by Carola Dunn
BOOKS BY CAROLA DUNN
Cornish Mysteries:
Manna From Hades
A Colourful Death
The Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries:
Death at Wentwater Court
The Winter Garden Mystery
Requiem for a Mezzo
Murder on the Flying Scotsman
Damsel in Distress
Dead in the Water
Styx and Stones
Rattle His Bones
To Davy Jones Below
The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
Mistletoe and Murder
Die Laughing
A Mourning Wedding
Fall of a Philanderer
Gunpowder Plot
The Bloody Tower
Black Ship
Sheer Folly
A COLOURFUL
DEATH
A Cornish Mystery
CAROLA DUNN
MINOTAUR BOOKS
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A COLOURFUL DEATH. Copyright © 2010 by Carola Dunn. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dunn, Carola.
A colourful death : a Cornish mystery / Carola Dunn.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-37946-9
1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Cornwall (England : County)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6054.U537C65 2010
823′.914—dc22
2009046158
First Edition: June 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Cover Page
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Author’s Note
Port Mabyn is a fictional village in a fictional world lurking somewhere between my childhood memories of Cornwall and the present reality. Though in many cases I have used the irresistible names of real places, the reader should not expect necessarily to find them where I’ve put them. The topography resembles the North Coast of Cornwall in general, but not in particulars. The Constabulary of the Royal Duchy of Cornwall (CaRaDoC) has no existence outside my imagination. For information about the real Cornwall, I refer the reader to countless works of non-fiction, or, better still, I suggest a visit.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to: librarians Claire Morgan and Joanne Laing of the Cornish Studies Library in Redruth and Paula Nederpel of Padstow Library; Beth Franzese, for advice on Aikido moves; D. P. Lyle, MD, creator of http://writersforensicsblog.wordpress.com as well as several books on forensics for writers; Larry Karp, MD, author of the Ragtime Historical Mystery Trilogy; and last, but not least, to my sister Helen for her patience in driving me (I’m terrified of driving in England) to Launceston and Bodmin and waiting while I explored, and my son Joe, daughter-in-law Terri, and grandkids Maggie and Colin for taking me to Padstow and leaving me to explore the town while they went on to reconnoitre Trevone Bay for me (and for picking me up in the right place at the right time—not easy when it meant abandoning a beach on a sunny day).
ONE
Eleanor parked the aged pea-green Morris Minor in the Launceston station car-park, next to a snazzy red Mini. Teazle, perched on top of a bag of donated clothes on the back seat, gave a questioning yip.
“Yes, you can come. Wait a minute, you need your lead. Where did I put it?”
The lead was found on the floor by the passenger seat. Eleanor clipped it onto the Westie’s collar and they went into the station.
“Afternoon, Mrs Trewynn,” said the porter. “Beautiful day. Off to London, are you, you and the little dog?” He chirruped at Teazle, who was sniffing the turn-ups of his uniform trousers. She gave a perfunctory wag of her perfunctory tail.
“Good afternoon, Mr Lobcot. No, I’m meeting the down train. My neighbour, Nick Gresham, has been in town.”
Lobcot glanced at the station clock. “Five minutes to wait. She’s on time, seemingly. Ah, they’ll be shutting us down any day now and you’ll have to go to Bodmin Parkway to catch a train. At least, till they close that, too.”
“Well, it is a bit closer to Port Mabyn, but the train journey takes longer and the fare’s more. Besides, my niece works in Launceston. When I brought Nick to catch his train to London, I met her for lunch.”
“That’ll be Detective Sergeant Pencarrow, I expect?”
“That’s right.” Having spent her working life travelling the world, Eleanor was often amazed at how country-people seemed to know everything about everyone. She didn’t even live in Launceston. But then, the papers had made hay with that nasty business … Better not to think about it. She still shuddered at the memory of the dreadful photo that had seemed to show dear Megan arresting her. At least that one had been printed only in the Sketch, not the North Cornwall Times.
She nodded to the chatty porter and took Teazle for a stroll down the platform. It was indeed a glorious June day. A slight breeze ruffled Eleanor’s white curls, flapped her cotton skirt, and gently herded puffs of cloud across the sky like a border collie with a flock of sheep. She would have liked to break into a few of her Aikido exercises, not having had time to practise today, though she had walked Teazle. How Lobcot would have stared!
As they turned at the end of the platform to head back towards the ticket office and waiting room, a whistle tooted in the distance. The train slid round the curve, pulled by a sleek diesel engine with far less noise, smell, and dirt than steam, though none of the charm.
“Nick’s coming home,” she said to the dog, who looked up at her expectantly with a vigorous wag. Teazle approved of Nick, a reliable source of scraps of batter from fried fish and other interesting tidbits. “I wonder how he’s fared. The trouble with recommending one friend to another is that if it doesn’t work out, one feels ridiculously guilty.”
