Manna from Hades (9 page)

TEN

Abandoned to DI Scumble’s tender mercies, Eleanor decided sops to Cerberus was a good idea. “May I offer you a cup of tea or coffee, Inspector?”

“Thank you, I don’t mind if I do. Coffee would hit the spot nicely as long as you can talk at the same time.”

“It’s just instant, not anything complicated.”

“That’s fine. Tell me how the jewelry came into your possession.”

“I went out collecting donations on Tuesday afternoon,” said Eleanor, filling the electric kettle. From the kitchen, she could see Megan getting into the police car below. “Not in the village; out in the country, so I took the Incorrupt—my car. When I got back—”

“I don’t suppose you’ve remembered what time that was?” he asked without hope.

“The sun was setting, but that’s as close as I can get. Didn’t I tell you that already?”

“It’ll have to do. Go on.”

“I parked just outside the shop, partly on the pavement, I’m afraid, but I was unloading, so it’s allowed, isn’t it?”

“I’m not in the traffic division,” he said dryly.

“What a pity. I really ought to find out if it’s legal.” Seeing his face begin to purple, she hastened to continue. “Teazle—my dog—jumped down. Milk, no sugar, isn’t it?”

“Black, please. Is the dog germane to your story?”

“Yes, in a way.” The kettle clicked off and Eleanor poured boiling water into the two cups, stirring to make sure the powder dissolved. “You see, she was in the back seat, sitting on top of the bundle of donated clothes under which I found the jewelry. They were in a polythene bag so she couldn’t have damaged them.”

“Now let’s get this straight: You parked the car, possibly illegally, and the dog jumped down. Did she go out of the window?”

“She’d never do that. Here you are. Won’t you have a seat?” Anything to stop him towering over her.

“Thanks.” He took the mug, sipped—his mouth must be lined with asbestos—and sat down. “You opened the car door,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Which side? Which way were you facing?”

“The wrong way,” Eleanor confessed. “Is that illegal too? People seem to do it all the time.”

“I am
not
—”

“—concerned with traffic control. I know. Sorry. The driver’s-side door. I got out and told Teazle to come. Oh, I put the seat-back down. . . . No, that was afterwards. Teazle jumped from the back onto the driver’s seat and down, and I let her into the passage. She’s terribly good. She just goes upstairs out of the way while—”

“You unlocked the door into the passage?”

Eleanor racked her brains. “I’m still not sure,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t want to mislead you.”

“Glad to hear it,” he muttered.

“I turned back to the car. That’s when I put the seat-back down and took out the bag of clothes.”

“Hold on. Was your passenger-side window open?”

“Yes, it was a beautiful afternoon.”

“Was your back turned to the car for long enough for someone to insert the jewelry under the clothes?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so, if they were quick. But there were a few people about. The street wasn’t deserted. Someone would surely have noticed.”

“Hmm. All right, go on.”

“Where was I? Oh yes, I took the clothes and the jewelry back to the stockroom, then, when I saw how valuable it looked, I brought the jewelry up here and put it in the safe. By the time I went down again, Donna and the little Chins were—”

“The
what?
”

“What on earth do you mean, the ‘what?’ ”

“Little chins . . . Oh, the kids!”

“Ivy and Lionel, from the Chinese. Such dear children. They often help me, as does Donna. You always hear about teenagers being difficult, and one must admit she—Well, never mind. Then Nick came to see if there was anything heavy to carry. Nicholas Gresham, from next door.”

“The artist whose shin met the table, who carried the boxes of books in.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you tell him, or anyone else, about the jewelry?”

“Good gracious no!” She paused before continuing guiltily, “Not
then
. I was afraid it might turn out to be a mistake, so embarrassing to everyone to have it known and then to have to give it back . . . I did tell Jocelyn—Mrs Stearns. She had to know because it was shop business, but I didn’t mention it even to her until yesterday afternoon. Earlier, we had other things on our minds.”

“Quite. So you did tell Mr Gresham at some point?”

“At tea-time yesterday. He said we must tell you immediately.”

“And quite right he was. So why have I only just been informed?”

“Because of the drawing of the boy’s injury, and Nick’s and Jocelyn’s bruises. We were all thinking about the table, and the jewelry simply got lost in the shuffle. “

Scumble heaved a heavy sigh. “I’ll accept that, as a working hypothesis.”

“Later, I was about to tell you when you decided to call it a day.”

He had the grace to look discomfited, for a fraction of a second. “What happened after all your booty was stowed in the stockroom?”

“I’ve already told you about that. Nick invited me out to supper as he’d sold a painting, and then he took the car down to my garage. It’s just a shed, down in the parking lot by the stream.”

