The Valley of the Shadow (14 page)

“Yas, but ’tain’t the ones you can see as they used. Stands to reason, if you can see ’em, so can the revenuers. There’s a couple or three you’d never find wi’out summun showed you. Granfer used to take us seal hunting—”

“Seal hunting!”

“Waren’t much in the way o’ smuggling b’then. O’ course, smuggling or hunting, you wouldn’t want to take a boat to them caves lessn it were dead calm and slack o’ the tide, but Granfer reckoned it were worth the risk. Sealskins and oil brought in a fair bit in them days. The seals sleep in the caves, see. You go in with a bright light and take ’em by surprise.” He rambled on about the bloody details, his voice sinking to a mumble as his daughter-in-law scolded him.

Eleanor realised she wasn’t going to get precise information from him about the location of the hidden caves. She turned to his son, who was sitting warming his hands on his mug of tea, one eye on the clock. “Did he ever take you, Mr. Hawker?”

He shook his head. “Not much call for seal oil these days! Nor much in the way of smuggling neither, and what there is, it’s drugs, which is what I don’t hold with.”

“I should hope not!” said Mrs. Hawker. “Funny you should ask, though, Mrs. Trewynn. Didn’t you say, Jack, there was a bloke yesterday, poking about down the harbour, asking about smuggling?”

“That’s right. He were hanging about when we come in wi’ the catch. Odd sort of bloke.”

“Odd?” Eleanor queried. “In what way?”

“I dunno.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It’s usually emmets wanting to know about the old days, or summun writing a book, or a copper’s nark—you can tell them a mile off. But this bloke, he was tearing along, too hurrysome to wait for answers.”

Trying to rush a Cornish fisherman was a mug’s game, Eleanor knew. He needed time to consider what he was going to say, whether the subject was smuggling or merely the weather.

The weather— “How long do you think the fog will last?”

“Might stay put a day or two or three. Might come creeping ashore later. Might disappear with the ebb o’ the tide. What we need is a nice sou’westerly to blow it away. I got lobster pots out there need tending.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “You’ll excuse me, Mrs. Trewynn, I’m meeting me buddies at the Napoleon for a game o’ darts.”

“I must be going, too.” Eleanor got up. She turned to thank old Mr. Hawker for his stories, only to find him fast asleep, still rocking gently.

Mrs. Hawker found a little something for the LonStar shop—salt and pepper shakers in the form of monkeys dressed as clowns. “A present from my sister-in-law. Fair turns my stomach those two sitting on the table staring at me. But summun’ll like ’em, I don’t doubt. I’ll just wrap ’em in a bit o’ newspaper for you.”

The garish clowns were added to the bits and bobs in Eleanor’s basket. She hurried round the corner to the house that was her main target, hoping she wouldn’t find Abel Tregeddle already departed for the Napoleon Inn. She hadn’t wasted her time, though. She knew now that there were indeed concealed caves in Bossiney Cove. With that information she might be able to pry the location from Abel.

He had told her a certain amount of smuggling still went on in Boscastle. He was a chatty man and had probably said more than he intended. The cagey way he had then shut up on the subject had suggested to her that he was involved. He must surely be familiar with the caves. Whether he’d be willing to tell her was another matter.

He’d certainly be curious about her reason for asking.

Eleanor tried to work out how little of the story she’d need to tell him. Not everything, she decided, but enough to upset Mr. Scumble. Too bad. She was quite willing to risk his wrath to do anything that might help the lifeboat men find those poor people quicker.

The Tregeddles’ cottage opened directly onto the narrow street. A large grey cat was asleep in the sun on the slate windowsill, its tail hanging down. The tip twitched. Teazle was usually very good with cats, but this was too much for her.

Barking, she reared up against the wall, dancing on her back legs. The cat whisked its tail away just in time and stood up, back arched, hissing and spitting. Naturally this incited Teazle to further frenzy.

As Eleanor pulled her away, the front door swung open.

“What the…!?” The small, wiry, weatherbeaten man recognised Eleanor. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Trewynn. Sounded like there was an Alsatian going for our Smoky. Quite a voice your little un’s got, hasn’t she?” He bent down and scratched under Teazle’s chin. By now the Westie’s rear end was wagging madly, while the cat was already apparently asleep, his tail carefully tucked up under his chin.

