by Carola Dunn
She picked up the dog, only too glad to comply.
He strode straight past the cash register without pausing to glance at his desecrated work, let alone to check for a note. The door to the studio, behind the gallery, was locked.
Could Stella have run through, locked it against the marauder, and escaped by the back door onto the path that ran up and down the hill behind the row of shops? Yes, thought Eleanor in relief, that must be what happened. When Nick returned, looking equally relieved, she presented this suggestion.
“Possible,” he conceded. “But when would she have taken her sculptures? I’m inclined to think she just went off with him. Failing a body, let’s see if she left me an explanation.”
The cash register pinged as he opened it. He took out a couple of cheques, muttering gloomily, “I hope these don’t bounce. I’m going to have precious little coming in while I replace what’s done for. I’ve just lost four days’ painting running after vain hopes in London, too. Ah, here. Written on the back of a blank receipt. Typical! That’s going to muck up the numbers in my records. Ah well, let’s see what she’s got to say for herself.” He read it and passed it to Eleanor.
Nick, I’m dead sorry!!! G. drove me here—went on to Tintagel—came back for lunch. Should’ve known better than to tell him your news. He was livid—‘Not fair!’ I was gone 5 min. getting pasties across the street—the damage was done. What a drag!! Know you won’t take it out on my stuff, but just in case … !!! Gotta run or I’ll hafta walk. S.
“‘Not fair!’” Nick said bitterly. “What the hell does he expect? I knew it was him.”
“Did he…” Eleanor hesitated, hardly daring to ask. “Your studio?”
“No, she seems to have managed to keep him out of there, thank heaven! I’m going to have it out with him right now. Come on, if you’re still willing to drive me, or I’ll get my bike.”
“I’ll take you. And I’ll drive. I wouldn’t trust you behind the wheel just now.”
He managed a crooked smile. “You’re probably right.”
Too impatient to wait for Eleanor to fetch Teazle’s lead, he provided a bit of parcel string. Teazle sniffed at it suspiciously, but did not seriously object to the ignominy. They walked down the hill. Nick, after moving ahead, tempered his long stride to Eleanor’s shorter pace.
Few people were about in the street. The shops were closed and Nick and Eleanor didn’t pass either of the pubs. As they came to the bottom of the hill and the narrow stone bridge over the stream, Eleanor saw a couple of smacks preparing to set out for a night’s fishing when the tide turned. Two seamen were stacking lobster pots to one side of the life-boat slipway. The air smelled of tar, fish, and seaweed, and herring gulls screamed overhead. One of the big grey-and-white birds perched on the wall of the bridge, watching Nick and Eleanor with an impudent, sceptical stare.
Out on the jetty that protected the small harbour, several figures in bright holiday clothes were strolling, watching the swells break booming against the rocky sides of the inlet. Others, more hardy, hiked the path on the south side, leading at first gradually then steeply up to Crookmoyle Point, saved from builders by the National Trust. Darkness would not fall for hours on this June evening.
Nick and Eleanor crossed the bridge and turned into the car-park. Eleanor rented a ramshackle shed on the far side for the Incorruptible, but Nick hadn’t garaged the car, proof of his determination to go to Padstow. Further proof was that he had the keys in his pocket, having kept them when he came up to the flat after parking, instead of hanging them on the key hook by the door.
With a sigh, Eleanor gave up hope of deterring him. She drove up the hill, past the Wreckers Inn, and out of the town. The lane was bounded by high banks overgrown with cow parsley, red and white campion, toadflax, foxgloves, and nettles. A resplendent cock pheasant dashed out from a gateway and scurried along in front of them, then ducked aside into the undergrowth. The Incorruptible reached the top of the hill and found its second wind.
They turned south on the B road. To their right, rough grassland criss-crossed by drystone walls sloped down to the invisible cliffs and glimpses of the boundless sea beyond, ruffled with whitecaps. The gentle breeze had turned into a steady blow from the southwest. A dark line on the far horizon suggested rain before morning.
They hadn’t spoken since leaving the car-park. Now Eleanor asked, “Can you repair them?”
