Malice in Cornwall (16 page)

“Early fifties, I would imagine. Does it matter?”

“He was in here the other night, as I recall.”

Rowlands's expression tightened. “What of it?”

“You were having a disagreement about something.”

“It wasn't important.” An attempt to sound casual.

Powell looked at him mildly. “Oh? I seem to remember you telling him you'd break his bloody neck, or words to that effect.”

“What are you driving at?” Rowlands blurted out.

“That's what you said.”

“Well, I mean, he'd had too much too drink, hadn't he?

So I cut him off. When he made a fuss, I asked him to leave. That's all there was to it.”

Powell didn't believe a word of it. “I have to ask you about your whereabouts yesterday afternoon, Tony.”

Rowlands shook his head in disbelief. “I was here serving you and Sergeant Black when he was killed.”

Powell let the silence stretch out. Eventually he spoke.

“How do you know when he was killed?”

Rowlands flushed. “I don't know … I just assumed …”

Powell drained his pint, letting him stew. “Thanks, Tony. I must be off. We can continue this little chat later.”

Powell drove south along the coastal road, preoccupied with his thoughts. At intervals narrow hedge-enclosed lanes branched off to the west, descending by way of steep, narrow valleys toward the sea. He'd already passed the turning to Dr. Harris's and the Porters’, and the one to the Old Fish Cellar; he was looking for the track that led eventually to Roger Trevenney's house. The sea and sky were a dull gunmetal gray and a light mist hung in the air. The landscape was reduced to a wash of pastel
colors in the flat light; drab green fields crisscrossed with the ubiquitous gray stone walls, and here and there an occasional sad cow. Off to his right loomed the dark shape of an engine house, the stone and brick chimney jutting into the sky like a medieval keep. He wondered if it marked the location of the old mine workings where Ruth Trevenney's body had been hidden.

It seemed to Powell, as he negotiated the bumps and potholes, that the murder of Nick Tebble and the gruesome discovery at the Old Fish Cellar only provided further tantalizing clues to the tragic events of thirty years ago. From what he knew, Tebble didn't strike him as the type of individual who would perpetrate an elaborate hoax like the Riddle for a lark. He was convinced now that the intent had been deadly serious. Serious enough for Tebble to have got himself killed. He wondered how old Tebble would have been when Ruth was murdered— twenty-one or twenty-two? Perhaps he'd been sweet on Ruth. Maybe he had some idea who killed her, and the Riddle was his attempt to flush out the quarry. But if that was the case, why not go to the police?And was it likely that the murderer of Ruth Trevenney would have remained in Penrick all these years? Somebody forty years old at the time would be over seventy now.

And what about Tony Rowlands, the not-so-jolly publican, who gets into a very public altercation with the victim less than a week before the murder? Most intriguing of all was the possibility that Black had caught Tebble and Linda Porter in flagrante delicto a few hours before Tebble was murdered. The fact that his skiff was pulled up on the beach near the Porters' cottage was certainly suggestive, as was Black's description of the man
he saw running up the back lane, who sounded suspiciously like Jim Porter. Powell frowned. Too many questions and not enough answers.

The terrain became rougher, pastureland gradually giving way to bracken and boulders with thickets of blackthorn, brambles, and sharp-pricked gorse. And there, just ahead, a narrow lane swinging off to the right toward the sea cliffs. He descended into the thickening fog. He passed a scattering of outbuildings, ghostly shapes in the mist, and eventually, at the foot of the hill, he could see the outline of a house. He parked his car and got out, the roar of the sea below, and experienced a sense of excited anticipation. It was as if this moment had been preordained.

He was greeted at the door by a tall, slightly stooping man with pale, sharp features and thin white hair. The man smiled wanly. “Mr. Powell, I presume. Please come in. I hope my directions were clear.”

“Perfectly clear, Mr. Trevenney.”

They shook hands.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Powell said. “I've admired your painting at Dr. Harris's.”

Trevenney smiled modestly. “You're most kind, but I haven't done anything that good for years. Here, come into the front room and sit down. I'll get us some tea.” Trevenney, a little unstable on his feet, placed his hand momentarily against the wall.

Powell protested, “You needn't trouble yourself—”

“Nonsense! I'll be right back.”

