“Yes,” agreed Lottie, “and then I suppose the bloke whoever he was would have started the rumour that David had run away to avoid conscription meaning Polly wouldn’t have reason to wonder where he’d gone. Well, she might have wondered where but have no reason to question why.”
“You make quite a good team of amateur sleuths,” laughed Belinda, “I wish I had your vivid imaginations.”
“Thank you,” said Hetty, missing the fact that Belinda spoke with tongue-in-cheek.
Lottie frowned. “But we still don’t know anything about the hearse driver. It’s most frustrating,” she tutted, “We don’t even know his name.”
“Unless it was old Jimmy,” reasoned Hetty, thinking of the painting in her bedroom, “Although I don’t really like the idea that the Old Jimmy in my picture was a bad person because he has a kindly face and sad eyes, but then do murderers ever look evil?”
Lottie twiddled her fingers. “Not very often and especially when the crime is not premeditated.”
“Well whatever,” smiled Grace, “it’s all guess work and we don’t even know that the lady in the photograph is Polly.”
Lottie groaned. “That’s the trouble. It is all guesswork and if I’m honest I don’t think we’re really any further forward today than we were when we first found the wretched suitcase.”
“Sadly you’re right,” conceded Hetty, “and if we ever learn the truth and find that David was murdered, all I hope is that the deadly deed took place anywhere other than inside this house.” As her words faded a sudden loud clap of thunder rattled through the building and brought Albert running in from his bed in the kitchen. He jumped up onto Hetty’s lap and, whining and trembling, buried his face under her arm.
Chapter Thirteen
Thursday morning dawned bright and sunny and everywhere smelled fresh and clean after the overnight rain. In the back garden when she went to hang out the washing, Lottie found several apples had fallen prematurely from the tree in the wind. No flower stems were broken but the nibbled leaves on the dahlias and lupins was evidence that slugs and snails had enjoyed a midnight feast.
In the sitting room, Hetty gazed at the lining paper where she had pinned the small picture of the young lady they supposed might be Polly Berryman. As she picked up a pen to write Polly Berryman followed by a question mark beneath the photograph, she heard a car tooting outside. When she went to see who it was she found Vince Royale parking her car on the tarmac.
“Oh lovely, thank you,” she cried, “I’ve missed the old car. Is everything alright now?”
“Yes, we’ve fixed the brakes and I’ve changed the oil as well so she should be fine.”
“Would you like me to run you back to the garage?” Hetty asked seeing that he was alone.
“No, it’s okay, one of the lads is picking me up. He should be here any minute.”
Right on cue a truck appeared with Vince Royle’s Garage written on the side along with his email address.
“Email address…internet,” muttered Hetty, as the truck drove away, “Of course, why didn’t I think of it before?”
She took a magnifying glass from a drawer in the kitchen and ran up the stairs to her room. From beside a chair she picked up the painting of Old Jimmy, sat down on the bed and placed it on her lap. Then using the magnifying glass she looked at the artist’s signature to see if it was legible. It was faint but she was able to make out the name. It was S J Choak. Placing the painting back by the chair she went downstairs, switched on her laptop and typed S J Choak into the search box. To her delight the name came up amongst a list of Cornish artists. He was born in 1890 and died in 1967, but no other information was available.
Hetty was just about to tell Lottie what she had discovered, when the doorbell rang. On the doorstep was Sid.
“Taps,” Sid held up a small box.
“Excellent,” said Hetty, stepping aside, “come in.”
As Sid stepped over the threshold he caught sight of the teddy bear on the stool in the corner of the sitting room. “Alright, Saff?” he chuckled, and gave the bear the thumbs up sign.
“I get the impression you like that little bear,” smiled Hetty as she closed the front door.
“Yes, I do. There’s something about his face that appeals. Having said that I like all bears but don’t you go broadcasting that fact.”
“I won’t but I know what you mean and I agree.”
