by Carola Dunn
As much as anything, the contrast with the puppies and kittens was disturbing. Which was the real Jeanette? And what was she angry about?
“You don’t like them,” said Jeanette with a resigned sigh.
“I warned you that I’m a Philistine. I’m afraid I wouldn’t choose to hang one on my wall, if I had room in my little flat, which I don’t.”
The young artist regarded her Grey Circle moodily. “No, they need plenty of space around them.”
“I find them interesting, though, which is more than I can say for most abstract painting. I never realised—” She stopped as a man appeared in the doorway.
Against the light, his face was indistinguishable.
“All right, Jeanie?” he asked. To Eleanor, his voice sounded studiously casual.
“Yes! Oh Tom, Mrs Trewynn was with Nick practically all day yesterday and she’s going to tell the police he couldn’t possibly have killed Geoff. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Eager to hear the potter’s reaction, Eleanor didn’t bother to dispute this misstatement of her words.
There was a distinct pause before he said, “That can’t be right. Stella said Nick rang from Paddington at midday—Unless you were in London with him, Mrs Trewynn?”
Eleanor repeated her account of meeting Nick at the station and being with him thereafter.
“But—”
Jeanette broke in: “See? Mrs Trewynn’s just waiting till the police come so she can tell them everything. I don’t know why you’re so keen to believe the worst of Nick.”
“I’m not!” Tom protested. “I just don’t want … Oh, what’s the use. Mrs Trewynn, while you’re waiting for the police, would you like to come and inspect my humble endeavours? I’ve just put some pots in the kiln and I’m about to start on a new batch.”
“Yes, I’d love to.”
Tom’s place was next door, at the end of the row. He had an oil-fired kiln outside. The farm, he explained, had never had gas laid on, switching straight from candles and kerosene to mains electricity. Tom relied on oil because the electricity supply was liable to fail in stormy weather, which could ruin an entire kiln-ful of pots. He showed Eleanor the thermostat and made a minute adjustment to the temperature. She recalled Doug calling him a businessman. A cool head and a steady hand.
They went inside. Eleanor noticed the earthy smell of wet clay, but Teazle smelled something more interesting. She headed straight for a back corner and started to sniff suspiciously.
“Mice?” Tom said with a groan.
“Sometimes she imagines them.”
“Let’s hope.”
Eleanor had seen primitive potteries all over the world and she was interested in the methods of a modern handcraftsman. However, Tom had lured her thither under false pretences. He wanted to talk.
“That’s rubbish,” he went on bluntly. “What you said about being with Nick the whole time, I mean. He had only to go into Geoff’s studio a few paces ahead of you to stab him without you seeing. I understand you’re a friend of Nick’s and don’t want to believe he could do a thing like that, but the police are never going to swallow it. Jeanette’s going to be shattered when she realises he’s not off the hook.”
“As it happens, I was close enough to be quite certain Nick didn’t stab Geoffrey. Apart from anything else, he knocked over his easel when he fell. I couldn’t have helped hearing it.” Eleanor was pleased to have thought of this corroborative detail. After all, she had only Nick’s word for it that the flood of red was not blood, and while she believed him implicitly, others might not.
It went to show how right the police were to keep asking the same questions over and over again, however irritating it was—though it was even more irritating when they didn’t ask any questions at all.
“Oh, well, if you’re absolutely sure…” Tom picked at the ingrained clay under his fingernails. “It’s just that Jeanie gets so upset…”
“It’s a horrible business, enough to upset anyone. Geoff must have been a friend of yours.” Eleanor paused, but Tom didn’t comment on her assumption.
She tried to remember what, if anything, he had said about Geoffrey at breakfast. No one had expressed grief for the painter’s death. Tom, she thought, had been more concerned about whether Stella would let down the employer who counted on her to turn up for the weekend nursing shift at the convalescent home. What was the doctor’s name? Fenwick, that was it, like the Grand Duchy in The Mouse that Roared. She had forgotten the name of the home already. No doubt the police would find out soon enough if Stella did go to work and they wanted to talk to her at the weekend.
