A Colourful Death_A Cornish Mystery

by Carola Dunn

  “You appreciate loyalty,” said the nurse with considerable bitterness, “when you don’t get it where you ought to be able to rely on it. I’m sorry, I oughtn’t to unload my troubles on you. I hope you won’t tell Stella I told you—you know what. It’s very kind of you to visit Mrs Batchelor and I know it cheers her up no end. Do come again. Good-bye.”

  She marched off towards the rear of the house.

  Thus dismissed, Eleanor and Jocelyn went out to the car. There was no sign of Nick.

  “Bother him,” said Jocelyn. “It’s been quite three quarters of an hour.”

  “Let’s go and look round the corner of the house to see if he’s in sight.”

  They walked over to the southeast corner, which had the advantage of being out of sight of the guests’ lounge. Nick was just starting up the slope from the river. He saw them and waved. Teazle gave a little yelp of recognition and dashed to meet him, short legs covering the distance at an amazing speed.

  “Hmph,” Jocelyn snorted. “He’s in no hurry! He’ll be another five minutes. You can’t believe anything anyone says these days. By the way, didn’t Mrs Redditch tell us before that her husband was a colonial governor?”

  Eleanor smiled. “Yes, I wondered whether you’d remember. She’s a romancer. I expect he was something very ordinary and dull like a schoolmaster. She’s obviously ‘gently bred,’ as we used to say, and I dare say she lives in Truro—”

  “She certainly knows a lot about the cathedral clergy!”

  “—But we’d better not take anything she’s told us too seriously.”

  “Miss Jamieson confirmed Stella’s engagement to the doctor. So that’s why she’s moving away, as she told Nicholas. I wonder why she didn’t tell him about the marriage.”

  “Oh Joce, I’m sure she wants to keep her past and present as separate as possible. You can’t blame her, if half what we’ve heard about her is true.”

  “I would hope she’d have confessed to the doctor when he asked her to marry him!”

  “Well … perhaps. It would still be most uncomfortable to keep up an acquaintance with people who knew her before she reformed.”

  “What makes you think she’s reformed?”

  “At her age, surely she’s ready to settle down,” Eleanor said charitably. “She’s leaving her job. I expect she wants children. That’s something you can’t put off indefinitely.” She sighed. She and Peter had been too busy, and frequently in such inhospitable places, that they had never seriously considered starting a family until it was too late.

  “The question is, should we tell the police?”

  “Tell the police what?” Nick’s long legs had brought him up faster than Jocelyn had reckoned. “I’ve discovered a very pretty spot to do some painting. What have you discovered that the police ought or ought not to be told?”

  Eleanor and Jocelyn exchanged a glance.

  Jocelyn started walking towards the car. “Sorry, Nicholas. We were told partly as a rumour and partly in confidence.”

  Eleanor wasn’t sure she would have been so scrupulous had Jocelyn not been there to keep her on the straight and narrow. They had not, after all, actually promised Miss Jamieson not to tell, but she supposed silence signified consent. Jocelyn apparently didn’t extend this protection to the extent of keeping the information from the police.

  Did Eleanor’s silence now lend her consent to not telling Nick? She knew him much better than Jocelyn did and trusted him absolutely not to pass it on. She decided that if they told the police, she would tell Nick, too.

  She did understand Jocelyn’s point: Once you started choosing whom it was safe to tell, you started on a slippery slope.

  Nick opened the back door of the car for Teazle and the passenger door for Eleanor. As he got into the back with the dog, he said in a somewhat piqued voice, “Then I hope you don’t expect to hear from me what I’ve remembered.”

  “What, Nick?”

  “Oh, just a question I wanted to ask Scumble. A point that’s been nagging at me in a vague sort of way, but I’ve been too busy with Hope and Glory to track it down.”

  Ignoring this, Jocelyn drove round the rose-bed and up the drive, and turned onto the Wadebridge road before she said, “Eleanor, I think you’d better tell Megan. She’s the best person to decide whether That Man needs to know. I can’t see that it has anything to do with the murder, though. Geoffrey Clark seems to have let Stella … um … disport herself with other men. He wasn’t the jealous sort, and, of course, they were not husband and wife.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’d much rather talk to Megan.” She would wait to call her when she got home from work, to avoid the risk of finding Mr Scumble on the other end of the line.

