Manna from Hades

by Carola Dunn

“That can wait. What did you want to see me about?”

  “I . . . um . . . remembered something.” She put the plate of biscuits on the table at his elbow as a peace offering.

  “Hey!” said Nick. “How come I only got plain digies?”

  “I know how you go through the choccy ones, Nick, so I never open a new packet just for you. Would you make the tea while I tell Mr Scumble? Restrain yourself!” she added as he nabbed a biscuit in passing.

  “Well?” the inspector demanded impatiently, his notebook at the ready.

  “It’s about the briefcase, actually. When you asked me to describe it, I forgot about the monogram.”

  “A monogram! Do you realise that if you’d told me at once—?”

  “It wasn’t very obvious,” Eleanor excused herself. “Embossed, not gilt or . . . or anything that stood out. And it was difficult to make out. Those curlicue-ish sort of letters, you know, all intertwined.”

  “What letters?”

  “D and A and a W.”

  “D A W? In that order?”

  “Not exactly.” She could picture it now. “Superimposed. There was a big D, with a W inside it, and the A was formed by a crossbar in the centre of the W.”

  “Can you draw it?”

  “Heavens no. I’m hopeless at drawing. I actually managed to fail art at school.”

  “That would take some doing,” said Nick, setting down the tea tray. He whipped Scumble’s biro from his fingers and bent over the official notebook. “Something like this, Eleanor?” He held it up.

  “Yes, sort of.”

  Scumble retrieved his pen and pad and studied Nick’s drawing. “So it could equally well be W A D?”

  “I suppose so. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “It’s not important,” he said dismissively. “Call it useful, perhaps, but not vital. We’re already ninety-nine percent certain who the jewels belong to. The monogram makes it ninety-nine and a half. And it’ll confirm that the case is his, if we find it.”

  “Oh.” All that angst for nothing. “Whose are they?”

  “Now, now, Mrs Trewynn, you know I’m in the business of asking questions, not answering them.”

  “So, what was it you came to ask me about?”

  Leafing slowly back through his notebook, Scumble said, “It’s a bit of a discrepancy we have here. You claim you’ve never seen the deceased before?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I said I didn’t recognise him. He may, for all I know, have crossed my field of vision without my noticing him. But whatever my failings, I have an excellent memory for faces. If I had ever had anything to do with him, I’d remember him, very likely his name if I had heard it, and probably whatever it was that brought us into contact.”

  “Then how do you explain that five people are ready to swear they’ve seen him several times helping you carry goods from your car into the shop?”

  “Megan said no one recognised him.”

  “My men have asked a lot more people since then. So? Your explanation?”

  “That’s easy. I’d be astounded if a single one of them actually noticed anything more than a thin boy with long hair and shabby jeans. It’s like policemen: How many people really look at the face under the helmet? What they see is a bobby, in the one case; a hippy, or a slacker, or some similar pejorative label in the other.” Eleanor warmed to her thesis. “If a tall African man were to walk down the street outside, and the next day you took round a photo of a completely different tall African man and asked if people had seen him, how many do you suppose would realise it wasn’t the same person?”

  “All right, all right, you’ve made your point.”

  “What’s more, I bet I can give you the names of at least two of those people who’ve told your men they saw the dead boy helping me.”

  “There’s no need for that!” Scumble said hastily. “I gather you don’t deny having had a ‘thin boy with long hair and shabby jeans’ helping you?”

  “Of course not. In fact—” She looked round as the door opened. “Oh, Joce, you’re just in time. Mr Scumble—”

  “Back again, Inspector? I hope you’ve come to tell us you have arrested the murderer?”

  “I might have by now,” Scumble growled, “if everybody had told me all they know right away instead of doling it out like . . . like Oliver Twist’s porridge!”

  “Nicely put, Inspector,” said Nick. “You must have seen the musical. Tea, Mrs Stearns?”

  “I read the book at school,” Scumble said acidly, turning back to Eleanor. “You were telling me about the victim’s double.”

  “Not his double, Inspector. Joce, you remember when I found the body?”

