The Valley of the Shadow Page 9

  Nick followed Eleanor in, but he said, “Not tonight, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Stearns. Eleanor’s had a long, hard day, and I’ve been gripping the steering wheel with all my might and main for what seems like hours.”

  “You both look frozen, and your hair’s wet. Come in by the fire, and I’ll make hot chocolate. The instant kind, it won’t take a jiffy.”

  Eleanor realised her hair had collected moisture from the fog and was dripping down her neck. She had been too chilled to notice it. The sitting room, furnished with slightly worn prize pieces from the LonStar shop, was warm and welcoming. She and Nick exchanged a look and sank into chairs by the flickering driftwood fire.

  Nick rubbed his eyes. “I don’t believe I’ve blinked once since we hit the fog.” He stretched.

  “I’m very glad you were driving.”

  Jocelyn reappeared. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, thanks, Joce. Very well, with the Prthnavis.”

  “Only, there’s soup. Plenty of it, as Timothy’s not coming home.”

  “What?” Nick exclaimed. “Don’t tell me the vicar’s stuck out in this fog somewhere on his scooter!”

  “No, no. He was called out before it rolled in and they rang to say he’d stay the night.”

  “Good. I can’t say I fancied having to go and look for him.”

  The kettle whistled and Jocelyn disappeared again.

  “Cocoa, and then home,” Eleanor said firmly. “I’m not staying up half the night talking.”

  “Scumble warned us not to talk.”

  Joce was back, with a tray. “Did I hear That Man’s name?” She handed out mugs of hot chocolate.

  Gratefully warming her hands on the mug, Eleanor said, “The inspector told us we mustn’t tell anyone about what’s happened.”

  “In the first place, I am not ‘anyone.’ In the second place, I already know most of it. If I’m left in ignorance of the rest, how can I help?”

  Nick grinned, shaking his head. “I rather think Scumble would be much happier without our help, Mrs. Stearns.”

  “I daresay. However, it is our duty to aid our fellow man, even if he’s a Hindu or a detective inspector.”

  Once Jocelyn had rationalised her desire to interfere as her duty, nothing could stop her, and Eleanor wasn’t about to try.

  Besides, she had the glimmerings of an idea of how she and Jocelyn might be able to help. The police search for the cave could not start until the fog lifted, but once they got going, it would be speeded up if the area they had to search was narrowed down. The sort of people who … The sort of people … The thought slipped away.

  “Eleanor!” Nick rescued the tipping mug from her hand. “You’re half asleep. Come on, let’s head for home. We’re going to have to take it really carefully.”

  “Eleanor, you’d better spend the night.”

  “I’d love to, but I left Teazle at home.”

  “Nicholas will let her out, won’t you, Nicholas.” It was a command, not a question, let alone a request.

  “Of course,” Nick said meekly. “I’ll give her a Bonio and she can spend the night with me.”

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” promised—or threatened—Jocelyn.

  * * *

  Eleanor was awoken early by daylight filtering through the blue-striped cotton curtains of the Stearnses’ spare room. The room faced west so the morning sun didn’t shine in, but the light was not the grey gloom of a foggy day. A flood of relief swept over her. She would not have to embark upon the awkward embassy she had envisioned undertaking in the slim hope of speeding the search for the cave.

  She stretched, a necessary precursor these days to getting out of bed, especially a bed other than her own. Stiffly, she clambered out, stretched again, and padded barefoot to the window.

  The rising sun gleamed on the windows of the houses opposite and the lantern of the Crookmoyle lighthouse at the top of the slope beyond them. But when Eleanor looked down the hill to her left, the bridge and the harbour were invisible beneath a white blanket of cotton wool.

  The fog had abandoned the high ground; over the water it still clung. It might be local and short-lived. Or it might hang along the entire North Coast for days, keeping frustrated fishermen in port and foiling the rescue of a desperate family.

