Though The Heavens May Fall

by E.V. Thompson

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

It is 1856. When three men are murdered in Cornwall, Amos Hawke, a Cornish detective working from London's Scotland Yard, is sent to investigate. He finds lodgings with one of the murdered men's wives - and her daughter, Talwyn. But while Amos's relationship with Talwyn gets off to a bad start, she is to prove crucial in helping him bring her father's killers to justice.

A wonderful tale from a master storyteller, Though the Heavens May Fall has its heart and soul in the lore and landscape of Cornwall.

Release date: July 5, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 480

Sample

1856

When the knock came on the schoolroom door in the Cornish coastal village of Charlestown it was answered by the girl occupying
the nearest desk. She opened the door to reveal John Mitchell, a constable appointed by the parish of St Austell, of which
Charlestown formed a part.


Ill at ease as the bearer of tragic news to someone he knew, and discomfited at being the focus of attention of more than
forty young girls whose ages ranged from seven to seventeen, Mitchell remained in the doorway and addressed the young teacher
who stood in front of the blackboard.


‘Miss Kernow, I am afraid we have found your father. What I mean is …’

He faltered and Talwyn Kernow said, ‘What do you mean … you are afraid? Has he been hurt? Where is he, Mr Mitchell? I shall
dismiss the class and go to him this instant.’


Clearly agitated, the parish constable said, ‘Unfortunately it is more serious than an injury … I am very, very sorry.’

As her pupils gasped in horror, the piece of chalk Talwyn was holding dropped unnoticed to the floor. Looking at the constable
in disbelief, she said, ‘You don’t mean … He’s not … dead?’


John Mitchell’s agonised expression made a reply unnecessary. For a moment, the room swam about Talwyn and she needed to reach
out and seek support from the table beside the blackboard.


‘Are you all right, Miss Kernow? Can I call someone to come to you … your mother, perhaps?’ Cornwall had no county police
force and Mitchell earned a living by deputising for wealthier members of the parish when they were called upon to perform
the onerous and unpaid duties of a parish constable. He was keen on his work but this was an obligation of the post he had
never before been required to fulfil.


The room ceased its motion, and, regaining control of herself with great difficulty, Talwyn said, ‘No, my mother has not been
well. She must not hear of this until I am able to tell her myself … but I need to know all the facts first. Will you wait
for a moment, please, Mr Mitchell?’


Turning to the class of wide-eyed girls and struggling to maintain control of her voice, she called, ‘School is over for today,
girls – and will you pass the word to anyone you know who may be affected that there will be no boys’ school this evening.
You may go now …’ Her voice broke and she added, ‘Please hurry.’


There was a scramble for the doorway which forced John Mitchell to stand aside. One of the youngest pupils paused for a moment with the intention of asking a question of Talwyn,
but a none-too-gentle shove in the back from an older girl propelled her swiftly to the door.


When the last of the girls had collected her coat and passed from the porch of the small schoolhouse, Talwyn approached the
man who had brought the tragic news.


‘Where was my father found, Mr Mitchell? What happened to him? My mother and I realised something serious must have occurred
when he failed to return after evening school yesterday. He always came straight home after the last class, so when he did
not I came out to look for him, thinking he might have had to stay late for some unexpected reason. When I got here the school
was in darkness and locked. I came inside and checked, but everything seemed to be in order, so I went home once more, collected
a lantern and returned here again, this time checking the verges and hedgerows along the way. There was no sign of him and
so I went up to the manor and told Sir Joseph Sawle. He said he would send word out to the constables.’


She was fighting back tears. ‘I stayed up all night. When morning came and he still hadn’t returned I knew something dreadful
must have happened. I took my mother to stay with one of her sisters and came to open the school. I suppose I should have
closed it for the day, but Father would have been cross had there been some reasonable explanation for his not coming home
… besides, I didn’t know what else to do, especially as Sir Joseph sent word to say he had ordered all his men out to make
inquiries about him.’


Sir Joseph Sawle was lord of Penrice manor and, as senior magistrate for the district, was responsible for appointing parish
constables and the maintenance of law and order.


