Manna from Hades (6 page)

“Joce, let me speak to him.” Eleanor came up beside her friend. Obviously Jocelyn had no idea how to handle the press, whereas an important part of Eleanor’s job had involved trying to persuade reporters that the efforts of LonStar were worthy of as many column inches as she could squeeze out of them.

She could not ignore the opportunity to do just that, cold-blooded as it might appear to anyone who had never held a child dying of starvation. The boy was dead. Perhaps some good could come from his untimely death.

“Mr Skan, I’m Mrs Eleanor Trewynn. I live above the LonStar shop where this terrible event occurred. I can’t tell you any more about it than the police have, or will, but I can tell you this: Horrified as we are by what has happened, we shall not be deterred from our vital mission for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. The plight of the hungry children of the world demands that we put aside our own feelings to continue our work for the London Save the Starving Council.” Enough? Too much?

He gave her a considering look, followed by a nod. She could read his thoughts: Yes, he’d buy it. This was a story he could run with. He was young, working for a minor local rag, and ambitious. LonStar was an international charity. Add murder to the mix and it just might be his ticket to the national press.

She spelt her name for him and saw him wondering whether he dared ask her age—he didn’t quite. “Elderly,” he’d write, or OAP, though her state Old Age Pension was minimal because she had lived so much abroad. She didn’t mind, as long as he got the details about LonStar right.

“Trewynn. That’s Cornish, right?”

“Yes, my late husband and I were both born in the Duchy, though we met in India, before the war. We both worked for Lon-Star then and continued to do so. Peter was . . . was killed in Indonesia, a couple of years ago.” The precise date and time were engraved on her heart, but David Skan didn’t need to know that. “I came home and started the LonStar shop here in Port Mabyn.”

“So you run the shop, as well as living above it?”

“Mrs Stearns runs it,” Eleanor said firmly. Jocelyn had retreated to the kitchen, whence came sounds of vigorous washing up. “I’m merely an assistant. Local people have been very generous with donations and with their time, and many visitors to the area support us with their purchases. We’ve been able to send worthwhile contributions to LonStar headquarters in London, but we can always do with more help.”

He grinned. “Don’t worry, Mrs Trewynn, I’ll make sure you get your plug, if I have to set the type myself.”

“Thank you, Mr Skan.”

“And when things are back to normal—” He turned to look downhill and gestured in the direction of the shop. “—maybe I’ll get my editor to let me write a feature about your adventures. Ah, here come the cops. Thank you for your time, and please tell Mrs Stearns we’re really not all ghouls and bullies. Just wait till the lads from London descend on you.”

He went off jauntily down the hill, his thick, Scandinavian-blond hair sticking up like a shock of wheat. Eleanor saw him accost the approaching detectives. Inspector Scumble brushed him off and forged ahead. Megan stopped, presumably on her boss’s orders.

Leaving the door open, Eleanor went into the house to warn Jocelyn that the police were about to turn up again.

SEVEN

In a whirlwind of activity, the vicar’s wife had washed, dried, and put away every sign of their lunch. “I hope they’ve already eaten,” she said. “Not that I mind feeding your niece, of course, but the inspector looks as if he’d eat us out of house and home.”

“I’m sure they won’t expect you to give them lunch. That reporter was a nice young man, by the way.”

Joce looked conscience-stricken. “I was very rude to him, wasn’t I? And he was only doing his job. I’ll apologise if he comes my way again, but I can’t help hoping he won’t.”

“Not him, perhaps, but he warned me—we’ll probably have London reporters to deal with sooner or later.”

Before Joce could express her horror with more than a look, Scumble knocked on the door and called out, “Hello, ladies. Expecting burglars, are you?”

Eleanor went out to the hall. “I saw you coming,” she explained as Megan caught up with him, slightly out of breath, “and left the door open for you.”

“Glad to hear you had a reason.”

Coming up behind Eleanor, Jocelyn enquired, “Have you lunched, Inspector?” Her tone was uninviting.

