A Corpse In Cornwall Read online

  A Corpse in Cornwall

  (World Traveler Mysteries, book 2)

  By Carolyn L. Dean

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  A Corpse in Cornwall: A World Traveler Mystery (book 2) is copyright 2018 by Carolyn L. Dean. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

  LANGUAGE NOTE: This story is written by me, an American, and you’ll see I’ve used American spelling for most of the book. Since many of the people of Tricklebank village in Cornwall are British, please remember that their use of language and expressions may be a bit unusual if you’re not from that area. I love the way the Cornish people speak, and tried to include it as a way to appreciate them and their culture.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Carolyn L. Dean

  Chapter 1

  “Not exactly the Riviera, is it?” Gable Landon’s comment held a note of restrained contempt, and he pulled his black wool coat more tightly around him against the coastal chill. His dark eyebrows were knit together in disapproval as he scanned the vast ocean before him.

  “What are you talking about, Gable?” Jennifer said, smiling at her disgruntled boss. “I’d take this view over too much sun and too many people anytime,” she said, looking out at the jade green sea. Gray clouds scudded along overhead, laced by swooping gulls and gusts of sea breeze. A thin, dark line above the horizon foretold the possibility of an approaching storm. Standing at the top of the rocky cliff, they were able to see two fishing vessels motoring back into port, as if to escape the oncoming weather. “I’ve never been to Cornwall before, but it kind of reminds me of Ravenwood Cove.” She glanced sideways at Gable, who seemed unconvinced. “Look, you can own a house in Bruges and travel around the world on a whim, but I know where you grew up. Doesn’t this make you think of the Oregon coast, at least a little bit?”

  “Biting wind, rocky cliffs, and it looks like it’s going to rain any minute?” He gave a huff of displeasure. “Yes, it does, kind of. There are a lot of things I love about Ravenwood Cove, too, but the weather sure isn’t one of them. Give me a hot rock and a cool pool with an extensive bar, and I’m a happy camper.”

  “Well then, maybe you should only invest in properties and antiques in tropical climates. I wouldn’t mind an occasional assignment someplace it’s warm,” Jennifer suggested helpfully. “Thailand. Bermuda. Maybe Costa Rica.”

  Gable turned to look at her, humor dancing in his eyes. “Maybe I will, but right now I need you to do the legwork for me here in Cornwall. Tricklebank isn’t a very large village, but it has some interesting potential.”

  “What do you have your eye on now? Undiscovered sculpture? Fake jewels that you think are real? Some ancient church you want to convert into a singles bar?”

  The last comment came out a bit more snarky than she’d intended and she mentally winced, but Gable only chuckled.

  “You don’t know me too well yet, so I’m going to let that last comment go.” He looked out at the fishing boats, both still making a beeline for the small harbor. “It’s strictly business, just like it always is. I’m not cheating anyone, and I always give them a fair price for whatever it is I’m buying.” He paused. “Nothing personal is involved.”

  Orly, Jennifer’s little French bulldog, tugged against his leash and looked up with pleading eyes. He was a good traveler, but his short coat did nothing to keep him warm against the swirling wind and he wasn’t a big fan of being cold. He knew the car Gable had driven out to Tricklebank was warm and cozy inside, with a good heater. As soon as Jennifer saw his request, she had a very good idea what her little dog was wanting. Leaning over, she picked him up and hugged him to her chest. He gave a loud sigh of contentment and instantly started burrowing into her coat, his cold nose against her skin. Jennifer could feel Gable’s eyes on her as she shifted her grip on the little dog and wrapped him deeper in her jacket, his wagging tidbit of a tail flapping from side to side in utter happiness.

  Gable chuckled. “Well, I could use some lunch, and it looks like your dog could use some heat. How about we drive down into town and see if we can find a decent pub?”

  Jennifer gave a last heft to her dog, tucking an arm under his wiggling butt. “Sounds good to me. I still don’t have the details on this new mission you’re wanting me to do. It’s pretty hard to get ready for something if I don’t have any information, you know.”

  Pulling out the keys to the rental car, Gable handed them to Jennifer and started striding back toward the road. “Fine. You drive. I’ll give you all the info about this job you’ll need.” He paused and smiled, all teeth and charm. “And this one’s a doozy.”

  “Oh, really?” Jennifer tagged after him, intrigued. This was only her second assignment for Gable’s investment company, but she was starting to get used to his habit of keeping details secret about whatever project he was working on. He only let her know at the last minute. Her first time working for him, in Provence, had been very educational, as she learned she had to think on her feet at all times, even when things got dicey. “Sounds good to me.” She gave him a quick smile.

  “And you’re buying lunch.”

  Chapter 2

  The narrow road dropping down into the south side of Tricklebank had never been designed for speed, comfort, or modern drivers. The twisting lane had originally been used by horses and carts, so it was no surprise that in a few stretches it narrowed to a single lane, with occasional places where approaching cars could turn off and wait their turn. To be honest, the single lane and the fact that it forced drivers to slow down a bit was a relief for Jennifer, as it was her first time driving a car with the steering wheel on the right side. It took a bit of mental maneuvering to remember to stay on the left side of the narrow road when she saw another car approaching, and she was glad they’d had mostly rural roads to drive after they’d rented the car at the airport.