Despite all her efforts, tears were streaming down her cheeks as she asked, ‘Where was he found, and where is he now? Does
anyone know what happened?’


Mitchell seemed more at ease now he was no longer under the scrutiny of the young pupils, but instead of answering her questions
he asked, ‘What time was it usual for your father to end his classes in the evening?’


‘That depended upon what he happened to be teaching – and how hard the boys had been working. If they had been fishing, or
working a shift in the mine, they sometimes had difficulty staying awake, but as they each paid fivepence a week for their
lessons they expected value for their money. Father never liked to end too early, but he would not keep them after ten o’clock.’


‘You said he always came straight home … are you quite certain of that?’

‘Of course I am! Sometimes, if I had nothing else to do, I would come to Charlestown to meet him and we would walk home together
…’


Her voice broke and, apologetically, Mitchell asked, ‘Your home being the cottage in the grounds of Sir Joseph Sawle’s home
at Penrice?’


He accepted her nod as a reply and, after a few minutes, she added, ‘Sir Joseph had the schoolhouse built for my father and
let us have the cottage rent free because he is keen that as many local children as possible should receive an education … but you still haven’t answered my questions. Where was my father found? How did he die – and
why didn’t I find him when I was looking for him last night? Was he taken off by someone after an accident on the road home?’


‘No.’

Talwyn had formed the impression that the parish constable was reluctant to go into details about the death of her father
and it made her more determined than ever to learn exactly what had happened … but the constable was asking yet another question.


‘Did your father always take the same route home – or might he have taken the path that goes along the edge of the cliffs?’

‘Not in the dark,’ Talwyn replied. ‘It would have been far too dangerous.’

‘Then perhaps he might have arranged to meet someone there?’ the constable persisted.

‘There would have to be a very good reason for him to go anywhere near the cliffs after dark. It was something he always warned
me against when I was a young girl. He certainly would not have gone home that way. Why do you ask? Is that where he was found?’


‘Yes,’ the constable eventually admitted. ‘Sadly, his body was discovered by the coastguard on the rocks at the foot of the
cliffs. Another half an hour and the tide would have come in and carried him away, probably never to be recovered.’


Talwyn shuddered at the image conjured up by his words … but there were still things that needed to be said and questions
to be asked. ‘Father would have had no reason to be anywhere near the cliffs. He always came straight home to talk about the next day’s lessons with me so that I would not be too late going to bed. I need to be
up in plenty of time to open the school and prepare everything before the girls arrive for their lessons. No, Mr Mitchell,
if he went to the cliffs instead of coming straight home something must have been happening there. Something unusual, which
he believed was important enough for him to break his routine. Are you aware of anything that might have been going on there
last night?’


Evasively, Constable Mitchell said, ‘That’s a question you will need to put to the coastguard, Miss Kernow. Something was going on, I believe, but they keep such things to themselves.’


‘You mean … my father probably went to see what was happening and slipped over the cliff?’ She shuddered at the thought of
it. ‘Was the cliff high at that point? I mean … is it possible he was lying injured at the foot of the cliff for a long time?’


The tears began once more and, embarrassed, Mitchell said, ‘No, Miss Kernow. That’s one thing I can tell you for certain;
he wouldn’t have suffered at all. In fact, he would have been dead before he went over the cliff edge. You see … somebody
shot him.’




The ageing wooden stairs of the old house in Great Scotland Yard gave warning of the approach of someone making their way
to the attic room. Here, Detective Constable Amos Hawke was fighting a losing battle against the light from a single, diamond-paned
window in order to complete the report he was writing.


Thinking the unwelcome visitor was one of the cleaners who descended upon the offices of the Metropolitan Police’s detective
branch offices at the end of each working day, Amos looked up from his desk with the intention of telling him to clean the
other offices first. He needed to complete his report before going off duty.


To his great surprise, it was not the cleaner who entered the room, but Detective Inspector Marcus Carpenter, the officer
in charge of the detective department.


