Manna from Hades

by Carola Dunn

  “Yes. I need it tomorrow to take Cam to Taunton.”

  “Do you think the weather will be okay?” Cam asked.

  “I hope so! What do you think, Nick?”

  “The harder it blows, the sooner it goes. If that isn’t an olde Cornish proverb, it ought to be.”

  Whether it was an old Cornish proverb or not, Nick’s saying proved accurate. At about four, the wind suddenly dropped completely. The squalls turned to a fine mizzle that was not enough to deter Eleanor.

  “I’m going for a walk, Cam.”

  Teazle jumped up, tail wagging madly.

  “She knows that word all right!”

  “Do you want to come?”

  “Would you like me to?”

  “I’d be happy to have your company, or happy on my own. It’s your choice.”

  “I haven’t got a coat.”

  Eleanor found a jacket and a headscarf for Camilla. By that time the rain had stopped altogether, and Teazle was whining impatiently at the door. They went downstairs. Polmenna and Wilkes jumped to their feet from the cane-bottomed chairs Eleanor had provided from the stockroom. Now she would find out whether the two officers were guarding the premises or the people.

  “It’s cleared up. We’re going for a walk.”

  “Oh!” They looked at each other. Polmenna said, “Er, would you mind awfully waiting for a few minutes, Mrs Trewynn? Wilkes has just been up to the car and radioed, and our reliefs’ll be here very shortly.”

  “You can send them after us, then. We’re only going up the hill and along the cliff path.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sure you can sort it out between you,” Eleanor said with a smile. “Come on, Cam, in case the rain starts again. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

  They went on their way. It wasn’t till they reached the top of the hill and gazed down at the stormy sea, beating against the headland in great clouds of spray, that Eleanor realised she not only hadn’t locked the flat, she hadn’t even brought her keys.

  Oh well, she thought, she had two policemen guarding it, or at least one, if the other had followed them. She refused to look back to find out, and Camilla seemed to have forgotten them altogether. The seaside to her meant a summer day trip to Minehead on a crowded coach, with sandwiches on the beach and an icecream for a treat. She was thrilled by the crashing waves, thunderous even here high above the flying spume.

  The last clouds dissipated and the sun shone. A herring gull came to tease Teazle, floating in effortless circles above them.

  Cam flung her arms wide and cried, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  When they turned back, there was no sign of the detectives. But as they approached the village, they saw Polmenna leaning against the fence of the first house, a bed-and-breakfast place.

  “Oh no!” Camilla groaned. “Why can’t they leave us alone? I don’t want them following me home.”

  “No. I’m not acquainted with your parents but somehow I don’t think the return of the Prodigal Daughter with the police on her tail would go down well. Don’t worry, if they’re still around tomorrow, we’ll evade them.”

  On Monday, DCs Wilkes and Polmenna were back on guard duty. The weather was still fine, though the early morning air was chilly. Eleanor, tired of being constantly under surveillance, hardened her heart and didn’t invite them into the passage.

  When the shops opened at nine, she and Camilla and Teazle went out to restock her depleted larder. Wilkes, looking embarrassed, trailed them up the hill to the mini-supermarket, back down to the greengrocer, and lastly to the bakery. Obviously the police were determined to keep an eye on her and Camilla as well as the site of the murder.

  To Eleanor’s relief, he didn’t go so far as to follow them into the shops, instead staying outside with Teazle. She chatted with several people without being asked about the murder—apparently it was a six-day wonder, or else the villagers had resumed their natural polite reticence.

  Coming out of the bakery, she saw Jocelyn going into the LonStar shop opposite.

  “Oh, good,” she said to Camilla, who was carrying the basket. “Let’s go and put this stuff away and then we can find you some decent clothes, I hope. I’ve still got most of the money the police gave me to outfit you. I’ll have to give it back if we don’t spend it, so let’s hope Mrs Stearns can find things you like. She knows exactly where everything is.”

  Camilla sighed. “It’ll be nice to buy some clothes, but I expect I’d better get what Mum and Dad would like me to wear, not what I’d choose for myself, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a very good idea.” Sensible was the word that came to mind, but Eleanor wasn’t sure Cam would care to be called sensible. “What do they like to see you in?”

