To Perish in Penzance (25 page)

“The trouble was that the rock I caught hold of moved, most unexpectedly, I must say.”

“Ooh! A secret panel, a pivot—”

“Nothing of the sort. Simply a large slab of rock, balanced rather carefully, I suspect, so that one man could shift it. At any rate, one man did! And lucky not to be killed, I must say. If it had fallen on me, I'd not be telling you the tale.”

He pointed. I shuddered. The rough-hewn slab of rock that had crashed to the floor was probably four by five feet and at least five inches thick. I marveled that Alan had been able to move it at all, no matter how carefully it might have been balanced. It was certain that we would never be able to move it back.

“Fortunately, it fell one way, I slithered the other, and I ended up
there
—in one of the old mine shafts.”

“Oh.” Mixed-up visions of pirates, smugglers, and Ali Baba faded, to be replaced by something as ordinary as a disused mine shaft. “I guess you were lucky not to take a bad fall. It might have gone down really deep.”

“No, these shafts were almost horizontal, remember? It probably once went back many hundred feet, and may still, for all I know. I couldn't see back very far, what with the poor light and the star bursts in front of my eyes.”

I shuddered again, and not only at the thought of Alan's injuries. That shaft, going back into the cliff, maybe for hundreds of feet …

“Alan, if you want to show me that shaft, you'd better do it fast. I'm not sure how much longer the shock value will keep me sane in here.”

“Then don't chance it. You go back to the entrance and wait. I can show you just as well there.”

“How can you show me what's in that shaft if I go away like a craven coward?”

“Because,” said Alan, verging on impatience, “I'll bring bits of it out. Now go.”

I went. I'd read somewhere, in a Josephine Tey book I thought, that it was better not to fight a phobia. Maybe if I got in and out of this cave without an attack, I could try another cave sometime. Maybe I could conquer the irrational fear altogether.

Feeling slightly light-headed, I went and sat on my rock, watching the boat, much closer now. I ought to have been worried about it, I suppose, but the adrenaline rush had left me limp and unable to worry about anything much.

It was a few minutes before Alan came out and sat beside me, and what he showed me put all other thoughts out of my head. I looked up with eyes and mouth both wide open.

“Yes, I thought you'd be interested. There are dozens of bundles just like this back in that hole.”

“But—but—banknotes? Why on earth would anyone use a cave as a stash for money? It would mildew. Even for a miser, it makes a stupid bank.”

Then I hit myself on the head. “Bank! Oh, Alan, you married an idiot! The bank robbery!”

He sat back and enjoyed my reaction. “Precisely. The notes have had no time to mildew because they've been there for only a few days. And that's not all, Dorothy. There are quite a few plastic bags in there, some full of white powder, some of something lumpy I think are tablets, though I couldn't tell for sure in that light. And then there was this.”

He took something out of his pocket. “It was in a crevice. It flashed in the light from my torch just before the wretched thing broke, so I poked about for it.”

It was a broken chain made of heavy, flat, elaborately wrought links that looked very much like gold, even though the thing was awfully grubby. Every second link was set with a large, unattractive gray bead.

I studied it curiously. “It looks like part of a worn-out chain of office for a Lord Mayor or someone like that. What on earth would it be doing in the cave? And what are those ugly gray things?”

“Pearls,” said Alan. “Dead pearls. Pearls must be worn to stay beautiful, you know. They need the oil from the skin or they become dry and dead. The design is Renaissance, just like the chains of office. You're right about that. But I don't think, somehow, that this chain ever graced the neck of a civic official.”

“What, then?” I held it out where the light would strike it better and looked more closely.

“How about a chain for a cross? A gold cross perhaps, set with rubies?”

I looked up at him then, mouth agape once more. “Lexa's cross? But—Alan, look at that boat!”

The boat I'd been watching was so close now that we could hear the roar of its motor. It was a yacht, maybe forty feet or so, a lovely, trim craft, and it was headed straight in to shore at what sounded like full throttle.

