A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (34 page)

“There she is, stuck in the middle of nowhere, unable to walk, and we come along and rescue her, but will she tell you? That’s gratitude for you. I wonder if Gresham knows. He might give us a hint.”

“I doubt it, sir, but you could try him.”

“I’ll leave that to you, Pencarrow. Not that we absolutely have to know. Go on.”

“Oswald Rudd: He has no proof he stayed in the co-op shop during the lunch hour. On the other hand, there’s no rear access, so he’d have had to come out through the shop door at the front, and he’s quite noticeable with that red beard. The risk of someone having spotted him out and about would be pretty high. Motive not strong, unless you put it down to the artistic—”

“Temperament!” snarled Scumble. “Didn’t I say I didn’t want to hear those words again?”

“Sorry, sir. Albert Baraclough,” she went on quickly.

“No artistic temperament there!”

“No, sir. No alibi, either. There could be some motive we don’t know about.”

“What, Clark seduced his daughter and abandoned her pregnant? Ran over his grandchild while driving drunk? You’re romancing.”

Megan thought it wisest not to point out that the gov’nor was the one doing the romancing. Still, he was the one who had talked to Baraclough, and if he considered him an unlikely murderer, she was willing to accept his judgement. For the present.

“Yes, sir. That leaves the two women, Weller and Mrs Rosevear. Weller had all the opportunity in the world, but I can’t see that she had much of a motive. It would have been embarrassing having everyone know her boyfriend destroyed Nick Gresham’s pictures, but hardly a motive for murder. She’d already shrugged off the far worse embarrassment of his attack on Jeanette Jones. I suppose they could have argued about it and she picked up the dagger in a fit of rage.” Megan frowned. “I can’t see it somehow.”

“Not in character?”

“Exactly, sir. If she gave him a dressing-down, I think he’d have stood there like a whipped dog. Lennox seems to think she definitely held the whip hand. If she was tired of him, all she had to do was tell him to shove off. She had no visible financial motive. They weren’t married and we haven’t been able to trace a will. In any case, though his income was adequate, he didn’t put anything aside and his belongings aren’t worth offering to the LonStar shop, apart from the dagger and the sword and, I suppose, the paintings. Mrs Stearns would turn most of the stuff down flat.”

“Any relatives?” Wilkes enquired from behind the wheel.

“None in his life. Mrs Rosevear says he told her they belonged to some peculiar sect. They cast him off when he started to take an interest in the arts, and he was happy to be cast. We haven’t had time to run a thorough trace. Clark’s not exactly an uncommon surname. It could even be as phony as Monmouth. There’s nothing for relatives to covet, in any case.”

“And Mrs Rosevear?” Scumble said. “What d’you make of her?”

“She could have done it. She had a strong motive. She was in Padstow and we can’t account for all her time.”

“Seems to me,” said Wilkes, growing bolder since his first attempt had not been derided, “what we need is to narrow down the time a bit more. Most of ’em’s got alibis for part of the time.”

“A good point,” Scumble agreed. Wilkes’s ears and the back of his neck turned red. “I’ve got a notion something in the gallery could help, but I can’t say what. We’ll have to go back there tomorrow, Pencarrow. Go on.”

Megan was annoyed. He hadn’t mentioned his notion to her. Suddenly, instead of fearing he was out of his depth, she was sure he had a theory, and he bloody well ought to share it with her, however nebulous it was.

She tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Then there are all the people he came into contact with regularly, other than those at the farm. All we’ve been told about, at least. The only one who liked him is the Tintagel blacksmith. They have a common interest in ancient weapons. The brewery people appreciate his work but refused to commit themselves to any comment on his character. The rest, local tradesmen and frequenters of the Bezant Inn bar for the most part, mostly admitted to disliking him, but there was no hint of any more … specific ill-feeling.”

“According to the uniformed blokes who did house-to-house.”

“Well, yes, sir. But anyone they had the slightest doubt about, DC Polmenna had a go at them.”

“You may yet have to talk to those, Pencarrow. We’ll have to see how it goes.” He brooded in silence till the car stopped behind the police station building.

Jocelyn dropped Eleanor, Teazle, and Nick outside the LonStar shop and drove off up the hill towards the vicarage.

“Are you going to ring Megan right away?” Nick asked.

“No, I thought I’d wait till later, till she gets home, to avoid the risk of getting Scumble by accident. They may be working late, so I was going to try at eight o’clock.”

