by Carola Dunn
“Another car came by. It’s no good asking me the make or year or licence plate, but it was grey. The sun was reflected off the windshield and I couldn’t see who was inside, but I waved, just in case it was someone I knew. It drove past. After I had climbed down from the stile and started across the field, I heard the engine cut off. I remember hoping they weren’t going to walk the same way and spoil the peace and quiet. A few moments later, I heard a car door slam. Then they drove away.”
“In which direction?” Scumble demanded.
“The opposite way to Bob. They must have passed each other as he drove down the hill.”
“If he doesn’t know the make, model, and year,” snarled the inspector, “I’ll have him kicked off the force.”
ELEVEN
PC Dawson was young, brash, and muscular. Megan wondered whether DI Scumble had chosen him to accompany her because she might need protection. Visiting rural philanthropists sounded harmless but this was, after all, a murder investigation. The fact that she had passed all the police unarmed combat courses with flying colours was not likely to impress the inspector.
Dawson raced the panda Mini along twisting lanes barely wide enough for a single car. The high, banked walls on either side effectively blocked any view of oncoming traffic. It gave Megan a new appreciation for Scumble’s dislike of being driven.
She closed her eyes as a bend brought them nose to nose with a tractor. Had it been doing more than three miles an hour, disaster would have been inevitable. As it was, the police car screeched to a halt a scant foot short of its radiator grille. The farm-worker driving it, a red-faced man in a disreputable hat, gave a cheery wave and pointed forcefully at the way they had come.
Dawson reversed, swearing. He shot Megan a half-shamefaced, half-defiant look and muttered, “Sorry,” as he backed into a passing niche.
After six years in the police, she still hadn’t worked out how to deal with this situation. He’d never have apologised for bad language to a male colleague. On the one hand, he was being polite. On the other, he was treating her differently because she was a woman. She mumbled something indistinguishable even to herself.
The tractor chugged past with another wave and a grin from the farmer. He was pulling a cart loaded with bales of wool. A faint, not unpleasant smell of sheep wafted into the car.
Unchastened by their near miss, Dawson rocketed out of the passing-place and down the winding lane. The high banks ended and tangled woodland closed in. As they neared the still narrower bridge at the foot of the hill, the radio started to squawk. Amid the unintelligible noise, Megan thought she heard their car’s call number.
“Was that us?” Dawson asked, easing off the accelerator just in time for the sharp turn onto the old stone bridge over a swift stream edged with mossy boulders.
“I think so.” Megan reached for the transmitter. “This is CaRaDoC L7. We’re barely receiving your signal. Please wait till we get out of this valley.” She let go the transmit button.
The radio resumed its squawking. Megan caught their call number again, and something that might have been Scumble.
“I repeat, we can’t hear you properly. We’re heading uphill now. Please wait. We should get a clear signal at the top.” She repeated variations on this theme until the car emerged from the trees and the lane levelled off between spring-green hedges. Dawson pulled into a lay-by and switched off.
“Okay, this is CaRaDoC L7. Reception should be better here. Please repeat your message.”
It wasn’t Scumble in person at the other end, just an operator at HQ in Launceston relaying his instructions. PC Leacock was urgently wanted. He wasn’t answering his radio. Either it was on the blink again, or he wasn’t in his car, or—the operator suggested snidely—he was down at the bottom of some valley where there was no reception. If they came across him, he was to be sent straight to DI Scumble at the LonStar shop in Port Mabyn.
Megan acknowledged the message and signed off.
“I expect he knows too much,” Dawson suggested with relish, turning the key in the ignition, “and the murderer’s bagged him.”
“I expect he’s in some cosy farmhouse kitchen being fed on the fat of the land,” said Megan sourly.
“Yeah, more likely,” he agreed as they zoomed on their way.
She consulted their map. “The next village looks a bit bigger than the last one and it says ‘Inn.’ Maybe they’ll have pasties.”
“Even if not, I wouldn’t say no to a pint.”
