The Beast Of Exmoor (Jake Conley Book 7) - John Broughton

The Beast Of Exmoor - book excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Lower Quinton, Warwickshire, 2023

Jake Conley picked up and inspected the plain brown wrapping paper he had earlier discarded under the coffee table. The address was in neat handwriting, firm and masculine and suggested a confident, educated person. On what had been the rear of the package was the sender’s details: Josh Lamp, 72b Choristers’ Gardens, Tiverton, Devon EX16 6DN. The only remarkable thing about that was its unbelievability. A quick check of the postcode showed it to be King’s Crescent, Tiverton, and a further check proved that no such street as Choristers’ Gardens existed in the town, either. At that stage, realising that someone had gone to lengths to keep their identity secret, he did not bother to seek out the fictitious Joshua Lamp. Scrunching up the paper and tossing it back under the table, he turned his attention to the contents of the package.

Without exception, they were newspapers and magazines from the counties of Devon, Somerset and Cornwall. In common, they had articles about ABCs — Alien Big Cats — also defined as phantom cats, large felids, such as jaguars, cougars and leopards, which allegedly appear in regions outside their indigenous range. Sightings, tracks and predation had been reported in each of the three counties. Indeed, two county-wide magazines each ran headlines of striking similarity: one read THE BEAST OF BODMIN MOOR, the other, THE BEAST OF EXMOOR. Both articles carried references to ordinary, sober people who had sighted a large, stealthy feline, far bigger than a domestic cat and with a prominent long tail. The journalist described each beast as a black panther, leading Jake to scrupulously ascertain that by this, they meant a melanistic variant of either a leopard or a jaguar, animals with an excess of black pigments hiding their natural spots.

A more pressing question for Jake was why should a secretive person wish him to read about phantom cats? In these circumstances, there could only be one answer—Sir Clive Cochrane, also known as Double-A, his unofficial employer at MI5… or was it, MI6? Jake had not satisfactorily established which. There had been no calls from AA for more than six months, which suited Jake because invariably, Sir Clive troubled him only with intractable cases that always involved supernatural elements, sometimes of a fearsome nature. On more than one occasion, he had encountered ghosts or demons when he had also been within a hair’s breadth of, as Shakespeare so finely worded it, shuffling off this mortal coil.

Having thought about Sir Clive for little more than two minutes, in a display of synchronicity, just another inexplicable phenomenon that haunted Jake, his mobile vibrated and juddered on the coffee table. As it rang, the familiar sensation of a dull ache at the centre of his forehead nagged at him. This happened as a confirmation that something supernatural was afoot: it disturbed him deeply. Gazing at it in alarm, because this was the mobile reserved only for Sir Clive, he picked it up and, with a slight tremor in his voice, said, “Jake Conley speaking.”

“How are you, dear boy and the delightful Alice?”

“Of course, you won’t know. My wife is expecting our first child. He’s due in two months, in June.”

There was a long silence in which AA pondered the significance to the department, because Alice Conley, the former Alice Harrop, was one of their agents, too. He recovered his poise and said, “Jolly good show, what? Congratulations are in order. I shall expect you to appoint me as the child’s godfather.”

Jake treated him to a similar enduring silence as he thought, Godfather? Hmm, I’ve often thought of you as one, you old dog. But not in the sense you mean! Eventually, he said, “I’ll talk it over with Alice, Sir. But off the cuff, I can’t think of a more appropriate choice.”

“That’s settled then. Now, on to the reason for my call.”

Jake’s heart thumped wildly in his chest, so he sank into his favourite armchair. He always felt he could deal with anything life threw at him once he was settled in its comfortable and comforting cushions.

“Yes?”

“Dear boy, have you heard of a personage called Kuveni?”

“Can’t say… unless he’s an Indian cricket player?”

“She, actually, but well spotted, old chap. It is an Indian name — or perhaps Sri Lankan — I want you to mug up on her so that you’ll be up to speed in my office tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock sharp.”

With deliberate mocking repetition, Jake asked, “Very good, Sir. By the way, have you heard of a personage named Joshua Lamp?”

