by Carola Dunn
“Much too much. He left sometime after lunch and got home sometime before supper. Before their usual suppertime, that is. It didn’t—um, materialise yesterday, because of Mrs Rosevear being unavoidably detained. So I asked, what did they all do when their meal didn’t turn up?”
“That’s a point. What did they do?”
“Pooled their resources. Shared what they’d got.”
They had missed a trick there, Megan realised. They should be asking everyone whether they’d noticed any of the others behaving in an abnormal manner last night. Or perhaps—awful thought!—Scumble was asking and assumed she would do likewise on her own initiative.
“So then I asked,” Wilkes continued, “was anyone acting peculiar. And he said, no, just annoyed, because they pay Mrs Rosevear for the evening meal. But it seems to me, Sarge, you can hide a whole lot of peculiar behind a little bit of annoyed.”
“Yes, I expect so. Did he meet anyone on his hike?”
“Not that he remembers. But—get this, Sarge!—he reckons he was too busy seeking inspiration to notice.”
“He wasn’t exactly feeling helpful, was he! What did he have to say about the victim?”
“He said he was a bit of a bastard but easy to avoid and not worth the trouble of bumping off—eliminating’s what he said. I don’t think he was kidding, either, apart from the fancy language. He just put that on to get up my nose. I mean, nobody could spout like that all the time or they’d be spending half their time explaining what they were talking about. But if you ask me, he meant what he said about Clark: He just didn’t give a damn.”
Megan nodded. “Could be. I haven’t heard anything to suggest he had any particular quarrel with Clark. That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“All right, go and see if Leila Arden’s back or if anyone’s heard from her. I’m just going to have another word with Jeanette Jones.”
As Megan approached Jeanette’s studio, she heard the raised voices of Scumble and Oswald Rudd from the next studio. She was very tempted to stop and listen, but through Jeanette’s open door she could see her standing at an easel. The canvas on it appeared to be blank, and Jeanette was making no move to paint. Perhaps she was seething with ideas, occupied in deciding where to start, but judging by the droop of her shoulders Megan suspected she was simply staring at it, her mind as blank as the canvas.
Not wanting to startle her, Megan knocked softly.
Jeanette swung round. “Oh, it’s you. You made me jump. Is there something else?”
“Just a couple more things that have come up. Sorry to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting. I don’t seem to be able to think.”
“I’d be more surprised if you could, with all that’s been going on. This shouldn’t take a moment, but shall we sit down?”
“Yes. Yes, all right. Come through.” She shivered, and hugged herself as she entered the bedsitter. “It’s suddenly cooled off, hasn’t it? I’m chilly now.” She crossed the room to close the windows. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Megan didn’t really, but she thought tea would be good for Jeanette, who probably wouldn’t make it for herself alone, so she accepted. Jeanette switched on an electric kettle.
“Typhoo or Typhoo,” she said.
“I’ll have Typhoo, thanks.”
“Oh, and there’s some camomile Marge gave me for my nerves, home-grown, but it tastes like straw to me.”
“If you mix it with the Typhoo, you might not be able to taste it.”
“You think I need it?” Jeanette demanded.
“I think it can’t hurt. I’m no doctor, but I think you’ve been living on your nerves since Clark attacked you.”
“I haven’t been able to put it out of my mind, not even when I’m painting. Only when I’m working on the children’s books…” Abandoning the tea-making, she slumped down on the divan. “I thought it would go away now he’s dead, but if anything it’s worse.”
Megan didn’t like the sound of this. Was it time to start considering mitigating circumstances? It might turn out to be a great pity that the assault hadn’t been reported to the police at the time. Jeanette hadn’t quite confessed to stabbing Geoffrey Clark, but she seemed to be approaching that point.
It was one of those moments when Megan wondered why on earth she had chosen to be a detective. She would have preferred to turn things over to the gov’nor at this point. However, a delay, let alone Scumble’s manner, was almost certain to dry up the source. Pressing for a confession wouldn’t work. Keeping Jeanette talking was all-important.
