The Valley of the Shadow (21 page)

TWENTY

When Jocelyn dropped her and Teazle off outside the LonStar shop in Port Mabyn, on their return from Truro, Eleanor was unhappy.

She felt less and less certain of the value of the information she had gleaned from Abel Tregeddle. Not that he had lied to her, but did it actually have any relevance to Kalith Chudasama’s plight? Had Megan correctly interpreted what the young man had said? Or had her favourite niece embarked on a possibly perilous expedition based on a trail of uncertain inferences—or, in colloquial language, a load of codswallop?

Jocelyn’s dark forebodings had infected her and she felt in need of an antidote. She went to see Nick. His particular combination of pragmatism and cheerful insouciance was just what she wanted.

“Come on, Teazle, we’ll catch him just before the shop closes.”

Nick had turned the sign on the gallery door to
CLOSED
and was just locking up as they arrived. He turned the key back and opened the door.

“Come on in. Hello, Teazle.” He stooped to rub between her ears. “Just let me pull down the blind. There. Cuppa?”

“No thanks, I’ve just been taking tea with a canon. But don’t let me stop you.”

“Nothing could. What’s wrong, Eleanor?”

“How do you know something’s wrong?” she asked crossly.

“I’m an artist. I
see
faces. Come upstairs and sit yourself down.”

Nick’s flat was one large room, only the bathroom walled off. His bed was unmade, but otherwise it was quite neat. All over the walls were pinned what he called sketches, some at least partly coloured though Eleanor had always thought of a sketch as being black and white. “Ideas, trials, and reminders,” he’d once explained to her.

The furniture was sparse, a heterogeneous lot he’d picked up here and there, some from LonStar, some from auctions, whatever caught his eye. The only objects of any value were his collection of LPs and his stereo—or hi-fi, or whatever the latest term was for a gramophone. He had another down in the studio.

He put on a record.

“What’s that?”

“Dowland. Lute. Soothing.”

Eleanor sank into the chair she found most comfortable. A rocking chair originally upholstered in crimson brocade, it was now a dusty pink except in the cracks, but its springs had held up against the passage of time, perhaps because Nick didn’t find it comfortable. Rocking, she poured out her story, her fears and uncertainties, while he heated water on the gas ring by the fireplace and made himself a pot of tea and a couple of boiled eggs.

“I must have missed lunch,” he said thoughtfully, as Eleanor finished her tale of woe. “Sure you won’t have a cup of tea? There’s plenty.”

“Yes, perhaps I will. But what do you think, Nick?”

“According to what I’ve heard, everything’s under control.”

“Why didn’t you say so right away?” she asked, indignant.

“I didn’t know what you were worrying about until you told me.”

“What did you hear? Who from?”

“That cub reporter of yours. What’s his name? The laddie from the
North Cornwall Times.
”

“David Skan? How does he know what’s happening? What
is
happening?”

“The press have their ways. He snoops on the police radio and has a pal at Coast Guard HQ in Falmouth, I gather. Megan and the RNLI have found the Indians.”

“Oh, thank heavens! What about Kalith’s mother?”

“I don’t know, Eleanor. He said no names were mentioned. They’ve sent a helicopter to lift someone out.”

Eleanor shivered. The day seemed darker. Not only an emotional reaction, she realised; clouds were rolling in, hiding the sun. Nick lit the gas fire.

“Megan’s all right?”

“Nothing’s been said about a police officer in difficulties. I’m sure Skan will be back, and you can interrogate him. It was you he wanted to see in the first place.”

“Me!”

“Well, you’re the one who’s getting herself talked about in Boscastle. Apparently half the inhabitants are convinced
you
dived into the sea and single-handed pulled this chappy out. Skan’s not so naïve as to believe it, but it does make a better story than a mere police officer—even a woman police officer—performing a daring rescue.”

“He wouldn’t dare to print that!”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. Carefully worded so as not to be downright untruth. You’ll probably have to bribe him with a few choice tidbits.”

“Oh, Nick! What did you tell him?”

“Me? Nothing!” Nick said innocently. “But when he didn’t find you at home, he didn’t come straight to me; he went to find Mrs. Stearns.”

“Who wasn’t in either.”

“So he talked to the vicar.”

“Oh, no!” Eleanor gasped in horror.

“Who seems to have given him the impression that you’d gone off to Truro to make a citizen’s arrest of the bishop—”

The telephone extension rang.

