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.

“I knew it from the moment I laid I eyes on you,” she said with a mischievous wink. “You were hiding something. It was plain as day.”

Dottie Cox from the Corner Market was next. “It was those beautiful green eyes of yours that gave you away. Always moving, they were. Like a pair of searchlights.”

Duncan Reynolds wasted no time on pleasantries. “Quite possibly the rudest man I’ve ever met.”

“It wasn’t me, Duncan. It was only a role I was playing at the time.”

The old railman swallowed some of his beer. “I suppose you heard about poor Professor Blake.”

“I read about it in the papers.”

“Know her?”

“Didn’t, actually.”

“Wonderful woman. And quite beautiful, if you ask me. Reminded me of one of those women—”

Vera Hobbs cut him off. “That’s quite enough, Duncan, dear. Otherwise, Mr. Allon will never come back again.”

He consented to deliver a few remarks, which concluded with a heartfelt if uproariously funny apology for his past conduct. Afterward they feasted on traditional Cornish fare, including pasties fresh from Vera’s oven. When the party finally ended at midnight, several men insisted on escorting the Allon family to their car because of the threat posed by the Chopper. This sent Irene into another spasm of panic. Gabriel found it a welcome reprieve from her usual fretting about melting ice caps and submerged cities.

“Was it my imagination,” said Chiara when the children had fallen asleep, “or did you enjoy that immensely?”

“I have to admit, I did.”

“Irene and Raphael love it here, you know.”

“What’s not to love? It’s very special.”

“It’s the perfect place to spend the summer, don’t you think?”

“We can always rent a cottage for a few weeks.”

“But wouldn’t you prefer to have something of your own?”

“We can’t afford it.”

Chiara didn’t bother with a retort. “There’s a lovely cottage near Gwennap Head that just came on the market.”

“Leonard Bradley says it can be had for a million and a half.”

“Actually, I was able to talk them down to one point four.”

“Chiara . . .”

“The cottage is extraordinary, and there’s a separate building where you can set up your studio.”

“And work my fingers to the bone to pay for everything.”

“Please say yes, Gabriel.”

He glanced over his shoulder at his daughter. “What about the Chopper?”

“You’ll think of something,” said Chiara. “You always do.”

61

Port Navas