An hour or so later, my yellow oilskin lying on the passenger seat (I didn’t dare to remove the elastic holding down the boot lid and pack it in the back), I drove to Truro and my assignation with Pengelly as well as my car’s assignation with the Stockers. As when driving home the evening before, I began going over what I knew, the riverside road once again somehow helping my concentration. This, along with a newfound sense of wellbeing after talking to Sarah, bestowed an enhanced clarity of purpose and the lifting of what had started as a stinking cider-induced hangover, eased away by a longer than usual morning run (a scalding hot bath and the egg white omelette breakfast may also have helped).
Cyrus Flimwell was clearly the ‘T’ in Angel’s note, and I resolved to challenge him on this, especially given what Spider had said. Whether I should go through the formal channels of the institute or not I couldn’t yet decide, but the fact remained that the principal of the school had made advances towards an underage girl who had now been missing for five days.
Then there was the Sepulchre of God Mine. I’d somehow felt closer to Angel as Morwenna, step-by-step, arrived at this strange Cornish translation of Bethadew Well, but her last comment had been deflating (‘so they’re not the same Jack. Dunno why I went on so about it’). I tutted to myself ‘you’ve succumbed to wishful thinking again Sangster, it’s a red herring’. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help wondering…
*
“Ah, Mr Sangster,” said Pete Stocker, as I pulled up in front of the shed that was ‘Stocker’s Body Shop – all makes catered for’. “Bob’ll be along any time now I shouldn’t wonder.”
“When shall I come to collect it,” I said, handing him the keys.
“Two o’clock I’d say. Ted,” he called into the shed, “when do you think he should come and collect it?”
“Two o’clock sounds about right,” echoed the reply from within.
“There, we’re all in agreement,” beamed Pete (I couldn’t quite see how they knew when they would finish, given there was no sign of Bob turning up with the parts, but said nothing).
“Hey,” shouted Ted, “you hear about the Cassandra last night?”
“I was there, with your cousin David.”
“David alright, is he? Heard it got a bit wild.”
“Yes, he’s fine. Mrs Stocker rescued us, just as it started getting really bad.”
“Ah, bloody fine woman, Mabel, salt of the earth.”
“She certainly saved our bacon last night. Anyway, I’ll see you at two. Take a cheque?”
“Cash if you wouldn’t mind.”
*
I stepped out of Martins Bank onto Boscowen Street, Truro’s cobbled main thoroughfare. Patting my inside jacket pocket to make sure the wad of notes I’d just withdrawn was secure, I felt the large bag of silver coins in my trouser pocket (changed up with the bank teller for phone calls) rubbing uncomfortably. Cathedral Lane didn’t seem to be in the immediate vicinity, so I walked for at least ten minutes around some back roads towards the spires that rose up behind the parades of shops, eventually finding myself in front of an imposing triple-towered gothic building that proclaimed itself, on a large white sign outside the main gate:
Cathedral of the Blessed Virgin Mary – See notice board for service times
‘Cathedral Lane’, said a street sign on the corner of a narrow alley opposite and, turning into it, I saw the Three Spires Café, halfway down on the left. Good timing, I thought, as the cathedral clock chimed eleven times.
Pengelly was already there, waving to me from a secluded alcove, where he sat hunched, a solitary cup in front of him and a maroon leather attaché case leaning against his chair leg. I explained to a waitress that I was meeting the man in the corner and ordered a coffee.
“Morning, Pengelly, I just asked for a coffee. Did you want anything else?” He shook his head. “You managed to get away early last night?”
“That’s right, cycled home straight after I spoke to you.”
“You missed the fun then?”
“Didn’t sound like too much fun to me, pub burning down. Nobody hurt, was there?”
“No, nobody hurt by the fire,” I said solemnly, wondering how many had been hurt by the police baton charge.
“God be blessed.”
“Coffee sir?”
“Thank you,” I said, as Pengelly, apparently oblivious to the waitress’s presence, placed his head in his hands and then laid his head down, cheek to one side, on the table.
“Sit up, Pengelly.” I tapped him on the shoulder, speaking as quietly as I could. “And please, tell me what’s troubling you.”