  “Skirts,” she said gloomily. “And not mini-skirts, either.”

  “Oh.” Eleanor looked down at the tweed skirt she wore for shopping at this time of year. “Then I expect I’d better keep this on instead of changing into the tracksuit I usually wear for collecting in the country. You won’t mind if we stop here and there on our way, to pick up donations for LonStar.”

  Jocelyn had just opened the shop. She managed to find several parent-pleasing outfits for Camilla. While the skirts and tops didn’t exactly thrill the girl, at least she didn’t say she wouldn’t be seen dead in them, though that might have been because she seemed to find Jocelyn rather alarming. A pair of shoes in the latest style cheered her up. They were in perfect condition, probably a donation from someone trying to fit into a size smaller than was practicable. Jocelyn also dug up a pair of walking shoes and a bag to pack everything in.

  “Thank you, Mrs Stearns,” Cam said earnestly. “It’s ever so kind of you to go to so much trouble.”

  “I’m glad we were able to fit you out. Now run along, dear. I have some business to discuss with Mrs Trewynn.”

  “Put a kettle on, will you, Cam?” said Eleanor. “I’m dying for a cup of coffee. Thanks, Joce,” she went on as the girl departed, laden. “I hate shopping for clothes for myself, and shopping for someone else is even worse. I’m exhausted.”

  “Who is she?” Jocelyn demanded. “All you’ve told me is that she’s a witness.”

  “She’s a child who made a bad mistake. Thanks to Megan, it looks as if we’re going to be able to put things right. At bottom, she’s a very nice girl, and bright. I really can’t tell you any more now, or Mr Scumble would have my blood. Not that I know very much more.”

  “That man! I take it he’s responsible for the policemen keeping the shop under surveillance?”

  “Oh dear, they’re not very good at being inconspicuous, are they?”

  “Since at least three people have asked me this morning what they’re up to, I’d have to say no, they’re not.”

  “If it’s any comfort, they seem more interested in Cam and me, not the shop. One of them came to the shops with us. Joce, I’m taking Cam home to her parents this afternoon, and I don’t want those two following us. How can I get her away?”

  “Do you think that’s wise? After all, that man is investigating a murder, though he doesn’t seem to be getting very far.”

  “I’ll be coming straight home after dropping her, and if he can persuade me he really needs to know, of course I’ll tell him how to find her.”

  “You’d better tell me where you’re going, just in case. You can write it down, and I won’t even look myself, unless that man can persuade me he really needs to know.”

  “And you’re much less persuadable than I am,” Eleanor said, laughing. “All right. But I’m going to do some collecting along the way, so I’ll have to work out exactly which way we’ll go. I’ll drop off our itinerary before we leave. If you can suggest how to elude our watchdogs.”

  “I’ve got an idea.” She explained.

  “Good heavens, Joce, I’d never have expected such deviousness from you!”

  “Only because you’re escaping from that man.”

  “Never mind your justification. It�
�s positively sneaky. We’ll try it.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Eleanor went up to the flat and explained Jocelyn’s plan to Camilla, whom she found looking very respectable in a green woollen skirt and pale yellow blouse.

  “Gosh, I can’t believe Mrs Stearns came up with anything so . . . so . . .”

  “Devious? Nor could I. I’ll go and tell Nick.”

  “Is it all right if I come too? I’d love to see his pictures. I’ve never met a real artist before.”

  They went out the back way, taking Teazle. Tail wagging, the dog headed straight to the semi-concealed DC Polmenna. He stooped to pet her and muttered a sheepish, “Good morning,” to Eleanor and Camilla.

  They returned the greeting and proceeded a few yards down the path. Eleanor knocked on Nick’s window. As he came to open his back door, she had a dismaying thought.

  “Nick, the flood! Will I be able to get the Incorruptible out?”

  “I haven’t been down there today, but when I went to the pub last night the water was going down fast, already off the bridge. Do you need it now? Shall I go and check? Fend off the ravening hordes of customers for me and I’ll be back in half a tick.” He headed for the shop.

