by Carola Dunn
“All right, all right! Think about it as much as you like. I said don’t … Never mind. Just get on with it. Please.”
Eleanor complied. With each repetition, she found, the horror faded a little and her memory grew clearer. Perhaps there was some sense in Scumble’s requests for the same information over and over again. Otherwise, of course, he wouldn’t waste time on it just to be irritating.
She reached the point where Stella had burst into tears.
“She hadn’t cried up till then?” Scumble asked.
“Not that I noticed. She may have had tears in her eyes. I wasn’t observing very clearly. But I would have heard if she’d been sobbing, I’m sure.”
“Grief and hysteria take many forms,” Jocelyn put in.
“I’m well aware of that, madam. Miss Weller seems to have gone through most of them, though not the maniacal laughter.”
“Thank heaven!” Eleanor exclaimed.
“What was said next?”
“That was when the local sergeant came in,” she said doubtfully. Hadn’t there been something in between? If so, it was gone. Scumble’s interruption had made her lose the thread. He really ought to know better by now.
“That’ll do—”
“Good,” said Jocelyn. “I’m taking Eleanor home.”
“—For now,” the inspector continued irritably. “If you have any reason, Mrs Trewynn, to leave North Cornwall, or to leave Port Mabyn for more than a few hours, I am here and now giving you specific instructions to inform me in advance of where you’re going. Make a note, Wilkes.”
“I will,” Eleanor promised guiltily. Not that she felt terribly guilty for the time she had evaded him—and DC Wilkes, she remembered, shooting him a look of apology. He grinned. “But Joce, my car’s in Rock.”
“I’ll take it home for you,” said Nick. “I’ve absolutely got to get to work.”
Eleanor felt in the pocket of her skirt for the keys. “Oh dear, here are the keys to the flat, but I wonder where—”
“I’ve got ’em.” Taking the car keys from his pocket, Nick tossed them jingling in the air and caught them.
“Oh good.” A folded piece of paper had come out of her pocket with the keys and fluttered to the ground, unfolding on the way down. Wilkes reached for it, but his figure was not conducive to bending in the middle. Eleanor got there first. “What on earth is this?”
The upper side was a blank receipt form, printed in blue, numbered in red, with Nick’s gallery’s name, address, and telephone number stamped blurrily at the top. With a sinking feeling, Eleanor turned it over.
“Here you are, Mr Scumble,” she said, as brightly as she could manage, handing it to him. “It’s Stella’s note.”
Scumble turned a curious shade of purple. Letting out his breath with a whoosh, he said in his most sarcastic voice, “I suppose I should be grateful you found it before my men had to search through every rubbish bin in Port Mabyn. You don’t by any chance have Mr Gresham’s train ticket stub or a London bus ticket concealed somewhere about your person?”
“Certainly not.” All the same, Eleanor emptied her pockets: a clean (luckily) handkerchief, a small comb, nothing else. “No, I haven’t.”
With a sigh, Scumble said, “You and Mr Gresham had better each make a formal statement that this is the note you found in Mr Gresham’s shop.”
“Why?” Nick demanded. “I already told you exactly what it said. What do you need another statement for?”
“You leave that to me, sir.”
“Don’t argue, Nick. Let’s get it over with.” Solemnly Eleanor took the note back from Scumble and stated to Wilkes when and where she had last seen it.
While Nick was following suit, Jocelyn said, “Eleanor, I’ve just remembered, one of Timothy’s parishioners who’s been ill is staying not too far away from here. It wouldn’t be far out of our way, if you don’t mind my dropping by to see how she’s doing.” Her tone challenging, she added, “And if Mr Scumble doesn’t mind, of course.”
He shot her a suspicious look. Obviously he had not forgotten that she had once aided Eleanor in eluding the police. “As long as you go straight back to Port Mabyn afterwards,” he said grudgingly.
“Naturally. I hope you don’t insist on my giving you the name of the person concerned and the address. It would be a gross breach of privacy.”
“That won’t be necessary. Mr Gresham, did Mrs Trewynn’s statement by any chance remind you of something you’d forgotten?”