While Eleanor reflected, Tom had gone to his workbench and scraped a piece of clay off a large lump beneath a damp cloth.
“Everyone seems to know Nick, too,” said Eleanor, watching him knead and mould the clay, adding a splash of water now and then from a bucket beside the bench. He had big hands, unusually well muscled from his work. If Geoff had been strangled—She suppressed a shudder.
But he hadn’t, he’d been stabbed. Given a sharp dagger, even a little old lady could have done it.
“Yeah, we all know Nick.” Tom sounded as if he wished he didn’t. Eleanor wondered why but decided against asking. As if conscious of sounding unenthusiastic, he said, “He’s a good painter. He deserves to make it in London. But after what Geoff did, it’s going to be practically impossible to make people believe Nick had nothing to do with his death, even if the police let him go.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” said Eleanor. “Oh dear, it’s not very comforting that you agree. And if the national press get hold of the story, it could ruin his career before it really gets started.”
“Hell, I hope not!” Oswald was leaning against the doorjamb, a wiry, red-bearded man in a paint-daubed smock. How long had he been there? Teazle had given up all hope of mice and, snoozing in the corner, hadn’t noticed his arrival. “It would mean Geoff wins, after all.”
Tom disagreed. “I wouldn’t worry about that. What was it that Irish bloke said? Something like: there’s no such thing as bad publicity. People who don’t care a hoot about art will rush to buy the work of someone suspected of murder, and pay over the odds, too. Nick’ll have the last laugh, you mark my words.”
Oswald nodded. “Makes sense. Jeanie told me Nick’s been released already. Is it true, Mrs Trewynn?”
“I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking. At least, it may be true but I haven’t heard from either him or the police this morning. If not already, though, then soon, I’m sure. I hope. Or do you think they might keep him in custody until they’ve heard my evidence?”
“What if they don’t believe you?” said Oswald.
“Don’t borrow trouble,” Tom advised cheerfully. Easy for him to say when he didn’t seem particularly well-inclined towards Nick.
They all looked up at the sound of heels tock-tocking across the cobbles towards them. Oswald turned round.
“Good morning,” said a familiar voice. “Can you tell me where to find Mrs Trewynn? Mrs Eleanor Trewynn?”
“Jocelyn!” cried Eleanor. “What on earth are you doing here?”
THIRTEEN
“So I’m free to leave?” Nick demanded.
“Yes,” said DI Scumble cautiously, “but—”
“But you’ll want to talk to me again and I must notify you if I’m going anywhere. Speaking of which, your colleague has stranded me here. I hope you’ll at least stand me bus fare back to Padstow. Apart from anything else, Mrs Trewynn is also stranded, at Upper Trewithen Farm, I presume. I’ve got her car keys.” He felt in his trouser pockets. “Or rather, you’ve got Eleanor’s keys. The chap downstairs took ’em off me along with the rest.”
“You’d better fetch Mr Gresham’s belongings, Pencarrow.”
As Megan went out, she heard Scumble continue, “Just one or two more questions, for now, sir.” The sir came out strangulated, as if it stuck in the inspector’s craw. “We’ll give you a lift to Padstow later.
”
She hurried, hoping she wasn’t missing anything vital.
There was the business of the damage to Nick’s paintings. Until he talked about it, all they had was Stella’s statement, since the Rosevears had merely reported what she had told them. Megan had even wondered if it was another hysterical fantasy, the invention of a mind desperately seeking a reason for the murder of her lover.
So far, it seemed to be Nick’s only apparent motive for attacking Clark. Still, he would have been a fool to deny it. All they had to do was go to his gallery and look.
In spite of his strong reaction, it didn’t seem like an adequate motive for murder, but in the end everything hinged on timing. Aunt Nell’s evidence was essential. By not taking her statement, Pearce had really handed this one to Scumble on a plate. Whatever the inspector’s opinion of Aunt Nell, and they were definitely not on the same wavelength, he would never have failed to get her side of the story last night. Let alone Nick’s.