He grinned. “Great minds think alike.”

“Why don’t you come round and talk to her at the same time. That way, she won’t have to keep answering the phone.”

“You’re a wily woman, Eleanor Trewynn! I’ll be there. Now I’m going to put those finishing touches to
Hope and Glory
. My kind patroness said she’d drop in sometime this week to see how it’s going. She should be pleased to find it done. See you later.”

Eleanor went up to her flat for the cup of tea that hadn’t materialised at Riverview. Then, feeling herself and Teazle very much in need of exercise, she walked up the path behind the shops and out onto the cliffs. The sky was now blue and quite a few walkers were taking advantage of the sunshine and the glorious view from the heights of the ruffled sea crashing on the rocks below. However, only a few dedicated hikers ventured more than a mile or so from the village. Soon Eleanor found a spot sufficiently isolated to practise Aikido without attracting too much attention.

She had visited her
sensei
in London for a lesson just a couple of weeks ago. Breathing deeply, she emptied her mind of all but his advice on her weaknesses. The rest of the world vanished from her consciousness and slowly she began to bend and stretch, warming up. Swifter and swifter she moved, whirling, carving space with sweeping gestures.

If hikers stopped to stare at the small woman with snow-white curls spinning like a dervish, patiently watched by a small, snow-white dog, they forbore to intrude. Eleanor completed her practice in peace and went home, much refreshed.

Nick appeared promptly at eight, just as Eleanor finished washing up. She made each of them a cup of coffee—she’d never progressed beyond Nescaff, so it was quick and easy. They sat down and she dialled Megan’s number.

“Megan? It’s Aunt Nell, dear. There’s something I ought to tell you. Are you on your own?”

“Yes.” The single syllable sounded tired. “I just got home. What is it, Aunt Nell? Something to do with the case?”

“Yes, dear. Perhaps I should ring back when you’ve had something to eat.”

“That’s all right, I had a sandwich at the canteen. It was pretty grim, but filling. Tell me.”

“After the inquest,” Eleanor said tentatively, glad she didn’t have to confess to Scumble—at least, not yet—“Jocelyn and I went to visit old Mrs Batchelor at the Riverview Convalescent Home.”

“Where Stella works? Oh, Aunt Nell, that was not a good idea.”

“She’s a parishioner. One of the vicar’s flock.”

“I dare say, but all the same … What did you find out?”

“Well, you may know already. Or it may not be of interest, but we decided we ought to tell you.” She started to report what Mrs Batchelor and Mrs Redditch had told them.

“Hold on a mo, let me get my notebook.”

Eleanor covered the mouthpiece with her hand, gave Nick a thumbs up, and whispered, “She wants to write it down.”

Looking rather stunned, he exclaimed, “I should think so! Eleanor, is this true?”

“Of course it is, Nick, or I wouldn’t be telling the police. To be accurate, it’s truly what we were told, though of course—” She held up her hand.

“The maid’s name is Mabel?”

“No, dear, not Mabel, Maybelle, with a
y
, two
ll
s and an
e
, I believe. West Indian. A nice girl, if rather given to gossiping, but the police can’t possibly object to that.”

“So it’s just gossip,” Megan said gloomily.

“What I’ve told you so far, but from the horse’s mouth. No, strictly speaking I suppose it’s at second hand.”

“But it’s just gossip.”

“Just wait, dear. We heard the same story and more from the day nurse in charge, and she got it directly from Stella.” Eleanor relayed Miss Jamieson’s story. “That’s everything, I think.”

“Do you know which hotel she’s gone to?”

“No, Miss Jamieson just said ‘super de luxe.’ There can’t be many super de luxe hotels in Plymouth, surely.”

“We’ll find her. Thanks, Aunt Nell.”

“But now I’ve told you, I can’t see that it helps. It would make more sense if Geoffrey had killed Stella, like Othello. Only the other way round, sort of, because Othello was married to Desdemona and Geoff and Stella weren’t. Only he doesn’t seem to have been jealous of her … um … escapades. Everyone said he accepted that she insisted on her freedom.”

“Let us worry about that. Thanks for passing on the information. Good night and sweet—”

“Don’t hang up, Megan. Nick wants a word with you.”

“Nick’s there? What does he want?

“To ask you a question.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know, dear.” But she was dying to find out. “Here he is. Night-night.”

Eleanor handed over the receiver and sipped her cooling coffee while listening to Nick’s end of the conversation.