Quite a few people descended from the train, though nowhere near the crowds that would arrive later in the tourist season, after schools broke up. Eleanor spotted Nick’s tall, lean figure as he waved to her and jumped down from the rear carriage, his long pony-tail swinging. For once his clothes appeared to be free of smears and splotches of paint. In fact he looked quite sma
rt in his tan slacks and blue shirt, even though he wasn’t wearing a tie. Eleanor wasn’t sure he possessed one.
He carried his rucksack by the strap in one hand. He must have put his picture-carrier in the luggage van under the care of the guard rather than try to cram it into the rack. But he came to meet her rather than turn back to retrieve it.
Eleanor frowned. Nick was an even-tempered chap, surely not the sort to do anything drastic like destroy his best work because the gallery had turned him down. Besides, as he approached, she saw he was grinning.
He dropped the rucksack and picked her up in a hug. She yelped, and so did Teazle as the lead tightened.
“Sorry, girl!” He put Eleanor down, and stooped to ruffle Teazle’s little white head. “I see Mrs Stearns gave you my message about the train. Thanks for coming. I tried to ring you from Paddington but you were always out, you gadabout.”
“Probably walking Teazle. The weather’s been so lovely, almost too warm for exercise in the afternoons, so we’ve been walking in the mornings. Nick, where are your pictures? What—”
“I didn’t want Mrs Stearns to know before you did. Your friend Mr Alarian kept both of them. He’s going to hang them, and if they sell reasonably quickly, he’ll take a couple more. And if they sell reasonably quickly, he’ll give me a show—”
“Nick!”
“At least a shared one. He sent his kindest regards. What did you do for him, Eleanor, that he should be so grateful?”
“Heavens, I can’t remember. It was in the Sudan we met—or was it South Africa? Anyway, he wouldn’t have taken your paintings just for the sake of that old story. He’s far too canny a businessman.”
While they talked they had walked through the ticket barrier, Eleanor giving the ticket collector a smile in lieu of a platform ticket. The machine had been broken since before her return to Cornwall, and no one wanted to be bothered collecting tuppences, though he did take Nick’s return stub.
“Alarian wouldn’t have accepted the pictures at your request,” Nick agreed, “but without it, I doubt he’d have given the work of an unknown a second look.”
“Why not? How else is he to discover up-and-coming young artists?”
“Yes, he’d give a first look, but if the appeal wasn’t obvious—I took a couple of the music pictures, you know. My best, I think. The Lark Ascending and Brahms’s second Serenade. Risky, I suppose. If you don’t know the music, you wouldn’t know what they’re about, though they might appeal on other levels.”
“I like them,” said Eleanor staunchly, though her travelling life had given her no opportunity to become familiar with classical music, let alone to learn to appreciate abstract art.
They paused to let Teazle take advantage of the long grass growing along the base of the car-park fence. The station staff had lost heart for keeping things spruce when they found out the line was to be closed.
“Alarian obviously hadn’t a clue, but he asked if he could hang them in his office for a couple of days. I think he must have got someone who knows both music and art to take a look. I wish I knew who. I wonder if the Wreckers has a bottle of Aussie champagne at a price suited to my present budget rather than my great expectations.” Nick’s spirits were bubbling like Champagne. “Shall I drive?” he asked as they reached the car.
“Do. I left room in the boot for your rucksack.”
Eleanor unlocked and opened the boot, congratulating herself on having remembered to lock it, and gave Nick the car keys. She went round to the passenger side and opened the door—Oh bother, she thought, she hadn’t locked that! Teazle jumped in and scrambled between the seats onto the well-stuffed bags on the back seat. She didn’t need help as Eleanor had been careful not to pile it high with donations, to allow for Nick’s paintings in their carrier.
He unlocked the driver’s-side door and folded himself into the little car. The starter caught on the second try. The Incorruptible ran pretty well, considering its age and its hard life up and down the hills of Cornwall, frequently heavily loaded.
“Books in that box in the back?” Nick asked.
“Yes, Major Cartwright, as usual. It’s very good of him to keep giving them to LonStar when he could sell them on to the used book shop that just opened in Bodmin.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know about it.”
“Nick, I told him as soon as I found out.”
“I was teasing. And don’t worry, I’ll go on buying his thrillers and detective stories from your shop and giving them back after reading.”
As they drove up St Thomas Road past the castle, in ruins but still towering on its mound, Eleanor said, “Let’s park and find anoff-licence. I’ll buy a bottle of Champagne, or at least Asti Spumante, in case the Wreckers lets you down. But I thought you’d gone back to the Trelawny Arms since Donna decided you don’t look sufficiently like Ringo.”
