A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (36 page)

“He is Dr Frederick Fenwick. I was acquainted with him as a colleague, though I did not know him well. I was not aware that he suffered from diabetes, but I found insulin in the refrigerator in his flat on the first floor. According to the label on the bottle, he prescribed for himself. Possibly he wished to conceal the illness, fearful that it might harm his practice. He was on a low dosage—”

“Could he have taken the wrong dose accidentally?”

“That is highly unlikely. He was a medical professional.”

“Could he have been given the wrong dose intentionally?”

“It is possible, of course, but it would take a certain amount of medical knowledge. The contents would have to be removed with a hypodermic needle through the cap, and a substitute inserted in the same way.”

“Suppose it done. What would happen?”

“Too little, he would notice the symptoms and have plenty of time to correct the deficiency. Too much, a very large dose, would act much more quickly. Still, normally, as a medical man, he would notice the symptoms and have time to take glucose and call for help.”

Scumble pounced. “Normally?”

“He appears to have taken a sleeping pill, Inspector. Asleep, he would be unaware of the symptoms of overdose. He would slip into a coma and die within a few hours.”

According to Polmenna, the bottle of insulin had been fingerprinted and only the doctor’s dabs found on it. After a few more questions, Dr Prthnavi left with it, promising to have the contents analysed immediately. The answer to whether Fenwick had died of an insulin overdose would have to wait for the autopsy, but if the bottle had been tampered with, it would be fair to assume the probability.

“What I don’t get, sir,” said Megan, “is why? She’s all but bagged her sugar-daddy, why kill him before they’re even married?”

“We’ll worry about that later. First things first. Polmenna, give me a report on what was done before Mr Pearce departed. And make it quick. Just the highlights.”

“Well, sir, for a start,” Polmenna said portentously, “I oughta warn you, the victim’s solicitor’s likely to turn up any minute.”

“His solicitor? Why the hell—?”

“There’s a desk in the flat, sir. Mr Pearce looked through it, looking for next-of-kin and such, and he found a recent receipted bill for drawing up a will. So he phoned him—office in Plymouth—and turns out he was a personal friend of the deceased and he said he was coming over right away.”

“A recent will,” Scumble said thoughtfully. “Makes sense, what with him getting married soon. What else?”

“We found out Dr Fenwick shouldn’t’ve been here at all.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Aunt Nell appeared in the doorway. “Dr Fenwick spent his weekends here and worked in Plymouth during the week.”

“No, I did not know! No one happened to mention it to me.”

“You wouldn’t have been interested before he died, would you?” Aunt Nell retorted with spirit. “Hello, Megan dear. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

Megan smiled at her. One might as well try to stop the wind blowing as expect Aunt Nell to remember to treat her differently because she was on duty.

“And what exactly, may I ask, are you doing here, Mrs Trewynn?”

Nick Gresham loomed behind her. “She’s on an errand of mercy, Inspector, because Mrs Stearns couldn’t come.”

“You, too! And the dog, of course.”

Teazle greeted Megan rapturously.

“I was talking to Mrs Batchelor and Mrs Redditch,” said Eleanor. “Rajendra—Dr Prthnavi—came to say good-bye and told me you’d arrived, so I thought I ought to come and tell you what I’ve found out. Just in case Mr Pearce didn’t bother.”

“Either to find out,” Nick put in, “or to tell you.”

Scumble visibly mellowed. “Well, you’d better both come in and we’ll all make ourselves comfy and you can tell me everything I don’t know yet. Have a seat, Mrs Trewynn.”

Polmenna had to go and find another chair because Nick wouldn’t take the third unless Megan also was seated, to Scumble’s irritation. Less a matter of chivalry this time, Megan suspected, than, in his own words, “he only does it to annoy because he knows it teases.”

Before Polmenna returned, Aunt Nell leant forward and said earnestly to the inspector, “You must realise, Mr Scumble, that all I know is what I’ve been told by two gossipy old ladies. So it doesn’t count as evidence, does it?”

“You’re quite right, Mrs Trewynn, but I hope it’ll point us in the right direction. You’d better take notes, Pencarrow. First, did you find out why the doctor was here last night?”

“Oh yes, there’s no secret about that. The nurse on duty was worried about one of the guests—patients—and phoned him. He drove over from Plymouth straight away, took one look at the colonel, and sent for an ambulance. By the time it came from Bodmin and took the poor man away, it was late. Dr Fenwick decided he was too tired to drive safely back to Plymouth.”

