Malice in Cornwall (15 page)

“Any sign of a disturbance in the house?”

“Nothing obvious, sir. But it's pretty chaotic in there. Housekeeping obviously wasn't his speciality.”

Powell grunted. “Well, Butts, you seem to have things well in hand.”

Butts looked puzzled. “I assumed you'd be taking charge, sir.”

Powell smiled reassuringly. “Now, why would you assume that? But if you don't mind, I'd like to have a quick look around the grounds with Sergeant Black before we go.”

Butts looked relieved. “Of course, sir.”

Powell and Black walked around to the front of the house and stood at the top of the stone wall that separated the front garden from the beach. There were the rusted remnants of a winch at the top of the wall, which Powell surmised had once been used to haul up the fish. A narrow set of steps descended steeply to the beach. The tide was flooding and the sea lapped at the shingle a few feet from the base of the wall. A small wooden skiff, which was attached by means of a long painter to an iron ring fixed to the wall, drifted aimlessly back and forth. A hundred feet away, the surf crashed against the rocks that guarded the entrance to the little cove.

Powell looked back at the Old Fish Cellar. A large herring gull was perched motionless on the roof, silhouetted against the granite-colored sky. Sergeant Black scratched his head in that characteristic manner of his.

“Well, Bill, what do you make of it?”

Black considered his superior's question carefully before answering. “I'm thinking about Tebble's set-to with Tony Rowlands in the Head the other night, sir.”

Powell did not get the opportunity to reply. There was
a commotion around the back of the house and. an instant later, Chief Inspector Butts was hurrying over. His face was taut. “I guess you
will
be taking charge, after all, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of my men was poking around in the cellar. There was a barrel down there, Mr. Powell, and …” He hesitated.

“Yes, Butts, what is it?”

“In the barrel, sir.” He swallowed hard. “A hand. A human hand. And it's wearing a bloody engagement ring!”

“You mean he
pickled
her?” Jane Goode was incredulous. “I don't believe it!”

Powell drained his pint with a gulp. “Well,
somebody's
left hand was found packed in salt at the Old Fish Cellar, and I'm willing to bet my pension that it belongs to your Riddle. And furthermore, I'll wager you a drink that Tebble's woodpile glows in the dark.”

She smiled wanly. “I never gamble. But I wonder what it all means?”

“It explains why the body was so well preserved, for one thing. I can hardly wait to tell Sir Reggie about this: it'll make his day. And while we're on the subject of preservatives, I need another pint. More wine?”

She nodded.

Tony Rowlands was nowhere in evidence that evening, but Powell managed to attract the barmaid's attention.

Jenny Thompson's face was pale as she delivered the drinks. “I still can't get over Nick Tebble,” she volunteered. “It's just awful.”

“Very sad.” Powell agreed. “Is Tony around?” Casual, like.

She shook her head irritably. “He was in earlier. It's getting busy—I could use a hand.”

When she'd gone, Powell lit a cigarette.

“That's a disgusting habit.”

“I have worse.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, each preoccupied with his or her own thoughts.

Eventually Powell spoke, “What were you saying before?”

“What? Oh, I was just trying to make sense of it all.”

He exhaled slowly. “I think it's pretty clear what happened. The body of our missing boater from Torquay washes up on the beach near the Old Fish Cellar one day. For whatever reason, Tebble seizes the opportunity and concocts the Riddle, or perhaps I should say ‘Ruse’ of Penrick. A liberal sprinkling of luminous fungus scraped from some rotting log for effect, and some fairly intricate maneuvering to stage the thing, which explains why the Riddle was only seen at night. During the day he kept the corpse preserved in brine in his cellar. It all fits.”

Jane shook her head doubtfully. “I still don't see how he pulled it off. Getting it back and forth, for instance, and never getting caught in the act.”

