Free Malice in Cornwall by Graham Thomas Page A

himself. He should run for local office, if they'd have him.
    He was perceptive enough to realize that there was something more at the root of his mental meanderings—a vague but persistent sense of insecurity about his own place in the world. He liked to give his old friend Alex Barrett a hard time about the Scot's sense of pride and place and his Celtic traditions. In actual fact, Powell was deeply envious. He, himself, had led the life of a gypsy as a boy. rattling around the world with his parents from one army base to another, never staying in one place long enough to put down roots. Because of this, he suspected he lacked something essential in his makeup—a kind of anchor to hold him fast in life's tempestuous seas. And most unsettling of all in the present circumstances, he usually tended to think about such things just before all hell broke loose in his life.
    It was in this pensive state of mind that Powell found himself at the bottom of the lane amongst the straggle of seaside cottages where Dr. Harris resided. A young woman was working in the back garden of the cottage next to Harris's that Powell had attempted to visit previously, arustic stone building with a corrugated metal roof. It appeared to be older than its neighbors and, along with its various outbuildings, looked generally run-down.
    The woman stood up and turned when she heard the gate hinges creak. She wore a slightly tatty but gaily printed frock, which clung to the contours of her slim body. Long bare legs and a pair of mud-caked Wellies. The effect was striking, to say the least. She had a pretty face, but her eyes looked weary, as if she had seen it all before. She brushed a strand of dirty blonde hair from her face with the back of her wrist and stared at him in a boldly appraising manner. “Something I can do for you?”

CHAPTER 7
    Powell introduced himself and managed to wrangle an invitation to tea. The interior of the cottage was even more decrepit than the outside. Grimy wooden floors, tiny windows insufficient to brighten the gloom, and between the main living area and the bedroom (there, a glimpse of jumbled bedclothes) a matchbox-thin partition adorned with peeling yellow wallpaper. In a corner in the kitchen there was a gas cooker flanked by two tiny cupboards, a table and two chairs in front of one of the windows, and no sign of modern plumbing.
    “Welcome to my castle,” the woman said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “By the way, my name's Linda Porter. Can I interest you in something a little stiffer?” She eyed him with a knowing smile.
    “Er, tea will be fine, thank you,” Powell said. “You have a lovely view here,” he added, peering out the window. Various bits of rusted machinery in the front yard and a gaunt group of curlews on the foreshore.
    “It's all right, I suppose. If you have time to enjoy it.”
    A hint of something in her voice as she busied herself with the tea things.
    “I understand from Jane Goode that you and your husband grow flowers for a living. It must be an interesting way of life.”
    She whirled to face him. “Interesting? Is that what you think it is?”
    Powell felt embarrassed. “Well, I've never done much gardening myself. My wife, on the other hand …”
    She laughed bitterly. “Gardening? Does your concept of gardening extend to gales and bulb fly and eelworm and mildew and mice and the constant threat of one's entire livelihood ending up in the compost heap, not to mention buyers who are trying to screw you out of your profit?” As suddenly as she had lost it, she regained her composure. “I'm sorry. That was unfair. It's just that things haven't been going very well lately—with the crops, I mean—and I guess I just needed to let off some steam. Here, I'll get us our tea,” she added, as if by way of a distraction.
    With her first sip of tea, Linda Porter seemed to mellow. She explained that she and her husband, Jim, were from Manchester; five years ago they'd quit their