by Carola Dunn
“But I’m quite all right,” Eleanor protested. “They’ll think I’m utterly prostrated. And a real drip.”
“It’s only a slight exaggeration. You did have a terrible shock. You don’t want them coming in and pestering us for details, do you?”
“No, of course not. Mr Scumble specifically told us not to talk to anyone.”
“There you are, then.” And Jocelyn went off to explain yet again that poor Eleanor had had a terrible shock.
“Poor Eleanor” gritted her teeth.
In between callers they sat in the kitchen, so as not to be visible from the street through the sitting-room window, and wondered when they’d be able to reopen the shop. Ever efficient, Jocelyn had long since telephoned that day’s volunteers to tell them their services would not be required.
“But should I ring tomorrow’s people? Or just ring Mrs Davies and let her deal with it, as it’s her day? She’s bound to make some remark about it all being my fault.”
Mrs Davies was a thorn in the flesh of Jocelyn, who was reluctant to admit that the Methodist minister’s wife was almost as efficient and undoubtedly equally honest. Eleanor often had to take evasive action so as not to find herself caught between the pair.
“She can’t. Yesterday was her day.”
“That’s right!” Jocelyn brightened and started to stand up.
“No, Joce, you are not to! If you dare to so much as hint at blame, I’ll . . . I’ll give you the sack!” Though it was an empty threat, at least it showed how strongly she felt. “If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. If I wasn’t so wretchedly vague about keys. If I had just remembered to lock the doors—”
“You could remember if you really tried,” Jocelyn said severely, but she sat down again instead of going to offend Mrs Davies. “Still, I daresay they’d have broken in if the doors had been locked, and then we’d have had the damage to repair. I must say, it still seems to me inexplicable that they should have taken the trouble to burgle a charity shop full of second-hand odds and ends.”
“But if they came in by the back door, they wouldn’t necessarily have known what—Oh, I’ve just remembered. I picked up a donation yesterday that may be quite valuable. I’m not sure. It’s some jewelry, paste of course, but it looks to me as if it’s quite good. Not that I know anything about the subject. I’ve no idea what it might be worth.”
“Eleanor, really! How could you have forgotten?”
“You must admit there’s been plenty going on to occupy my mind! Finding that poor boy, and then the police asking questions I couldn’t answer, and the reporter—”
“All right, never mind, at least you’ve remembered it now. Who gave it?”
“I don’t know. No one mentioned it. They must have slipped it in with some other donation.”
“How very odd. I do wish people would realise that we have to know the provenance of anything of value. You did put it in the safe, I hope?”
“Of course. I’m surprised Mr Scumble didn’t ask me about the safe. Do you suppose he didn’t find it? Hiding a safe behind a picture isn’t exactly a novel idea, is it?”
“Not at all. He can’t have been looking for one. After all, that’s why we put it in your flat, because no one would dream you had such a thing. Oh bother, there’s the dratted doorbell again. I wish I knew how to disconnect it.”
“People would only knock,” Eleanor pointed out.
“True. Why don’t you put on the kettle while I go and get rid of whoever it is.”
The day seemed to have gone on forever, but at last it was tea time. Eleanor took the kettle from the stove and was removing the lid when she heard from the hall: “Who . . . ? Oh, it’s you, Nicholas. Have you come to offer your services as a volunteer?”
“No.” He sounded surprised. “I already do as much as I have time for. Why? I didn’t know you were shorthanded. Have people been cancelling because of the murder?”
“Come in.” She peered behind him in a hunted way. “Quickly!”
“Hello, Nick.” Eleanor had come to the kitchen door, kettle in hand. “You’re just in time for tea.”
“Good timing. How are you holding up?”
Since Jocelyn had opened the door to him, she assumed she was allowed to say, “Quite well, considering. Have the police been pestering you with questions about last night?”
“How do you expect me to answer that when it was your niece who pestered me?”
“I’m sure Megan was polite,” said Jocelyn, taking the kettle from Eleanor on her way into the kitchen. “Unlike That Man.”