“On what charge, he didn’t seem to be certain. Quite puzzled, the poor man, and Skan, too. Though he assumed you’d get the Truro police to do the job, not attempt it yourselves. That’ll be Mrs. Stearns, no doubt. Hello? Yes, she is. We were expecting you to ring.” He handed the receiver to Eleanor.

“Jocelyn?”

“Have you talked to that newspaperman?”

“No, dear. You know I only came home a few minutes ago.”

“Home! That’s where I first tried to get hold of you.”

“Came to Nick’s, rather.”

“What has Nicholas told him?”

“Nothing, he says.”

“He didn’t tell him you and I intended to arrest the bishop?”

Nick, who was hovering close, shook his head, grinning.

“Certainly not.”

“Then where did Timothy get hold of such a ridiculous notion? The poor man is extremely worried!”

“Joce, what did you tell him—the vicar—about where we were going and what for?”

“I don’t recall exactly, but certainly not that … I suppose he might have got a little confused. But Eleanor, he says it’s going to be in the paper! He’s afraid he’ll be asked to resign his cure, if not be defrocked! What am I going to do?”

Eleanor covered the receiver and hissed at Nick, “What’s a cure?”

“A parish, sort of. If the vicar’s talking about it.”

“Jocelyn, for pity’s sake, they wouldn’t print something like that without checking. They don’t want to be sued for slander.”

“Libel,” Nick whispered.

“For libel. I have no doubt whatsoever that Mr. Skan will turn up again on your doorstep or mine to— In fact, Nick’s doorbell is ringing. I bet you anything that’s him. I’ll ring you back. After the weather forecast.” Was Megan still at sea, in a gathering storm? Perhaps David Skan would know.

“If it’s him, you’re prepared to talk to him?” Nick asked.

“Yes. I want to know what he knows—and what he thinks he knows.”

Nick went running downstairs, leaving the door at the top open. From below came the jangle of his shop bell as he opened the street door, then two pairs of footsteps ascended the stairs.

Eleanor heard him say firmly, “And you’re not to pester her, or you’ll be out on your ear!”

“Not to worry,” said the jaunty voice of the cub reporter. “It’s a good story, whichever way she wants to play it.” He appeared at the top, his bush of white-blond hair as vigorous as ever, camera slung round his neck. “Hello, Mrs. Trewynn. I hear your niece is a heroine and you’ve turned detective again!”

“You’ve got half of it right, Mr. Skan.”

“That’s what I thought. Plenty of sources for the lifesaving—though you’re the only actual witness I’ve talked to, Mr. Gresham—but I treat anything the Reverend Stearns tells me with great caution.”

“How wise of you,” said Nick mockingly. “Have a seat. Tea? Beer?”

“A beer would go down nicely, thanks. Tell me about your visit to Truro, Mrs. Trewynn.”

“It was related to church matters. You’d hardly expect Mrs. Stearns to discuss that sort of thing with me. I went along only to keep her company. She picked me up in Port Isaac on her way, you see, after Megan went off in the lifeboat.”

Skan pounced. “So DS Pencarrow
did
go out with the lifeboats. Cheers,” he added, as Nick handed him an opened bottle.

Bother! Eleanor thought. She must be more careful not to reveal facts he might not already have acquired. Too late to take that one back. “Yes, and I’m very worried about her. It was fine when they left, but it looks now as if a storm is blowing in. Nick, let’s listen to the weather.”

Nick turned on his transistor just in time to catch the beginning of the weather and shipping forecasts. Skan started to speak, but Eleanor put her finger to her lips and they listened in silence, Nick and the reporter swigging now and then from their bottles. Young people these days didn’t seem to bother with glasses.

At the end, Eleanor asked, “We’re Lundy, aren’t we, Nick?”

“Yes. Wind thirty-five knots with gusts to fifty, heavy seas and squalls expected.”

“Don’t let it worry you,” Skan said cheerfully. “They’ll all be on land by the time it starts really blowing. According to my Coast Guard source, the Padstow lifeboat’s expected to arrive home between half six and seven, and the other two are already in.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I’d better get going. I’m supposed to meet the Padstow boat. I’ll come back afterwards for a word with you, Mrs. Trewynn. Thanks for the beer, mate. Cheerio!”

He dashed off before Eleanor had a chance to say she was rather tired and would prefer to speak to him tomorrow. “Bother! I know he’s inescapable, but I’d have liked to get it over with. Did he tell you, earlier, anything else he’d heard from his Coast Guard source?”