  As she drove toward Tricklebank, she could see the village ahead, topped by homes on the nearby cliffs. Houses and shops snuggled into the sculpted hills that surrounded the tiny harbor. Old streets stretched away from the ocean like spokes of a wheel, with everything pointing toward the bay. Tricklebank had been established centuries before, by fishermen who appreciated the safety of a protected cove big enough for a fleet of local dories and which could shelter boats when the notorious Cornish weather turned ugly. Fishing had fed families and been the village’s trade ever since its people had moved to the rocky shore centuries ago. Even now, rows of small boats bobbed in the bay, tethered by ropes and chains that stretched out from the beach.

  The main street of Tricklebank seemed to be the most level part of the village, with most of the paved areas angling away up sloping hills and narrow lanes. Looking up a side street, Jennifer could see tightly crowded old houses, with exteriors plastered by people lo
ng dead. They were set side-by-side, as if leaning on each other for support, their grey roofs lined up in neat rows. Clay tubes at their peaks served as narrow toppers for the many chimneys. Small gardens, often tucked behind stone walls, hid roses and hollyhocks, now bereft of blooms in the late season. Even though the main road was paved, many of the narrow streets still had their original cobblestones, a testament to Tricklebank’s longevity and history.

  Parking on the main street wasn’t allowed, and it took a bit of maneuvering to park in a small open lot within walking distance of the pub. Jennifer turned the ignition off with a sigh of satisfaction, glad to have made it there without accidentally driving on the wrong side of the road. Getting out and grabbing her purse, she was just about to lock the car when Gable stopped her.

  “Aren’t you going to bring Orly?”

  Jennifer looked at the forlorn little bulldog, standing on his hind legs on the car seat so he could watch his mistress leaving him behind.

  “In the pub?”

  “Sure. It’s a pub, not a bar. Orly’s well-behaved, and he’s not going to be anywhere they’re preparing the food, so I think he’ll be fine. Got a leash?”

  At Jennifer’s answering nod he opened the car door, and Orly seemed to grin with triumph as he raced out and jumped into Jennifer’s arms. She couldn’t help but laugh as she pulled his leash out of her purse and snapped it onto Orly’s leather collar.

  “I take it you’ve been in a lot of pubs before?” she commented dryly, less a question than a statement, and Gable smiled, jamming his hands in his coat pockets.

  “Maybe one or two.”

  It wasn’t far to walk back to the pub they’d passed, The Cake and Cask. The hand-carved wooden sign hanging outside showed a barrel with a large cake sitting on top, and a small chalkboard sign on the sidewalk announced that home-baked pasties were the special of the day.

  The thick wooden door they walked through may have been as old as the heavily-timbered building. Dark beams inside were low enough that Jennifer could see Gable eyeing them cautiously as they walked into the cool, quiet room. Clusters of tables surrounded by oak chairs were scattered around, and a blond dog of indeterminate parentage was snoozing next to a large stone fireplace. Two older men were hunched over a chessboard, their concentration on the game so intense they didn’t look up as the strangers walked in. A long, polished bar was in front of them, with a stout man behind it, his back to them. He was using a box knife to open a large cardboard box, and from the way he was moving it around Jennifer could tell that whatever was inside didn’t weigh much. The bartender must’ve heard the door open, because he quickly turned his head as Gable walked up to him. He seemed to do a quick scan of Gable’s expensive coat, cut in classic style, and his eyes flicked to Jennifer, then back to Gable.

  “Well now, what can I get for you?” he asked, setting the box down on the counter. “If you’re looking for a good wine cellar, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place.”

  “Pint of Guinness for me and…” Gable paused, looking at Jennifer as she maneuvered her way through the chairs and sat down at a table by the multi-paned window. Orly plopped down on the stone floor beside her, while keeping an eye on the other dog.

  “A half pint of scrumpy for the lady.”

  “Right-o. Be just a second.” The bartender set two glasses on the bar and pulled the tall tap handles towards him as he poured the dark beer, expertly capping it off with just the right amount of foam, then filled the smaller glass with golden cider. He slid it across the bar with a satisfied smile.

  “Best scrumpy for miles around. Farmer just down the way makes it. No chemicals or colors. All just pure, fermented apple juice.” He glanced at Jennifer. “Got a kick to it, ya know, so it’s a good thing you’re just having half a pint. You’ll be wanting food, then? Menus are on the table.”

  “Yes, we’d like to order lunch,” Gable said, picking up the drinks and heading for the table. He set the glass of scrumpy down in front of Jennifer and eased into his own chair, trying to avoid spilling the frothy beer and shuffling a bit to be sure he didn’t step on Orly.

  Jennifer pulled a small, plastic-coated menu out of the condiment holder in the middle of the table and looked at her drink with suspicion.

  “What’s this?”

