Into the Thinnest of Air Read online

  ‘That’s just panic, caused by wild areas and open spaces,’ I said. ‘A well-known phenomenon. It used to be put down to the presence of Pan, the god of wild places. It’s where we get the word panic from. Anything else?’

  ‘Elliot Tyrone was hanged from a tree right outside his inn,’ said Penny. ‘The tree stood there for centuries, until it was finally uprooted by a really vicious storm. But local people have sworn they’ve seen the tree still standing in place, outside the inn, on certain nights when the moon is full. And sometimes … Tyrone is still hanging from the branches!’

  ‘Does he ever get down from the tree and take a walk around?’ I said. ‘Any sightings of Tyrone or any of his victims inside the inn?’

  Penny looked at me. ‘Don’t tease me. I know you don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘And this is the place you want us to go to for a perfectly normal weekend?’ I said.

  Penny sniffed. ‘I just thought you might find it interesting.’

  ‘I do,’ I said quickly. ‘Do the new owners know about Tyrone?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Penny. ‘The Calverts have their own website giving all the details. I think they plan to make a feature of it to draw in the tourists.’

  ‘Is that why you want me to go with you?’ I said. ‘Because you think there might be something to these stories?’

  ‘No!’ Penny said firmly. ‘I just want us to have a nice weekend away together.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We can do that.’

  TWO

  A Celebration of Murder

  Black Rock Towen turned out to be neither dark nor noticeably ominous. Evening was only starting to fall over the pleasant Cornish town as I steered the hired car through narrow and occasionally cobbled streets, past the usual quaint cottages and brightly-coloured gift shops, and handwritten signs beguiling passers-by with the promise of home-made cream teas. Typical tourist trap, really. Old-fashioned street lights were just coming on, their honey-yellow illumination shedding a pleasant glow across the scene. It was like driving through the picture on the lid of a box containing a childhood jigsaw puzzle. There weren’t many people about, either because it was late or because it was late in the season and the tourists had come and gone. It all seemed very calm and very peaceful. I decided not to trust any of it, just on general principles.

  I drove carefully through the small town and out the other side, then followed the single narrow road that led to the cliffs. And hopefully to Tyrone’s Castle. A signpost pointed the way to the cliffs, but didn’t mention the inn. The road went on for quite some time, until the town had completely disappeared in the rear-view mirror. Heavy woods crowded right up to the edge of the road on both sides, the tall thickset trees packed close together, their heavy branches leaning out over the road to form a dark green tunnel. I had to turn on the car’s headlights just to see where I was going.

  It felt as though we were leaving civilization behind and travelling on into a darker and more primitive place.

  ‘We’re already more than a mile outside the town,’ I said to Penny. ‘And there’s still no sign of the inn. In fact, we’re so far out of town we’re probably more than half way to somewhere else. Why build an inn so far out of town in the first place?’

  ‘Because it was built, owned and run by the local smuggling fraternity,’ Penny said patiently. ‘And they didn’t want anyone around while they were working.’

  ‘Then why use an inn?’

  ‘Because it probably made for the perfect cover the rest of the time,’ said Penny. ‘Besides, it’s traditional. I think there might even be an old law or custom, or something.’

  ‘Still, seems like a hell of a long way for the locals to go for a drink,’ I said. ‘Not much in the way of transport back then, I would have thought. And this road looks like it would have made for a really spooky walk back in the dark after you’ve had a few.’

  ‘On the other hand, since the owners were smugglers you can bet the Castle had the best booze for miles around.’

  ‘Good point,’ I conceded. ‘Why are you scowling?’

  ‘I really don’t like this car,’ said Penny. ‘It’s bland, characterless, and smells like something died on the back seat. Recently.’

  ‘It’s a hire car,’ I said patiently. ‘It goes. Be thankful for that. Of course, you could have driven us down here in one of your prized vintage cars if you hadn’t written the last one off by driving it head on into a telegraph pole.’

  ‘It was just a bump.’

