A Suitable Vengeance

John Penellin rolled up the Ordnance Survey map, put an elastic band round it, and placed it with half a dozen others in the old umbrella stand in his office. The late morning sunlight streamed in the windows, heating the room to an uncomfortable degree, and he opened the casement and adjusted the blinds as he spoke.

“So it’s been a fairly good year, all way round. And if we let that north acreage lie fallow for another season, the land can only benefit from it. That’s my suggestion, at any rate.” He resumed his seat behind the desk, and as if he had an inflexible agenda to which he was determined to adhere, he went on immediately with: “May we speak of Wheal Maen?”

It had not been Lynley’s intention to go through the account books or to engage in a detailed discussion of Penellin’s management of the estate, something he had been doing with great facility and against growing for a quarter of a century. Nonetheless, he cooperated, knowing that patience was more likely to encourage a confidence from Penellin than was a direct enquiry.

The entire appearance of the man suggested that an unburdening of his heart was more than in order. He looked whey-faced. He was still wearing last night’s clothes, but they gave no evidence of having been slept in, thus acting as testimony to the fact that Penellin had probably never been to bed. Part of what had kept him from sleep was depicted on his body: His fingers were still lightly stained with ink from having his prints taken by Penzance CID. Evaluating all this, Lynley ignored the real purpose of his visit for a moment and followed Penellin’s lead.

“Still a believer, John?” he said. “Mining in Cornwall is well over one hundred years dead. You know that better than I.”

“It’s not reopening Wheal Maen I want to speak of,” Penellin said. “The mine needs to be sealed. The engine house is a ruin. The main shaft’s flooded. It’s far too dangerous to be left as it is.” He swivelled his chair and nodded towards the large estate map on the office wall. “The mine can be seen from the Sennen road. It’s only a quick walk across a bit of moor to get to it. I think it’s time we tore the engine house down completely and sealed the shaft over before someone decides to go exploring and gets hurt. Or worse.”

“That road isn’t heavily trafficked at any time of year.”

“It’s true that few visitors go down that way,” Penellin said. “But local folks use the road all the time. It’s the children I worry about. You know how they are with their playing. I don’t want any of us having to face the horror of a child falling into Wheal Maen.”

Lynley left his seat to study the map. It was true that the mine was less than one hundred yards from the road, separated from it only by a dry stone wall, certainly an insufficient barrier to keep the public off the land in an area where countless footpaths led across private property, through open moors and into combes, joining one village to another.

“Of course you’re right,” he said and added reflectively, more to himself than to the other man, “How Father would have hated to see a mine sealed.”

“Times change,” Penellin said. “Your father wasn’t a man to hold onto the past.” He went to the filing cabinet and removed three more folders which he carried back to his desk. Lynley rejoined him.

“How’s Nancy this morning?” he asked.

“Coping.”

“What time did the police return you?”

“Half past four. Thereabouts.”

“Is that it, then? With the police?”

“For now.”

Outside, two of the gardeners were talking to each other as they worked among the plants, the clean sharp snap of their secateurs acting as interjections between their words. Penellin watched them through the blinds for a moment.

Lynley hesitated, caught between his promise to Nancy and his knowledge that Penellin wished to say no more. He was a private man. He did not want help. That much was clear. Yet Lynley felt that beneath Penellin’s natural taciturnity an undercurrent of inexplicable anxiety was flowing, and he sought to find the source of the other man’s worry in order to alleviate it as best he could. After so many years of relying on Penellin’s strength and loyalty, he could not turn away from offering reciprocal strength and loyalty now.

“Nancy told me she spoke to you on the phone last night,” Lynley said.

“Yes.”

“But someone saw you in the village, according to the police.”

Penellin made no response.

“Look, John, if there’s some sort of trouble—”