Manna from Hades (8 page)

“Free to go, but your departure will be noted down and may be used in evidence against you. It’s all right, I was going to keep Eleanor company anyway. Does your boss actually suspect any of the three of us of complicity in that wretched youth’s demise?”

“I don’t think so. If he did, seriously, he ought to take me off the case, because I know all of you—”

“You don’t know me very well. So it could be just me he suspects.”

“Stop teasing, Nick,” Eleanor said severely. “It’s not something to joke about.”

“He’d jump at any excuse to take me off the case, so I’m pretty sure you’re none of you under suspicion. Not of the murder, at least, and he’d have a hard time proving you deliberately failed to tell him about moving the table. But don’t take my word for it. He hasn’t told me—”

“Eleanor, your turn.” Jocelyn stalked out of the stockroom. As Eleanor went in, she heard Jocelyn behind her saying, “That man had the nerve to—” The closing door cut off her indignant voice.

“All right, Mrs Trewynn, let’s hear your version of the wanderings of this infernal table.”

Eleanor turned to point to a space to the left of the door, which from her present perspective opened inward to the right. “It started out there. It was well out of the way of anyone working in here, but directly in the path of anyone carrying stuff in from outside towards the back of the room. Nick had a big box of books in his arms, blocking his view, so it’s not surprising he walked into it.”

“Mmph. And then?”

“He and Donna half-carried, half-dragged it over there. I should have realised it would be in the way of anyone coming through from the shop. Jocelyn could hardly have avoided it. I went to fetch Nick to help carry it into the shop.”

“So you didn’t see Mrs Stearns polishing it?”

“She was finishing off the dolphins when I got back. She must have done the glass first. She’d cleared a space for it in the shop, too, but then she’s a very efficient person, and Nick had to wash paint off his hands before he could come.”

“How long were you gone?”

“Good heavens, I haven’t the faintest idea. I hadn’t any reason to note the time, and I’m afraid I often forget to wind my watch anyway, since I retired.”

“How is it that you remember so clearly where the table was?”

“Two of my friends hurt themselves on it. Of course I remember!”

Scumble sighed. “Thank you. That’ll be all for tonight, then.”

“There’s just one thing I ought to—”

“Can it wait till the morning, Mrs Trewynn? Even the police have to eat and sleep sometimes, you know.”

Eleanor considered. The tale of the briefcase and its contents was a complicated story that would take some time to relate. It was already overdue, so surely it could no longer be classified as urgent, and another few hours wouldn’t make any difference. Also—the thought flashed across her mind—tomorrow morning she’d be able to blame at least some of the delay on Scumble himself.

Suppose it
was
important? But tired as she was, she simply couldn’t face trying to explain tonight to the equally tired and impatient inspector. She’d only make a mess of it. “First thing in the morning,” she compromised.

“I’ll have someone at the vicarage at eight. If that’s not too early?” he asked with a touch of malice.

“I’ll be ready. Good night, Inspector. Sleep well.”

He ushered her out into the passage. “You’re free to leave,” he growled. “You’d better escort the ladies up the hill, Sergeant.”

“That’s all right,” said Nick, “I’ll see them home. Now that we’ve all told you where we think the table was, it can’t matter if we compare notes.”

“True. But make sure you see them right into the house. Don’t forget, there’s a murderer on the loose, and Mrs Trewynn is the nearest thing we have to a witness.”

As they started up the hill, Eleanor shivered. “I wish he hadn’t said that.”

Scumble beckoned Megan into the stockroom and indicated where the table had started, where it had paused on its journey, and where it ended up, in the corner of the shop.

“We’re never going to get that into the car,” she said.

“Not a hope. But never mind that for the moment. What do you think happened?”

Megan returned to the stockroom and contemplated the table’s intermediate position. The inspector stood in the doorway and contemplated Megan, his expression sardonic.

“You said there were bruises on his arms, sir? And his chin?”

“The one on his chin is several days old. He seems to have collided with someone’s fist. The others—looks as if someone gripped his upper arms, hard, very shortly before death.”

“And the marks on his head are more or less the shape of those porpoises. The edge of the glass could have caused that straight line, couldn’t it?”

“Very likely.”

