Malice in Cornwall Read Online Free

steep hill below the church. A mile-long arc of tawny sand confined by two steep promontories—the larger, Towey Head, to the southwest—encircling the bay like two claws. The narrow river channel marked by straggling poles, a few brightly painted fishing boats propped up on the sand waiting for high tide, and color-washed cottages piled tier upon tier up the hillside, with the church set like a beacon on top. A spiritual lighthouse for the lost souls of Penrick.
    “Lovely,” remarked Detective-Sergeant Black, who was not usually given to such outbursts.
    Powell could only assume that his companion was at a loss for a suitable quotation, so he stepped into the breach:
    “Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee;
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free
…”
    Without missing a beat, Black continued solemnly:
    “Unchangeable save to the wild waves' play,
Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow;
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.”
    Then he smiled equably. “I quite like Lord Byron.”
    Any lingering suspicion that Sergeant Black was a mere literary dilettante was dispelled once and for all. Powell's casual serve had been expertly returned; he realized he would have to place his shots more carefully in the future. “We'd better get settled in,” he said. “I understand our accommodation comes highly commended by Butts.”
    Amongst the cottages ran a maze of streets and alleys barely wide enough for a car, but Black eventually negotiated a route down to the water's edge. Powell experienced a sinking feeling as a closer inspection revealed that the village center consisted of a few unremarkable shops and guesthouses clustered around the tiny harbor. More promising was a plain but elegant Georgian pub, the Head, which was painted, appropriately enough, pink. There were a few people strolling along the front, taking the morning air.
    They soon located the Wrecker's Rest Guesthouse, the premises of George and Agnes Polfrock, straight out of Fawlty bloody Towers, as Detective-Sergeant Black was later to remark in the Head over a pint. The best thing that could be said for the Wrecker's Rest was that it had come recommended by Chief Inspector Butts, but this turned out to be a dubious distinction indeed. Powell had to admit that its whitewashed facade with flower boxesand mullioned windows looking out over the quay, cluttered with lobster traps and crab pots, the sweep of yellow sand and the wide blue Atlantic beyond, possessed a certain superficial charm—
picturesque chic
was the expression that came to mind. However this notion was quickly dispelled by the pervasive aura of the proprietors, which permeated the premises like a pungent odor.
    “Ooo, Chief Superintendent Powell! It isn't often we have guests from Scotland Yard,” Mrs. Polfrock gushed. She was a squarish, lumpy woman with improbable red hair. “And this must be …”
    “Detective-Sergeant Black, madam,” Black volunteered.
    “Yes, of course. We've prepared the Smuggler's Suite for you, Chief Superintendent, commanding a fine view of the Sands and Towey Head. And Sergeant, er, I'm sorry …”
    “Black, madam,” Black prompted between clenched teeth.
    “Yes, of course. We've put you in the back. Now if you'll just sign the guest registry I'll have my husband, George, show you to your rooms. Buttie didn't say how long you would be staying,” she added, as if by way of casual chitchat.
    Powell cocked an eyebrow. “Buttie?”
    “Alf Butts, my brother-in-law.”
    “Chief Inspector
Butts, oh I see!” Powell was beginning to wonder if their being maneuvered to the Wrecker's Rest was simple nepotism or Buttie putting the boot in for being muscled off his turf.
    Mrs. Polfrock clucked disapprovingly. “All this publicity is bad for business, although I don't believe a wordof it myself, and even Buttie says it's a load of codswallop. Don't you agree, Chief