by Carola Dunn
EIGHTEEN
“Well, Inspector,” said Jocelyn tartly, “I suppose you were bound to turn up sooner or later, like a bad penny.”
“Kind of you, Mrs Stearns.”
Eleanor stood up and went to meet him. “Good afternoon, Mr Scumble. Did you bring Megan with you? DS Pencarrow, that is.”
His lips twitched. “The sergeant is in the house, interviewing the residents.”
“Oh, good. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’ve taken over from the man who wouldn’t listen to me. Though I expect he had his reasons,” she added, giving Pearce the benefit of the doubt.
“Don’t worry, Mrs Trewynn, I’ll listen. I just hope you’re going to tell me absolutely everything.”
“Of course. I’ve never deliberately held anything back from you.”
“Not deliberately, no. On the whole.”
He sighed, and she wondered if he was thinking of the time she had left Port Mabyn without informing him of her whereabouts. But she’d had an excellent reason … Better distract him. “You must admit that you sometimes rushed me and made me lose my place in what I was telling you.”
Scumble’s face started to turn purple.
“Eleanor, for pity’s sake, let’s get this over with so we can go home. I don’t know what Timothy must be thinking!”
“Oh dear, the poor vicar! Do come and sit down, Mr Scumble. It’s really very pleasant out here now there’s a bit of a breeze come up.”
“I’ll just have a word with DC Wilkes first, ma’am, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, of course. I’m so glad you sent him. He’s an old friend. So much easier than trying to explain to a stranger.”
“Wilkes!”
The detective constable was standing at near-attention—Megan had once told Eleanor that only officers in uniform were supposed to actually stand to attention—by the bench from which he had instantly raised himself on seeing the inspector.
“Sir!”
“I’ll be with you in just a moment, Mrs Trewynn.”
Eleanor went back to the shade of the apple tree to sit with Joce while the two detectives conferred. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’d forgotten that Timothy must be wondering where on earth you are.”
“I left him a note. I told him I didn’t know when I’d get home, so he won’t be worried, but I must say I didn’t think we’d still be here at this hour. My intention was to take you straight home.”
“I couldn’t possibly have left when you arrived, Joce. It was extremely kind of you to come, but you mustn’t feel you need wait. Now Megan is here, I shall be perfectly all right.”
“That Man!”
“Oh, come on, Joce, I’m not afraid of Mr Scumble.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that you were,” Jocelyn said stiffly, then said with a touch of guilt, “I meant to be perfectly polite, but the sight of him … I was rather rude, I’m afraid. I owe him an apology.”
“I wouldn’t apologise if I were you. The shock might kill him.”
“Really, Eleanor! Do try to be serious.”
“If you ask me, seriousness is greatly overrated.” She considered her remark, remembered they were here on a matter of murder, and added an amendment: “Though undoubtedly appropriate in many situations.”
“Of which this is one.”
“Yes, you’re quite right. Here they come.”
Scumble plonked himself down on the second bench.
“I suppose you want me to leave,” Jocelyn said defiantly.
“Good lord no. You’re a witness, according to my information.”
“A witness?”
“Unless I’ve been lied to. Which wouldn’t surprise me. We’ll get into that later.”
Wilkes had taken out his notebook, but remained standing until his superior irritably gestured to him to sit. Hierarchies, Eleanor reflected, were the same practically all over the world, so they must be necessary to the functioning of society, she supposed. A depressing thought.
“Mrs Trewynn!”
“I’m listening!”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be listening. You’re the one who’s supposed to be telling me why I shouldn’t believe your friend Gresham stabbed Geoffrey Clark.”
“He was elsewhere at the time. That’s what alibi means, isn’t it?”
“You know what time the murder was committed?”
“Near enough. Stella Maris left a note to explain what Geoffrey did to poor Nick’s paintings. She said he had dropped in to see her at the gallery—Nick’s—shortly after she’d heard from Nick about Mr Alarian. As Nick telephoned from Paddington at midday, obviously Geoffrey was alive then. When we arrived at his gallery, it was after six. So he died between noon and six. And Nick was either on the train or with me the whole time,” she concluded in triumph. A miracle of concise logic, she thought happily.