He laughed. “Thank heaven! No, let’s press on. One of the pubs is bound to have something sparkling, whatever the label. I want to get home. I’ve got a commission I need to get going with right away.”
“A commission?”
“You won’t believe this. I went for a walk in St James’s Park and there was a concert going on at the bandstand. The brasses were shining in the sun and they were playing Elgar, the first Pomp and Circumstance March. You probably know it as ‘Land of Hope and Glory.’”
“Oh yes, I know that.”
“Well, it gave me an idea. I started sketching and a girl who was sitting nearby asked if she could look. Turned out she was an American, on her honeymoon but her husband was busy taking photos of the Horse Guards or something. She’d walked on to listen to the band because she plays in one in the States. Alto sax, I think she said. To cut a long story short, she said she’d buy a painting of the band if I’d paint it.”
“But it won’t look like a brass band, will it?” Eleanor said doubtfully. “Or are you going to do something more like your landscapes?”
“No, I explained to her that I paint the images the music makes in my head. She said that’s okay by her. She’s sure she’ll like it and it’ll be a very special souvenir of England. Her family has some connection with England—supposedly an ancestor jumped into the Thames and saved Charles I’s life, and they have an antique walking-stick to prove it.”
“Before he had his head cut off, I take it?”
“Oh yes, before he became king, I think. Yes, must be, because she said her maiden name, Hazard, was bestowed by a grateful James I. Janice Hazard Harrison—what a mouthful! When I suggested a price she didn’t even blink, just asked how much deposit I wanted. Her husband turned up and wrote a cheque on the spot.”
“So now you have to paint it.”
“Yes, before inspiration fades and before the Harrisons fly back to America, so I’ve got to get cracking. Besides, I want to get home and see what sort of mess Stella has made of my place. Her sculptures are so perfectly finished, it’s hard to credit that she’s such a slob in everything else.”
“She dresses very nicely, dear. Except, I dare say, when she’s actually sculpting. Is that the right word? It sounds rather odd.”
“Yes, that’s right. It can get pretty dusty, and then there’s always the odd slip of the chisel and blood everywhere.”
“Nick!”
“Not likely for Stella. She works in serpentine, which isn’t all that hard. Though she did talk about trying something in granite, something more recherché than her usual seals and seagulls. I don’t know if it’s just talk, or if she’s started work on it. I haven’t been to her studio in ages.”
“In Padstow, didn’t you say?”
“Yes, just outside. Did you see much of her while I was gone?”
“No, hardly anything. When I invited her over for lunch, she said she always brought sandwiches. Perfectly politely, but I’m afraid she doesn’t have much time for little old ladies, unless they’re customers.”
“More fool her.” Nick seized his chance between two lorries and swung rou
nd the roundabout onto the A30. The Incorruptible groaned a bit as they started the long climb up onto Bodmin Moor. “How’s my favourite little old lady been while I’ve been gone? Busy as always?”
“Busy as always. The summer people have started to arrive. So many emmets seem to forget what they already have at their ‘little place in the country,’ especially in the way of kitchen stuff and linens. They bring more down and then give the old to LonStar. Joce is tearing her hair to try to fit everything into the stockroom. She says I’d better take a few days off from collecting.”
“I can’t imagine Mrs Stearns tearing her hair, under any circumstances. Do you think we can pass this exceptionally slow and smelly lorry?”
“No, Nick! Don’t even try. You know the Incorruptible hates going uphill.”
He obeyed, or more likely saw reason. They toiled upwards between hillsides patched with still-golden gorse and the pinkish-purple of heather coming into bloom. The bracken was bright green, not yet darkened by summer. Looking south towards Rough Tor, Eleanor saw a herd of wild ponies grazing on the spring grass.
She had often dreamt of these moors during the long years of journeying, usually to the hotter parts of the globe, working for the London Committee to Save the Starving. She and Peter had always intended to retire to their home county. When he was killed, in a riot in Indonesia, she had come sadly home without him. But she couldn’t abandon LonStar, not when so many had so great a need. With their savings, she had bought a cottage in the small fishing village of Port Mabyn and turned her ground floor into a charity shop. Under the efficient guidance of Jocelyn Stearns, the vicar’s wife, it was flourishing. If dear Joce was sometimes just a trifle bossy, it was a small price to pay for the pleasure of sending off the pounds, shillings, and pence to LonStar’s headquarters.
“Made it!” said Nick in triumph as they reached the top of the long hill at Cold Northcott. There were more hills ahead, but none so trying to the Incorruptible’s old bones.
A worrisome new rattle developed as they started down the steep lane that became Port Mabyn’s only street.
