In the Blood (21 page)

If Mawgan could feel any emotion it would be anger.
 
He jumped from the cart, mud splashing from his boots as he landed.
 
Ebryl’s hind legs trod the ground and Mawgan stroked a firm hand along her mane as he passed, soothing her.
 
He paced out onto the wooden pontoon at the edge of the water with purposeful strides and the pontoon swayed beneath him.
 
He was oblivious to the distant revelry inside the Ferryboat Inn behind him.
 

The river was black and restless as the sky.
 
Mawgan looked out across the darkness, barely able to determine the indistinct shapes of the vessels at uneasy anchor; still no sign of the ferry.
 
The wind cut into the mouth of the river and blew cold at his wet shirt, but he was numb even to that.
 
He sat down on the pontoon and took out a leather-bound notebook then flicked through the pages, not caring that they were getting wet.
 
He passed all his old passages of poetry and verse until he came to the next blank sheet.
 
Then he began to write.

The wind howled through the boats on the river, flapping loose rigging and sail cloth into a violent dance, married to the beat of creaking timbers.
 
When his verse was written, Mawgan stood at the edge of the pontoon and shouted his words across the water, fighting to be heard over the wind and the lashing rain.

Of all the mortals here below

Your drunken boatmen are the worst I know;

I’m here detained, tho’ sore against my will,

While these sad fellows sit and drink their fill.

Oh Jove, to my request let this be given,

That these same brethren ne’er see hell nor heaven;

But with old Charon ever tug the oar,

And neither taste nor swallow one drop more.

Chapter Twenty-Six

T
ayte rocked back on his chair inside the museum at Bodmin Jail.
 
He was looking up at the verse on the display board that forced him now to recall what he knew about Greek mythology.
 
But with old Charon ever tug the oar.
 
They were damning words.
 
More a curse in many ways and Mawgan Hendry had died the very day he wrote it, as if a pact had been made that night in 1803 and it had been sealed with his life.

Tayte thought back to his scholarly years.
 
He’d covered
Homer’s Iliad
and
Virgil’s Aeneid,
studied all three canticas of Dante Alighieri’s
Divine Comedy.
 
Charon was the ferryman of the dead.
 
An appropriate subject then for Mawgan Hendry’s verse about drunken ferrymen.
 
He was condemning the ferrymen to pull oars with Charon for all eternity on the river Acheron, the river of woe, ferrying the shades of the dead to Hades - the underworld.
 
Tayte smiled to himself at some of the heated discussions he’d been involved in back then.
 
Was it the river Acheron or the river Styx where Charon plied his trade?
 
It was always topical then and he thought it probably still was today.

He pulled his chair closer to the Perspex sheet that protected the original murder trial documents and eyed the broken display cases again, wondering what they had contained.
 
Perhaps the case notes would tell him?
 
He leaned in on his elbows and began to read.

In the May of 1803, the unseen figure who watched Mawgan Hendry arrive with his cart at Helford Passage knew he would be there.
 
He’d seen Mawgan go out onto the pontoon and sit in the rain; listened as the farmer bellowed his verse across the river.
 
And now, as though materialising out of the night from the wind and the rain itself, his brutish form reared up behind Mawgan with such improbable stealth for his size that his victim remained unaware of death’s cold presence until it was too late to prevent it.

The man circled a cord around Mawgan’s neck with well practised precision.
 
Then with a violent jerk he drew the cord tight and braced himself.
 
He felt his victim begin to thrash, clenched fists striking out.
 
He watched the book Mawgan had been reading from tumble to the pontoon.
 
He tightened his grip and the cord held as his victim began to claw at his own neck, tearing his flesh.

Then he was still.

Rain lashed in off the river in gusts and his victim at last crashed to his knees.
 
The man dropped with him, pressing his face close to Mawgan’s ear.
 
“You know what I’ve come for,” he said.

A weak shake of his victim’s head was all the response he got, but he was satisfied with the reply.
 
He smiled, wryly.
 
“No matter.”

He adjusted his grip on the stubby handles at either end of the cord.
 
He was calm now and unrushed.
 
There was no fight left in his victim - no struggle.
 
He listened close at Mawgan’s neck as he tightened the cord further, slowly and purposefully.
 
The anticipation of what he was listening for was almost unbearable to him.
 
Then he felt it as much as he heard it and when that delicate moment came to him, when Mawgan’s hyoid bone fractured with the
snap
he’d been waiting for, his lips quivered and murmured a gentle, pleasurable sigh.

But something on the river disturbed him, destroying the moment.
 
He looked up with hatred in his eyes, but he could see nothing in the darkness.
 
His victim’s body became suddenly heavy, forcing his attention back to his business as the body slumped forward, twitching and convulsing.
 
He caught the dead-weight by the ligature around Mawgan’s neck, easing him lower as he rose and pressed a muddy boot between his shoulder blades.
 
He gave the cord a final lingering tug to be sure.
 
Then a light on the black river caught his eye and he let the body collapse onto the pontoon before pulling it into the water after him.

On that same cold and wet evening in the May of 1803, Jowan Penhale and Davy Fenton were enjoying another tankard of ale in the Shipwrights Arms across the river.
 