Sid’s smile vanished. “On a more sombre note. There were several people in the churchyard when I left home this morning and a white tent was being erected around the grave of Peter Tregear. I should imagine they’ve gone by now though.”
Lottie groaned. “Oh dear. I do hope we’ve not sent the police on a wild goose chase. On the other hand I hope Peter was buried alone and that David wasn’t murdered as we’ve suggested. I’d like to think the lad ran away and lived happily ever after.”
“Well, time will tell because I shouldn’t think they’d put the tent up if exhumation wasn’t imminent.” Sid held up the box, “Anyway, the wash basin taps are here at last and so I’ll put them on and then I’ll be finished.”
“Wonderful,” said Lottie, “Basil reckons he and Mark will finish today as well.”
Grace arrived as Sid went upstairs with the taps so she and the sisters went outside to sit in the back garden.
“A penny for your thoughts,” smiled Lottie to Grace who appeared to be looking into space. “You seem miles away.”
Grace laughed. “I was just thinking how nice it would be to receive a letter from John. You know, a proper hand written letter delivered by the postman. It’d be nice to write one too. Such a shame that technology has superseded that art and I fear it will never return.”
“I wholeheartedly agree. Emails and text messages just aren’t the same even if they are quicker, free and save time.”
“Exactly. I bought a postcard of Pentrillick yesterday and posted it to John this morning but it seemed rather futile because I’ve already sent him pictures on my phone and of course he can Google it anyway.”
“I’ve some interesting news,” interrupted Hetty, before Lottie and Grace could discuss further modes of communication. “The painting I bought of Old Jimmy was painted by a Cornish artist who was born in 1890 and died in 1967. So my Old Jimmy will almost certainly have been a Cornishman.”
Lottie looked amazed. “Really?”
“Yes, so I’m pretty certain now, as much as it goes against the grain, that the chap in my painting is the Old Jimmy that Peter Tregear referred to on the postcard and that he may well be the hearse driver.”
“Certainly food for thought,” agreed Grace, although she didn’t look convinced, “but even if it is it’s still not possible to find out anything about him without a surname.”
Hetty’s shoulders slumped. “No, I suppose not.”
“He doesn’t really look like a hearse driver,” reasoned Lottie, “he looks more like a fisherman even though he worked on a farm.”
“But that’s silly. Just because he has a moustache and a beard and is wearing a cap doesn’t mean he wouldn’t scrub-up well. Anyway, it was wartime and so there would have been a shortage of men.”
“And,” Grace added, “if the gentleman in Hetty’s picture and the hearse driver-cum-farmworker were one and the same man then he would also have served on the lifeboat which might explain his nautical appearance.”
“Thank you, Grace. I’m glad you can see reason.”
Grace giggled. “You’re welcome, Hetty but I have to admit I’m inclined to agree with Lottie and very much doubt that your Old Jimmy is in any way connected to the disappearance of David.”
A little later when they went back indoors, they found a small package lying on the doormat.
“Oh look, the postman’s been,” Lottie bent down and picked up the padded envelope. She looked at the label. “Whatever can it be? It’s addressed to both of us, but we’re not expecting anything, are we, Het?”
“No, but yo
u wanted some handwritten post and now you have it.”
“Not quite the same as a letter though, is it?” Lottie shook it but it appeared not to rattle.
“I suppose it might be from Simon,” suggested Hetty, “You never know, he might have decided to send on the old pictures rather than wait until they visit us.”
“I doubt it. Anyway, I’ll leave you to open it while I put the kettle on before we get complaints from the attic. Mustn’t neglect them on their last day although I daresay Sid’s finished already and is just chatting.” Lottie handed the package to Hetty and went into the kitchen.
Grace and Hetty went into the sitting room to await their coffee and Hetty sat down to open the package. As she broke the seal there was a bang and a sudden flash. She screamed as the padded envelope caught fire. Grace leapt to her feet, quickly grabbed the burning package and tossed it onto the hearth. She then ran into the kitchen for a bowl of cold water and plunged Hetty’s burnt hands into it.
