Fallen Hero - A Polvellan Cornish Mystery Read online

  ‘That was generous of him.’

  ‘He’s no fool,’ Tom said. ‘He knew that with their own boats safe and food in their bellies, every fisherman and yard worker would stay and help.’

  ‘Shall I come back with you?’

  ‘Sure you’ve got time?’

  ‘I have for this.’

  ‘Wendy and Cheryl will be glad of the help.’

  Gerry Eustice finished packing a box with milk, teabags, coffee, tinned soup, and several sliced loaves. ‘Tell Nicola if she need anything else, just ring through.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry.’ Tom picked it up.

  Jess followed with a second box containing tubs of spread, packs of bacon and cheese, bags of tomatoes, and cartons of eggs. Placing them on the back seat they set off back to the marina.

  ‘Did you get any sleep at all?’ she asked.

  ‘A couple of hours on the sofa. The wind woke me. Screaming it was. I knew then they’d need help at the marina.’

  ‘Any trees down?’

  ‘A couple, but they had blown over into the field. The root plates left big craters, but the road was clear. Boss stayed until six then Nic sent him home. She told him he’d had one heart attack. He’d be in the way if he had another.’

  Jess laughed. ‘She’s brave.’

  ‘Nah. We all call him “Boss” but she runs the place and everyone knows it, including him.’

  They drove over mounds of seaweed and shingle tossed onto the road by the waves. Within the sheltering arm of the quay splintered wood, marker buoys, broken pieces of painted fibreglass and plastic bobbed on the restless water. The wind had begun to ease but the sea was grey, lumpy, and streaked with foam. More debris floated beyond the quay and outer pontoons on the ebbing tide.

  Tom swung the pickup into the car park behind the café. As Jess got out, the chill wind cut through her jacket and she felt the vibration through her feet as waves crashed onto the stony beach on the far side of the quay.

  Carrying the boxes they walked up the gritty steps to the patio. Someone held the café door and they walked into a warm fug of wet wool, toast, coffee, and soup. Exhausted, unshaven men wearing oilskin trousers, canvas smocks, and thick guernsey sweaters sat round the tables. Their waterproof jackets were slung over the backs of their chairs or simply dropped on the floor.

  Nicola Rowse, Boss’s secretary, not a hair of her shiny conker-brown bob out of place, stood behind the counter. Smart in black trousers and emerald cashmere sweater over a crisp white shirt, she was pouring tea and coffee into large pale blue cups. Seeing Tom, Jess, and their boxes she smiled and mouthed ‘Thanks,’ as they passed through the propped-open door to the kitchen.

  A stout middle-aged woman with grey hair and silver-framed glasses added two more cheese, pickle, and tomato sandwiches onto the stack on a large plate. ‘Nic,’ she shouted without looking up, ‘we’re out of bread.’

  ‘No you aren’t,’ Tom said behind her. She spun round with a start then beamed as he set the box on the worktop and began unloading it.

  ‘Hello, my lover. You’re a welcome sight. Here, I’ll do that, you take this through.’ She thrust the plate at him.

  Jess grabbed the packs of bacon and crossed to a young woman swathed in a white chef’s apron. She was stirring a huge pan of tomato and vegetable soup.

  ‘Are you Cheryl? Hi, I’m Jess.’ She reached for the large skillet at the back of the hob. ‘Bacon sarnies?’

  ‘Brilliant. I wouldn’t mind one myself. I’m usually in the office and that can get busy. But this has been manic.’

  ‘Were any local boats lost?’

  ‘A couple of tenders were crushed when one of the pontoons started breaking up. But the men had already moved the two big motor launches from the north arm.’

  Tom stayed on until two that afternoon helping clear the beach and marina of debris that filled two large skips with another pile alongside. Yard workers had already begun repairing the damaged pontoon.

  ‘I’m off now,’ he told Jess. ‘I want to repair the fence before dark. You coming?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay a bit longer. Come for supper on Saturday? Bring Chris if he’s with you.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Boy’s back at his mother’s for the weekend. He’s been talking Doug’s ear off all week about this band he and his mates are going to see at The Wheelhouse. Doug knows the landlord and says he won’t stand for drugs or underage drinking. Anyone caught dealing is banned for life. The pub is attracting good groups so the lads won’t want to miss out.’