  And she could invite Nick to ask his question on her phone at the same time. Thus each would hear the other’s story. An admirable—though admittedly sneaky—solution, in Eleanor’s view. If Jocelyn asked whether she had told Nick about Stella’s marriage, she could honestly deny it. Well, fairly honestly.

  Wilkes drove Megan and DI Scumble back to the Bodmin nick after the inquest. In the back seat of the 1100, Scumble said, “That went nicely. Some coroners are too thick-headed or bloody-minded to accept any suggestions. I’ve got to report to the Super when we get back, so you needn’t drive too fast, Wilkes.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Pencarrow, I want you to give me a summary of where we’ve got to. You never know, it’s just barely conceivable that you may have picked up something I didn’t. Wilkes, are you listening?”

  “I … uh…” He obviously wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be listening or not. “I’m concentrating on the driving, sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But if you can spare us a modicum of your attention, and use whatever brains you happen to have concealed about you, if any, you can put your oar in if you think the sergeant has missed something important. Or if there’s any details you haven’t got round yet to reporting properly. I don’t want constant interruptions, mind you. And keep concentrating on the driving.”

  “Uh … yes, sir.”

  Scumble rolled his eyes. “Go ahead, Pencarrow.”

  Megan was also uncertain of exactly what he wanted. She plunged in.

  “For a start, sir, we’ve shortened the period when Clark could have died from the doctor’s three hours. He left Port Mabyn after noon so couldn’t have been killed in Padstow before half past at the earliest. We’ve also narrowed the list of suspects a lot. Tom Lennox and Jeanette Jones’s alibis are solid. Douglas Rosevear and Quentin Durward give each other an alibi smack-bang in the middle. Either could conceivably have made it down to Padstow before three, but neither had any reason to suppose that Clark would be alone in his studio. Durward has no apparent motive. I’d knock him out, and I’d say Rosevear is pretty unlikely though his motive is strong.”

  She paused. Scumble grunted.

  “Of the others at the colony, Leila Arden is still a possibility. She hated Clark, though we still don’t know why.”

  “There she is, stuck in the middle of nowhere, unable to walk, and we come along and rescue her, but will she tell you? That’s gratitude for you. I wonder if Gresham knows. He might give us a hint.”

  “I doubt it, sir, but you could try him.”

  “I’ll leave that to you, Pencarrow. Not that we absolutely have to know. Go on.”

  “Oswald Rudd: He has no proof he stayed in the co-op shop during the lunch hour. On the other hand, there’s no rear access, so he’d have had to come out through the shop door at the front, and he’s quite noticeable with that red beard. The risk of someone having spotted him out and about would be pretty high. Motive not strong, unless you put it down to the artistic—”

  “Temperament!” snarled Scumble. “Didn’t I say I didn’t want to hear those words again?”

  “Sorry, sir. Albert Baraclough,” she went on quickly.

  “No artistic temperament there!”

  “No, sir. No alibi, either. The
re could be some motive we don’t know about.”

  “What, Clark seduced his daughter and abandoned her pregnant? Ran over his grandchild while driving drunk? You’re romancing.”

  Megan thought it wisest not to point out that the gov’nor was the one doing the romancing. Still, he was the one who had talked to Baraclough, and if he considered him an unlikely murderer, she was willing to accept his judgement. For the present.

  “Yes, sir. That leaves the two women, Weller and Mrs Rosevear. Weller had all the opportunity in the world, but I can’t see that she had much of a motive. It would have been embarrassing having everyone know her boyfriend destroyed Nick Gresham’s pictures, but hardly a motive for murder. She’d already shrugged off the far worse embarrassment of his attack on Jeanette Jones. I suppose they could have argued about it and she picked up the dagger in a fit of rage.” Megan frowned. “I can’t see it somehow.”

  “Not in character?”

