Wycliffe and the House of Fear

Book 0: The Cornish Detective

by W.J. Burley

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The Kemps were a Cornish Catholic family who had held on to Kellycoryk, their family home, for almost five hundred years. But it was beginning to look as though the present century would be their last. Roger, head of the shrinking clan, was desparate to save the house and land. His second marriage, to the shrewd and tough businesswoman, Bridget, offered a way out. Bridget, prosperous head of her own company, wanted to take Kellycoryk over for development and although Roger hated the idea Bridget refused to save the estate in any other way. Then – suddenly – Bridget disappeared and old memories began to be raked over. hadn't Julia, Roger's first wife (also a wealthy woman) disappeared mysteriously, presumably in a boating accident? Did Roger, his sister and his disturbed children know more about the past than had ever been revealed? Wycliffe, supposed to be recuperating from an illness in the neighbourhood, found there was too much that was intriguing about the Kemps for him to ignore.

Read by Peter Kenny

(p) 2010 Orion Publishing Group

Release date: December 16, 2010

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

Roger Kemp was working in his library; a pleasant room, square and high, with bookshelves reaching to a generous frieze. There was a richly moulded cornice and the ceiling sported an improbable selection of plaster fruit and flowers, but every plaster surface was encrusted with the grime of years.

Roger worked at a big table littered with books, papers and charts, in the middle of which a black cat curled asleep, sleek and slim as a serpent.

Five minutes past eight on a sunny morning; Roger had been at work since six. An electric radiator close to his chair fended off the early morning chill. For at all times, even in summer, the old house was never free of a chilly dampness, and year by year Roger watched while eroding moulds made inroads on wood and plaster, paper and fabrics.

He consoled himself with the idea, and sometimes believed, that in the long run, whatever happened to Kellycoryk, to him, or to the family they would all survive in his History of the Kemps of Kellycoryk, a record of almost five centuries of industry and endurance.

Sometimes he wished that he could shut himself away in this room, a scholarly recluse. The Kemps were Catholics and, as a young man, Roger had been tempted by the cloistered life. The obligation of chastity would have troubled him little, yet through some element of the perverse the course of his life seemed to have been moulded, even warped, by women.

A tap at the door and his sister, Agnes, called, shrill and peremptory, ‘Breakfast in ten minutes!’

The black cat raised its head, fiercely alert, watching Roger with yellow-green eyes. Roger reached out a reassuring hand. ‘It’s all right, Coryk.’

He returned to his manuscript, fingering the pages, and read aloud from the passage he had just written. Then he addressed the cat. ‘Will anybody ever read that, Coryk? Will any publisher ever give it a chance?’

The cat showed no particular interest but when Roger got up from his chair, in a single clean leap Coryk was on the floor at his feet. They moved to one of the twin windows and Roger stood looking out. A large pond, almost a lake, with rushes at the margins, separated the house from a wilderness of laurel and rhododendron. Beyond the wilderness he could see the grey roofs of the cottages in the cove and the sea beyond, broad and empty and sparkling.

He caught sight of his reflection in the window, distorted by imperfections in the old glass. They seemed to exaggerate the drooping eyelids, the prominent nose and sagging jowls, the distinctive Kemp features which became more pronounced with age. Now, looking at his own reflection, he thought he saw his father’s face.

‘Breakfast, Coryk!’ The cat paced him out of the room and down the dim passage to the kitchen. The family had their meals in the kitchen where an Aga maintained a cosy warmth even in the coldest weather. It was a large, bare room with adzed beams, cream-washed walls and a floor of slate slabs laid over with sisal matting. A naked bulb suspended from a central beam competed with the greenish-grey daylight which filtered through the parboiled glass.

On the big table, which was only partly covered by a cloth, there were packets of breakfast foods with a selection of crockery and cutlery from which people helped themselves. On the Aga, along with a saucepan of stock, was a rack of toast, a jug of milk, and a giant-sized blue-enamelled coffee pot with a chipped lid.

Crispin, Roger’s son by his first wife, and Agnes were already at table. Crispin was nineteen, dark haired, pale faced, quiet and withdrawn. He was removing the top from his boiled egg with the same precision and concentration which he brought to everything he did. He looked up as his father entered, his eyes as limpid and guileless as a spaniel’s. Roger never ceased to wonder what went on behind those eyes and at the genetic lottery which had given him two children so alike in looks and so different in temperament. Isobel, Crispin’s sister, was a reincarnation of her dead mother.