“I’m sorry. It was very naughty of her.”

“No harm done. Out collecting, are you?” He peered into her basket. “Looks like you’re doing nicely. Come in, come in. The wife was saying just now she has summat or other for your shop and she hoped you’d drop in soon.”

Eleanor hesitated. He had his cap in his hand, apparently on the point of going out, and he was the one she really wanted to talk to. But as he waved her in, Teazle accepted the invitation, dragging on the lead. Taken by surprise, Eleanor followed. Abel Tregeddle shut the front door and came after them.

Naturally, Teazle headed straight to the kitchen. The door was open and she trotted in, Eleanor in tow. Mrs. Tregeddle, a stout woman busy at the kitchen table, looked round at the click of toenails on the lino.

“Mrs. Trewynn, how nice to see you. Set yourself down, do.” She tossed a scrap of the meat she was chopping to Teazle. “We bin dying to hear what happened yest’day.”

“I told Mrs. Trewynn as you got summat for her shop,” Abel chided.

“I ’spect I can find something. You’ll have a cuppa, Mrs. Trewynn.” She filled the kettle at the sink and set it on the gas.

Eleanor was still sloshing about inside from the tea she’d already drunk, but Abel was more likely to stay and chat with a cup in his hand, she thought, so she accepted. Too late, she realised that having invented a donation to inveigle her in, he wasn’t likely to leave before hearing about the rescue. Resigning herself to further liquid intake, she recounted the story again, her own minor part and what the others had told her.

All the talking was giving her a dry throat. When the tea was made, she sipped it gladly.

As before, she omitted the young man’s race. She stressed the drama of Megan risking her life to save a stranger. “It’s a beautiful spot, but dangerous. Do you know it, Mr. Tregeddle?”

“Yas,” Abel admitted. “Took a boat in once, when I were a young duffer. But it’s risky even at high tide in a calm sea. No use setting pots if you can’t be sure when you’ll be able to check ’em.”

“A funny place to go for a swim,” said his wife, “but these young lads’ll do anything for a bit of a thrill. In a bad way, was he?”

“He was still unconscious when the ambulance took him away. But I heard later that he came round, just briefly, and he said something rather odd.”

As one, the Tregeddles leant forward eagerly. “What’d he say, then?” asked Abel.

“He said his family were stranded in a cave. What no one can work out is how they reached the cave in the first place, and if they could get in, why can’t they get out?”

“That’s easy. Went in by boat, climbed out to explore, didn’t tie it up secure. Landlubbers in a hired boat, could be. First thing a seaman learns is to be sure of his knots.”

“Oh, yes, that might explain it. The awful thing is that the lifeboat won’t be able to go looking for them because of the fog.”

“Whereabout is this cave supposed to be?” he asked warily.

“The boy couldn’t explain. It must be somewhere in Bossiney Cove, don’t you think? He couldn’t have survived a swim from farther away.”

“Likely not.”

“There are lots of caves. If they have to search all of them, I hate to think what condition the family will be in by the time they’re found—if they’re found. I’ve been told there are hidden caves, used by smugglers. I remember you saying, Mr. Tregeddle, there’s still some smuggling going on.”

“That’s as may be.”

“Suppose they chanced to come across one of the smugglers’ caves, and that’s where they’re stuck? That could be why no one has seen or heard them. They might never be found.”

Mrs. Tregeddle was aghast. “Oh, Abel, the whole family dead!”

Abel’s lips set in a thin line.

Eleanor played what she hoped was her ace in the hole. “The boy said his mother is dying. Even if he was exaggerating, even if they find them in the end, any unnecessary delay—”

“Abel, his mam! You can’t…” She faltered as her husband glowered at her.

“My niece risked her life.” Eleanor spoke quietly. He met her eyes, and she held his gaze. “What would you risk? Information given to me in confidence would be passed to the authorities without any mention of where it came from.” She paused. He looked down sulkily at the table, his weathered cheeks flushing. “What would you have to lose? A couple of convenient hiding places. Against several lives.”

FIFTEEN

Megan was late picking up DI Scumble.

“Where the hell you been, Pencarrow?”

For once the question was justified. Megan, having learnt from experience to turn the car in the narrow lane outside his house before announcing her arrival, had no excuse to delay answering.

“In Bodmin, sir.”

