A Colourful Death_A Cornish Mystery

by Carola Dunn

  Scumble grunted. “You’re sure he was killed with that one?”

  “It’s unmistakable. It’s actually early mediaeval, not Arthurian, if Arthur ever existed. Viking influence in the design, I gather, but I’m no expert. It has a brass pommel and a very distinctive brass guard—I could draw that for you, but you’ll see it yourself, I imagine. Even more noticeable, the handle is wrapped in red wire. And that reminds me—”

  “What now? You’re as bad as Mrs Trewynn, popping up with bits and pieces you should have told me long since!”

  “If anyone had bothered to ask me last night,” Nick responded inarguably, “doubtless I’d have remembered every detail on the spot. I just wanted to warn you not to waste time on the fingerprints your men must have found on the hilt. Stella couldn’t stand the sight of Geoff’s body lying there with the damn thing sticking out of his back and she grabbed it to pull it out. I tried to stop her but I was too late.”

  Scumble and Megan exchanged a look of disappointment. Nothing so easy as a lovers’ tiff.

  “Silly little git. Her prints have ruined anything else that might’ve been there. Got that, Pencarrow?”

  “Yes, sir.” Megan had whipped out her notebook the moment Nick said, “By the way…”

  “That is,” he added, “I did stop her pulling it out, but she got a good grip on it.”

  Scumble nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment,” Nick said with a grin.

  To Megan’s surprise, Scumble didn’t explode again. He just said sarcastically, “If you should happen to think of anything else vital, tell the sergeant. Now off you go and play, kiddies.” He drew the telephone towards him and picked up the receiver.

  Nick shut the door again.

  “Kiddies!” Megan hissed.

  “‘He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases,’ quoth the Duchess.”

  “I know, but it still gets my goat.”

  “Cultivate detachment. Let’s go and get a decent cup of coffee. The stuff they serve in the cells is absolutely undrinkable.”

  “I don’t imagine it’s any worse than what they give us. Probably exactly the same.”

  “I dare say. Megan, I’m worried about your aunt. Knowing I didn’t do the fell deed, I can’t help wondering if it was someone at the farm. There she is, all alone, not knowing what’s happening—”

  “I rang Mrs Stearns,” Megan said with what she felt was pardonable smugness.

  “You what?”

  “I rang up Mrs Stearns, as soon as I found out where Aunt Nell is, and asked if she could possibly go to join her and keep an eye on her. She promised she’d leave right away.”

  “When you went to fetch the chair?”

  “That’s right.”

  Nick burst out laughing. “And you assured Scumble you hadn’t spoken to a witness!”

  “I can only hope he forgets that.” Megan said crossly. “How was I to know you’d rung Mrs Stearns from London?”

  FOURTEEN

  “What ever is going on, Eleanor?” Jocelyn enquired tartly, ignoring Teazle frisking about her feet, and regarding the potter and the painter with disfavour. They were openly listening. “Megan rang me up and claimed you desperately needed my support.”

  “Megan! How does she come into it?”

  “I have no idea whatsoever. When I requested an explanation, she told me That Man was waiting for her and she had to go.”

  “Mr Scumble?” Eleanor recognised Joce’s tone of voice and the epithet she had used for the inspector when last she tangled with him.

  “Who else? Naturally, if Megan is involved, her superior must be involved.”

  “But they’re not involved. A different inspector is in charge of the case.”

  “What case? You’re waffling, Eleanor. What have you been up to? Will you please explain?”

  “Of course, dear. Just let me introduce you to these gentlemen. This is … Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t know your surname, Tom. Nor Oswald’s, come to that.”

  “We don’t use them much,” said Tom. “It’s Lennox. How do you do?” He held out his hand, then glanced at it and withdrew it. “Sorry, you won’t want clay all over you, Mrs…?”

  “Mrs Stearns,” Eleanor put in hastily.

  “Lennox Potteries?” Jocelyn thawed a little. “I’ve got a couple of your bowls. Your colours are most attractive.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Stearns. Always happy to hear from a satisfied customer.”

  A slight flush tinged her cheeks. “I bought them from the LonStar shop, I’m afraid.”

