Graham Thomas - Malice in Cornwall

The Cornish mists and sea swirl constantly in the background ofMalice in Cornwall, a murder mystery that can also be read as a travel book. When a storm hits the northern coast, with its fierce whirling mixture of rain and sand, I was right there with Chief Superintendent Powell on the beachwhere he discovers something that will make me shudder next time I find myself walking there. Graham Thomas certainly knows how to exploit the air of romance, mystery, and danger that still hovers over Cornwall.

SUSAN ALLEN TOTH
Author of England for All Seasons

Praise for Graham Thomas's
previous novel,
MALICE IN THE HIGHLANDS

Malice in the Highlands is the perfect choice for readers nostalgic for the good old-fashioned British village mystery.

Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

When Detective-Chief Superintendent Erskine Powell's fishing vacation turns into a busman's holiday, it's jolly good reading for traditional British mystery buffs.

Meritorious Mysteries

The moon was large that night and so was she. She had left her friends in the pub and set out alone along the beach humming the latest Beatles tune to herself. The lights of the pub and the din of revelrysnatches of laughter, the faint tintinnabulation of clinking glasses on the patio, and the beat of the musicdwindling in the distance. She thought about her boyfriend back there drinking himself into a stupor. Their romantic weekend at the seaside hadn't exactly turned out that way; he'd be no good at all to her later, but then he wasn't much good at the best of times, and she wasn't into alcohol. Screw him, she was having a gas!

She kicked off her shoes and ran along the beach, heart pounding and the air rushing into her open mouth. Her long hair flew behind her like a white mare's tail in the moonlight. She experienced the sharp texture of sand beneath her feet, the cooling breeze against her skin, the iodine smell of the sea. She spread her arms wide, shafts of golden light emanating from her fingertips, encircling the moon with a writhing aurora. God, I'm stoned! she shouted to anyone who cared to listen.

The sea whispered to her, drawing her closer to the water's edge. The sand had given way to shingle, so she slowed, prancing gingerly amongst the stones; patches of slimy sea wrack squished between her toes and she wished that she had kept her shoes. Her eyes widened. The beach was moving as if a million chitinous creatures were swarming over it and there was an acrid smell in the air. I mustn't freak, she told herself.

She stared in wonder at her body; it was bathed in a suffusive light that seemed to originate beneath her skin, perhaps from the intricate pattern of blue-wire veins she could trace with her finger. The light expanded around her, and she was no longer sure what was inside or outside or whether the distinction even had any meaning.

The waves hissed and clawed at the rocks with white-foam fingers. She could sense the rise and fall of luminous seaweed in the bay and cold eyes searching the deeps. She knew then that she was not alone.

She couldn't understand why she hadn't noticed it before. Shimmering in the moonlight like a fantastic mirror, a large pool filled by the rising tide was now isolated by a circle of rocks jutting up like broken black teeth. She felt as if she were floating above its quicksilver surface. She tried to focus at a point beyond her reflection to see what lay at the heart of it. There was something there, just beyond the limits of her perception, something elusive, ethereal, yet deeply meaningful and transcendent.

After what seemed like hours, an image slowly began to resolve itself beneath the surface of the water. A young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, stared back at her with incredulous eyes, pupils dilated like her own, skin like alabaster, a cloud of dark hair drifting around her face as if softly stirred by her breath. Except how could the girl be breathing?

I'm really tripping now, she thought wonderingly. She moved closer. The girl in the pool was naked, like some lovely mermaid, wearing only a choker, a black satin ribbon encircling her slender neck with an ivory cameo in the center.

She stared at this simple if incongruous adornment, fascinated. The choker was oddly frayed at the edges, and it occurred to her that something was not quite right. She was coming down fast.

She suddenly realized that it wasn't a choker at all, but rather a deep dark gash, the severed trachea exposed like some obscene white hosepipe. The throat had been neatly cut.

They could hear her screaming all the way back at the pub.

Detective-Sergeant William Black slowly mounted the steps of his semidetached house, critically surveying the general state of disrepair. His brow furrowed as he compiled a mental list of the items needing attention, just as he had every day for the past month or so. It was a sad litany of neglect: the rusting wrought-iron railings and the sagging drainpipe, not to mention the peeling paintwork around the door. He really must get on with it, for he knew better than most that little jobs neglected had a habit of becoming big jobs. Tomorrow was his day off, right enough, but he needed to catch up on his reading, and hadn't Muriel said something about the kids coming over? He shook his head sadly. He prided himself on being handy around the house, but between the grandchildren and his studies there hadn't been much spare time lately.

He hung his mac on the coatrack in the hallway and looked into the sitting room. He could hear Muriel hoovering upstairs. The mantel clock was striking six. He consulted his watch and then walked over to the mantel-piece, opened the little glass window on the clock, and moved the minute hand ahead three minutes. Satisfied, he went into the kitchen and out the back door to fetch a cool bottle of ale from the garden shed. He returned to the sitting room, dislodged the cat from his favorite chair, settled himself with a contented sigh, and began reading a dog-eared copy of King Lear.

Muriel came down the stairs a few minutes later lugging the vacuum, the hose draped over her shoulder like Captain Nemo, Black fancied, entwined with a giant squid.

Evenin, love, he rumbled affectionately.

I didn't hear you come in.

Anything I can do?

There's a shepherd's pie in the oven.

Her voice was ever soft, gentle and lowan excellent thing in woman.

She smiled indulgently. Enjoy the peace and quiet while you can. I've got a list of things for you to mend after supper.