“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of That Man’s acquaintance,” said Nick with a grin, “but you have me shaking in my shoes, Mrs Stearns.”
“Then you’d better sit down. I suppose you’re posing as a starving artist?”
“Yes, of course. I were brought up proper, I were. I know it’s your Christian duty to feed the hungry, so I’m sure it must be my duty to present the opportunity.”
Jocelyn gave him a withering look as she turned on the gas under the kettle, but she reached down a cake tin.
Nick remained unwithered. “That looks promising,” he said. “Ah, gingerbread. Excellent! I’m glad you didn’t waste it on the rude inspector.”
“Mr Scumble wasn’t really rude,” Eleanor protested. “It’s his manner that’s at fault, rather than his manners. For the most part. Did Megan ask you about what times we did what last night, Nick? I’m afraid I wasn’t much help at all.”
“Nor was I,” he said cheerfully, “but they can easily check our movements. Don’t worry about it. When will you be able to reopen the shop? Give me notice, won’t you. I want first shot at those detective stories.”
“We don’t know yet. We were just talking about it.” Eleanor frowned. “And I remembered . . . Nick, you can’t imagine Major Cartwright slipping a collection of jewelry into my car when he loaded the boxes of books, can you? After all, he’s a widower. He might think that as his wife can no longer wear them—”
“Eleanor!” Jocelyn snapped, setting the teapot on the table with a bit of a thump. “You really mustn’t tell anyone about that.”
“Not anyone, dear, just Nick. I won’t tell another soul, I promise.”
Nick looked as if he would like to protest being classed with “anyone,” but could hardly do so with his mouth full of Jocelyn’s gingerbread. He swallowed. “Not Major Cartwright,” he said. “He’s pretty hard up, I think. The books are his one extravagance. If he had jewelry, he’d have been selling it to live on. Someone put real, honest-to-god jewelry in your car?”
“Only paste, of course. It may not be worth much. It’s just that I can’t think who, of those I collected from yesterday . . . Joce, we must ring them all up and ask . . . But they aren’t all on the telephone.”
“If it was a mistake,” said Jocelyn, “then they will get in touch with us. If it was an intentionally anonymous donation, then finding out who gave it can wait until all this dreadful murder business is cleared up.”
Nick looked alarmed. “For heaven’s sake, you can’t just ring people up and ask if they happened to discard a pile of jewelry by mistake! You’ll get half-a-dozen claims.”
“Our donors aren’t that sort,” Eleanor asserted.
“No, he’s right. It wouldn’t be fair to put the temptation in people’s way. If no one calls us, we’ll have to work out a way to do it.”
“Assuming the stuff wasn’t just floating around on the floor of the Incorruptible, couldn’t you ask about the container rather than the thing contained? What was it in, Eleanor?”
“A briefcase, rather a nice leather one.”
“You couldn’t have fitted a briefcase into the safe,” said Jocelyn. “What did you do with it? Leave it upstairs?”
“No, I took it down after I emptied it.”
“It was not on the inspector’s list,” Jocelyn stated with absolute certainty. “You’d better tell him right away.”
“I can’t see the hurr
y,” Eleanor argued. “It was empty, and not particularly valuable in itself.”
“You have to tell him about the jewelry anyway,” Nick pointed out.
“I’d much rather not. He’s going to be angry with me for not mentioning it before, and angry with himself for not finding the safe.”
“Tell Megan,” Jocelyn suggested.
“That would be much easier. I wonder where she is?”
“As I walked up,” said Nick, “I saw her going into the Trelawney Arms. Since it wasn’t open yet, I kidded her about special hours for the police, and she told me—rather snarkily, I thought—that she had to interview young Donna. Shall I be terribly noble and go and find her?”
“Would you, Nick? The sooner I confess, the less reason the inspector will have to be upset with me.”
“Right, then, I’m on my way. I don’t know which scares me more, Donna or Detective Sergeant Pencarrow.”
Eleanor laughed. “What nonsense you talk, Nick.”
Grinning, Nick was getting to his feet when the vicar breezed in.
“A tea party! Splendid. What, you’re not going already, my dear fellow? Sit down, sit down. Have another cup.”