Beer on an empty stomach didn’t sound like a good idea to Megan, especially as he was driving. Before she had to decide whether to voice this undoubtedly unpopular view, they drove into Tregareth.
The hamlet consisted of a single street. One of two rows of labourers’ cottages had been converted into a quite attractive house. The other had not. They faced each other uneasily across a thoroughfare no wider than necessary to allow two farm carts to pass each other. Gardens, if any, were tucked away behind.
“El Alamein,” Dawson read the word painted in black on the whitewashed wall over the blue front door of the house. “Isn’t that the old boy we’ve come to see?”
“Major Cartwright, yes. But let’s get something to eat first.”
Beyond the cottages stood the pub, long and low, grey stone with a slate roof. On the faded sign a jaunty, green-jacketed pig pranced on its hind legs playing a penny whistle. Below, two smaller signboards swung on short chains. One announced HOT PASTIES, the other the inevitable CREAM TEAS. A telephone box made a splash of colour at one end of the building.
The rest of the village appeared to consist of a cluster of modern bungalows in the usual pastel hues, a tiny stone chapel, and a larger two-story stone house, half hidden behind a huge, spreading cedar of Lebanon that leant at an angle away from the prevailing winds. No doubt several farms, with associated cottages, lurked in the surrounding countryside, supplying sufficient drinkers to justify the presence of the Pig and Whistle. Whether sufficient holiday-makers ever passed this way to justify the cream teas was questionable.
Dawson parked and they went into the dim interior. Dawson immediately veered off towards the GENTS sign. “Back in half a tick.”
A couple of rustic figures drank silently in a corner. The landlord, Geo. Potts, Prop., according to the requisite notice over the door, was propping up the bar. “Wotcher, ducks,” he greeted her. “Wot can I getcher?”
Megan asked for pasties.
“Sorry, ducks.” The landlord was an incomer, his accent dense as a London fog. “We only do ’ot pasties for the summer trade. I ‘spect the old woman could run you up a nice sangwich, though. Gloria,” he shouted over his shoulder, “can you do a couple of sangwiches?” An indistinct answer came from the rear of the premises. He turned back to Megan. “ ’Am and cheese do you?”
“Thanks, that’ll be fine. A half of cider for me, and a pint . . . I’m not sure what he drinks. Better wait and see.”
“Now wot’s a copper up to in this neck of the woods wiv ’is ladyfriend this time of day, that’s wot I’d like to know?” His expression wasn’t quite a leer.
“I’m a detective officer,” Megan said icily.
He threw up both hands. “Beg parding I’m sure. No offence meant, orficer. Takes all sorts, that’s wot I say. Last thing I want’s to get on the wrong side of Old Bill. You’re a ’tec, eh? Wouldn’t’ve thought Bob Leacock’d need help from you lot to deal wiv a poacher.”
“Leacock? He’s in the village?”
“Up at Cedar Lodge.” He gestured. “The big house over there. Squire thinks some bloke’s been after his pheasants.”
“Are they on the telephone? I must get hold of him at once and his car radio doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Yeah. Name’s Dandridge. But we ’aven’t got a phone. You’ll ’ave to use the box.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“I’ll tell your—um—pal in blue where you went.”
“Thanks.”
U
nlike most urban telephone booths, this one had an intact directory. Megan found the number and dialled. The squire at the big house—She half-expected the phone to be answered by a butler. But a young foreign female voice said, “Allo?” and then quickly corrected herself and gave the exchange and number. Au pair, Megan thought.
She kept it simple and spoke slowly. “This is the police. I need to speak to PC Leacock, please.”
“Please, here is policeman already, for the birds.”
“Yes, I know. I must speak to him. Talk to him.”
“He is talk Mr Dandridge. Do not disturb.”
Megan was running low on both patience and change when Dawson came out of the pub, strolled over to the booth, and raised his eyebrows at her. She cracked the door open and hissed, “Foreigner. I can’t make her understand.”
“Leacock’s there?”
“Yes, talking to the Big White Chief Who Is Not To Be Disturbed. Known locally as The Squire.”