“No, ’fraid not.”
“Well, keep thinking, will you? All right, you’re free to leave. I’ll find you in your studio when I need you, I take it.”
“When, not if? Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Come along, Nicholas, I’ll give you a lift into Padstow.”
“Thank you, Mrs Stearns,” Nick said meekly.
“Are you ready to go, Eleanor?”
“I didn’t bring a bag, not expecting to be away overnight. But I must say good-bye and thank you to Mrs Rosevear.”
“Not if Pencarrow is still interviewing her!”
“In the circumstances,” said Jocelyn dryly, “I feel sure a bread-and-butter letter will suffice.”
Eleanor didn’t feel it was appropriate any longer simply to walk in through the back door. When they reached the courtyard, Teazle trotting patiently at their heels, the front door of the house was open. She couldn’t tell whether Megan was still there, though, without interrupting if she was, so she decided a letter would indeed have to do.
A uniformed constable was leaning against the doorpost of the pottery, chatting to someone—presumably Tom—inside. He made no move to stop them.
They took Nick down to the quay in Padstow, where the ferry was about to cast off. Eager to get back to work, he jumped out of the car with a quick word of thanks and ran to catch it.
Jocelyn drove out of the village back along the Wadebridge road, green, well-wooded country with an occasional glimpse of the River Camel on their left. Something about the sight jogged Eleanor’s memory.
“The place where Stella works must be somewhere along here,” she said. “Near Wadebridge, they said.”
“What? What place? I thought she was an artist.”
“And a nurse, in a convalescent hospital. It’s just dawned on me: I wonder if that’s where your parishioner is staying, the one you want to visit. Old Mrs Batchelor, is it? She fell and broke a couple of ribs, I remember.”
“Yes, she’s in a convalescent home near here.”
“I definitely think you ought to pop in and see her while we’re nearby. What’s the name of the place? I’m sure I’d recognise it.”
“Riverview.”
“That’s it. Riverview Convalescent Home.”
“A very nice private hospital, I believe. Not National Health, I mean. Her son’s paying for it because there really isn’t room for a private nurse in her cottage, besides the stairs to worry about, and she didn’t want to go and stay with him in London. Doesn’t get on with her daughter-in-law.”
“Then I’m sure she’d appreciate a visit.”
“What have you got up your sleeve, Eleanor? That Man would be furious if he found out.”
“Not if we go before he does, and he doesn’t know we know Stella’s there. He did say you could call on your parishioner.”
“If he asks whether I knew beforehand about Stella, I’ll have to tell him.”
“I doubt he’ll ask. In any case, he can hardly say a vicar’s wife is not to visit a sick parishioner, wherever she may be. Don’t you want to see if we can find out a bit about Stella’s other life?”
“Really, Eleanor!”
“I don’t like the way she accused Nicholas of murder,” Eleanor said stubbornly. “If you’re afraid of Inspector Scumble, you can wait in the car, or go for a walk.”
“No, I’ll come with you. You’re right, it’s my duty to call on Mrs Batchelor, come what may.”
“I call that sophistry. If not downright Jesui
tical!”
“Nonsense.” Jocelyn was silent, negotiating a tricky blind S-bend. As the road straightened, a discreet sign on the north side indicated a gravel drive, leading down the hillside, to the Riverview Convalescent Home (Private). Jocelyn braked and turned in. Continuing without hesitation down the slope, she said forebodingly, “But if you ask me, it won’t make the slightest difference to That Man that I’m a vicar’s wife, or whether we visit the place before or after him. Either way, when he finds out, he’s going to throw forty fits.”
TWENTY-ONE
Megan emerged from the cool dimness of the farmhouse into the hot afternoon. In the enclosed courtyard, it felt more like mid-August than June. She decided to begin with the studios on the south side, facing north.
The door of the nearest was closed. A glance at the window showed only her own reflection and that of the building opposite. The circumstances did not justify peering, so she plied the piskie-shaped door knocker.
No one within responded, but a red beard poked out of the studio at the far end. “Fuzz? We’re all in here. Most of us, anyway. Did you want me in particular?”
