Fothergill nodded. “Until now I’ve spent most of my days closer to the cliffs. I’m gradually working my way to the estuary and plan to move slowly upriver. Actually,” he continued, “I’m glad to have run into you-you both know the area so well. I’m also something of a student of architecture, and I wondered what the best places to visit hereabouts were?”
“Restormel Castle,” Penny answered without hesitation. “Its ruins are not to be missed if only for their history, but its structure is informative and there’s quite a bit left to see. After that…” She glanced at Charles.
“The Abbey-Restormel Abbey, my house-is across the river from the castle. Filchett, my butler, will be happy to show you around. He knows the history as well as I do, and the architecture rather better.”
“And you can always stop in at Wallingham Hall,” Penny said. “I’m sure Lord Arbry won’t mind. There’s a very fine Adam fireplace in the drawing room, and the music room is considered notable.” She paused, then added, “Looe House is the other house of architectural note, but you’ll need to ride to reach it-it’s on the road to Polperro, but the owners, the Richardses, are always happy to show people with an interest around.”
“Thank you!” Fothergill beamed at them, his expression open, his gaze equally so. “You’ve been a great help.”
Domino sidled. Charles tightened his reins. “I’m afraid we must leave you-we have an appointment in Fowey.”
“Yes.” Penny sobered. “And we’ll have to walk to the chapel by the cemetery-it’s the funeral of that poor young fisherman who was murdered.”
“Oh?” Fothergill looked blank. “Did you know him, then?”
“No,” Charles said, swinging Domino down the lane. “We’re attending as representatives of the local families.”
“Ah.” Fothergill nodded. “Of course.”
He saluted them; they both nodded in reply and rode on.
Penny would have liked to discuss Fothergill, but Charles set a pace that precluded conversation. She let her thoughts spin and rode beside him. They went straight to the Pelican, left the horses there, then walked briskly along the High Street. Rather than descend to the quays, then climb up the opposite hill, they followed the High Street along the ridge and out onto the cliff in the lee of which Fowey huddled.
The cemetery was built on the highest and last stretch of land before the cliff fell away to the rocks against which the Channel’s waves broke. Today, the waves sent up a murmurous chant, a dirge for a fisherman lost.
They reached the small chapel beside the cemetery; Charles took her elbow and ushered her in. They were just in time. The plain wooden coffin stood on bare trestles before the stone altar. Someone had placed a spray of white lilies on the unpolished wood. There were few there to hear the short service, few who had known Gimby at all, but there were some “mourners.” All were known to Charles and Penny; all were inhabitants of Fowey.
Together with the rest, they followed the coffin to the graveside and watched it lowered into the earth. Each person threw a handful of soil upon the lid, then one and all, exchanging nods and glances, turned away and left the gravediggers to their task.
Charles paused to speak to the vicar, then joined Penny where she waited with Mother Gibbs, both hanging on to their hats as the wind, brisker here on the point, tried to whisk them from their heads.
Mother Gibbs bobbed a curtsy as Charles came up.
He took Penny’s arm, and the three of them started back to the town. “Have you heard anything?”
“Wish I could say I have, but nay-there’s nary a whisper, and you may be sure I’ve put the word out good and proper.”
“Any advance on Arbry or Granville, or any related subjects?”
Pursing her lips, Mother Gibbs shook her head. “All quiet, it’s been.”
They turned onto the steep path that led down to the harbor; soon they were in the lee of the cliff, out of the wind.
Charles went on, “What about men passing through-gypsies, tinkers, vagabonds, men looking for work?”
“Wrong time of year for most such, but there was a tinker family came through. Near as me and the boys could work out, though, they was camped here, by Fowey town, days before poor Gimby met his end, and though they did head off just before he was found, they said they was heading to St. Austell. Dennis checked with the fishermen thereabouts, and the tinkers did appear there just when you’d expect, so they couldn’t’ve spared time to head the other way and murder Gimby, least not any ways we can see.”
“Thank you.” Charles fished in his pocket and drew out a sovereign; he offered it, but Mother Gibbs shook her head.
“Nay, not for this.” She fluffed her knitted shawl about her old shoulders and looked down at the fleet, bobbing at the quay. “Me and the boys don’t hold with this-Gimby might’ve been a blessed hermit, but he was one of ours. Whatever we can do to help you catch the beggar who killed him, we’ll do it and gladly. Dennis said as to tell ye he and the Gallants are at your disposal should you need extra hands.”
Charles nodded, returning the sovereign to his pocket. “Warn Dennis and the others to be extracareful all around. It’s possible the murderer’s already left the area, but something tells me he hasn’t.”
“Aye.” Mother Gibbs nodded. “I’ll do that.”
They parted from her at the lower end of the steep passageway leading to her door and strolled on along the quay.
Penny glanced at Charles’s face, often expressive, presently uninformative. “What are you thinking?”
He glanced at her, almost as if he’d forgotten she was on his arm. She narrowed her eyes on his. “Or should that be what are you planning?”
His swift grin broke across his face; he looked ahead. “Given that Nicholas is receiving dispatches, I was wondering if it was possible to arrange for him to receive the sort of information that would spur him to make contact with the French again. Assuming, of course, that simple treason is what we’re dealing with, a fact of which I’m still not convinced.”
“You think he might not have been passing secrets, but receiving them?”
“That’s one possibility we can’t as yet discount, certainly, but…” He shook his head. “It’s a feeling that the picture isn’t properly taking shape. Like a jigsaw with pieces that simply won’t fit. No matter what else we learn, at the back of my mind is the nagging fact that despite the assurances we received that there
“Yes, the other side might have someone smart enough to hide all trace,
He stopped; arm in arm, they stood and looked out over the forest of masts lining the quay. “I don’t believe Nicholas is Gimby’s murderer. I was hoping, still am hoping that he’ll see the light and either confess, or at least take me sufficiently into his confidence so we can, regardless of all else, capture whoever killed Gimby. I
She squeezed his arm. “I see what you mean about pieces that don’t fit.”
She sensed a sharpening of his attention, felt the subtle steeling of the muscles under her hand.
“Speaking of such pieces…”
She followed his gaze to a tall, thin figure standing on the wharf below in deep and animated discussion with two fishermen.
“The Chevalier.” She searched through the others thronging the wharf. “I can’t see Mark Trescowthick, or any others of that group.”
“No.” Charles was watching the exchange between the seamen and the Chevalier. “I have the feeling that while Mark might think he and the Chevalier are close friends, the Chevalier might describe matters differently.”
She considered. “The Chevalier’s rather older than Mark.”
“And far more serious than an overindulged pup like Mark Trescowthick. I’m sure the Chevalier is charming when he needs to be, but I doubt they have much in common.”
“If the Chevalier is just using Mark as his excuse to be down here, that rather raises the question of why.”
Charles studied the Chevalier for a minute more, then stirred. “With any luck Dalziel will help us with that-he