“And there was something there that interested Teazle. It’s a pity Mrs Stearns is such a fanatical cleaner.”

“Makes it more difficult, but if his head hit the table there’ll be traces left in the crack between the beast and the glass. He didn’t bleed much, because he died almost at once, but there would have been some blood. The murderer must have done a bit of a clean-up job or Mrs Stearns could hardly have helped noticing more than a few smudges from the dog’s nose.”

“But would it be possible to break someone’s neck by bashing his head against a stationary object?”

“Possible,” Scumble said, almost approvingly, “but it would take quite a bit of force.”

“So we’re looking for someone pretty hefty.”

“Or desperate.”

“Is that all we know about him?”

“So far.”

“That’s not much help, is it, sir?”

“No help at all until we know who the victim was. We’ve got a halfway presentable photo now. You can take it to show to all the neighbours tomorrow, and if there’s no bites, we’ll go to Missing Persons and the Criminal Records Office. Let’s hope we don’t have to release it to the press. “

“I was thinking, sir—”

“Don’t overdo it,” said Scumble with heavy irony, “you don’t want to do yourself a mischief.”

In the face of this encouragement, Megan held her tongue.

“Come on, how can I tell if it’s worth hearing till I hear it?”

“I just wondered, seeing the way the victim was dressed, if they might have broken in looking for clothes, or even for shelter, as much as valuables.”

“It’s possible.”

“But it doesn’t actually get us any further.”

“No. I still have to put a couple of men on to watch the place in case they come back to search for something we don’t know about, or something they’ve taken it into their drug-hazed minds is here, or—”

“They?”

“We have no reason to believe there were only two of them.”

“No. I suppose not.”

“I can’t see a dozen crowding in here without leaving traces, but there could easily have been three of them, four at a pinch. Now go and radio for a van to fetch away the table. I’m going to poke about in here a bit more.”

Megan went out to the car to call the Bodmin nick. Someone strong and desperate, she thought in dismay, and perhaps more than one. What if they decided Aunt Nell might be able to identify them? What if they had been watching and seen her go off with the vicar’s wife?

If the DI didn’t post a man to keep obbo on the vicarage, Megan intended to propose that he should, no matter how much scorn the suggestion drew down on her head.

NINE

The sun had cleared the hills surrounding Port Mabyn and shone through spotless windows into the vicarage kitchen. Eleanor and the Stearns were just finishing breakfast when the doorbell rang, at eight o’clock on the dot.

“I’ll get it,” said Eleanor, putting down her coffee mug, blue and white striped Cornish pottery like the rest of the breakfast service. So like dear Joce to have a matching set, though she’d had to collect it piece by piece from the LonStar shop. “It’ll be whoever Inspector Scumble sent—I do hope it’s Megan.”

Megan it was. She followed Eleanor into the kitchen.

The Vicar unfolded. “Good morning, my dear young lady. You want to talk to Jocelyn and Eleanor, I know, so I’ll make myself scarce.”

“No, please stay a moment, sir. I’ve got a photo of the victim I’m showing everyone. We still don’t know who he was.”

“Is it . . . is it very unpleasant?”

“No, no, they cleaned him up. Here.”

He took it between thumb and forefinger and peered at it. “No,” he said, with obvious relief. “Never seen him in my life. Here, Jocelyn, what about you?” He handed the photo to his wife and sidled out of the room.

Eleanor looked over Jocelyn’s shoulder. The thin face was young, but not too young to be badly in need of a shave. The dark, fuzzy stubble softened but didn’t conceal a bruise on the right side of his jawbone, an inch or two up from the point of his chin. The long hair had been combed but still gave an impression of uncleanness.

“No, I’ve never seen him before,” said Jocelyn, handing the photo to Eleanor. “Do sit down, Megan. Coffee?”

However hard Eleanor tried to be charitable, tried to make allowances for the changes wrought by death, she thought the youth looked shifty, even unsavoury. Was it just because he had been found in unsavoury circumstances in the room below her flat? If his eyes were open, his expression full of life, would she feel different about him?

“Do you recognise him, Aunt Nell?”

“No, dear, I’m afraid not. I can’t help wondering about his parents. Not knowing what’s become of him, I mean.”

