Malice in Cornwall (21 page)

A large white face looming like a full moon. “Good God, Mr. Powell, what in heaven's name are you doing? You've scared us half to death!”

The Stern Inquisitor, the Tender Angel of Mercy, and the Man in the Moon waxing and waning as Powell slipped in and out of consciousness. Yin and Yang, Heaven and Hell, Torment and Redemption.

Then the Man in the Moon low in the sky, shaking him. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Powell, but we have to wake you every hour to see if you're all right.”

I'll be all right if you'll jus' let me sleep, he thought.

“Let's have a look at him, Sergeant.” The Stern Inquisitor bending over and shining a light in Powell's eye. First the left, then the right. “Pupils responding normally. How's the leg?”

“He was moaning in his sleep.” The Tender Angel's concerned voice.

“Here, let's have a look at it.”

Powell wide-awake now. “Ouch! For God's sake, take it easy.”

Dr. Harris smiling. “Back in the land of the living, are we?”

Powell looked perplexed. “What's going on?”

Harris studied his demeanor. “Why don't you tell me?”

Powell looked around the room. The curtains were parted slightly; it was dark outside. He was in his room at the Wrecker's Rest. Sergeant Black and Jane Goode stood beside his bed looking on anxiously. Dr. Harris was on the other side of the bed, face expressionless. Powell tried to think. His head throbbed and his knee ached. “The mine,” he said hesitantly. “I must have had an accident.”

Black cleared his throat, as if he were about to say something.

“No need to think about that now,” Dr. Harris interjected. “You need to rest. One of us will check in on you from time to time.”

Powell mumbled something and then closed his eyes.

“He's had a nasty time of it,” Dr. Harris said, “but there shouldn't be any permanent damage. The effects of the concussion should wear off in a few days.” He sipped his coffee. “Very thoughtful of your sister-in-law to put a pot on, Chief Inspector.”

Butts grunted.

Dr. Harris looked at Black. “And see that he has that knee looked at.”

Black smiled forlornly. “I'll do my best.”

Jane Goode shook her head. “Why would anyone do it? It just doesn't make any sense.”

Black's expression was deadly serious now. “Well, I'm bloody well going to find out.”

Butts drew himself up in the manner of someone taking charge. “Right. According to Dr. Harris, here, Mr. Powell is going to be laid up for a day or two. Have a chat with him tomorrow morning, Black, and see if you
can find out what happened.” Butts glanced speculatively at Harris.

Harris sighed. “It should be all right, provided he's feeling up to it.”

Butts nodded. “Then report back to me. We still have to talk to Rowlands and Jim Porter, but that can wait until we know exactly where we stand.”

Black seemed about to say something but evidently thought better of it.

“Yes, sir.”

“Right, then. I'm going to turn in.”

There was a polite round of good-nights.

After Butts had gone, Dr. Harris turned to Black. “Do you suppose this attempt on Mr. Powell's life is in some way related to what happened to Nick Tebble?”

Black looked at him. “It would be one hell of a coincidence if it wasn't.”

Harris nodded absently. “Yes—yes, I suppose so.”

“May I say something now?” Jane Goode sounded a trifle annoyed.

“Yes, of course, ma'am.”

“Assuming that Powell was hot on somebody's trail, what could he possibly have known that you or Buttie didn't know? It doesn't make any sense to me that a fox trying to put the hounds off his trail would gain anything by trying to kill one of the hounds. It would only intensify the chase, wouldn't it?”

“An interesting analogy, Ms. Goode,” Black said. “But to carry on with your animal theme, we've all heard about the cornered rat, haven't we? You're right about one thing, though,” he concluded grimly. “It'll intensify the bloody chase, all right.”