“Remember our talk in the taproom the other night?” I nodded. “Well, I tried to do the right thing as you said, and it got me nowhere.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve been used, Sangster, used. You saw Slevin with that Polkinghorne bloke, didn’t you?” I nodded again. “Won’t be made a fool of,” he then muttered, resting his head back on the table.
“What did you ask me here for?”
“Very well,” he sighed, sitting upright once more, to the interest of several other customers who glanced sideways at us until I caught their eyes. “I need to let you know everything I know.”
“Then you’d better have another cup of coffee, excuse me.”
“Yes sir?”
“Two more coffees please.” I turned back to Pengelly. “And we’ve plenty of time. I’m not going anywhere right now because my car’s being fixed.”
Once the cups were brought, Pengelly related a story that only a week before would have seemed to me outlandish in the extreme. Very soon after he had begun teaching at the academy, he said, Angel had piqued his curiosity. Her interest in everything, her ability to absorb knowledge, all the exceptional attributes I’d heard about from her friends and teachers, all those that Pengelly had already told me he admired so much.
But it was when he held a lecture at the academy on the legend of Jesus in Cornwall that his bond with Angel really began. His ideas had mainly been met with derision, the gifted children tearing his arguments into shreds, to the point he had stopped the lecture and stormed out of the room. Angel had followed, telling him she wanted to know more and that she had already begun to formulate her own ideas from this single, unfinished lecture.
Angel then showed Pengelly the dagger she had found but, despite his insistence, refused to hand it over to him for analysis. Pengelly nevertheless became very excited after this one glimpse of the dagger, as the blade’s markings (which he couldn’t translate but recognised as probably first century AD), might just provide the first concrete evidence he’d seen of a connection between Roseland and the Holy Land at the time of Christ.
Over the coming days, Pengelly had spent more time with Angel, giving her access to books at the cathedral and Truro town libraries, even organising for her to spend the day at the Reading Room of the British Museum. And it was there, by chance, as she thought, but actually engineered by Pengelly, that Angel first met Slevin, who also specialised in first century Judea and had long suspected Christ’s body had been hidden somewhere in the southwest of England. Slevin immediately realised that Angel was something special and, given the right resources, would stand a better chance of getting to the truth than the most eminent archaeologist or biblical scholar. He then set about using his charms to influence her.
It worked, and she became infatuated with the priest, communicating with him regularly by telegram as to her progress.
“And, as you know, Sangster, Slevin didn’t just use his charms on Angel,” said Pengelly with a sniff. “Told me almost straight off he had explicit instructions from the highest level to make sure our Lord’s earthly remains would never come to light. Told me I was special and that he wouldn’t have confided in anyone else.”
In fact, such was the sway Slevin held over him, despite knowing the priest was intending to cover up any discoveries, the canon organised a goodwill visit so that Slevin could come to Truro at the invitation of the bishop. What Pengelly hadn’t known was that Angel, who never fully explained her thinking to him, was now very close to finding the tomb, and had already told Slevin everything she knew.
The cathedral clock chimed twelve, and Pengelly stopped talking to listen to it.
“Angel loved the cathedral as well, Sangster. Seemed fascinated by the idea of a cruciform church.”
“That just means cross shaped, doesn’t it?” He shook his head.
“Not quite, if we’re talking very technically about church architecture. It’s where the chancel’s at an angle, like the head of Christ.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Alright,” said Pengelly. “You got a pen?” I handed him a biro, and he began to sketch a cross on his paper napkin. “All churches, or most traditional ones anyway, are built in the shape of a cross, yes?”
“I suppose so, I never really—”
“And the top of that cross has to face east, towards Jerusalem.”
“If you say so.”
“The long part at the bottom is called the nave, this cross part is the transept, and the head is the chancel, which here I’ve drawn as straight up from the nave.” I nodded. “Now then, have you ever imagined yourself crucified, Sangster?”
“Er, no.”
“Well, you’d be nailed to a cross, both hands or wrists, and your feet or ankles as well.”
“I suppose I would.”
“But not your neck or head, so what would happen?” I said nothing. “Your head would loll to one side, wouldn’t it?”
“Almost certainly.” I wasn’t sure whether to grimace or laugh, so tried to do neither.
“So,” he said solemnly (it seemed I had successfully contained my emotions), crossing out his straight chancel and replacing it with one at an angle. “Some churches, like this cathedral in Truro, are built cruciform to reflect the true posture of our Lord on the cross.”