“Locked?”

“Padlocked. Usually, when the car is there. But the jewels weren’t put in the car in the shed. Earlier, I mean, before I went out in it. I couldn’t possibly have helped noticing when I took it out, or at least when Teazle got into the back. Or when I put in the first donation I picked up. Boxes from Mrs Prendergast. The flat kind, you know, dress boxes. I would have seen—”

“I suppose so. We’ll have to check the car for fingerprints. The key is on the ring we’ve got?”

“Yes, the one that’s obviously a padlock key.”

“Right, let’s get back to this collecting trip of yours. Where exactly did you go?”

Eleanor told him whom she had visited that day and what they had given her. She never had any difficulty remembering people, nor the proceeds of their kindness and generosity. The order in which she had called on them was another matter. “Is it important?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Can give me their addresses?”

“They’re all in my address book, in my desk.” She went over to the flap-top desk in the corner, carefully placed where she could look out over the inlet while she wrote letters. “Here. Though the addresses may not help you very much. Most of them are tucked away in odd nooks in the landscape. I can try to give you directions, but you know how it is—after a while one goes by landmarks more than by anything so precise as ‘turn left at the next crossroads’ and ‘bear right where the lane forks.’ ”

“We’ll find them.”

“You aren’t going to . . . to
accuse
them of anything, are you?” Eleanor was thinking how the arrival of the police would upset Miss Willis and Miss Annabel.

“Donating to a charity is not a crime, Mrs Trewynn. We have to find out whether any of these people put the jewelry in your car, whether accidentally or deliberately.”

“Yes, of course. Could you possibly send Meg—Detective Sergeant Pencarrow—to question the Willises? They’re elderly, you see, and they won’t get so flustered if it’s not a uniformed policeman.”

“I can’t promise. I may not be able to spare her.”

Eleanor decided to regard this as a victory of sorts. At least he had acknowledged that Megan was more use to him than a common-or-garden bobby. Megan, who clearly felt unappreciated, would be pleased to hear of the inspector’s concession.

Megan returned to the flat just then. Eleanor managed to restrain herself from passing on the good news at once.

“Mr Hobbes is on his way, sir.”

Scumble nodded. “You grew up around here, didn’t you?”

“At the other end of the county, actually, sir.”

He dismissed this with a wave. “Do you know where these places are?” He handed over the list of names and addresses.

Megan read it with dismay. “Not really, sir. Even with a map, the lanes are pretty confusing in places, but I expect I can find them.”

“Good. Take Dawson and ask ‘em all what they donated to LonStar the day before yesterday. Ask particularly about anything valuable, but don’t specify jewelry. You might as well see if anyone can put a time to Mrs Trewynn’s call,” he added pessimistically, “though I can’t see what good it’ll do us if they can. You made a note of everyone in Port Mabyn you’ve shown that photo to?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Give your notes to Pardoe. He can finish that up. And take a copy of the picture to show all these people you’re going to run to earth in their rural retreats.”

“Uh, some of these places probably don’t get wireless reception, sir. If they haven’t heard about the murder, should I tell them why I’m making enquiries?”

“No! Least said, soonest mended.” He turned a ferocious scowl on Eleanor. “Which doesn’t apply to witnesses.”

“ ‘I tell thee everything I can,’ ” said Eleanor. “ ‘There’s little to relate.’ ”

Scumble gave her a look of utter incomprehension. Oh dear, she thought, he wasn’t brought up on Lewis Carroll. Now he would think her battier than ever. But the image the quotation brought to her mind—an aged, aged man a-sitting on a gate—reminded her of something she
hadn’t
related.

“It wasn’t a gate,” she said, as Megan, who surely was acquainted with the White Knight, made her escape. “It was a stile. I went for a walk on the cliffs.”

“That afternoon,” the inspector said flatly. “After picking up the goods?”

“Yes. It was a beautiful day. I parked in a lay-by, well off the road.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Did you by any chance lock the car?”

“Well, no. As a matter of fact, I left the keys in the lock, so, you see, I did mean to do it. But I heard a car coming, so I checked to make sure Teazle was well out of the way.”

“Did you recognise the car?” he rapped out. “What make, year, colour? I suppose there’s no hope of your having noted the licence plate.”

“It was a panda car, actually. Or don’t you like people calling them that? A police car. Bob Leacock’s police car.”

“PC Leacock’s police car. The local officer.”

