Manna from Hades (14 page)

SIXTEEN

“Tell me what this is all about, Meggie,” Ken invited, leaning forward. He was stuck in the backseat of the Mini Cooper, thank heaven. The front seat couldn’t possibly have accommodated both him and the box of copies of the reports. He had been annoyed when ordered to go to Bristol with her, and furious when he saw all the paperwork he was expected to study en route.

Negotiating traffic in the narrow streets, busy again after the lunch hour, Megan was silent. She wanted to get onto the east-bound A30 before she started what was sure to be a difficult conversation.

Ken apparently took her silence for displeasure. “All right, then,
Megan
. Fill me in on your murder. Please.”

The end-of-speed-limit sign passed. “You’ve got all the info you can possibly need right there,” she said.

“But you know what official reports are like. I’ll make much more sense of them if I have a grasp of the big picture before I start.”

He was right, unfortunately. Where should she start? If she told it right, maybe she could keep Aunt Nell’s role out of it, at least until he read the reports. “Well . . . The call came in—”

“For pity’s sake, don’t make it sound like just another sodding report! Tell it like a story. You used to be good at that.”

“And you used to say I ought to quit the police and go and write crime fiction!”

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “perhaps I was wrong about that, Meggie—Megan. Perhaps I was wrong about other things, as well.”

He couldn’t help it, she thought. Put a halfway passable female in his presence and preferably no witnesses within hearing range, and the cajolery started up without any volition on his part. It was too bad it had taken her so long to discover the fact.

At least he wasn’t trying to pull seniority on her.

“You can’t possibly not have heard anything about it,” she said, “so don’t blame me if I repeat what you already know. A body was found in the stockroom of a charity shop, first thing Wednesday morning when the place was opened. We haven’t managed to identify the victim yet—that’s what we’re going to Bristol for, we hope—but he was a boy or young man, late teens, scruffy, long hair, pot-smoker. He was found by the person who lives in the flat above the shop.”

“That’s Mrs Trewynn?”

“I knew you must have read about it! Yes, Eleanor Trewynn, who is not a suspect, I hasten to add. Nor is the manager of the shop, Jocelyn Stearns, the vicar’s wife, who was also present when he was found. Far as we can tell, the victim was one of two or more intruders.”

“He was killed by the traditional blunt instrument?”

“Not exactly.” She explained about the dolphin table, though not the fact that it hadn’t been discovered till hours later. He’d find out about the delay when—if—he got around to reading the reports.

“And the jewels are thought to explain his presence. What I don’t get is what they were doing in the shop.”

“Mrs Trewynn found them in her car. The theory is that the victim and a partner or partners dumped them there while she was walking her dog, perhaps because they were scared by the local constable driving past.”

“Which suggests that one or more of them knew who she was, and therefore where to find the loot.” No one ever suggested Kenneth Faraday wasn’t quick on the uptake. “It also suggests that they may see her as a threat, able to identify them?”

“Yes. We’ve kept an eye on her and the shop, and one came back the next night, but he was scared off and hasn’t been seen since. The trouble is, she knows a hell of a lot of people. Aunt Nell is . . .” Oh damn, damn, damn, exactly what she hadn’t intended to say. “Mrs Trewynn does—”

“Hold on a minute! Aunt Nell? Mrs Trewynn is your aunt?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Though it doesn’t make any difference to anything.”

“I suppose not, or you’d have been taken off the case. What do you mean by a hell of a lot of people? How many people can a little old lady living in a small Cornish village know?”

“She hasn’t always lived there. She spent most of her life travelling all over the world. Asia, Africa—”

“I think Donaldson would have noticed if the men who beat him up and robbed him were Africans.”

“I gathered they had stockings over their heads and wore gloves,” Megan reminded him tartly.

“Touché.” He was grinning, as a glance in the rear-view mirror divulged to her.

“Not that I have any reason to suppose they were foreigners. Aunt Nell’s only been in Port Mabyn a couple of years, but she’s very well known. For a start, there was an article in the
North Cornwall Times
when she set up the shop. Two or three of the national dailies picked it up, and I think the
Observer
, too.”

“Then there’s every customer who’s ever entered the shop.”

“No, actually. She doesn’t help in the shop itself. She’s in charge of collecting contributions, goods to sell in the shop, that is. Not just in the village, for miles around. Which is why she was surprised but not absolutely stunned when she found the jewelry in her car. She assumed it was donated by stealth.”

