A Cornish Revenge (The Loveday Ross Cornish Mysteries Book 1) (9 page)

  He met Loveday’s shocked eyes. ‘I had to take the blame. Anchriss would have been crucified if she had gone to trial. You can imagine the headlines – Drunk driver kills expectant mother and her unborn twins!’ He paused and gave an ironic laugh. ‘It killed her anyway. My going to prison instead of her just increased her guilt. She hanged herself …from the beam in our kitchen.’

  He made no attempt to check the tears rolling down his face and Loveday had to blink hard to check her own smarting eyes. Her arms went round him and for a while they sat like that as the sea churned and tossed behind them. After a while they stood up and began to make their way slowly back to their cars.

  ‘I had committed perjury, you see,’ Lawrence said quietly, as they walked. ‘And that’s what Bentine was threatening to tell the police. I wasn’t all that bothered about the prospect of going back to prison…but I couldn’t allow him to blacken Anchriss’s name.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t let him do that.’

  ‘No, I can see that,’ Loveday said gently, touching his arm. ‘And do the police now know all of this? Is that why they arrested you?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t actually. They found some kind of blackmail list at Bentine’s place, and my name was on it. I don’t think he could have added any details. I’m sure the police would have confronted me with them by now if they had known.

‘But they did check me out. Took my picture to the landlord of the Borlase pub and he identified me…told them it was me in his bar the night Bentine was murdered.’

  ‘But surely that should have cleared your name. I mean, you could hardly have dragged Bentine down to that beach while you were sitting in the pub.’

  Lawrence shook his head. ‘I don’t know if the police see it that way. I think they believe I killed him…but they just can’t prove it.’

  Loveday was horrified. ‘…And they never will, because you’re not guilty.’ She took his arm as they neared the pub car park. ‘Nobody but Bentine knew that Anchriss was driving that night?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘But somebody must have, don’t you see, Lawrence. That’s why they have been trying to frame you.’ She bit her lip. ‘There’s more.’ She screwed up her face, flinching as the words came out. ‘Somebody vandalised one of your paintings at the museum in Truro…sprayed it with red paint.’

She didn’t have to wait long for his reaction. The blood drained from his face. ‘Christ,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘What’s going on, Loveday?’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Loveday knew what she going to do before she reached home that night. She would check out Cassie’s story about the pub along the coast – and there was no time like the present. So, instead of turning down to Marazion, she carried on towards Lands End.

There were no signs of life, and cottage windows were firmly curtained as she drove through the tiny hamlet surrounding the pub. It too looked closed. She was kicking herself now that she hadn’t rung ahead to make an appointment to interview the landlord. At least she had a name - Davie Richardson, the Internet search had revealed.

No lights burned in the tiny windows facing the street, so she drove along the side into the car park. The sound of her car brought a small, ruddy-faced man out to investigate.

‘We’re closed,’ he said, squinting out at her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Loveday said, getting out and coming to meet him. ‘Are you Mr Richardson?’

The light from the open back door showed the man to have a crop of crinkly grey hair. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Do I know you?’

Loveday offered her apologies and explained who she was, saying she was interested in writing a feature about the pub’s history.

The suspicious grey eyes sprung to life at the likelihood of free publicity. ‘We’ve got half an hour before we open, so we’ll have to be quick young lady,’ he said, suddenly animated.

She followed him through the low back door, watching her step on the uneven flagged floor, into the public bar. He threw a light switch as he passed and the bar sprung into life. Fairy lights dangled from the optics. A wood-burning stove occupied a small inglenook fireplace and wall lights gave the room a cosy feel.

‘I’ll fetch some tea,’ he said, indicating Loveday to a chair. There must have been a pot brewing for the landlord re-appeared almost immediately with two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Well, fire away,’ he said brightly, sliding a white china mug in front of Loveday.

  ‘You don’t mind this, do you?’ Loveday held up the tiny voice recorder she used for interviews. ‘It just helps to back up my notes.’

  He shook his head, now looking like he was going to enjoy his new status as interviewee. ‘Evie and I – that’s my wife – have been here about…’ he looked up, mentally calculating the years, ‘…about ten years now. It was our first pub. Not that it’s always been easy, mind, but we do benefit from the tourist trade in the summer.’ He nodded towards the ceiling. ‘…And we have a couple of letting rooms.’ He paused. ‘One of them is haunted.’

This was more like it. Loveday raised an eyebrow. ‘Now this is what I need to hear about,’ she grinned encouragingly. ‘Tell me more.’

