A Colourful Death_A Cornish Mystery

by Carola Dunn

  “Oh dear, I won’t have to give evidence, will I?”

  “I very much doubt it, unless we’ve arrested someone by then.”

  “Not Nick!”

  “Not Nick what?”

  “You’re not going to arrest him?”

  “No. Actually that’s the other thing I was ringing him for. Mr Alarian’s given us a statement that clears Nick completely. The inspector can’t think of any way he could have been in Albemarle Street at eleven and King Arthur’s Gallery by three.”

  “Thank heaven! I’ll tell him. And I’ll get him there on Monday even if he hasn’t finished his blasted Land of Hope and Glory.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Nell. I’ll see you then. ’Bye.”

  “Good-bye, dear.”

  Eleanor replaced the receiver in a thoughtful mood. She had forgotten about the inevitable coroner’s inquest. She and Nick had to attend. Who else? Certainly Marge and Doug Rosevear and Stella. Could she use the occasion to reconcile Nick and Stella? It was a pity to break up a useful working relationship—she wasn’t sure it could be called friendship—over a misunderstanding. Not to mention the added advantage that restoring amity would give Nick someone other than Eleanor herself to mind the shop should he receive any more urgent commissions.

  Suppose she phoned the Riverview Home and offered to pick Stella up on the way to the inquest in Padstow. The worst that could happen would be that she’d say no. Eleanor would have to be honest and tell her Nick would be a fellow-passenger. She must warn Nick, too. You couldn’t expect cooperation if you sprang unpleasant surprises on people.

  Besides, Nick would smell a rat as soon as she told him they were driving by way of Wadebridge instead of parking in Rock and taking the ferry across the Camel.

  No harm in trying, she decided. She picked up the pasty bag and was turning to go through to the studio when the phone rang again.

  “Eleanor?”

  “Yes. How on earth did you know I was here, Joce?”

  “Megan just told me. She rang to invite me to the inquest. She said you’ll be going.”

  “I don’t think it’s an invitation, more of a … a summons. Like when you break the speed limit.”

  “I do not break the speed limit,” Jocelyn said severely.

  “Well, nor do I. The Incorruptible’s practically incapable of it, like the vicar’s putt-putt. Those motor scooters don’t go over thirty, do they?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m quite sure Timothy never breaks the speed limit. Knowingly.” The vicar was the vaguest of men, as his wife admitted only to very close friends. “What has this to do with anything?”

  “I think that’s what they call it, a summons. I suppose it’s a kind of legal invitation but you’re not allowed to send your regrets.”

  “Megan said it’s most unlikely I’d be called to give evidence, but I suppose we’ll have to go. Nicholas, too, she said. We might as well all drive together.”

  For a moment, Eleanor was afraid she’d have to abandon her plan for rapprochement. But Jocelyn should understand. Christianity was supposed to be about forgiveness, after all, though Eleanor had met a few Christians who were among the most unforgiving people she knew.

  She explained her hopes of bringing Nick and Stella back together.

  “That hussy? Do you think it’s wise? She’s so very volatile. Eleanor, you’re still investigating her, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean!” Eleanor was indignant, but a brief survey of her motives revealed to her that she was indeed still curious about what made Stella tick.

  “We’ll take my car, of course,” Jocelyn said decisively. “You’ll sit beside me, so they’ll have to share the back seat. That’s if they’re both willing. We can drop in to call on Mrs Batchelor on the way back.”

  “I don’t know if Nick will agree to that part. Entertaining elderly ladies—”

  “Why not? He entertains you frequently.”

  “Jocelyn, that’s thoroughly disingenuous! Still, I can but put it to him.”

  “Come to supper tonight and tell me all about it. Timothy will be worrying over his sermon and won’t disturb us.”

  Eleanor accepted as gracefully as possible under the circumstances. Not that she minded singing for her supper. At least the problem of what to have was solved, and Jocelyn was an excellent cook.

  She took Nick his pasty and, as he wolfed it down, sitting on a stool and staring at his picture, she laid her proposal before him.

  “What’s that? Meet Stella? If you and Mrs Stearns think it’s a good idea, it’s all right with me.” He tossed a last morsel to the dog and reached for his paintbrush.

