Malice in Cornwall by Graham Thomas

repeated, as the stuff would wash off when the body drifted out with the tide again. Unless …”
    “Yes?”
    “When I know for certain, I'll tell you.”
    Sir Reggie smiled carnivorously. “I suppose I deserved that. In any case, it is a bit of a puzzler, and it gets even more interesting.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Fixing the time of death is not an exact science at the best of times; I sometimes think that black magic is a better description of the process involved. Nonetheless, it's my opinion that your Riddle has been dead for longer than it might appear at first glance. Corpses basically decompose in two ways,” he went on to explain, “from the autolytic action of the body's own enzymes and from putrefaction caused by bacteria escaping the digestive tract. Immersion in cold seawater and limited exposure to sunlight has evidently slowed the rate of decomposition in this case. A superficial examination of the body would suggest a period of perhaps seven or eight days since the time of death. However, if one confined one's attention to the condition of the internal organs, which are pretty fargone, one would be persuaded to place the time of death considerably earlier, fourteen to sixteen days ago, perhaps.”
    “I'm given to understand that the mean ocean temperature off Cornwall at this time of year is about forty-five degrees,” Powell observed.
    “The rate of decomposition slows considerably below fifty degrees, still …” Sir Reggie frowned. “It's almost as if the bloody thing has been partially embalmed in some fashion. And from the outside in, which is not the usual way of doing things.”
    Curiouser and curiouser. Then Powell remembered how he'd been struck by the absence of a strong odor when he'd first examined the body. He mentioned the fact to Sir Reggie.
    The pathologist nodded. “That fits, although it's getting bloody ripe now. I can tell you. In any case, I've ordered some tests. I'll let you know if I come up with anything earthshaking.”
    “What about the legs? Dr. Harris thought that they'd been amputated with a saw.”
    Sir Reggie laughed uproariously, as if this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. “Your Dr. Harris is a very astute chap,” he said, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief and sending the flotsam and jetsam that had comprised Powell's sample flying in all directions. “The majority of his conclusions were substantially correct, but on that particular point he was dead wrong. Sharks probably chewed ‘em off first, then the abrasive action of the sand finished the job. smoothing off the ends of the femurs as the body moved up and down the beach withthe changing tides. So the culprit is not a hacksaw, but rather a piece of sandpaper. Ha ha!”
    Powell and Black looked at each other.
    Sir Reggie consulted his watch. “Now, then, my train leaves at three twenty-four. If you drop me off at the station now, I'll have time for a quick snooze. And I'd advise you chaps to hop to it; you've got your work cut out for you.”
    Powell was on the verge of mentioning the woman reported drowned off Torquay, but decided he'd better wait until he'd seen the official coastguard report. For the time being, he preferred to let Sir Reggie work things out for himself.
    As they sped along the A30 past prosperous-looking farms, it occurred to Powell that they had more on their plates than they'd originally bargained for. Not murder, perhaps, but something very peculiar nonetheless. And nothing they had learned so far was inconsistent with the conclusion that it was in fact the Riddle of Penrick lying on a slab in the Treliske Hospital morgue. He turned to Sergeant Black. “As soon as we get back, I'm going to have a word with that fisherman of yours, Colin what's-his-name?”
    “Wilcox, sir.”
    “Right. Tell me, what do make of Sir Reggie's revelations?”
    Black frowned. “I think if we can figure out the
why
, the
how
will fall into place, sir. I keep thinking about what Wilcox