“I see.”
“And this fascinated Angel no end.” He handed me the napkin. “You can keep this if you like.”
“Thank you.” I folded it up and put it in my pocket, next to the wad of notes for the car.
“And there was this.” He reached for the attaché case by his chair and opened it, carefully lifting out a cardboard folder and laying it on the table with both hands.
“It’s a map of the River Fal, from the twelfth century.” He opened the folder to reveal a map, drawn on what looked like some kind of parchment rather than paper with two dark furrows down and across the middle, presumably where it had for a long time been folded into four. The material was yellowed with age, the ink lines and script faded so that in places they were almost invisible. Nevertheless, I immediately recognised the outline of the estuary, not drawn to scale, but still clearly showing the main body of the Carrick Roads and the various inlets and creeks that branched off it. Across each of these branches was a dotted line connecting one bank to the other. The map title, written in a sweeping script, simply stated:
‘Ferry transitibus fluvii Fal’
“Well, I recognise the ‘Ferry’ and the ‘Fal’ bits anyway.”
“It merely says ‘Ferry crossings of the River Fal’. And this is old, look at the date.” ‘Tregony Augusti Prioratus MIIX Anno Domini’ was written in a spidery hand at the bottom right-hand corner. “But it’s not any kind of esoteric document, more a kind of road atlas for people wanting to travel around the area. Ferry crossings would have saved hours, perhaps even a whole day back then.”
“I used King Harry Ferry yesterday. Saved twenty-six miles.”
“There you have it.”
Pengelly sipped his coffee again, jumping back when a droplet landed on the map, then pointed to a river inlet above the date in the corner. ‘Flumen Percuil’ was written along it, where a dotted line ran from the St Mawes side to St Anthony, but at an angle, well upriver from the current landing stage by the academy.
“Your friend Pasco discovered this map tucked inside the cover of another book.”
“Yes,” I said, remembering Pasco’s triumphant entry into the hotel bar the previous Saturday. “He told me all about it.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure Angel found it before him.”
“How’s that?”
“Just a throw-away line but makes sense now.”
“What was?”
“We were waiting by the landing stage, and she pointed upriver. ‘Joseph’s Pill’ she said, almost to herself. Seemed meaningless but look here.”
At the point on the map where the line from St Mawes met the St Anthony bank, faint script that read ‘Joseph flumen’ could just be made out.
“I don’t follow.”
“This says Joseph’s river, or river of Joseph.”
“She said ‘Pill’ though, so it’s a bit tenuous.” I felt Pengelly was making a jump too far. “Especially as you don’t know for sure Angel saw this map.”
“Perhaps,” he said, replacing the parchment in its folder then placing it gently back in the attaché case.
“But about Slevin, shouldn’t you have said something to the authorities?”
“I had no idea he might abduct her,” Pengelly said, once again placing his head in his hands. “No idea at all, how could I?”
“Didn’t it seem a bit odd, when we were talking the other evening in the taproom, when I’d first heard Angel was missing.”
“Looking back now, yes, but I was blinded by, well… love, Sangster. I’ve been such a fool.”
“You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “But when did you realise?”
“Yesterday. Slevin, well, he didn’t care. Told me he had the girl, and that I’d outgrown my usefulness, then said…” Pengelly sniffed again, whether in despair or rage I couldn’t tell. “I was a bore and that he wanted a man who he actually fancied. There, I’ve said it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I suppose he didn’t say where he’s holding the girl?”
“Near the academy, that’s all I know.”
“In the grounds?”
“No, definitely outside the walls, but near.”
“But you think she’s alive?”
“He didn’t say otherwise.”
We then sat sipping our coffee in silence for some time and, hearing the cathedral clock chime the half hour, I realised we’d now been together for around ninety minutes.
“I’m going to have to go soon but, Pengelly, I’ll ask again. Why didn’t you tell me earlier, or anyone else for that matter?” He rubbed his face, then looked directly at my eyes.
“Alright, there was another reason.” I gestured for him to tell me. “In fact, I was still in two minds this morning, because, well, you don’t know Slevin.”
“I’m beginning to know him.”
“Remember Leviticus.”
“Er…”
“The passage in the Bible I quoted, bit about men with men being an abomination.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, Slevin remembered it as well. Quoted chapter and verse to me and told me he’d speak to the bishop if I said anything.”