  Momentarily, Tom looked taken aback. Jocelyn’s stylish clothes—also from the LonStar shop—tended to mislead people as to her means. He quickly recovered. “Too bad, but we can’t all be rich connoisseurs. I’m glad they’ve found a second home where they’re appreciated.”

  She gave him a nod nicely calculated to acknowledge his quick recovery while simultaneously forestalling any attempt at familiarity, then turned to Oswald. “And you are…?”

  He doffed an imaginary hat and swept her a low bow. “Oswald Rudd, painter.”

  “How do you do, Mr Rudd.” This time her nod was merely dismissive. “Eleanor, is there somewhere private we can go to talk?”

  “I noticed a bench in the garden behind the main house.”

  “That will do.” Jocelyn stepped out into the courtyard and Eleanor, telling Tom she would return, followed her.

  “We’ll go through the house and I’ll introduce—”

  “Oh, Eleanor, is that necessary? I have no desire to meet these people, I just want to know what’s going on!”

  “But they’re all part of it. Or at least, they may be. You’ll understand what I have to tell you better if you know who I’m talking about.”

  Jocelyn sighed. “Very well, if you insist.”

  “Oh dear, there’s Stella! I still haven’t decided whether I ought to talk to her or not.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to have much choice. She’s coming this way. That’s the young woman who closed up Nicholas’s gallery early yesterday?”

  “Yes, the sculptor, but there’s much more … Good morning, Stella.” What on earth does one say to someone whose lover has just been murdered?

  Stella looked magnificent, her hair flaming in the bright sunlight, flowing over her shoulders and halfway down her back. Like an avenging Fury, Eleanor thought, or did she mean a Valkyrie? No, the silky dark blue kaftan, patterned with pale stars and crescent moons, suggested a sorceress; Morgan le Fay, perhaps, in keeping with the Arthurian motif.

  Before Eleanor could decide what to say to this alarming vision, Stella looked from her to Jocelyn and spoke, her voice biting. “I suppose between you you’re cooking up an alibi for Nick. But it won’t work, I’m telling you. I know what I saw. Give up!” She swung round, skirts swishing, and stalked away towards the farm house.

  Jocelyn was far too well-bred to gape, but she stared after Stella as if she had seen an apparition. Astonishment and outrage warred on her face. “Well! What was all that about? Nicholas is in trouble with the police? That would explain why Megan phoned. Eleanor, you’re not—?”

  “Come along.” Eleanor took Joce’s arm and tugged her after Stella. “It’s not a good moment to introduce you to Margery, but I think we can go round the side of the house to the garden.”

  “Who’s Margery?”

  “I’ll explain, I promise. I’m so glad Stella has calmed down overnight—”

  “Calmed down!”

  “She was hysterical. Apparently she still has that bee in her bonnet, though. I’m afraid she’ll have another shock when she realises she’s mistaken about Nick. Poor girl!”

  “You’re sorry for that harpy?”

  “She’s had a terrible experience, Joce. You mustn’t judge her by what she said just now. Wait till you hear what happened yesterday.”

  “That,” said Joce pointedly, “is what I’ve been waiting for, for at least a quarter of an hour now.�
�

  Stella must have heard them coming along behind her, but she didn’t look round. She went straight into the house.

  To Eleanor’s relief, between the end studio and the corner of the house was the gap she thought she had noticed. The ground was gravelled rather than paved and oil stains suggested it was the parking place for the mini-bus, presently delivering Leila to the beach and Quentin to the shop.

  Eleanor and Jocelyn crunched across the gravel, avoiding the oil. In a momentary hush between crunches, Eleanor heard raised voices coming from inside the house. Then they were round the corner, between the north wall and a large metal shed. Teazle scampered ahead, hoping, perhaps, to meet the farm dogs again.

  The dogs didn’t appear. The garden was deserted, sunny and humming with bees. Sheltered by the house from the westerly breeze, it was surprisingly hot. They found two benches, the kind with backs, Eleanor was glad to note. They were set in a shallow V, one partially shaded by a gnarled apple tree.