Their backs were to the fireplace, which cracked and spat beneath a blackened beam.
 
Their eyes were fixed as usual on Jenna Fox, the barmaid, as she went about her business.

It was a busy evening; the weather had seen to that.
 
It had invited patrons in and gave them little reason to leave.
 
An erratic wind-song filled the chimney, whispering to the flames in the fireplace, exciting their dance.
 
Outside, it had become dark before its time, but the mood within was fighting a good battle against the elements.
 
A song had struck up in one corner: a popular ditty that had everyone joining in.
 
The thump of the coarse Cornish jig filled the inn and hard heels beat the floorboards.

“We should get along, Jowan,” Davy said.
 
He sounded serious for the first time that evening, despite the view he had of Jenna Fox, leaning this way and that, her chest bouncing with her laughter.

“Conscience got the best of you?” Jowan said.
 
He turned away from Jenna then too, looking at Davy like he didn’t believe a word of it.
 
“Who’ll be out there tonight?”

“You never know.”

“Only fools, that’s who,” Jowan continued, “and they can wait.”
 
He tried in vain to straighten his hair in case Jenna looked over: a thick black crop that had never been the same since he’d let Davy cut it.

“Let’s take a look at least,” Davy said, scratching at his rough shirt fibres with blackened fingernails.

“I’ve a better plan,” Jowan said.
 
“Let’s have another ale!”
 
His voice rose to the level of the song that was getting into his head.

“A look after then?”

Jowan shook his head, smiling.
 
“Who’s possessed you tonight, Davy Fenton?”
 
He sighed at Jenna.
 
“If it’ll stop your worrying, then after it is.”
 
He drained his tankard.
 
“Jenna, my love,” he called.
 
His voice was as high as his spirits.
 
He pulled a coin from his leather waistcoat pocket and slapped it down beside his tankard.
 
“Two more of your fine ales, if you please.”
 
He could see Jenna was already serving someone else.

“You’ll wait you’re turn, Jowan Penhale.”

Jowan and Davy looked at one another with mischief in their eyes.

“I love her most when she’s feisty, Davy.”

 
“Me too,” Davy said.

When they reached Helford Point, the ferry pontoon was empty as Jowan had supposed.
 
The river was black and the wind was shrill in his ears, driving the rain to such an extent that it stung his face.
 
He let Davy out from under his arm and Davy staggered towards the ferry raft.

“Can’t see a bloody thing,” Jowan said, squinting into the night.
 
“Sod it.
 
Might as well go across now we’re here.”

Davy was already ahead of him.
 
He was on the raft, loosening the ropes.
 
“We can get another ale when we get across,” he said.

Jowan smiled to himself as he jumped onto the ferry and lit the lantern.
 
“Good idea,” he said.
 
“Are you
sure
you’re not my brother?”

Davy shrugged his shoulders.
 
“Who knows!” he said, and they were still laughing halfway across the river.

“Look Jowan!”

“What is it Davy?”

“I thought I saw someone.”

Jowan peered across to the ferry landing.
 
The lights from the Ferryboat Inn were clear enough, but he could make out little else.
 
Beneath him the raft swayed on unsteady waters.
 
“I still can’t see a thing,” he said.

“It’s gone now.
 
I thought I saw something on the pontoon.”

Jowan pointed ahead to a shape he was beginning to make out.
 
“What’s that?” he said.
 
It became clearer as they approached.

“Looks like a horse,” Davy said.

“It is.
 
And there’s a cart too.”

“Not a bad end to a bad day then, Davy.
 
A horse and cart.
 
That’ll go well towards the beer.”

Davy raised a pole and pushed it out to buffer the raft against the pontoon as a heavy swell brought them crashing in.
 
The raft tipped and the pole slipped away, catching Davy off guard.
 
He stumbled onto his hands as Jowan caught a line on the pontoon and pulled them closer.

Both Jowan and Davy missed the leather-bound notebook, discarded and wet on the pontoon boards as they tied off the raft and made their way onto land.
 
Their attention was on the Shire horse at the head of the green-and-red cart set back on the muddy track.

“No one there,” Davy offered.

“Probably inside having a drink,” Jowan said.”

Davy looked towards the inn.
 
“Sounds busy.”

They exchanged grins.
 
Then Davy went to find the cart’s owner as Jowan remained beside it, more interested in what the cart carried.
 
To his disappointment it was near empty: just a few spoiled vegetables.
 
But something caught his eye.
 
“Hold up, Davy.”

Davy stopped in his tracks, looking at his friend one minute then back at the inn the next.
 
“What you doing?” he whispered.

Jowan climbed up onto the cart and sat down.
 
He pulled a haversack onto his lap and began to rummage.
 
“Would you look at this!” he said a moment later.
 
He held up a heavy felt purse, whistling as he swung it.
 
Then his eyes were back inside the bag.

“Leave it, Jowan.
 
We’ll get caught.”

Davy’s eyes were fixed on the inn now and Jowan seemed to wake to the possibility.
 
He shoved the purse into his pocket and closed the bag.
 
“Come on then.
 
Let’s get back.
 
He jumped down from the cart, splashing the mud.