  Hoping the paint Teazle ingested with the scrap of pastry wouldn’t poison her, Eleanor finished her pasty at a more leisurely pace. Assuming Nick didn’t expect her to reopen the shop for the afternoon—he was too absorbed to notice her departure—she then went home via the back doors, so that Teazle could have a run in the bushes.

  She wondered whether to ask for Miss Weller or Miss Maris. Weller, she decided. Even in these enlightened—enlightened? Well, interesting—times, Star of the Sea didn’t seem an appropriate name for a nurse.

  She guessed right. Miss Weller was called to the phone. To Eleanor’s considerable surprise, she accepted the offer of a lift to the inquest. Still more surprising, she said, rather grudgingly, “I suppose I owe Nick an apology. The police say he didn’t kill Geoff. I honestly thought I saw…”

  “The eyes play tricks when one’s in a state of shock. Or is it the brain?”

  “What does it matter! I’ve got to go, I’m working. What time will you pick me up on Monday?”

  Eleanor hadn’t settled a time with Jocelyn, but she could always telephone if Joce disagreed. “Half past one should be time enough,” she said.

  “Okay. I’ll be ready. Oh, thanks.” The click of her receiver followed.

  Eleanor hung up.

  “No good-bye,” she reported to Jocelyn later. “And the thanks were very much an afterthought.”

  Jocelyn pursed her lips. “Modern manners. Or rather, lack thereof. You say Nicholas wasn’t really listening when you asked him? I’m still not at all convinced it’s a good idea to reintroduce her into his life.”

  “It’s too late now. Even if she hadn’t said ‘thank you’ at all, I could hardly withdraw the offer. And she does realise she ought to apologise.”

  “She’s up to something,” Jocelyn said darkly, “you mark my words.”

  Monday started wet and windy, with squalls blowing in off the sea.

  “Perfect weather,” Eleanor said to Nick as they stood with Teazle, sheltering in the doorway of his shop, waiting for Jocelyn to pick them up.

  “What! It’s foul.”

  “Exactly. Beastly for catching buses. Stella should be extremely grateful for a lift.”

  Nick laughed. He was in a cheerful mood, his painting finished but for a few final touches. “On the other hand, we wouldn’t want to cross the estuary in an open boat in this weather, so we’d probably go round by Wadebridge anyway, so we’re not going out of our way, so she has less to be grateful for!”

  The first thing Jocelyn said when they scurried across the street and jumped into her car was, “You know what this dreadful weather means, don’t you? Every holiday-maker in Padstow is going to be looking for somewhere to get out of it, and the most interesting prospect will be the inquest. We’ll never manage to get seats.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’ll save us seats, Mrs Stearns. The police, or the coroner’s officers, or whoever’s in charge. We’re not the general public, we’re witnesses.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then. But I sincerely hope I shan’t be called to give evidence.”

  Eleanor suspected Jocelyn was regretting having agreed to aid the reconciliation. Luckily the cheerful whistle—something other than “Hope and Glory” at long last—emanating from the back seat suggested Nick was not subject to last-minute qualms.

  They reached
the convalescent home a little early. There was no sign of Stella. Nick hopped out and dashed through the rain to ring the door-bell. After a short wait, the door opened. He went in and several minutes passed before he emerged with Stella. She was a striking figure even dressed for the weather in sombre hues suitable for the inquest, a navy-blue mac over a trouser suit patterned in dark blues and greys. Eleanor wondered if Nick had been making up with her inside or just waited for her and then brought her straight out.

  The latter, she hoped. She wanted to hear what was said, to judge for herself how sincere Stella managed to be in person.

  Nick opened the back doorfor Stella, stood dripping while she got in, and closed it again before circling the car to get in himself, with Teazle sandwiched between them. As Jocelyn started the car, he introduced Stella to her, by her artistic pseudonym.

  “How do you do, Miss Maris,” Jocelyn said stiffly.

  Stella thanked her for the lift. She was very subdued. Eleanor felt sorry for her. However little commitment she had felt towards her lover during his life, having to attend an inquest on his murder must be a nightmare.