“Darkest before the dawn, let’s hope,” she said, getting up as the kettle clicked off and going to make the tea. Her back to Jeanette, she went on, “Is there somewhere you can go to get away for a bit, after this is all over, after we’ve made an arrest?”
Too much to hope that she would admit to not expecting to be at liberty at that point.
“I suppose I could go home. To my parents, that is. They were upset when I came here to live and paint, but they didn’t cut me off without a shilling, or anything. They even buy my books for my nieces and nephews. Only, if I go home because things have gone wrong, Mum will say she knew it would end in tears, or something equally humiliating.”
Megan wasn’t sure this was the right moment for empathy. On the other hand, none other than the gov’nor had told her to employ the “sympathetic female touch,” so what had she got to lose? “I know what you mean,” she said, pouring tea into crooked mugs—the camomile was not immediately in evidence, so she skipped it. “My parents had fits when I went to London and joined the police. I was supposed to marry a lawyer or doctor or someone like that and settle down to be a housewife. I see them regularly, but now, when things get tough, I just remind myself of the flak I’d get if I resigned. Here, drink this. Where do your parents live?”
“Gerrards Cross,” said Jeanette in tones of deepest gloom, sipping the hot tea. “Dad’s a stockbroker.”
Gerrards Cross, in southern Bucks, the heart of the stockbroker belt—Megan would know where to start looking for her if she went missing. Speed might prove important should her wealthy father try to smuggle her out of the country. Megan had to recognise that Jeanette was no longer on the point of confessing to stabbing Clark, if she ever had been. So far, the sympathetic female touch had not been a wild success.
Time to get back to business. “I’m sorry to drag you back to an unpleasant subject, but after talking to Mr Lennox, I’ve come up with, as I said, a couple more questions.”
“I suppose you have to.”
“First, was it your idea or his not to report the incident to the police?”
Jeanette looked surprised. She thought for a moment, then said, “Neither of us, as a matter of fact. I don’t remember too clearly, but I’m pretty sure Stella and Marge cooked it up between them. Stella didn’t want Geoff getting into trouble, of course, and Marge was afraid it would reflect badly on the farm. The colony, whatever you want to call us. I went along with it, of course, because the last thing I wanted was for Tom to be had up for injuring Geoff. He said he didn’t care, but he agreed with Stella that Geoff had been punished enough for a drunken spree. Spree! I told you, Stella calling it that made me almost more angry than what Geoff did! And then she had the nerve to say I was blowing it up out of all proportion!”
“Not exactly the soul of tact. How did Mrs Rosevear and Miss … Stella come into the picture?”
“Oh, Tom went to fetch Marge to take care of me and Stella to take Geoff away. Which she did eventually, though Tom had to help her. He was too pissed to walk. Ugh!”
“Right, let’s move ahead to yesterday.” Megan assumed, for the moment, that both Jeanette’s and Tom’s alibis for the time of death would hold up. “Last night, Mrs Rosevear wasn’t here to cook for you. How did you find out?”
“Quentin came round to tell us all. He got to the house first. A bit early, actually. He said he was starving after a long hike. W
hen we found out she really wasn’t there, we all put our bits and pieces together and had a picnic. In here, actually.”
“Who was there?”
“Well, Quentin. Tom, Albert, Oswald, Leila. Not Doug, of course, nor Stella. She often didn’t join us, anyway, so we didn’t think anything of that.”
“Did anyone seem out of sorts? Nervous? Upset? In a state of shock?”
Jeanette frowned. “Everyone was upset to some degree, wondering where Marge was—she’s usually very reliable—and grumbling about no proper supper. Nothing more than that.”
“That’s all for now, then, thanks.”
Dissatisfied, Megan went out through the studio. Outside in the courtyard, a disgusting sight awaited her. A disgusting smell, too.
After a shocked moment, she recognised PC Lubbock, or rather, deciphered his identity from what was visible of his uniform through the muck.
“Ye gods!”