Scumble frowned. “You saw Miss Weller’s note?”
“Miss Weller?”
“Maris. Her real name is Weller.”
“Oh yes. So confusing! Yes, Nick showed me her note. I read it. Haven’t you seen it yet?”
“Gresham’s lost it. He doesn’t know what he did with it.”
“I expect it’s in his waste paper basket in the gallery. Or in mine. We went straight up to tea.”
“Straight?”
Eleanor thought. “Well, no, not immediately. He helped the children unload the Incorruptible, and—”
“Just for the record, Mrs Trewynn, the Incorruptible is your car, a green Morris Minor, correct?”
“That’s right. It was parked in the street just outside, and I know it’s a No Parking zone, but—Oh, but I remember you told me it’s not your job to enforce—”
“And the children were…?”
“Donna from the pub and the little Chins. Ivy and Lionel Chin, I should say. Mr Chin told me just the other day that they hate being referred to as ‘the little Chins,’ and who can blame them?”
With a sigh, Scumble said, “Are you confirming that Donna from the pub and Ivy and Lionel Chin are all witnesses to Gresham’s presence in Port Mabyn at—what time?”
“About five. Nick’s train came in at five past four, and it takes the Incorruptible about an hour to get from Launceston over Bodmin Moor to Port Mabyn.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that in a minute.”
“Don’t you want me to recount everything consecutively from the beginning, Inspector?”
“Since we seem to have embarked upon a discussion of where Miss Weller’s note might have got to,” he said, with the heavy patience that clearly expressed irritation, “let’s finish that off first. Gresham helped to unload your car, taking the contents where?”
“To the stockroom, of course.” Eleanor glanced at Wilkes and his notebook and, for the record, helpfully explained, “the stockroom behind the LonStar shop.”
“I’m not likely to forget that bl—that stockroom! Gresham might have dropped the note there.”
“Naturally a waste basket is provided,” Jocelyn put in, offended at the suggestion that litter was permitted in her stockroom. “I myself emptied it into the bin when I closed and locked the shop.”
“Thank you, Mrs Stearns. You didn’t happen to notice a letter—What sort of paper was it written on, Mrs Trewynn?”
“The back of a blank receipt. I remember because Nick said it would upset his records. It seems they’re all numbered, so—”
“Mrs Stearns?” He really did interrupt a lot, Eleanor thought. No wonder she didn’t always manage to provide him with all the information he wanted. “Did you see—”
“It is not my custom to examine the rubbish, Inspector!”
“No. And which day are the dustbins emptied?”
“Friday mornings. This morning.”
“I might have guessed,” Scumble said gloomily.
To comfort him, Eleanor pointed out, “You know what it said, anyway. And there’ll be a missing receipt number in Nick’s cash register, or recor
ds, or somewhere, won’t there? In any case, he could have dropped it in the shop or car.”
“That’s right, when he was unloading.”
“Or when he drove it down to the car park by the stream.”
Scumble glared at her. “He did, did he? And walked back up the hill? I assume there’s at least one council litter bin on the way. Probably emptied daily.”
“Not half often enough,” said Jocelyn, “at least in the tourist season.”
The inspector ignored her. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Actually,” said Eleanor, “now I come to think of it, he found the note after unloading, and we didn’t go back to the shop or my flat.”
“All right, Mrs Trewynn, let’s try going back to the beginning.” With one of his heaviest sighs, he leant forwards with his hands on his meaty thighs and appealed to her, “You know I wasn’t in at the start of this investigation, and I haven’t got information that ought to have been collected last night. I’ve got some catching up to do, so I’d very much appreciate it if you’d give me the short version. I promise you’ll have a chance to fill in details you think I ought to know at a later date. Now, from the beginning.”
“The beginning?” Eleanor considered. The real beginning was when she had written to Mr Alarian about Nick’s paintings, but she doubted Scumble wanted to know about that. “You could say it began when Nick rang up to say he was catching the train that reaches Launceston at 4:05. He—”
“You yourself spoke to him?” Interrupting already!
