Secrets and Lies: A Polvellan Cornish Mystery Read online

  ‘Don’t try that,’ Amy sneered. ‘Think I was born yesterday do you? You know what I’m talking about. Colin told me.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘About you coming on to him.’

  ‘What?’ Torn between laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of the accusation, and fury that he would drag her into his lies, Jess clung to her temper. ‘Mrs Terrell, I have never done any such thing. The only contact I’ve had with your husband was when he repaired my roof.’

  ‘I know. He said that’s when you –’

  ‘No,’ Jess broke in. ‘You started this so you listen. While he was at my place I gave him tea and cake, the same as I do for any tradesman working for me. When he’d finished I paid him. Your husband is the last man I would ever be interested in.’

  Amy’s eyes narrowed and her chin jutted. ‘Why’s that then?’

  Because he has the morals of a tomcat and the intelligence of a worm. The retort hovered on Jess’s tongue. She choked it down though it left a bitter taste. ‘Because,’ she said as if speaking to a child, ‘he’s married. It’s none of your business, but it may ease your mind to know that I’m in a relationship with Tom Peters and we’re very happy.’

  A slow smirk twisted Amy’s mouth. ‘Are you now? I wonder what Susan thinks of that.’

  ‘Why would she think anything? She and Tom are divorced and she’s living with someone else. Excuse me.’

  ‘So why is she staying in Tom’s house?’ Amy demanded, her smile dripping spite. ‘You needn’t take my word for it. Ask him. He’ll have a job denying it seeing I was down there giving her a facial and massage last week.’

  Stepping past, her heart thudding, Jess walked quickly up the road. Susan was back living with Tom? No, Amy had said staying in Tom’s house. There was a difference. If it were true, there would be a good reason. So why hadn’t Tom told her himself? Why leave her to hear it from someone else?

  Closing her door, she crossed to the kitchen area and put her basket on the worktop. Her hand shook as she filled the kettle and switched it on.

  The doubts she had spent three years fighting came crowding back. She recalled all the secrets that had come to light after Alex’s death, the realisation that the marriage she believed solid had been built on quicksand. Her husband’s betrayal of trust had left her doubting herself and everyone else, especially Tom when he had wanted to resurrect their teenage love affair.

  She made a mug of coffee, scalded her mouth with too large a gulp, and told herself that’s why her eyes were watering. As she unpacked her shopping there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, Claire Griffin was on the step.

  ‘Come in.’ Jess returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Yes. No.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Actually, I’m furious. Amy Terrell has just accused me of coming on to her husband.’

  ‘Ah,’ the vicar’s wife nodded. ‘Our randy roofer. I’ve heard about him. I credited you with more taste.’

  Jess swung round, ready to snap. Seeing Claire’s ironic smile, she relaxed and laughed instead. ‘I’ve wiped more appealing messes off my shoe. What threw me was that he’s told her I was the one chatting him up.’

  ‘So either he’s embroiled in a new affair, or he’s ditched someone clingy who is threatening to go public so he’s trying to muddy the water.’

  ‘How would you know that?’

  ‘Come on, Jess. I’m the wife of a parish priest. You would not believe some of the things people tell me.’

  ‘So I’m being blamed to shift Amy’s attention from him? I suppose it makes a weird kind of sense. What a bastard.’ Jess lifted the kettle. ‘Drink?’

  ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’

  ‘You’re not. I’ve just made myself one.’

  ‘In that case, I’d love one.’

  Seated at the table with steaming mugs of coffee in front of them, Claire met Jess’s gaze. ‘You’re wondering why I called. OK. What do you think about a village magazine? Nothing glossy, but with a colour printer it could look reasonably professional. Say an A5 size booklet? It could feature local groups like the Gardening Club, the choir, flower arranging, and whatever. Each group could send in reports with photos, dates of meetings, exhibitions, outings, and so on.’

  ‘Why are you asking me? You know perfectly well it’s a brilliant idea.’

  Claire released her breath. ‘I think it has potential. But I wanted a second opinion. Why ask you? Because after your husband died and left you broke, you could have wallowed in self-pity.’