“Sometimes ignorance is bliss,” said Jocelyn. “I expect you’ll identify him sooner or later, won’t you, Megan? That’s when his family will need sympathy.”

“We’re pretty well bound to find out sooner or later, one way or another. Then we’ll start tracking down his associates.” Megan put the photo in an envelope and stuck it in her pocket. “It’s still a mystery what he was doing in the LonStar premises in the first place. Aunt Nell, the DI said there’s something you were going to tell him last night?”

Jocelyn stood up. “Well, I’ll just leave you two to it—”

Eleanor caught her arm. “Don’t desert me, Joce.”

“I never saw them, after all. And it’s Megan you’re facing, not that man.”

“Them?” asked Megan. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing but hearsay as far as I’m concerned,” said Jocelyn firmly. “Leave the washing-up. I’ll do it later.” She hurried out.

“Aunt Nell?”

“I tried to tell him last night.”

“But?”

“But I should have told him sooner. He’ll never believe I just kept forgetting.”

“He’ll believe it,” Megan said with absolute conviction. “Come on, let’s do the washing-up while you tell me. You wash and I’ll dry, in case I have to write anything down.”

“You will,” said Eleanor gloomily. “I don’t know what it all means, but I can’t believe it has nothing to do with the murder.” She started running hot water into the sink, adding a good squirt of Sqezy, the Washing-up Wizard. “That would be just too much coincidence to swallow.”

“For pity’s sake, Aunt Nell, spit it out!”

“What a very ungenteel expression! All right, all right. I’ll ‘spit it out.’ It wasn’t until I got back to the shop that I found it.” She handed over a cup to be dried. “When I started unloading the Incorruptible, there it was, and I simply had no idea who had given it to me.”

“It? You were talking about ‘them.’ ”

“The container and the thing contained,” said Eleanor, with vague memories of English lessons and Nick’s earlier remark. “Things, rather. The briefcase I mean, dear, or perhaps attaché-case is the correct term. It’s one of those thingummies businessmen carry, but not the flat, soft-sided kind, more like a small suitcase, if you see what I mean. But thin, a couple of inches I’d say.” She gestured to show the overall dimensions—perhaps two feet by eighteen inches—and soapsuds flew. “Quite heavy for its size.”

“I get the picture.”

“I took it back to the stockroom and opened it. Megan, it was full of jewelry!”

“Jewelry!” Megan nearly dropped the saucer she was drying. “You’re not serious!”

“Absolutely, dear. It must be paste, of course, or whatever artificial gems are made of these days, but still quite valuable, and so very generous of someone. But such a trouble! We aren’t allowed to accept that sort of thing without proof of ownership and all sorts of paperwork. Joce always deals with it so I’m not sure exactly what’s needed. And it had appeared out of thin air without even a name to go with it.”

“So you tucked it away in a corner of the stockroom and forgot about it?” Detective Sergeant Pencarrow asked in incredulous horror.

“Of course not. Do give me credit for a modicum of common sense!” Eleanor said quite crossly. “I took it upstairs and locked it in the safe.”

“In your flat? There’s a safe in your flat?”

“I had it built in when I bought the place and remodelled it. These old cottages have pretty thick walls, you know. Joce thought it would be a good idea, safer than in the shop. We’ve both been very careful never to tell a soul about it. I expect that’s why I forgot to mention it to the inspector, besides being sure he’d find it, used to searching places as he must be. Only it seems he didn’t, or he’d have asked me to open it, wouldn’t he?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And I’m afraid he’ll be rather annoyed, with me for not telling him, and with himself for not finding it. So, you see, I’m very glad it’s you who came this morning and I’ve been able to tell you, instead of him.” She handed over the last plate and started to scrub the frying pan.

Automatically drying the plate, Megan said, “You’re going to have to tell him, too. This is going to change everything. It’s the first hint we’ve had of a significant motive for the break-in! He won’t be satisfied with hearing it from me, you know. Besides, he’s going to have a lot of questions. There’s no point me asking them. You’d only have to repeat the answers. I’d better go and ring him right away.”

“If you must, dear,” said Eleanor with a sigh.