“Oh my God,” shrieked Lottie, who had followed Grace into the sitting room, “a letter bomb. Who on earth could have sent that?”
“I don’t know,” groaned Hetty, trembling but relieved to see the burns were not bad and she was more shaken than injured. She tried to laugh. “But I don’t think I’ll be wearing these trousers again. They’re unrepairable even for you, Lottie.”
Lottie gasped on seeing the large holes in her sister’s trousers and the surrounding scorch marks. “I’m ringing the police,” she cried, and dashed into the hallway where the number they had been given to ring was tucked behind a vase of flowers. As she picked up the phone, Sid, Basil and Mark rushed down the stairs to see who had screamed and why.
While they waited for the police, Grace dabbed Hetty’s hands with bicarbonate of soda and wrapped them in gauze bandages.
“Looks to me like you need police protection,” Basil stated, “How many attempts have there been on your lives now?”
“Just a couple,” muttered Hetty, trying to trivialise the situation, “Today’s effort and the car brakes. The phone calls were in no way a threat to our lives.”
“Oh, I thought there was something else,” Basil scowled as he tried to recall another incident.
“You’re thinking of Simon Berryman being poisoned,” voiced Lottie.
“Of course. How is he getting on?”
“Very well and he’s due out of hospital today, thank goodness.”
“Have you fitted the new taps, Sid?” Hetty asked, keen to change the subject.
Sid nodded. “Yes, they’re all done so you can shower in there or whatever as soon as you want.”
“And we’ve as good as finished too,” chuckled Basil, “Just a bit of clearing up to do and then it’ll all be yours.”
Inside Pentrillick’s churchyard, the badly decomposed coffin containing the remains of Peter Tregear was slowly and with reverence lifted from his grave onto the grass where the tarnished nameplate was checked to ratify the occupant was indeed Peter Tregear. His coffin was then lowered into a fibreglass shell, the lid screwed down and a nameplate with his name and the date of his demise attached to the exterior lid.
Kitty Thomas who played the church organ, was walking along the main street of the village when the vehicles left the graveyard. As they drove by she lowered her head and said a little prayer.
Chapter Fourteen
On Monday, Kyle had the whole day off work and so in the morning he drove Zac and Emma to Penzance to get white matt paint for the three of them had volunteered to paint the walls of the new bedrooms.
Ten minutes after they had left, Hetty and Lottie had a visit from the police who informed them that Peter Tregear was buried alone and that the remains were definitely him because there was evidence of the injuries he had received during the war as ratified by his military records. They also learned that Peter had died in a British hospital having been shipped home from abroad because his injuries were life threatening and it was unlikely that he would ever be able to be part of active service again.
“That lets Luke Burleigh off the hook then,” sighed Hetty, as the police car drove away, “Well, his family at least.”
“His family name,” corrected Lottie, “After all we’ve no reason at all to suppose Luke is related to the Berrymans we’re interested in.”
Hetty looked dejected. “And I suppose it lets Old Jimmy off the hook too. Although in a way I’m glad about that because I’ve got to like him. As I said the other day he has a kindly face and sad eyes.”
Lottie laughed. “Oh, come on, Het. You must have known all along that the chances of your Old Jimmy in the painting and the hearse driver being the same man were very, very slim.”
“But Old Jimmy might still be the hearse driver. It’s just we know now that he didn’t kill David. Having said that he might have murdered him but obviously not in the manner we’d imagined, who knows?”
“Well not us, that’s for sure.”
“You’re right but my instincts tell me there is a link there somewhere. Meanwhile we’ve come up against yet another brick wall and our investigations into the disappearance of poor old David are now right back to square one.”
“Yes they are, but the answer must still be within our grasp otherwise why would our lives have been threatened several times this summer? I mean we weren’t threatened in any way before we found the suitcase, were we? So its discovery has to be the reason for our um…accidents.”
