* * *
The geography of the west Cornish coast was such that twice each afternoon Gabriel walked through a crime scene. The car park at Land’s End where Charlotte Blake had left her Vauxhall Astra. The overgrown hedgerow where her body had been found. The stately stone manor where her lover, Leonard Bradley, lived with his wife and three children. It was inevitable, then, that Gabriel and Bradley should meet. It happened late one afternoon near the Tater-du Lighthouse. Gabriel was headed back to the cottage after leaving the ketch in Mousehole Harbor. Bradley was mulling over a particularly profitable day of trading.
“Allon,” he called out. “I was hoping I might bump into you.”
The remark caught Gabriel by surprise. “How did you know I was in the neighborhood?” he asked.
“I heard the rumor at the chippy in Senen Cove.”
“I would be grateful if you didn’t repeat it.”
“It’s rather too late for that, I’m afraid. It seems you’re the talk of Cornwall.” They set off together along the coast path. Bradley walked with his hands clasped behind his back. His pace and manner were deliberative. Finally, he said, “You misled me the afternoon you and that detective came to my home.”
“Did I?”
“You said it was your first visit to Cornwall. But I have it on the highest authority that you and your wife lived for a time in Gunwalloe, of all places. But you also deceived me about the nature of your investigation. You already knew the truth about OOC Group, Limited, when you came to see me.”
“I knew most of the truth,” admitted Gabriel. “But not all of it. You gave me the final piece of the puzzle.”
“Lucinda?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Is she responsible for Charlotte’s death?”
“She played no role in her murder. But, yes, Lucinda is to blame for what happened.”
“Which means I am as well.”
Gabriel was silent.
“I have a right to know, Allon.”
“You sent Charlotte to Lucinda Graves with the best of intentions. You mustn’t blame yourself for her murder. It was just . . .”
“Bad luck?”
“Yes.”
Bradley slowed to a stop at Boscawen Cliff. “Magical, isn’t it?”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“There’s a lovely cottage on the market near Gwennap Head. They’re asking two for it, but I know for a fact it can be had for one and a half.”
“I’m not in the market at the moment. But thank you for thinking of me.”
“Will you and your family at least join us for dinner one evening? Cordelia is a wonderful cook.”
“It might be a bit awkward, don’t you think?”
“We’re British, Allon. We specialize in awkward dinner parties.”
“In that case, we’d love to.”
“How about Saturday night?”
“See you then,” said Gabriel, and set off along the footpath.
* * *
He arrived at the cottage thirty minutes later to discover that Irene had locked herself in her bedroom and was refusing to come out. It seemed she had heard a report on Radio Cornwall about the most recent murder and had put two and two together. The child’s mother, already at her wit’s end, seemed pleased by the development. She was reading a tattered copy of The Thin Man outside on the terrace. Gabriel told her about his encounter with Leonard Bradley—and about the dinner invitation. His wife informed him that they had other plans.
“No,” he said. “No, no, no, no.”
“I’m sorry, darling, but all the arrangements have been made. Besides, it’s the least you can do.” Chiara shook her head slowly with reproach. “You were so very rude to them.”
And so it happened that on a warm and windy evening Gabriel found himself behind the wheel of a rented Volkswagen estate car, headed in a southwesterly direction across the Lizard Peninsula. Irene, convinced they would soon come upon a madman armed with a bloody hatchet, was apoplectic. Raphael, his nose in an advanced mathematics textbook, was oblivious to her ravings. Their mother, in the passenger seat, was serene and ravishing.
“You will behave, won’t you?” she asked.
“I promise to be my usual charming self.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
They arrived in Gunwalloe to find the Lamb and Flag ablaze with light. Gabriel eased into the last remaining space in the car park and killed the engine. “At least there are no photographers this time.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Chiara, and climbed quickly out. Flanked by his children, Gabriel followed her into the pub, where most of Gunwalloe’s two hundred residents cheered his arrival. Not surprisingly, it was the organizer of the party, the irrepressible Vera Hobbs, who confronted him first.