“DS Pencarrow,” Megan identified herself to the uniformed desk sergeant. “DI Scumble wants Nicholas Gresham’s personal possessions.”
“Gresham,” he said, as he spread the contents of Nick’s pockets on the counter and produced a signed list. “That’s the one Pearce decided isn’t worth his time, right?”
“That’s it. Frankly, we’re puzzled. It looks like a nice, meaty case, one any good detective would like to get his teeth into.”
“’S easy.” He looked around with a somewhat furtive air and leant over the counter to say in a hoarse whisper, “No need to pass this on to your gov’nor, but Mr Pearce married a totty half his age a few months ago. They say she’s a real termagant, gives him hell if he’s out on the job too late too often. He’s always looking for an excuse to dump his work on other people. The Super don’t often swallow it, but looks like he did this time.”
Thanks to Aunt Nell’s involvement, thought Megan. “Frankly,” she said in a low voice, “the gov’nor’s pleased as Punch. We don’t often get anything this interesting up Launceston way.” If the sergeant repeated that tidbit, Pearce would be tearing his hair. Not that she had anything against him personally—except, perhaps, his marrying a totty half his age.
She checked the contents of Nick’s wallet against the list, signed, and stuffed everything back into the polythene bag to take upstairs, amazed at the amount of junk men carried in their pockets. She didn’t notice anything useful, though. No letters, no diary, no tube or bus tickets to prove he’d been in London.
He might have dropped the tickets in his or Aunt Nell’s waste paper basket, or in a bin in the street or on the ferry. If Scumble was desperate to get hold of Stella’s note, with luck he’d leave that search to the uniforms. You never could tell what you were going to find in a rubbish bin.
Megan returned to the interview room. Scumble raised his eyebrows at her and she shook her head. All the same, he watched closely as Nick took his bits and pieces out of the bag and redistributed them among his pockets. The only thing Nick really looked at was the cash in the wallet.
“Two pounds six and tenpence ha’penny,” he said, and countersigned the list. “All present and correct.” He was by no means as cheerful as when Megan had left the room.
“Well, Sergeant, Mr Gresham admits he could have faked the call from Paddington and reached Padstow in time to murder Clark,” Scumble said blandly. He seemed intent on making Nick lose his temper, hoping, presumably, to goad him into an incriminating statement.
“Don’t twist my words, Inspector! Only if I hadn’t had a meeting with Mr Alarian.”
“For which we have only your word.”
“Ask him!”
“We will, Mr Gresham, we will.” Scumble gave Megan a sidelong glance which she couldn’t interpret but guessed boded no good.
“Besides,” Nick went on, “why should I have wanted to kill Geoff? The only reason I was livid with him was the damage to my work, which I didn’t know about till I got home.”
“You admit you wanted to assault him.”
“Yes, I do! As he was dead when I next saw him, I missed my chance to give him what was coming to him. Which was, I remind you, not a dagger in the back but a sock on the jaw!”
“Why was it you jumped to the conclusion that it was Geoffrey Clark who damaged your paintings?”
“I didn’t … All right, I did jump to that conclusion. Stella had no reason to do it, and he was the obvious person for her to have told about Alarian, besides being the only person I could think of who might resent my success. Which, I must point out, I didn’t know about until I met Alarian.”
“So you were certain Clark was the culprit even before you found Miss Weller’s note. For which we have only your word.”
Nick started to search through his pockets.
“Don’t bother,” Scumble advised him. “There was no note among your belongings, unless you want to claim a police officer pinched it?”
“No, no. Why would anyone do that? I suppose I left it at home.”
“If so, we’ll find it, don’t worry.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You’re giving us permission to search your premises?”
“Certainly. But I can’t see the point in answering any more questions until you’ve talked to Eleanor. Mrs Trewynn.”
Scumble nodded. “All right, that’s reasonable. Except, if, as you say, you didn’t kill him, have you got any ideas about who might have? Did he have any enemies?”
“Enemies?” Nick frowned. “That’s a bit strong. He wasn’t too popular, but enemies…”
“Who wasn’t he popular with?”
