holiday in August. No answer came and he was deterred for a while. Then Ventura sent him to Cornwall to interview a man the Cornish police were holding on suspicion of his being involved in a bank robbery in Kingsmarkham. William Raw was taking refuge with his mother in St Austell when he was arrested and, with the interview fixed for the following morning, Wexford would have a free late afternoon and evening. Port Ezra was no more than seven miles away along the coast towards Plymouth.
It was now or never. This was a long-distance call, costly and not to be made lightly. He could have done it from the police station but too many of his colleagues did that sort of thing and he wasn't going to. Presumably, she lived with her parents. Most young girls did then and most young men too. But it was she who answered, her voice not quite what he had hoped for. What kind of a snob was he that he was daunted by a Cornish burr?
'I'd like to meet you,' she said. 'Could you come about six? Mum and Dad will be home by then.'
Meeting her parents wasn't part of his plan but he made enthusiastic noises and said he would like to take her out to dinner. Was there a restaurant nearby?
'Not in Port Ezra,' she said and she giggled. 'There's the Pomeroy Arms but that's just for drink.' It was long before the days when pubs did food. 'You could have supper here with us.'
He said he'd be with her by six. That giggle was another point against her but he castigated himself for his rigidity.
Port Ezra was a strange name, he said to his landlady before he left the boarding house where he and DC Bryson were staying. Not so strange for Cornwall, she said, where they had Cairo and Indian Queens, transliterations from the old Cornish language. The nearest English equivalent to Medora's home town was Port Ezra, so that was how it was known.
He and Bryson had come to St Austell by train. They had no car at their disposal. He took the bus that followed the coast road to Port Ezra and beyond. It was less a town than a village with two shops and a pub, a dour grey church, white cottages with fuchsia hedges in full red and purple blossom, newest bungalows in its half-dozen streets leading off the cliff road and a magnificent view of dark blue sea pierced by jagged black rocks like a thousand islands. Number 14 Denis Road was one of the bungalows. The small car called the Mini had been on sale in Britain for a year or two, in just two colours at first, pale blue and red, and the Holland's had a red one standing on their driveway. Now he was outside the house Wexford hadn't the least idea as to what he would say. 'I did but see her passing by, and yet I love her till I die' would hardly serve as an opening move with her mother or father.
But it was she herself who opened the door.
'So here you are then,' she said in a broad Cornish accent, a burr as thick as a television actor might have with a part in Jamaica Inn. 'I never thought you'd actually come.'
He had to remind himself that he had a Sussex accent. For years he had thought he spoke the Queen's English, pure BBC, and then he had heard a recording made of his own voice and been disillusioned.
'Anyway, come on in,' she said.
She was wearing dark green trousers that they called slacks then and a low-cut green floral blouse. The clothes didn't suit the girl he had previously seen in tight-waited full-skirted pink. His mother would have thought that blouse daring and even close on indecent. But her skin was perfect and her dark hair as glossy as satin. By this time he had been in dozens of strangers' living rooms and there was nothing out of the ordinary in this one, from the flying china mallards on the wall to the beige uncut coquette three-piece suite. Perhaps there were rather more framed photographs than usual. And which parent owned the Complete Works of Byron sitting among the cookery books and the Dennis Wheatleys? It comforted him to
It was now or never. This was a long-distance call, costly and not to be made lightly. He could have done it from the police station but too many of his colleagues did that sort of thing and he wasn't going to. Presumably, she lived with her parents. Most young girls did then and most young men too. But it was she who answered, her voice not quite what he had hoped for. What kind of a snob was he that he was daunted by a Cornish burr?
'I'd like to meet you,' she said. 'Could you come about six? Mum and Dad will be home by then.'
Meeting her parents wasn't part of his plan but he made enthusiastic noises and said he would like to take her out to dinner. Was there a restaurant nearby?
'Not in Port Ezra,' she said and she giggled. 'There's the Pomeroy Arms but that's just for drink.' It was long before the days when pubs did food. 'You could have supper here with us.'
He said he'd be with her by six. That giggle was another point against her but he castigated himself for his rigidity.
Port Ezra was a strange name, he said to his landlady before he left the boarding house where he and DC Bryson were staying. Not so strange for Cornwall, she said, where they had Cairo and Indian Queens, transliterations from the old Cornish language. The nearest English equivalent to Medora's home town was Port Ezra, so that was how it was known.
He and Bryson had come to St Austell by train. They had no car at their disposal. He took the bus that followed the coast road to Port Ezra and beyond. It was less a town than a village with two shops and a pub, a dour grey church, white cottages with fuchsia hedges in full red and purple blossom, newest bungalows in its half-dozen streets leading off the cliff road and a magnificent view of dark blue sea pierced by jagged black rocks like a thousand islands. Number 14 Denis Road was one of the bungalows. The small car called the Mini had been on sale in Britain for a year or two, in just two colours at first, pale blue and red, and the Holland's had a red one standing on their driveway. Now he was outside the house Wexford hadn't the least idea as to what he would say. 'I did but see her passing by, and yet I love her till I die' would hardly serve as an opening move with her mother or father.
But it was she herself who opened the door.
'So here you are then,' she said in a broad Cornish accent, a burr as thick as a television actor might have with a part in Jamaica Inn. 'I never thought you'd actually come.'
He had to remind himself that he had a Sussex accent. For years he had thought he spoke the Queen's English, pure BBC, and then he had heard a recording made of his own voice and been disillusioned.
'Anyway, come on in,' she said.
She was wearing dark green trousers that they called slacks then and a low-cut green floral blouse. The clothes didn't suit the girl he had previously seen in tight-waited full-skirted pink. His mother would have thought that blouse daring and even close on indecent. But her skin was perfect and her dark hair as glossy as satin. By this time he had been in dozens of strangers' living rooms and there was nothing out of the ordinary in this one, from the flying china mallards on the wall to the beige uncut coquette three-piece suite. Perhaps there were rather more framed photographs than usual. And which parent owned the Complete Works of Byron sitting among the cookery books and the Dennis Wheatleys? It comforted him to
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