“I couldn’t help it, Sergeant, honest,” the large young man said miserably. “The inspector, he said I’d got to bring in Mr Rosevear, so I went out to the pig pens, like he said, and told him he was wanted at the house and he said he wasn’t coming till he finished the job. So I put my hand on his shoulder, like, not violent, just to show him it was serious business, and he went and knocked me down in the muck. And somehow we got into a bit of a wrestle and then he said since I was all mucky already, I might as well help with the job and it’d be done sooner and then he’d go peaceable. Which I did and he did. I couldn’t see no help for it!”
“I’b sure you did your best, Codstable.” Holding her nose, Megan tried to keep a straight face. “Where is Mr Rosevear now?”
“Taking a bath, Sergeant.”
“Well, you’d better throw yourself od Mrs Rosevear’s bercy and ask if you cad do likewise.”
“But my uniform…”
“We’ll have to see if someone will give you a polythene bag and lend you something to wear.”
By this time, Baraclough, Jeanette, and Lennox had come out. They stood at a safe distance, all grinning.
“I can let you have a bag,” said Lennox. “A bit of clay dust isn’t going to make much difference to that lot. But only Quentin’s big enough to rig you out. He should be home soon.”
“I’ll get you something,” Jeanette offered. “Quent won’t have locked up. His work dungarees, I should think. The amount of work he does, he won’t miss them for weeks. And a pair of sandals. I’ll bring them to the house.” She crossed the courtyard to Quentin’s studio.
“Let this teach you, young man,” said Baraclough, “never to tangle with a pig farmer. You won’t want to go to the front door of the house in that condition. I’ll show you round the back, if you like, and go in to warn Marge.”
“Sergeant?” Lubbock appealed.
“Aren’t you supposed to report to DI Scumble?”
“Not like this! Please, Sarge…”
“Oh, all right.” The artsy types had rallied round, the least Megan could do was follow suit. “I’ll tell him you had an altercation with a pig, and you’ll just have to hope Mr Rosevear won’t accuse you of assault and battery.”
As Megan turned towards Oswald Rudd’s studio, Baraclough and the unhappy constable headed for the house. Hearing raucous laughter, Megan looked round. They had met DC Wilkes coming away, and Wilkes was having a hearty laugh at his colleague’s expense.
“Wilkes!”
“Coming, Sarge. What happened to sonny-boy?”
“I’m sure you’ll hear the whole story sooner rather than later. What about Leila Arden?”
“She hasn’t come back and no one’s heard from her. Course, the only phone’s in the house and Mrs Rosevear was back in the garden some of the time. She said she’s prob’ly stopped in to see a friend, but I could tell she’s dead worried. You reckon the Arden woman did it and she’s scarpered, Sarge?”
“I have no idea,” Megan told him. “What I do know is that the gov’nor is not going to be happy.”
“Never is, is he?” Wilkes retorted, as she turned back to Rudd’s open door.
TWENTY-SIX
DI Scumble was anything but happy when he emerged from Oswald Rudd’s lair a couple of minutes later.
After one glance at his face, Megan said, “No luck, sir?”
“The stupid bugger!” he snarled. “Says he didn’t kill Clark but he’d like to buy a beer for whoever did, and he’s not going to answer questions without a lawyer present and he hasn’t got a lawyer and hasn’t the money to pay one.”
“We could take him in for obstruction,” Megan suggested dubiously. It was a tactic Superintendent Bentinck frowned on—though perhaps they were now under the jurisdiction of Egerton, whose views on the subject were unknown.
“I did just happen to think of that, Pencarrow.” Scumble’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I warned him, and he said if Gresham can survive a night in the cells, so can he. Snarky sod! We’ll hold that option in reserve. Waste of time right now.”
“You don’t think he did it, then.”
“Who knows? He was in Padstow all day. He had the opportunity and the victim provided the means, but unless you’ve dug up a respectable motive…?”
“Only that Clark told Rudd his paintings were third rate. Given the artistic temperament—”
“Don’t give me the artistic temperament! I’ve had it up to here with the artistic temperament.”
“Right, sir. What about Baraclough?”
“No arty nonsense about him,” Scumble said with something approaching enthusiasm. “He’s a businessman. Calls himself a designer. I might,” he added casually, “take the wife to their shop in Padstow to pick out one of his cardies for her birthday. Just the sort of thing she likes.”