“The others at the commune, except Stella, of course. The fellows at the pub.”
“Why?”
“He had a cutting tongue.”
“As well as a cutting blade.” The inspector smirked. His rare attempts at wit always pleased him, if no one else. “That’s it? A nasty way with words?”
“He could be really obnoxious, even hurtful, to people he despised. Which seemed to be most people. At the pub, he was just unsociable. Up at the farm—well, there were undercurrents. I got the impression things had happened, but no one wanted to talk about it.”
“Things?”
“I honestly have no idea what, Inspector. I have nothing concrete to go on. Perhaps I’m imagining it.”
“Destruction of people’s work, like yours?”
“Possibly, but I doubt it. He had no reason to see any of them as competition, as he apparently did me. And I see no reason why they shouldn’t have discussed something like that. Unless, I suppose, some sort of loyalty to the commune?”
“Commune! Bah! Load of bollocks, if you ask me. Bunch of kids living on handouts from their parents.”
“On the contrary. I’ve never delved into the details, but it’s not a true commune, with everything held in common. I do know that many, if not all, are working artists and craftsmen who pay their own way. And none of them are kids. But you’ll have to see for yourself.”
“Yes,” said Scumble gloomily, “we’re going to have to interview the lot of them. Not till I’ve read the doctor’s and SOC officer’s reports, though. What am I going to do with you in the meantime, Mr Gresham?”
“Get a bobby to drive me to Padstow.”
“Not likely. It looks like one thing that got done right last night was stopping you and Mrs Trewynn setting up an alibi between you. I’m not having you conferring with her before I get her statement.”
Megan opened her mouth to protest this slander of her aunt, then closed it again and gave a minuscule shrug. Ten to one Scumble was just being deliberately irritating to see how Nick would react.
Nick’s reaction had nothing to do with the slander. “You expect me to sit around in this dump for hours while you read reports?” he asked, outraged.
“I can’t hold you, not on what we’ve got. Tell you what.” He made an expansive gesture towards the window. “It’s a beautiful day. Go for a walk.”
“I’ll put someone on to tail you. No, I’ve got a better idea. DS Pencarrow can go with you. No one’ll think anything of a couple walking around gawking at the sights, won’t think you’re under surveillance and draw conclusions. You can go and take a gander at the old gaol and thank your lucky star it closed down forty years ago. Just try not to break a leg climbing around the dungeons.”
He waved dismissal. Somewhat to Megan’s surprise, Nick took the order—or suggestion, or whatever it was from his point of view—calmly. To Megan it was an order, and not one she liked. She wanted to read the reports, not to wander purposelessly about Bodmin with Nicholas Gresham, keeping him away from telephones and buses.
Nick opened the door and held it for her in his polite way. She had never considered the matter before, but there was a touch of public school in his manners. Or perhaps he’d just gone to a private school or a good grammar. Was it relevant? In the old days, at least in books, a public schoolboy wouldn’t dream of stabbing a man in the back, even a villain, whatever he might do face-to-face. But even if it had been true, few of the old myths held in modern times.
Ken, the man she had moved to Cornwall to get away from, had been a public schoolboy. The last thing she needed was another of the breed.
Megan went through the doorway and Nick followed, pulling the door shut behind him. Just before the latch clicked, he reopened it partway and stuck his head into the room.
“By the way, Inspector, speaking of blades, I don’t know if it’s of interest but I recognised the hilt sticking out of Geoff’s back.”
“Of course it’s of bloody interest!” Scumble exploded, his face turning purple. “Get back in here.”
Nick opened the door wide and leant against the jamb. “Now, is that any way to speak to a cooperating witness?” he chided. “I’ve never actually seen it before—”
“Then what the hell do you—”
“But I have seen a design for it. Geoff wanted an old English dagger to paint. He tracked one down in some collection or other. When they wouldn’t lend it to him, he took measurements and drew several views of it. That’s what I saw—his sketches. Then he had a blacksmith make a copy. To give the devil his due, he was thorough. He even insisted on having it sharpened. He said otherwise it wouldn’t reflect light accurately.”
