A Colourful Death_A Cornish Mystery

by Carola Dunn

  “It’s all right, Miss Jamieson. The inspector just wants to ask you a few questions.”

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “Yes you do, dear. You’re a Registered Nurse, which means you have specialised knowledge that the rest of us lack, and you’re also trained to be observant.”

  “Oh, well, if that’s all…” She stood in front of the desk with her hands folded in front of her, as apprehensive as if she faced an unpredictable consultant doing his hospital rounds.

  “Do sit down, Miss Jamieson.”

  “I’d rather stand, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  Scumble rolled his eyes. Megan would undoubtedly be better at handling her, Eleanor thought. It was a pity she wasn’t here—but she’d be better at handling Stella, too. “No hurry,” Scumble had told her, so she was probably keeping Stella out of the way till summoned. Eleanor hoped she wasn’t having too difficult a time of it. Or perhaps she was deliberately encouraging hysteria, real or not, both to delay their return to the office and in hope of an inadvertent admission.

  “Polmenna, take notes. Miss Jamieson, tell me about this emergency you had last night.”

  “I wasn’t here, sir. I have the nine-to-five shift.”

  “But you know about it.”

  “Well, then, I do. Mrs Hendred, that’s on one to nine in the morning, told me what Gloria—Miss Flitch—who works five till one told her. I did notice Colonel Nesbit didn’t have much appetite for his lunch and he drank several cups of tea at tea-time. I mentioned it to Gloria—and she said she’d keep an eye on him.”

  “What do these symptoms signify?”

  “He’s diabetic, you see. It could be just a temporary quirk but both together could mean his insulin dose needed upping. By dinner-time he had other symptoms that made it obvious he was suffering from hyperglycemia—that’s high blood sugar. Gloria did a test but she didn’t like to give him more insulin on her own initiative, because he was already on a very high dose, so she rang Dr Fenwick. He came at once. He was a very good doctor. I can’t believe he’s dead.” Her already reddened eyes filled with tears.

  “That’s enough for now,” Scumble said hurriedly. “We’ll have to talk to you again later, and to Miss Flitch, of course. Thank you.”

  Nick was obviously dying to speak, like a schoolboy waving his hand for his teacher’s attention. He restrained himself until the nurse was well out of the room, then said, “One is sickened by too little insulin, the other dies of too much. As you said, Inspector, she just didn’t think it through. You really ought to talk to Maybelle now.”

  “Go see if you can persuade her I don’t bite!”

  “What, never?” Nick skedaddled before Scumble could respond.

  “I don’t understand,” Meadowes said plaintively. “Surely, Inspector, you’re not accusing—”

  “I’m not ready to make any accusations in front of a lawyer, sir.” As he spoke, he took out a notebook and started jotting down what Eleanor assumed were notes to himself, perhaps reminders of questions he wanted to ask. Without looking up, he continued, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer, unless Mrs Trewynn would care to explain to you.”

  “Mrs Trewynn?” the solicitor appealed.

  “Oh dear, I think I’ve got it all worked out, but whether I can keep it straight is another matter. First, I’m sure you can’t be aware that Stella was leading a double life.”

  Scumble raised his head and looked at her in surprise.

  “Well, what would you call it?” she asked defensively.

  “No, no, you’re quite right. I just hadn’t looked at it in quite that way before. Go on.”

  Put off her stride by the knowledge that he was listening to her, Eleanor bravely went on. “Here, she was a respectable nurse, Miss Weller, and as such Dr Fenwick employed her. In Padstow she was a sculptress, known as Stella Maris, and she lived what I’m afraid I can only call a rather irregular life, even by today’s standards.”

  “Good heavens!” Meadowes wiped his forehead.

  “Or perhaps not. I’m not entirely certain what today’s standards are. If any. To put it bluntly, she lived with a fellow-artist, a painter, and it seems she was not faithful even to him.” Eleanor felt a need to wipe her own forehead. It was very difficult talking about such a subject to an old-fashioned gentleman who was so obviously deeply shocked.