“I refused to describe Megan’s gallant rescue until he spilled the beans. He hasn’t got on to Julia and Chaz yet, so I was his only source for that, and I didn’t give him their surnames. According to him, the lifeboats rescued about a dozen people.”

“Thank heaven! I’ve been so afraid they wouldn’t find anyone and we’d never know for sure … Or worse, the boy would wake up and confirm what he’d said, and it would be too late … What about his mother?”

“I don’t know for sure, but as I said, the rescue helicopter winched up someone, a seriously ill woman, and took her to hospital.”

“Surely that must be her. I wonder if she’s gone to the same hospital as Kalith. Did Mr. Skan tell you where they took her?”

“No. Perhaps he didn’t know, but he was holding his cards close to his chest. He wouldn’t tell me anything at all until I swore an oath of secrecy.”

“Oh dear, then you shouldn’t have told me. Though I’m very glad you did.”

“Megan’s sure to if I don’t. Schoolboy stuff, anyway, ‘oath of secrecy,’ my foot! And idiotic. As if it won’t all be common knowledge by the time his paper comes out.”

“Writing for a weekly must cramp his style.”

“Another thing he didn’t mention: I’m not sure whether he knows they’re Indian. Or at least that our lad is. If it comes out, the inspector can’t blame me.”

“What with the ambulance men and the hospital people, not to mention the lifeboat crew, he’ll have plenty of possible leaks to blame, though they’re not supposed to talk about patients. Perhaps Jocelyn can find out which hospital Mrs. Chudasama was flown to. She’s as much a parishioner as Kalith, after all. I wonder whether Joce has thought to ring up and ask how Kalith is doing. I’d better give her a ring and remind her, and ask her to try and find out where his mother—”

“Eleanor, we don’t know that it was Kalith’s mother. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Skan said there was a body, too.”

“Oh! Oh no!”

“Whisky,” said Nick, jumping up and going to the cupboard whence had appeared the beer. “I’ve got a half-bottle for emergencies.”

“I’m perfectly all right.”

“No soda, though. But I seem to remember you prefer water?”

“Yes,” Eleanor admitted. Whisky was a rare indulgence and she really had felt quite faint for a moment. She pulled herself together, accepting the coffee mug Nick handed her.

“Sorry. I really must buy a few glasses now that I can afford such frivolities.”

“There are always some going for practically nothing in the shop.” She took a sip. It tasted just the same from a mug. “I’ll ask Jocelyn to pick you out a nice matching half dozen. Oh, Nick, I don’t think I can cope with Joce again today. Fond of her as I am, she can be quite exhausting. But I said I’d ring her, so I’d better go home and get it over with.”

“Be my guest.” Nick waved at his phone.

“I don’t want to run up your bill.”

“There’s your excuse for not talking too long.”

“All right. Thanks. Do you mind if I tell her what David Skan told you?”

“If a vicar’s wife can’t be trusted not to spread gossip, who can?” he asked rhetorically.

The vicarage phone rang several times before Timothy Stearns answered, his hesitant voice as always sounding as if he wasn’t at all sure that the number he was giving actually corresponded with the one printed on the dial.

“Hello, Vicar. Sorry to bother you. It’s Eleanor—Eleanor Trewynn.” One could never be too specific with the Reverend Stearns. “May I speak to Jocelyn, please?” She almost added Joce’s surname.

“I’m so sorry, she’s not here. She just went out. In fact, I thought—Could I be mistaken?—I was under the impression that she said she was coming to see you.”

“I expect you’re right,” Eleanor said, resigned. “No doubt she’ll be here in a couple of minutes. Thank you, Vicar. Good-bye.” She was always punctilious about saying good-bye to him when she hung up. Otherwise, his devoted spouse had informed her, he was liable to clutch the receiver saying, “Hello? Hello?” in increasingly despondent tones for some time.

“I’ll tell her you left,” Nick offered.

“You must be mad! She’d go next door and ring my doorbell—and probably go upstairs as I wouldn’t be surprised if I forgot to lock up—and when she found I wasn’t there, she’d call out the police to search for me. She’d be convinced the smugglers had got me.”

He laughed.

“No, seriously,” Eleanor assured him. “She was very upset when I went to look for smugglers in Boscastle. She warned me it was dangerous. And now it turns out there really are smugglers prepared to leave all those people to die, she’ll be quite sure they’re after me.”