“No, I was out, so he rang the LonStar shop to leave a message.”
“I spoke to Nicholas,” said Jocelyn complacently. “For once, the line was reasonably clear. I can assure you, he rang from a public telephone and it was a trunk call. What’s more, I heard in the background all the sounds of a busy mainline railway station.”
Eleanor gave her an indignant look. Why hadn’t she said so sooner? Had she not realised how crucial her evidence was? That one little fact must clear Nick without any shadow of doubt.
“Ah, well that settles that, then, doesn’t it?” The inspector seemed pleased, somewhat to Eleanor’s surprise.
Now, she realised, with the red herring of Nick’s possible guilt out of the way, he and Megan could concentrate on who had actually stabbed Geoffrey. Surely not Margery Rosevear, such a sympathetic, practical woman, yet seduced into unfaithfulness then dropped without a second thought when he found a new lover. Doug, the wronged husband, had an obvious motive there, too. What about Jeanette, subjected to some sort of mistreatment no one wanted to talk about? Or Tom Lennox, so obviously in love with her—had he seized a chance to avenge her? Oswald, Leila, Albert, all seemed to hate Geoffrey, though Eleanor didn’t know why, apart from his generally obnoxious—
“Mrs Trewynn!”
“I can’t believe any of them would have killed him. They’ve all been so kind and welcoming.”
“Who? These communists?”
“Good heavens, Inspector, they’re not communists. As I understand it, they pay rent to the Rosevears, which helps keep the farm viable. Not that I have anything against communism. I’ve known some admirable communists. Its fundamental creed is sound, ‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.’” She cast a sidelong glance at Jocelyn. “Very like the Christian ideal. The parable of the talents, isn’t it? And something on the lines of ‘Inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of these.’”
“Really, Eleanor!”
“It’s just that it tends to go wrong in practice, when people start imposing their ideas on others, Christianity as well as communism. It’s no good scowling at me, Joce. The Inquisition, and ‘holy’ wars, and just look at Ireland.”
“Mrs Trewynn, fascinating as this may be, I am not here to attend a debate on religion and politics. I asked you, as Mrs Stearns appears to have established Gresham’s alibi—”
“Appears!” Jocelyn redirected her indignation against Scumble.
“I can imagine ways around it, and what I can imagine, another man can carry out. For a start, I’ve only got Mrs Trewynn’s evidence that Gresham arrived at Launceston station on the 4:05. No doubt Mrs Trewynn is in general a truthful lady, but she’s also a very good friend of Nicholas Gresham’s. No offence meant.”
“I did wonder,” Eleanor confessed, “just for a moment, whether I would lie for Nick. I’m quite sure he didn’t stab Geoffrey, you see, but he might not have been able to prove it, and Inspector Pearce had already decided he was guilty. I know you will find out the truth, so I don’t have to decide. I’m very glad.”
“That’s all very well, and I’m delighted to hear you have faith in me, but it doesn’t give me independent evidence that Gresham got off the 4:05.”
“No, I do see your difficulty.”
“Was there anyone you know at the station?”
“Oh, yes, I talked to Mr Lobcot, the porter at the station. I actually told him I was meeting Nick.”
“He saw Gresham get off?”
“Oh dear, as to that I rather doubt it. He was busy with someone else. He’s porter and station master and ticket collector all in one now, till they close the line.”
Scumble sighed. “That’s a pity.”
“He might have noticed Nick, though,” Eleanor said hopefully. “Nick’s the sort of person people do notice, and there wasn’t a vast crowd.”
“Enquiries will be made. So much for Launceston. Port Mabyn, now, we seem to have covered. We’ll move on to Padstow. What time—”
“Ah, there you are, Eleanor.” Nick strolled round the corner of the house. Teazle bounced up and went to greet him. He stooped to scratch her head. “Doing all right, are you?” he asked, straightening. “Good afternoon, Mrs Stearns. I’m glad to see you here.”