“Nicholas has an errand to run, Timothy,” said his wife, fetching a cup for him. “He’ll be back shortly.”
“I certainly hope so. Keep your fingers crossed.” Nick departed with a wave.
EIGHT
The vicar was full of his own concerns, the people he had visited, the pleasure of riding through the countryside once the mist had dissipated, the crack in the wall of St Endellion Church—a good quarter-inch wider than last week.
“And I heard most disturbing news, my dear,” he said to Jocelyn. “Rumour has it that a builder wants to have the church deconsecrated in order to buy it and turn it into a house!”
“In that case, dear, the crack seems providential. He’ll hardly want to bother if it’s crumbling away.”
Eleanor listened with one ear, the other cocked to hear Nick’s return. The vicar finished off the gingerbread and drank a third cup of tea, and still there was no sign of Nick. She hoped he hadn’t got himself involved in a quarrel with Megan. To her sorrow, those two did not hit it off.
The vicar went off to his den to write a letter to the Church Commissioners about the crack in St Endellion’s wall. Eleanor helped Jocelyn clear and wash up the tea things. As the last cup was put away in its proper place, Nick returned.
“Never say I wouldn’t risk my life for you, Eleanor!” he exclaimed. “Megan wasn’t at the Arms, but Donna cornered me. If we hadn’t just had one murder in the village, I swear I’d have done the girl in.”
“Don’t joke about it,” Jocelyn admonished him. “Would you like to stay to dinner? Just shepherd’s pie, I’m afraid, but there’ll be plenty, and the first asparagus from the garden to go with it. As long as you promise not to talk about murder. I suspect Timothy’s forgotten about it, and I’d prefer not have him reminded sooner than need be.”
“For asparagus, Mrs Stearns, I’d promise my first-born child if I had one. But I’ll come back, if you don’t mind, rather than stay. I’ve got some work to do.”
He left again. Jocelyn sent Eleanor out into the spring dusk to cut asparagus while she peeled potatoes.
Endless meals! There were definitely advantages to living alone, Eleanor thought. She tried to concentrate on her task, on Teazle snuffling among the raspberry canes, and on the seagulls wheeling so high in the sky the sunset glow still stained them pink . . . Once she had been very good at putting things out of her mind when she chose. You couldn’t get on with your work if you dwelt on the horrors you had seen. But she was out of practice. She kept seeing those pathetic, sockless ankles.
She was glad to go back into the house, to the bright lights and kitchen smells, and Jocelyn’s determined chatter about other subjects—any subject but murder.
There were advantages to not living alone, too.
Once more Nick reappeared. The shepherd’s pie and asparagus were consumed, followed by rhubarb—also from the garden—and custard. As Jocelyn served Nick with a second helping of pudding, the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it, my dear,” said the vicar, folding his napkin and unfolding himself. He returned shortly, looking puzzled. “It’s for you and Mrs Trewynn, Jocelyn. Very odd. Someone called Stumble. He didn’t give me his Christian name, only his initials, D.I. And he said he’ll be here in five minutes.”
DI Scumble arrived, trailed by Megan. Eleanor was concerned to see her niece looking tired, but she managed to refrain from embracing her. She even managed to let Jocelyn do the honours.
“Coffee, Inspector?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, madam.”
“We were just about to have some ourselves. I don’t believe you’ve met my husband? Timothy, this is Detective Inspector Scumble. And you know—ah—Detective Sergeant Pencarrow.”
“How do you do, Mr—er—Detective Inspector,” the vicar said courteously, then turned with obvious relief to his companion and held out both hands. “Megan, my dear, how delightful to see you. I hope you too can stay for coffee?”
“Good evening, Vicar.” Megan managed to avoid taking his hands. She glanced at the inspector, who nodded resignedly. “Yes, I’d like coffee, thanks.”
“You have a letter to finish, have you not, Timothy?” Jocelyn said with an commanding look.