“Yes, thank you, madam. Your bakery does a good pasty, I must say.”

“Don’t they?” said Eleanor. “So convenient when I don’t feel like cooking and don’t want to go out to eat.”

“I suppose you have more questions for us. You’d better come in here.” Jocelyn led the way into the sitting room.

Scumble handed her a list. “This is everything my chaps have found in the stockroom, barring going through a few pockets they haven’t got to yet. I’d like you to check it and see if anything’s missing.” He turned to Eleanor. “And this is the contents of your flat, Mrs Trewynn. I did it myself, and I don’t think you’ll find anything out of place when you get back.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Eleanor recognised the kindly intent of not letting a horde of policemen paw through her undies drawer, though a horde of English policemen was infinitely preferable to some of the Third World customs officers who had emptied out her suitcases for the world to view. She took the list. “Good heavens, I never dreamt I owned so many
things!
”

He hadn’t listed every individual pair of socks or knickers, presumably assuming no thief would want to pinch them. But he’d counted every book in her shelves, every cup and saucer, two salt-and-pepper sets (why did she have two? who could possibly need more than one?), pots and pans, jars of home-made jam (from the village fête; settling down after her peripatetic life, she had intended to cultivate the domestic virtues, but had never found the time), mop and carpet-sweeper. Surely she had nothing worth stealing! Even her few personal ornaments were cheap bangles and bead necklaces given by grateful clients, pretty but not valuable, except that each reminded her of the giver.

All in all, anyone who considered her belongings worth stealing must be in desperate straits and she didn’t begrudge them a thing.

“I don’t
think
anything’s missing,” she said doubtfully, handing back the list.

He took it without a word, but his look spoke volumes. Victims of burglary were supposed to assess their possible losses with proper concern.

“You don’t own a television?” he asked after a moment.

“No, I prefer the wireless. And books. I never had time for much reading till I retired.”

“Hmm.”

Jocelyn was doing a far more thorough job of studying her list. She was ticking off items, apparently against a list in her head. When at last she handed the papers back to Scumble, she said, “Not only is nothing missing, a good deal of this stuff doesn’t ring a bell. I assume it’s the donations Eleanor collected yesterday.”

Scumble looked at Eleanor.

“I had a good haul,” she said. “Woolly animals and detective stories and—”

“Thank you, madam.” He made a move as if to hand her the stockroom list, then changed his mind, clearly deciding there was no point, given the state of her memory. “I’m afraid we’ll probably have to come back to you with further questions, but that will be all for the present. I appreciate your cooperation.”

DI Scumble was frowning as he and Megan started back down the hill.

Megan felt compelled to defend Aunt Nell. “It’s not that my aunt’s memory is failing, sir. It’s just that she’s not very interested in possessions.”

“So I gathered,” he said dryly. “It’s a pity the people we’re after aren’t equally uninterested.”

“You’re pretty sure this murder was a quarrel between burglars, sir?”

“I was speaking generally. Most villains are greedy. But yes, I reckon a couple of delinquents walked down that path behind the shops, trying doors. They found that one unlocked and walked in. Like as not, they didn’t even realise it was a charity shop.”

“What do you think they quarrelled about?”

“Who knows? The victim had been smoking cannabis, so it’s good bet the murderer had been too.”

“But, sir—”

Scumble held up his hand. “Before you tell me addicts are rarely violent, let me tell you that I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you, and this generation did not discover marijuana. What it does is reduce the ability to foresee consequences. A couple of students smoking in their flat are not likely to go out and bash an old lady on the head, I’ll give you that. But a pair of sneak-thieves on the prowl, that’s another matter altogether. Don’t tell me your years with the Met have left you with any rubbishy romantic fantasies about honour among thieves.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Then let’s get moving. We’ve got a couple of dozen volunteers to be talked into giving their fingerprints for elimination. You get on with that.” He shuffled through a fistful of papers. “Here’s the list Mrs Stearns gave me. And don’t forget to talk to the kids who helped last night, when they get out of school. No need for the younger ones’ prints. They’re easily distinguished.”