“Oh, our Nick was a cagey bugger. He carries the body between the Old Fish Cellar and the Sands in his skiff at night. Then he dumps it on the beach, doctors it up with the fungus, and hides out in the towans where he can keep an eye on things. An unsuspecting passerby out for an evening stroll along the Sands stumbles onto the thing and, not surprisingly, flees for dear life—present com-
pany excepted, of course. When the coast is clear, Tebble loads the corpse back in his skiff and heads home for the salt cellar. Buttie's lads found an old cart in the towans that Tebble may have used to move the body around. He could easily have used it to pack his skiff a short distance into the towans as well, which would explain why none of the witnesses ever reported seeing a boat. Brilliant, don't you think?”

Jane Goode smiled crookedly. “You or Tebble?”

“Very funny.”

“What went wrong then? Why was the body still there when we went back?”

Powell shrugged. “You remember the storm that night? There was a short piece of frayed rope attached to the life jacket. Tebble probably tied the body to a rock or an anchor of some sort to keep it from getting away from him. The rope must have broke. We'll probably never know for sure.”

She took a sip of her wine. “It sounds plausible enough, but you haven't answered the most important question of all.”

“You mean the sixty-four thousand dollar question, as our American friends say: Why did he do it?”

She nodded eagerly. “Exactly. Any ideas?”

Powell looked at her with amusement. “What do
you
think?”

She scoffed. “It's obvious, isn't it?”

“Really?”

She glanced around the pub to make sure no one was watching them and then said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Ruth Trevenney is the key, I just know it!”

He was about to say something when, predictably on
cue, Sergeant Black walked through the door and made a beeline for their table.

Powell sighed. “Yes, Black, what is it?”

Black's expression was serious as he sat down. He looked at Jane Goode then back at Powell. Powell nodded almost imperceptibly.

“This afternoon, back at the Old Fish Cellar, sir. Something was bothering me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It suddenly struck me. It was Tebble's skiff. I'm certain it was the same one I saw pulled up on the beach near the Porters' this morning.”

Powell said nothing and stared into his empty glass. The atmosphere had suddenly grown oppressive, as if a storm were brewing.

Jane Goode fidgeted impatiently until she could bear it no longer. “So?”

Powell ignored her. He looked up at Black.
“What men call gallantry, and Gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry.”

“My thoughts exactly, sir.”

Powell caught up with Dr. Harris the next morning as he was returning home from church, which perhaps explained the old man's philosophical turn of mind. He had obviously heard about the murder.

“Whatever else we may like to think, Chief Superintendent, it is death that defines the human condition. My own profession is no more than a charade, a well-intentioned but ultimately futile attempt to delay the inevitable. False hopes are a doctor's truck and trade; we're really no better than witch doctors in that respect. If you take away the advances made in reducing infant mortality in the past
century, medical science has done very little to extend the human life span beyond our allotted fourscore and ten.” He shook his head sadly. “And the tragedy is that most of us fritter away our lives in pursuit of meaningless gratification.”

Powell nodded neutrally. “Did you know Nick Trebble?” he asked quietly.

“Not really. I'd see him from time to time in the village. He was always rowing back and forth in that little boat of his.”

“I understand he was a bit of a loner.”

Harris sighed. “We're all very much alone in this world, each in our own way. But I think that's true. The only time I can recall seeing him in what one might call a social situation was in the Head, but even there he usually sat by himself.”

“He must have had
some
friends or associates. Did you ever see him over at the Porters’, for instance?” Powell persisted.

Harris gave him a circumspect look. “Not that I can recall.”

“I hope you don't mind answering all these questions.”

A paper-thin smile. “Not at all, Chief Superintendent; it makes me feel useful. But there must be a point to it.”

“There is, actually, now that you mention it. I need to know about Roger Trevenney.”

An awkward silence.

Eventually Harris spoke. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything, starting with his daughter.”

Harris sighed heavily. “I see.” He then went on to relate the story of Ruth's murder, how she just disappeared one
afternoon, the macabre circumstances in which her body was found, the fruitless murder investigation that followed, and finally the impact the tragedy had on the village. And then some thirty years later, the resurrection of painful memories by the Riddle, with its crude and rather obvious implications.

The account was essentially similar to the others Powell had heard, until Harris got around to the subject of Roger Trevenney himself.

“Roger was a wonderful artist, as you've seen yourself. Still is, come to that, although he hasn't painted much in recent years.”