  “I’m hardly likely to forget it!”

  “You remember,” Eleanor persisted, “at first I thought it was someone else?”

  “You thought it might be Trevor. But as soon as you looked at his face, you knew it wasn’t.”

  “A very superficial resemblance, Mr Scumble. Skinny, long darkish hair—”

  “Scruffy jeans, yes. You know what they say, though: Birds of a feather flock together. There’s likely some connection. After all, someone knew whose car they put the loot in. It’s a great pity the sun was shining on their windscreen so that you couldn’t see them.”

  “Not at all, Inspector,” Jocelyn protested. “Surely Eleanor would be in danger if she were able to identify them.”

  “It doesn’t make much difference,” Nick pointed out, “as long as they think she can.”

  “In any case,” said Scumble, “I’ll have to follow up this Trevor of yours. What’s his surname?”

  Eleanor and Jocelyn looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “He didn’t mention it, and we had no reason to ask.”

  “Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Nick blandly.

  Scumble gave him a black look. “You must know something more about him. I assume he didn’t live locally, or people would know him. Did he stay in the area often, or were all his appearances within a short period, a holiday?”

  “I’d say on and off over the past couple of years,” said Jocelyn. “You’re the one who talked to him, Eleanor.”

  “He’s not a talker. I gathered he came to stay with an uncle hereabouts, but whether the uncle’s a resident or a summer visitor, I’ve no idea.”

  “And I suppose you don’t know the uncle’s name.”

  “I’m afraid not. He never referred to him by name.”

  “Nor where the boy’s home is,” Scumble said without hope.

  “I’m afraid not,” Eleanor repeated. “He’s a nice boy, though. I’m sure he can’t have had anything to do with the jewel robbery.”

  “Assuming the uncle lives outside Port Mabyn, how did Trevor get to the village? Car? Motorbike?”

  “His uncle may have given him a lift sometimes for all I know, but he did mention walking and hitchhiking.”

  “So you don’t know whether he could drive.”

  “Sorry, no idea.”

  The inspector sighed.

  “Did you find the car, Inspector?” Jocelyn asked. “The one Eleanor saw that may have been the jewel thieves’?”

  “Now what did I just say to Mrs Trewynn? I’m the one asking questions, not answering them. And my next is: Is there anything else she’s told you, Mrs Stearns—or Mr Gresham, come to that—that she hasn’t yet got round to telling me?”

  “How can we know, Inspector,” Nick enquired pointedly, “unless you tell us everything you’ve found out so far?”

  “I’m not that desperate yet,” snapped Scumble.

  Megan was zipping down the north slope of the Mendip hills into the valley of the Yeo when Ken Faraday emerged from a sea of paper.

  “Nice driving,” he said appreciatively, then ruined the compliment by adding, “Very much improved. I didn’t have to grab the edge of the seat once. Of course, in this toy car I couldn’t fall off it if I tried.”

  “You never fell off when I was drivin
g in London.”

  “I always gripped the edge of the seat. You must have been practising. Have you got yourself a car of your own?”

  “No, but I’ll have to splurge soon if Dr Beeching keeps wielding his axe in the name of economy. They’re threatening to close down every railway in Cornwall, even the main line from Plymouth to Penzance!”

  “Disgraceful,” said Ken with a grin.

  “It is. Most people can’t afford a car, and we don’t want any motorways. Ah well, revenons à nos moutons. Have you read all the reports?

  “Just about. Your chaps seem pretty thorough, but there’s one thing . . . Meggie—oops, Megan—who’s this starving artist type who keeps popping up? Grisham—no, Gresham. He seems to be very much in the thick of things, and I gather no one has investigated him thoroughly.”

  “He’s a friend of Aunt Nell’s.”

  “Oh, an old fogey.”

  “Not at all. He’s about our age. I wouldn’t say he’s starving. He appears to be doing better than merely keeping body and soul together.”

  “ ‘Appears to.’ Many a crime’s been committed for the sake of keeping up appearances.”