“That’s right. Such a nice young man. He stopped to make sure I hadn’t broken down and we passed the time of day. Then he drove on and I climbed up onto the stile. Teazle went underneath. It was a wooden one, not one of those with stone steps built into a wall. That kind I have to lift her over, which is all very well if you have a small dog but how people manage . . . Sorry! Where was I?”

“On top of the stile, I believe. The
wooden
stile.”

Sarcasm again. Eleanor was quite indignant. After all, she had apologised for rambling. She was almost tempted to tell him she couldn’t remember what had happened next. He’d certainly believe her. But not only would that be childish, the more she thought about it, the more obvious it seemed that the loot must have been put into the Incorruptible while she was walking across the field.

“Another car came by. It’s no good asking me the make or year or licence plate, but it was grey. The sun was reflected off the windshield and I couldn’t see who was inside, but I waved, just in case it was someone I knew. It drove past. After I had climbed down from the stile and started across the field, I heard the engine cut off. I remember hoping they weren’t going to walk the same way and spoil the peace and quiet. A few moments later, I heard a car door slam. Then they drove away.”

“In which direction?” Scumble demanded.

“The opposite way to Bob. They must have passed each other as he drove down the hill.”

“If he doesn’t know the make, model, and year,” snarled the inspector, “I’ll have him kicked off the force.”

ELEVEN

PC Dawson was young, brash, and muscular. Megan wondered whether DI Scumble had chosen him to accompany her because she might need protection. Visiting rural philanthropists sounded harmless but this was, after all, a murder investigation. The fact that she had passed all the police unarmed combat courses with flying colours was not likely to impress the inspector.

Dawson raced the panda Mini along twisting lanes barely wide enough for a single car. The high, banked walls on either side effectively blocked any view of oncoming traffic. It gave Megan a new appreciation for Scumble’s dislike of being driven.

She closed her eyes as a bend brought them nose to nose with a tractor. Had it been doing more than three miles an hour, disaster would have been inevitable. As it was, the police car screeched to a halt a scant foot short of its radiator grille. The farm-worker driving it, a red-faced man in a disreputable hat, gave a cheery wave and pointed forcefully at the way they had come.

Dawson reversed, swearing. He shot Megan a half-shamefaced, half-defiant look and muttered, “Sorry,” as he backed into a passing niche.

After six years in the police, she still hadn’t worked out how to deal with this situation. He’d never have apologised for bad language to a male colleague. On the one hand, he was being polite. On the other, he was treating her differently because she was a woman. She mumbled something indistinguishable even to herself.

The tractor chugged past with another wave and a grin from the farmer. He was pulling a cart loaded with bales of wool. A faint, not unpleasant smell of sheep wafted into the car.

Unchastened by their near miss, Dawson rocketed out of the passing-place and down the winding lane. The high banks ended and tangled woodland closed in. As they neared the still narrower bridge at the foot of the hill, the radio started to squawk. Amid the unintelligible noise, Megan thought she heard their car’s call number.

“Was that us?” Dawson asked, easing off the accelerator just in time for the sharp turn onto the old stone bridge over a swift stream edged with mossy boulders.

“I think so.” Megan reached for the transmitter. “This is CaRaDoC L7. We’re barely receiving your signal. Please wait till we get out of this valley.” She let go the transmit button.

The radio resumed its squawking. Megan caught their call number again, and something that might have been Scumble.

“I repeat, we can’t hear you properly. We’re heading uphill now. Please wait. We should get a clear signal at the top.” She repeated variations on this theme until the car emerged from the trees and the lane levelled off between spring-green hedges. Dawson pulled into a lay-by and switched off.

“Okay, this is CaRaDoC L7. Reception should be better here. Please repeat your message.”

It wasn’t Scumble in person at the other end, just an operator at HQ in Launceston relaying his instructions. PC Leacock was urgently wanted. He wasn’t answering his radio. Either it was on the blink again, or he wasn’t in his car, or—the operator suggested snidely—he was down at the bottom of some valley where there was no reception. If they came across him, he was to be sent straight to DI Scumble at the LonStar shop in Port Mabyn.

Megan acknowledged the message and signed off.

“I expect he knows too much,” Dawson suggested with relish, turning the key in the ignition, “and the murderer’s bagged him.”

“I expect he’s in some cosy farmhouse kitchen being fed on the fat of the land,” said Megan sourly.

“Yeah, more likely,” he agreed as they zoomed on their way.

She consulted their map. “The next village looks a bit bigger than the last one and it says ‘
Inn
.’ Maybe they’ll have pasties.”

“Even if not, I wouldn’t say no to a pint.”

Beer on an empty stomach didn’t sound like a good idea to Megan, especially as he was driving. Before she had to decide whether to voice this undoubtedly unpopular view, they drove into Tregareth.

