Malice in Cornwall Read Online Free PDF Page A

the line to a rusted iron ring set into the wall and then looked back down the beach with squinting eyes. There was one more thing he had to do. but it could wait until he'd had a drink.
    Hadn't his grandfather been a fisherman in these waters during the heyday, and his young father a
huer.
directing the boats from the clifftops to the vast shoals of pilchards that had once filled all the bays and coves along the Cornish coast?
“Heva! Heva!”
they'd cry when the fish were spotted, then the boats would encircle the schools with their seines—countless thousands of them flashing silver like precious coins. On a good day they'd haul in a million or more. Then one year, mysteriously, the pilchards vanished, never to return again. Caught by the Frenchies, Tebble reckoned. Nothing left but a few mackerel and sharks for the tourists to catch and the ghosts of once bustling harbors up and down the coast.
    And what about the foreigners that had knacked the mines when the ore ran out with never a thought for Cousin Jack? Now they returned by the thousands every summer like vermin, plugging up the lanes so you couldn't move in the village. (Just last year, one of them had got his car wedged tight in Plover Street, demolishingold Mrs. Vivian's flower boxes and launching her geraniums like red rockets into the street.) They threw their money around as if to mock every Cornishman who'd ever tried to make an honest living in the earth or on the sea. And the only ones to profit by it were the scum that lived off them.
    He drew himself up. But wasn't he a fair-trader, just like them that had gone before him? He spat and grinned slyly. And he had all the time in the world. Or so he thought. Hunched and careful, he made his way up the slime-coated steps.

CHAPTER 3
    The needles of water made her skin tingle. She ran her hands lightly over her breasts and felt the nipples harden. Marvelous little items, she thought; brilliantly utilitarian, exquisitely responsive to both physical and emotional stimuli—not to mention air conditioners—and the latest preoccupation of the fashion world. One went to considerable lengths, it seemed, to deal with erect nipples, either to conceal them or to flaunt them, as the case might be. The last word on the subject was undoubtedly the recent declaration in the
Sunday Times
that it's no longer considered rude to point. Although she didn't feel strongly about it one way or the other, she was prepared to stand up and be counted (she had, after all, no particular interest in discounting potential assets).
    She looked down at the curve of her belly and frowned. Not as flat as it used to be; still, she was thirty-five and had held up pretty well, all things considered. Physical appearance had never been that important to her. but then she supposed she was more fortunate than most in that department. In the end it didn't seem to matter much; shehadn't exactly been lucky in love, and these days she could hardly be bothered.
    But all in all, she was basically content with her life. A small inheritance from her father provided her with almost enough to live on, and she had her writing to sustain her intellectually and creatively, if not yet financially. There were times when she wondered if that rose-covered cottage she longed for wouldn't get a bit lonely during the long winter nights, but she tried not to feel too sorry for herself. She had made certain choices and was prepared to live with them. And besides, she still had a few good innings left.
    She located a minute sliver of soap and began to lather herself vigorously. Suddenly she let out a piercing shriek. “Bloody hell!” In an instant the shower spray had turned from tepid to ice-cold. Swearing creatively between clenched teeth, she fumbled with the knob and eventually managed to staunch the glacial flow. Out of all the guesthouses in Cornwall, how in heaven's name had she ever picked this one? She had been seeking a quiet, seaside setting to get the