“Ha-ha!” the mandarin chortled. “I do like you, dear boy! Touché! That would be our chappie, Derek Mortimer, down in Devon. He tends to be admirably cautious. I gather he sent you the package, then.”

“He did. But there’s nothing about India in it. It’s all about big cats.”

“Ah, yes, quite so. But a sharp fellow like yourself will soon make the connection. Nose to the grindstone and all that! See you tomorrow. Once again, congratulations!”

“Tha—” click. Sir Clive had done it again, cutting off the phone call abruptly by slamming his office phone down, just one of the many authoritarian mannerisms that made him disagreeable to Jake. Now he would have to set his life aside and get on with whatever the big boss demanded.

He had been right to assume the strange package was somehow connected to AA. There must be a link between the ABCs and this Kuveni character. He reached for his laptop and plunged straight into the labyrinth of Indian mythology. There were at least six different versions of the life of Kuveni, so he took a green exercise book with a shiny cover and scribbled down the facts common to all the stories. Places and characters varied, but the essential framework was there.

When he had finished, he wrote up a thorough account, which he could learn by heart for the next day, on a new page that read as follows:

A prophet foretold that the beautiful southern Indian princess named Suppadevi would have children by the king of beasts, a lion (big cat connection). Wishing to escape from her palatial life of boredom, Suppadevi joined a passing caravan to satisfy her wanderlust. She was abducted from the caravan by the lion god, Sinha and, remembering the prophecy, complied with his lustful wishes and bore him two children, the male named Sihabahu and a daughter. Sinha was the terror of law-abiding travellers and homesteads, so the king (again not important) issued a proclamation offering a reward for anyone who could slay the evil lion. Many died in the attempt, but, enticed by the reward, Sihabahu committed parricide and gained the money.

On learning of his parentage, the king exiled the killer to the island of gems (Sri Lanka) where he adopted his father’s wicked, pillaging ways, slaughtering the merchants and their wives who dared to venture to the island in search of gems. However, Sihabahu spared the merchants’ children and, thus, created a community. As the children grew, he chose the most beautiful girl among them to be his bride and together they had a son, Vijaya.

The years passed and the youthful Vijaya, restless like his forebears, wandered far and wide until he came across a yakkhini (female demon—trust Sir Clive!). The demon, who was quietly spinning cotton, on seeing the handsome, formidable Vijaya before being spotted herself, transformed into an irresistibly beautiful sixteen-year-old maiden. Vijaya lost his heart to her immediately, so they made love, the demon subsequently bearing a child named Kuveni (So K. had lion and demon’s blood in her veins). Her true nature emerged in moments of great passion when she transformed into a large black cat. (Oh-oh! the connection.) Soon, owing to this characteristic, Kuveni was expelled from the isle because people feared supernatural beings like her. She decided to seek the place of her ancestors—Madras (present-day Chennai). The besotted Vijaya went with her and they had more children, each female of whom was endowed with great beauty. This characteristic continued invariably through the generations.

Kuveni and Vijaya lived in the 7th century in the reign of the enlightened scholar king, Mahendravarman—so what had all this got to do with present-day south-west England, he wondered? Presumably, he would find that out the next day in Sir Clive’s office in London.

“Alice!” he bellowed. “Fancy going down to our fair capital city tomorrow?”

“Only if we can go to a shop I know for expectant mums on Oxford Street. There are loads of things I’ve seen on the Internet, but I prefer to see and touch the goods before I buy.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. I’ll park at Warwick station and we can go by train. I’ll find one with a buffet car.”

“And hopefully, clean loos. I keep having to pay a visit to the toilet—you men have it so much easier, you know!”

“Do you have to keep reminding me, darling? I have to see a man about a cat!”

“Would that be Sir Clive, and does he know about the baby? Was he frightfully angry?”

“Not at all, he wants to be its godfather.”

Alice smiled grimly. “It would guarantee Jake Minor many advantages in life—oh, what a clever husband I’ve got!”

Jake cleared his throat. He was about to confess, Well, it wasn’t my idea, in truth, but changed his mind for tactical reasons and limited himself to saying, “Er, yes, it’s a good idea, isn’t it?