Another list! So far, Megan thought, this murder investigation seemed to consist largely of lists.

“I take it you’ve no great desire to attend the autopsy with me.”

She gulped. “If you think I ought to, sir . . .”

“You ought, but there’s far too much else that needs doing. You can skip it this time.”

Megan breathed again.

That afternoon, an amazing number of people developed a sudden interest in helping in the LonStar shop. Jocelyn took the telephone off the hook, but the vicarage doorbell rang constantly with a stream of would-be volunteers. Though she wrote down all their names, she avoided inviting anyone in by saying in hushed tones, “It’s been a terrible shock to poor Mrs Trewynn, you know.”

“But I’m quite all right,” Eleanor protested. “They’ll think I’m utterly prostrated. And a real drip.”

“It’s only a slight exaggeration. You did have a terrible shock. You don’t want them coming in and pestering us for details, do you?”

“No, of course not. Mr Scumble specifically told us not to talk to anyone.”

“There you are, then.” And Jocelyn went off to explain yet again that poor Eleanor had had a terrible shock.

“Poor Eleanor” gritted her teeth.

In between callers they sat in the kitchen, so as not to be visible from the street through the sitting-room window, and wondered when they’d be able to reopen the shop. Ever efficient, Jocelyn had long since telephoned that day’s volunteers to tell them their services would not be required.

“But should I ring tomorrow’s people? Or just ring Mrs Davies and let her deal with it, as it’s her day? She’s bound to make some remark about it all being my fault.”

Mrs Davies was a thorn in the flesh of Jocelyn, who was reluctant to admit that the Methodist minister’s wife was almost as efficient and undoubtedly equally honest. Eleanor often had to take evasive action so as not to find herself caught between the pair.

“She can’t. Yesterday was her day.”

“That’s right!” Jocelyn brightened and started to stand up.

“No, Joce, you are not to! If you dare to so much as hint at blame, I’ll . . . I’ll give you the sack!” Though it was an empty threat, at least it showed how strongly she felt. “If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. If I wasn’t so wretchedly vague about keys. If I had just remembered to lock the doors—”

“You could remember if you really tried,” Jocelyn said severely, but she sat down again instead of going to offend Mrs Davies. “Still, I daresay they’d have broken in if the doors had been locked, and then we’d have had the damage to repair. I must say, it still seems to me inexplicable that they should have taken the trouble to burgle a charity shop full of second-hand odds and ends.”

“But if they came in by the back door, they wouldn’t necessarily have known what—Oh, I’ve just remembered. I picked up a donation yesterday that may be quite valuable. I’m not sure. It’s some jewelry, paste of course, but it looks to me as if it’s quite good. Not that I know anything about the subject. I’ve no idea what it might be worth.”

“Eleanor, really! How
could
you have forgotten?”

“You must admit there’s been plenty going on to occupy my mind! Finding that poor boy, and then the police asking questions I couldn’t answer, and the reporter—”

“All right, never mind, at least you’ve remembered it now. Who gave it?”

“I don’t know. No one mentioned it. They must have slipped it in with some other donation.”

“How very odd. I do wish people would realise that we have to know the provenance of anything of value. You did put it in the safe, I hope?”

“Of course. I’m surprised Mr Scumble didn’t ask me about the safe. Do you suppose he didn’t find it? Hiding a safe behind a picture isn’t exactly a novel idea, is it?”

“Not at all. He can’t have been looking for one. After all, that’s why we put it in your flat, because no one would dream you had such a thing. Oh bother, there’s the dratted doorbell again. I wish I knew how to disconnect it.”

“People would only knock,” Eleanor pointed out.

“True. Why don’t you put on the kettle while I go and get rid of whoever it is.”