  The most he could summon up was a weak “tut-tut.”

  “Dr Fenwick fell for Stella and proposed to her. I didn’t know him, so I can’t say whether she might have been in love with him.”

  “A very personable chap,” Meadowes uttered, “but considerably older.”

  “And richer,” Eleanor said dryly. “It seems probable, judging by her subsequent actions, that she told her lover and he threatened to tell the doctor of her liaison. Perhaps she didn’t realise how jealous he would be. At any rate, it would appear that she stabbed him to death, previously arranging matters so that suspicion would fall on someone else, someone against whom she had a grudge.”

  “Dear me, dear me!”

  “It seems possible, as Mr Scumble suggested, that she didn’t consider what would happen when the scapegoat was released. I tend to think she knew she would come under suspicion but she expected the process to take long enough for her to escape into her other life. She was the respectable Nurse Weller. She was to become the even more respectable Mrs Fenwick, whereupon she’d be off to Greece for a couple of weeks. By the time she returned, the hue and cry should have died down.”

  “Most unlikely. Most improvident,” Meadowes asserted, as if a client had gone against his advice in the matter of some investment.

  “She didn’t think ahead. Or no further than to decide she’d rather be a rich widow than a rich wife. Again she prepared a clever snare, this time one that would kill her husband in her absence and after the passage of a period of time such that his death would not, she hoped, be connected with that of her lover. But again, she didn’t think far enough ahead, didn’t work out all the consequences of her actions.”

  “Spot on, Mrs Trewynn,” Scumble congratulated her. “At least, that’s pretty much how I see it. But you’re out of time.”

  Nick ushered in Maybelle, who looked even more nervous and upset than had Miss Jamieson.

  Scumble bared his teeth in what he probably thought was a friendly smile and made his best effort at geniality. “Come in, come in, Miss Maybelle. I’m hoping you can tidy up a few loose ends for me.”

  She turned scared eyes to Nick. “Loose ends? I don’t know nuthin’ about loose ends. You said—”

  “It’s just a fancy way of saying ‘things he doesn’t know,’” Nick reassured her.

  Reluctantly, Maybelle sat down and gave her full name. Once she got started, however, her story was clearly and smoothly told. One of her duties was to disinfect the dispensary—she pointed at a door that Eleanor hadn’t noticed before, on the far side of the office, first thing every morning. On Monday, she had gone in and found Miss Weller there. Miss Weller, who seemed flustered, had explained that she had neglected a couple of tasks she should have seen to on Sunday evening. She told Maybelle to come back in a few minutes.

  “But I seen what she was doing, sir. She thinks I’m stupid, but I learn what I can. I want to be a nurse someday. She was messin’ with hyperdermies, them needles you use for injections, takin’ stuff outa one bottle and squirting it into another one. I didn’t think nuthin’ of it then, but when I come in this morning and they tole me the colonel’d been took ill ’cause of not gettin’ enough insulin, I guessed that was what she been messin’ with. Only I didn’t say nuthin’ ’cause they might’ve said I shoulda tole right away.”

  And then she had gone upstairs to tidy the doctor’s flat and found him dead in his bed. Small wonder she was scared to death.

  “Thank you, Maybelle, you’ve been very helpful,” Scumble said triumphantly. “I hope, later on, you’ll be able to show us exactly what Miss Weller was doing, si
nce you’re obviously an excellent observer. We’ll take a formal statement then, for you to sign, but for now that will be all.”

  “You mean I can go?”

  “You can.” The inspector bared his fearsome grin again. “And once more, thank you for your cooperation.”

  “That weren’t so bad,” Maybelle said to Nick as she passed him on the way to the door.

  “Didn’t I tell you he’s almost human at times?” said Nick.

  This time Scumble’s teeth were bared in a snarl, but as Nick had successfully persuaded the girl to talk to him, he could hardly complain.

  “Polmenna, fetch Miss Weller,” he growled.