  Megan laughed. “I can’t imagine many people less likely to care about keeping up appearances.”

  “Scruffy is he? Like the victim?”

  “Not at all. Paint-splotched, usually, but he cleans up nicely.”

  “He would have cleaned up, presumably, to take your aunt out to dinner. That’s odd, isn’t it? That he should invite an old lady out? Gay, is he?”

  “I have no idea,” Megan said coldly. “He’s Aunt Nell’s neighbour and friend.”

  “Or trying to ingratiate himself with a childless elderly widow.”

  That made Megan laugh again. “If you mean, with an eye to a legacy, you’re way off target. Aunt Nell put every penny she owned into buying the cottage and getting the shop going. She’s living on a pension, and I think there’s a small annuity her husband set up.”

  “All right, so they’re friends. But he knew she’d found the jewelry in her car—”

  “Not till the following day.”

  “So they claim. And he very neatly got her out of the way while a murder was committed on her ground floor. Living next door, he must have known the dog would rouse her if there were intruders in the night.”

  “Ken, you’re flogging a dead horse,” Megan said, exasperated. “Let’s concentrate on identifying the victim. Then we’ll have half a chance of working out who topped him and why. Now shut up, would you? I need to concentrate on driving. Have you got the directions handy?”

  They found their way through the city to the main police station, where they were expected. The desk sergeant had a street map waiting, with the tobacconist and the pub, the Sailors’ Rest, marked on it.

  “It’s not the nicest part of town,” he said, addressing Ken but looking at Megan. “Down by the docks. Going to be redeveloped soon. You want a couple of our lads along?”

  “No, thanks. We’re not looking for aggro.”

  “Yeah, but is aggro looking for you?”

  “Doubt it. We’ll find out, won’t we.”

  “Up to you, mate. You get your blocks knocked off, we’ll give you a nice funeral.”

  “Kind of you,” said Ken sardonically. “Thanks a lot.”

  When they reached the dockyards, they understood the sergeant’s remarks. The area was indeed uninviting, to put it kindly. Most buildings were dilapidated, many obviously unused, with a shuttered look, just waiting for demolition. Every flat surface was covered with graffiti.

  Behind and among the warehouses stood cheerless rows of stevedores’ dwellings and sailors’ rooming houses, opening directly onto the pavement. Those that were still occupied gave an overwhelming impression of dinginess. Most of the residents were probably on the dole. Almost all ground-floor windows of the abandoned houses were broken. Shards of window glass and shattered beer bottles flashed in the incongruous evening sunshine as Megan and Ken drove by. Litter scurried and swirled before a brisk breeze.

  The only people they saw were a shabby boy kicking a rusty tin along the street and an equally shabby couple of men standing on a doorstep arguing. The pubs were open by now. No doubt they were full.

  All the shops they passed were boarded up until they came to the corner where J. Bradshaw, licensed to sell tobacco, eked out a meagre living. Megan stopped at the kerb right outside. There was no competition here for parking space. It was impossible to see inside through all the bits of paper pasted in the windows, offering everything from a bedsitter at a ridiculously low rent to “French lessons” for not much more.

  Though Megan had seen sights just as dismal when she worked in London, the contrast with Launceston and Port Mabyn was shocking. There might be poverty in the country, but at least one had the scenery to take the edge off.

  “I hate to leave the car unguarded,” she said. “Some yobbo’ll have the wheels off it in seconds.”

  “We should have borrowed a marked car. You stay here. I’ll go in.”

  “I’ll go in. I’m less likely to make him nervous, don’t you think? He’s bound to be doing something illegal, if it’s only fiddling his taxes.”

  “You think the poor sod makes enough to owe taxes?”

  Looking at the shop, Megan conceded, “No. Unless it’s immoral earnings off the adverts in his window. He can’t be too worried, or he wouldn’t have contacted us.”

  “True.”

  “Look, I saw the body. If he’s iffy about the photo, perhaps I can remember something that’ll help.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. Okay, you go in. Leave the door open so you’ll hear me shout for help if I’m assaulted.”