“Bodmin! Am I going to have to explain to Mr. Bentinck why he’s getting a complaint about trespassing from Egerton?”

“I hope not, sir,” Megan said cautiously.

“You got permission? From DI Pearce?” “Scepticism” was too mild a term for his tone.

“Well, not exactly. I didn’t think he’d be likely to give it. And I was in a hurry, because of picking you up, sir.”

He sighed heavily. “All right, explain.”

“I went to Camelford first, of course. I’m convinced the people at the restaurant there don’t know anything.”

“A good detective is never convinced without incontrovertible evidence.”

Megan bit her lip. “I’m pretty sure.”

“That’ll do to be going on with. I’ll withhold judgment till I read your report.”

“I asked whether they knew any other Indians locally. I think—I hope—I managed to make it sound like casual chitchat.”

“Hmm.”

“Mr. Khan mentioned a family running an Indian restaurant in Bodmin. I had no idea there was one. I tried ringing the super—Superintendent Bentinck, that is, not Egerton—but he was busy. It seemed to me important to get to them right away, so I went.”

“As you’re not too worried about repercussions, I take it you’re convinced they know nothing that requires further investigation.”

“I’m pretty sure, sir.”

“You were lucky. If we’d had to pull them in for further questioning, you’d have been knee-deep in the sh … soup. Not but what we still may be,” he added gloomily, “if you’re wrong about them. Anything else I need to know about?”

“Well … From Camelford, as I was so close to the coast, I went over there to look at the fog. It really is incredibly thick, sir. From the LonStar shop, you could hardly see the gallery next door, let alone the bridge and the harbour.”

From the corner of her eye she could see the scowl he aimed at her. She concentrated on slipping the car in front of an ancient lorry chugging round the roundabout towards them. As a distraction, it didn’t work for long.

“Port Mabyn,” he said in a long-suffering voice.

“It’s the closest point on the coast to Camelford, sir.”

“I daresay. So, how is Auntie doing today?”

“I don’t know, sir. At least, I suppose she must have recovered okay, because she apparently went to Boscastle looking for smugglers.”

“She
what
?” Scumble exploded.

“That’s what I was told.”

“Who by?”

“Gresham.”

“Oh, him. Did you check with Mrs. Stearns?”

“No, sir.” She’d nearly gone straight after Aunt Nell, until she realised what the time was. Aunt Nell couldn’t really come to any harm. Everyone knew her … “I was in a hurry to get to Bodmin and back to pick you up.”

“Late,” he grumbled, coming full circle.

Megan dropped him off in front of the nick, in the Market Square (actually a triangle), and parked the car in the police lot behind St. Mary Magdalene.

“How many dents? Scratches?” asked Sergeant Orton, the mechanic in charge. “Does it need petrol?”

“None; and I didn’t look at the gauge.”

“Women drivers!”

“But it shouldn’t, if it was full when I took it out.” As all cars were supposed to be, because of the size of the rural district. So he had to fill it whatever the gauge said. Megan wasn’t sure who had won that round.

She no longer took his jibes personally, but it was still a running battle every time she encountered him.

Walking round the church, she marvelled, as always, at the intricate carving that covered almost the entire exterior. People had been admiring it for half a millennium, and there was something very soothing about the fact. Cops and criminals came and went, but Cornish granite endured.

Unfortunately, the coast near Rocky Valley was not granite. Megan wasn’t exactly sure what it was; doubtless Julia or Chaz could tell her. Slate, probably, like the valley itself—comparatively soft, holed and hollowed and split by pounding waves, always changing as arches collapsed, huge boulders tumbled before the force of winter storms, windblown rain ate away at sheer cliff faces. Did anyone really know where all the caves were?

They were hunting for only one particular cave, though, and someone knew where it was, or the family could not have been taken there. Perhaps Aunt Nell had the right idea, searching out someone familiar with the secret caves used by smugglers, past or present.

When Megan entered the station, the desk sergeant told her DI Scumble had been called in to see Superintendent Bentinck. She went up to the office and started typing up her report of the interviews in Camelford and Bodmin. Though she wasn’t an expert typist by any means, at least she’d learnt to touch-type, unlike the poor sods who used two-fingered hunt-and-peck for their reports. She had finished one and started on the second by the time the inspector came in.