  Davie Richardson’s chair creaked as he settled back into it. ‘There’s been an inn on this site for over 700 years,’ he began. ‘And I dare say bits have been added on over the centuries, but I believe it’s basically the same. Locals say that in the old days it was the headquarters for smugglers and wreckers.’ He sat forward and nodded to Loveday ‘…And we have the old tunnels to back that up.’

She could imagine that, out here in this remote spot, with the wild Cornish seas thrashing all around, it was the perfect place for smugglers to hide their booty.

  ‘In the old days, the villagers were told to turn their backs when the carts, carrying the brandy, silks and teas were trundled through the streets.’ Davie Richardson continued, looking up to gauge whether Loveday was impressed by his tale. Satisfied that she was, he went on. ‘…Story goes, that a landlady of the time betrayed the smugglers to the authorities.’ He sniffed. ‘She was getting her own back you see, because the owner of the inn refused to let her and her husband stay on rent free.’

  Loveday held her breath.  ‘The locals punished her,’ Richardson continued, ‘…by taking her down to the beach at low tide and pinning her there so that she drowned when the tide came in.’ His eyes rose to the ceiling again. ‘It’s supposed to be her ghost up there,’ he said.

  A silence fell between them as the landlord allowed the drama of his story to take effect.

  Loveday sat back, watching him. She could imagine him regaling the tourists with that tale. He’d probably told it to thousands before her. It might make a good seasonal article, but she’d hoped for more. Now she felt silly. It was ridiculous imagining she could discover some tangible link with Paul Bentine in this place. She stood up and Richardson’s eyes followed her as she wandered around the bar, inspecting the pictures. She was drawn to a watercolour of the pub. ‘This is nice,’ she said, moving in for a closer look, and then froze.  The name scrawled in the corner was ‘Kemp.’

  ‘Nice chap that artist was,’ Richardson said, ‘…stayed with us for a bit.’ He sniffed. ‘…Rent free, mind.’

  Loveday turned and gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Arrived on an old bicycle one day, backpack full of painting gear…offered to paint the pub in exchange for a few nights’ board.’ He nodded, remembering. ‘Well, it was October and the rooms were empty, so Evie said why not. Stayed nearly a month, he did…helped out in the bar at night.’ He nodded again. ‘Yeah, nice chap he was.’

Davie Richardson had gone behind the bar to remove the towels from the beer pumps when the first customer walked in.

Loveday wheeled round and her eyes flew open. ‘Detective Inspector Kitto! Well…fancy meeting you here.’

Sam grimaced. ‘I might say the same.’ He was looking at her as though he expected some kind of explanation, so she obliged.

‘I’ve been interviewing the landlord…for a magazine feature.’

‘Of course you have,’ he said, looking away. Had she just seen the man smile?

‘What can I get you, folks?’ Davie Richardson was back in landlord mode. ‘They’re on the house.’

Sam raised his eyebrows at Loveday ‘White wine?’

She nodded and he ordered the house white, adding a pint of dark beer for himself, which despite the protestations of the landlord, he insisted on paying for.

‘OK,’ he said, joining her at a table. ‘Care to tell me why you’re really here?’

She tilted her chin. ‘I just did. I’m working.’

‘So you’re not interfering in my case then?’

The landlord had disappeared through to his own quarters, but Loveday still lowered her voice. ‘You have to accept the Bentine murder looks like some kind of revenge attack. Whoever killed him went to an awful lot of trouble when a blade between the ribs could have done the job.’

Sam threw back his head and laughed. He looked different when he wasn’t scowling. And she noticed again that his eyes were an attractive dark brown.

‘And have you narrowed down the field of suspects for us?’

‘If you’re seriously asking for my opinion, Inspector, I’d say this was a woman’s crime. You know…hell hath no fury, and all that.’

‘Have you any particular woman in mind?’

She had, but the idea was ridiculous. She’d actually liked Magdalene, but she was definitely hiding something. She sat up, lifting her glass. ‘Isn’t that your job? All I know for sure is that Lawrence had nothing to do with it.’ She swallowed her wine. ‘…And before you ask, he’s told me all about his time in prison.’

Sam pursed his lips and tilted his head, his eyes never leaving Loveday’s face. He knew he was intimidating her, but he indulged himself. She was opinionated and definitely interfering, but wasn't that what journalists did? Still, he shouldn't let his guard down.