With a pause while she negotiated Okehampton traffic, she told him the rest of the story. She glossed over the matter of doors left unlocked, and Ken seemed to accept that as commonplace in the country. Also glossed over was the time-line. She wasn’t going to give away Aunt Nell’s dilatory disclosure of essential information—such as the very existence of the jewels.

“The car’s been found in Exeter?” Ken said as they passed the city sign.

“They think so. Parked at the station.”

“Let’s go and take a look.”

“No. It’s bad enough driving through the city centre, without taking an unnecessary detour. From this direction the by-pass doesn’t help much, not at this time of year when the centre is only clogged with shoppers, not holiday-makers. Once we get onto the A38 we still have seventy-five miles to go.”

“I’ll drive for a bit.”

“You’ve got plenty to keep you busy with those reports. Besides, a couple of our chaps are on to the car already. I don’t want to look as if I’m checking up on them.”

“Perhaps they need checking up on.”

“That’s up to DI Scumble to decide. I wouldn’t want someone telling him we were mucking about in Exeter when he sent us to Bristol.”

“That’s a point. He might pass it on to that redoubtable superintendent of yours. All right, I’ll be good.” With a sigh, he started digging into the box.

Along with the rustle of paper, mutterings came from the backseat, but Ken didn’t comment aloud on Aunt Nell’s vagaries, or anything else for that matter. It wasn’t like him to fail to spot discrepancies, nor to miss a chance for a bit of one-upmanship. What was he up to? Megan was too busy wondering to enjoy the drive through the sunlit countryside.

Eleanor did her best to put the distressing events of the past few days out of her mind for the day. No ghosts followed her onto the sunlit cliffs. Seagulls and a lone buzzard were the only witnesses to her slow bends and stretches, her swift gyrations synchronised with sweeping gestures of her arms. The birds were no more interested than was Teazle, who had seen it all before and was herself lost in a paradise of a thousand different smells, ever familiar, ever fresh.

With the kinks worked out of her joints and her skills reinforced, Eleanor walked for miles along the cliff paths above the veridian sea, patched with lapis lazuli and edged with lacy white foam where it broke on the rocks.

Teazle’s forays into the heather, bracken, and blackthorn thickets grew shorter as her little legs tired. Eleanor would have liked to persuade herself that she turned back for the dog’s sake, but halfway down a steep slope, she had to admit that the rising hillside ahead looked quite daunting.

She was not, alas, as young as she had been.

By the time they got back to the car, she was tired. She castigated herself for allowing three days to pass without proper exercise, murder or no murder. She was also hungry, and Teazle was panting for a drink in spite of having gulped her fill from a freshet trickling down through a cleft in the cliffs.

“There’s that nice café in Wadebridge, pet. They’ll give you water, and some scraps, too, I shouldn’t wonder. We’ll just stop in at Penhaligon House on the way, to see if Mrs Destry has put anything aside for the shop. If we’re lucky and she’s not too busy, we won’t have to go to the café.”

Mrs Destry was the resident housekeeper at Penhaligon House. Her employers were often away, as Mr Wendell worked in London and the children were at boarding schools. At such times, Mrs Destry welcomed visitors, though when the family was at home she had far too much to do to sit and chat.

A long, muddy drive led to the old manor house, built of reddish brown granite by the Penhaligon family some three hundred years ago. The Penhaligons had fallen on hard times in the Depression, and lost two sons in the war to complete the family’s ruin. Since the war, the house had changed hands two or three times. The Wendells had bought it about ten years ago, so they were still considered incomers by the local people, especially as they were absent much of the time.

However, they were regarded as quite decent people, as incomers go. They shopped locally, rather than arriving with crates of supplies from Fortnum and Mason. In fact, according to Mrs Destry, they even took fresh farm produce back to London with them, saying they couldn’t get anything as good in town, which pleased the local farmers mightily.

There wouldn’t be any gossiping with the housekeeper today, Eleanor realised as she reached the gravel forecourt and saw a muddy Range Rover and two sleek, expensive-looking cars, one dark green and the other dark blue. Perhaps it was just as well, as Mrs Destry was bound to want to talk about the murder.

Exchanging a wave with Bill Destry, who was enjoying the sun as he buzzed round and round the huge lawn on his riding mower, Eleanor parked the Incorruptible in a shady, inconspicuous corner under an evergreen. With Teazle following strictly to heel, she went around the house to the kitchen entrance at the side.

