MORGAN HAD JUST dropped into the seat of her unmarked white Ford estate when her mobile buzzed. It was early Friday afternoon. She didn’t recognize the number on the tiny screen.
“What?” she barked.
“Is that Detective Inspector Davies?”
“Is that who you called?”
“Um…yes.”
“Then who the hell else would it be?”
She heard a chuckle. “Good point, Inspector. This is Roderick Nelson at Lloyds, St. Ives. I have something I can show you, privately, but cannot deliver to you. Not yet, anyway.”
“What is it?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Morgan was weary. The Rhys-Jones interview had emptied her.
“I’m just in Camborne. I can be there in about a half hour. Do you suppose you might have a decent coffee waiting for me? I’ve missed lunch.”
Nelson laughed. “How about a latte from Mt. Zion Coffee, just down the street?”
“Make it a double.”
NELSON LED HER through to a private anteroom behind his office on the High Street, just above the harbor. There was a coffee waiting for her in a tall paper cup with the café’s logo on the side. Containers of cream and packets of sugar sat beside it. Also, a wrapped sandwich.
She grabbed the coffee, black, took a sip and sputtered.
“Jesus, that’s hot!”
“I timed your arrival.”
She settled into a tufted leather chair beside Nelson’s desk and summoned up her occasionally gracious alter-ego: “Thank you, Mr. Nelson. This is much appreciated. It’s already been a long day…and the night before as well, for that matter. I envy your regular hours.”
“Not as regular as you might think.”
She regarded him: Nelson was a broad-shouldered, trim man of, she reckoned, about forty. Not tall, but he had a presence. His longish ash blond hair had flecks of gray at the temples, but was well groomed. His eyes, she noticed, were green as the rare Serpentine rock carved by jewelers on the Lizard Peninsula on the Channel coast. Handsome devil, she thought. He wore no ring. She had a bite of the sandwich. It was crab salad, a second treat in two days. She ate more and had more coffee.
“I’m reviving. Thank you, Mr. Nelson. Thank you very much.”
“Please, it’s Rod.”
“Right then: it’s Morgan, and don’t ask me what kind of name that is for a woman.”
“I like it. It’s strong.”
Morgan softened and smiled. “While this is quickly becoming a lovely social visit and a much-needed respite, which I confess is a nice change, you said you had something to show me…”
Nelson sat back and smiled. “Yes. I do. But sharing it with you without a warrant is, frankly, well beyond my authority. Yet I appreciate the urgency of your case.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“I have here a copy of Mary Trevean’s will. I obtained it from her lawyer in town because, together, we have to settle her estate. The will was drawn up after the death of her husband. I’m going to show you just one page, the page that identifies her beneficiaries. I cannot yet reveal the rest and should not be revealing even this. For the full document to be used as evidence, I must ask you to obtain a warrant.”
“I understand. I’ll get one.”
“Mary Trevean had no children.”
“Okay.”
He slid the document across his desk and pointed to a paragraph on the second page.
Morgan blinked and read the lines twice.
Mary Trevean’s sole beneficiaries were Alice and Eldridge Biggins.
She sat back and looked at the ceiling.
“What do you think,” she said finally, “is the value of her properties?”
Nelson shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not qualified to determine that. I’m not a property agent. But with London finance millionaires buying up and renovating every abandoned building or barn in Cornwall, and the fact that she had three income-generating rentals, I should guess it to be a very great deal. As for the rest of her financial assets, I cannot yet reveal that information.”
Morgan stared through him for a moment and then connected with his green eyes.
“Which is to say that Eldridge Biggins’s money problems would be over with Mary’s death, yes?”
Nelson fiddled with a pen on his desk.
“Yes, I should think so,” he said when he finally looked up. “When you get me a warrant, and with her lawyer’s approval, I’ll release the entire will and her investment portfolio, which we also manage. Until then, I have told you nothing. Are we clear?”
“If I lived near St. Ives, you’d be my banker, Rod. Thank you for trusting me with this information. And thank you for lunch. The crab was splendid.”
He stood and took her hand in both of his. His eyes were bright. “I am delighted to have met you, Morgan. I hope you will not be a stranger.”
“Do you flirt with all your visitors, Rod?”
“No Morgan, just one.”
THANKS TO AN overturned lorry blocking the A30 at the roundabout just north of Redruth, traffic was being re-routed through minor lanes never designed for such a load. More than an hour later she decided to skip stopping at the Bodmin Hub and was just pulling into the car park at the Blisland Inn when her mobile came to life.
“Bloody hell,” she cursed. But she could not ignore the caller.
“Evening, Sir.”
“Calum’s got some new evidence. MCIT meeting in Bodmin at nine tomorrow?”
“Was that a question?”
“Certainly not.” She thought she heard him chuckle before he rang off.
She’d just found a small table in the cozy bar at the Blisland Inn, her new local, and was about get up and order at the bar when the burly landlord, Garry Ronan, appeared at her side with a pint of Keltic ale, her favorite. He bowed and placed the jar on the table.
“Will you be dining with us tonight, my queen?”
Fact was, Morgan fancied Ronan, but she tried to keep a straight face.
“You think I came here for your company, do you, Garry? What’s passably edible tonight in this establishment?”
“I can offer some luscious and tender crab cakes, madam, with fresh baby salad greens and a lime and tarragon dressing.”
“Had crab for lunch.”
“Did you, then? Didn’t know you traveled in such circles.”
“Go on, Garry, I’m a bangers and mash sort of girl, as if you didn’t already know.”
“We can do that for you tonight, Morgan.”
“Get on it, then, before I fall away to a ton from starvation!”
Ronan leaned down and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Another long day, luv?”
She put her hand on his. “They all are, Garry…”
“Right then, bangers and mash with peas coming up. Another pint?”
She smiled. “Yes. And soon, please.”
Ronan was her “landlord” in more ways than one. She also rented her fully furnished home from him. But there were nights, and this was one of them, when she just wanted to stay right where she was, at the Inn, in Garry’s company. A line from a Wordsworth poem she’d learned in school came to her: When from our better selves we have too long been parted, how gracious, how benign is Solitude… She wasn’t sure she had a “better self,” but as time went on she’d begun to long for company. Solitude was fine, loneliness was quite another thing altogether.
Ronan arrived with her dinner, a steaming plate of mashed potatoes topped with two crisply grilled local pork sausages smothered in caramelized onions, and peas as fresh and green as a meadow in late afternoon sun. He also set down a fresh pint.
“Do you live here, Garry? I mean above the inn.”
“I do. Why?”
She stared at her plate. “Nothing. No reason. Just curious. Thank you for your attentive hospitality.”
Ronan bowed slightly again. “Could be a good bit more than attentive, Morgan, if you’d permit me.”
She looked up.
“I might, just…one day.”
“What?”
“Permit you.”
Ronan blinked. Twice. She liked that she’d confused him.
“Now attend to your other customers and let me eat in peace.”