CHAPTER ONE

      HE was tired, very tired. The road through Cornwall had not been at all what he had expected after the long, fast-moving roads of his own country, and it had slowed his progress considerably. It was now after eight o’clock, darkness had fallen, and to add to his difficulties a sea fret was making the road ahead very hard to distinguish even with powerful headlights.

      From Launceston the road had twisted and turned narrowly, an annoyance to the most patient of drivers, which he would be the first to admit he was not, and since leaving Penzance it had deteriorated into little more than a country lane. A series of sharp bends and precipitous summits had kept him continually in a low gear, and demanded all his concentration.

      Occasionally, it had occurred to him that he was a fool, that he should not have agreed to undertake this journey at this time of the year. Although it was spring back home, it was still winter here even in this southern corner of England. But his mother had been so persuasive that he had not had the heart to refuse her. Apparently, Malcolm Trevellyan’s family had been kind to her in the past, and now that Malcolm was ill it was only natural that she should want to try and repay that kindness in some way. It was a long time since he had seen his mother so agitated about anything, and he had submitted to her demands for urgency.

      He realised, too, that in spite of his mother’s almost total adaptation to the Portuguese way of life, since his father’s death two years ago she sometimes felt lonely and perhaps longed for someone from her native country to talk to.

      He consulted the broad gold watch on its plain leather strap which encircled his wrist under the cuff of his plain grey suede jacket. Surely it could not be much further to Mawvry. His mother had said it was about ten miles from Penzance, which in the measurements he was used to meant something over sixteen kilometres. But on these roads and in these conditions it had seemed much further.

      He began considering the arrangements he had made to transfer Malcolm Trevellyan to Mendao. Trevellyan was not a young man, and disabled into the bargain. He had had a severe attack of thrombosis two months ago which had left him partially paralysed and therefore unable to walk. But he was capable of riding in the back of a car, and that was why he had had this luxurious limousine made available to him at London Airport. Tomorrow they would make the return journey to London, board the plane for Lisbon, and be in Mendao by late afternoon. It was as simple as that. He did not want to stay longer. He had his own reasons for wishing to return to his estate as soon as possible. And once at the Quinta Martinez, Malcolm Trevellyan would want for nothing—his mother would see to that.

      A signpost loomed out of the mist and the word Mawvry could clearly be seen. He sighed with relief. He was here at last. Now all he had to do was find the house of Malcolm Trevellyan.

      The village was small, and when he parked the car in the square and slid stiffly from behind the driving wheel, the tang of salt filled his nostrils. Obviously he must be very near the sea, but at the moment the mist shrouded everything but his immediate surroundings.

      Across the square a swinging sign indicated a tavern which appeared to be doing good business judging from the noise from within, and deciding it would be simpler to enquire the whereabouts of Malcolm Trevellyan’s house rather than attempting