Hurriedly pushing back his chair and rising to his feet, Amos’s irritation at being disturbed disappeared. As far as he was aware, this was the first time Inspector Carpenter had paid a visit to this part of the building. His suite
of executive offices occupied half the ground floor accommodation of the adjacent house. After normal working hours the career-minded
detective inspector was more often to be found in the fashionable clubs of London, or the houses of men of influence, than
in the dingy Scotland Yard police offices.


Waving Amos to his seat, he said, ‘It’s all right, Hawke, be seated.’ Looking unsuccessfully around the room for another chair,
he perched himself gingerly on a corner of the large desk on which Amos was working.


Frowning at the lack of light in the room, he said, ‘Is that a report you are writing? How on earth can you see to work in
this light? It’s almost dark … don’t you have a lamp?’


‘No, sir,’ Amos replied. ‘There are candles in the cupboard, but Sergeant Tremlett keeps a tight rein on expenditure. He forbids
their use before seven o’clock – it’s only a quarter past six now.’


Sergeant Tremlett was the clerk in charge of the detective office stores and he was notoriously mean about issuing candles
and any other items from his storeroom. He had carefully recorded the time it took a candle to burn itself out and refused
to issue another if he felt they were being used unnecessarily.


‘What are you working on?’ Carpenter asked. ‘Are you heavily involved in anything in particular?’

‘I have a few minor cases to investigate,’ Amos said, indicating a sheaf of documents that half filled a wooden tray marked
‘IN’, ‘but I need to complete this report first. It’s on the arrest and conviction of Jeremy McCabe.’


‘Ah yes, the highwayman who was hanged this morning. You did well to take him. The Metropolitan Police were after him for
years … as were the Bow Street thief-takers. He’d become something of a legend.’


‘That’s his neckerchief over there, on the mantelshelf,’ Amos said. ‘He gave it to me this morning, on his way to the scaffold.
May God rest his soul.’


Looking at Amos sharply, the detective inspector said, ‘Don’t tell me you had any sympathy for McCabe … he was the scourge
of the Great West Road.’


‘True,’ Amos agreed, ‘and his fate was well deserved, but he accepted it with more dignity than a great many villains I have
taken. I respected him for that.’


‘Well, you have more experience with villains than most,’ Inspector Carpenter conceded. ‘In fact, your record is most impressive
since you joined us here. I understand you also excelled yourself in the Royal Marines before joining the police?’


‘I received a commission in the field during the Crimean war,’ Amos admitted modestly.

‘For outstanding gallantry, I believe,’ Carpenter persisted. ‘Why did you not remain in the Marines, where your future would
have been assured?’


Amos shrugged. ‘To make a successful career as an officer in the Royal Marines requires sufficient money to keep up appearances.
I had only what I earned. I joined the Royal Marines as a drummer boy when I was thirteen. My mother had died, my father had
married again and I didn’t get along with my stepmother – or her two sons. It was an easy way out for me. Then, while I was
in the Crimea, I received a letter from an aunt – my father’s sister. My stepmother had died, her two sons had been taken
to Australia by an uncle and it seemed my father was drinking himself into an early grave. She begged me to come home and
see if I could do something about it. It was another six months before I returned to England and was able to resign my commission
and go to Cornwall – to Mevagissey – to see what was going on, and in the meantime my aunt had also died and my father had
left the village. There were lots of rumours. That he had fallen over a cliff into the sea; had taken a boat to go fishing
– there was a small boat missing from the harbour about that time; had returned to the mines where he had worked for many
years – or had simply taken off because he had run up a great many debts. He certainly owed a great deal of money. I settled
his debts, and spent an unsuccessful month in Cornwall trying to learn what had happened to him. By that time I had realised
there was little left in Cornwall for me, so I came to London and joined the Metropolitan Police. When the detective branch
expanded I was lucky enough to be chosen for the work.’


Amos had thought the detective inspector’s visit to be no more than a routine call by the head of the branch on one of the
many offices occupied by his men in the houses surrounding Great Scotland Yard. However, Carpenter’s next words told Amos
he had not found his way to the attic office by chance.


‘I have been looking at your personal file, Hawke. I was interested to read that you had experience in commanding a police
force during your service with the Marines in the Crimea.’


‘It sounds grander than it actually was,’ Amos explained. ‘When we captured a Russian town in the Crimea I was left behind
with a couple of platoons of marines to keep law and order there.’