He spent the rest of the evening reading every article from the package and hopelessly seeking a connection between seventh-century India and the English south-west. In desperation, he tried typing Derek Mortimer into a search engine. The first hit he got was from the Devon Police searching for a missing man by that name. This made him consider the torturous anonymity of MI agents and the lengths the department would go to, to preserve an employee’s cover. Quite possibly a Joshua Lamp was wandering the streets of Tiverton, but he certainly didn’t live in the fictional street of the package. Out of sheer boredom, he typed Joshua Lamp, Tiverton into the search engine and it directed him to a modern floor lamp, given the name Joshua by the manufacturers.

Angrily, frustrated, he slammed his laptop closed and poured himself a Lagavulin single malt whisky, one of his little foibles. Sir Clive would make the ABC connection with Sri Lanka tomorrow, of that he had no doubt.

CHAPTER 2

Whitehall, London, April 2023 AD

Jake knocked on the heavy office door.

“Come!” It was another of Sir Clive’s irritating mannerisms and Jake used all his strength to push open the instrument of torture, padded and studded on the inside, surely a device to ensure nobody could hear speech from outside. Jake always strained his ears for the peremptory command to enter. Having also overtaxed his muscles to get into the office, he was met by the usual smug smile that suggested AA enjoyed inflicting discomfort.

“Do take a seat, dear boy. Now tell me, have you done your homework?”

Without waiting for confirmation, Sir Clive continued, “What do you make of this beast business?”

“I’m not sure, Sir. There are plenty of plausible explanations for wild cats roaming the moors, but I’m dashed if I can make a connection with seventh-century Indian mythology.”

“I’m not sure I would go along with plausible, dear boy. Given the number of decades over which sightings have been recorded, there would have to be a breeding colony of the blighters. And, by Jove, the Royal Marines search parties haven’t found even one!”

“I see! Well, it is a bit of a dampener. Would you enlighten me about the Indian connection, Sir?”

“Indeed. I was coming to that. We have to go back to 1928 when Britain ruled Ceylon and India—both were part of the Empire. Ah, the good old days!” said the nostalgic imperialist. “One of our Great War heroes, a dashingly handsome chap by the name of Colonel Andrew Basingstoke, VC for gallantry and all, wound up in Madras, where he met and fell in love with a splendidly virginal creature of royal blood. Despite the gal being reticent, our hero managed somehow to seduce the dark-eyed beauty into wedlock and brought her back to the family manor house in Devon. It is an ancient property held by the Basingstokes since the Middle Ages and standing in acres of land on Exmoor.”

“Ah, now I begin to see the connection, Sir. Would the lady in question have been a direct descendant of Kuveni, by chance?”

“By the Lord Harry! You’re on the ball, old chap. That is the case. However, the tale has a curious twist. I mentioned that the gal was a virgin on marriage and a somewhat reticent bride. Well, that’s not the half of it! Apparently, on their first night, after the wedding in a Devon church, she refused point-blank to consummate the union and Sir Andrew, attempting to exercise his marital rights, caused the creature to fly into a rage. Servants found the poor fellow the next morning in a dreadful state of shock, and even worse, with severe lacerations to his arm and torso. ‘Lucky to survive’ was the general opinion at the time. They also discovered the sash window wide open and deep scratch marks gouged into the bottom of the wooden frame. They sent out search parties but never caught the Indian woman.”

Sir Clive paused to fiddle with his ever-present black notebook. Jake knew he did this for effect, as if to add deeper significance to his words. Double-A continued, “More than a decade passed before the law pronounced her missing, presumed dead, and the heartbroken fellow was able to console himself by marrying a local socialite. Now, what do you think about that?”

“Are you suggesting that after almost a century, the woman is still alive in the guise of the Exmoor Beast?”

“I’ll admit it sounds insane. But that is where you come in. You have unique experience of the supernatural and bear in mind that a descendant of Kuveni would possess not only feline but also demonic blood.”

“I’ll try not to forget that, Sir!” Jake managed through gritted teeth.

A long silence followed in which agent and handler pondered the matter. Finally, Jake said,

“There’s more to this than you’re confiding. There must be!”