  ‘The whole front of the car was concertinaed, and the telegraph pole was left hanging in three pieces …’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault! The pole jumped out into the road, right in front of me.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Something must have frightened it.’

  And then I had to stamp on the brakes hard, as the narrow road suddenly fell away, along with the woods. The Castle’s car park lay straight ahead, and beyond that there was nothing but the cliff’s edge. I brought the hire car skidding to a halt, spraying gravel in all directions, then let out my breath in a long aggrieved sigh. I looked out of the side window, and saw a small sign saying WARNING! CLIFFS AHEAD.

  ‘Presumably the locals know when to stop and don’t care about anyone else?’ I said.

  ‘A local inn for local people,’ said Penny.

  ‘Bastards, the lot of them!’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  We got out of the car and looked around. Tyrone’s Castle looked exactly like the image Penny had called up on her laptop. A basic stone structure, square and blocky, under a slanting tiled roof. An effort had been made to soften the image by covering the pitted stone walls with half-timbering, but the Castle still looked more like a fortress than an inn. Built to keep the Revenue Men out rather than welcome customers in. The windows were old-fashioned leaded glass, heavy and impenetrable, but the bright light shining out seemed cheerful enough.

  Three more vehicles were already parked outside the inn, set close together. None of them looked particularly stylish or interesting, just standard country runabouts. I started towards the inn, and then stopped as I stumbled over a raised concrete patch in the ground. I looked down at what turned out to be a commemorative plaque. It was pretty basic, just a raised concrete square with a blunt inscribed message: THE TYRONE HANGING TREE STOOD HERE. No date, no details. The dull-grey plaque didn’t look like it had been cleaned, or even had any attention paid to it, for quite some time.

  ‘It must have been put in place after the tree was uprooted by the storm,’ said Penny. ‘Not exactly decorative, is it?’

  ‘A question occurs to me,’ I said. ‘Why was there only one tree outside the inn? Heavy woods lined the road all the way here, but they stopped short when the road ended. So presumably all the other trees were cleared away, apart from this one. Why would the smugglers leave only the one tree standing?’

  ‘For the look of it?’ said Penny. ‘You don’t always have to overthink things, Ishmael. Just because you have a naturally suspicious and paranoid mind.’

  ‘And why put a plaque here?’ I said. ‘It’s not flashy enough to be for the tourists, and the locals wouldn’t need reminding.’

  ‘If we were to go inside, into the nice warm pub and out of this freezing cold wind, we could probably ask someone,’ said Penny, just a bit pointedly.

  I looked at the cliff edge, no more than twenty feet away, and strode straight for it, ignoring the inn. I heard Penny sigh heavily and then follow reluctantly after me. The edge of the cliff was just bare stone, discoloured with age and cracked and crumbling. I came to a halt with the toes of my shoes protruding over the edge and looked out. The ocean looked back; cold and vast, its grey waters churned heavily under a grim grey sky, with just a few gulls wheeling slowly in the distance. There wasn’t a ship or a sailing boat to be seen anywhere, nothing at all moving on the surface of the waters. Just the ocean, implacable and unknowable, stretching away until it finally met the sky at the horizon. A cold
wind came gusting in off the sea, and I could taste salt on my lips. Penny moved in beside me and clutched firmly at my arm.

  ‘Do you really need to stand this close to the edge, darling? Only this stone doesn’t feel at all solid or reliable, and it really is an awfully long way down.’

  ‘Heights don’t bother me,’ I said. ‘I’ve never understood why heights bother anyone.’

  ‘That’s because you’re an alien,’ said Penny, maintaining her deathlike grip on my arm. Though whether to steady me or reassure herself wasn’t clear. She glared out over the ocean, as the wind interfered with her carefully sculpted hair. ‘What are you looking for, Ishmael?’

  ‘Just trying to get a feel for the place,’ I said. ‘This is a really desolate spot. Not the kind of place that attracts tourists, either then or now. And look at those gulls … why are they so far away from land? Is there something about this location that upsets them, that drives them away?’

