by Carola Dunn
Detective Constables Wilkes and Polmenna she had worked with on a previous case. Wilkes had been with DI Pearce last night. No doubt he was responsible for everyone being aware of her aunt’s involvement in the present case. Not that anyone mentioned it. Megan could tell from the smirks, sly glances, and covert snickers.
Obviously Scumble had noticed. His fearsome scowl quickly shut everybody up.
He sent Polmenna with two uniformed constables to go door-to-door along the street opposite and next door to Geoffrey Clark’s gallery.
“Not much hope,” he said, “seeing there’ll have been tourists coming and going all afternoon, but maybe someone noticed something odd, or even what time the closedsign went up. Make a note, by the way, that’s something you’ll have to ask about in Port Mabyn, too: what time Gresham’s shop closed. You can find out what people thought of the dead man, too, and make a note of any strong reactions. Any questions? Right, off you go.” He turned to Wilkes, who wilted a little. “You. You know Mrs Trewynn, don’t you. And you renewed the acquaintance yesterday evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’m sending you straight to this communist farm place to have what you might call a preliminary chat with her. Get the straightforward questions sorted before I have to face her. You know what to ask?”
“I—I think so, sir.”
“I should hope so.” Scumble glared at him.
Megan was both amused and indignant at Scumble’s reluctance to face Aunt Nell. Glancing at Nick, she guessed that his feelings were much the same. Anyone would think Aunt Nell was a fire-breathing dragon, not a kind, charming, inoffensive old lady. Scumble just couldn’t fathom the way her mind worked, the fact that she remembered people perfectly well but was rather vague about things and events and times.
Wilkes’s plump face was unhappy. “I don’t know how to get there, sir,” he said.
“Use your initiative, man! You know what that is? If you haven’t got any, I suggest you go and ask the local man.”
Wilkes scurried off. Scumble, Megan, Nick, and the remaining uniformed officer followed at a more leisurely pace.
When they reached the King Arthur Gallery, Scumble told the constable, Lubbock, to stand outside and make sure they were not disturbed. He had the key on a bunch taken from the victim’s pocket by the Scene of Crime officer and sent over with his report.
He handed the clanking bunch to Megan. “Here, you sort it.”
The ring held seven or eight keys, but only three were Yale. Naturally, Megan tried the wrong two first. Naturally, Scumble acted as if she were being deliberately obstructive. The lock was stiff. At last the door opened, with a jangle of its bell.
After reading Sergeant Roscoe’s report of the blood-soaked crime scene, Megan was a little apprehensive when it came to entering the studio of the King Arthur Gallery. If her stomach rebelled, she would never hear the end of it from Scumble.
She reminded herself that the techs had confirmed Nick’s claim that the pools of blood were nothing but red ink, but the image raised by the original description stayed with her.
Scumble had brought Nick into the gallery with them. The artist appeared not in the least apprehensive. Whatever ghost lingered here, he didn’t expect it to haunt him, Megan thought, then wondered where such a fanciful notion had sprung from in her usually prosaic mind. Nick’s fault, she decided resentfully. Somehow his presence made her brain stretch in directions it didn’t want to go. It didn’t help that the pictures in Geoffrey Clark’s shop were the stuff of fantasy and legend, straight out of Tolkien, as Nick had mentioned. Or vice versa; she wasn’t sure of the sequence of events.
A detective needed a certain amount of imagination, but too much could be a decided handicap.
She wondered why he had chosen to use the name Monmouth for his work. Geoffrey—or Geoffroie—Monmouth. Vaguely it rang a bell. Perhaps it had no particular meaning and anything other than Clark would have done. Clark wasn’t much less common than Smith, after all.
“Stay here,” Scumble ordered Nick.
“Right you are,” Nick said amiably. “I shall occupy my time in studying Geoff’s technique.”
“If it amuses you. Come along, Pencarrow.” He strode to the door at the back, opened it, and entered the studio.
Megan followed, closing the door behind her. The corpse was long gone, of course. The place where it had lain was clearly marked by the bare floor-boards between two splotches of red, bright, glossy red, the colour of fresh blood. It might fade with time, but no amount of scrubbing would get it out of the unfinished wood.