  “You’ve met Mrs Trewynn, of course,” Nick went on. “We’ve sorted it out, Eleanor. I’m hoping Stella will bring her sculptures back to the shop.”

  “I can’t do that, Nick. I’m going to be moving away.”

  “You are? Where to?”

  “Not far enough. Everywhere reminds me of Geoff.” She started quietly sniffling.

  Eleanor glanced back and surprised a look of cynicism on Nick’s face. Facing forward again, she wondered what had prompted it. For some reason it brought to mind something that had happened in King Arthur’s Gallery, but she couldn’t recall quite what.

  No one spoke as they drove on to Padstow.

  In the two-room school, the juniors’ classroom had been appropriated for the inquest. It was crammed with press and public, but as Nick had prophesied, chairs at the front were reserved for prospective witnesses. The Rosevears were already there.

  Anyone expecting to learn how the police investigation was progressing was doomed to disappointment. First, Douglas Rosevear identified the deceased as Geoffrey Clark, known also, for artistic purposes, as Geoffroie Monmouth. Dr Prthnavi’s evidence, first in incomprehensible medical terminology and then briefly in layman’s terms, produced nothing new: The victim had died of a stab in the back by a sharp instrument consistent with a weapon now in the possession of the police; in his view, the wound could not have been inflicted by the victim himself, nor could he conceive of any possible accident that would produce such a result.

  He was the only witness called. The coroner asked the jury whether they wanted to retire to consider the verdict. After a brief consultation, the foreman announced that they were already agreed on “murder by person or persons unknown.”

  Detective Inspector Scumble requested an adjournment to allow the police to proceed with their enquiries. The cooperative coroner granted a week and, on the advice of the police, signed a burial order. The proceedings closed.

  “Well, that was a waste of time!” said Jocelyn.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Stella was obviously dismayed when Jocelyn announced, on arrival back at the Riverview Home, that she intended to call on her husband’s parishioner.

  “Have you any objection?” Jocelyn’s voice was chilly.

  “No, of course not. I’m not even on duty. It’s just—I don’t use the name Maris here. Miss Weller, if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly.” Jocelyn could be gracious, too. “If I should have reason to refer to you.”

  The weather had ameliorated by that time. Gusts of wind still made the new-leaved trees sway, and an occasional spatter of raindrops had flung itself at the rear window of the car as they drove eastward. But there was enough blue sky in the west to make several sailors a pair of trousers each, and Nick said firmly, “I think I’ll go for a walk. How long, Mrs Stearns?”

  “Half an hour? Forty minutes? We shan’t leave without you.”

  “If you go down through the garden,” said Stella, “there’s a footpath along the river bank.”

  “Thanks.” Nick went off around the side of the house.

  The others went in. Stella actually said good-bye and repeated her thanks before disappearing up the stairs. Miss Jamieson popped out of her office.

  “To see Mrs Batchelor?” she enquired brightly. “She may be in her room, but I expect she’s in the lounge. One of our most sociable guests, I’m happy to say.”

  She showed them to a large room with windows facing south, to the drive and the circular bed of roses, and west over a long bed of bearded irises, somewhat bedraggled alter the heavy rains, and a wooded hillside. Mrs Batchelor was again sitting with Mrs Redditch. They were both delighted to see Jocelyn and Eleanor.

  “Ever so kind!” Mrs Batchelor beamed.

  “I shall mention it to the bishop,” said Mrs Redditch regally.

  “Please don’t.” Jocelyn looked thoroughly disconcerted, as well she might, Eleanor thought, considering her mixed motives for the visit. “We just happened to be passing. I didn’t know you were acquainted with the bishop, Mrs Redditch.”

  “I live in Truro, and my late husband was the Dean of the Chapter. I must say life in the cathedral close is much less interesting than here.”

  “Such goings-on,” put in Mrs Batchelor. “Ought to know better at his age, he did.”

  “Who is that?” Eleanor asked hopefully.

  “The doctor, Mrs Trewynn. Dr Fenwick.”