  “Wait! Let me explain. Cam, why don’t you go into the shop and look around while I tell Nick our plan.”

  “But what about the customers?”

  Nick laughed. “They’re a myth. Don’t worry, if anyone comes in I’ll hear the bell and come rushing to the rescue. What’s up, Eleanor?”

  “We want to get away from our watchers. Jocelyn suggested you should take the car up the other side, past the Wreckers, and leave it in the car park at the top there. Then Cam and I will walk up to the hairdresser—I can’t remember what Miss Hatchell calls it—”

  “Delilah’s.”

  “That’s it. Definitely a mistake. The chapel people won’t go there. We’ll get Cam a quick trim. Lord knows she could do with it! I’m sure Miss Hatchell will fit her in at noon prompt as a favour, if I ring her now. She’s only really busy in the summer. Then we’ll go out the back way—”

  “Brilliant! This is Mrs Stearns’s plot? What devious minds the Anglicans have. If there’s any shop the ’tecs won’t follow you into, it’s the ladies’ hairdresser. I’ll go right away and move the car. Then I’ll bring you back the keys. I’ll go up the street and come back the back way, so Wilkes will see me go but won’t see me return.”

  “What devious minds artists have! Here are the keys. Thanks, Nick. Anytime—”

  “May the time I need help evading the police never come!”

  “You never know. Cam! Let’s go.”

  Camilla came through from the shop. “Thank you for letting me look,” she said to Nick. “I really like the scenery ones, but the others, the ones I don’t really understand properly, they’re super-special, aren’t they? They make you think.”

  Nick looked startled and pleased. “You’ve got an eye for the real thing, Cam. A better eye than Eleanor, for one.”

  “Oh dear,” said Eleanor, “I hope you aren’t going to decide to be an artist, Cam.”

  “Don’t worry, I can’t draw for toffee. I’m not going to keep changing my mind now. I really and truly want to be a vet. Is everything arranged for our escape?”

  “We’re all set. Now I have to go and put my mind to which route we’re going to take.”

  They went back to the flat. Eleanor made a list of villages, some no more than hamlets, that she expected to pass through, along with a few isolated farms and summer bungalows where she might stop along the way. She pictured the route as if she were driving it and had no difficulty recalling the places and the people who lived there. The quirks of memory were inexplicable, she decided—of her memory, at least.

  Shortly before half past noon, Eleanor, a newly shorn Camilla, and Teazle stepped out of Miss Hatchell’s back door onto a narrow asphalt path. On the other side was a drystone wall with a white-painted gate, enclosing a tiny patch of garden ablaze with scarlet tulips. An elderly woman looked up from her weeding and waved to them.

  “A magnificent show, Mrs Pertwee,” said Eleanor, but didn’t stop to chat.

  They turned right up the hill. The front door of the next cottage opened directly onto the path. Just beyond, the path turned into steps. At the top of the flight, they turned left on a cross-path, and so made their way upward by twists and turns and slopes and steps, past houses and pocket-handkerchief gardens, till they came out onto the road just opposite the car park. There the Incorruptible awaited them.

  The car was a bit muddy around the skirts, but started immediately, “Which is the important thing,” said Eleanor.

  She drove on up the hill a few yards then turned into a lane not much wider than the car, with hedge-banks on each side where primroses and violets were still in bloom, joined already by ragged robin, stitchwort, and great umbels of cow parsley. They went without stopping, as directly as the wandering lanes allowed, until they had crossed the B road. Then they started collecting, calling at Trewennan, Trekee, Treburgell, and Pengenna, picking up odds and ends which nearly filled the boot. A farmer’s wife gave them the inevitable pasties for lunch, then they went on: Trewane, Trelill, Pennytinney, Trequite. Donations crowded Teazle on the backseat.

  “I’ll do St Kew on a separate trip,” Eleanor decided. “The village is big enough to fill the car on its own. We’ll go round by Brighter, then straight on to Bodmin.”

  “Is Bodmin on the way to Taunton?”

  “Bodmin, Plymouth, Exeter, Taunton. We’ve quite a drive ahead of us still. Perhaps I should skip Brighter. There’s not a proper road up to the farm and the track is probably knee-deep in mud after that rain.”

