The Valley of the Shadow: out at last!

by Carola Dunn

The Valley of the Shadow came out last week. It is an Indie bookseller pick and on the USA TODAY Books: New and Noteworthy list.

 Here's a scene where my chief protagonist, Eleanor Trewynn, is trying to discover where the victims may have been abandoned to die:

 

The Tregeddles' cottage opened directly onto the narrow street. A large grey cat was asleep in the sun on the slate windowsill, its tail hanging down. The tip twitched. Teazle was usually very good with cats, but this was too much for her.

Barking, she reared up against the wall, dancing on her back legs. The cat whisked its tail away just in time and stood up, back arched, hissing and spitting. Naturally this incited Teazle to further frenzy.

As Eleanor pulled her away, the front door swung open.

"What the...!?" The small, wiry, weatherbeaten man recognized Eleanor. "Oh, it's you, Mrs. Trewynn. Sounded like there was an Alsatian going for our Smoky. Quite a voice your little un's got, hasn't she?" He bent down and scratched under Teazle's chin. By now the Westie's rear end was wagging madly, while the cat was already apparently asleep, his tail carefully tucked up under his chin.

"I'm sorry. It was very naughty of her."

"No harm done. Out collecting, are you?" He peered into her basket. "Looks like you're doing nicely. Come in, come in. The wife was saying just now she has summat or other for your shop and she hoped you'd drop in soon."

Eleanor hesitated. He had his cap in his hand, apparently on the point of going out, and he was the one she really wanted to talk to. But as he waved her in, Teazle accepted the invitation, dragging on the lead. Taken by surprise, Eleanor followed. Abel Tregeddle shut the front door and came after them.

Naturally, Teazle headed straight to the kitchen. The door was open and she trotted in, Eleanor in tow. Mrs. Tregeddle, a stout woman busy at the kitchen table, looked round at the click of toenails on the lino.

"Mrs. Trewynn, how nice to see you. Set yourself down, do." She tossed a scrap of the meat she was chopping to Teazle. "We bin dying to hear what happened yest'day."

"I told Mrs. Trewynn as you got summat for her shop," Abel chided.

"I 'spect I can find something. You'll have a cuppa, Mrs. Trewynn." She filled the kettle at the sink and set it on the gas.

Eleanor was still sloshing about inside from the tea she'd already drunk, but Abel was more likely to stay and chat with a cup in his hand, she thought, so she accepted. Too late, she realised that having invented a donation to inveigle her in, he wasn't likely to leave before hearing about the rescue. Resigning herself to further liquid intake, she recounted the story again, her own minor part and what the others had told her.

All the talking was giving her a dry throat. When the tea was made, she sipped it gladly.

As before, she omitted the young man's race. She stressed the drama of Megan risking her life to save a stranger. "It's a beautiful spot, but dangerous. Do you know it, Mr. Tregeddle?"

"Yas," Abel admitted. "Took a boat in once, when I were a young duffer. But it's risky even at high tide in a calm sea. No use setting pots if you can't be sure when you'll be able to check 'em."

"A funny place to go for a swim," said his wife, "but these young lads'll do anything for a bit of a thrill. In a bad way, was he?"

"He was still unconscious when the ambulance took him away. But I heard later that he came round, just briefly, and he said something rather odd."

As one, the Tregeddles leant forward eagerly. "What'd he say, then?" asked Abel.

"He said his family were stranded in a cave. What no one can work out is how they reached the cave in the first place, and if they could get in, why can't they get out?"

"That's easy. Went in by boat, climbed out to explore, didn't tie it up secure. Landlubbers in a hired boat, could be. First thing a seaman learns is to be sure of his knots."

"Oh, yes, that might explain it. The awful thing is that the lifeboat won't be able to go looking for them because of the fog."

"Whereabout is this cave supposed to be?" he asked warily.

"The boy couldn't explain. It must be somewhere in Bossiney Cove, don't you think? He couldn't have survived a swim from farther away."

"Likely not."

"There are lots of caves. If they have to search all of them, I hate to think what condition the family will be in by the time they're found—if they're found. I've been told there are hidden caves, used by smugglers. I remember you saying, Mr. Tregeddle, there's still some smuggling going on."

"That's as may be."

"Suppose they chanced to come across one of the smugglers' caves, and that's where they're stuck? That could be why no one has seen or heard them. They might never be found."

Mrs. Tregeddle was aghast. "Oh, Abel, the whole family dead!"

Abel's lips set in a thin line.

Eleanor played what she hoped was her ace in the hole. "The boy said his mother is dying. Even if he was exaggerating, even if they find them in the end, any unnecessary delay—"

"Abel, his mam! You can't..." She faltered as her husband glowered at her.

