MYSTERY
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WHEAL NELL
• Inspector Morose stared gloomily into his pint of beer — his latest case involving spook trucks running from a disused Cornish tin mine on moonless nights was as baffling a mystery as any he had faced. Sergeant Loose sipped at his pineapple juice and shifted uneasily in his seat — he didn't like it when the boss was in this mood. Who could tell what he was thinking?
"It's your round, Loose," barked Morose, draining the last dregs of his beer. "Yes, sir," replied Loose wearily. It was always his round as far as Morose was concerned.
Loose pushed his way to the bar, brushing past local fisherman Duncan Bryne, who was concen trating on fishing a pickled egg out of a packet of prawn cocktail crisps. "How are you, me 'andsome?" muttered Bryne as Loose tried to attract the attention of the Green Barnacle's landlord, One-Eyed Jack.
One-Eyed Jack's good eye was busy looking the other way, at the Green's darts team vainly trying to hit the board after several pints of Bingo, the pub's speciality ale.
Loose struggled to be heard above the cheers as the dartboard crashed to the floor (a stray dart had severed the string looping it on to a nail). Morose barely acknowledged Loose as the beer was placed before him, After a moment Loose spoke: "A penny for them, sir." "A penny for what, Loose?" said Morose distractedly. "Thoughts, sir, a penny for your thoughts."
Morose picked up his beer. He knew Loose was anxious to solve the case and return to his family, but as far as Morose was concerned he would be happy to stay in Cornwall. If only he didn't have to worry about the mystery surrounding the disused tin mine, Wheal Nell, set on the wild coastline above Praa Sands.
Superstitious locals put it down to piskies. Spook trucks had been "seen" driving out of Wheal Nell late on moonless nights down toward the bay a mile away. Fearful that the mine housed a rogue tipper operator, Jed Sercombe from the Vehicle Inspectorate and VAT Inspector Crookes Tonkin had spent a night concealed in a ditch watching the deserted pithead. Neither man had been seen since.
The next victim was Sergeant Sid Johns of the Helston constabulary. He cycled out to Wheal Nell on Halloween Night. His helmet was found washed up on the beach. It seemed the piskies had struck again. "It's superstitious nonsense, Loose", said Morose suddenly. "Three men do not disappear because of piskies or leprechauns or pink elephants dancing the fan-bloody-dango."
"Granted, sir, but where are the bodies?" said Loose. "What makes you think they're dead, Loose?"
Loose helped Morose into the Bentley. He may be a brilliant sleuth, but I wish he wouldn't drink so much, thought Loose, as he drove back to the Clifftop Hotel.
Morose allowed Loose the next day off then set off alone to Wheal Nell. The minestack was visible from more than two miles away, pointing like a fist with a raised finger to the heavens. Morose drove carefully down the untended sliproad that led to the old mine workings. He parked and looked out to sea where the road he had left continued to Praa Sands.
The buildings had crumbled into roofless decay. A gull emerged noisily from the shell of an outhouse. There was nowhere to hide a truck.