“Ink!” said Scumble explosively. “What I can’t make out is why Pearce didn’t at least come and have a look-see for himself. He’d only to touch it to know it’s not blood.”
The desk sergeant hadn’t actually told Megan not to pass on the information about DI Pearce’s new wife. He had just suggested there was no need to do so. She decided Scumble did need to know, if only so that he could stop wasting brainpower on wondering at his rival’s strange behaviour instead of devoting it to solving the crime.
“I’ve heard, sir, that Mr Pearce has a new young wife who doesn’t like him getting home late.”
“Huh! Had to be something like that. There’s no fool like a middle-aged fool. Right, get Gresham in here.”
Nick came reluctantly. “Geoff had some good ideas,” he admitted. “I’ve never really studied his painting before. It’s a mistake to dismiss someone’s work because you happen to dislike him intensely.”
“If you’re talking about DI Pearce,” Scumble snarled, “I dismissed his work—if it can be called work—because the doctor and the forensic evidence refuted it. And you shouldn’t be complaining, considering the result.”
“You dislike Pearce, too? I must say, on the whole, I prefer your bad temper to his oily incompetence.”
“Kind of you! I’m beginning to see why Pearce was only too glad to have an excuse to lock you up without taking a statement. Right, if we’re done with the compliments, perhaps we can get on with the business that brought us here. Now that we’re on the spot, I want you to tell me again exactly what happened and what everyone said from your arrival last night until you left this building.”
Nick rolled his eyes but complied. Naturally his story varied in details from what he had said back at the Bodmin nick. As far as Megan could determine, it didn’t differ in any significant way. When he finished, Scumble merely nodded, giving no indication of whether he had learnt anything new and useful or not.
He glanced at his watch. “You know a place nearby where we can get a halfway decent pasty?” he asked.
“The Chough Bakery, down by the harbour,” said Nick at once. “Shouldn’t we get up to the farm, though?”
Megan agreed, silently. She was hungry, but food could wait. She wasn’t really worried about Aunt Nell since Mrs Stearns had promised to join her—the vicar’s wife, though hide-bound and bossy to a degree, was absolutely trustworthy. Though perhaps not always in regard to cooperating with the police, Megan recalled uneasily. It had been she who came up with the plot … But she’d take care of Aunt Nell.
Scumble was going to be furious when he found Mrs Stearns at the farm. That would be bad enough. Megan could only hope Mrs Stearns would not have decided Aunt Nell was safer at home.
“We’ll eat in the car,” Scumble conceded.
So Megan would stay hungry anyway, or try to eat her pasty while driving. She looked down at the pale yellow blouse she wore under her grey terylene-cotton suit. No, not a good idea. Besides, Scumble was at best a nervous passenger. He’d have a fit if she took the wheel with a pasty in her hand. For the same reason, he wasn’t likely to let the unfamiliar PC drive the 1100. After a long period of adjustment, he was used to Megan.
She locked the door of the gallery behind them, put the keys in her shoulder-bag, and hurried after the others. Scumble had stopped to have a word with Polmenna while Nick and PC Lubbock went on towards the Chough
Bakery in Strand Street. Scumble gestured to Megan to follow them. If DC Polmenna kept him talking long enough, maybe Megan would manage to eat at least some of her pasty after all.
However, the inspector caught up with them just as they entered the bakery.
“Nothing doing, sir?” Megan asked.
“So far, no one’s noticed a bloody thing.” His gloomy face brightened as the savoury smells made his nostrils flare. Then he looked at the price-list, chalked on a board. “Highway robbery! What do they think—”
“You’re looking at their specialities, Inspector,” said Nick. “Chicken and mushroom, curried lamb—”
“Curried lamb! Where are we, Cornwall or Calcutta? What’s wrong with plain steak and potato, I’d like to know! That’s what’s supposed to be in a pasty.”
“We’ve got proper pasties,” said the girl behind the counter a little nervously. “Steak and potato and a bit of turnip. That’s our biggest seller.”