"My niece risked her life." Eleanor spoke quietly. He met her eyes, and she held his gaze. "What would you risk? Information given to me in confidence would be passed to the authorities without any mention of where it came from." She paused. He looked down sulkily at the table, his weathered cheeks flushing. "What would you have to lose? A couple of convenient hiding-places. Against several lives."

Available from all booksellers and in ebook formats.

The Valley of the Shadow

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW is the third in the Cornish Mystery series, after Manna from Hades and A Colourful Death, by Carola Dunn, author of the Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries . It will be out December 11th in hardcover and ebook, from St. Martin's Minotaur. It is on the Independent Bookstores forthcoming Great Reads list for December

                                          

 The series is set in about 1970 on the North Coast of Cornwall, in SW England (the bit that sticks out into the Atlantic, between the Bristol Channel and the English Channel). It's a wild stretch of coast, with high, sheer, rocky cliffs and small fishing ports battered by Atlantic storms . The cover of the book is a bit misleading--it's more like Falmouth harbour in the south, where the denouement of the story takes place.

My protagonist is Eleanor Trewynn, a widow in her 60s. After working all over the world, she retires to the small fishing village of Port Mabyn, looking forward to a life of peace and quiet with her West Highland terrier, Teazle. However, peace and quiet elude her.

Here, she and her next-door neighbour Nick, an artist, and her niece Megan, a police detective, go for a walk down a narrow, rocky valley (more pics) to the sea:

The stony path climbed the hillside. Here and there bedrock protruded, making natural steps, awkward because of their odd sizes and shapes. Twice Eleanor stumbled and nearly fell, but her Aikido training helped her regain her balance.

Ahead, the valley widened, and soon the inlet came into view. The air was so still that there were no whitecaps, just an edging of creamy froth along the base of the cliff. The dark green swells rolled in with soothing regularity.

"The Isle of the Dead," said Nick.

"What?" exclaimed Megan, startled.

"Rachmaninov. The opening describes the sea's present motion perfectly, restless yet monotonous. But he was writing music about a painting, so I don't see quite how I can reverse the process..." He was momentarily silent, occupied with an inner vision. "Damn! I was hoping for waves crashing against the sheer headland over there in sheets of spray. I should have checked the tide. Or maybe it’s just that we haven’t had much wind recently. Oh well, it'll have to do."

They walked on until the path petered out into terraces and steps of slate. The abrupt edge was two or three feet above the smooth tops of the swells that surged onward to meet the stream in swirls of foam. Clumps of thrift, the flowerheads brown now, clung in crevices here and there. A grey and white herring gull launched itself into the air and joined its fellows circling overhead, their raucous screams cutting through the constant yet ever-changing sounds of moving water. High above floated a buzzard.

"Gorgeous," said Megan.

"Good enough." Nick fiddled with his camera's settings, peered through, and fiddled some more.

Megan jumped down a slate step. Eleanor sat on it, the sun warm on her back.

"What's that?" Nick lowered the camera and pointed.

Eleanor peered, wishing she had brought binoculars. Something dark bobbed in the water. "A seal?"

"No." Megan's voice rang harsh. "It's a man. And if he's not already dead, he soon will be."

Chapter Two

How the hell was she to get the poor bugger out? Megan took a rapid inventory of her resources.

"Hang on, we're coming!" Nick bellowed through cupped hands.

A good start. "Aunt Nell, go for help." As she spoke, she pulled off her sandals and untied the bow of her skirt. "Doctor, ambulance, rope, rugs, hot drinks, anything else you can think of."

Her aunt hurried away up the path, white curls bobbing, Teazle at her heels. Megan turned to find that Nick had already stripped off his shirt.

"Pity I didn't wear long trousers." He knotted Teazle's lead together with one sleeve of the shirt.

Megan tossed her skirt to him. "On the diagonal."

As he tied the other sleeve of his shirt to one corner of the skirt, she slipped out of her shoes and ripped off her blouse, buttons flying, glad she was wearing a black bra and knickers. Just like a bikini, she assured herself.

"No need for that," Nick protested, tightening the knots. "I'm going in."

Megan shook her head firmly. "I'm a certified lifeguard. I'll need your weight and your reach to pull us out, if I manage to get him. " Without further words, she leapt down the shelves of slate and, mindful of hidden rocks underwater, did a shallow racing dive towards the floating figure.

With a shock of cold, the sea enveloped her.

Surfacing in a trough, she swam to meet the next swell. From the crest she couldn't see the body. Had it been a seal after all? She glanced back at Nick, who waved and pointed.

Thank heaven he had his wits about him. She corrected her course slightly and ploughed on.

Down, and up, and down, and up... Was she actually moving forward, or was a current stalling her in one place while the swells passed beneath her, lifting, dropping, lifting— But the current was moving her target, too. Towards the rocks? She must be getting closer.