  Gable took a deep draught of his beer, then gave a happy sigh as he wiped off the foam mustache it left. “Local hard cider. It’s called scrumpy. I think you’ll like it.”

  “So, your company is one of those where the employees get to have liquor during lunch?” she asked, scanning the menu so he wouldn’t see the teasing in her eyes.

  “Damn straight.” He took another drink. “In moderation. My company, my rules.”

  Following Gable’s example, Jennifer took a small sip of her drink. It was sweet and heady, with a strong taste of apple.

  The bartender shuffled over, order pad and short pencil in hand. “How’s the scrumpy going for you, miss?” he asked, and when he got an appreciative nod he smiled. “We’ve been making it ‘round here for hundreds of years, and Edgar Freckleton’s stuff is the best.” He glanced at Gable. “So, are you two from America? Here for your honeymoon?”

  Jennifer tried not to sputter as she nearly choked on her drink. “He’s my…friend,” she said, stammering a bit as she narrowly escaped telling the truth, that Gable was her boss.

  The bartender instantly looked contrite.

  “Oh, sorry. I saw the dog and thought you folks were a couple. Mostly we only get families coming in here with dogs.” He gestured with his pencil at the sleeping pile of fur near the fireplace, which was twitching as it dreamed of chasing rabbits. “That’s Rudy. He’s my resident watchdog, but he doesn’t mind when another one comes in. Good dog, he is. Getting so old he hardly can hear anymore, and he has trouble getting up the stairs sometimes, but he does his best.”

  Jennifer set down her menu. “Are you the owner here, sir?”

  The bartender’s smile was wide and genuine. “That I am. I’m the fourth generation to sleep above this pub and someday my boy is going to take my place, if I have anything to say about it.” He held out a beefy hand to Jennifer. “Name’s Oswald Thurston.”

  His hand was rough and strong, and Jennifer shook it gladly. “I’m Jennifer Peetman. This is…” her mind raced, trying to think how to make the usually simple introduction. If she gave Gable’s real name, it was easily searchable on the Internet, and it would be just a matter of time before someone in the village learned of Gable’s reputation as an investor who bought low and sold for profit. That could really complicate her mission and certainly impact whatever negotiations might happen over how much money would be paid.

  Her boss stuck out his hand. “I’m Bob Gable. Nice to meet you. So, how are those pasties I saw on the board outside? Got any with some meat in them or are they all full of potatoes and carrots?”

  After two beef pasties were ordered and Oswald went back to the kitchen to get their lunch, Gable leaned across the table.

  “Well, that was a near miss. I didn’t hire you to have to think on your feet, Jennifer. I hired you to have your cover story and your answers all lined up, so you could at least respond to a simple conversation.” He took another sip of his beer, his dark eyes looking across the table, waiting.

  Feeling the hot flush of embarrassment on her face, Jennifer tried to keep her voice steady. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I should’ve been more prepared. It won’t happen again.”

  They sat in strained silence for several minutes, each sipping their drink and occasionally looking around the at the old hunting prints on the walls or the row of different mugs stashed on a long wooden shelf behind the bar. Finally, Jennifer cleared her throat.

  “So, tell me about the mission,” she said quietly. “Is it here in Tricklebank?”

  A small smile played around Gable’s lips. “Yes. I’ve got a file for you in the car. There’s a big manor house in a prime location just outside the village. It
’s got an incredible view and plenty of land, and would be an amazing spot to develop, but it would need a lot of work. It’s been neglected for years. The preliminary report on it was nearly useless because the owner is an absolute recluse with no servants. It’s been nearly impossible to get good information or to assess how much damage there is inside the house. I’m not sure how much to offer, or what it’s worth.” He looked around. “I need some idea of what the circumstances are, and if there’s any way to get leverage for the best deal.”

  Jennifer nodded, mentally filing away every word Gable told her. “Where is it?”

  “Just north of here, overlooking the ocean. It’s called Mantlewood Manor. It’s got some great history, but only one member of the family is left and I’d like to snap it up before some other investor gets wind of it.” He leaned back and stretched out his legs, earning a sharp yip of disapproval from Orly. “Sorry, buddy,” he apologized, leaning over to pet the disgruntled dog. “Didn’t mean to push you.”

  Oswald bustled over to the table, two loaded stoneware plates in hand, and slid them onto the table. “There ya go. I made ‘em myself. Pasties a la Oswald. The Cake and Cask has been using the same recipe for decades. I hope you enjoy them.”

  The golden crust of the pasties smelled amazing, and Jennifer suddenly realized how hungry she was. “I’m sure they’ll be delicious.”

  As the bartender walked away, Jennifer caught Gable looking at his lunch with resignation on his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed. “You know, I love all the travel I do, and getting to try foods from all over the world, but sometimes all I want is to be back in Oregon. Some days all I want is just barbequed steaks from the family ranch or a big Dungeness crab.”

  Not knowing what to say, Jennifer picked up her pasty and took a bite. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who was sometimes homesick for Ravenwood Cove.

  ***