“Possibly. It’s a lot of work. Hardly worth it with the tourist stuff. Most people won’t buy if they see a repair on the back, even if it’s invisible on the front. The good pictures, I’ll have to give it a try. They’re not something I can paint again from scratch. You can’t duplicate inspiration, only hope it’ll strike again.”
“It will. I know it will. Nick, I can’t see much I can do to help, but if you’d like me to work in the shop to allow you more time for painting and repairing—”
He gave a shout of laughter. “My dear Eleanor, that’s very sweet of you, but I’ve heard what Mrs Stearns has to say about your fatal effects on the LonStar cash register!”
“I’m sure I could manage with a bit of practice,” Eleanor said with dignity. “Or I could simply call you if I made a sale.” At least she had cheered him up a bit.
“You know, that just might work.” Gloom enveloped him again. “Once I’ve produced something to sell.”
Coming down from the moor they drove through farmland, wheat fields edged with blood-red poppies, and buttercup-gilded meadows grazed by heavy-uddered cows. The hamlets of St Endellion, St Minver, Tredrizzick, and Pityme were deserted at this hour. They came to Rock and Eleanor parked in the old quarry. Thence they walked to the ferry, with Teazle on her demeaning length of string.
“Nick, what are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I expect I’ll find out when I see what his attitude is.”
He fished in his pocket for a shilling for tickets as the motor launch approached the jetty, all too quickly for Eleanor’s liking.
Several other passengers made the fifteen-minute crossing of the Camel estuary with them, so it was impossible for her to seek further elucidation. Teazle sat at her feet, her gaze glued to a large boxer whose owner kept it as far away as possible on the small boat. With dismay, Eleanor watched Padstow’s ancient quays grow nearer. Perhaps she should have let Nick bicycle. The exertion might have dispelled his spleen, or at least tired him enough to make violence unattractive. Surely he retained enough of the old-fashioned gentlemanly virtues not to start a dust-up in her presence!
Once ashore, they walked along the North Quay and crossed into the network of narrow streets behind the harbour.
“There it is.” Nick pointed to a narrow shop front opposite the Gold Bezant Inn.
It took Eleanor a moment to decipher the sign above the shop window, as it was written in Old English script. king arthur’s gallery, it said.
“King Arthur? Shouldn’t that be in Tintagel?”
“He couldn’t find a suitable place in Tintagel, but he’s obsessed with King Arthur. Come and look.”
In the window was a display of three paintings. At first glance, they seemed to Eleanor to be quite pretty but rather depressing. She could understand why holiday-makers didn’t choose to buy pictures of slender mediaeval maidens with flowing hair and tragic mouths drooping over dead or dying knights, however meticulously portrayed. She wouldn’t want one on her wall, breathing gloom every time she looked at it. They were flamboyantly signed: Geoffroie Monmouth.
But she didn’t have time to study them. Nick had pressed the electric bell button. No one came. Heedless of the closedsign, he pushed the door. Opening, it set off a jangle, just like his own shop door. The fact that it was not locked suggested to Eleanor that the artist was still within, probably in the throes of producing another grim memento mori. She tied Teazle’s string to an ancient, worn boot-scraper to one side of the door and hurried after Nick.
The blind at the rear of the display window was
pulled down, so the interior of the shop was dim. Facing the door, a life-size and remarkably lifelike King Arthur stood, barring the way. Grey-bearded, he wore a crown encircling his helmet, and his visible arm and his legs were clad in gleaming armour, the rest covered by a crimson tabard embroidered with flowers. In his right hand he wielded Excalibur. His other arm was hidden by a blue shield with a device of three crowns. Exquisitely detailed flowers surrounded his mailed feet.
Though Eleanor was sure she had never seen the picture before, it was vaguely familiar.
The jangle failed to bring any response. Nick looked around. “Damn,” he swore under his breath. “If he’s not in the back room, I’ll have to trek up to his bungalow.”
“Not a bungalow, surely! He ought to live in an ancient cottage overgrown with rambling roses, if he can’t manage a crumbling castle.”
“A 1950s bungalow,” Nick said firmly, striding round behind King Arthur. “And any interest he has in flowers he devotes to his painting, not his garden.”
