Manna from Hades

by Carola Dunn

  Leacock thumbed through his notebook. “Here we are, sir. A dark grey Hillman Minx, it was, not well kept up, dent and a bit of rust on the mudguard. Oldish, though I couldn’t give the exact year.” He gave the licence number, however. “London registration.”

  Scumble actually smiled. “Good man! Did you notice who was in it?”

  “Two in the front, sir, but the sun was shining off the windshield and I can’t say was they male or female, the way some grow their hair these days.” He smoothed his own short crop self-consciously. “I couldn’t describe ’em to save my life, let alone swear to their faces.”

  “Never mind. Could there have been more than two? Someone bent over in the backseat, out of sight, perhaps?”

  “Well, sir, if they was out of sight, I wouldn’t know. Maybe there was and maybe there wasn’t.”

  “All right.” The inspector jumped up, energy renewed. “At least we’ve got something solid to go on now. A lead to follow. We can get the owner’s name and start a search for the car. This is where the press can come in handy.” He was halfway out of the door before he turned his head to call back over Leacock’s shoulder, “Thanks, Mrs Trewynn.”

  As the door shut behind the two policemen, she said tartly to Nick, “Well! If I had further information for him, once again I’d have been cut off before I had a chance to pass it on. Nick, he says the murderer came back last night. You didn’t hear anything?”

  “Not a whisper. Earlier I had the Symphonie Fantastique on very loud, as you were away and old Merrick on the other side is deaf as a post. And later I slept like a log after all the excitement of the day. He didn’t manage to break in, I take it.”

  “No. There was a policeman on guard who frightened him off.”

  “Does Scumble think he might come back again? Why don’t you stay on at the vicarage?”

  “Dearly as I love Joce,” Eleanor said guiltily, “I don’t think I can stand it. There will be guards again tonight. I’ll be all right.”

  THIRTEEN

  When the phone call came, Megan was attempting to turn Scumble’s scribbled notes into a moderately coherent typed report. It was not an occupation she would have chosen, given her druthers. She had pointed out to the inspector that she was not a typist. However, the typists had both gone home for the night, and Scumble himself had to report in person to the superintendent.

  Since the super was already half an hour late for a dinner party, on the whole Megan preferred her own task, however demeaning. But she was not a typist. She was searching in her desk drawer for the little bottle of Tippex white-out when the phone rang.

  “Pencarrow here.”

  “It’s CID Scotland Yard for the inspector.”

  “He’s with the super. Scotland Yard! You’d better put it through to them, Nancy.”

  “Not bloody likely—pardon my French. I’m not going to be responsible for his majesty missing the soup as well as the hors d’oeuvres. Don’t be wet, Megan, you can handle it. You worked for the Met, didn’t you?”

  “T Division, not the Yard.”

  “Close enough. Half a mo. Sir? DI Scumble is unavailable. I’m putting you through to DS Pencarrow, who’s assisting Mr Scumble with the case.”

  “Pencarrow here,” Megan said quickly, to prevent the caller assuming she was a man.

  “Well, well, well, our little Meggie. Detective Sergeant, no less. Doing well for yourself down in the western wilds, are you?”

  Only one person on the force had ever called her Meggie, first patronising, then teasing, then with affection—and then not at all. On the phone, it was hard to tell what his present tone meant. If anything.

  Megan strove for casualness. “Quite nicely, thank you, Ken. And you’ve transferred to the Yard? Congratulations. You’ve got some information for us?”

  “You seem to have found something we’ve been looking for. What’s all this about a dragon’s hoard of jewelry discovered in a charity shop?”

  “We’ve got one. You want one?”

  “Your description matches the proceeds of a robbery with violence, City of London jeweller’s, last Friday evening.”

  “Friday!” Megan was concerned. Admittedly their list had been compiled only today, but someone here in Launceston ought to have noticed the similarity with the Yard’s list of stolen property.

  “Not to worry.” He’d always had an irritating ability to guess what was on her mind. “Your lot hasn’t dropped the ball. The jeweller—”

  “Name?”