‘And carried out your duties so well you were commended by the commander-in-chief, I believe?’

‘That is so.’

‘I am at a loss to understand why this was not taken into consideration when you were recruited into the Metropolitan Police,
Hawke. You should have entered with the rank of inspector – or, at the very least, sergeant.’


‘I had been led to expect that would be the case,’ Amos said, ‘but I am not complaining. I enjoy my work as a detective.’

‘I am very pleased to hear you say so, but due recognition should have been given to your experience as a commissioned officer
in the Royal Marines – and Commissioner Mayne agrees with me.’


Commissioner Mayne was in command of the Metropolitan Police and Amos felt a thrill of excitement at Inspector Carpenter’s
words … but there were more than five thousand men in the London police force. He could not understand why he had been singled
out for special attention by the detective chief.


Inspector Carpenter was quick to enlighten him.

‘There have been three murders in your home county in recent months, Hawke. The earliest two, some months ago now, were of
Excise officers going about their duty, but the latest victim, only this last week, was a school-teacher and for some reason
the magistrate who gave this information believes the three deaths are connected. Unfortunately, Cornwall does not yet have a countywide police force and still relies upon the old system of parish constables
and watchmen. They are neither as efficient nor as non-partisan as they should be and the Cornish magistrate who wrote to
the commissioner is concerned at the lack of progress in the investigations. He and his colleagues on the bench have requested
that a senior detective officer from the Metropolitan Police go there and lead the investigation, preferably with a colleague
to assist him. Commissioner Mayne has asked me to take on the task and agreed I should take a detective sergeant with me.
I believe that Cornishmen, even more than the residents of other counties, have a very strong sense of community and are likely
to resent having an outsider come in to sort out their problems. For this reason I would like you, as a Cornishman, to help
me in my investigation. You will be made up to sergeant immediately, and the promotion will be permanent. I would also like
to add that this investigation is not only extremely important from the point of view of bringing a murderer – or murderers
– to justice; it will set a precedent for future investigations and show what can be achieved by an established detective
force, such as we have here at Scotland Yard. In so doing it might also persuade the authorities in those counties which are
dragging their feet that it is time to employ an efficient police system. What do you say, Hawke? Will you come to Cornwall
with me as soon as you are able to settle your personal affairs here in London … or would you like time to think about it?’


Amos knew that such an investigation, if successful, would reflect very well upon the expertise and efficiency of the Metropolitan Police detective branch – and greatly boost
the promotion prospects of Carpenter – but it would not be easy. Cornish people were suspicious of strangers, the fishing communities particularly so – and he believed that whoever had killed the Excise officers
probably came from such a community. There had been similar killings in the past, when smuggling had been almost a part of
everyday life for those who earned a living from the sea.


Times had changed and much had been done to eradicate the activities of the ‘freebooters’ since John Wesley had condemned
smuggling in the previous century, but Amos was aware there were a number of diehards who believed they had a right to continue
such activities. It seemed there were also some who were ready to kill in order to exercise that right. He was also aware
that Detective Inspector Carpenter would be given no assistance from anyone in the tightly knit fishing communities without
the help of someone like himself, who could claim kinship with at least some of their own.


There was also the possibility that during the course of such an investigation he might be able to discover something to throw
light upon the disappearance of his father …


‘Well, now you know the details, I will leave you to think it over, Hawke. Let me know when you have reached a decision.’

‘I have no need to think it over, sir. I will be delighted to assist you in every way I can and I have no pressing personal
matters to attend to. When do we leave?’




The London streets were in darkness when Amos completed his report. Locking up his small office, he made his way down the
creaking stairs and headed across the open space that gave its name to the detective headquarters. Bidding goodnight to the
uniformed constable on duty at the yard entrance, Amos passed through an archway to the street beyond.


He had taken only a few paces when a powerfully built man standing a head taller than Amos fell into step beside him. It was
Harvey Halloran, an ex-Royal Marines colour sergeant who had been second-in-command of Amos’s small force when he took over
the policing of a captured Russian town during the Crimean war. They had met again in London soon after Amos had been transferred
to Scotland Yard’s detective force.


