Malice in Cornwall by Graham Thomas

was a sudden clumping of boots at the back door and a tall, gangly young man entered the room, his questioning eyes darting from Linda Porter to Powell and then back again. He looked like a schoolboy in need of a holiday.
    She sighed heavily. “Relax, Jim, it's only the cops. Chief Superintendent Powell, meet my husband, Jim of the Jungle.” If this was an inside joke, her husband didn't seem to appreciate it.
    The two men exchanged greetings in a stilted manner, and then Powell took his leave. As he walked next door to pay a social call on Dr. Harris, he could hear the sound of recriminating voices coming from the Porters' cottage.
    Dr. Harris was obviously pleased to see him. “Do come in, Chief Superintendent. Make yourself at home and I'll get us a glass of wine. Not too early for you, I hope?”
    Powell smiled. “Sun's over the yardarm, I think.” One must respect the nautical traditions. A different vintage this time but as usual, the standard of libation at the Harris household was excellent. “I've just had a chat with your neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Porter.”
    Harris raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I see. Nice couple, but one feels a bit sorry for them.”
    “Really?”
    “Well, they've chosen a hard sort of life for themselves, haven't they?”
    “But they
have
chosen it.”
    “Yes, but one wonders … I mean to say, one shouldn'treally say so, but one gets the distinct impression that the whole thing was mostly Jim's idea and he's not really up to the job. Unfortunately, his missus is bearing the brunt of it. I don't suppose it's his fault, really.” Harris smiled. “I fancy he's a bit of a romantic—not at all practical like you and I, Chief Superintendent. The poor chap is not very handy, you see. He'll spend days trying to do a simple repair job on his rotary cultivator while his wife toils away in the fields. I lend a hand whenever I can, but I'm not getting any younger. Believe me, it would be a hard enough life for someone who had the aptitude for it. If it wasn't for Mrs. Porter, I'm sure they'd have packed it in ages ago.”
    “Not exactly a recipe for marital bliss,” Powell observed.
    Harris drained his glass. “I wouldn't know about that. Here, we'd better have another.”
    His glass replenished, Powell took in the panoramic view commanded by Dr. Harris's sitting room window. On an isolated rock at the base of Towey Head a shag was stretching its wings out to dry. To the right he could see all the way round to the village. The wind had freshened and was whipping up storm caps in the bay. A blue-hulled fishing boat, gay with red trim and piled high with lobster pots, was making its way into the harbor. It occurred to Powell that very little of the comings and goings in Pen-rick Bay could escape the attention of Dr. Harris and his antique telescope. He turned to his host. “You know, I think I'd quite fancy a bit of sailing. You mentioned before that you had an Enterprise; do you think I might borrow it for an afternoon?”
    Harris beamed. “I'd be absolutely delighted! Anytime, anytime at all.”
    “Would you be interested in coming along? Do you good.”
    His host shook his head regretfully. “I think not, thanks all the same.” His thoughts seemed elsewhere.
    “Mrs. Porter informs me that she and her husband lease their cottage from Tony Rowlands,” Powell observed casually.
    “He owns most of the properties along the bay, including this one. Bought it all from one of the mining companies years ago.”
    “Tony's done all right for himself.”
    Harris smiled. “There are a few essentials in life, and publicans have the market cornered on one of them.”
    Powell rose to leave. “Well, I'd best be shoving off. Thanks once again.”
    “Not at all, Chief Superintendent; the pleasure has been all mine, I can assure you.”
    As he made his way back to the village along the beach path, Powell had much on his mind: Mrs. Porter, for a start—a bit of a firebrand, that one—and Mr. Porter