  Eleanor sat down in the shade and recounted everything that had happened since she met Nick at Launceston station. Jocelyn was a good listener, interrupting only twice to clarify a point. But by the end of the recital she was frowning.

  “I can see why Megan was worried about you being alone here,” she said. “If Nicholas didn’t kill the man, it seems probable that someone here did. I assume it couldn’t have been a random robbery?”

  “Joce, how clever of you! No one even mentioned the possibility last night. The policeman in charge was so blinded by Stella’s certainty that she’d seen Nick that he never even considered any other possibility. That’s much more likely than that one of the artists here—Oh, except that Geoffrey probably didn’t have much money in his till.”

  “Why not?” Jocelyn was loath to see her theory shot down.

  “I gather he didn’t sell very many paintings. His income came mostly from doing adverts for Tintagel Brewery. You must have seen the ones for King Arthur’s Stout?”

  “I have not. You know Timothy and I consider it inadvisable to frequent public houses. Not that we have any desire to do so!”

  “The posters are stuck up in windows, too, and I’m sure I’ve seen them on hoardings.”

  “I dare say. However, the amount of cash in his till isn’t really relevant. A passing thief wouldn’t know how much he had.”

  “True. But the police would certainly have checked right away to see if it had been emptied. If it was a random robber, Megan would know and wouldn’t be worrying about me.”

  “You said Megan and That Man aren’t involved in the case. That bit of information might not have reached her.”

  Eleanor conceded, though she didn’t believe it. “All right, for all we know, it could have been a random robber.”

  “All the same, I can’t help feeling it was unwise of you to tell these communists, or whatever they call themselves, that you’re a witness to Nick’s alibi.”

  “I did think twice about it,” Eleanor admitted. “But, you see, they’re his friends, and the longer they went on thinking he stabbed Geoff, the harder it would be for them to believe he didn’t. To really believe, in their hearts not just their heads, if you see what I mean.”

  “Naturally,” said Jocelyn, a trifle stiffly. “Shades of belief are my business. Or Timothy’s, at least.”

  “At any rate, that’s how I saw it. If the police let him go but his friends steered clear of him, how could he be happy? I don’t think any of us need have worried, not I or you or Megan. Everyone has been very friendly.”

  “Except the young woman who accosted us in the courtyard.”

  “It’s only natural. He was her lover, after all. Don’t bridle like that, Joce.” Eleanor had seen marriage customs in various parts of the world that had shocked and distressed her. Mere cohabitation without benefit of clergy, between consenting adults, was nothing to make a fuss about. “Avoiding calling a spade a spade won’t turn it into a fork. The sad thing is, Stella’s the only one who’s grieving for Geoffrey, as far as I can tell. He was thoroughly disliked.”

  “We’re back to one of these communists as the murderer then?” Jocelyn said with a sniff.

  Eleanor laughed. “Communists! It sounds so funny. It’s not really a commune anyway. More like a sort of spread-out boarding house, with all the boarders being artists and craftsmen. Margery is a frustrated artist.”

  “Margery—what’s her surname?”

  “Rosevear. An old Cornish name. Mrs Rosevear.”

  “Mrs Rosevear is the landlady, I take it. She’s one of those who disliked Geoffrey?”

  “Yes. And from what I’ve been told, she had more reason than just his sharp tongue. But you won’t want to know about that. I know you despise gossip.”

  Jocelyn looked as if she could have bitten out her tongue for ever having said such a thing. She could hardly deny it, however, after her frequent recourse to quoting the bible or the prayer book—Eleanor wasn’t sure which—on the subject. Eleanor considered gossip a helpful way to get to know people. What mattered was that one should not judge anyone based on partial knowledge, however acquired, as Joce was all too liable to do.

  Suppressing her pique, Jocelyn asked, “Why on earth did someone tell you Mrs Rosevear had good reason to dislike Geoffrey? I’d expect them to close ranks.”