  Jess patted his arm. ‘Chris will be fine. You said yourself he’s grown up a lot this past few weeks.’

  ‘He has. But …’

  ‘You still can’t help worrying.’

  ‘Daft, I know.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I’ve been there.’

  ‘And you had two. Anyhow, it’ll just be me.’

  ‘It’ll just be a potluck, nothing fancy,’ she warned.

  ‘If you’re cooking, it’ll be ’andsome. What time?

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Looking forward to it already.’ He raised his hand in farewell and left.

  Jess stayed until nearly four helping clean up the kitchen while Wendy put away all the crockery. Cheryl looked up from washing the tiled floor.

  ‘Jess, could you stack the café tables so I can do that floor as well? There’s as much sand and mud on they tiles as on the beach.’

  Carrying a bowl of hot soapy water and a dishcloth into the café, Jess saw Nicola sitting at a table, both hands cradling a coffee cup, her gaze unfocused. Despite having been there nearly fifteen hours she still looked immaculate.

  ‘You must be shattered.’ Jess wrung out the cloth and started wiping tables.

  As Nicola looked up, Jess saw exhaustion in her pallor. ‘I should think everyone is. We were lucky. It could have been far worse.’

  ‘Tom said the same.’ Jess moved to the next table. ‘How’s Bev? Did she get the promotion?’

  Nicola shook her head. ‘No. She’s taken it really well, but I’m angry on her behalf. She could run rings around the two DIs she was up against.’ She pushed her cup away.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nic. It must be really frustrating.’ Jess dropped the cloth in the bowl, turned the table on its side, folded the legs, and propped it against the back wall.

  ‘It’s worse for Bev. But we knew the risks in being upfront about our relationship. Still, just like this,’ she gestured towards the marina, ‘it could be worse.’

  As Cheryl appeared with bucket and squeegee mop, Nicola stood up. ‘I’ll get out of your way. Thanks for coming down, Jess. We really appreciate it. Can I give you a lift home?’

  ‘No, you go on. I’ll hitch a ride back when I’ve finished.’

  Arf dropped her at the garden gate. Once inside she built up the fire, stripped off clothes that smelled of soup and hot fat and put them in the washing machine, then wallowed for twenty minutes in a bath with scented bubbles.

  Putting on comfy tracksuit bottoms and a soft pink sweatshirt she went downstairs, switched on her laptop and was delighted to find the certificate she had requested had arrived.

  Trevor Ludlow’s last ship was the tramp steamer Stella. Built in 1899 at a yard in Middlesbrough, she had worked all over the world and changed hands several times. By 1914 the Stella was under the ownership of Thos. James & Co of Newcastle.

  Interrupted by a knock, Jess sighed. But when she opened the door and saw Morwenna, her irritation dissolved.

  ‘Come in, Mor. Cup of tea?’

  ‘Sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘’Course I don’t mind. I’m happy to see you. Take off your coat and sit down.’ Crossing to the kitchen area Jess switched on the kettle and lifted down cups and saucers from the dresser. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m all right.’ Morwenna sounded surprised. She laid her coat over the back of the sofa and sat down. ‘I expected – well, I don’t know what I expected really. I thought being by myself would feel stran
ge. But I’d had a taste of it when Mother was in hospital with her ankle. Then when she came home and I couldn’t do nothing to please her, I wished sometimes she was back in there. Now I feel bad –’

  ‘Stop it, Mor. Don’t you dare start blaming yourself.’

  ‘But maybe if I had –’

  ‘Listen, if it wasn’t for you looking after her so well, she might have gone a lot sooner.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Annie does, and she was a nurse.’ Privately, Jess thought that if Brenda Crocker had eaten less and moved about more she might have lived another ten years. What would Morwenna’s life have been like then? ‘So, are you getting used to having the place to yourself?