  “Am I to understand, Inspector,” ventured Meadowes, looking as if the world had crashed about his ears, “that Miss Weller deliberately switched Dr Fenwick’s insulin with that of this colonel?”

  “She might have given the colonel plain water,” said Scumble, “being hurried because of Maybelle’s interrupting. That would hasten his collapse, if I’m not mistaken. She doesn’t seem to have considered the effect of her plan on the colonel. That, of course, was what brought Dr Fenwick here three weeks before … Hush, here she comes.”

  Stella made a magnificent entrance, supported by Megan. She should have been wearing Victorian widow’s weeds, with a black veil, Eleanor thought. She sank weakly into a chair.

  “The one thing that makes it endurable,” she announced in a throbbing voice, “is that Freddy went to meet his maker knowing he had provided for me. If he was conscious at the last, it must have been a great consolation to him.”

  Scumble, Nick, and Eleanor looked at Meadowes.

  “Er.” The solicitor tugged at his tie, suddenly too tight. “Er, I’m afraid not, Miss Weller.”

  “What?” she screeched, turning on him. “What the hell are you talking about? He told me he signed his new will, leaving everything to me. Don’t tell me the old coot was lying!”

  “No indeed, no indeed. He did sign the will and it does indeed name you as chief beneficiary, but you in—as it were—your future role as Mrs Fenwick. As Stella Weller, you have no claim whatsoever upon his estate.”

  Now Stella rounded on Eleanor. “This is all your fault, you meddlesome old bitch. If you hadn’t given Nick an alibi—” She rushed forward, outstretched hands ready to claw.

  Rising swiftly from her seat, Eleanor raised her arms between Stella’s. Stepping diagonally forwards and to her right, with her right arm she knocked Stella’s left arm down. Stella’s chin collided with Eleanor’s left forearm and she staggered backwards. Before Eleanor had to take any further measures to protect herself, Megan and Polmenna grabbed Stella by the arms and pulled her away.

  Nick sprang to steady Eleanor—not that she needed it. Teazle stopped barking and tried frantically to climb up her. Eleanor picked her up and had her face thoroughly licked.

  “Aunt Nell, are you all right?” Megan shouted over Stella’s vituperation.

  “Quite all right, dear.” Rather shakily, Eleanor dusted herself down. She never expected to actually have to use her Aikido in peaceful old England. How lucky she kept in practice! And the whole thing had happened quickly enough, she hoped, that everyone would assume she’d escaped the attack by sheer luck. She had no desire to be known as a martial arts aficionado.

  “Stella Weller,” Scumble’s cold voice cut through the din, “you’re under arrest for attempted assault. Further charges may follow. You have the right to remain silent but anything you choose to say will be taken down and may be used in evidence. Polmenna, Wilkes, take her out.”

  Eleanor sat down. “Good gracious,” she said, “if that’s how she behaves when she’s really in a passion, I’m not surprised poor Geoffrey always gave in to her. She’s certainly showed her true colours.”

  Megan surprised herself by saying, “‘The man who has no music in him … is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.’ And woman, too. I noticed, in her room, she doesn’t even have a transistor radio.”

  “Well I never,” said Meadowes. “Well I never.”

  “Well I never,” said Jocelyn. “And I thought a Mothers’ Union meeting was hazardous. My dear Eleanor, I never would have asked you to go if I’d dreamt—”

  “Of course you wouldn’t, Joce.”

  “Eleanor, would you like this last bit of chicken dopiaza?” asked Nick.

  “No, dear, you eat it. I’m FTB and TTT.”

  “Eleanor, really!”

  “Come on, Mrs Stearns, she didn’t say ‘full to bursting’ or ‘tummy touching table.’ Surely the acronyms are acceptable?”

  “From children.”

  “I must say,” Eleanor quickly intervened, “these take-away meals are a wonderful value. Much cheaper than eating in the restaurant. Oh, there goes the phone. I hope the reporters haven’t caught up with us yet.”

  “Don’t answer,” Nick advised.