Reluctantly Eleanor followed. He flung open a door in the back wall and stepped through into a room lit by a window facing north, high in the far wall.
“Ye gods! Eleanor, don’t come in!”
But Eleanor was already on the threshold. She saw a figure sprawled face down on the bare boards. His beige smock was drenched with crimson, and a crimson pool had spread across the floor around him.
Someone pushed past her and cried in an anguished voice, “My God, Nick, what have you done? You’ve stabbed him!”
FOUR
Eleanor was icy cold. She tried to speak, to say, “That’s nonsense!” but only a squeak emerged. Shock, she diagnosed woozily. She was all too familiar with death from endemic disease, starvation, and violence, though never reconciled to it, but one didn’t expect to walk into an artist’s studio in peaceful Cornwall and find …
In the commotion surrounding her, no one heard her feeble bleat.
Stella, having accused Nick, called out, “Doug, ring the police.” She dropped to her knees beside the body.
Nick was kneeling on the other side, though Eleanor hadn’t seen him move.
Behind her, a bewildered, rather plaintive, and slightly slurred male voice with a bit of a local accent asked, “The police? What does she want the police for?”
“Geoff appears to be dead,” said a woman very close to Eleanor, grasping her arm, “and there’s blood everywhere. Ring 999. You’d better ask for an ambulance, too, just in case.” She sounded very cool, calm, and collected. “Come and sit down, dear. You’re white as a sheet, and no flipping wonder.”
Eleanor would have preferred to retreat into the shop, but the woman led her to a sort of divan, a model’s couch, perhaps, in the studio. It was draped with crimson cloth. Sitting down with the utmost reluctance, Eleanor had her head pressed forward onto her knees.
“I’m all right, really,” she protested weakly.
The hand on the back of her neck eased up. “You’d better lie down, so you don’t have to look at that unholy mess.”
“Really, I don’t—”
“He’s dead, Marge!” Stella wailed.
“I can’t believe it! But you’re a nurse, I suppose you must know … Nick, how could you do such a dreadful thing?”
“He didn’t!” Eleanor insisted.
“That’s fresh blood, not dry.”
“It’s not blood,” said Nick loudly, standing up.
“It’s no use denying it, you murdering bastard!” Stella screeched. “You stuck a dagger in his back and he’s dead.” She reached for the haft protruding from the dead man’s back.
“Don’t touch it!” Nick’s exclamation came too late. Stella had already grasped the dagger.
She let go as if it were red-hot. “Why not?” she asked suspiciously. “It’s indecent to leave him lying here on his face with that sticking into him.”
“Fingerprints. I didn’t kill him. Now you’ve mucked up the fingerprints, the police may never find out who did.”
Stella stared at him. “Wouldn’t that be convenient for you. I wonder why you didn’t warn me in time?”
“Because I hadn’t realised you were quite such an—”
“Nick!” Eleanor just wanted to stop them squabbling over the body.
He came towards her, but turned his head to say, “Do not pull out the dagger. Do not move him.” He took Eleanor’s hands. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, it was just the shock. All that … Is it oil paint? It really looks like blood.”
“Not oil paint, no. Let me get you out of here.”
“No, you don’t!” Stella cried. “Doug, don’t let him get away.”
The hitherto invisible Doug had appeared in the doorway. He was a sturdy man with a fluffy aureole of greying hair surrounding a weathered pate, in flannels and a well-worn tweed jacket. “Jerry Roscoe is on his way,” he announced. “I rang him instead of 999.” He flinched as he caught sight of the body, with Stella still kneeling beside it.
Eleanor looked that way, for the first time deliberately. The tableau reminded her forcefully of the paintings in the window, except that all the dead knights had been face up, the better to display their chiselled profiles. In fact, Stella’s features and long hair, a rich copper colour, strongly resembled those of the mediaeval damsels. Presumably she had been Geoff’s model as well as his girlfriend.
Geoff wasn’t lying flat. He seemed to be sprawled over—Was that his easel flattened beneath him?