  ‘I did for a while.’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t stay down. And you didn’t crawl into a bottle. We both know not so long ago I was on a slippery slope booze-wise. When I look back now I feel thoroughly ashamed of myself.’

  ‘Come on. You had just moved to a strange place and didn’t know anyone. Look at you now.’

  Claire laughed. ‘Thank Viv for that. Finding out that we have a mutual second cousin changed everything. Instead of being an outsider, suddenly I was family. I can’t tell you what a difference that made.’

  Jess nodded. ‘You don’t need to. We saw it for ourselves.’

  ‘You got yourself together, found this place,’ Claire’s gesture encompassed the open-plan living room and kitchen with its low beamed ceiling, woodburner, and windows front and back letting in plenty of light. ‘And set up your businesses. It’s time I used my brain and did something I can be proud of.’

  ‘What does your husband think?’

  ‘I haven’t mentioned it to him yet.’ She pushed one hand through her thick, untidy hair. ‘I don’t want to make a fool of myself. You know the village. How do you think people will respond?’

  ‘That will depend on how much you plan to charge.’

  ‘I was thinking it might do better if it’s free. Adverts paid for by local businesses would cover the cost of paper and printing.’

  ‘You really have thought it through.’ Jess smiled. ‘I think it’s an excellent idea. But I can’t speak for anyone else. We’re having a makeover evening for Morwenna on Thursday evening. Do come. It’ll be fun, and you can ask the others yourself.’

  ‘Which others?’

  ‘Mor of course, Viv, Gill, Annie, and me. Tina Parry, our mobile hairdresser, is also a beautician. She’ll be doing hair and make-up. I was worried the others might want Amy Terrell. She’s Gill’s niece. But they all prefer Tina, which is a huge relief after what happened this morning.’

  ‘Where –?’

  ‘Here. I’m central and being open-plan there’s more space.’

  Claire drained her mug. ‘You sure they won’t mind?’

  ‘They’ll be delighted, and as far as your idea is concerned you can count on total honesty.’

  Claire winced. ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Come on. If you don’t believe in it, why should they?’

  ‘It’s not that. I do believe in it –’

  ‘Then what are you worried about?’

  ‘I’m new here. I know how resentment can be stirred up when newcomers who haven’t been in a place five minutes start trying to change things or take over.’

  ‘But you’re not doing either. You’re simply offering an idea for consideration. How could that offend anybody? Besides, you may not have been in the village long, but you’re Cornish, not to mention Viv’s cousin a few times removed. That makes you near enough local.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Claire got up, and Jess took the empty mugs to the sink. ‘I’m really glad I stopped by.’

  ‘See you on Thursday. Oh, and everyone brings a plate.’

  ‘Chocolate brownies?’

  Jess laughed. ‘You’re no fool.’

  Chapter Three

  Jess opened a new folder on her laptop. Normally she began an investigation with the name and date of birth of the person who wanted to trace their ancestors. This time she had nothing. No, that wasn’t true. The remains were those of a youngi
sh man buried sometime between the 1930s and the 1950s.

  Looking at those figures she realised that the most likely time for a person to disappear and not immediately be missed was between 1939 and 1945.

  While researching Mor’s family background Jess had learned that during the years of the Second World War Cornwall’s population had quadrupled. Most of the newcomers were transitory: wounded from torpedoed ships, thousands of soldiers embarking and returning. But others – evacuees, refugees, and displaced persons – remained here for years. Some never left.

  Though the potential numbers made her wonder what chance – if any – she had of success, a shorter time span made the task slightly less daunting. By choosing the war years she might be totally wrong. But it made sense and was somewhere to start.

  She wished she could talk it through with Tom. Putting her thoughts into words helped clarify them, and he was good at raising points that hadn’t occurred to her.

  Amy Terrell’s smirk and the conviction in her words nagged. The sensible thing would be to find out the truth from Tom. But how?

  Whether accidentally or on purpose he was unreachable by phone. There was nothing to stop her walking down to the yard. But they’d have no privacy in his office. Besides, what if he had a client with him? There was bound to be a simple explanation. So why hadn’t he rung her?

