Malice in Cornwall by Graham Thomas

the boisterous nature of their conversations. Tony Rowlands was over in a flash to take their order. He hovered overly attentively around Ms. Goode, Powell thought.
    “A glass of white wine would be nice,” she said. “Any old plonk will do.”
    Rowlands smiled unctuously. “May I recommend the house chardonnay?”
    Powell glanced over the drinks menu. “Fine. A half-liter to start with, please.”
    “I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent,” Rowlands said smoothly, “we only serve wine by the glass. House rules, I'm afraid.”
    The first rule prescribed the usurious exploitation of one's patrons, Powell presumed. “A glass for Ms. Goode, then, and I'll have a pint of St. Austell,” he said frostily.
    Rowlands oozed over to the bar and soon returned with their drinks.
    Powell raised his glass. “Cheers, Ms. Goode, we've had a good night's work.”
    She eyed him shrewdly. “First off, it's Jane. Secondly, I'm not about to share the glory. I found the damn thing and that's the way I'll be reporting it. Cheers.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I'm a reporter and this is my, um, scoop.”
    Powell raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
    “I'm a freelancer, actually.” She took a gulp of wine. “Well, to tell the truth, I'm a novelist. This is just a bit of moonlighting to keep body and soul together.”
    “A novelist?” Powell was intrigued. “Perhaps I've read one of your books.”
    She smiled ruefully. “I think that's highly unlikely. I've only written one.
Borders.
It came out last year.”
    “What's it about?”
    “You'll have to buy a copy to find out.”
    Powell grinned. “I'll do that.” He took a sip of his beer, regarding his companion speculatively over his glass. He could not deny that Jane Goode interested him greatly. With her dark flowing hair and sea blue eyes, she was a striking woman, although not what you'd call pretty in the conventional sense of the word. She moved easily and naturally, suggesting a certain sensuous muscularity. It wasn't hard to imagine her hoisting a jib or galloping astride a horse. And a writer, besides. He suppressed a twinge of envy as he considered his own position in the scheme of things—a minor government functionary, when it came right down to it, a small cog in a big wheel going around and around in never-ending bureaucratic circles. He would no doubt leave the world much as he found it—not a book or a painting or poem to mark his passage. Suddenly he colored; he realized that he had been staring at her.
    Her eyes sparkled. “A penny for your thoughts, Chief Superintendent.”
    “Er, it's Erskine.”
    “Erskine?”
    Powell smiled thinly. “Erskine Childers Powell. My old man was keen on sailing and Home Rule.”
    “I don't understand …”
    “Erskine Childers was a sailor and an IRA man, as well as a writer,” he explained. “He wrote a story about apair of English sailors playing cat and mouse with the German navy just before the start of the First World War. It's generally regarded as the first spy novel.”
    “I know it—
The Riddle of the Sands!”
She burst out laughing. “That's rather appropriate under the circumstances, don't you think? Actually, I've never read the book, but I did see the movie. Come to think of it, you do remind me a little of that Foreign Office bloke—the one played by Michael York—Carruthers, isn't it?”
    “Oh, yes?” Powell was slightly disappointed; he had always identified more with the swashbuckling Davies.
    “I think I'll just call you Powell.”
    He sighed. “Fine.”
    There followed a lengthy silence that only Powell found awkward.
    Eventually his companion spoke quietly. “It's only just beginning to sink in. That was a human being out there on the beach, not just some sort of … curiosity. Do you—do you have any idea how she might have died?”
    Powell shrugged. “Hard to say. A boating accident is the first thing that comes to mind. But in this case …”
    “Yes?”
    “Well, it's a bit bizarre,