Powell made himself at home and took in his surroundings. Despite the gloom outside, the little cottage was bright and cheery. A woman's touch, he would have
thought if he hadn't known better: chintz curtains on the windows, a vase of cut flowers on the coffee table, and a log fire crackling in the grate. The focal point of the room hung on the wall above the mantelpiece: a portrait of a young girl in a white dress kneeling in a meadow bright with wildflowers, an impression of massive rocks and a translucent sea as a backdrop. The style was undoubtedly Trevenney's, and the emotional presence of the girl in the painting was almost palpable. She seemed to be looking directly at him, her eyes slightly puzzled. He didn't notice Roger Trevenney entering the room.

“My daughter, Ruth,” Trevenney said quietly.

“She's very beautiful.”

“Yes, she was.” It was stated simply, as a matter of fact, without a hint of sadness. He placed the tea things on the coffee table. “I'm sorry I can only offer you a few biscuits. I don't get out to the shops much these days.”

“Shortbread is my weakness, Mr. Trevenney.”

After pouring the tea and settling himself, Trevenney took a moment to catch his breath. He regarded Powell with apparent interest. “Peter has told me all about you, Chief Superintendent.”

“Peter?”

“My old friend Dr. Harris. He keeps me up-to-date with what's happening in the world.”

Powell smiled. “What's he been telling you, then?”

“I know that he's told you about my illness. I wanted to let you know that I'm having one of my better days, so you needn't concern yourself with that. I'd much rather you were completely frank with me. Agreed?”

“Yes, of course, sir.” Powell experienced a sense of relief. Acutely aware of his own mortality, he had never
been much good at dealing with such matters, but his host's candor put him at ease.

Trevenney went on to describe the futile courses of chemotherapy and radiation treatments and the emotional roller-coaster ride that is a cancer patient's life. Finally, he had arrived at the point where he was content to let nature take its course. He spoke in a detached, matter-of-fact manner, and Powell was struck by the quiet dignity of the man.

“Now, Chief Superintendent, I trust with that out of the way we'll be able to concentrate on the business at hand.” Trevenney concluded.

“I'll try to be brief, sir. Can I assume that Dr. Harris has told you something about my reasons for coming to see you?”

Trevenney raised an eyebrow. “You want to know how much I know, is that it?”

Powell smiled. “Something like that.”

With a trembling hand Trevenney took a sip of his tea. “I know why you came to Penrick. And now, of course, there's that business out at the Old Fish Cellar …” He left it hanging.

Powell looked up again at the portrait of the girl hanging on the wall behind Trevenney. He searched her eyes for inspiration.

It was as if Trevenney read his mind. “Over the years I've come to accept what happened to Ruth, Chief Superintendent. I can't say that talking about it isn't difficult for me. but now that my innings are almost up, I want only to see justice done before I finally join my wife and daughter.”

“We have a common purpose, then, Mr. Trevenney,”

Powell said. Finishing his tea, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. There was no point in going all round the houses; he had already decided that he could be forthright with the old man. “Nick Tebble is obviously the key to this thing,” he began. “Why did he go to so much trouble to stage what appears to be, for all intents and purposes, a reenactment of the discovery of your daughter's body thirty years ago? There are at least two obvious possibilities. It has been suggested to me that Tebble was a bit of an oddball who didn't much like outsiders and who may have conceived the Riddle as a way to scare off tourists and the like. By resurrecting the specter of a previous unsolved murder, he may have been trying to create the impression that the murderer was still abroad.” He paused.

“And the second possibility, Chief Superintendent?” Trevenney prompted.

Powell considered his words carefully before replying. “The second possibility is that Tebble knew the identity of Ruth's murderer and was attempting to blackmail that person.”

Trevenney drew a shallow breath as if about to say something, but then he seemed to lose track of his thoughts. He looked slightly confused.

The room had grown very dark. Powell glanced out the window. The fog seemed impenetrable now, a suitable metaphor, he thought, for his present state of mind. He wondered what Trevenney had been about to say.

Trevenney reached up and turned on the lamp that stood beside his chair. “Looks like we're in for a spell of nasty weather,” he observed.