  Amy hadn’t mentioned Susan’s new man, Jason. Was he staying there too? Jason was an estate agent. If his house had a problem like a water leak, he’d easily be able to find a short-term let. In summer? Why not? It wasn’t high season until July.

  No, if Susan was at Tom’s house on her own, it was more likely she had fallen out with Jason. But why go to Tom? And why would he have taken her in, let alone allowed her to stay?

  Tension had tightened her scalp. She massaged it with her fingertips, wishing she could rub out the mental tug-of-war that was grinding her down.

  After Alex’s death she had vowed she would never again depend on anyone. She had rebuilt her life all by herself. She was perfectly capable on her own. She didn’t need a man.

  But she missed Tom. She missed his kindness and the way he made her laugh. She missed his strong arms around her, missed lying close to his warm sturdy body, missed kisses that made her head spin and her insides tremble.

  She had let herself fall in love with him again. What kind of fool was she? Shame washed through her and her skin burned. What kind of trust was that, instantly assuming the worst?

  Awake at 6.30 a.m., she got up and pulled on jeans and a shirt. After finishing her morning chores she spent two hours fine-tuning her report for Dr Jelbert. The sun was shining and she wanted fresh air. Slipping her phone into one pocket and some money into another, she slung a sweater around her shoulders, shielded her eyes with a blue baseball cap and set off for the marina.

  If Nic was free, they would talk. If not, no matter. It was still a lovely walk, one of her favourites. She recognised that she was keeping herself busy to avoid brooding. It wasn’t working.

  Passing John Preece’s cottage, she looked over the gate and shivered as she remembered finding his body. The cottage still looked the same. Perhaps Simon Opie, the owner, hadn’t yet decided whether to sell or renovate. She was glad he had employed Stan Hooper to maintain the garden.

  John had spent nearly every waking hour outside tending the plots, selling his surplus fruit and veg to the village shop. Stan raised a hand and she waved back.

  Reaching the marina, she looked across to the rows of yachts moored to bright pink or neon orange buoys. The combination of westerly breeze and in-coming tide made the sapphire water dance and glisten in the sunlight.

  Couples dressed in sailing gear and laden with sail bags and holdalls walked along the pontoons. Some were heading towards their boats. Others – windblown and sunburned – had tied up near the fuel and water pumps to refill tanks, perhaps have a meal and a shower, and use the launderette before heading to sea again.

  Cradling a yacht with a gash in its fibreglass hull, the huge mobile crane beeped a continuous warning as it moved slowly from the quay towards the lay-up area on four tyres the height of a man. Walking alongside, the operator guided it with a radio-controller no bigger than a games console.

  Jess skirted parked cars, crossed the wide expanse of tarmac, and headed for the office block next to the chandlery store. The lay-up area in the valley looked bare. During the winter it had been crammed with sleek yachts shaped like arrowheads resting in wooden cradles or on props.

  In the airy reception area behind a curved wooden counter two women were busy on computers. Both wore navy trousers and polo shirts embroidered with the marina logo.

  The nearest, short and sturdy with a grey bob held off her face by a tortoiseshell band, looked up and smiled.

  ‘Hello, Jess. Keeping well are you?’

  ‘Fine thanks, Wendy. Hi, Cheryl.’

  ‘All right, Jess?’

  ‘Nic’s expecting me.’

  Wendy nodded. ‘She said you might drop by. Go on up.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Boss have been in some lather.’

  ‘I thought the men were back at work.’

  ‘They are. But the rain put everything behind, then the crime scene people was here two days.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Going spare he was. We was dreading him having another heart attack.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  Wendy shook her head. ‘Gone up the valley. You know where Nic’s office is? First door top of the stairs.’

  Reaching the landing, Jess glanced in and saw Nicola sitting at an L-shaped desk. Stacks of paperwork and several rolled plans lay alongside a computer screen and keyboard. Part of one wall was covered by a huge chart of the marina showing the pontoons and the lines of buoys all marked with different coloured pins. An index hung next to the chart. Alongside each numbered, coloured pin was a narrow, plastic sleeve with a printed name slotted into it.