The hamlet consisted of a single street. One of two rows of labourers’ cottages had been converted into a quite attractive house. The other had not. They faced each other uneasily across a thoroughfare no wider than necessary to allow two farm carts to pass each other. Gardens, if any, were tucked away behind.

“El Alamein,”
Dawson read the word painted in black on the whitewashed wall over the blue front door of the house. “Isn’t that the old boy we’ve come to see?”

“Major Cartwright, yes. But let’s get something to eat first.”

Beyond the cottages stood the pub, long and low, grey stone with a slate roof. On the faded sign a jaunty, green-jacketed pig pranced on its hind legs playing a penny whistle. Below, two smaller signboards swung on short chains. One announced HOT PASTIES, the other the inevitable CREAM TEAS. A telephone box made a splash of colour at one end of the building.

The rest of the village appeared to consist of a cluster of modern bungalows in the usual pastel hues, a tiny stone chapel, and a larger two-story stone house, half hidden behind a huge, spreading cedar of Lebanon that leant at an angle away from the prevailing winds. No doubt several farms, with associated cottages, lurked in the surrounding countryside, supplying sufficient drinkers to justify the presence of the Pig and Whistle. Whether sufficient holiday-makers ever passed this way to justify the cream teas was questionable.

Dawson parked and they went into the dim interior. Dawson immediately veered off towards the GENTS sign. “Back in half a tick.”

A couple of rustic figures drank silently in a corner. The landlord, Geo. Potts, Prop., according to the requisite notice over the door, was propping up the bar. “Wotcher, ducks,” he greeted her. “Wot can I getcher?”

Megan asked for pasties.

“Sorry, ducks.” The landlord was an incomer, his accent dense as a London fog. “We only do ’ot pasties for the summer trade. I ‘spect the old woman could run you up a nice sangwich, though. Gloria,” he shouted over his shoulder, “can you do a couple of sangwiches?” An indistinct answer came from the rear of the premises. He turned back to Megan. “ ’Am and cheese do you?”

“Thanks, that’ll be fine. A half of cider for me, and a pint . . . I’m not sure what he drinks. Better wait and see.”

“Now wot’s a copper up to in this neck of the woods wiv ’is ladyfriend this time of day, that’s wot I’d like to know?” His expression wasn’t quite a leer.

“I’m a detective officer,” Megan said icily.

He threw up both hands. “Beg parding I’m sure. No offence meant, orficer. Takes all sorts, that’s wot I say. Last thing I want’s to get on the wrong side of Old Bill. You’re a ’tec, eh? Wouldn’t’ve thought Bob Leacock’d need help from you lot to deal wiv a poacher.”

“Leacock? He’s in the village?”

“Up at Cedar Lodge.” He gestured. “The big house over there. Squire thinks some bloke’s been after his pheasants.”

“Are they on the telephone? I must get hold of him at once and his car radio doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Yeah. Name’s Dandridge. But we ’aven’t got a phone. You’ll ’ave to use the box.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“I’ll tell your—um—pal in blue where you went.”

“Thanks.”

Unlike most urban telephone booths, this one had an intact directory. Megan found the number and dialled. The squire at the big house—She half-expected the phone to be answered by a butler. But a young foreign female voice said,
“Allo?”
and then quickly corrected herself and gave the exchange and number. Au pair, Megan thought.

She kept it simple and spoke slowly. “This is the police. I need to speak to PC Leacock, please.”

“Please, here is policeman already, for the birds.”

“Yes, I know. I must speak to him. Talk to him.”

“He is talk Mr Dandridge. Do not disturb.”

Megan was running low on both patience and change when Dawson came out of the pub, strolled over to the booth, and raised his eyebrows at her. She cracked the door open and hissed, “Foreigner. I can’t make her understand.”

“Leacock’s there?”

“Yes, talking to the Big White Chief Who Is Not To Be Disturbed. Known locally as The Squire.”

“We’d better hop on over there. I’ll go tell the landlord we’ll be right back, while you wind things up with the bird. My beer’ll go flat,” he added mournfully.

It was too late to “wind things up.” They had been cut off. Dawson came back out of the Pig and Whistle, beckoned to her impatiently, and got into the car.

Megan went over. “It’s that house just there. We can walk.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Jump in.”

As he turned off the street into the drive, he switched on the siren. They arrived
whoo-whoo
ing in a flurry of gravel. “I hope I haven’t disturbed the Great White Chief,” he said with a smirk.

Before flying gravel had stopped pinging against the flanks of the muddy panda car and the immaculate Rover already parked in front of the house, Bob Leacock erupted from the front door, helmet in hand.