“We’d better hop on over there. I’ll go tell the landlord we’ll be right back, while you wind things up with the bird. My beer’ll go flat,” he added mournfully.
It was too late to “wind things up.” They had been cut off. Dawson came back out of the Pig and Whistle, beckoned to her impatiently, and got into the car.
Megan went over. “It’s that house just there. We can walk.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Jump in.”
As he turned off the street into the drive, he switched on the siren. They arrived whoo-whooing in a flurry of gravel. “I hope I haven’t disturbed the Great White Chief,” he said with a smirk.
Before flying gravel had stopped pinging against the flanks of the muddy panda car and the immaculate Rover already parked in front of the house, Bob Leacock erupted from the front door, helmet in hand.
“What’s up?” he yelled. Then he took in Dawson’s smug grin. “I just got the old sod to stop talking man-traps,” he said bitterly, “and you come busting in—”
“Murder takes precedence over poaching,” Megan interrupted, leaning forward. “Mr Scumble wants you to report in pronto.”
“You should thank us for rescuing you,” said Dawson.
“My radio quit again.”
“He wants you on the spot,” Megan told him, “at the shop, the LonStar shop in Port Mabyn, according to the HQ operator.”
“Why? I didn’t see anything that night, more’s the pity, no matter how many times he asks me, and if anyone had told me anything useful, I’d’ve reported right away.”
“I wasn’t told what he wants. Reception’s lousy here, but I gather they’ve been trying to get hold of you for some time, so I’d get a move on if I were you.”
“All right,” he said reluctantly. Then he brightened. “I’ll have to leave you to explain to the squire. ’Bye!” Without further ado, he got into his car and rolled off down the drive.
Megan and Dawson looked at each other. Megan grabbed the radio transmitter. “I’d better tell them he’s on his way. Don’t keep the Great White Chief waiting.”
“What exactly is a man-trap?” Dawson asked gloomily, opening his door.
“I expect you’re about to find out. Hello, this is CaRaDoC L7 reporting . . .”
Dawson returned a few minutes later with all his limbs intact. He answered with a growl when Megan asked him about his interview with Dandridge, so she didn’t persist. They departed from Cedar Lodge in another spray of gravel.
As a peace offering, she bought him a pint to replace the flat one awaiting him at the pub.
Starting on his third sandwich, he let her tackle El Alamein on her own.
Major Cartwright answered the door leaning heavily on a stout walking stick. Like all the others they had called on that day, he denied having donated anything of value to LonStar.
“Wish I could,” he said gruffly, “but the pension doesn’t stretch as far as it used to. Not that I’m complaining, mind. When I think of those poor blighters Mrs Trewynn is trying to help . . . And now it seems it’s all our fault. The Empire and all, I mean.”
He wasn’t querulous, just puzzled. Megan produced a sympathetic murmur.
“A lot of chaps are saying so, so I suppose it must be true, but it’s a bit bewildering for an old fogey like me. Thought we were helping them, don’t you know. White man’s burden, they called it in my young day. So I do what I can. Give Mrs Trewynn all my books. No use reading them again after you know the ending.”
“Did you pack them up yourself?”
“Yes, indeed. I have them shipped to me from a London bookshop—I don’t get about much any longer—so I just put them back in the boxes they sent them in.”
“No one could have slipped something in without your noticing?”
“Not possibly. By George, this is just like stepping into a detective story. I read mostly detective stories,” he added shyly. “I don’t suppose they’re really anything like real life—no lady police detectives, for one thing—but I enjoy ’em.”
“And I know my aunt is very grateful for them, sir. They sell quickly.”
“Your aunt?”
Megan’s face grew hot. With Aunt Nell in the thick of this case, it was very difficult to keep the personal and the professional apart. “Mrs Trewynn happens to be my aunt, sir.”
“No, is she? Wonderful lady!” the major enthused.
Aunt Nell had an admirer! How lucky that, with his difficulty in walking, he couldn’t possibly be the villain of this particular detective story.
He was obviously dying for a chat, probably on the point of inviting her into his house. To Megan’s relief, an impatient toot came from the direction of the inn.
