’m not sure I do. They’ve got a complicated situation on their hands. Sit down. This is it, as far as I can make it out from what little I’m authorised to know. What matters is that some bigwig at the Commonwealth Office decided to hold some sort of secret conference at the hotel this weekend. They’re pretty sure the people attending are being watched by an adversary.”

  “Who—?”

  “Don’t ask me. The CC may know, or even the super, though I fancy not. You and I are too low on the totem. Whoever it is wants someone to watch out for suspicious strangers. Your average detective constable can disappear in a crowd, but without one, he sticks out like a sore thumb. So someone had the bright idea of swiping my sergeant. No one will suspect you of being a copper.”

  “That would depend what I do, wouldn’t it. Trouble is, it’s a small village. If they want me to go round watching people and asking questions—”

  “No, no, nothing like that. You’ll be staying at the hotel.”

  “On expenses, I trust.”

  “Of course. Paid for by the Commonwealth Office, not CaRaDoC. They’re staying in a set of rooms in a wing often reserved for small groups, with a private sitting room and dining room. You’ll be in the main hotel, nearby. There won’t be many guests at this time of year. All you have to do is keep an eye on them and see if anyone is nosing about: other guests, staff, or drop-ins to the bar or restaurant. They don’t get many of those, as it’s half a mile from the village.”

  “And what do I do if someone’s prying? Warning them off would just confirm that there’s something to be warned off.”

  “Patience, Pencarrow, patience.” He was a fine one to preach, Megan thought. “You’ll inform the bigwig in charge. The suite has a private phone. You’ll have help, too. Scotland Yard is sending a man to escort another student down, one of those rabble-rousers at London University. He’ll work with you, spell you if necessary.”

  Megan’s heart sank. Her ex-boyfriend, Ken Faraday, had somehow become the Met’s Cornwall expert. She had no wish to see him, far less to work with him. “Did they give you his name?”

  “No, but I expect it’ll be the Boy Wonder, don’t you think?”

  “Probably.”

  “Don’t look so down in the mouth. You’re quite capable of fending him off if he gets frisky.”

  “Yes, sir.” But she’d rather not have to. It would complicate a job that already sounded both complicated and boring. Perhaps—she touched wood—her partner would be a complete stranger, maybe even a WPC. After all, she had been sent because the brass reckoned being female was as good as a disguise.

  “It’s just the weekend.” The DCI slid an envelope across the desk to her. “Here’s all the gen, including the phone number of the Commonwealth Office bloke you report to. Name of Sir Edward Bellowe.”

  Uneasily, Megan recalled Aunt Nell mentioning her friends the Bellowes. Sir Edward and … Gina, that was it. But Aunt Nell couldn’t possibly have anything to do with whatever was going on in Tintagel. Could she?

  Megan decided she didn’t need to disclose such a vague connection to the guv’nor. “Right, sir.”

  “Keep me up to date. In case of emergency, radio the nick before informing the bigwig. You’d better take a hand-held—”

  “And a spare for the bloke from the Met? He won’t have the local frequency.”

  “Good thought. Yes, one for the Boy Wonder. I don’t want him mucking up my airwaves, though. Just take a two-way for the pair of you. And a mini-camera, if we have such a thing. You know how to use ’em?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “A mug shot of any nosy-parkers might turn out useful.” Scumble looked her up and down with disfavour. “And find something else to wear. You look like a plainclothes copper. Or would if you weren’t female.”

  She knew better than to say that was why she was wearing the middling-grey trouser suit from Marks and Sparks, neat and plain but allowing freedom of movement. For the caravan park job, it was right. As she was going to pretend she wasn’t an officer, it was wrong. For the solicitor, though …

  “Well, what you waiting for, Pencarrow? Get a move on, or you won’t be there till midnight.”

  Megan wasn’t actually in any hurry. She decided to take an hour of her afternoon off before she went to Port Mabyn. Lunch was imperative. It was half past two, so all the cafés would have stopped serving, but she could make a sandwich at home. She wouldn’t even have to bike up the hill to her tiny bed-sitter as she had to pick up a police car to get to the coast.

  * * *

  “Nick!” The studio door was open so Eleanor dashed straight through from the gallery in front, Teazle at her heels. “Oh, Nick, I’m awfully sorry to interrupt, but the car won’t start and I absolutely have to get to Tintagel this afternoon. Could you possibly come and have a look?”

  “It’s all right; I haven’t actually got beyond standing at the easel, staring and wondering whether I’m going in the right direction.”

  “May I take a peek? Is it your … um … Four Temperaments painting?” She studied the picture. “I can’t say I understand it, but I like it. Which, given my ignorance and lack of aesthetic appreciation, probably means you’re going in the wrong direction.”

  Nick laughed. “I’ll play the LP for you sometime. If you still like the painting when you’ve heard it, all well and good. Let’s go and see what’s up with the Incorruptible.”

  The car was back in the meadow by the stream, in the small wooden shed Eleanor rented for it, because being prone to rust was one of its defects. It was a tight fit. Nick, tall and lean, sidled in and managed to open the driver’s door just wide enough to squeeze inside. Peering through the back window—not
as clean as it might have been, Eleanor admitted to herself—she saw his elbow move.

  Nothing happened.

  He stuck his head out of the window and said indignantly, “You didn’t tell me it won’t even turn over!”

  “It doesn’t turn over? Is that bad?”

  “It’s dead. Either the battery or the starter, I expect. I’m no expert.”

  “Mechanic?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Botheration! It will have to wait. Nick, can you possibly give us a lift to the King Arthur Hotel?”

  “Of course. I welcome an excuse to postpone thinking about this picture. I’ll just dash home and get my keys and my camera. A mackerel sky like this often makes for a spectacular sunset.”

  Eleanor retrieved her suitcase from the Incorruptible’s boot, gave the car a consoling pat, and closed the shed’s doors. The Traveller was parked right next to it, the rear seat folded flat to accommodate an easel, among other odds and ends. She found the back doors unlocked, put the case in, and gave Teazle a boost up beside it.

  Waiting beside the car, she gazed up at the sky. Hazy sunshine filtered through the high, thin clouds, which reminded her more of a ploughed field than a mackerel’s scales. Whatever image they evoked, they presaged rain, perhaps another storm. She was glad not to be on her way to the Scillies.

  As Nick drove up the hill out of the village, slowly but without the Incorruptible’s rattles and squeaks, he asked, “You’re meeting someone at the hotel? Should I stick about to bring you home?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be staying the weekend. Till Monday at least.”

  “Teazle too?” He glanced over his shoulder as the dog yipped in answer to her name. “Living the high life! You’re meeting friends there?”

  “Sort of. I’ll be … Well, it’s all very hush-hush. I’m not supposed to talk about it, and my host has made sure I won’t by not telling me just what it’s all about.”

  “Who’s your host?”

  “Oh dear, I wonder if I’m allowed to mention his name?”

  “This is beginning to sound very mysterious and sinister, Eleanor.”

  “Not sinister!”