  Megan bit her lip, remembering why she had once been . . . fond of him. That self-deprecating sense of humour and his occasional kindness had—for a while—masked the innate arrogance and the roving eye.

  For a while. She hurried across the littered pavement into the shop.

  NINETEEN

  The man behind the counter of the tobacconist–newsagent–sweet shop was short, spare, and almost completely bald. A burly customer leant against the counter, holding the Evening Standard folded to the sports page. They stopped discussing football when Megan came in, and the burly man turned to look at her. His dungarees were well worn but not quite shabby. Still in work, Megan guessed.

  “Born in a barn, was you, darlin’?” he enquired truculently, with a pointed glance at the open door. The shopman muttered something to him. “Huh! Right you are, Jim. No offence meant,” he said to Megan, ingratiating now, “and none taken, I ’ope. See you, Jim.” He went out, skirting Megan as though she had the plague, and leaving the door open.

  “Mr Bradshaw?” she asked, going up to the counter. She knew she had been identified as a rozzer. Some people had a sixth sense about it, though it often failed when they were faced with a woman officer.

  “That’s me.”

  “DS Pencarrow, North Cornwall police.” She showed her warrant card. “You telephoned in response to our request for information about a murder victim.”

  “ ’Sright. I couldn’t swear to ’im, mind.”

  “Newspaper pictures aren’t too good. I have a proper print here, if you wouldn’t mind taking a look.”

  “Gruesome, is it?” He put out his hand and regarded with disappointment the bloodless photo she put into it. “Not a mark on ’im, but you can tell ’e’s a goner, can’t you? That’s ’im, all right.”

  “You know his name? Or where we can find someone who knew him?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, miss, or should I say officer? All I can say is I seen ’im in the shop maybe four or five times. ’E’s one of these squatters, see. Leastways, that’s what I reckon. He come in with a couple of kids just like ’im once. Never had a job, most of ’em. Dirty ’abits, drugs, long hair.” He smoothed a hand over his bare scalp. “They break into unoccupied houses, don’t care the water and electric’s been turned o
ff. Doss there till it gets too smelly even for them, then they go find another one. So even if I knew where he’d been staying, which I don’t, them he was sharing with likely moved on by now.”

  “But you’re sure he was in this area.”

  “Got a good memory for faces, I ’ave. And I keep an eye on ’em seeing I’ve caught a couple nicking fags—or sweets. Wet behind the ears, some of ‘em. Ought to pack it in and go home to mummy.”

  “Could you identify any of those you’ve seen with him?” She tapped the photo, which he’d laid down on the counter.

  “You show me photos, or line ’em up in front of me, I could. But you got to catch ’em first, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Megan agreed ruefully. “Can you by any chance put a date to the last time you saw him?” Again she tapped the picture.

  “Last weekend,” Bradshaw said promptly. “He bought a paper. The Mirror, was it? No, I tell a lie, it was Sunday, the News of the World. And I never seen him buy a paper before. Which ain’t to say he never did, but I’m the only newsagent still open hereabouts.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if he was a frequent reader.”

  “Though the truth is, they don’t buy much of anything,” the newsagent went on. “Turning the place into a slum, they are. I’m not saying it was ever smart hereabouts, but it was a decent place, plenty of work and respectable people, mostly, ’cepting Sat’day nights when the pubs let out. Nowadays the ships are too big to come up the river. They’re going to clear the rest of us out when they get round to it, but the more run-down it is, the less compensation they’ll be paying. So if you lot was to clear out them squatters, there’s none would lift a finger to stop you.”

  That explained his cooperation. “I’m afraid that’s up to the Bristol police,” Megan reminded him.

  “Yeah, but if you tell ’em the squatters ’ve got themselves mixed up in murder now, maybe they’ll get up off their fat arses and do something. Pardon my French.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Megan said. “It’s possible someone may have to contact you again.”

  “ ’S all right by me.” He waved at his deserted shop. “Ain’t got so much to do I can’t spare the time. Gets boring dusting the stock.”