  Morwenna nodded and a rosy bloom stained her cheeks. ‘Ben comes by most evenings to make sure I’m all right. Did you know we used to go out?’

  Jess glanced up from pouring tea. ‘You and Ben? No, I didn’t.’

  ‘No reason why you should. You was married and living over Truro by then. I was twenty-two. But it didn’t last. Mother had to go in hospital and Granny and Grampy needed me. Then Ben married Michele Thomas.’

  Jess couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘Ben was married?’

  ‘It only lasted two years. She ran off with someone from work and Ben moved back home. He helped his father look after his mother till she died. Now he’s looking after Percy.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have picked up your friendship again?’

  ‘I would have. But … He’ve always been shy. Then her leaving him – hurt him dreadful that did. I don’t know what she wanted. Ben’s a good man. He’ve got a heart of gold. I should never have given him up. But Mother … Still, that’s all water under the bridge now.’

  Jess set the cups on the low table and went back for the plate of fruit cake. ‘Which of you joined the choir first?’

  ‘He did. I think Percy got him into it. ’Course, back then it was men only. But after that trouble with the Ladies’ Choir I didn’t want to sing with them no more. So I went and asked Henry if he wanted a soprano soloist. First off he said no. Then he said he’d have to think about it. So I told’n I’d ask every month until he said yes.’

  Jess looked at the plump, mousy woman next to her and wondered at the courage that must have taken.

  ‘Four months later he rang me at work and told me to come down to choir practice and do an audition. I never been so scared in all my life.’

  ‘But you went.’

  ‘’Course I did. I love singing. I started in school, then at chapel. After Ben –’

  In the flicker of pain caused by a nearly thirty-year-old memory, Jess saw Morwenna’s character, and her courage. She hadn’t whined or grown bitter like her mother. She had simply got on with her life.

  ‘Then when Mother got worse, singing took me away for a few hours. There was practice on a Wednesday, then maybe a concert or a competition on a Saturday or Sunday.

  ‘Anyhow, I went down ten minutes early so I’d have time to settle. Mother had kicked up awful about me going. She said I had no business singing with the men. Not that they would want me. I’d be better staying home and save making a fool of myself.’

  She took a mouthful of tea. Jess bit her tongue. Brenda Crocker was dead, and Mor was finally free of her mother’s bitterness and jealousy.

  ‘I just kept quiet. There’s no point saying anything when she got one on her. But I told myself that if they didn’t want me it wouldn’t be because I hadn’t done my best.’

  ‘What happened?’ Jess fought guilt, realising she had always thought Morwenna a bit of a wimp. Yet she had found the courage to defy her bullying mother and risk further rejection because she loved to sing.

  ‘I sang two pieces with the choir and two solos. Then Henry sent me into the kitchen and told me to close the door while they voted. There’s twenty in the choir and Ben told me later only one man objected. He said he came to get away from women and if I was taken on he would leave. So Henry said they’d be sorry to see him go and why didn’t he apply to Treverva.’

  ‘Good for Henry.’ Jess raised her cup in salute.

  ‘Anyhow, when Henry came to get me, they all clapped.’ Morwenna’s eyes shone at the memory. ‘Ben gave me a lovely smile. That’s when I thought that maybe – Still, never mind that. You’re busy and I’m taking up your time.’

  ‘Mor, I wouldn’t have missed it. You’ve told me things I never knew. I think you’re remarkable.’

  Blushing deep pink, Morwenna flapped a hand. ‘Get on.’

  ‘I mean it. But that wasn’t why you came.’

  ‘No. You remember I found that big envelope but he was all sealed up? Well, I opened it thinking Mother’s will might be in there.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘No, but Grampy’s was. Here.’ Turning, she pulled the thick folded paper out of her pocket and offered it to Jess. ‘You read that.’

  Jess quickly scanned the page then read it again slowly. Drawn up by firm of Falmouth solicitors with an address in Market Street, the last will and testament of Harold Walter Crocker was brief.

  ‘I bequeath No.2 Orchard cottages, the property inherited from my father, Walter Josiah Crocker, to my only grandchild, Morwenna Crocker. Good Lord.’ Jess looked at Morwenna who was watching her. ‘The cottage has been yours since he died. Your mother didn’t tell you?’