He drove the short distance down to Praa Sands. As the road twisted past fields he passed a tiny church which had been converted into somebody's home. He glimpsed a blonde woman hanging washing between two trees, Morose parked and walked down to the sands. It occurred to him that if this was the route of the spook trucks, then the woman who lived in the church might have seen them. He walked through her gate as she was pegging the last of the washing. "Morning, ma'am," said Morose, explaining his enquiry. The woman was five or six years younger than Morose. Her skin had the healthy glow born of country living; the lines etched above her broad cheekbones looked as natural as the veins on a leaf. She introduced herself as Lizzie Trevaskis. "I'm sorry, Inspector, I have to dash into town to catch the shops — it's early closing day. Perhaps we could talk on the way?" Her voice had a musical, West Country roundness to its vowels. Morose drove. He waited for Lizzie in the Green Barnacle and bought her a pint of Bingo when she came in. Everyone in this pub drank its wonderful beer. "I've heard the trucks, Inspector," began Lizzie, 'but I've never seen one; they always pass by when I've gone to bed." She lived alone in the old church. Her husband, a brave lifeboat coxswain, had perished at sea. "Never mind spook trucks," said Morose, "doesn't it spook you living alone in an old church?" "Oh, no, Inspector," Lizzie smiled, "I love the ghosts, they're like children, Some of them are children, of course." "You've seen them?" "Yes, all the time. They flit through the living room. Sometimes they even pick up my pegs when I'm hanging washing," she teased. Lizzie told Morose that the spook trucks might be smugglers. The area was rich in smuggling history. But she could not understand why they went to Wheal Nell or where they disappeared to. Morose drove Lizzie home. She told him she was an amateur geologist and Morose suggested they stop first at Wheal Nell. Maybe her trained eye might extract some clue from the overgrown mine floor. She reached for his arm to help her out of the Bentley. He took her hand. It was warm, the fingers surprisingly small. Lizzie stared at the ground. "It's odd, isn't it," she said at last, "most of this yard is overgrown with weeds, but here" — she indicated an area the size of a large parking space — "the weeds have retreated."
Morose looked at the bald patch. From a distance came a faint cry: was it a gull, or a cry for help? "Could my sergeant and I use your house to observe this stretch of road one night, ma'am?"
"Only if you stop calling me ma'am. My name's Lizzie," she said, her chocolate almond eyes smiling at the Inspector's embarrassment.
after closing time
"A woman who lives in a church — is she a nun?" inquired Loose, as the two men got into Morose's car after closing time at the Green Barnacle, adding, "I think I'd better drive, sir."
"Don't you get fed up with pineapple juice, Loose?" said Morose. "I was drinking orange juice tonight sir," said Loose. Lizzie made strong black coffee, poured into mugs set on a pine table that looked as old as the church. She was wearing a blue fisherman's jersey and old jeans and looked maddeningly attractive, thought Morose, as he topped up the coffees with a stiffener from his hip flask. Loose declined.
After a while Lizzie went to bed. Morose turned off the lights and posted Loose at a front window while he went into the garden. The night was cloudy and starless.
Before long he heard the lorry, lights dimmed, its load covered by tarpaulin, it drove slowly past the church and up the hill. Morose and Loose followed. They saw the lorry turn down the slip road, heard the engine stop. But when they reached Wheal Nell it had disappeared. "Where can it have gone to, sir?" asked a bewildered Loose. Morose shook his head in amazement. "Damn, Loose, Damn!"
They waited for another moonless night. Morose took Lizzie to lunch at the Green Barnacle. She had lots of friends among the locals. Retired miner Sam Kennard believed in the old superstitions: "Don't go watching for them spook trucks, sir," warned Sam, You want to be careful. The piskies have a fearful hatred of outsiders like yourself."
Lizzie mentioned that since she last met Morose, she had taken soundings on the mine floor. "There's something peculiar, Morose. Although you would expect to get OPP. 4 some hollow readings above a mine, the soundings are consistently hollow where the weeds have stopped growing."
A week later Morose and Loose were entrenched in the dunes above Praa Sands. It was another moonless night. Morose was raising his hip flask when a fishing boat appeared on the waterline. It anchored as close as it could to the beach. "And there's your spook lorry, sir," said Loose grimly as an old wagon drove slowly into view.
Men left the boat and started carrying cases to the lorry. The driver and his mate began unloading their trailer and carrying cases out to the boat. Their faces were hidden by scarves. Then one of the fishermen grew impatient waiting and produced a packet of crisps with a pickled egg. Bryne, thought Morose grimly.
When the lorry was loaded, the boat pulled away. The vehicle turned to face the hill "Quick, Loose," whispered Morose. The two men ran silently to the lorry's tailgate and wriggled under the sheeting.