  TWELVE

  Megan arrived back at the nick just as the first faint hint of dawn lightened the eastern sky. The duty sergeant had warned her that her boss was still in, had been there all night, so she took up two mugs of coffee. It was from the bottom of the urn, barely hotter than lukewarm, but better than nothing.

  She found Scumble at his desk, on the telephone, eyes red and bleary. He took his mug from her and gulped greedily, listening as he drank.

  “All right, if you say so, who am I to argue?” he said at last, in the tone of heavy patience that failed to disguise his impatience. “You’ll let me know at once? Yes, of course.” He slammed down the receiver.

  “What’s up, sir?”

  “The bloody watch officer of HM sodding Coast Guard says it’s too f … frigging foggy to search.” He had long ago given up an initial attempt not to swear in Megan’s presence, but he still drew the line at certain words. “Hell, it’s foggy on the coast more often than not! What use is the Coast Guard if a bit of fog stumps them?”

  “It must be a really bad one.”

  “Isn’t that what they have radar and sonar for? Bloody useless gits.”

  “They probably can’t take radar and sonar equipment in a small boat.”

  “Whose side are you on?” the inspector snarled. “He says he won’t risk the lives of his men, but what about the lives of the stranded family? It’s the RNLI who have to do the dirty work, anyway. The Coast Guard ‘coordinates operations’ and sends in a copter if needed.”

  “Maybe he’s taking into account that we aren’t absolutely sure—”

  “As far as I’m concerned, they’re British citizens out there and in danger, unless I get definite evidence to the contrary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The phone rang and Megan answered: “DS Pencarrow.”

  “It’s the skipper of the Port Isaac lifeboat, Sergeant.”

  “Put him through.” Megan relayed the information. Rubbing his eyes, Scumble picked up his receiver, then gestured to her to take the call.

  “This is Pete Larkin, Sergeant,” said a sober voice. “Bad news, I’m afraid. The fog’s so thick we can’t even get down to the lifeboat house. I rang Bude, and it’s the same up there. Boscastle, too—I talked to a chap I know there, hoping we might be able to get a fishing boat on the job. The Padstow all-weather boat went out earlier, to look for other survivors—or bodies. It’s on station beyond the fog line, a couple of miles out, but the inshore boats won’t be able to get going till it thins. Sorry.”

  “Okay. Thanks for letting us know. Any idea when it might clear?”

  “That’s anyone’s guess. The Met Office says there’s a front coming in, but they won’t say when it’s due to arrive. That’ll blow it away, if it hasn’t already lifted. You never can tell.”

  “How far inland does it reach, in your area?”

  “Oh, no distance. It’s sitting on the water like a goose on its nest. From a hundred yards up the hill, you can see Lobber Point. The harbour’s invisible, though. Don’t worry, I’ll call in the crew as soon as there’s any hope of launching.”

  “Thank you, Captain Larkin.” Megan looked at Scumble. He shook his head: no further questions. “We’ll get back to you if there’s any news at this end.”

  Scumble hung up. “News? There isn’t going to be any news till those buggers get moving.”

  “It does sound hopeless to attempt a search at present, sir. I was thinking of news from the hospital. Or did you talk to them before I got here?”

  “They’re supposed to ring here if Chudasama’s condition changes.”

  “You know how hospitals are. The last thing on their minds is letting anyone know what
’s going on.”

  “You’re right.” Sighing, he rubbed his eyes again. “Jesus, I’m tired. Give them a buzz.”

  It took ages to get through to someone who knew something and was willing to tell. The night shift were just going off, unwilling to be delayed, and the day shift had to bring themselves up to date with what was going on. At last, Megan spoke to the sister of the surgical ward.

  “Chudasama, Kalith? Yes, I have his chart here. It looks as if he came out of the theatre in good shape. Intracranial bleeding—the surgeon thinks he’s stopped that, and with a bit of luck the swelling will go down now. This sort of case, it takes a bit of luck,” she added with professional cheerfulness. “He’s young. That’s in his favour. And it seems he’s fundamentally healthy, though recently he’s not been getting enough to eat.”