  “Donaldson. Wilfred Donaldson. He was roughed up quite badly and couldn’t remember what was taken till yesterday. Division did the rounds of London fences before handing the whole mess over to us. Our list was just about to go out when yours came in. What’s your excuse?”

  “Excuse?”

  “Word is that a body was found in the same shop on Wednesday morning. This is Thursday night.”

  Megan had no intention of trying to explain Aunt Nell. If Aunt Nell was explicable, which she was by no means certain was the case. “We didn’t find the loot till this morning,” she said vaguely, “and then we weren’t sure the gems were real. By the time we had a jeweller value them—”

  “Yes, well, never mind. They’ll have to be identified by Donaldson. We’ll send someone to pick them up. There won’t be any trouble over that at your end, will there?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. My guv’nor’ll probably be glad to see them go. We haven’t got your facilities for storing valuables. Did Donaldson manage to give you a description of his assailant? We’re not absolutely sure the jewels are connected to the murder, but we have to work on that assumption.”

  “He said there were two of them. Masked, of course, the usual nylon stockings, so he couldn’t identify them, but for what it’s worth, they were both on the tall side and hefty, and well-dressed, gloves and all. Bully-boys in business suits. Apart from the stockings, that is. Well-spoken, but brutal. The doc suspects knuckledusters were used.”

  “Damn. What we’ve got looks more like a sneak-thief. And not a very successful one, at that.”

  “Pity. Looks as if he must have pinched the goods from our pair and run for it—and got caught. He must have hidden the stuff well for them to have left without it.”

  “Well, not exactly.” Megan had no intention of telling him about Aunt Nell.

  “No? You’d better send me a report.”

  “That’s up to the super, Ken, you know that.”

  “Special favour?” he wheedled.

  “It’s up to the super. I’m sure he’ll pass on all necessary info, and I’ll tell the DI you’d like a full report. Who’s in charge at your end?”

  She took down the name of the detective inspector in charge of the robbery investigation. That meant Ken was still a sergeant. She couldn’t help feeling a mean satisfaction. Still, he was only a couple of years older than her. Being a man, he’d probably make chief inspector while she was still a sergeant. She’d probably retire as a sergeant in twenty years.

  “It seems we’re on the same case again, Meggie—oops, sorry, Megan, just like the old days. You’d better have our direct number.” He gave it to her, adding, “Keep in touch, won’t you.”

  Professionally, of course. “We’ll expect someone to pick up the jewels tomorrow, right? You’d better let us know his name in advance, once someone’s been assigned.”

  “Will do. Or I might just come myself,” he said, and rang off.

  Bugger him, Megan thought. If he came, she’d make sure to be elsewhere.

  She glanced at the wall clock. Not too late to ring the vicarage and give Aunt Nell the news about the jewelry. With luck Scumble would be stuck with the super for a while yet.

  The Reverend Stearns answered the phone. “Good evening,” he said courteously. “This is the vicar, or Mr Stearns, if you prefer. I really don’t mind either way. Can I help you?”

  “Good evening . . . er . . . Vicar. This is Megan Pencarrow. May I speak to my aunt, please.”


  “Aunt?” He sounded anxious and uncertain, as if he’d never heard the word before. “Ah, you must be one of Jocelyn’s nieces.”

  Megan was sorry to spoil his pleasure in reaching this reasonable conclusion. “No, actually, Vicar. Mrs Trewynn’s. She’s staying with you.”

  “Oh, yes, but . . . I don’t think . . . You’d better talk to Jocelyn. Oh dear, I think she’s left for the Mothers’ Union meeting . . . No, here she is.” His voice continued more faintly as he turned away from the phone. “A Miss Pencarrow, Joce. Or Mrs? Mrs Trewynn’s niece . . . ?”

  “It’s Megan, dear, the detective.”

  “Oh yes,” said the vicar with heartfelt relief. “She asked for her aunt.” Into the phone, he said, “God bless, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Vicar.”

  “Megan!” Mrs Stearns greeted her. “Didn’t that man tell you? He let her go back to her flat.”