“I’ve got to go. My partner’s waiting. Thank you for your cooperation, sir.”
“I hope you catch the rotter who put Mrs Trewynn through such a beastly experience,” he said earnestly.
“We will, sooner or later,” she promised, shaking his hand. Walking back to the car, she pondered his priorities. Apparently Aunt Nell’s inconvenience weighed more heavily than the victim’s lost life. No doubt he had read in the papers that the youth was a scruffy layabout. His first thought had probably been that a couple of years in the army would have set him straight.
Joining Dawson in the car, she reported, “A nice old boy, but no help.” She checked the list and the map. “Only a couple more, but you’ll have to turn around. We want to go on the way we were going.”
Dawson put the gear into reverse and shot backwards along the street and into the drive of Cedar Lodge. Thence they continued their headlong career. Fortunately for Megan’s nerves, the lane came out on a shoulder of Bodmin moor, and at least they could see their way ahead. To her vocal amazement, Dawson even deigned to slow down to chivvy occasional sheep and ponies off the road.
“Hey,” he said, “do you know what the fine is for running over livestock?”
“No. What?”
“I don’t know either, but I bet it’s a whole lot more than dinging the nose of a tractor.”
TWELVE
The gemologist from Castle Jewellers was short and tubby, with disproportionately short legs, crooked teeth, and a piebald mop of hair. Eleanor couldn’t decide if it was naturally black and had gone white in patches, or whether it had gone white naturally and an unsuccessful attempt had been made to dye it black. Or perhaps it was a wig, a very peculiar one, though she’d seen much stranger fashions in obscure parts of the world: lengthened necks, stretched lips, bound feet, scarified faces and chests. If Mr Hobbes wanted to wear a small, shaggy dog on his head, then let him. She’d stick to a dab of lipstick.
Young people these days seemed to manage without lipstick, she mused, or used the palest shades. Heavy mascara was popular, though, along with vast quantities of eyeshadow.
“Would you mind, Mrs Trewynn,” said DI Scumble in his exaggeratedly patient voice, “opening the safe, since Mr Hobbes has come some distance to examine the contents. You do recall the combination, I trust?”
> Eleanor gave him a speaking look and turned to the safe. Such was the power of suggestion that for a terrible moment her mind went blank. Then she thought of Peter and at once knew the numbers, as well as she knew her own birthday. She unlocked the safe and swung the door open.
Hobbes darted forward with a squawk of horror. “Oh no, no, no, no, no!”
“What’s the matter?” Scumble said sharply.
“Diamonds! Opals! Everything all jumbled together. Are you not aware that diamonds are the hardest substance known to man? They are capable of scratching even rubies and sapphires, while opals are extremely delicate. I’m afraid there may be extensive damage.”
With the utmost delicacy, he started to disentangle the pieces.
In answer to Scumble’s reproachful expression, Eleanor protested lamely, “They were like that when I found them. I just scooped them up and stuck them in there.”
Her words elicited a moan from Hobbes.
Scumble put his finger to his lips, frowning. Eleanor gathered that he didn’t want the jeweller to know any more than was absolutely necessary about the discovery of the hoard.
Extricating a bracelet, Hobbes brought it over to the table and carefully laid it flat. It was the lovely piece she had originally admired, woven gold wire set with violet stones. Amethysts? Judging by his extreme care, the expert must be pretty sure they were genuine.
One by one, necklaces, rings, brooches, and more bracelets spread across the table, glittering and gleaming. Scumble looked a trifle dazed. The safe was emptied at last. Hobbes sat down at the table, brought out his loupe, and stuck it in his eye. Eleanor held her breath, and she rather thought the inspector did, too.
Hobbes picked up a diamond and emerald pendant. “Light,” he said irritably. “I need more light.”
Eleanor switched on the ceiling light while Scumble dealt with her reading lamp. He tried to bring it over to the table, but the flex wasn’t quite long enough. He turned on the light in the kitchen. Each new source of illumination brought more sparkles.