  Morwenna shook her head. ‘Not one word.’ Her cup trembled as she raised it to her lips.

  Jess knew how Morwenna would have felt when she read the document. Disbelief would have been followed by an icy wave of shock as she realised that the person she was closest to, the one person she should have been able to trust, had lied to her. Yes, Jess knew exactly how that felt.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why you can’t find a will for your mother. The cottage is yours anyway so she may not have bothered with one.’

  ‘What should I do now?’

  Jess glanced at the paper again. ‘Ring this firm Wright & Hendry and make an appointment to see whoever handles wills and probate. They’ll talk you through everything.’

  ‘Will you come with me? You been through it so you know all the right questions.’

  Refusal trembled on the tip of Jess’s tongue.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t ask. But Ben’s working and I haven’t got no one else.’ She made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. ‘You’ll think I’m mad. I know Mother’s gone. But all yesterday I kept expecting to hear her shouting at me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Fred and me took her bed apart and carried the frame back upstairs. He said I should get a new mattress. So we put the old one in his van to take out to the dump. When I went in I was going to put everything back like it was before Mother went off her legs. But with the bed gone the room looked bigger. And that pretty yellow make it seem sunny even when ’tis raining. So I changed everything round.’

  Morwenna’s chin lifted and Jess realised she was expecting criticism. Of course she was. It was all she had known. But Brenda’s death had released Morwenna. Her spirit, crushed but never broken, was already reasserting itself.

  ‘Good for you, Mor! Of course I’ll go with you. Which day are you free?’

  ‘The undertaker’s coming at nine in the morning, so any time after half past ten. I’ve got next week off. I had to take it out of my holiday. But I don’t mind. I’ve started turning out drawers and cupboards, giving the place a proper clean. It haven’t been done for years. I never had time. Now I should leave you get on.’

  Jess handed back the paper. ‘Before you go, I’ve some news about your father.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mor. I’m afraid he died after a road accident while you were still a child.’

  ‘Oh. Oh well,’ Morwenna shrugged. ‘He prob’ly wouldn’t have wanted to meet me anyway.’

  ‘That would have been his loss. Would you like to hear what I’ve found out about your grandfather?’

  Morwenna’s face lit up. ‘You’ve found more? I d
idn’t think you’d have had time. Dear life, you been some busy.’

  ‘It’s so interesting. I start following leads and before I know it hours have passed.’ Jess crossed to the table and unrolled the family tree she had begun. Morwenna followed.

  ‘Your father’s father, Howard Ludlow, was born in 1914. He worked at the docks in South Shields, that’s in the north-east, County Durham. Dockworkers were one of the reserved occupations during the war. But in any case he wouldn’t have been called up.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘A loading strap snapped and a crate fell on his foot and crushed it. I’ve photocopied a newspaper article that reported the accident. It says the dock company paid his hospital bills without admitting liability. As this was before the NHS I think he’d have been more worried about the money than whose fault it was. When he went back to work he was sent to Southampton.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘During the war, dockworkers had to go wherever they were needed. There’s another article that mentions him as a member of a fire-fighting party who rescued the crew of a ship hit by a bomb. The dockworkers used to do their shift during the day then help the fire-service at night after air-raids.’

  ‘Dear life!’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘There is?’

  Jess nodded. ‘Howard’s father, Trevor Ludlow, was an engineer in the Merchant Navy. He married Rose Wynn-Evans in 1913. As soon as I read that name I knew I’d seen it recently. But I can’t remember … never mind. Trevor’s marriage certificate gave Rose’s father’s name as Iestyn Wynn-Evans, and his occupation as “impresario and singer”.’

  ‘Never!’ Morwenna’s cheeks flushed and her eyes shone.

  Jess nodded. ‘I’ve ordered a copy of the certificate for your file. But even better than that, I went on to a newspaper archive site and found several articles and some copies of playbills advertising musical entertainments by his company. Iestyn was an operatic tenor and his wife, Violet, Rose’s mother, was also a member of the company.