  ‘Stop looking for mysteries!’ said Penny. ‘We’re not here for that. We are on a weekend break, like any other normal couple. So act normal!’

  I looked down at the narrow beach, far below. More pebbles than sand, and a hell of a lot of seaweed. Nothing to make your average tourist want to buy a bucket and spade or set up a deck chair.

  ‘That must be where the smugglers landed their goods in the old days,’ I said. ‘But how did they get them off the beach and all the way up here to the inn? These are really steep cliffs.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Penny. ‘Hidden caves and tunnels, presumably? Or maybe there’s a hidden stairway cut into the stone, just out of view. What does it matter? Please let’s go into the Castle. This wind is blowing straight from the Arctic circle and freezing the eggs in my ovaries.’

  ‘It’s not cold,’ I said. ‘It’s bracing. Smell that ozone.’

  ‘You do know I could push you off this cliff edge and no one would ever convict me?’

  ‘I think we should go inside,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why you keep putting it off.’

  We stepped back from the edge and headed for Tyrone’s Castle, still comfortably arm in arm. The inn didn’t get any more attractive the closer we got.

  ‘Who else is going to be at this special meal?’ I said.

  Penny fished in her pocket, pulled out her letter of invitation and refreshed her memory. She’s never been good with names.

  ‘Says here … Jimmy Webb, reporter from the local paper. Thomas Moore, the local vicar, along with his wife Eileen. And Valerie Butler, who’s writing a book about Elliot Tyrone.’ She put the letter away. ‘And our hosts, of course. Albert and Olivia Calvert.’

  ‘A reporter and an author?’ I said. ‘You know I can’t afford to appear in any kind of publicity.’

  Penny squeezed my arm reassuringly against her side. ‘They’re here to write about the evening, not you. Forget the suspicions – we’re not here on a mission, and there’s no mystery to solve. We’re just a normal couple out for a normal evening together.’

  ‘We’re not really a normal couple.’

  ‘Then fake it,’ said Penny. ‘We’re here for the meal. Nothing else.’

  ‘A free meal,’ I said. ‘Always the best kind.’

  ‘We’re here to enjoy ourselves,’ said Penny. ‘You can do that, can’t you?’

  ‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘For you.’

  There was only the one door to the inn, with no obvious bell or knocker, so I opened it and we walked straight in. A pleasant blast of warm air hit me in the face, along with heavy cooking smells. The bright light was particularly welcome after the increasingly grey day outside. The Castle’s interior was so small there was no entrance hall. Just by walking in we’d already entered the main dining room. It was all one big open area, with a half-timbered ceiling and rough plastered walls divided into sections by thin wooden slats. There were polished floorboards, old-fashioned furniture and fittings, and horses brasses and animal-head trophies set out apparently at random. Along with a few faded black-and-white photographs and some old framed prints. Not a modern touch anywhere, apart from the efficient-looking bar tucked away at the far end of the room. Everything about the place said ‘Olde worlde and proud of it’. The room felt warm and cosy, comfortable and inviting. In a rather calculated way.

  The Castle might have started out as an inn, but it was now very definitely a restaurant. A dozen tables took up most of the floor, covered with gleaming white cloths. The chairs had all been carefully set in place, and there were extravagant floral displays and large unlit candles on every table. The Castle had the feel of a place where you ordered only the very best wines to complement your meal; and heaven help you if you ordered red wine with the fish.

  Four people were staring coldly at Penny and me from the safety of their central table. They’d all stopped talking the moment we entered the room, and their faces were full of that ‘We’re local, we belong here and you don’t’ look common to all small town pubs. None of them said anything, even to challenge our right to be there. We were strangers – it was up to us to justify our intrusion.

  ‘Are you sure we’re invited?’ I said quietly to Penny.

  ‘We’re invited,’ Penny said firmly. ‘Don’t let them intimidate you.’

  ‘Trust me,’ I said, ‘that was never on the cards.’