Powell's attention was drawn once again to Trevenney's painting in the little alcove in Dr. Harris's sitting room. He walked over and searched the impressionistic seascape for hidden clues.

“You see, Ruth's death took it out of him,” Dr. Harris was saying. “He'd lost his wife some years before, and Ruth was everything to him.” He looked at Powell with watery eyes. “I can understand how he must have felt. He told me years later that he seriously contemplated suicide. It was only the thought of what Ruth would have wanted that deterred him.” Dr. Harris suddenly looked very frail. “And there was something else …” He hesitated. “I think Roger was determined to discover the identity of his daughter's murderer.”

This caught Powell's attention. “What gave you that idea?”

“Roger is basically an optimist, which is rather amazing considering what he's been through. In a way, I think the thought that Ruth's murderer might eventually be brought to justice has kept him going.”

“I'm getting the impression that you know him quite well.”

“I've been his physician for years. After my Helen died, Roger and I became close friends, two widowers seeking companionship, I suppose.”

Powell nodded understandingly. “When I first came to see you, you mentioned that Roger was not very well. What did you mean?”

“He has an inoperable brain tumor.
Glioblastoma multi-forme
is the medical term for it. At best, he has only a few months to live. He has his ups and downs, but as you can imagine, this ghastly business has taken its toll. I looked in on him yesterday morning and he seemed very weak.”

Powell didn't know what to say. “I'm sorry.”

Harris grew philosophical again. “Ah, well, Chief Superintendent, the human condition, remember?” A lengthy silence. “There's something about this place that seeps into your soul,” he said eventually. “The barrows and mounds and stone circles that mark the ancient graves.” He looked at Powell. “Death, like the sea, is ever present.”

Powell was troubled by Dr. Harris's morbid tone. He spoke carefully. “I'm going to have to talk to Mr. Trevenney.”

Harris stared at him, uncomprehending.

“It's Tebble, you see,” Powell said gently, “I didn't mention it before, but it appears that the Riddle was
his
doing, and that's probably why he was killed.”

Powell decided to pay a visit to the Head alone. Sergeant Black was off running some errands, and Jane had secluded herself in her room to write. Another newspaper story, Powell wondered, or was she finally getting down to work on her novel? He arrived at the pub before noon hoping to have a quiet word with Tony Rowlands. Except for the publican, the bar was empty.

“Chief Superintendent. Long time, no see.” He slurred his words slightly: he had obviously been drinking.

“Hello, Tony. How goes the battle?”

“Can't complain. Even if I did, no one would listen. Ha ha!”

A false note sounded in Powell's mind. “Terrible thing about Nick Tebble …”

The smile never left Rowlands's face, but his eyes were brittle. “Yeah, well, he was a bit of a nutter, that one.”

“I beg your pardon?” Powell kept his voice even.

“I mean he was a bit strange, wasn't he? What he did to that body—it makes my skin crawl.”

The word had obviously got out. “But I wonder why somebody would want to disembowel him with a spade,” Powell mused.

Rowlands shrugged. “Beats me. Transients, maybe? I heard there was some kids camping down at Mawgawan Beach.”

Powell stared at Rowlands. “Why do you suppose he did it?”

“What?”

“The Riddle.”

“Oh, that. Like I said, he was bonkers. Didn't like tourists, for one thing. If you want my opinion, I think he did it to scare people off.”

Powell affected an air of puzzlement. “It had the opposite effect, surely.”

“What do you mean?”

“The newspaper stories, the notoriety; I even saw a sign in a shop window the other day:
Home of the Riddle of Penrick”

Rowlands a bit edgy now. “Well, like I said, Nick wasn't exactly an intellectual giant. Now, if you don't mind, Chief Superintendent, I should be getting on with—”

Powell was undeterred. “Knew him well, did you?”

An impatient sigh. “Not well, no.”

“You've been in Penrick—how long now?—some thirty-odd years?”

“That's right.”

“I imagine old Nick was one of your regular customers.”

“He came in for a drink now and then.”

“By the way, do you happen to know how old he was?”