  She tapped lightly on the open door. ‘Nic?’

  PA to the owner of the marina, Nicola Rowse looked up, a smile replacing her frown of concentration.

  ‘Jess. Come in.’ Her voice was low-pitched and soft. Jess wondered if it was deliberate to counter Boss’s yelling.

  Nicola had teamed navy trousers with a white shirt and lavender cashmere cardigan. A fine gold chain circled her throat.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m glad to see you. Just give me a moment to shut this down.’ She clicked several keys then stood up.

  ‘That’s a great idea.’ Jess pointed to the chart and key.

  ‘It’s quick and efficient. If someone gives up their mooring or pontoon berth, it only takes a moment to insert a new name. There’s a long waiting list.’

  ‘Bev suggested I talk to you.’

  Nic nodded. ‘But not here. Boss is up the valley with a planning officer. If he comes back and sees you, he’ll want to know why you’ve come. Then you’ll be treated to a detailed account of all that’s happened since the remains were discovered, including his opinion of everyone involved. You haven’t eaten, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll treat you to lunch.’ She led the way downstairs.

  ‘He must be relieved the builders are back working,’ Jess said as they crossed to the café.

  Raised several feet above the road it was reached by a flight of wide shallow steps opening on to a broad paved patio. Green and white umbrellas shaded wooden tables with benches attached. Floor to ceiling windows allowed patrons sitting inside to enjoy a panoramic view of the marina and estuary.

  ‘He is. But he’s still angry about new building regs putting the project behind schedule from the start. So it didn’t help when the bones were found and there was another delay while they were recovered.’

  ‘Wendy said he was in a lather. How do you cope?’

  Nicola shrugged. ‘Easily. His shouting doesn’t bother me. He knows I know it’s just his way of letting off steam. I much prefer him to yell rather
than bottle it up. He might not survive the next heart attack. I like my job and I’m fond of him.’

  Nic nodded to a waitress behind the counter and led Jess to a window table with a Reserved notice clearly displayed. Most of the other tables were occupied and the air buzzed with conversations and laughter. She gestured for Jess to take the chair against the wall, and sat opposite. Her back was toward the other patrons who would not easily be able to hear anything she said.

  ‘The coroner opened and adjourned the inquest while enquiries continue.’ She handed Jess a leather folder from the menu rack in the middle of the table, and opened another.

  A young waitress with spiky red hair, a tiny silver nose stud, and a navy bibbed apron over her jeans and polo shirt, stopped by the table, notebook and pencil poised.

  ‘’Afternoon, Ms Rowse, Mrs Trevanion. What can I get you?’

  Hungry after her walk from the village, Jess chose quickly. ‘Chicken and avocado wrap, please.’

  ‘Same for me,’ Nic said.

  ‘Chips or salad?’ the waitress asked, writing.

  Jess’s eyes met Nic’s and they spoke together. ‘Chips.’

  ‘One bowl between us.’ Nic said. ‘A drink, Jess?’

  ‘Lemonade and lime, no ice.’

  ‘Make that two, Millie.’ The waitress moved away.

  ‘You may already know some of this,’ Nicola spoke quietly, ‘but it’s easier if I start at the beginning. Boss bought the Halvanna Farm buildings and the land between them and the marina from Simon Opie, who inherited the Chenhall Estate a couple of –’

  ‘Actually, I know Mr Opie. I met him when Mor – that’s Morwenna Crocker – asked me to find her father.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Jess shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not, he’d already died. But I did find one ancestor who was a singer and theatre impresario and another who was chief engineer aboard a ship during the First World War. He tried to save the life of a Russian princess whose family had been murdered by the Bolsheviks.’

  ‘Good Lord, what amazing discoveries.’

  ‘They certainly were for Mor. She hadn’t known anything about her family background. Mr Opie’s inheritance included a café called Marigold’s in Falmouth. He asked me to see if I could find out who Marigold was. That was another fascinating story. Sorry, you were telling me about Boss’s purchase of the land and buildings.’