  “No, he didn’t happen to mention it.” Megan was annoyed, though not surprised. “I’m in Launceston. I’ll try to ring to remind her to lock her door, but in case I don’t have time—the inspector will be back any moment—or she’s out walking the dog or something, would you mind—”

  “Of course not. That’s a good idea. In fact, I’ll make sure Nicholas checks that she actually does lock up, downstairs as well.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Stearns.” She hesitated. “She told you about . . . what was in her safe, didn’t she?”

  “Naturally,” the vicar’s wife said stiffly. “I had to know since it was connected with the shop.”

  “I’m not saying she shouldn’t have. I just wanted to be sure. . . . The thing is, we’ve now discovered that the stuff was stolen from a shop in London. I’m afraid LonStar won’t be able to keep it.”

  “That’s no surprise. I never really thought we would. Eleanor was too sanguine. The unfortunate youth stole it, I suppose, and quarrelled with his confederates?”

  “He wasn’t actually one of the robbers, it seems. The description is quite different. But I mustn’t say more, Mrs Stearns.” She didn’t actually know much more. “I just didn’t want Aunt Nell to go on hoping it’s a generous donation, so if you could break it to her . . . ?”

  “I will, though not till the morning, I’m afraid. I’m just leaving for a meeting. But I’ll have Timothy ring Nicholas about locking up.”

  “Thanks so much. I’m sure she’ll be all right. It’s just that—Oh, the inspector’s coming. I must ring off. But Mrs Stearns, suppose they believe the loot is still on the premises? We have a couple of men out there but all the same, I wish her guard dog were a little larger!”

  In spite of the Stearnses’ kindness, Eleanor was happy to be back in her own flat. Stretching her culinary skills to the limit, she grilled a lamb chop for supper and ate it at her desk so that she could look out at the lighthouse blinking—two flashes, pause, three flashes, longer pause—against the last purple glow of sunset over the headland. Then she fed Teazle and took her downstairs for her final run.

  The night was mild and clear. Overhead a million stars shone. The air smelt sweetly of gorse, with the musky scent of blackthorn blossom and a tang of seaweed. In the quiet, Eleanor could hear the slap of waves against the quay. Nick was in, his upstairs window a bright rectangle. He usually had music playing in the evenings, but perhaps he was turning over a record, she thought.

  She strolled up the path, past the back of the row of shops and cottages, while Teazle scuffled around in the scrub. The dog gave one short, sharp bark. Perhaps she had found the lurking policeman, but if so, she quickly decided he was a friend. A few windows were lit, some with the eerie blue glow of televisions. Voices reached her, and snatches of music, but no one else was about. Coming this way, the burglars had faced little risk of being seen or heard.

  At the end of the row she turned back. Teazle rejoined her as she reached her own back door. Nick was listening to the second half of Beethoven’s Pastoral now. Eleanor had never had much opportunity for listening to classical music, but she did recognise that. The shepherds’ hymn of thanksgiving after the storm exactly suited her mood—

  —Until she heard her phone ringing upstairs. Cursing the tyranny of machines, in ordinary times she would have let it ring and assumed the caller would ring back later if it were important. In view of recent events, she hurried in and ran up the stairs, only to discover that she had relocked the flat door behind her when she went out, and left the keys in the downstairs door when she came in.

  As soon as she started back down, the ringing stopped.

  Teazle sat at the bottom, regarding her with a bewildered look. Sighing, Eleanor continued down, took her keys from the back door and closed it, returned upstairs, and unlocked her flat door. The dog stayed at the foot of the stairs, watching her as if uncertain of the next move in the game. Eleanor called her and she scuttled up.

  During the course of these manoeuvres, Eleanor had been vaguely aware of Nick’s telephone ringing next door. It stopped after a couple of rings, so she assumed he had answered it and thought no more about it.

  A few minutes later came the sound of someone bounding up her stairs two at a time and knocking vigorously on her door. She was filling her hot water bottle, so she called, “Come in!” then wondered whether she had locked the door.

  Nick came in, jingling her keys in midair. “My dear Eleanor, I’ve just received a frantic phone call from the vicar, who seems to be convinced the bad guys have got you.”