The next morning Powell awoke feeling almost human. The back of his head was tender to the touch with a hint of dried blood, his knuckles were scraped, and his knee ached dully. He felt like he'd been soundly stomped in a particularly boisterous scrum. According to Jane Goode, Dr. Harris had gone home but would be looking in a little later. The highlight of his day, so far, had been Jane serving him breakfast in bed: two lightly poached eggs with a sliced tomato, a stack of dry brown toast kept warm in a linen napkin, a pot of marmalade, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“You must be telepathic,” Powell said.

“I am, actually.”

Powell feigned a look of alarm.

“Relax, your secret's safe with me. If you must know, Sergeant Black has given me complete instructions on how to look after you. Feed three times daily and change paper once a week. By the way, your wife doesn't do this sort of thing for you, does she?”

“Not on your life. She's a liberated woman.”

“I think I'm going to hit you with this,” Jane Goode said, holding something behind her back. With a flourish, she produced a cane, a blue ribbon tied in a bow just below the crook. “I thought you might find it useful.”

“Thank you, Jane. I'm truly touched to know that you think of me as frail and decrepit.”

“Any more of your cheek and I'll hand you over to Mrs. Polfrock.”

“I'll have you know that Mrs. Polfrock is a perfectly charming woman.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You have hit your head, haven't
you?” In spite of the banter, she had been keeping a close eye on Powell. Dr. Harris had instructed her to look for any signs of confusion or other unusual behavior, but to her considerable relief, he seemed to be acting normally, at least as far as she was able to tell.

‘“Don't worry, Jane.’

“What?”

Powell smiled. ‘“I'm the one who's telepathic. You've been watching me out of the side of your eye ever since you came in here. I can assure you that I'm not out of my head.” If I was, he thought wistfully, I'd have invited you into bed with me.

“Powell,” she said hesitantly, “perhaps if
Yd
gone with you. as you'd asked, none of this would have happened. I—”

“Nonsense. I'm fine, honestly.”

“‘Well, if you're sure. I'll get Sergeant Black.”

“What?”

‘“Toodle-oo.”’

Powell felt slightly cheated as she left the room and Black squeezed in beside the bed to take her place.

“Good morning, sir,” Black said cheerfully.

‘“I've had better,” Powell grumbled. “‘What's up?”

“Er, I wanted to have a word, sir. About yesterday, about what happened out at the mine.”

“That!” Powell said sheepishly. “There's not much to tell, really. I was poking around and stumbled onto an old mine shaft.” Powell went on to explain how the opening had been covered by bushes and how he'd fallen through.

There was an awkward silence. “I don't think it happened quite that way, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Powell asked sharply. “I was there, after all!”

“What I mean is, sir, there is evidence that someone, er, assaulted you.”

“That's ridiculous! What evidence?”

“An iron pipe with blood on it, lying beside the opening. And there was blood on the back of your head, sir.”

“I fell down a mine shaft, what do you expect?”

Black persisted. “I think this person struck you on the back of the head with the pipe. You fell forward, broke through the foliage, and ended up down the hole.”

Powell could think of nothing to say. It was almost as if he'd known all along it had happened that way. He looked up at his colleague. “What a bloody job, eh, Bill?”

Black nodded glumly.

“It's bad enough that someone tries to kill me, then, half out of my head, I do my bloody best to finish the job. I don't know what I could have been thinking.” He shook his head in disgust. “Sometimes I seriously wonder if I'm past it.”

Black smiled hopefully. “All's well that ends well, sir.”

“Thanks to you, Bill.”

Black grinned. “Always happy to lend a hand, sir.”

“Yes, well, what are we to make of it, then?”

“I was hoping you'd be able to shed some light on the matter, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose—” It hit him like a load of bricks. “Porter!”

“Sir?”

“You'll remember I talked to him on the way out to the mine …”

Black swore violently, out of character for him. “Of course! My head mustn't be screwed on right.”

“He doesn't seem the type, somehow, but we'd better have Butts pull him in for questioning. In any case, he was working beside the road; he may have seen somebody else go by.”