Agnes said, ‘Your egg is in the saucepan, it will be boiled hard by now.’

Agnes had a feminine version of the Kemp features, the drooping eyelids and dark colouring, but the heavy jowls were less in evidence.

Before retrieving his egg Roger went through to the old wash place and came back with a saucer of cat food which he put on the floor beside his chair. Only then did he fetch his egg from the stove.

‘Isobel not down yet? She’ll be late for work.’ Isobel worked at a health food shop in Truro.

‘She’s on holiday this week and next.’ Agnes said it as though the very fact was a personal affront.

Three or four years older than her brother, Agnes saw herself as a self-sacrificing spinster, trapped by her sense of duty into dependence.

Roger prepared his egg while Agnes sipped her coffee, continuing to hold the cup to her lips with both hands while watching him over the rim. For no apparent reason there was tension in the air.

Roger spoke to his son: ‘Last evening I was up at the Northern Garden taking a look at your work, Crispy. You must have cleared nearly an acre; and Frank has made a good job of the roof of the old lodge …’ His voice trailed off as he realized that even this modest show of enthusiasm was somehow out of place.

Crispin was attending classes in horticulture and, with the help of a part-time employee, he was clearing an area in the Northern Garden in the hope of starting a commercial nursery.

Agnes said, ‘You’ll need capital for glasshouses or plastic tunnels or whatever they are; then there’s equipment, as well as fertilizers, plants, seeds … Where do you think the money’s coming from?’

Roger ventured, ‘I think we might manage it.’

Agnes ignored him. ‘Of course there wouldn’t be any problem if Bridget would show a spark of interest. After all, she is your stepmother and she wouldn’t miss a few thousands, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a long time if that’s what you’re counting on.’

There was a sound of movement from the back premises and Bridget herself came in, followed by a slightly overweight Labrador. She wore a half-length fawn suede coat with trousers, and a waterproof hat over her red hair. She was petite, delicate as porcelain, but she looked flushed with health and vitality. The dog, after a preliminary reconnoitre, settled in front of the Aga.

Coryk, tail erect, back arched, hissed so that Roger had to soothe him.

Bridget said, ‘Timmy and I have had a lovely walk, it’s a wonderful morning and the gorse is unbelievable … the colour, and the scent!’

Two years ago Roger had married Bridget, the daughter of a shrewd and prosperous businessman who had promptly died of a heart attack, leaving her in charge of an expanding and profitable business in the leisure industry.

‘Goodness, it’s warm in here!’ Bridget slipped out of her coat. Underneath she wore a gaily patterned blouse like a sunburst in the gloom.

Agnes said, ‘There are eggs and there’s toast.’

Bridget looked about her and decided, ‘No, I think I’ll have some muesli; I need to lose weight.’

Agnes, her eyes on Bridget, buttered a piece of toast. She seemed to be waiting, and when Bridget was settled she said, ‘We’ve just been talking about Crispin’s scheme for the nursery. It’s really a question of where he’s going to get the capital.’ She spoke as though the business had been a subject for family discussion.

Roger stopped in the act of chewing a mouthful of toast, and Crispin looked at Agnes in disbelief.

But Bridget was saved from comment. Isobel, wearing her dressing gown, drifted in. She rubbed her eyes like a sleepy child and asked in a plaintive voice, ‘What time is it?’

Agnes said, ‘There’s a clock on the wall.’

It was true that in features and colouring Isobel resembled her brother, but she was a striking girl; a mass of almost black hair accentuated her pallor and her lips appeared dramatically red. As her late mother had once remarked, ‘Like blood on snow.’

She pulled out a chair and sat down, stretching and yawning. ‘It feels like the middle of the night.’ She reached for a bowl and for the cornflakes packet but realizing that she would have to get up for the milk she abandoned the idea.

Instead she sat back in her chair and announced, ‘Mother spoke to me last night.’

Roger felt that he was about to be drawn into some kind of vortex. He said, ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘It was rather marvellous, actually.’ Isobel was becoming animated. ‘A little group – just seven of us; we’ve been meeting for three or four weeks with a medium called Teresa from St Endel Churchtown. She tried to make contact with Mother twice before and last night it worked.’ Isobel’s manner was brisk and brittle.