“Perhaps by opening up the suitcase we unleashed a curse.” Hetty spoke with tongue firmly in cheek.
“Hmm, and pigs might fly.”
“But then again we mustn’t forget the Scrabble message. I mean it’s more than likely that someone does have skeletons in their closet over all this.”
Lottie laughed. “Don’t let’s go down that path again. Yes, someone may well be hiding something but to suggest some unknown spirit or whatever warned us in a game of Scrabble is far too silly.”
Hetty stood up and fetched her walking shoes from the cupboard under the stairs. “Okay. Anyway, I’m tired of thinking about it and so I’m going to take Albert out for a walk. Do you fancy coming with me?”
“Where are you planning to go?”
“I thought along the clifftop in an easterly direction as the weather’s looking good. The wind’s light as well so it should be very pleasant.”
“I’ll come then. I could do with some good clean sea air to clear my head. I must admit thinking about David’s plight is giving me a headache.”
“Me too and if you come you can hold Albert’s lead because my hands are still feeling a bit sore.”
They left Primrose Cottage with Albert on his lead. As they passed the gates of Tuzzy-Muzzy, Lottie paused. “Do you think we ought to ask Grace if she’d like to join us?”
“She’s not here today,” Hetty answered without stopping, “She made an appointment to have her hair coloured this morning after I sang the praises of Karen and Nicki.”
Lottie fell into step beside her sister. “Of course, silly me.”
They joined the coastal path by access of a track on the opposite side of the road to the Pentrillick Hotel.
“If only walls could talk,” mused Lottie, glancing up at the grand looking hotel, “it’d save us so much trouble.”
“Maybe,” agreed Hetty, “but I reckon the walls of our own house might be able to tell us more than those of the hotel.”
“Yes, you’ve made a good point there.”
A light south easterly breeze blew warm air onto their faces as they walked away from Pentrillick and followed the well-worn path between clumps of bracken, gorse and the occasional patch of colourful wild mesembryanthemums. Above, the rich blue sky stretched for miles unbroken by even one wispy white cloud, and below, the clear water of the turquoise sea showed glimpses of rock beneath the surface of the gently rippling waves. Ships and large vessels seemed motionless on the distant horizon while near to the shore, anglers clutched their fishing rods in a small
boat as it chugged along the rugged coastline.
The sisters followed the meandering path neither speaking, but instead enjoying the peace and quiet. Even gulls flying in circles overhead seemed keen not to break the tranquillity of the glorious day.
After the path ran down a slight incline, Hetty stopped and pointed to a small cove below where a granite building lay nestled between the rocks. “The Old Lifeboat House. I’d forgotten we’d be passing that by coming this way.”
“Me too,” Lottie paused and stood beside her sister. “I wish we could go and have a closer look as I’d love to see what it’s used for now.”
“Hmm, probably still a studio for someone or other.”
As she spoke, a woman appeared round the side of the building carrying two large, bulky, black bin liners which she placed beside a parked car. When she saw Hetty and Lottie, she waved.
“That’s Tess Dobson,” gasped Hetty, shading her eyes from the sunlight.
Lottie didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”
“Well, that’s her car.”
The woman beckoned the sisters towards her.
“Come on,” urged Hetty, pulling down the sleeves of her cardigan to cover her hands and hide the bandages, “we might be able to do some exploring.”
“I knew it was you when I saw Albert,” grinned Tess, as she bent forwards and stroked the dog’s soft warm head, “and had to call you down to see if you’d had any luck with your investigations?”
Hetty wrinkled her nose. “So, so.”
“Which means not really,” Lottie added. “We’ve not found out what happened to David anyway. We just seem to come up against one brick wall after another.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“But we’ll not give up,” Hetty emphasised as she attempted to peep through the Old Lifeboat House window.
“Would you like a look round?” Tess asked, having no doubt as to what the answer would be. “There’ll be no-one here until tomorrow.”
The Suitcase In The Attic Page 12