Without slowing his pace, Amos said, ‘Hello, Harvey. Have you been waiting for me?’

‘I have, Mr Hawke, sir, and I seem to have been hanging around outside the Yard for so long I was beginning to fear I would
be arrested for loitering.’


Amos grinned. ‘I doubt very much whether there are enough policemen on duty at the Yard to successfully arrest you.’

‘I don’t fight policemen, Mr Hawke, you know that,’ Harvey said seriously. ‘The fact is, I often wish I’d been able to stay
in the Royal Marines, and that’s the truth.’


‘I have no doubt the Marines felt the same when you left them. Unfortunately, because of your wounds they had no alternative
but to discharge you.’


‘That’s true … but I’m fit again now,’ Harvey insisted.

‘You have certainly made a remarkable recovery,’ Amos agreed, ‘but the Marines weren’t to know you would do that – and they
did give you a generous pension.’


‘Yes, and it’s very welcome,’ Harvey admitted, ‘but I want to be fully active again … that’s why I went to see the Metropolitan
Police recruiting sergeant today, to try to join them, like you.’


Harvey’s statement brought Amos to a halt. ‘You’ve spoken to the recruiting sergeant …? What did he say? Did you tell him
you had been given a medical discharge from the Royal Marines?’


‘I showed him my discharge certificate and told him I had fully recovered, but he said the medical examination would make
no difference.’


‘So … have you been accepted?’

‘No … but it had nothing to do with my fitness. It was because of my prizefighting days, before I joined the Marines, when I was bound over to keep the peace, in order to stop me fighting.’


‘But that was years ago,’ Amos said indignantly. ‘You were a marine for more than fifteen years and one of the foremost heroes
of the Crimean war. Surely that counts for something?’


‘It would seem not,’ Harvey said gloomily. ‘They don’t want me in the Metropolitan Police … I don’t suppose you can do anything
to help me, by putting in a good word …?’


‘Much as I would like to, I am afraid I am going to have no opportunity to do so in the near future,’ Amos said. ‘I am going
to be away for a while. Detective Inspector Carpenter wants me to go with him to … wants me to go out of London with him.
A senior magistrate has requested the help of Scotland Yard detectives in solving a series of murders.’


‘How long do you think you’ll be away?’

Amos shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. For as long as it takes, I suppose.’

‘What is Joyce going to think about your going?’

Amos winced at Harvey’s question. Joyce Pemble was the daughter of Amos’s landlady. Despite all his attempts to distance himself
from her, she had become increasingly possessive, assuming a relationship which had no substance in reality. The situation
was made more complicated by the fact that Joyce’s mother was the widow of a Metropolitan Police superintendent.


It was usual for Metropolitan policemen to live in quarters at their various stations, but such accommodation was severely
limited. Most of the detectives lived in Scotland Yard itself, but when Amos was appointed there had been no rooms available and he was boarded on the superintendent’s
widow, who occupied a house with Joyce, her only child.


Harvey knew the family because he was occasionally employed by them to carry out gardening and other odd jobs. He found Joyce’s
pursuit of Amos highly amusing.


‘I don’t think Joyce’s mother is going to be happy either,’ he added. ‘She has already decided you are to be her future son-in-law.’

‘She is going to have to find someone else to take Joyce off her hands,’ Amos retorted. ‘When I move out of the house it will
be permanent. I will need to find lodgings in my new posting. I can’t pay two rents – and Joyce and her mother can’t afford
to keep my room vacant while I am away. It might be for many months.’


Amos’s explanation of the financial situation was not entirely accurate. Detective Inspector Carpenter had told him that the
Cornish magistrate who had requested the presence of the two Scotland Yard detectives had also offered to assume responsibility
for all their expenses during the time they were in Cornwall, but Amos had become increasingly embarrassed by the bold advances
of his landlady’s daughter and her proprietorial attitude towards him. This would be the best opportunity he was ever likely
to have to escape from the one-sided relationship without hurting Joyce – and he did not want to hurt her any more than was
absolutely necessary. She was a nice enough young girl, but at seventeen years of age she was ten years younger than Amos
and still immature. Besides, he knew he could never return the feelings she believed she had for him. This was the best way out of the situation – for both of them.