“I don’t suppose you know what was wrong with the patient?” Scumble asked idly, not particularly interested.

“I don’t know what
went
wrong, Inspector. That is, what caused the emergency. But I do know that Colonel Nesbit was a diabetic.”

Scumble’s reaction to Eleanor’s words startled her. His mouth dropped open and he was rendered momentarily speechless.

“Sensation in Court,” said Nick sardonically.

At that moment, Polmenna came in carrying a chair.

“Has Dr Prthnavi left?” Scumble snapped at him.

“Sir, you didn’t say to stop him!”

“Go and find out and if you catch him, stop him—that is, ask him to kindly step back in for a moment.”

Polmenna set down the chair and disappeared again at a run.

“I’m sure Miss Jamieson can help with medical questions,” Eleanor suggested.

“Miss Jamieson?”

“The nurse in charge. She’s an RN. She wasn’t here last night but I expect the nurse who was told the night nurse everything and she—”

“Yes, yes, very likely. Pencarrow, go and find—”

Polmenna reappeared. “He’s gone, sir, and this gentleman—”

“The name’s Meadowes.” A short, balding man in a pinstripe suit pushed past the detective constable and addressed Scumble. “You must be Inspector Pearce.”

“Detective Inspector Scumble, sir. I’m in charge here now. And you’re…?”

“Poor Fenwick’s solicitor. I can hardly believe he’s gone.” He sank into the chair Nick graciously vacated and blotted his forehead with a large linen handkerchief. “Why, I was talking to him only on Monday and he was in very good form, looking forward to his marriage. You’re aware that he was about to be married?”

“We are, sir.”

“Dear, dear, a heart attack, I suppose. Overwork. It takes all the best men.”

“As far as you know, he wasn’t ill?”

“No. But he never talked about his health.”

“You don’t happen to know the name of his doctor?”

“He didn’t have one. He wouldn’t go on the National Health and he used to say he’d be damned—begging your pardon, ladies…” Mr Meadowes looked at Megan, busy taking notes, with a puzzled frown. “He’d be—ah—he wouldn’t pay someone for advice when he knew as much as any of them. The old saying’s true, I’m afraid: ‘The doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient.’” He sighed.

“Very true, sir. You mentioned his coming marriage. When you heard of his death, did you notify his … er … bride-to-be?”

“I fear I was unable to do so, though such was undoubtedly my duty. Fenwick had mentioned that she was staying in an hotel in Plymouth until the ceremony, but unfortunately he neglected to tell me which. I find it extremely difficult to know what to do. But perhaps you can help me, Inspector?” The solicitor seemed suddenly to realise that he was talking about his deceased client’s affairs in the presence of an interested audience. “Er … May I ask, Inspector, who these people are?”

Scumble waved a hand at Megan. “My assistant, Detective Sergeant Pencarrow.”

“Dear me, dear me, a lady detective! How … how forward-looking. And—surely not a police dog?”

Recognising the word
dog
, Teazle wagged her tail.

Scumble did not introduce her. “These are Mrs Trewynn and Mr Gresham, who are helping us with our enquiries.”

“How do you do, madam. Enquiries, dear me. Does this mean there is some cause for doubt about the cause of poor Fenwick’s demise?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr Meadowes. You’ll understand that I can’t discuss—”

“What do you mean no one can go up?” Stella’s voice rang loud and clear from the front hall. “I’m not just anyone, I’m Dr Fenwick’s fiancée.”

Wilkes’s voice was equally loud and clear. “No one means no one, miss. If you’ll just step this way, the inspector will explain.”

“Inspector! Oh lord, something’s happened to him! I knew it. What’s wrong?”

Eleanor suddenly wondered how much Scumble knew. She and Nick hadn’t had a chance yet to tell him everything. Was he flying in the dark?

A glance at his face reassured her. He looked interested but not in the least puzzled. He probably understood better than she did. At least he wasn’t going to be easily taken in by Stella’s acting ability, as Pearce had been.

He stood up as Stella swept in. “Miss Weller?”

“Tell me what’s happened to Freddy! A car smash? Is he badly hurt?”

“My dear Miss Weller,” Meadowes began, only to be silenced by Scumble’s glare.