  “Exactly, sir. If she gave him a dressing-down, I think he’d have stood there like a whipped dog. Lennox seems to think she definitely held the whip hand. If she was tired of him, all she had to do was tell him to shove off. She had no visible financial motive. They weren’t married and we haven’t been able to trace a will. In any case, though his income was adequate, he didn’t put anything aside and his belongings aren’t worth offering to the LonStar shop, apart from the dagger and the sword and, I suppose, the paintings. Mrs Stearns would turn most of the stuff down flat.”

  “Any relatives?” Wilkes enquired from behind the wheel.

  “None in his life. Mrs Rosevear says he told her they belonged to some peculiar sect. They cast him off when he started to take an interest in the arts, and he was happy to be cast. We haven’t had time to run a thorough trace. Clark’s not exactly an uncommon surname. It could even be as phony as Monmouth. There’s nothing for relatives to covet, in any case.”

  “And Mrs Rosevear?” Scumble said. “What d’you make of her?”

  “She could have done it. She had a strong motive. She was in Padstow and we can’t account for all her time.”

  “Seems to me,” said Wilkes, growing bolder since his first attempt had not been derided, “what we need is to narrow down the time a bit more. Most of ’em’s got alibis for part of the time.”

  “A good point,” Scumble agreed. Wilkes’s ears and the back of his neck turned red. “I’ve got a notion something in the gallery could help, but I can’t say what. We’ll have to go back there tomorrow, Pencarrow. Go on.”

  Megan was annoyed. He hadn’t mentioned his notion to her. Suddenly, instead of fearing he was out of his depth, she was sure he had a theory, and he bloody well ought to share it with her, however nebulous it was.

  She tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Then there are all the people he came into contact with regularly, other than those at the farm. All we’ve been told about, at least. The only one who liked him is the Tintagel blacksmith. They have a common interest in ancient weapons. The brewery people appreciate his work but refused to commit themselves to any comment on his character. The rest, local tradesmen and frequenters of the Bezant Inn bar for the most part, mostly admitted to disliking him, but there was no hint of any more … specific ill-feeling.”

  “According to the uniformed blokes who did house-to-house.”

  “Well, yes, sir. But anyone they had the slightest doubt about, DC Polmenna had a go at them.”

  “You may yet have to talk to those, Pencarrow. We’ll have to see how it goes.” He brooded in silence till the car stopped behind the police station building.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Jocelyn dropped Eleanor, Teazle, and Nick outside the LonStar shop and drove off up the hill towards the vicarage.

  “Are you going to ring Megan right away?” Nick asked.

  “No, I thought I’d wait till later, till she gets home, to avoid the risk of getting Scumble by accident. They may be working late, so I was going to try at eight o’clock.”

  He grinned. “Great minds think alike.”

  “Why don’t you come round and talk to her at the same time. That way, she won’t have to keep answering the phone.”

  “You’re a wily woman, Eleanor Trewynn! I’ll be there. Now I’m going to put those finishing touches to Hope and Glory. My kind patroness said she’d drop in sometime this week to see how it’s going. She should be pleased to find it done. See you later.”

  Eleanor went up to her flat for the cup of tea that hadn’t materialised at Riverview. Then, feeling herself and Teazle very much in need of exercise, she walked up the path behind the shops and out onto the cliffs. The sky was now blue and quite a few walkers were taking advantage of the sunshine and the glorious view from the heights of the ruffled sea crashing on the rocks below. However, only a few dedicated hikers ventured more than a mile or so from the village. Soon Eleanor found a spot sufficiently isolated to practise Aikido without attracting too much attention.

  She had visited her sensei in London for a lesson just a couple of weeks ago. Breathing deeply, she emptied her mind of all but his advice on her weaknesses. The rest of the world vanished from her consciousness and slowly she began to bend and stretch, warming up. Swifter and swifter she moved, whirling, carving space with sweeping gestures.

  If hikers stopped to stare at the small woman with snow-white curls spinning like a dervish, patiently watched by a small, snow-white dog, they forbore to intrude. Eleanor completed her practice in peace and went home, much refreshed.