“The blackmailer’s law still going strong,” I laughed ruefully. “And you weren’t tempted to say something anyway?”
“My official title’s ‘Canon Pastor and Priest-in-charge, Tresillian and Penkevil, and Rural Dean of Powder’. Bit of a mouthful I know, but I’d have lost everything I’ve worked for.”
“What changed your mind?”
“When I saw Slevin last night, brazen with another man. He knew I was going to be at the Cassandra, so I guess he just wanted to taunt me.”
“Okay,” I said, standing up. “I need to be getting on. I’m going to call the police straight away, and then I’ll be going down to the academy as soon as my car’s ready. You?”
“Yes, I’ll come down there as well. Later in the afternoon. Help any way I can.”
“I’ll see you later then,” I said, placing some cash on the table. “And again, don’t blame yourself, and I’m sorry it turned out this way.”
“Oh, but I do blame myself, Sangster. If anything happens to that girl, I’ll never…” There seemed nothing more to say, so I walked away, and passing a mirror, saw that Pengelly had placed his head back in his hands and laid his cheek down on the table once again.
The entire café was now staring.
*
The narrow strip of sky visible from Cathedral Lane was beginning to look angry when I emerged into the fresh air, and I remembered Morwenna’s warning.
‘There’s a weather front coming in fast, and ’e’s a nasty one.’
Then I remembered another warning, or more accurately a prediction. ‘Next week, Friday late afternoon I’d reckon’, was the date and time of day I would need to use my new oilskins according to the tramp. How could he have known, I wondered, but then thought his prediction no odder than a cask of ale providing a weather forecast. This was Cornwall after all.
And whether by luck or design, both the ale and the tramp were right, with the wind rising so that I pulled up my collar before continuing on down the lane. After a few steps walking against this wind, I was once again in Boscowen Street, smiling to think that the bottom of the lane was actually only a few yards from the bank where I’d started. Then I shook myself, having found Pengelly’s emotions hard to deal with, and wanting to get my mind focused on finding Angel. It seemed ironic that Pengelly, for all his religious ethics, had only given up details that might save a young girl’s life when he felt romantically slighted. ‘Hell hath no fury like a canon scorned’ I whispered to the wind as I walked.
Arriving at the broad expanse of Lemon Quay, where the head of the Truro River met the town, I passed a fish and chip shop wittily named ‘The Lemon Sole Plaice’ and looked above it to see a window with red curtains drawn across. I wondered if Bob Stocker’s Rita was at home, perhaps resting while her every-other-day boyfriend was on family duty in Plymouth. Down the river, the clouds to the southwest were now darkening and, pulling my collar further up around my neck, I squeezed into a call box next to the quay before taking out my bag of coins.
*
“Truro police, WPC Woon speaking, how may I help?”
“Hello, yes, Ana?”
“Jack, you survived last night.”
“Just about.”
“Good. I’ve got copies of those telegrams from Mum by the way. They make interesting reading. You could drop into the station.”
“You’re in Truro, not at the academy incident room then?”
“No, chief super closed it up just before twelve this morning, shut for the weekend, so I’m working out of Truro. Could come down later if you need me?”
“Don’t worry, right now I just need you to tell Pentreath to put out, what do you call it, an APB?”
“A what?”
“All Points Bulletin.”
“I think that’s American, Jack.”
“Well, the English for one of those anyway. You’re looking for a Monsignor Jude Slevin, if that’s his real name.” I gave her a full description, and the background of his being seconded to study at the cathedral. “The bishop and his people may have more details, so you definitely need to get in touch with them.”
“Anything else?”
“Slevin rides a black Triumph Bonneville.”
“Number plate?”
“Sorry, meant to note it down but didn’t.”
“Anyone you can think of might know?”
“Perhaps Morwenna Poldhu, landlady at the Watersmeet would.”
“Okay Jack, I’ll check all that out.”
“He should be arrested on sight. Knows where Angel is.”
“She’s alive?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ll get right onto it.”
“And Ana…” My voice trailed off as my mind struggled to take everything in.
“You sound worried Jack.”
“Just make sure…” I shivered and tried to collect my thoughts. “You let the powers that be know that Slevin may be very dangerous.”