Crispin was watching his sister uneasily but no-one spoke, and she went on, ‘It was Mother’s voice, just like having her in the room.’

Agnes said, ‘You don’t remember your mother’s voice.’

‘Of course I do! I was sixteen, for God’s sake! I remember everything about her, how she looked, how she smiled, how she dressed … You remember, don’t you, Crispin?’

Crispin said nothing and the ticking of the clock was left to fill the silence.

Then Isobel began again. ‘Mother was very upset. She said, “I’ve longed to speak to you, Isobel, but I can’t do it unless you help me. You must try to reach me as I struggle to reach you … There are things I want you to know, but it’s very difficult to break through—”’

The girl spoke in a low, tense monotone when quoting her mother’s words but broke off to speak normally immediately afterwards. ‘That was all … It was like being cut off on the telephone … Of course I shall go on trying; I shan’t give up now. Teresa, as a favour, has agreed to try again tomorrow night.’

It was Bridget who spoke finally. She sounded remote and judicial. ‘Of course, what you do and what you believe, Isobel, is up to you, but before you are led to do something you might regret I should make sure that you are not being exploited by this woman.’

Isobel looked at her with a glazed expression. ‘That’s what I would expect you to say.’

The arrival of the daily maid put further discussion on hold. She came in through the back and stood in the doorway, a young girl from the cove, Jane Clemens; fresh, if inclined to be raw, with a manner which made it clear that she was nobody’s doormat. She looked at Agnes. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

Agnes said, ‘Surely you know by now. It’s Monday, so you change the beds.’

The girl shrugged. ‘It’s all the same to me.’

As she crossed the room there was a momentary exchange of glances between her and Crispin, not lost on Agnes.

Wycliffe looked out of the window of the living room at a tranquil, sunlit sea, at the slow ripples that produced a lace of foam on the shingle, and decided that they had come to the right place. A little way up the shallow valley, Kellycoryk House was visible between the trees, the low pitched roof with overhanging eaves seemed to rise out of a shrubby wilderness.

Wycliffe was convalescent; overwork, a bad bout of influenza followed by bronchitis and a touch of pleurisy had kept him out of circulation for several weeks. Now, before returning to the treadmill, on medical advice and on orders from his chief, he was having a holiday ‘away from it all’.

‘Away from it all’ materialized into this cottage, one of a dozen or so, stone-built and slate-roofed, scattered in an irregular crescent about the margin of a tiny, rocky cove facing south into Veryan Bay. The Wycliffes had visions of walks along the Cornish cliffs, through the lanes and over the moors.

A stream divided the little community into two, but it was reunited by a bridge (Max Wt 2T). Beyond the bridge the stream spread out and all but lost itself in the shingle on the shore.

There was no sound, and no sign of life anywhere.

The choice had been Helen’s, made because she had discovered that the name, Kellycoryk, is Cornish for elf wood or rather, wood elf; also because the cove was managed by Coast and Country, a leisure company with a good reputation in the business. Helen’s best decisions were often based on a nice blend of whimsy and calculation.

Half-past ten; they had made a leisurely trip. Helen was inspecting the accommodation and finding it to her liking. There was electricity, with provision for a wood fire in the living room. There were two bedrooms, an adequate bathroom and kitchen; a TV and a telephone.

Mrs Moyle, the woman who supervised the lets, lived with her family in one of the other cottages. Thin and wiry, her grey hair cut short, she had a youngish face betrayed by fine wrinkles on her upper lip. She was polite but distant.

Helen said, ‘Do all the cottages belong to the leisure company?’

‘They don’t any of them belong; they’re only leased from the estate.’

‘So the cove is still part of the Kellycoryk estate?’

‘Like it always was.’

Wycliffe tried his hand. ‘Does anybody live in the big house?’

‘Live there? Of course they do. The Kemp family live there like they always did.’ She had no intention of being drawn into gossip.

Helen, with her taste for Victorian novelists, had mentally labelled her Mrs Tightlip.

Helen said, ‘Well, there’s nothing we need do here. What about a walk to the village, buy a few things and perhaps get some lunch?’