The day seemed to have gone on forever, but at last it was tea time. Eleanor took the kettle from the stove and was removing the lid when she heard from the hall: “Who . . . ? Oh, it’s you, Nicholas. Have you come to offer your services as a volunteer?”

“No.” He sounded surprised. “I already do as much as I have time for. Why? I didn’t know you were shorthanded. Have people been cancelling because of the murder?”

“Come in.” She peered behind him in a hunted way. “Quickly!”

“Hello, Nick.” Eleanor had come to the kitchen door, kettle in hand. “You’re just in time for tea.”

“Good timing. How are you holding up?”

Since Jocelyn had opened the door to him, she assumed she was allowed to say, “Quite well, considering. Have the police been pestering you with questions about last night?”

“How do you expect me to answer that when it was your niece who pestered me?”

“I’m sure Megan was polite,” said Jocelyn, taking the kettle from Eleanor on her way into the kitchen. “Unlike That Man.”

“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of That Man’s acquaintance,” said Nick with a grin, “but you have me shaking in my shoes, Mrs Stearns.”

“Then you’d better sit down. I suppose you’re posing as a starving artist?”

“Yes, of course. I were brought up proper, I were. I know it’s your Christian duty to feed the hungry, so I’m sure it must be my duty to present the opportunity.”

Jocelyn gave him a withering look as she turned on the gas under the kettle, but she reached down a cake tin.

Nick remained unwithered. “That looks promising,” he said. “Ah, gingerbread. Excellent! I’m glad you didn’t waste it on the rude inspector.”

“Mr Scumble wasn’t really rude,” Eleanor protested. “It’s his manner that’s at fault, rather than his manners. For the most part. Did Megan ask you about what times we did what last night, Nick? I’m afraid I wasn’t much help at all.”

“Nor was I,” he said cheerfully, “but they can easily check our movements. Don’t worry about it. When will you be able to reopen the shop? Give me notice, won’t you. I want first shot at those detective stories.”

“We don’t know yet. We were just talking about it.” Eleanor frowned. “And I remembered . . . Nick, you can’t imagine Major Cartwright slipping a collection of jewelry into my car when he loaded the boxes of books, can you? After all, he’s a widower. He might think that as his wife can no longer wear them—”

“Eleanor!” Jocelyn snapped, setting the teapot on the table with a bit of a thump. “You really mustn’t tell anyone about that.”

“Not anyone, dear, just Nick. I won’t tell another soul, I promise.”

Nick looked as if he would like to protest being classed with “anyone,” but could hardly do so with his mouth full of Jocelyn’s gingerbread. He swallowed. “Not Major Cartwright,” he said. “He’s pretty hard up, I think. The books are his one extravagance. If he had jewelry, he’d have been selling it to live on. Someone put real, honest-to-god jewelry in your car?”

“Only paste, of course. It may not be worth much. It’s just that I can’t think who, of those I collected from yesterday . . . Joce, we must ring them all up and ask . . . But they aren’t all on the telephone.”

“If it was a mistake,” said Jocelyn, “then they will get in touch with us. If it was an intentionally anonymous donation, then finding out who gave it can wait until all this dreadful murder business is cleared up.”

Nick looked alarmed. “For heaven’s sake, you can’t just ring people up and ask if they happened to discard a pile of jewelry by mistake! You’ll get half-a-dozen claims.”

“Our donors aren’t that sort,” Eleanor asserted.

“No, he’s right. It wouldn’t be fair to put the temptation in people’s way. If no one calls us, we’ll have to work out a way to do it.”

“Assuming the stuff wasn’t just floating around on the floor of the Incorruptible, couldn’t you ask about the container rather than the thing contained? What was it in, Eleanor?”

“A briefcase, rather a nice leather one.”

“You couldn’t have fitted a briefcase into the safe,” said Jocelyn. “What did you do with it? Leave it upstairs?”

“No, I took it down after I emptied it.”

“It was not on the inspector’s list,” Jocelyn stated with absolute certainty. “You’d better tell him right away.”