  “What Maybelle tellt us is, he’s to wed Miss Weller. Well! Nurse or no, she’s a giglet if ever I saw un. A flighty piece,” she translated.

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Jocelyn. “How would Maybelle know such a thing?”

  “She tidies up Dr Fenwick’s flat and Miss Weller’s room. She doesn’t do the heavy cleaning—charwomen come in from Wadebridge for that, early in the mornings.”

  “Clains the dispensary, she does.” Mrs Batchelor pronounced the difficult word with care and some pride. “That’s where they keep everybody’s pills and tonics and such. It has to be done over special. Disinfected, like, with Dettol.”

  “Maybelle’s more of a parlourmaid than a housemaid. She hears things.”

  The two old ladies nodded at each other, in perfect agreement though one might conceivably have been a parlourmaid in her heyday and the other had certainly employed one or more.

  “And I don’t mean spirits,” Mrs Redditch added. “In my young day we all went in for a bit of table-turning and ouija boards. Before I married the Dean, of course. Though he was only a canon then.”

  “Like my Joe started a deck hand and ended up master of his own boat.”

  Reminiscences of deceased husbands, now sainted whatever their flaws in life, are hard to stop. Eleanor and Jocelyn heard no more about Stella and the doctor.

  As they left half an hour later, Jocelyn whispered crossly to Eleanor, “Tittle-tattle about the clergy and Port Mabyn, where I’ve spent half my life! I wish you’d told some stories of your husband’s adventures, and yours.”

  “They wanted to talk, not to listen. If I reach my eighties, you shall hear everything, over and over, until you’re heartily sick of it.”

  “You should write a book.” They stepped into the hall, Teazle pattering close at their heels. “Ah, Miss Jamieson, we’re just leaving.”

  “Already?” said the nurse in a perfunctory tone. She looked upset. “I was just going to invite you to stay for tea. I’m sorry, I should have sent Maybelle sooner, but I have a good deal on my mind.”

  “Is something wrong?” Eleanor asked.

  “Yes, there is!” At this small sign of sympathy, grievance and worry burst forth. “Stella—Miss Weller—has just informed me that neither she nor Dr Fenwick will be here for the next two weekends! She asked if I would come and stay here for the whole time. I can have her room, if you please, because she’s never coming back! And it’s true I could do with
the extra money—who couldn’t?—but I have other obligations, and so I told her.”

  “It’s a lot to ask,” Eleanor agreed warmly.

  “She said both the others—we do eight-hour shifts during the week, so as to always have an RN on the premises—both Gloria and Mrs Hendred refused, too, so the doctor will have to get someone from an agency. Which is all very well, but some of our older guests get very anxious when there’s any change in our routine. A new nurse in sole charge is going to set them all in a flutter. They all have their little ways, you know, their preferences, and she won’t have time to get to know them all. She won’t understand about calling them guests instead of patients. The whole atmosphere we’ve worked so hard for will be ruined! It makes me feel terribly guilty, but I simply can’t!”

  “My dear Miss Jamieson,” said Jocelyn, “your concern for your patients—guests—is admirable. You have no cause for guilt. I’m sure Dr Fenwick will make adequate arrangements for his absence and your guests will survive the experience. It seems very short notice, however. I’d have expected the doctor to plan for his absence well in advance.”

  “They’re getting married! Can you believe it? I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but I didn’t promise, and you’re a vicar’s wife, after all. They’ve been planning it for some time, apparently! No one knew a thing! Then Stella suddenly had to leave the place she was living. A row with her landlady, she said. So they’re getting married at the Plymouth registry office on Saturday and going off to Greece for their honeymoon. Talk about luck! She is very pretty, of course. Still … She’s going to stay at a hotel in Plymouth till Saturday, then move into his flat when they come back. All super de luxe, of course. She’s gone up to finish her packing now.”

  Maybelle came into the hall with her tea-trolley. “You was busy, Miss Jamieson, and it’s getting late, so I thought I’d better go ahead with tea.”

  “Yes, yes,” Miss Jamieson said distractedly. “You’re a dear good girl, Maybelle.”

  Maybelle looked astonished, then grinned and said, “I does my best, Miss Jamieson.” She trundled onwards.