  Nick appeared promptly at eight, just as Eleanor finished washing up. She made each of them a cup of coffee—she’d never progressed beyond Nescaff, so it was quick and easy. They sat down and she dialled Megan’s number.

  “Megan? It’s Aunt Nell, dear. There’s something I ought to tell you. Are you on your own?”

  “Yes.” The single syllable sounded tired. “I just got home. What is it, Aunt Nell? Something to do with the case?”

  “Yes, dear. Perhaps I should ring back when you’ve had something to eat.”

  “That’s all right, I had a sandwich at the canteen. It was pretty grim, but filling. Tell me.”

  “After the inquest,” Eleanor said tentatively, glad she didn’t have to confess to Scumble—at least, not yet—“Jocelyn and I went to visit old Mrs Batchelor at the Riverview Convalescent Home.”

  “Where Stella works? Oh, Aunt Nell, that was not a good idea.”

  “She’s a parishioner. One of the vicar’s flock.”

  “I dare say, but all the same … What did you find out?”

  “Well, you may know already. Or it may not be of interest, but we decided we ought to tell you.” She started to report what Mrs Batchelor and Mrs Redditch had told them.

  “Hold on a mo, let me get my notebook.”

  Eleanor covered the mouthpiece with her hand, gave Nick a thumbs up, and whispered, “She wants to write it down.”

  Looking rather stunned, he exclaimed, “I should think so! Eleanor, is this true?”

  “Of course it is, Nick, or I wouldn’t be telling the police. To be accurate, it’s truly what we were told, though of course—” She held up her hand.

  “The maid’s name is Mabel?”

  “No, dear, not Mabel, Maybelle, with a y, two ll s and an e, I believe. West Indian. A nice girl, if rather given to gossiping, but the police can’t possibly object to that.”

  “So it’s just gossip,” Megan said gloomily.

  “What I’ve told you so far, but from the horse’s mouth. No, strictly speaking I suppose it’s at second hand.”

  “But it’s just gossip.”

  “Just wait, dear. We heard the same story and more from the day nurse in charge, and she got it directly from Stella.” Eleanor relayed Miss Jamieson’s story. “That’s everything, I think.”

  “Do you know which hotel she’s gone to?”

  “No, Miss Jamieson just said ‘super de luxe.’ There can’t be many super de luxe hotels in Plymouth, surely.”
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  “We’ll find her. Thanks, Aunt Nell.”

  “But now I’ve told you, I can’t see that it helps. It would make more sense if Geoffrey had killed Stella, like Othello. Only the other way round, sort of, because Othello was married to Desdemona and Geoff and Stella weren’t. Only he doesn’t seem to have been jealous of her … um … escapades. Everyone said he accepted that she insisted on her freedom.”

  “Let us worry about that. Thanks for passing on the information. Good night and sweet—”

  “Don’t hang up, Megan. Nick wants a word with you.”

  “Nick’s there? What does he want?

  “To ask you a question.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know, dear.” But she was dying to find out. “Here he is. Night-night.”

  Eleanor handed over the receiver and sipped her cooling coffee while listening to Nick’s end of the conversation.

  “Good evening, Sergeant … Because this is an official call. Is your pencil at the ready, well-sharpened … I dare say. Here we go, then. For all I know, you may already know the answer and have factored it in, but the question’s been nagging at me when I haven’t been otherwise occupied … All right, keep your hair on! Geoff was standing in front of his easel when he was so rudely interrupted. What I’ve been wondering is, had he started painting? If so, how far had he got? We know he’d just acquired a prop … Property. Stage-talk, but we use it, too. The dagger. He was eager to try his hand at painting it and he was an impatient sort of fella. I can’t imagine him hanging about, not starting in on it as soon as he got to the studio … Yes, exactly … I agree, it’s the sort of thing the SOC boys wouldn’t pay much attention to, so I hope they still … Good. Will you let me know? … Silly of me, of course he won’t. But you will tell him right away? … Good girl, you’re a pleasure to work with … All right, all right, I beg your pardon, we are not working together and I won’t call you a good girl! Good night, Miss Pencarrow.” He dropped the receiver on the cradle. “Whew!”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t deliberately provoke her, Nick.”