“What’s up?” he yelled. Then he took in Dawson’s smug grin. “I just got the old sod to stop talking man-traps,” he said bitterly, “and you come busting in—”

“Murder takes precedence over poaching,” Megan interrupted, leaning forward. “Mr Scumble wants you to report in pronto.”

“You should thank us for rescuing you,” said Dawson.

“My radio quit again.”

“He wants you on the spot,” Megan told him, “at the shop, the LonStar shop in Port Mabyn, according to the HQ operator.”

“Why? I didn’t see anything that night, more’s the pity, no matter how many times he asks me, and if anyone had told me anything useful, I’d’ve reported right away.”

“I wasn’t told what he wants. Reception’s lousy here, but I gather they’ve been trying to get hold of you for some time, so I’d get a move on if I were you.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. Then he brightened. “I’ll have to leave you to explain to the squire. ’Bye!” Without further ado, he got into his car and rolled off down the drive.

Megan and Dawson looked at each other. Megan grabbed the radio transmitter. “I’d better tell them he’s on his way. Don’t keep the Great White Chief waiting.”

“What exactly is a man-trap?” Dawson asked gloomily, opening his door.

“I expect you’re about to find out. Hello, this is CaRaDoC L7 reporting . . .”

Dawson returned a few minutes later with all his limbs intact. He answered with a growl when Megan asked him about his interview with Dandridge, so she didn’t persist. They departed from Cedar Lodge in another spray of gravel.

As a peace offering, she bought him a pint to replace the flat one awaiting him at the pub.

Starting on his third sandwich, he let her tackle El Alamein on her own.

Major Cartwright answered the door leaning heavily on a stout walking stick. Like all the others they had called on that day, he denied having donated anything of value to LonStar.

“Wish I could,” he said gruffly, “but the pension doesn’t stretch as far as it used to. Not that I’m complaining, mind. When I think of those poor blighters Mrs Trewynn is trying to help . . . And now it seems it’s all our fault. The Empire and all, I mean.”

He wasn’t querulous, just puzzled. Megan produced a sympathetic murmur.

“A lot of chaps are saying so, so I suppose it must be true, but it’s a bit bewildering for an old fogey like me. Thought we were helping them, don’t you know. White man’s burden, they called it in my young day. So I do what I can. Give Mrs Trewynn all my books. No use reading them again after you know the ending.”

“Did you pack them up yourself?”

“Yes, indeed. I have them shipped to me from a London bookshop—I don’t get about much any longer—so I just put them back in the boxes they sent them in.”

“No one could have slipped something in without your noticing?”

“Not possibly. By George, this is just like stepping into a detective story. I read mostly detective stories,” he added shyly. “I don’t suppose they’re really anything like real life—no lady police detectives, for one thing—but I enjoy ’em.”

“And I know my aunt is very grateful for them, sir. They sell quickly.”

“Your aunt?”

Megan’s face grew hot. With Aunt Nell in the thick of this case, it was very difficult to keep the personal and the professional apart. “Mrs Trewynn happens to be my aunt, sir.”

“No, is she? Wonderful lady!” the major enthused.

Aunt Nell had an admirer! How lucky that, with his difficulty in walking, he couldn’t possibly be the villain of this particular detective story.

He was obviously dying for a chat, probably on the point of inviting her into his house. To Megan’s relief, an impatient toot came from the direction of the inn.

“I’ve got to go. My partner’s waiting. Thank you for your cooperation, sir.”

“I hope you catch the rotter who put Mrs Trewynn through such a beastly experience,” he said earnestly.

“We will, sooner or later,” she promised, shaking his hand. Walking back to the car, she pondered his priorities. Apparently Aunt Nell’s inconvenience weighed more heavily than the victim’s lost life. No doubt he had read in the papers that the youth was a scruffy layabout. His first thought had probably been that a couple of years in the army would have set him straight.

Joining Dawson in the car, she reported, “A nice old boy, but no help.” She checked the list and the map. “Only a couple more, but you’ll have to turn around. We want to go on the way we were going.”

Dawson put the gear into reverse and shot backwards along the street and into the drive of Cedar Lodge. Thence they continued their headlong career. Fortunately for Megan’s nerves, the lane came out on a shoulder of Bodmin moor, and at least they could see their way ahead. To her vocal amazement, Dawson even deigned to slow down to chivvy occasional sheep and ponies off the road.

“Hey,” he said, “do you know what the fine is for running over livestock?”

“No. What?”

“I don’t know either, but I bet it’s a whole lot more than dinging the nose of a tractor.”