  “The girl—young woman concerned is keen on Nick. That’s not second-hand gossip, it’s an inference from what she told me herself. Naturally she was upset because he was in trouble. When I assured her he wasn’t the murderer, of course she started wondering who—”

  She broke off as Teazle, sprawled in the shade beneath the other bench, raised her head and stared towards the house. The back door opened and Margery Rosevear came out. From each hand an empty metal colander dangled by the handle, glinting in the sun. She walked as heavily as if they were bags of cement.

  Seeing Eleanor and Jocelyn, she frowned and came towards them.

  “It’s Mrs Rosevear, Joce.” Eleanor stood up. “This is Mrs Stearns, a friend of mine, Margery. I’m sorry I didn’t bring her into the house to meet you, but Stella went in and I didn’t want to interrupt the two of you.”

  Margery slumped onto the second bench, acknowledging the introduction with a nod and an effortful smile. “I wish you had come in. You might have headed off the storm. I doubt it, though.”

  “Storm?”

  “She accused me of harbouring you because I’m jealous of her and want Geoff’s murderer to get away because I hate—hated him, and—Oh, what does it matter? All sorts of horrible things! The end result is that she can’t stand it here another minute and she’s moving out. Which leaves me with two empty places to let. Who’s going to want to live here after what’s happened? Especially if she starts spreading slander.”

  “Surely not!” said Eleanor. “I expect she’ll think better of moving out when she’s calmed down a bit. It only happened yesterday, after all.”

  “You must think I’m callous, worrying about the rent at a time like this. If you knew how hard it is to make ends meet…”

  Eleanor saw Jocelyn open her mouth, no doubt to make some stringent comment on most people being in the same boat when it came to making ends meet. To forestall her, she said quickly, “The holiday season is upon us. I should think you could get short-term lets to tide you over till you find long-term tenants.”

  Jocelyn nodded. “More trouble, I expect, but higher rents.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Eleanor went on, “is how Stella, even in her present irrational state, can claim both that you’re jealous and that you hated Geoffrey. It seems to me the two are incompatible.”

  Margery gave a bitter laugh. “There was a time … I can’t see that it’s any of your business, but everyone here knows and I suppose the police will be ferreting everything out anyway. If you really can prove Nick didn’t stab Geoff?”

  “I can.”

  “Well, it’s hard to believe now, but there was a time when I found him attra
ctive. Geoff, that is. He could be charming when he made the effort. I admired his painting—I didn’t know then that all he was capable of was imitating the Pre-Raphaelites. First-rate imitation, mind you, but he hadn’t got an original spark in him. He beckoned and I … fell for him, like a starstruck schoolgirl. Pathetic!”

  “Was that before Stella came here?”

  “Oh yes, as soon as she arrived he had eyes for no one else. Youth, beauty, Pre-Raphaelite hair and a Pre-Raphaelite profile, what more could he want? But before that, he and I had … parted company.” Margery was staring down at her hands. She seemed almost to have forgotten that she had an audience. Jocelyn was obviously shocked. Eleanor pitied Margery, and all Geoffrey’s victims. She was certain she was going to hear Jeanette’s story confirmed.

  “Doug found out,” said the farmer’s wife flatly. “I would have left him. I’d have followed Geoff to the far side of the world. He’d bewitched me! But he didn’t want me.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jocelyn, more bewildered now than condemning. “Why was he still living here?”

  Margery looked up with a twisted smile. “He refused to leave, Mrs Stearns. He was perfectly satisfied with his accommodation. We’d signed a long lease, so we couldn’t chuck him out. As simple as that.”

  “Good gracious, Eleanor, while one can’t, of course, condone murder, it is understandable. The young man seems to have had no sense of decency whatsoever!”

  “He was a brute,” Margery confirmed. “Jeanette was the one who really suffered—but that’s not my story to tell. Well, sitting here’s not going to get Doug’s dinner on the table.” She heaved herself up and collected the colanders. “Did you come to take Mrs Trewynn home, Mrs Stearns? Because the police are expecting to find her here, so maybe she shouldn’t leave before they’ve talked to her. You’re welcome to stay to dinner—lunch—if you like.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs Rosevear, but I see no reason why Eleanor should wait on their convenience while inconveniencing you. They can perfectly well come to Port Mabyn.”