*
“Hello, Velinda, yes, Jack here… can you find Spider… yes… Simon Founds, that’s right… probably in the study room or his dormitory… yes, I’ll hold.”
I waited several minutes, then heard Spider’s distinctive voice shout through the receiver.
“Mr Sangster?”
“Here.”
“Look, we haven’t finished translating.”
“We?”
“I roped Jonny in. Needed Koine Greek as well as Aramaic translation. She’d done a triple translation, with Greek as the intermediary cipher, it’s—”
“Who did a whatsit… a triple translation, Angel?”
“Yes.”
“How long then?”
“Another few hours.”
“Alright, I’ll come around five, that okay?”
“Sure, and, Mr Sangster, if we’re reading Angel’s notes right, this is, well… I can’t believe it, Mr Sangster.”
“Tell me when I see you and put Velinda back on the line would you.”
“Who?”
“Prinny, get Prinny for me.”
“Right.”
I heard the receiver clatter as he handed it over.
“Jack, what’s happening, what have you got our Simon Founds doing?”
“I’m going to need to talk to you, this afternoon.”
“About Angel Blackwood?”
“Sort of. It’s Cyrus, I need to know a few things.” I heard her let out a short cry as her husband’s name was mentioned.
“Yes Jack, I understand. What time will you be here?”
“Perhaps four.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
*
“Yes, Sir John, I’m close to the truth, I think. You should come down.”
“Impossible today, Sangster, but as soon as I can.”
“Okay. And Flimwell?”
“What’s that?”
“Cyrus Flimwell. You were going have the team to do some background checks.”
“Ah yes. Came back clean as a whistle. No form at all.”
“That’s good to hear I suppose. And, Sir John?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need to make an insurance claim.” I explained that the car had been broken into but decided not to go into detail about the submarine at this point.
“Vandals and petty thieves everywhere, Sangster. What’s the damage for the repair?”
“About seventy pounds.”
“Phhh…” I heard him splutter. “Now then, the local rozzers,” he went on after a moment’s sniffing, changing the subject in his customary manner. “They still performing alright?”
“I think so, yes.”
“And you, Sangster, you say you’re close to finding her, well how close?”
“Perhaps today, but no promises.”
“Leave you to it then.” I heard the receiver click after which the line went dead.
*
“Putting you through now.”
“Thanks Joyce.” I waited as the phone clicked several times.
“Jack. Glad you called back. Look, is everything alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine. On a case for a missing girl though—”
“That girl on the news?”
“Angel Blackwood, if that’s who you mean.”
“Yes, but anyway, I did get a hit on your Monsignor.”
“And?”
“They said ‘person of interest’, and not to be approached under any circumstances.”
“Oh.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound much, Jack, but in intelligence circles it means something.”
“Does it, Phil?”
“Definitely. Wanted to know more from me, and I avoided giving your name, but they’ll put two and two together. Look Jack, these are serious people, and er… how do I put this?”
“Phil?”
“Well, it sounds dramatic, but people playing at that level sometimes disappear.”
“Come on, Phil,” I said with a laugh, while at the same time feeling a cold chill down the back of my neck.
“I’m serious, Jack. Anyway, who is this man Slevin?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Well, you take very good care of yourself while you’re doing it, Jack.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
“And I hope you find your girl.”
*
“Morwenna…,” I heard the phone pips then a click and a familiar ‘hello’. “Yes, it’s Jack.”
“Everything alright, my lover, you sound a little, well, flustered.”
“Oh, fine thanks, just in a bit of a mad dash. Look, is Sue Driver still staying with you?”
“Oh yes, booked in tonight and tomorrow.”
“Can you give her a message for me?”
“Course. She likes you, that Sue.”
“Good, but look, tell her this please. Have you a pen?”
“Hang on… alright.”
“If she promises not to print anything about her Cornish coelacanth yet, I might be able to give her the scoop of the year.”
“Have I got that right?” said Morwenna, reading the message back to me, with the two of us spelling out the word coelacanth twice.
“Perfect.”
“Jack?” Her voice was for the second time that day, uncharacteristically sombre. “Are you alright?”
“I think so.”
“Well take care, because I’ve had a bad feeling about things today, ever since I couldn’t get those beer pumps to work. Come back safe and sound. I always need my boys back here safe and sound.”