Walking towards him, Megan decided to try to get the sympathetic female touch business over with before Scumble reappeared, except for Stella, whom he’d said to take last. “Ladies first, please, sir,” she said, wondering what the whirring noise had been. She hadn’t noticed it till it stopped.
He turned back to the room. “Jeanette, you’re first.”
“Me?” It was a wail. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the only ‘lady’ present and the police set great store by etiquette.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going with you.” A second male voice, determined.
A tall woman came out. Her head was turned back towards the room, so that Megan couldn’t see her face, only a head of unruly, straw-coloured hair. “No, Tom,” she protested.
A man burst forth after her. Seeing Megan, he looked relieved. “It’s the woman cop. Okay. But call if you want me.” He stood watching as Jeanette came to meet Megan.
His reaction annoyed her, though it was typical and one reason women detectives were at last making their way into progressive police forces.
“That’s my place,” said Jeanette, gesturing, “the door you just passed, the middle one. Do you want to go in there?”
“I expect that’d be most convenient. Who’s the chap with the beard?” She ought to have had Mrs Rosevear draw her a plan with names.
“Oswald. He paints, too.” She led the way into the studio, which had a draughtsman’s table as well as an easel. Megan glanced at a couple of paintings leaning face out against the back wall. They were geometrical abstracts, somehow unsettling, though she couldn’t have explained why. They went straight across, through another door into a pleasant, sunny bedsitter, cooled by a breeze through the wide-open window. The room featured Indian bedspreads, as, in fact, did Megan’s. There was nothing to beat Indian bedspreads for cheap and cheerful decorating.
CaRaDoC was progressive enough to employ a woman detective sergeant. It was not yet sufficiently progressive to pay her as much as her male colleagues.
Jeanette sat down on the divan-bed, waving Megan to an armchair that looked as if it could well have come from Aunt Nell’s LonStar shop, in good enough condition not to need draping, but faded to an indeterminate colour. She would have chosen to sit at the small table by the open window; too formal for her present sympathetic role, she decided. Still, she had to start with the formalities. She introduced herself and took down Jeanette’s full name.
She went on, “The man who wanted to come with you, he’s Tom?”
“Yes. He once saved me from a dragon and for some reason he now thinks he has to protect me from the world. I expect you can guess who the dragon was, if someone hasn’t already told you.”
“Geoffrey Clark, I take it. Will you tell me about it?” She probably didn’t need to hear the whole story, just a simple reason why Jeanette had hated Geoffrey—assuming she had. But if she had to listen to the whole story to make the woman at ease talking to her, then listen she would.
“It was all rather sordid. And very silly, really. It’s just, I find it hard to look at it that way. One Saturday evening, a bunch of us were down at the Gold Bezant—that’s the pub we usually go to. Doug’s on the darts team. I was tired and wanted to leave, but the others wanted to stay. Geoff said he’d drive me home. I knew he’d had a few. If I’d realised how drunk he was…”
“You often can’t tell till the person gets behind the wheel.”
“I’m sure he would have failed that breathalyser thingy. The drive back here was pretty scary, but we made it in one piece. He parked by the bungalow. I got out and thanked him. He said to wait, he wanted to show me something, and he started rooting behind the seat. His car’s an MG Midget, you see, so there’s not much room. I told him to show me in the morning and I came back here. He followed me, calling to me to wait. I suppose I should have been scared then. I could have gone to Tom’s. I saw his light was on.”
“Tom hadn’t gone to the pub?”
“No, he was in the middle of something he couldn’t leave. Glazing, or firing, I can’t remember. I came into my studio and started to shut the door. Geoff was right behind me, carrying a bundle wrapped in sacking. I told him to go away, but he pushed past me and went on in here. I still wasn’t too worried. I mean, it wasn’t as if he was a stranger. So I followed him, like a complete moron. He unwrapped the sacking, and there was this bloody great sword.”
“A sword!”