Harvey broke in upon his thoughts once more, saying hopefully, ‘Perhaps this place you are going to might have a place in
their police force for an ex-Royal Marines colour sergeant?’


‘Unfortunately, they don’t yet have a police force, Harvey – although a law has recently been passed in Parliament ordering
every county to establish one. If it looks as though they are about to recruit I will recommend you to them.’


‘God bless you, Mr Hawke, sir … and good luck with your dealings with Joyce and her mother.’



A week after the visit of Detective Inspector Carpenter to the office occupied by Amos, and with his departure from the house
occupied by a tearful Joyce and her mother safely behind him, Amos and the detective inspector arrived by train in Plymouth.
There the men made their way to the bank of the River Tamar, from where they would cross into Cornwall by ferry. Standing
on the edge of the river that formed the border between Devon and Cornwall for the whole of its length, they were in the shadow
of the spectacular skeletal framework of the railway bridge towering above them, which was being constructed to the design
of the brilliant engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel.


Once across the river the two men would no longer be travelling together. Before leaving London they had decided that, initially
at least, Amos would work ‘undercover’, not revealing his true identity until Carpenter deemed the time to be right. Until then, Amos’s story would be that he had returned to Cornwall in another attempt to locate
his missing father. In this way he might be able to obtain information that would not otherwise be forthcoming.


‘Are we quite certain we each know what we are doing, Amos? It is very important that we make no mistakes …’ Detective Inspector
Carpenter put the question as the ferry approached from the far shore.


‘I am quite confident, sir,’ Amos replied, but, aware of the importance the detective inspector put on solving this case,
and in order to put the other man’s mind at ease, he repeated the plan that had been agreed between them. ‘You will be staying
with magistrate Sir Joseph Sawle, in his mansion at Penrice, and openly carrying out an official investigation into the murder
of the school-teacher. Travelling separately, I will purchase a horse and make my way to Charlestown, which is not far from
Penrice, and take lodgings at an inn there until I can find somewhere else. I too will be trying to obtain information about
the murderer – or murderers – but we will initially keep my part in the investigation a secret. Should anyone need to know,
the reason I shall give for being back in Cornwall is a renewed attempt to find my father. Once a week, on a Friday, we will
meet an hour after dark at the crossroads by Lobb’s shop, on the St Austell to Pentewan road – I have marked the spot on your
map. There we will exchange any information we may have obtained.’


Satisfied, Marcus Carpenter nodded. ‘Good! We both know exactly what we are doing – but take no chances, Amos. We are obviously up against ruthless men and if – as Sir Joseph Sawle seems to think – the schoolteacher’s murder is
somehow connected with the killing of the Excise officers, then we are dealing with particularly vicious smugglers, who value
illegal profits more than the lives of their fellow men. I believe we will be carrying out this investigation in the best
possible way, but I will not be entirely happy until we can do away with the subterfuge and both work openly to secure the
arrest and conviction of the guilty parties.’


By now the ferry was close to the shore. Parting company, they joined the other passengers and moved forward to the ferry’s
berth.


When the train arrived at St Austell railway station, Sir Joseph Sawle was waiting on the platform to meet Inspector Carpenter.
Amos witnessed the warm welcome given to the detective chief, but studiously ignored the two men. He had remembered that the
following day was market day in St Austell and, as a result, had decided to remain in town in order to attend the auction
of livestock.


By noon next day he was the owner of a fine, if somewhat skittish, four-year-old mare, together with a saddle and all the
necessary tack. Then, with his baggage packed in two saddlebags, he set off for the tiny port of Charlestown. Finding comfortable
accommodation in the Rashleigh Arms inn, he spent the remainder of that day rediscovering the countryside of his childhood.


That evening, after partaking of a somewhat mediocre meal in the dining room, Amos adjourned to the inn’s public bar. It was fairly quiet and most of those drinking here were local men. He enjoyed listening to the soft Cornish dialect
that until his return in search of his father he had almost forgotten, but was