“The fool! He'll have it on the rocks—”

Even as Alan spoke, there came a hideous cracking sound as the boat struck a hidden rock, some hundred yards from where we stood watching. The boat stopped with a shudder, though its engine continued to roar. Then the engine stopped, too, and we could clearly see the bubbles rising as the boat filled with water, and hear the creaks and groans of her death throes.

She was resting in what seemed to be a few feet of water, perhaps fifty yards offshore. It was hard to tell just how deep the water was. I had no idea how much water a boat like that drew. It seemed that whoever was aboard her could easily reach shore, but there was no sign of any human activity.

Alan had already begun stripping off his clothes. “They may have been stunned by the crash. I'll have to swim out and see. Can you climb the cliff alone?”

“Of course! I'll get the cell phone and call for help.”

“Here's the car key. And oh—better take this with you.” He handed me the bundle of money. I jammed it into my pocket without a second thought, collected my walking stick, and made for the cliff, while Alan took off at a run for the wreck.

I got up that steep, rocky path at a pace that astounded me, arthritis notwithstanding. Once at the car, though, it took me several infuriating minutes to reach the police, and then they said that they were not the proper people to deal with the problem, but that they would alert the lifeboat service. I jammed one fist in my pocket in a fine display of temper, and encountered inspiration. “Fine. Do you want me to give them the money, too?”

“What money would that be, madam?”

“The missing bank loot. We found it in the cave, or we think that's what it is. I did tell you, didn't I, that this is Mrs. Alan Nesbitt calling?”

There is a time to use one's own name, and a time to drop that of anyone else who might prove useful.

“We'll send someone right out, madam. Wait there.”

“No, I'm going back down to help Alan. Believe me, several of your people know the place!” I turned off the cell phone and slipped it into my pocket, and headed back.

Going down the cliff was more painful, and slower, but I made it with no mishaps and hurried across the slippery black rocks to the site of the wreck. I hadn't gone far before I saw Alan. He climbed up out of the water, and, to my surprise, he was alone and began walking toward me. I stepped up my pace.

When we met I was too winded to say more than “What's happening?”

“Here, catch your breath first,” Alan said, and sneezed.

He was shivering. I pulled off my windbreaker and gave it to him. “Here, put it on before you freeze. Is he all right? Whoever was sailing the boat, I mean.”

“He's dead.”

“Alan!”

“If you can, love, let's get back to my clothes. The water's a trifle chilly.”

I would just bet it was. We walked back to the rock where Alan had left his clothes, and I contained myself until he had climbed into them and was relatively warm.

“All right, then. I called the police. They're coming, along with a lifeboat crew.”

“The lifeboat won't be necessary. I don't suppose you brought the mobile with you?”

I handed it over. Alan punched in a few numbers, counterordered the lifeboat, and then sat on the rock with me to await the police.

“All right, tell me.”

“There was only the one man on board. I did a pretty thorough search for crew, but there was no one else. The boat's beyond repair, I think. Sad, really. A lovely vessel.”

“But the man, Alan! The captain, or pilot, or whatever you call him. I suppose he fell when the boat crashed, and hit his head or something.”

“There were no injuries to his head.”

There was something so odd in his tone that I asked no questions, simply waited for him to go on.

He took a deep breath and then let it out in a long sigh. “It's John Boleigh's boat, Dorothy. He's been shot through the heart.”

I
ABSORBED
that in silence. Finally I asked a question. “You said there was no one else on the boat?”

“No one.”

“And we saw no one leave, either before or after she crashed. At least I didn't.”

“Nor I. And the gun was in his hand.”

I slipped my arm around Alan's waist; he hugged my shoulders close. We sat in the warm sun. Around us the waves lapped and the gulls cried.

“Was he dead before the boat crashed? Is that why he lost control and rammed the rocks?”

“How can I know? The forensics men will make what they can of the boat, but time of death can't be determined precisely enough to know which happened first. I can make a guess, though, and I suspect it's pretty close to yours.