“What’s that, my dear? Oh! Oh yes, the church. Yes, indeed, I’d hoped to catch the first post tomorrow. It’s proving rather difficult . . . Not, I’m afraid, a particularly attractive building. You’ll excuse me, Mr . . . er . . . Stumble. And Megan.” Looking slightly puzzled, he loped obediently away to his den, followed by Teazle.
“And you are . . . ?” Scumble asked Nick suspiciously.
“Mr Gresham,” Megan introduced him. “The artist with the gallery next door to the scene.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought we’d better get together and coordinate our stories,” Nick told him blandly. “The police are very hot on discrepancies, are they not?”
“Stuff and nonsense, Nicholas!” Jocelyn admonished him. “He came very properly, Inspector, to enquire after Mrs Trewynn’s well-being. I invited him to dinner. Do come into the sitting room, all of you.”
The Stearnses’ sitting room was big enough for Scumble not to dominate it as he had Eleanor’s. He sat in the chair to which Jocelyn waved him, and the rest found seats.
With her customary efficiency, she had already taken in coffee and sufficient cups and saucers for everyone. She lifted the pot to pour, but Scumble stopped her.
“Just a minute, Mrs Stearns. I have something to show you. We’ll have coffee while you all think about it.” He took several sheets of paper from his inside pocket and unfolded them. “It’s quite convenient you being here, Mr Gresham. We shan’t have to go looking for you.”
“Always a pleasure to assist the police.”
Megan glared at him, but Scumble didn’t rise to the bait. Stolidly he passed out a sheet of paper each to Jocelyn, Eleanor, and Nick.
Eleanor studied hers, perplexed. It was a Roneoed copy—reeking of alcohol—of a drawing of a peculiarly curved object, vaguely reminiscent of something but she couldn’t think what. Jocelyn glanced at hers, then put it down on the table and poured coffee. The picture was the same.
Nick stared at his with a frown. “What is it?” he asked.
“I’m hoping you can tell me. Thank you, Mrs Stearns, a little milk this time, please. No sugar.”
Eleanor laid the picture on her knee and gazed at it while she sipped her milky coffee. On closer inspection, a straight line ran out more or less at a right angle—if a curved line could be said to form a right angle—near the end of the object.
“All right, you don’t know what it is,” Nick persisted. “But you need to know, so it’s something to do with the case. The weapon?”
“The pathologist’s best guess at the shap
e of the weapon,” Scumble admitted grudgingly. “There’s nothing in the stockroom that remotely matches, and we can’t find anything in the bushes. Whatever it is, it was probably taken away and disposed of elsewhere, but if any of you has any ideas . . .”
“Could he have been killed elsewhere and his body brought to the stockroom?”
“Conceivable. But why bother, when there are cliffs several hundred feet high within easy reach?”
“Not so easy.” Nick was obviously feeling argumentative. “Suppose he was killed somewhere in the village. Lugging him out onto the cliffs would be hard work compared to simply dumping him nearby.”
“Which would be less work, but with a much higher risk of being seen by someone out for a stroll, or looking out of a window.”
“No one saw anything,” Megan put in, “which suggests the victim as well as the murderer was doing his best to keep out of sight.”
“Well,” said Jocelyn, pushing the paper away from her, “I can’t imagine what it might be.”
“I’ll tell you what it reminds me of,” Eleanor said hesitantly, “though it’s not very like. My father had a walking stick with a carved duck’s head in place of the usual knob or crook.”
“We’ve never had anything like that in the shop,” Jocelyn asserted.
“In any case, the curve isn’t quite right and this straight line here is in quite the wrong—”
“Not a duck!” Nick interrupted, and started to pull up one leg of his trousers.
The vicar’s wife was scandalised. “Nicholas, really!”
“Look! It’s the bruise I got walking into that damn table—sorry, Mrs Stearns, that blasted table. Isn’t it much the same shape?”
There on his hairy shin was a purpling mark, its shape very similar to the drawing.
“Oh!” Jocelyn’s hand went to her own leg, decently clad in 30-denier stockings.
“The what?” roared Scumble. “What table?”
“The dolphin table,” Eleanor explained. “Both Nick and Joce walked into it.”