“Would someone kindly explain what’s going on?” Doug demanded, appalled.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Stella said scornfully. “I told you what Geoff did to Nick’s pictures. Nick’s gone crazy and stabbed him.”
Eleanor nearly protested again, but decided the girl was too distraught to listen. She’d do better to save her breath for the police.
Nick apparently came to the same decision. “We’d all better move into the other room,” he said, quite calmly. “The coppers don’t take kindly to people who breathe on their evidence.”
“Heavens, yes.” Eleanor quickly stood up. She looked back at the couch, hoping she hadn’t inadvertently obliterated some essential clue.
“What do you mean?” Marge—Margery?—also stood up in a hurry. She looked uneasy.
Until then, Eleanor hadn’t noticed anything but her voice, kind, firm, with no hint of Cornish. She was a tallish woman, apparently about forty, round-faced and comfortably plump, with corn-gold hair plaited and wound into a coronet on top of her head in a very old-fashioned style. Unless it was the latest thing? Eleanor wondered. Her ankle-length skirt, though it looked very old-fashioned to Eleanor, was undoubtedly up-to-date. Maxis, they were called. Unless, of course, it was some sort of protest. It was so difficult to be sure these days, especially with artists. The Bohemian life, she thought vaguely.
Stella’s skirt was similar, bright-coloured cotton swirling as she sprang to her feet. “Yes, what do you mean? About breathing on evidence?”
“It’s true,” said Doug apprehensively. “Touching stuff, anyway. I’ve seen it on Softly, Softly.”
“Oh, the telly,” Stella jeered. “You don’t want to believe everything you see on telly.”
All the same, she followed the others through to the gallery. She went to the door and stood looking out.
Marge and Doug stuck together, talking in low voices. Eleanor didn’t want to appear to eavesdrop. She moved away, behind a folding screen like those in Nick’s shop. He followed her.
“The cop-shop’s just round the corner,” he said. “In New Street. Jerry Roscoe’s a sergeant. He’ll be here any moment.”
“Thank heaven! And thank heaven I came with you.”
“Yes, I’d be in a pretty mess if you hadn’t insisted.”
“What are you talking about?” Stella came round the screen. “I suppose she’s ready to lie her head off for you.”
“I don’t need to lie because—”
Ignoring her, Stella st
ormed on. “It won’t do you any good. I saw you! Geoff didn’t deserve to die. Just when—”
“Hush, love.” Marge appeared. “You’re going to make yourself ill.”
Stella collapsed, weeping, against her friend’s shoulder.
When Nick and Eleanor moved away, however, she wasn’t too overcome to raise her head and call to Doug to guard the door.
“I wish she’d stop harping on that,” Nick said irritably.
“It’s only natural, dear, as she’s managed to convince herself that she saw you stab her … I take it ‘boyfriend’ was a euphemism?”
“You take it correctly. They pretty much lived together, except that she’s kept a studio of her own at the farm.”
“Farm?” Eleanor asked uncertainly.
Her question was not answered. The street door opened with the usual jangle of the bell, and a gruff, slightly out-of-breath voice demanded, “Well now, what’s all this about a body?”
A uniformed sergeant came in, followed by a large, very young, and gormless-looking constable, with carroty hair and lots of freckles. Doubtless he had been sent to learn the ropes in this quiet backwater where nothing ever happened.
“He did it!” Stella cried, pointing at Nick. Eleanor, while recognising that she had ample reason for her distress, was getting fed up with the histrionics, even fearing that they might turn into hysterics. Not that Eleanor had ever been a particular advocate of the stiff upper lip, taken to excess, but in its absence she recognised its virtues. In the current idiom she was—if she’d got it right—a square, no doubt, and very likely “uptight,” too.
“Did what?” Sergeant Roscoe asked stolidly.
“Stabbed Geoff. I saw it.”
“That’s torn it,” Nick said softly as the sergeant frowned at him.
But Roscoe said to the constable, “For Pete’s sake, switch on the light, Arnie.” Then he turned to Doug. “So what’s up, Doug? You really got a body? You’re not having me on?”
“In the back room.” Doug hoicked a thumb. “The studio. It’s the artist, Geoffrey Monmouth. Stabbed.”