Mrs Moyle volunteered, ‘If you want lunch, Jack Sara’s wife at the New Inn is a good cook.’

They walked along the road they had driven earlier; it was overhung by a low cliff and there was a notice, ‘Crumbling cliffs. Beware of falling stones.’

‘What are we supposed to do? Dodge?’

The road rose steeply to surmount a promontory which separated the cove from the larger inlet and village of Porthendel; a broad stubby headland, pushed raggedly into the sea.

Wycliffe said, ‘It’s called Jacob’s Head, according to the map.’

Down the further slope they came to the village where a crooked jetty defended the tiny harbour.

Old fish lofts had found other uses: one was a café, another a picture gallery, while two more had become desirable waterfront residences. The Wycliffes strolled happily, not saying much; words that were spoken usually came in answer to the other’s thoughts. Wycliffe reflected, We are an old married couple, becoming smug; because we like it that way.

They turned up a narrow, steep slope into the village square. It was not really a square but a triangle at the junction of three roads, itself on a slope. A few visitors, in pairs or in family groups, drifted around the square, down to the waterfront and back again, while a café, with tables outside, served morning coffee to those who wished to take the weight off their feet.

There were several shops; a newsagent’s on one corner was also the post office; no company shops. The New Inn had a board outside: ‘Lunches 12.00 – 2.00.’

‘We’ll come back to all that.’

They were attracted by ‘Clare Jordan’s Old Curiosity Shop’. At first sight it was an ordinary little shop selling bric-à-brac, but the bygones were of more than average quality. Clare Jordan, whoever she was, had an eye for small pieces of china and glass, and the knack of displaying them.

Helen said, ‘See those dogs?’

She was looking at a pair of china ‘comforter’ dogs, white glazed, with spots or splashes of copper lustre. Recently Helen had developed a taste for that kind of thing, presumably in line with her Victorian reading. ‘They would look good on the kitchen shelf. I wonder what she wants for them. Shall we ask?’

They could see two women in the shop; one of them, presumably Clare Jordan herself, was seated on a chair by a door leading to an adjoining room. She was in her middle forties, well preserved, with a bony physique innocent of curves. The other, standing by her, was a thin, pale girl with a mop of dark hair. She wore a jade-green tunic which barely reached her thighs and black leggings. The effect was dramatic.

As Wycliffe opened the door the older woman was saying, her voice raised, ‘You have become totally unbalanced about your mother, Isobel. Obsessed! If you—’ She broke off on the instant and turned to her customers. The girl however continued to stare at her and Wycliffe was made uncomfortable by those coldly appraising eyes.

Helen opened negotiations for her dogs. The woman quite recovered her poise and her business sense, while the girl turned her back on all three of them, waiting for the strangers to go.

It was obvious that the confrontation or whatever it was would be resumed when they left, and it was not long before they did, Helen, with her dogs snug in a cardboard box.

Helen said, ‘We interrupted something.’

They decided on a drink before lunch and went to the New Inn where they joined a group around the bar. The landlord said, ‘Lunch? If you want lunch somebody will be along in a few minutes.’

At one end of the bar there was a group of tables railed off. No slot machines, no pool table, no canned music; Helen purred, and they took their drinks to one of the tables behind the rail.

Others began to arrive and several tables were occupied. A plump woman in a white coat put up a chalkboard. ‘Meal of the Day: Chicken with mushrooms and courgettes; sauté potatoes. Apple pie with Cornish clotted cream.’

Colours nailed to the mast. No compromise, no options.

‘Shall we have a half-bottle of something?’

‘Look!’ Helen nodded towards a couple just seating themselves at a table for two in a far corner of the bar. ‘The woman from the dog shop and the girl. They seem to have settled their quarrel, if it was one.’

Wycliffe studied the pair with interest. ‘From the look of them I wouldn’t bet on it.’

When the plump woman came to take their order Helen asked, ‘Who’s the girl with the woman from the antique shop?’

The landlady looked across at the pair and smiled. ‘Striking girl, isn’t she? Isobel Kemp, from Kellycoryk, Roger Kemp’s daughter by his first wife. And just like her mother; a real beauty she was. Clare Jordan is related to them somehow.’

Wycliffe was beginning to enjoy himself. He loved to find out about people. Even as a child, when taken somewhere new, it had intrigued him to discover people of . . .