Startled, the baronet scrutinised Jake’s face and, feigning innocence, said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“What I’m saying,” Jake growled, “is that the Ministry would hardly be interested in a large cat molesting some poor Exmoor farmer’s sheep or severing a dog’s leg, as per sensational newspaper accounts. No, there’s something more to this that fails to meet my eye.”

“I see you have lost none of your acuity during your enforced idleness in the sticks, Conley.”

The use of his surname meant Double-A was getting down to business—or brass tacks, as the baronet preferred to call it. Jake leant forward in a studied demonstration of eagerness to share a confidence.

“The fact is, by happy coincidence, there’s a top-secret Government installation near Minehead. It’s called North Hill. In World War II, the place was closed to civilians and brought under military control. It became one of country’s five new tank training ranges for British, American and Canadian troops. Tucked down the coastal slopes lay a top-secret Radar Station, one of two hundred and forty-four across the country and part of a defensive chain to identify shipping and low flying aircraft. Nowadays, it’s a hush-hush scientific research station. Your hair would curl, Conley, at the capers they get up to in there!”

Jake detected a mixture of pride and excitement in AA’s voice but there was something unhealthy about it that alarmed him. “Are these scientists interested in the Beast?” he probed.

“Indeed, they are, and that’s where you come in. Think of the national interest involved in this. If our boffins can lay their hands on the genetic material of this dusky beauty—”

“Hang on! You’re asking me to risk life and limb by persuading a savage large cat to come along and surrender its DNA to scientists in the North Hill establishment? Absolutely not! I’d have to be crazy to accept such an assignment!”

The baronet’s brow creased and he supplied Jake with an intimidatory expression he had never before seen.

“Accept? Who ever heard such rot! This is an order that you will carry out without discussion, according to the terms of the act you signed freely some years ago. No doubt you won’t need me to specify the consequences of disobedience. Although, dear boy, knowing your intrinsic nature, I hardly think you will force the Department’s hand, will you?”

The scrutiny was severe yet benevolent. The rapport between Sir Clive and Jake had always been a mixture of the avuncular and the authoritarian.

“No, Sir! Forgive me, just my natural aversion to large cats since I visited London Zoo as a toddler and a lion roared at me through the bars. It must have traumatised me.”

“I quite understand and I’d be the last person wishing to face up to a phantom black panther, Jake. But you have your—ahem—powers to protect you! I want you to reflect on just one thing…”

Another of his annoying mannerisms! He did this. He’d make an announcement and follow it with an unconscionable long delay, as now. Jake knew better than to ask. It was far wiser to sit back and allow him to enjoy his calculated pause.

At last, he said, “Imagine you parachuted behind enemy lines at night. You’re in command of a ten-man SAS team. Each man genetically modified, so that he can transform into a black panther. There, what do you think of that?”

“Problematic, Sir.”

“Good Lord! Don’t you think it’s the most splendid idea?”

“Well…”

“Well, what? For heaven’s sake, Conley! To think I always credited you with ample imagination.”

“I have sufficient of that, Sir. But please explain how panthers can carry firearms and grenades.”

“Oh, is that it? They won’t need them, will they? Panthers possess deadly weapons—claws and teeth. They’re lethal killing machines, if it escaped your attention.”

“They are not bulletproof, sir. With today’s night-vision binoculars and rifle sights, they would be just as vulnerable as men.”

“Oh, I think not, and more to the point, nor does the Ministry. So, unless you have further objections…” There was an iciness in the voice that put him on his guard.

“None, Sir, only a few practical matters.”

“Name them.”

“Do I have a contact at North Hill and will I be allowed access?”

“Of course. All doors will open to you. Simply produce this pass card. The top brass is expecting you.” The neatly manicured hands slid forward a laminated plastic card like something issued by a bank, complete with a metallic stripe on the reverse. “Opens high-security entries by swiping,” Sir Clive explained as Jake examined it, noting his embossed name and a series of numbers. In the top right-hand corner, a ghostly but precise image of his face stared back at him.

“Very impressive,” he muttered, sliding it into his wallet among his credit cards.