  “It’s probably Timothy, wondering if I’m going to get back in time for the parish council. I’ll get it.”

  Jocelyn went to the phone. “Oh, hello, Mr Alarian. No, this is Eleanor’s friend, Mrs Stearns … No, we haven’t had the pleasure … Yes, she’s right here … Nicholas Gresham? Yes, as a matter of fact he’s here, too … Nicholas?”

  Nick was already at her side, reaching for the receiver. “Mr Alarian, Gresham here.”

  Eleanor waited in an agony of anticipation while he listened to the art dealer talking, his face a study in incredulity. She couldn’t be sure whether he was delighted or horrified. What if some disaster had overtaken another two of his best paintings?

  At last he said, “A conductor, sir? No, I’ve never heard of him … Oh, I see. Thank you, sir. And thank you for letting me know so promptly … Yes, of course, I’ll ship another two to you tomorrow … Yes, insured … Yes, here she is. And thank you, sir. Good-bye.”

  Eleanor was forced to listen to several minutes of rhapsody in Alarian’s eclectic accents before she was able to hang up, turn to Nick, and exchange big hugs. He started to waltz her about the room but it really was too small for such activity.

  “Both of them!” he crowed.

  “Congratulations, Nicholas. I couldn’t help overhearing—to a conductor?”

  “A wealthy amateur patron of the arts who supports a local orchestra in exchange for being permitted to conduct it. Not Giulini, perhaps, but he paid the full price without argument.” Nick sat down rather suddenly. “I can hardly believe it!”

  The phone rang again. Eleanor answered it.

  “Aunt Nell, I’ve been worrying about you.”

  “Megan dear, I’m perfectly all right, truly. I’ve just overeaten enormously.”

  “Did you go to the Indian?”

  “Yes, we got take-away in the end. Such a pity you couldn’t join us.”

  “I’m still writing reports. But the gov’nor’s so pleased to have put one over on DI Pearce that he’s actually gone to the length of giving me tomorrow off. I’ll come over and see you.”

  “That would be lovely, dear. Come to lunch. I’ll get something special that doesn’t require complicated cooking.”

  “Lovely. And we’ll take Teazle for a walk afterwards if it’s fine?”

  “If that’s what you’d like. Or you can put your feet up and relax. You’ve been working awfully hard for the past week. We’ll decide when you get here.”

  “Right. Good night, Aunt Nell. Sweet dreams. Don’t think about you know who.”

  “I’ll try, dear. Good night.”

  Eleanor hung up and turned to find that Jocelyn had dashed off to her parish council meeting. Nick was clearing up the mess of boxes and papers and foil.

  “Nothing left but half a paratha,” he said. “I’ve given a bit to Teazle.”

  Teazle sat at his feet, tail wagging, gazing up at him hopefully.

  “No more,” Eleanor said severely. “It’s hard to believe I’ll ever want to eat again, but Megan’s coming to lunch tomorrow. I’m hoping she’ll fill in the gaps, because
I don’t feel I’ve quite got a grasp yet of exactly what Stella did. Do say you’ll join us? I thought you’d want to give her the news from London yourself.”

  “Do you think she’d be interested?” Nick asked doubtfully.

  “It’s part of the case, after all, your visit to Mr Alarian.”

  Eleanor thought of Jeanette, a painter like Nick, with similar interests, who fancied herself in love with him. Would she suit him better than Megan? She was so angry at the world, but in time that would fade now that Geoffrey Clark was dead. Perhaps her infatuation with Nick would fade, too, and with a new perspective on life, she might turn to poor Tom Lennox.

  Tom Lennox: Eleanor had plans for him. She must go back to the farm and talk to him about sharing his skills with the primitive potters of Africa.

  “Well, if you think it won’t bore her, I’ll be happy to come and do a little boasting about my national and international triumphs.” Nick grinned. “I’ll try to get hold of some Champagne at last, the real thing!”

  Policewoman and artist—an odd couple, perhaps, but Eleanor still had hopes …