“I'd like to talk to him, sir.”

“Do you think that would be wise?”

A lengthy silence, then Black sighed heavily. “Probably not.”

“Why don't you go and fetch Butts, while I rack my brain a bit.”

After Black had gone, Powell threw back the duvet and struggled stiffly out of bed. He picked up his new cane from the foot of the bed and hobbled around the room in his shorts. He felt slightly dizzy at first, but the sensation soon passed. He found that if he held his right leg straight and kept his weight off it, the discomfort was bearable and he could get around quite well. He carefully lowered himself back down onto the bed and began the Herculean task of getting dressed.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and Butts came in with Sergeant Black close on his heels.

“Mr. Powell, what the devil are you doing?” Butts admonished.

“Don't worry, Butts. I'll answer to Dr. Harris.”

“That's the least of my worries,” Butts protested. “I'm only concerned with your welfare—”

“Nonsense, never felt better in my life. I'm not one for lying abed of a morning.”

“But, sir—”

“Now, then, I imagine Black has already filled you in.

I'd like you to bring Jim Porter in and wring him dry. Let me know how you make out and then we can decide on the next step. Black, you can tag along to take notes.”

Black beamed. “Right.”

When he was alone again, Powell sat on the edge of his bed for some time recalling Black's quotation from the Scottish play. He thought about resting for a while but decided he'd be better off up and about, rather than fretting in bed about things over which he had no control. There would be plenty of time for that later,
When the hurlyburly's done, I When the battle's lost and won.

Powell spent the day prowling the corridors of the Wrecker's Rest and generally making a nuisance of himself. He even managed to drag Jane Goode away from her writing by playing shamelessly on her lingering feelings of guilt. He persuaded her to take him tottering down to the quay where they sat together on a bench in awkward silence amidst the sunshine and screaming gulls. Out of the blue, she said that she would be returning to London soon, to which Powell was unable to think of a reply.

Later that afternoon when Butts and Black finally returned, after what had seemed to Powell like an eternity, they found him pacing back and forth in his room like a caged animal. “What kept you so long?” he said irritably.

Butts and Black exchanged looks.

Butts cleared his throat. “Well, sir, by the time we picked Porter up and took him into St. Ives—”

“Yes?”

“Er, do you mind if we all sit down, sir?”

Powell waved impatiently. “Fine, fine.” He lowered
himself slowly onto the edge of the bed while his colleagues pulled up chairs.

Butts sighed. “We did our best, but the poor bugger didn't seem to know if he was coming or going.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“Well, it's obvious that he thinks his life's a failure: his business, if you can call it that, his marriage, his future prospects, you name it.”

“We got him to admit that it was him I saw running from the cottage the morning Tebble was killed,” Black said. “He said that he knew his wife was with somebody that morning, but he swears that he didn't get a chance to find out who it was before I interrupted him.”

Powell frowned. “Did you ask him if he had any ideas?”

“Of course, sir,” Butts interjected smartly, not used to sharing the limelight. “He started raving at that point, and Wilcox's name came up.”

“Wilcox?”

“Apparently the missus told him about Wilcox coming out that time to quote on the installation of an indoor plumbing system, but Mr. Porter obviously wasn't buying it.”

Powell frowned. “If there is some hanky-panky going on between Linda Porter and Wilcox, why would she tell her husband about the service call?”

Butts shrugged.

“And Rowlands?” Powell asked.

“Porter knows what's going on all right, I'm certain of it.”

“Did he mention Tebble as a possible object of his wife's affection?”

“No, sir.”

“That's interesting, don't you think, Black? Tebble's boat parked on the beach not fifty yards away.”

“Well, sir, if Mr. Porter knew that it was Tebble who was, er, visiting his wife that morning, he might not mention it because of the obvious connection we'd make with Tebble's murder. He doesn't seem to have much of an alibi Saturday afternoon, by the way; he claims he was off somewhere by himself.”