“And the prices are just what you’d find elsewhere,” Nick pointed out soothingly.
“Hnnn. Right, I’ll take two.” He glowered at Megan and Lubbock. “And you needn’t think you can get away with curried-lamb nonsense on expenses. You.” He turned to Nick. “I suppose you’ll have to go on my expenses, seeing my colleague as good as kidnapped you. What’ll you have?”
“The real thing, thanks.” Nick was all too obviously trying—and failing—to hide his amusement, Megan saw, but Scumble didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. “Just one,” Nick added meekly.
Remembering the cream-filled cake he had scoffed in Bodmin, Megan wasn’t surprised. She too ordered one plain, ordinary pasty. PC Lubbock, looking abashed, asked for two. He was not as bulky as Scumble nor as tall as Nick, but he was very young. Still growing, Megan thought charitably. Outwards if not upwards.
They carried their paper bags back to the car-park. By the time they reached the 1100, the bags were patched with greasy stains from the pastry crust. The smell rising from them made Megan salivate. She tried to resign herself to hers growing cold while she listened to the others eating.
Fishing in her pocket for the car keys, she hoped she wasn’t getting grease stains on her suit.
“Give ’em to Lubbock,” Scumble grunted. “You can sit in the back with me. We need to plan how to tackle these communists and I don’t want you thinking about them while you’re driving along those lanes. I suppose you can drive, Constable?”
“Oh yes, sir, of course. But…?” He hefted his pasty.
“You’ll just have to wait till we get there, won’t you? Think a mere constable should eat before a detective sergeant?”
“No, sir.” Lubbock looked mournful. “I don’t know the way, sir.”
“Nor does Sergeant Pencarrow. That’s what Mr Gresham is for.” He waited impatiently while Lubbock unlocked the rear door, then heaved himself in. “Come on, come on, what are you waiting for?”
The others piled in. Scumble was already taking his first pasty out of its bag, so Megan followed suit. The first bite, as always, was mostly pastry, but it was excellent pastry. After his second bite, Scumble said grudgingly, “Not half bad.”
Nick, his mouth full, didn’t respond. He just waved and pointed when Lubbock said sulkily, “Which way now?”
They took the main road south for a mile or so, then branched off, through rolling farmland. After another turn, the hedges closed in on either side, the lane barely wider than the 1100. Lubbock drove cautiously, so Scumble was able to concentrate on his food and finished his two pasties as Megan finished her one.
Too late for planning, though. The next turn was into a farm lane.
“Just a couple of hundred yards,” Nick said cheerfully as they jounced over ruts and potholes.
Lubbock parked neatly beside DC Wilkes’s panda, in a cobbled courtyard surrounded by gussied-up farm buildings. A horse-trough on either side overflowed with lobelia and pot-marigolds.
“You just sit here and eat your pasties, son,” said Scumble. Being who he was, he managed to make the outwardly benevolent words sound vaguely menacing. “Gresham, you stay here with—I mean, please, Mr Gresham, I would appreciate you staying in the car with the constable, if you’d be so kind.”
“Sit here in a car on a beautiful summer day, watching Constable Lubbock stuff his face? You must be mad!”
“For your own safety,” the inspector snapped. “If these commies—”
“I’ve told you, they are not commies, for pity’s sake!”
“All right, all right, keep your hair on. If these highly strung artistic types still believe you killed their chum, they may be after your blood.”
“Not likely,” said Nick laconically. “When you get to know them a bit, you’ll find the only one who has it in for me is Stella. I assumed you needed me here for some reason, but if not, I’ve got work to do. I’ll walk down to the road and hitch a lift or get a bus home. After I’ve made sure Mrs Trewynn is all right and hasn’t been subjected to police brutality.” He winked at Megan.
“Surely you can trust Sergeant Pencarrow for that! Now look here, Mr Gresham, let’s be reasonable. I want you here because you know these people and can maybe give me a sidelight on what they say, clarify things, even suggest further questions. But for the same reason, I don’t want you talking to them before we do, putting ideas into their heads.”