“Do sit down, Miss Weller.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” she stormed. “I just want to know—”

“I think you’d better.” He waited till she subsided unwillingly onto the chair Megan placed facing the desk for her. “What makes you think Dr Fenwick was here? I gather he normally came only at weekends.”

“He left me a message at my hotel. You see, we were going to be married on Saturday and Freddy wouldn’t let me stay at his flat in case people jumped to conclusions. He was very old- … very considerate that way.”

She was giving herself away with every word, Eleanor thought. Quite apart from the past tense, if she were truly worried about the doctor, she wouldn’t be intent on her explanation.

“He left a message when he was called away last night?” Scumble asked. “I assume you expected to spend the evening with him?”

“No, actually. He had a lot of work to do, preparing his patient notes for his locum. We were going away, you see, for our honeymoon. A fortnight’s cruise in the Greek islands.”

“Ah, I see.” Scumble looked as if the last piece of the jigsaw had neatly fitted into place. “But he considerately let you know he was coming over here.”

“Yes, there was an emergency. I have the receptionist’s note here.” She handed over a slip of green paper. “But the stupid things didn’t give it to me till this morning.”

“Not right away, when the doctor telephoned?”

“I wasn’t in. I went out to dinner with a woman I met at the hotel, and the night receptionist came on duty while I was gone. At least that’s what they told me this morning. I was furious, of course.”

“So as soon as you received the message, you came rushing here.”

“Rushing! I didn’t have enough money for a taxi so I bused it. Two buses! It took forever.”

“And why exactly did you feel it necessary to come after Dr Fenwick?”

Stella’s expression went blank. Then she cried out, “I was worried about him!” and burst into noisy sobs, burying her face in her hands. “I know something dreadful’s happened. Why won’t you tell me?”

“Really, Inspector!” Meadowes protested, patting her shoulder. “Is this absolutely necessary? And in front of … all these people?”

Raising her head, Stella glowered at Eleanor, who noted uneasily that she had tears in her eyes. Was she a good enough actress to cry on demand? But her weeping had cut off rather abruptly. She had switched it on and switched it off, just as she had in King Arthur’s Gallery, Eleanor remembered. That was what had been niggling at the back of her mind. One minute Stella had been weeping in Margery’s arms, the next warning Doug not to let Nick escape.

Thank heaven she had done it again in Scumble’s presence so that Eleanor would not have to confess to having forgotten.

Meanwhile Stella had tranferred her glare to Nick, standing with his hands on the back of Eleanor’s chair. “Yes, what are you doing here?” she demanded. “Come to gloat, have you?”

“What do I have to gloat about?” Nick asked blandly.

Scumble frowned at him.

“I know something’s happened to Freddy!” Stella wailed. “I rang his flat this morning and his daily said his bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“My dear, I’m afraid I have bad news for you.” This time Meadowes would not be stopped, and Scumble seemed willing to let him continue. “Dr Fenwick died in the night. I’m told a maid found him this morning, in his bed upstairs.”

“No! I don’t believe it. He can’t have died before we were even married! I must see him!” She jumped up. “I must see for myself.”

“By all means,” said Scumble with suspect benevolence. “Pencarrow, escort Miss Weller upstairs. No hurry. You’d better take Wilkes with you, just in case she’s … overcome by the sight.” Sotto voce, he added, “Again.”

Wilkes and Polmenna had been standing on either side of the door since Stella came in. They stood aside, and Wilkes followed the women out.

“A very unconvincing display,” Scumble said acidly. “I can’t think how you came to be taken in the first time, Mrs Trewynn.”

Eleanor was indignant. “I was in shock, just as she pretended to be. I bet you knew it was ink, not blood, when you first saw it.”

“True. And the body had been removed.”

“There you are, then. It really was a horrible sight. I nearly fainted, even though I didn’t know the man and I’m not unused to death. It didn’t seem at all unlikely that his lover should have hysterics.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Meadowes a trifle querulously.

“All will be explained in due course, sir. That’s the easy part. I know how, and why, and what went wrong. Miss Weller is clever enough, but she doesn’t think things through. No stick-to-it-iveness, as the Yanks say. Just look at all the training courses she started and never finished—art, drama, nursing—and it sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s proving it to the satisfaction of a jury that’s going to be the hard part. Tell me, Mr Meadowes, what provision was made for Miss Weller in Dr Fenwick’s will?”