Flabbergasted by this sign of humanity, Megan merely murmured, “Yes, sir.”
He reverted quickly to normal. “I know what you’re thinking, Pencarrow. No, he did not offer me a discount!”
The gov’nor might be a pain in the arse, but he was an honest pain in the arse, Megan knew. “No, sir,” she murmured, and added, “Lennox said he has a thick skin.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Just that Clark had insulted Baraclough as he insulted everyone, apparently, but it rolled off Baraclough’s back. Or so I imagine. I didn’t pursue the matter.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because there were more useful lines to follow, sir. In my opinion.”
“All right, tell me about it, but make it quick. That oaf Lubbock must have brought Rosevear in by now.”
Megan told him about Lubbock’s misadventures. A snicker behind her added to the difficulty of keeping a straight face, as well as informing her that Wilkes had joined them at some point, presumably after the business about Mrs Scumble’s cardigan, or the gov’nor would never have mentioned it.
Scumble glared at Wilkes. “Well?”
Wilkes hastened to report on his interview with Quentin Durward, skipping the fancy language and not adding significantly to what he’d told Megan. Leila Arden still hadn’t come home or phoned.
“We’ll give her a bit longer. Pencarrow?”
She gave a recap of her interview with Lennox.
The response was a grunt. “Let’s go see Rosevear.”
“You want me along, sir?” Wilkes asked.
“The more the merrier,” Scumble said sourly. “Yes, you’d better come, in case he has to be hauled out of his bath. There’s still an occasional job a woman officer’s no use for.” He swung round and headed for the farmhouse.
As they followed, Wilkes raised enquiring eyebrows at Megan. She shrugged. It was awfully hard to tell the difference between the gov’nor’s everyday manner and his bad moods. If he was suffering the latter, once again she fervently hoped it was not because his plan to show up DI Pearce was unravelling.
A man who was obviously Douglas Rosevear was seated at the kitchen table putting away a hunk of brown bread and yellow cheese and a mug of
beer. He looked spotless, in a check shirt and jeans, the fringe of greying hair round his sun-freckled pate still damp from the bath. Nevertheless, a porcine odour hung in the air.
He glanced up when Scumble knocked on the open door. Gesturing to come in, he went on chewing.
Scumble introduced himself and Megan.
Rosevear nodded, swallowed, and said with a straight face and a slight Cornish accent, “Not a bad worker, your lad, once he got into it.”
“Glad to hear he’s good for something.” Refusing the bait, Scumble sat down uninvited at the table. Megan followed his example, taking out her notebook, while Wilkes discreetly disappeared before some other task could be assigned to him. “Have any help haying yesterday?”
“Naw. The machine does it all.”
“Did you speak to anyone? See anyone?”
“I saw Durward, heading off to the southeast. Hiking to the Nine Maidens, likely. He goes up there a lot. Got nothing better to do than look at a row of stone pillars.”
“Did he see you?”
“Couldn’t hardly have helped it, could he. Hearing the tractor, leastways. No matter, he waved.”
Quentin Durward had told Wilkes he saw no one on his hike. No, Megan recalled, he’d said he didn’t speak to anyone—and at the time he’d been teasing the detective constable with his choice of words. Wilkes had reported to Megan pretty much verbatim, she was fairly sure, whereas he greatly abbreviated what he told Scumble. Hadn’t he said Durward didn’t meet anyone?
Scumble would not have forgotten, but he rolled on without a blink. “Can you put a time to it, Mr Rosevear?”
“Well, now, let’s see. Clock-time, naw. Panch-time, it’d be maybe an hour and some after dinner.” Was he being deliberately difficult with his use of the dialect word for stomach, or was it just the word he usually employed? If he was trying to irritate the inspector, he failed to evoke any visible reaction. “Sun-time,” he went on, “half twelve or thereabouts. Mebbe quarter to one. That’s sun-time, mind, not government time.”
Not summer-time, still much resented by farmers because their animals, particularly cows waiting to be milked, refused to conform to the government’s edict. Megan tried to work it out and got confused, as always, but if it was after his dinner it must be quarter to two, not quarter to twelve.