There he was! A brown-skinned man, limp, floating on his back. Dead men float face down after first sinking. The dark patch she had taken for hair was his face, unshaven, eyes closed. He was alive!

"I'm coming!"

Opening black eyes, he turned his head to look at her. As though the effort exhausted his last reserve of strength, he started to sink.

Megan would have said she was swimming as fast as she was able, but she put on a spurt. She caught him under the arms and raised his head above the surface. He neither struggled nor made any attempt to help. He hadn't choked on emerging. A bad sign?

She decided hopefully that his buoyancy meant his lungs must be full of air, not water. With one arm under his and across his chest, she swam backstroke, straining to hear Nick's shouted directions as single-armed swimming made her veer from her course.

"You're getting close!"

Megan changed tactics. One hand holding up the victim's chin, she twisted sideways and started a scissors kick. At the top of each swell she glanced backwards. As she neared the sheer rock face, she slowed, unsure what to do next.

Nick knelt down. "I'm throwing a loop of rope," he called. "Try to hook it under his arms."

Teazle's lead flew towards her. The weight of the leather and the metal clip carried the makeshift rope within reach, and the leather floated. Megan grabbed it with her free hand.

Hooking it under the arms of the flaccid body, while staying afloat and keeping his face out of the water, was easier said than done. She was growing tired by the time she accomplished it, but now Nick took the strain. He drew them slowly nearer. Megan was able to put out a hand to fend them off from the rock.

Unlike the smooth concrete edge of the swimming-bath she'd trained in, this edge was sharp. The sea's action flaked the slate rather than smoothing it. Getting out—and especially getting the helpless man out—without nasty grazes was not going to be easy.

Nick was lying full length now, awkwardly, on the shelving rock, his shoulders and arms over the edge. "Can you lift him at all?"

"Don't think so. Can't feel anything to stand on."

"Never mind." He reached down. "I'll hold him. Can you get yourself up?"

"I'll manage." She moved over a couple of feet and waited for a swell to lift her, then grabbed the edge above her head. There were plenty of toe-holds. Somehow, with the loss of some skin, she hauled herself over. For a brief moment she let herself flop, all muscles relaxed.

"Let's get him out. Is he breathing? I don't like the look of him."

"Hypothermic." She pulled herself together and shuffled crabwise to Nick's side.

He had draped his shorts over the edge as some protection against scrapes. What a pair, she thought, her in sodden black bra and knickers, him in white Y-fronts and string vest!

Turning his head, he caught her eye and gave her a crooked grin. "Needs must when the devil drives. Come on, we can do it. On three."

She leant down. He shifted his grip and she hooked her hands beneath the brown man's armpit. As another swell raised him towards them, Nick counted, "One. Two—"

"Hey, hang on!"

Heavy footsteps hurried across the rock. Megan glanced back to see a young couple in hiking boots and shorts, shrugging off rucksacks as they came.

"We saw from the cliff path," the girl explained breathlessly. "Sorry it took us so long to get here. We were way up at the top."

"I'll take over," the shaggy-haired youth said to Megan, kneeling down. "Super job, but you must be done in."

She was happy to relinquish her place. Her arms were beginning to feel like jelly.

As she sat up, Nick said, "Megan, be ready to support his head. All right, mate, at the top of the swell... One, two, heave!"

Megan managed to field his head before it struck the rock. She laid it down gently and brushed the straggling black hair from his face.

"A wog, eh?" said the stranger. "Indian, looks like. Stupid git, swimming in there. Starkers, too."

"Don't talk like that, Chaz," his companion remonstrated. "You don't know what happened. Is he breathing?"

Her hand on his chest, Megan put her ear to his mouth, which had fallen slightly open. "Can't feel any movement but there's a faint wheeze."

..............................................................................................................................................................

Carola will be talking about Valley of the Shadow and signing copies at Murder by the Book in Portland OR at 2 pm December 9th (at their holiday party) and at Seattle Mystery Bookshop at 12 noon December 11. Signed books can be ordered from either.

Manna from Hades

Carola Dunn


MANNA FROM HADES is my first Cornish mystery. It has just come out in paperback in the US. The second, A Colourful Death, is available in hardcover and ebook, and the third, The Valley of the Shadow, comes out in December.

All three will be out in the UK next June.

The Cornish mysteries, set in the late 1960s, feature Eleanor Trewynn, a widow in her 60s. After a life spent working all over the world for an international charity, she retires to a cottage in a small fishing port in Cornwall and turns the ground floor into a charity shop. Her niece, Megan Pencarrow, is a detective with the Cornish police.