“She was quite a naturalist, my Ruth. She used to spend hours exploring the countryside. Very observant, she was; she'd write things down in her diary and make sketches of the wildlife and flowers she'd seen. Her drawings of birds were particularly good.” Trevenney's eyes had a faraway look, as if he were searching some inner horizon for a ship that was long overdue. “It was a few days after her sixteenth birthday. She set out late one afternoon to visit a secluded megalith that we'd discovered some months previously. It's about a mile from here, up in the hills just before the turning to the cottage. She asked me to go with her, but I was working on a commission at the time and …” He hesitated, eyes moist.

“She hadn't returned by evening and naturally I began to fret. When it got dark and there was still no sign of her, I was literally beside myself. I rang the police, but they said they couldn't do anything until morning. A search party was mounted the next day, but there was no trace of her. I combed the hills myself, searching and calling her name …” For a moment he seemed unable to continue.

“Then it began to rain,” he said. “Three days after she'd disappeared, her body washed up on the Sands. They eventually found some of her clothes at the old mine workings you passed on your way here. She'd been …” He left the rest unsaid. “You understand about the tunnel?”

Powell nodded.

Trevenney rubbed his temples with the fingers of both hands.

“Are you feeling all right, sir?” Powell asked.

“Yes, of course,” Trevenney said, sounding slightly irritated. “Where was I? Oh, yes. After her body was found, the story was splashed all over the newspapers. It was a very difficult time for me, as you can imagine, but strange as it may sound, what bothered me the most after I'd accepted the reality of Ruth's death was how quickly the police seemed to give up the chase. Perhaps that seems a bit unfair—I realize they didn't have much to go on—but I feel that the very fact you're here, Chief Superintendent, is a kind of vindication.”

“I understand perfectly. But tell me, sir, from your own perspective, do you have any theories about what might have happened to your daughter?”

Trevenney considered the question carefully before replying. “I wish I could say that I had. To be frank, I couldn't conceive of anyone wanting to—to hurt her. She was such a kind and gentle person, Mr. Powell. I suppose I've always imagined it must have been a stranger, someone who didn't know her.”

Powell thought about all the kind and gentle people in the world who were killed every day by people who knew them. But he had reviewed the file and had come to
the same conclusion as Trevenney; it appeared that the police had indeed had very little to go on. “Tm wondering about Nick Tebble,” he said. “Do you remember if he lived around here at the time?”’

Trevenney frowned. “I don't really remember him—he would have been older than Ruth—but then my memory isn't what it used to be. I knew his father slightly; the family has lived at the Old Fish Cellar for generations.”

“You don't remember much about him, then? Whether he knew your daughter, for instance?”

“I wish I could be more helpful, but I'm sorry I just can't…” He seemed to lose his train of thought again.

“Do you have any more recent memories of Tebble?”

Trevenney shrugged. “I'd see him around the village occasionally, but I can't say that I recall ever speaking to him. He did seem rather a peculiar fellow, but to be honest, I've never given him much thought until now.”

Time to change tacks, Powell thought. “I was talking to Tony Rowlands at the Head earlier today. Do you know him?”

Trevenney smiled. “I suppose you could say that I'm a former client. I used to pop in from time to time for a glass of wine after doing my shopping in the village, or occasionally with Peter of a Saturday evening. I'm afraid that I'm not up to it these days,” he added wistfully.

“You don't happen to remember if Rowlands lived in Penrick when your daughter disappeared?”

Trevenney furrowed his brow in concentration. “Yes— yes, I think he took over the Head a year or two earlier. That's right! I remember he was quoted in the papers at the time about the girl who found Ruth. She'd been at the pub earlier that evening.”

Powell nodded. “He does serve a good glass of wine, I'll give him that. Not your usual plonk.”

“I'm not much of a connoisseur, Chief Superintendent— Peter's the one for good French wine.”

Powell smiled. “I've had the pleasure of sampling Dr. Harris's hospitality.” He helped himself to a piece of shortbread. “Speaking of wine, I imagine there's still a bit of smuggling that goes on along this coast.”

Trevenney gave Powell a shrewd look. “You're not asking me to implicate my old friend, are you?” He seemed reassured by Powell's innocent expression. “It's a bit of a local tradition, fair-trading—liquor and cigarettes, mostly. Not very important in the grand scheme of tilings, I shouldn't imagine. And one hears about the odd drug haul. But I trust that the local police would be able to enlighten you further on that score.” Trevenney looked very tired.