  Between Trequite and the A39, the lane crossed over a small stream. Just on the far side of the bridge, an isolated cottage stood on the bank, facing the stream, half hidden by golden-green willows. Once derelict, it had been nicely restored and enlarged by a Londoner, who couldn’t be called either a summer visitor or a weekender, as Eleanor had found him there at odd times on weekdays and weekends, spring, summer, and autumn. When the owner was there, he usually gave her something.

  There was his sleek maroon Jaguar (she could tell the make from the emblem on the bonnet) parked on a patch of asphalt to one side.

  Eleanor drove past and pulled the Morris Minor as far over to the side of the lane as she could. “I’m afraid I may be blocking the way,” she said to Cam. “If someone honks to get by, come and fetch me, will you, dear? I’ll just pop in and see if Mr Donaldson has anything for us.”

  “We hardly have any room left. Never mind, Teazle can sit on my lap.”

  “She’ll love that. Stay, Teazle. I shan’t be a minute.”

  As she opened the gate with the name of the cottage, Withy’s End, painted on it, Eleanor cast her mind back to the owner’s previous donations. He had several times donated jewelry, she recalled, nothing terribly valuable, mostly silver set with semi-precious stones, turquoise, cairngorm, onyx, jade. He was a jeweller, and he had told her he brought items that weren’t selling to Cornwall specially to give to her for LonStar. Unlike ordinary household donations, they required special paperwork. She had seen his full name, and it was Wilfred A. Donaldson.

  She started putting two and two together.

  D A W, she thought—or W A D. Surely he must be the jeweller who had been robbed. What an odd coincidence that his jewelry had been recovered so near his holiday cottage.

  A very odd coincidence indeed. Eleanor’s thoughts raced. It was not the only local connection—DI Scumble seemed convinced that her sometime helper Trevor was mixed up in the business.

  Was Donaldson the uncle Trevor had told her about?

  Trevor had always seemed such a nice boy, though a hopeless layabout. She found it hard to believe, but he and his friend must have held up, and beaten up, his uncle. What a horrible shock to the poor man.

  But could it have been Trevor? According to the newspapers, the police w
ere looking for a couple of tall, burly, well-dressed men. That description in no way fitted either Trevor or the dead youth. Had Mr Donaldson lied to the police, to protect his nephew?

  What was it Trevor had said about him? He had promised Trevor’s mother, his sister, to take care of him. Even in these appalling circumstances, he was trying to keep his promise. Presumably he had come down to Cornwall to escape persistent questioning by the police, for fear of revealing something that would lead them to Trevor.

  Which was exceptionally kind and generous of him, yet it didn’t explain why Trevor should have brought the loot to this part of the country. Wouldn’t the jewelry be much easier to sell in a big city? In fact, rural North Cornwall seemed about the most unlikely place in the world.

  The only reason Eleanor could think of for Trevor to come here was to see his uncle. Suppose he had repented and decided to return the proceeds of the robbery, and his friend had refused to go along, leading to a quarrel, a fight, a death.

  No, that didn’t work. Trevor must have been in Cornwall on Tuesday, when Mr Donaldson had still been in hospital in London. How could the boy have guessed his uncle would come down here? Surely it was much more likely that the jeweller would stay in town to monitor the police hunt for his valuables. Unless—

  Unless the whole business had been engineered by Donaldson, for some fraudulent purpose Eleanor couldn’t even begin to decipher, ignorant as she was of the business world.

  While thinking, she had unconsciously continued slowly along the path to the front door, and even raised her hand to knock. Now she thought better of it. She ought to find a telephone box and report her theory to Megan. Or even Scumble, though he would certainly castigate her for wasting his time with her guesswork.

  She had started to turn away when the door was flung open. Donaldson stood on the threshold, a short, tubby, balding man, who always wore a jacket and tie even in the depths of the country in the summer. Eleanor had always considered his round pink face almost cherubic when he handed over his generous gifts to LonStar. Now, however, blotched with yellowish green fading bruises, it wore a ferocious scowl.