  “Can he talk?”

  “Talk? I should say not! Even if he was physically capable, which he isn’t at present, I’m sure Doctor won’t want him trying for at least a couple of days. I really must run, Miss…”

  “Sergeant. Cornish police, Launceston station. You will keep us informed?”

  “Yes, certainly, I’ll make a note. Bye now.” Click.

  “Fat chance!” Megan snorted.

  “Fat chance of what?”

  “Of them keeping us informed. She ‘made a note.’ He was basically healthy but recently he hasn’t been getting enough to eat. So presumably his family’s running out of whatever rations the smugglers left them, if any.”

  “The bastards! When will he be able to talk?”

  “She reckons he won’t be allowed for a couple of days. At least. Even if he’s able.”

  “If he starts babbling, the Plymouth force should let us know. But let’s hope we’re talking to the family long before two days have passed.” He yawned. “Right, I’m glad you asked about fog inland. Good thinking. You can drop me off at home for a couple of hours kip, and run on down to Camelford to see the Indian restaurant people. Last night, I just had someone ring and ask if they knew of anyone missing.” He checked his watch, heaving himself out of his chair. “They should be up and about by the time you get there.”

  So much for breakfast, Megan thought. But if she was nice to the restaurant people, or if they had guilty consciences and wanted to placate her, perhaps she’d discover what Indians had for breakfast.

  * * *

  Jocelyn gave the last of the breakfast dishes a final vehement swipe with the tea towel and put it away. “Family in a cave! It sounds like sheer nonsense to me. His mind must have been wandering.”

  Eleanor pulled off the rubber gloves Joce made her wear for washing up—she never bothered at home. It was still early. After trying for half an hour to go back to sleep, she had tiptoed down to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. In spite of her care, Jocelyn had heard her and come down. They had decided they might as well dress and eat.

  “It’s possible he was muddled,” Eleanor said now. “I haven’t spoken to Megan, so I don’t know what sort of state he was in at the time, just the inspector’s end of the conversation. But as long as it might be true, we have to act as if it’s true. At least, I do, and the police do. Mr. Scumble certainly seemed to be taking it seriously. There’s no reason you need be involved, of course.”

  With a martyred sigh, Jocelyn sat down at the kitchen table. “I can’t see what you hope to do. The weather forecast said the coast is fogged in all the way from Hartland Point to Kelsey Head. Even if it was clear, you couldn’t compete with the lifeboat people in searching for this mystery cave.”

  “Not searching, exactly.”

  “And supposing it exists, how on earth did they come to be stuck in it?”

  “That’s what gave me the idea.”

  “What idea? What do you mean, Eleanor?”

  “Of course, it’s the difficult situation in Kenya and Uganda that makes it particularly likely just now.”

  “You told me the young man Megan saved was Indian! Now you’re saying he’s African?”

  “No, no. Well, sort of. Indians have been trading with East Africa for centuries, and naturally some settled there. Then the British brought in Indian labourers to build the railways, and lots of them stayed after the work was finished. Now the Africans are getting their independence from the Empire—”

  “I do listen to the news, you know. They don’t want the Indians staying any more than they want the British. Unfortunate, but understandable.”

  “Unfortunate” was not the word Eleanor would have used. She found it heartbreaking that those who had suffered from racialist discrimination should be so quick to discriminate against others.

  As Jocelyn claimed to be in the picture already, Eleanor decided to skip long explanations. “My guess is that they’re trying to get into the country without the proper papers. Someone brought them as far as the cave, but the arrangements to pick them up went wrong. The cave couldn’t be one of those easily visible from offshore, one that lots of people know about, or they’d have been spotted. It must be one of the old smugglers’ caves, where they hid cargoes until it was safe to bring the goods ashore.”

  “‘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?”