He couldn't afford to be bewitched by those teasing hazel eyes, or even admit to this urge he had to run his fingers through that silky dark hair. He thought about her and Kemp and wondered again just what their relationship was. He’d watched the pair of them on the cliff top that morning and hadn’t got the impression that they were a couple, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking on his part.

‘How did you two meet?’ He tried to keep his voice casual.

‘It was an assignment Merrick gave me. I took pictures of some of Lawrence’s paintings and wrote an article about him. When I mentioned I was looking for a place to stay he introduced me to Cassie and Adam.’ She looked up, her hazel eyes serious.  ‘Lawrence Kemp is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, Inspector. He doesn’t have a vindictive bone in his body. Just because he knew Paul Bentine doesn’t mean he killed him.’

Sam tried to maintain a non-committal expression. The artist had been arrested because Bentine was blackmailing him - and because the landlord of the Borlase pub had identified him as having been there the night the lawyer was killed. They had no proof, of course, and Kemp had explained he’d had a letter instructing him to meet Bentine there that evening. The fact that the letter had never been found didn’t exactly help his case. So no, Mr Kemp wasn’t exactly off their radar - no matter how
kind
he was.

  Loveday’s head was buzzing as she drove back to the cottage. She knew Sam Kitto hadn’t believed she’d been at the pub only to interview the landlord. But the fact that he’d also turned up must surely mean he was considering her theory. She hadn’t put it into so many words, but it was a strong possibility that the killer had got the idea of murdering Bentine in that bizarre way after visiting the place and hearing its story.  She’d been looking for proof that Magdalene knew the place, but had only succeeded in discovering it was Lawrence who’d stayed there. 

The first thing she did when she got home was to get out her laptop. She typed Lawrence’s real name into the search box and held her breath. The report of the court case flashed onto the screen and she read through it quickly. It was just as he’d described. She printed it and checked the next reference. There had been a bit of a backlash after the court case and Meredith’s husband was threatening to get his revenge. There was a picture of an angry, grief-stricken young red-haired man. No one she recognised, but it was a start. He had threatened Lawrence after all.

  Then came the newspaper report of Anchriss’s sad death. The inquest, ignorant of the true events, had concluded that Anchriss took her own life in a state of deep depression with her husband in prison and her best friend dead. Poor Anchriss…poor Lawrence. But most of all, poor Brian Teague!

Loveday couldn’t even imagine the despair he must have felt, probably still did feel, at the loss of his wife, Meredith and their two unborn babies. Such a waste. She shook her head, feeling the wetness sting her eyes. Such a terrible tragedy. But shedding tears now would not help any of them. It certainly wouldn’t find Paul Bentine’s killer. She pushed the print button.

There was a lot more stuff about Bentine. It seemed he and Magdalene had a high profile in Cambridge society. She studied the picture of them at some posh dinner. He looked confident…arrogant…every inch the successful professional man. Successful he may have been, Loveday sighed, but only because he dabbled in other people’s misery.

There were group pictures of the Bentines at other high-flying social events. This pair lived well. In another photo Magdalene was linking arms with an elderly man whom Loveday assumed to be her father. He looked more the retired country gent than the revered Judge. She sat up stretching, and with a yawn closed the file. She would think clearer in the morning.

  Magdalene was unable to control the feeling of rising panic. That image of Paul’s bloated and lifeless body would haunt her forever. Bile rose in her throat and she clamped a hand over her mouth, concentrating on deep, reviving breaths until the retching stopped. She lay back on the bed, exhausted. She knew she had to play the grieving wife, but they would all see through her deception. Suddenly, she had an overwhelming need to hear Martin’s voice. She focused on the little silver clock beside her bed. It was almost seven…too late to contact him. And what if his wife knew about their ‘secret’ mobile? If she rang him now maybe she would pick it up.

Magdalene went into her bathroom, turned on the shower, and seconds later was standing motionless beneath the cascade of piercing hot jets. They didn’t refresh her. Still wet, she pulled on a bathrobe and wrapped a towel around her dripping hair. The eyes that stared back from the steamed up bathroom mirror weren’t hers. This woman, with her grey pallor and sunken dark eyes, was a stranger.

  Ten minutes later she was back on the edge of the bed. She’d been unable to resist calling him after all. ‘But you must come round,’ she pleaded. ‘We need to talk about this!’

  His voice had become muffled and she knew he had put his hand over the phone as he called through to his wife. ‘It’s one of the parishioners.’  Then, more clearly, he said to Magdalene, ‘Pull yourself together…Look, we’ll get through this…but not if you fall apart.’