“He just about blew my socks off,” Megan reported, “as if it was
my
fault! You’re to wait here, Aunt Nell. It’s more of an order than a request. While the inspector is on his way from Launceston, I’ve got to show the photo of the victim to anyone and everyone I can find, so I’ll come and fetch you when I see his car at the shop.
Please
don’t go anywhere or talk to anyone.”

Jocelyn stiffened. “I assume Mr Scumble doesn’t propose to put me under house arrest also? I have parish business to be seen to.”

“It’s not house arrest, Mrs Stearns, just a . . . well, just he’s going to be even more upset if Aunt Nell isn’t available when he gets here. He didn’t actually say anything about you.”

“Then I shall go about my lawful occasions, whatever that’s supposed to mean. You may take it that I don’t intend to discuss the case with anyone.”

“Thank you, Mrs Stearns,” Megan said meekly.

Jocelyn went off about her lawful occasions and Megan went off to trudge up and down the street, footpaths, and alleyways of Port Mabyn, wielding the victim’s photograph. Eleanor found a pile of mending waiting to be done and set about sewing a button on one of the Reverend Stearns’ best shirts, hoping her stitches would be neat enough to satisfy her meticulous friend. Probably not, as her mind kept wandering to the best way to present her story to the inspector.

Megan returned looking gloomy. “I’ve been round half the village and no one admits to ever having seen him. Not that all that many were at home. The inspector’s arrived. We’d better not keep him waiting.”

Leaving Teazle with the vicar, Eleanor was escorted down the hill to her flat. On the way, several people greeted her and started expressing their sympathy and asking questions. Some were neighbours; others, wielding notebooks and cameras, were obviously reporters. Megan hustled her along, repeating “No comment,” and not letting her aunt say anything more than “Good morning.”

Scumble was already in the flat. He had taken Nick’s picture off the wall, exposing the safe.

“Oldest trick in the world,” he grumbled. “I’d have found it in a second if I’d imagined for a moment that you had one. I don’t suppose by any chance you remember the combination?”

Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,
Eleanor thought, though for Megan’s sake she didn’t say it aloud. “Certainly,” she replied. “It’s—”

“Don’t tell me!” He held up both hands to forestall her revelation. “Just open the blood . . . the blasted thing.”

Eleanor complied. Scumble flashed his torch into the dim recess. Gold gleamed; gems sparkled and glittered in a myriad colours.

“Ye gods!” the inspector exclaimed. “No wonder someone tried to get in last night!”

“He did?” Eleanor was shocked. “What happened? He didn’t get in?”

“I had men watching front and back, hidden. He came down the path at the back. When he stopped at your door, the silly bug—fool posted there tried to jump him and got caught up in a blackthorn bush. “

“Oh dear, I hope he wasn’t too badly scratched.”

“Not badly enough for my liking,” Scumble said grimly. “He swears he didn’t swear aloud, but the intruder obviously heard him and ran off.”

“Megan, you didn’t tell me.”

“I should hope not,” said Scumble, “after I expressly forbade it. And you’re not to say a word either, Mrs Trewynn. I’ve only told you because you live here and you should be on your guard. If I read about it in the local rag—or anywhere else for that matter—”

“They won’t hear it from me,” Eleanor assured him.

“That I can believe. You don’t talk half enough to suit me. How could you forget about this stuff? There’s a fortune in there. If they’re real.”

“They can’t be, surely. Our donors are generous, but . . .” Words failed her.

“Not that generous,” Scumble finished for her. “Smells pretty fishy, if you ask me. All right, they’ll be safe in there for the moment.” He closed the door and spun the lock. “They’ll have to be appraised by an expert p.d.q. Is there a jeweller in the village? And I don’t mean an artsy-craftsy type turning out pretties for the tourists. A real pro.”

“Not in Port Mabyn. I don’t know—I expect you’d have to go to Camelford, or Bodmin, or even Launceston.”

“Pencarrow, get on the radio to HQ and have them ring up Castle Jewellers in Launceston. See if their Mr Hobbes will come out and give this stuff a look-over. Say someone can give him a lift over here if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.” Megan went out.

Her footsteps retreated down the stairs. Without her, the room seemed to shrink, and Scumble’s alarming bulk to take up more space.