“Yes, isn’t it? Was there anything else?” Again, the studied ennui in the voice antagonised Jake.

Two could play the keep-you-waiting game, so he deliberately prolonged the pause, only to fail spectacularly because the mandarin’s cold pale eyes were laughing at him.

“I was wondering. Where is Colonel Basingstoke’s manor house, Sir?”

“Excellent! You should visit. It’s Chamberstaple Manor, on the moors not far from Shebbear village.”

“Shebbear. That name should mean something to me.”

“You’re probably thinking of the famous Devil’s Stone.”

Jake frowned, partly because of the familiar dull ache above and between his eyebrows—so either Chamberstaple Manor or Shebbear had a paranormal bearing on this case—and partly because he was trying to recall a detail from his memory bank. His hobby was exploring country churches, especially ones with Anglo-Saxon associations and he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of them. Now he remembered.

“That’s it! Shebbear boasts an elaborately carved grave slab in the churchyard, showing a skull sprouting flowering shoots as a symbol of resurrection. I shall have to examine that whilst I’m down there.”

“I should like to think you’ll have more important concerns in Devon, old chap, but of course, your free time is your own.” The tone was acerbic. “Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, during the Second World War the building was used by the Ministry of Defence as officers’ quarters, with Italian prisoners of war accommodated in nearby fields. The Colonel lived to a ripe old age but died without an heir in 1970. Since then, the property, rather sadly, has been unoccupied and has fallen into a state of disrepair. There’s been local talk about renovation, but its position and the fact that people foolishly believe it to be haunted… I say, old chap are you alright?”

The insupportable ache between his eyes, increasing with intensity as Sir Clive described the Manor, confirmed to the pallid and queasy Jake that the place had everything to do with the case. He had acquired paranormal powers after his brain had become cross-wired, as he called it, after being run down by a jeep whilst crossing a road. When he had come out of a coma, he possessed the knack of seeing ghosts and availed himself of retrocognitive powers and premonitory abilities. His shapeshifting had been endowed following his brushes with angelic beings, during his work on other cases that had been thrust upon him by the concerned-looking man opposite him.

“Y-yes, fine, Sir. I think I need some fresh air.”

“Care to join me for a snifter? A purely medicinal glass of Lagavulin should do the trick.”

The knight of the realm did the honours and poured two generous glasses of Jake’s favourite tipple.

He knew I wouldn’t refuse that! But then he’s got a dossier on me.

Sir Clive opened a small fridge built into his bookcase and withdrew a bottle of water. He transferred the ice-cold liquid into two other glasses and handed one and a whisky to Jake.

The old fox knows how to drink scotch: of course, he does! Ice-cold water to prepare the palate and enhance the liqueur was something Jake truly appreciated.

“My word, young-fellow-me-lad, the mere thought of a wee dram and you’re looking in the pink! Here’s to the success of your mission! Kuveni’s DNA delivered to North Hill.”

“I promise to do my best, Sir,” Jake said, fortified and heartened by the familiar full-bodied, pungent peat flavour. He sneaked a glance at the label and saw that this was a collector’s bottle, not his usual sixteen-year-old whisky but a twenty-five-year-old distiller’s edition and, therefore, more than £100 a bottle.

I could afford this, too. I don’t know why I haven’t bought it for myself.

The drinking ceremony ended, he found pushing his way out of the padded door just as difficult as pulling it open and, as always, felt the mocking eyes on his back as he left.

Doesn’t he ever leave his office? Serves him right. I hope he pulls a muscle on that bloody door!

Other thoughts dominated his thinking as he departed the Ministry, rendering him so distracted that he didn’t spare a glance even for the two fat ladies—the statues of Earth and Water over the northern entrance, which he usually admired. Rather, he was preoccupied with black panthers. True, he could shapeshift, so if he came face to face with the transformed Indian beauty, he could also become a panther. But that would be inviting trouble. He’d likely then be involved in a territorial dispute and her more experienced claws would slice him to shreds!

No, this needed careful consideration—what to do when coming face to face with a savage large cat? He couldn’t discuss it with Alice, either, as he normally would; she’d probably lose the baby worrying about him!