The door stood open, and delicious smells wafted from something Mrs Destry was stirring on the Aga. Teazle’s nostrils twitched. Muzzle raised, she sniffed in ecstasy, her tail wagging nineteen to the dozen.

“Oh, Mrs Trewynn, how nice to see you.” Anyone anticipating a housekeeper on the lines of the villainess in
Rebecca
would have been disappointed by the plump, rosy-cheeked, cheerful Mrs Destry in her pink-and-yellow-flowered apron.

“I’m afraid I’ve arrived at an awkward moment.”

“Not at all. This can simmer on its own for a few minutes. I’m afraid I haven’t time just now to sit down for a cuppa and a natter, though. I’ve got a few things collected for LonStar in the scullery, and I’ll put down a bowl of water in there for the dog. Come along, Teazle.” She led the way into an old-fashioned scullery with a stone sink, wooden draining boards, and shelves holding earthenware crocks labelled flour, sugar, oats, and other staples. In one corner, incongruously, loomed a huge deep freeze.

“That’s kind of you,” said Eleanor. “We’ve been for a long walk and she’s thirsty.”

“Your Teazle’s got such good manners. Here’s a box for the shop, my lover, and now I come to think of it—I’ll be forgetting my own name next—Mrs Wendell was saying she’s got one or two bits and pieces for you. I’ll just pop through and ask her.”

Eleanor carried the box round to the car and returned to the kitchen. There she found a tall, slim woman in a tweed skirt, its hem barely skimming the top of her knees, with sheer nylons and high-heels, a lovat-green twinset, pearls, and slightly too much make-up. She looked like what she was, a Londoner playing the country lady. Since this involved furnishing the London maisonette with the latest fad, transferring slightly dated lamps, curtains, cushions, tablecloths, and other linens (Mrs Wendell wouldn’t be caught dead sleeping between last year’s candy-striped sheets) to the country house, and donating the lightly used objects they replaced to LonStar, Eleanor could only be grateful.

—Even though she now recalled that the hideous, hazardous, and eventually deadly dolphin table had emanated from this bountiful source.

“My dear Mrs Trewynn,” cried Mrs Wendell, “I’m so happy to see you. Do say you’ll lunch with us today.”

Looking down at her tracksuit and trainers, Eleanor was in no doubt as to the reason for this sudden affability. “I’m afraid I’m not dressed for company,” she pointed out.

“Oh, it’s just my husband and I, and a couple of guests,” said her would-be hostess airily. “We would so love you to join us.”

“I have several more calls to make today.”

“You won’t need to do that. I’ve got lots of stuff for LonStar. We’ll fill your car easily, and Lionel can bring the rest over to Port Mabyn in the Range Rover later.”

Of course, Eleanor thought, the big vehicle explained how the table had reached the shop. “Nothing too large,” she said cautiously. “We haven’t got a lot of room.”

“I promise, nothing too large. You will stay, won’t you?”

Eleanor glanced at Teazle, who was sitting by the Aga gazing upward, her nose twitching hopefully. “I don’t think—”

“The little dog will be quite happy out here with Mrs Destry. You’ll find it some tidbits, won’t you, Mrs Destry? Then that’s settled.” Mrs Wendell looked Eleanor up and down and blinked, as if, in her eagerness to grab a celebrity, however temporary, she hadn’t really taken in before just what her guest was wearing. “Let me show you the cloakroom.”

“I’ll just get my handbag from the car.” Though Eleanor didn’t really care if she was a bit windblown, it would be only polite to comb her hair at least, especially as she had no intention of providing any information about the murder in exchange for lunch. She hoped she had a comb in her bag. She was fairly certain she hadn’t brought a lipstick.

Though the front door stood invitingly open, she went back into the house through the kitchen. “Who are the other guests?” she asked Mrs Destry, hoping they might be local people she knew.

“Smart people from London. A Sir and a Lady. I think he works for the government. They’re customers of Mr Wendell’s, or clients, or whatever he likes to call ’em. He’s some fancy kind of banker. They were invited to stop by for a couple of days on their way to the Scillies. It hasn’t been going too smooth. Mrs Wendell tries too hard—well, I ask you, Russian caviar when I can get mackerel that come ashore this very morning! Never mind, they’re leaving this afternoon.”