“You’ve got a watchdog here.” Nick gestured at the constable beside him, already engulfing his second pasty as if he’d never heard of indigestion. A pair of jackdaws, drawn by an infallible instinct, strutted across the cobbles in hopes of a bit of the crust. “Or guard dog, if you honestly think I’m in danger. He can follow me about.”
Scumble regarded the back of Lubbock’s head with distaste. “You listening by any chance, Constable?”
“Course I am, sir,” the young man said through a mouthful of crumbs. “You want me to keep an eye on Mr Gresham and not let him talk to people.”
“His suggestion, not mine. But that’s the general idea. Think you can manage it?”
Lubbock drew breath to answer and a crumb went down his windpipe. He doubled up over the steering wheel, coughing and spluttering. Nick thumped him enthusiastically between the shoulderblades.
“Where do they find them?” Scumble demanded of the roof of the car. “Are they lobotomised at birth? Why me, oh—?”
“We have an audience, sir,” Megan advised him.
Four people, two men and two women, had come out of the various buildings. Staring at the police cars, they were drifting together.
“Margery Rosevear,” said Nick, ceasing to pound Lubbock, who seemed to be recovering. “Coming from the house. The other woman is Jeanette Jones, and that’s Oswald Rudd, and the old chap is Albert Baraclough.”
“Thank you. Are you with us again, Constable?”
“Yes, sir,” Lubbock croaked. “It was a crumb, sir, went down the wrong—”
“We don’t need the grisly details. I’ve changed my mind. You and Gresh—Mr Gresham can get out of the car and talk to those people. Gresham, I’m trusting you—I must be out of my ruddy mind!—not to tell them anything that’s going to bollix up my investigation. In fact, don’t tell them anything. I’ll tell them as much as I want them to know. If you’re tempted, just remind yourself one of the things I’m trying to do is clear your fair name.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Lubbock, you can stroll about looking gormless—shouldn’t be too difficult—and chatting people up.”
“The girls, d’you mean, sir?”
“I do not! You can do that on your own time. I mean any and everyone who’s not at that moment being interviewed by another officer. They just might let something drop to an innocent young lad, even if he is in police uniform, that they wouldn’t mention to an experienced interrogator who’s taking down their every word.”
“Should I take notes, sir?”
Scumble closed his eyes. “Lord, give me patience. You will not remove yo
ur notebook from your pocket. I hope you have sufficient brain cells to remember if you hear any startling revelations.”
“Oh yes, sir. I have a good memory.” He started to get out of the car.
“A good memory, I’ll believe when I see evidence,” Scumble muttered to Megan. “Bet he wouldn’t recognise a startling revelation if it walked up and introduced itself. I want you to talk to Stella Weller last, give her the sympathetic female touch. Try to pin her down to facts instead of fantasy, once you’ve heard what the others have to say. I’ll see if Wilkes has managed to extract any useful information from your aunt.”
They got out and approached the four residents, who now formed a group.
“Mrs Rosevear?” Ignoring the others, Scumble addressed the elder of the two women, fortyish, a buxom figure on the verge of becoming stout. “Detective Inspector Scumble. This is Detective Sergeant Pencarrow. We’re here to ask a few questions concerning the late Geoffrey Clark, who, I understand, resided on your premises.”
“That’s his bungalow, there.” She pointed at a low, yellow-washed building just outside the courtyard, typical of the rash of cheap holiday homes that had increasingly disfigured the countryside since the late fifties. “I’ve got a spare key.”
“That’s all right, madam, we have his keys. We’ll take a look later. For the moment, perhaps you could tell me where to find Mrs Trewynn and my detective constable, and then DS Pencarrow would like a talk with you.”
“Oh yes, I want to retract my statement. The one I made last night. What with Stella and Inspector Pearce, I was in such a flurry I spoke too hastily—”
“Sergeant Pencarrow will be happy to take a new statement, madam.” Scumble flashed a glance of triumph at Megan. “Mrs Trewynn?”
“They’re out in the garden behind the house. You can go round that way. Will you come into the house, Sergeant? I’m just clearing the dinner things.”
Megan made up her mind that no admonishment to employ womanly sympathy as an interrogation tool was going to make her help with the washing-up.