“A broadsword. The sort King Arthur and his knights may have used, if they ever existed. He’d had it specially made so he could paint it. Pathetic! His work’s so derivative, it’s not much better than copying. The worst thing was that he seemed to think the sword made him irresistible. He started waving it around, sort of as if he was in a sword fight. But the way he was smirking made me think he was—I don’t know if you’ll understand this—but as if he was showing off his prick.”
Somewhat startled by such frank language coming from a young woman who appeared neither sleazy nor sophisticated, Megan assumed it must be the aftermath of life-drawing classes. “When it comes to sex,” she said, “people get some strange ideas.”
“Maybe Stella likes that kind of thing. I just thought it was weird. And when I got it through his thick head that I wasn’t going to sleep with him, he went berserk. He started slashing my cushions. I was petrified. For a moment I didn’t believe my eyes, and then I screamed my head off. Both my window and Tom’s were open, and luckily he wasn’t using his wheel. He heard me and came rushing round.”
“Unaware that he’d be facing a broadsword.”
“Yes, of course. I heard him come in. I was glad not to be all alone with a drunk maniac, but I was terrified for him, too. I shouted something to attract Geoff’s attention away from the door. He took it as an invitation! He said, ‘Aha, you do want it, after all,’ and he advanced on me making these sort of stabbing moves with the sword. It was utterly revolting.” She shuddered.
Megan’s training had equipped her to deal with a great many unlikely situations, but facing, unarmed, a maniac wielding a broadsword had not been one of them. She hoped she would rise to the occasion if she ever had to, but she couldn’t imagine how. “What did Tom do?”
“He made it look so simple. He’s not big but he’s really strong from throwing clay around and lugging boxes of china. Muscles like a coal-heaver. He came up behind Geoff and grabbed his sword-arm in both hands and twisted, shouting, ‘Drop that thing if you ever want to paint again!’ Geoff yelped and dropped it. Then he spewed all over my floor.” Jeanette looked at her floor, covered with sisal matting, in remembered disgust. “I had to throw out my carpet.”
“Yuck!”
“Tom was wonderful. God knows what would have happened if he hadn’t come. I’ll always be grateful to him. The trouble is, he says he’s in love with me and I just don’t love him. It woul
dn’t be fair to either of us to go with him out of gratitude, would it?”
Megan’s love life was not such a blazing success that she felt qualified to give advice. “It doesn’t sound like a good idea,” she agreed cautiously, while noting that Tom also had a very good reason for hating Geoffrey Clark.
“I’ll tell you what made me as angry as what Geoff did. Stella said I’d made a big fuss over nothing, he wouldn’t have hurt me. But how was I to know?”
“You couldn’t, and it isn’t necessarily true. She wasn’t upset with him for making advances to another woman?”
“Not at all. She’s always said she wants her freedom so it’s only fair to let him have his.” Jeanette shrugged. “It seems strange to me, but I’m quite sure it’s what she believes. I mean, it wasn’t just to save face afterwards, she’d said it before.”
“When did this happen?”
“A couple of months ago. When we had that warm spell in April, remember?”
A few weeks. Just time enough for a not naturally vengeful man to come to the boil? Perhaps to feel himself inadequate because he hadn’t called his beloved’s assailant to account? Perhaps even to fear that was the reason she refused him. And soon he might lose his chance, when Clark was kicked out of his bungalow.
As she thought, Megan scribbled a note to herself: Tom’s alibi would have to be closely checked. He was a serious contender for the person who had rid the world of an obnoxious, not to say dangerous pest. The more she heard about Geoffrey Clark, the more she felt the murderer should be given a medal, not prosecuted.
Very unprofessional, she told herself. Stella had loved him, in spite of his faults. He must have some redeeming qualities. Aunt Nell, always charitable, could probably see them.
“What did you do before going to Padstow yesterday?” she asked. “Say from noon onwards.”
“Yesterday?” Jeanette sounded bewildered, as if coming back from far away. “Oh yes, yesterday, sorry. I was finishing off the work I had to send my editor. And hunting for an envelope. I usually keep a few on hand, but I’d run out. Then I had something to eat. I can’t remember … Probably a bit of salad. That’s what I usually end up with.”