“Good evening, Sergeant … Because this is an official call. Is your pencil at the ready, well-sharpened … I dare say. Here we go, then. For all I know, you may already know the answer and have factored it in, but the question’s been nagging at me when I haven’t been otherwise occupied … All right, keep your hair on! Geoff was standing in front of his easel when he was so rudely interrupted. What I’ve been wondering is, had he started painting? If so, how far had he got? We know he’d just acquired a prop … Property. Stage-talk, but we use it, too. The dagger. He was eager to try his hand at painting it and he was an impatient sort of fella. I can’t imagine him hanging about, not starting in on it as soon as he got to the studio … Yes, exactly … I agree, it’s the sort of thing the SOC boys wouldn’t pay much attention to, so I hope they still … Good. Will you let me know? … Silly of me, of course he won’t. But you will tell him right away? … Good girl, you’re a pleasure to work with … All right, all right, I beg your pardon, we are not working together and I won’t call you a good girl! Good night, Miss Pencarrow.” He dropped the receiver on the cradle. “Whew!”

“I do wish you wouldn’t deliberately provoke her, Nick.”

“I started out as good as gold,” Nick protested. “Even called her ‘Sergeant’ rather than Megan, as it was official business.”

“Tell it to the Marines! What is all this about Geoffrey’s painting?”

“Probably nothing. Just that if he got a fair amount done, it would suggest that he’d been there for quite a while before he was killed. At best, it’ll narrow the time frame for them.”

“Oh dear, I don’t think we’ve been very helpful after all. I hope Megan will let us know.”

But all day Tuesday they didn’t hear from the police. Eleanor didn’t exactly forget about the murder—that would be impossible—but it was no longer on her mind constantly. She went out on her collecting round, took Teazle for a long walk, shopped, made spaghetti bolognese, and decided she’d better practise a bit more before she invited anyone to share it.

On Wednesday, at two minutes past eleven, a succession of thuds on the stairs, suggesting someone bounding up, set Teazle barking in her gruff little voice. After a perfunctory knock, Nick burst into the flat.

“Eleanor, I’m so glad you’re here. I thought you might have left the doors unlocked. They came, they saw, and she liked it!”

“Who? What?”

“The Harrisons. Mrs Harrison. Janice Hazard Harrison, the American I met in St James’s Park.”

“
Land of Hope and Glory
?”

“Exactly. I’m not sure that he was equally keen, but they’re honeymooners, you know, still at the ‘deny her nothing’ stage.” He waved a cheque. “Payment on the nail! I wrapped it, they put it in the ‘trunk’ of their American whale, and off they went. I’ve closed the shop for the rest of the day to celebrate. Now I can start thinking of something else. I suppose you haven’t heard from Megan about Geoff’s canvas?”

“Not a murmur.”

“Oh. Well, either Scumble dismissed it as insignificant, or it was so significant he’s keeping it under wraps.” He stared hungrily at the packet of digestives she was about to open.

“Elevenses?” she offered.

“Yes, please. I’ll take you out for a slap-up meal tonight. How about the Indian in Camelford? I’m feeling rich!”

The phone rang. “You make the coffee,” said Eleanor.

Jocelyn didn’t even wait for her to give her number before she started talking. “Eleanor, I’ve just had a most odd telephone call from Mrs Redditch.”

“Mrs… ? Oh, Mrs Batchelor’s friend? How odd!”

“That’s what I just said. Do concentrate, Eleanor.”

Eleanor muttered slightly rebelliously that she had meant it was odd that Mrs Redditch should ring up Joce, whereas Joce had implied the content of the call was odd. Quite different, but not worth quibbling over, she decided, especially as Jocelyn was in a most unusual tizzy.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. What did she say?”

Nick, spooning coffee powder into mugs, mouthed, “Who?” and Eleanor mouthed back, “Jocelyn.” This bit of by-play made her uncertain that she’d heard correctly. “What?” she asked. “She told you what?”

“Do listen!”

“I am listening. I just can’t believe my ears.”

“Nor could I,” Jocelyn admitted grudgingly. “She said Dr Fenwick was found dead in his bed—”

“At the home? I thought he was only there at weekends.”

“As far as I could gather, they had some sort of emergency last night and the nurse on duty called him in. After escorting the patient to Bodmin Hospital in an ambulance, he went back to Riverview and stayed in his flat upstairs rather than drive all the way back to Plymouth. And there he was found this morning dead in his bed, by that nice little maid, Maybelle.”