  “Oh dear, that must have been him calling.” She squeezed the air from the hot water bottle and screwed in the top. “I heard the phone but couldn’t get to it in time. But why on earth did he want to talk to me? I mean, rather than Joce.”

  “She’s at some meeting or other, I gather. But don’t change the subject. The bad guys, if so minded, could have got you easily. These were in the flat door up here, and you’d left the downstairs door unlocked.”

  “I refuse to believe that the vicar said anything whatsoever about ‘bad guys.’ ”

  “Well, no, not in so many words. I can’t remember: Midianites? They were bad guys, weren’t they? Or could it have been worshippers of Baal? Or simply the forces of evil, perhaps? At any rate, I was adjured to make all haste to rescue you from their toils.”

  “Much ado about nothing.” Eleanor’s friends had no conception of the dangers she had faced in troubled parts of the world, because she didn’t like to talk about such things. In spite of the murder, she couldn’t really believe she wasn’t perfectly safe here in England, in the quiet village, in her cosy cottage. “I’d better ring up and tell him I’m perfectly all right. I don’t really believe the burglars will come back again. Whatever Mr Scumble says, surely they must realise that the police have taken the jewelry.”

  “I would remind you that it wasn’t taken into custody till today. “

  “And the police are watching front and back.”

  “I presume Mrs Stearns doesn’t know about them, or she didn’t tell the vicar, or he didn’t grasp the fact. In any case, he didn’t mention it, and I haven’t seen any sign of them.”

  “They’re supposed to keep out of sight, so as not to tip off the bad guys.”

  “Then they’re doing a good job of that, at least. The one at the back must be under a gorse bush. There isn’t really anywhere to hide at the front, in the street, though, so he can’t be close enough to be useful in an emergency. So if you wish your friends to retain their sanity, you will contrive to lock your doors until the police have caught these particular bad guys.”

  “I don’t leave them unlocked on purpose.”

  “I know. That’s why I’ve been sent to make sure they’re secured.”

  “Well, since you’re here, would you like some cocoa? I was just going to make a cup.”

  “I’d adore some cocoa.”

  “You’ll have to make it. I’m going to pop this into my bed and then phone the vicar.”

  Nick laughed. “Yes’m.”

  “Ev
erything’s ready. Just find yourself another mug.”

  When she came down, she checked that he was keeping an eye on the heating milk to make sure it didn’t boil over, then she dialled the vicarage. The phone rang several times before it was answered.

  “Vicar, this is Eleanor.”

  “Ah, hm, Eleanor?” he said uncertainly.

  “Eleanor Trewynn. You sent Nick Gresham over to make sure I was all right?”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs Trewynn. And are you?”

  “Am I . . . ? Oh, all right. Yes, perfectly, thank you. There’s really no need to worry about me.”

  “Jocelyn had a telephone call from someone . . . a police officer, could it be? Yes, of course, your niece.”

  “Megan?”

  “Er, yes. She seemed to be under the impression, if I’m not mistaken, that you were still staying here. At the vicarage.”

  Eleanor didn’t want to confuse the poor man still further by asking why Megan hadn’t rung her at home. No doubt she’d been in a hurry. But if she believed Eleanor was still at the vicarage, she wouldn’t have had any reason to remind her to lock her doors, so her call must have had some other purpose.

  Jocelyn had been in a hurry, also, to get to her meeting. Goodness knows how many messages had been lost in transit. She could only hope none were urgent. She was tired of the whole business.

  She thanked the vicar once more for his concern and said good-night.

  Nick brought her cocoa and sat down with his own on the other side of the fireplace. Eleanor had lit a small fire of driftwood earlier. Nick put another small log on. It crackled satisfyingly, flickering with multi-coloured flames.

  “Lilac for potassium and green for sodium,” Nick said reflectively, gazing into the fire. “Or vice versa. Or possibly neither. Chemistry was not my best subject at school.”

  “I’d have thought you’d remember colours, if nothing else.”

  “I remember coloured flames, just not their significance. People do expect one to remember the most uninteresting things.”