 

Eleanor has been out collecting contributions for the shop:

Tipping forward the driving seat, she reached for the bag of clothes Teazle had been sitting on. Beneath it was a black attaché-case. Eleanor frowned. She didn't remember anyone donating an attaché-case for LonStar. Her memory for practical matters had never been of the best, but she usually knew exactly who had given her what.

Picking it up by the handle—it was surprisingly heavy—she carried it and the bag of clothes through the blue door. Near the far end of the passage, opposite the foot of the stairs, was the door to the stockroom. This she had inconveniently remembered to lock, or, more likely, the ever-efficient Jocelyn had locked it when she left after checking the till on Saturday. Eleanor set down her burdens and felt in her pocket for her keys.

Where on earth had she left them now? Ah, dangling from the lock of the street door, of course.

Keys retrieved, she took the clothes and the attaché-case into the stockroom. The bag of clothes she dropped on the floor in the back corner, out of the way of the shelves and racks of already-priced goods awaiting space in the shop. The attaché-case she set on the long trestle table used by volunteers more businesslike than herself to sort and price the donated items.

Through the high window, the setting sun flooded the room with rosy light. As far as Eleanor could tell, the attaché-case was real leather, not one of the modern substitutes. It was in good condition, one corner just a trifle scuffed, but unfortunately on the top edge was an embossed monogram, the kind with superimposed, intertwined letters which are hard to make out—D, A, and W, she thought. One couldn't expect a customer with the same initials to happen to come into the shop in search of an attaché-case. The letters weren't conspicuous, though, half-hidden by the handle and not picked out in gilt.

She'd better see whether anything had been left inside it, on purpose or by accident. Laying the case flat on the table top, she pressed back the shiny brass catches, opened it, and gasped. On a bed of black velvet, a tangled heap of jewelry glittered and gleamed, gold, ruby-red, emerald-green, sapphire, amethyst, and the hard sparkle of diamond.

With tentative fingers, Eleanor picked out a bracelet and held it up to the light. Purple stones glowed with an inner fire.

Paste, of course, or the modern equivalent, but paste of excellent quality. Even if they were artificial gems, they must be quite valuable. How very generous people were, she thought, a little misty-eyed.

And doing good by stealth, too, not wanting to be thanked, slipping the case into her car when she was not watching, as if it were manna from Heaven.

What the kind donor unfortunately didn't realise was that valuable gifts had to be documented. Jocelyn was going to have forty fits when she discovered that Eleanor had no paperwork, no signatures, to vouch for the provenance of the jewelry.

Nor had she the slightest idea of the identity of the giver.

........................................................................................................

Eleanor was about to tell Jocelyn about the jewelry in the safe upstairs, when the bell over the shop door tinkled and a customer came in. The jewelry could wait. She went back into the stockroom.

In the far corner, Teazle was sniffing at some men's shirts spilling out of a carrier bag on its side on top of a box. Her tail was between her legs and she showed none of the frantic excitement mice invariably aroused. Glancing round at Eleanor, she whined.

When Eleanor went over to her, she gave a perfunctory wag of the tail and backed off. Puzzled, Eleanor bent down to right the bag and stuff the clothes back in. Behind the box a pair of boots lay on their sides, one atop the other. The leather, once black but now of no determinate colour, was cracked and the back of the heels, turned towards her, were worn down to the uppers.

"That's odd," she said to Teazle. "I don't remember anyone giving those and I never would have accepted them. No one would buy such disreputable boots."

She set the carrier bag to one side and shifted the box. As it moved, she saw bony, sockless ankles and the frayed, faded hems of a pair of filthy blue jeans. The boots were occupied.

Had some tramp crawled in among the goods? She really must remember to lock doors! In a way, she was glad that he had found shelter from the chilly spring night, but Jocelyn would be furious. Perhaps she could send him on his way before Jocelyn found out.

He must be drunk, or very sound asleep, not to have been wakened by the fuss over the table. She nudged at his thin ankle with a fastidious toe but failed to rouse him.

As she moved boxes and bags away from the prone form, a sick certainty that something was very wrong grew in her. She uncovered the rest of the jeans, a hand in a woollen glove unravelling at the wrist, a khaki anorak ripped under the arm. The man lay motionless.

And then the head, face to the wall: long, lank darkish hair; the angle of a jaw sprouting youthful fuzz; the angle of the neck—

"Joce!" Her call emerged as a strangled squeak. Backing towards the connecting door, she tried again. "Jocelyn!"

"Coming. I've sold... Eleanor, you're white as a sheet. What is it?"

"I'm just afraid it's Trevor."

"Trevor?"

"The boy who comes to help when he stays with his uncle."

"Eleanor, dear, calm down. I know Trevor. A scruffy, feckless creature he is, and none too clean either."

"Was." Her voice shook. "Oh, Joce, there's a dead body back there and he looks very like Trevor."

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