  A side door to our left opened suddenly, and a fussy-looking man of barely medium height came bustling out. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw us, and looked like he was about to say this was a private affair so we’d have to leave. In a really snotty voice. And then he looked more closely at Penny and his whole attitude changed. He hurried forward, smiling all over his face, positively bristling with nervous energy and professional bonhomie. He was smartly if casually dressed, well into his forties, and almost entirely bald. His face was smooth and shiny, his eyes were a faded blue, and his innkeeper’s smile didn’t waver once. Perhaps only I would have noticed that it didn’t even come close to touching his eyes.

  I really didn’t like the way he was looking at Penny. As though the main course for dinner had just arrived.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’ he said, loudly and chummily. ‘Albert Calvert at your service! Welcome to our special night, here at Tyrone’s Castle. So glad you could make it, Penny. It has been a long time since we last saw each other, hasn’t it? But I recognized you immediately!’

  And then he looked pointedly at me. He was obviously surprised to see me, though he’d done his best to hide it. He’d been expecting Penny to turn up on her own.

  ‘This is my partner, Ishmael Jones,’ said Penny. ‘You didn’t actually say plus one on the invitation, but I didn’t think you’d mind …’

  ‘No! No, of course not!’ Albert made a point of shaking both our hands, in a determinedly hearty manner. He turned away from me as soon as he decently could, so he could give his full attention to Penny. But not before I’d caught a rather odd look on his face. Albert had looked me over as though trying to work out whether I was going to be trouble. And if I was, whether he could handle me. I’d seen that look before, on the faces of people with good reason to be cautious of me. But I hadn’t expected to encounter it in a small country pub. Albert saw me as a potential threat … and I had to wonder, threat to what? Penny had inherited quite a lot of money after her father’s death. Did Albert hope to get his hands on some of it? Or was I just being paranoid and reading too much into one look?

  No. I decided I’d keep a close eye on Albert Calvert.

  He took my coat and Penny’s, chatting cheerfully all the while about the length of our journey and how pleased he was we’d found the inn all right, and then hung our coats on an old-fashioned wooden coat stand by the door. It was almost buried under the coats of the four other guests, and he had to struggle to get our coats to stay put. Then he turned back and hit Penny and me with his professional smile again, rubbing his hands together briskly.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me for a while, the wife and I are busy putting the
finishing touches to the first course. You go and sit down with the others and make friends, and we’ll join you soon. Lovely to have you here, Penny! We have so much to talk about. It just wouldn’t have been the same without you here!’

  He hurried back through the side door. Pleasant cooking smells burst out into the room and were as quickly shut off, confirming that the side door gave on to the kitchen. Penny smiled at me.

  ‘Something smelled good.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Roast beef, dumplings and assorted vegetables, plus herbs and spices, and rather more pepper than I would have thought necessary.’

  Penny looked at me. ‘You got all that from one brief smell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t show me up in front of the others,’ growled Penny. ‘We are being normal this evening. Remember?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

  We strolled casually over to join the waiting guests, arm in arm again, to present a unified front in the face of possible enemies. The two men and two women were already on their feet, waiting to greet us. They all had welcoming smiles now Albert had vouched for us, but I could sense the strain in some of them. I nodded easily to everyone.

  ‘Hi. I’m Ishmael Jones, and this is Penny Belcourt.’

  There was a quick rush of greetings, followed by a flurry of handshakes, and then we sat down together. I couldn’t help noticing that all four guests had frozen, just for a moment, when they heard Penny’s name. They didn’t look surprised – they’d clearly been expecting her – but something about the name had touched a nerve in each of them. And just as clearly, like Albert, they hadn’t been expecting anyone to accompany her. When they looked at me, it was with open curiosity. Penny noticed their reaction, and gave them all her best dazzling smile. Which was her way of going on the offensive.

  ‘What a delightful old inn!’ she said sweetly. ‘It’s all so marvellously in period. Albert and Olivia are old friends of my father, Walter Belcourt. Did you know him?’