“I think he took his boat out, brooding about his granddaughter, perhaps considering suicide. Then something tipped the balance for him. He headed the boat for shore, revved up the engines, perhaps set some mechanism for maintaining course.”

“An autopilot, sort of?”

“Something like that. I don't know. Some of these slap-up yachts have some pretty fancy toys attached. But somehow he fixed the course, and then took his gun and …”

I swallowed. “I can almost understand why he might have wanted to die. He was besotted with that granddaughter of his. But why did he take that beautiful yacht with him?”

“Again, how is one to know? But did you happen to see the name of the boat?”

“No.”

“No, of course not. The name panel was on the stern, which you never saw. But I did, when I was looking for a ladder to climb aboard.”

“Well?”

“She was the
Pamela
.”

The police arrived not long after that, and a controlled pandemonium set in. When the first detachment found out they were dealing with the death of John Boleigh, they called out the reserves, including Superintendent Cardinnis. He greeted me politely, and then he and Alan went away to do a lot of talking. They explored the cave and then came out and talked some more. Most of the crew spent their time, at first, getting Mr. Boleigh's body out of the boat and safely up the cliff. Once that was accomplished, they sent for yet more reinforcements, this time including a couple of tugboats that made efforts either to refloat the
Pamela
or push her yet farther up on the rocks. I couldn't tell which, and so far as I could see, they made no progress at all in either direction. A grounded forty-foot yacht doesn't move at all easily.

Eventually the first group of policemen tired of watching the marine types at their work, and went back to the cave. Presently they emerged carrying large plastic bags full, I presumed, of money and mysterious white powder and pills.

No one paid much attention to me. I am, after all, a woman, and though the English are wonderfully polite to women, they have not yet quite realized that we are more than simply decorative adjuncts to our husbands.

That was all right with me in the present circumstances. I sat comfortably warm in the sun, hoping my sunscreen was still working, and I thought.

I thought about a wealthy man and his yacht. I thought about his granddaughter, dead of a drug overdose, and his great, if overindulgent, love for her.

I thought about two women found dead, over thirty years apart, also with illegal drugs in their bodies, and found in the same cave only a few yards from where I sat.

I thought about a valuable cross set with rubies and a ruined chain set with dead pearls.

I thought about a story my husband had told me and a book I had read in the library.

When the men had done all the talking and exploring and examining and so forth that they apparently meant to do that day, Alan and Superintendent Cardinnis came back to my rock.

“Any success?”

“Quite a lot, Mrs. Martin, at least in one respect,” said Cardinnis. He wasn't quite beaming, but I was certain he would have been if it hadn't been for Mr. Boleigh's unfortunate demise. “The money you two found is certainly from the bank robbery, and there was a nice little stash of heroin, cocaine, and MDMA hidden in there as well. The Chief certainly does live up to his reputation! I don't know how he does it, I must say.”

The words “pure accident” hovered on my lips, but I forbore to utter them.

“We've not been so lucky with the boat, not yet, at any rate. When the tide comes in, we may be able to refloat her and tow her ashore, and then she may have something to tell us.

“But we've been neglecting you, I fear. Is there anything you'd care to add to your husband's account?”

Well, of course I couldn't know what I might add until I knew what he'd told them—but I didn't say that, either. I simply smiled and adjusted my hat. I find my hats handy for all sorts of reasons, not the least being that men often admire them while discounting the head under them. It can be useful to be underestimated.

“I don't imagine I do. Alan is very thorough. I do have one question, though, for my own satisfaction.”

“Of course.” Cardinnis smiled indulgently.

“Alan and I were not, I'm afraid, able to get much out of the manager of the rave club. He took a dislike to us. I can't imagine why. But just out of curiosity, did your people ask him who the elderly gentleman was, the one who joined Lexa and Pamela that night?”

“They did.” Cardinnis looked surprised. “The chap said he didn't know the man.”