Through a gap in the tarpaulin, Morose saw that they were driving into the mine. The lorry came to a halt. Now what? Morose was about to suggest getting out when his stomach sank. They were going down! The mine floor had slid apart and they were in a lift going down into the kingdom of tin.
The lift halted. They heard the engine start again and they were driving along a tunnel. The tunnel opened out into a large, dimly-lit cave. The driver and his mate got out and one of them spoke to someone in sarcastic tones. "I see you've gone off your pasties. We'll bring you broccoli tomorrow, we've got plenty of that." Then the pair must have left the cave because their cruel laughter could be heard fading into the tunnel.
Morose and Loose hopped out of the truck. There were two blindfolded men in a corner, chained together by their feet, plates of unfinished pasties before them. "Don't worry, we're police," said Morose.
"Thank God you've come, sir," said Sergeant Johns, wearily extending a hand. "This here is Jed Sercombe from the Vehicle Inspectorate," he added, indicating his lank-haired companion.
In an adjoining cave Loose discovered a distillery. Vodka bottles filled with a clear liquid lined shelves. Morose sampled it. "Mmm, not bad,' he gulped again. But what was in the stuff? He had never tasted anything like this. "Broccoli, sir," said Loose. "Broccoli, Loose?" said Morose incredulously. "Yes, sir, here's the evidence," added Loose, holding up a head of Cornwall's most versatile vegetable.
They helped Sercombe and Johns on to the wagon's trailer and Loose drove uncertainly back up the tunnel. A cursory glance into the cases on the truck had revealed proprietary spirits and tobacco, The lift
mechanism was simple to find. After a false start the lorry began its ascent. Loose drove slowly off the lift platform and the road slid silently closed behind them.
"Not so fast, me 'andsome!" said a voice in Loose's ear. He turned to see a barrel poking through the window. The pair got out to find themselves facing the Green Barnacle's landlord, One-Eyed Jack, and a shorter squint-eyed man. "This is Crookes Tonkin, gentlemen," said One-Eyed Jack, "He got fed up chasing VAT and agreed to help with our vats instead." He laughed uproariously.
So that was it! It was perfect, thought Morose. The Green Barnacle was ideal for disposing of contraband. One-Eyed Jack probably kept some for his customers and sold the rest on. And how useful to have a VAT man involved.
It was a two-way trade. There were stolen loads of spirits and tobacco coming into Cornwall from abroad while the broccoli poteen was being passed off as vodka in foreign bars. "Well, me 'andsomes, you'll shortly be meeting the piskies and then well see about your two chums in the back," said One-Eyed Jack, cocking his rifle.
"Not so fast, Jack!" bellowed a voice out of the darkness. "Throw down that gun or I'll blast your head off!" A small but menacing figure stood in the shadows aiming a barrel at the landlord of the Green Barnacle. Reluctantly, One-Eyed Jack dropped the weapon. Morose picked it up.
Lizzie stepped out of the darkness trembling and laughing. She was holding a broomstick. "It was the best I could do, Inspector," she said, "I don't have a gun."
"But what were you doing there?" said Morose. "You could have been killed."
"The ghosts told me you needed help. Some of them are quite friendly. Especially old Will, he used to be a copper," explained Lizzie,
Returning alone
Morose returned in the spring, alone. Holidays were not his style but, although he hated to admit it, Lizzie had affected him. He drove to the church. It was deserted and there was a For Sale sign.
He stopped at the Green Barnacle. Who, he wondered, would be the new landlord now that One-Eyed Jack was otherwise engaged?
A woman faced him across the bar. "Your usual, Inspector?" said Lizzie. "Well, I'll be damned," said Morose, "Are you ...?"
"Yes, I'm the boss here now," said Lizzie, smiling. "After you left I got tired of being among so many ghosts. I wanted to spend some time with the living for a change."
"You and me both," said Morose wearily, raising his glass.
0 by Patric Cunnane