“So you should be,” Scumble grunted. “Mrs Stearns just confirmed some important details of your story. But I am not glad to see you here. Go away.”
“Come, come, Inspector, I’m not going to interfere with your interrogation. I came because I was being peppered with questions that you’ve forbidden me to answer. I’m simply avoiding temptation.”
“Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.”
“Also,” said Nick, dropping the bantering tone, “I would like to hear Eleanor’s description of what happened in Padstow and I should think you must have reached that point by now. I’ve a feeling there’s something I should have noticed, or that I did notice but have forgotten. Something significant, I mean. Something you ought to know. Going through it again, as she remembers it, just might bring it back.”
“You can go through it again with me or Sergeant Pencarrow as often as you like, Mr Gresham. But all right, you can stay. Sit over there, where I can see you. One false step and you’ll go back to the cells on a charge of obstruction.”
“Now is that any way to treat a willing witness?” Nick complained, sitting down on the bench beside Jocelyn, as she and Eleanor moved over to make room for him. “Nonetheless, thank you, Inspector. And thank you, Mrs Stearns, for vouching for me.”
“I spoke nothing more nor less than the truth, Nicholas,” Jocelyn said severely.
“If you’re quite finished,” said Scumble, at his most sarcastic, “perhaps Mrs Trewynn would be so kind as to begin.”
Eleanor had been reflecting on the best place to begin. She’d much rather not talk about the horrible experience at all. Perhaps it would be easiest to get a run at it, so to speak, like a hurdle.
“We parked the Incorruptible at the quarry in Rock,” she said, “where I hope it’s still sitting and hasn’t been towed away.”
Scumble rolled his eyes but for once let her proceed at her own pace.
NINETEEN
Meanwhile, Megan followed Mrs Rosevear into an old-fashioned, shabby, but comfortable farm kitchen, which like most of its kind obviously served as a sitting room as well. The well-scrubbed white wood table still bore the remains of a meal, with rather strange dishes. More interest
ed in who had eaten there than what they ate off, Megan automatically counted the number of places set: five.
“Five for lunch? Sorry, dinner?”
“I don’t do lunch for the whole crowd, usually just for my husband, Doug, and me. He’s gone back to work. Today we had Mrs Trewynn, of course, and her friend, Mrs Stearns, and Mr Wilkes. The detective. Mrs Trewynn said he’s a friend of hers, too. Does it matter?”
“Probably not.” Megan grinned at her. “But it’s just as well to be prepared if my gov’nor decides I ought to know.”
“He won’t mind the detective having eaten with us?”
“I doubt it, but if he does, he’ll blame Wilkes.” Or Aunt Nell. “Not you. Now, let’s hear what you really saw last night.”
Mrs Rosevear sat down at the table and waved Megan to a chair. “Sorry about the mess, I’ll deal with it later. I feel simply terrible about accusing Nick Gresham. It’s no excuse, but Stella was so adamant … We were all too horrified to think straight.”
“Let me briefly recap, Mrs Rosevear,” Megan said, “to make sure I’ve got it straight. You withdraw without reservation your statement that you saw Nicholas Gresham stab Geoffrey Clark. When you entered the studio, immediately behind Stella … Weller, you saw—looking past her and Mrs Trewynn—Gresham standing or kneeling beside the prone body of Clark. On and around the body was a good deal of something bright red with a sheen, which you assumed to be fresh blood.”
“Assumed to be? You mean it wasn’t blood? Or wasn’t fresh? It certainly wasn’t the colour of dried blood. What was it?”
“I’m not allowed to answer that sort of question, Mrs Rosevear, but I’ll remind you that Clark was a painter.”
“Paint! No, more likely that ink he uses for the adverts.”
“You have some technical knowledge of painting?”
“Impossible not to, with the company I keep. But actually, I wanted to go to art school. I passed my School Certificate just after D-Day, though, so I went into the Wrens, still hoping to study art after the war. That’s where I met Doug. He was in the Navy. We got married as soon as we were both demobbed. I’d never had anything to do with farm life and I stupidly believed I’d have plenty of time after feeding the chickens at least to dabble in painting.”
