by Carola Dunn
“Been telling you a sob-story, has he?” Scumble said nastily.
“I believe him.” His sceptical look made her add, “What’s more, so does Mrs Stearns,” though she wasn’t absolutely certain of Jocelyn’s opinion. At least it gave him pause. “His uncle will tell you it was Norman who beat him up, not Trevor.”
“Hmph.”
Camilla and Trevor came out with a roll of two-inch bandage, some cottonwool, and a bottle of TCP. By this time Nick was inching his way out of the Jaguar, feet first, with Jocelyn urging him on and Megan telling him to take care.
“This is all we could find,” said Camilla, Trevor lurking nervously behind her.
Examining their finds, Jocelyn snorted and said, “Clean tea-towels?”
Nick stood, bent slightly at the waist, supported by Megan. The torn shirt wrapped round his chest was soaked with blood on one side. He was pale and obviously in some pain, but he gave Eleanor a crooked grin and croaked, “ ‘See the conquering hero come.’ ” She thought he looked dreadful, but obviously Jocelyn didn’t consider him to be at death’s door, and Jocelyn was usually right. Wilkes hurried to help Megan support him into the house.
Jocelyn took charge of the operation. “Bring him in here,” she said, leading the way into a sort of study. “We don’t want to tackle the stairs, and this appears to be the only room in the house with a sofa.”
How she knew, Eleanor couldn’t guess. They had all stayed in the kitchen before, but Jocelyn was omniscient. The study had a wide window looking out over a patch of rough grass to the row of willows and the stream. In spite of the pleasant view, it seemed to Eleanor an uninviting cross between an office and a sitting room. The large desk, four-drawer file cabinet, and bookshelves were functional modern metal. The seats were a particularly hideous maroon leather, a colour Donaldson seemed fond of, though comfortable enough to judge by the sigh of relief with which Nick subsided on the sofa. There were no pictures on the walls. The only homely touch was a Dutch tile stove in one corner.
Scumble made straight for the stove and opened the stoking door in the front. “Safe,” he said, jingling keys in his pocket. “Ah well, it can wait for a search warrant. Your statement can wait, too, Mr Gresham, as I have two official witnesses. Pencarrow, you stay in here and take statements from Mrs Trewynn and Miss . . . Camilla. Wilkes, you and I will have a word with this young feller-me-lad in the kitchen.” He gestured at Trevor and jerked his thumb towards the door.
Jocelyn straightened abruptly from leaning over her patient. “Oh no, Inspector! Trevor isn’t going to talk to you until he has a solicitor to advise him.”
Scumble glared at her. “All I want just now is a preliminary statement.”
Trevor stammered, “I d-don’t mind—”
“How old are you, Trevor?” Eleanor asked.
“Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.”
“A juvenile!” Scumble was disgusted.
“I don’t care how old he is, he’s not answering questions without a lawyer,” Jocelyn said adamantly. “I shall telephone Freeth and Bulwer as soon as I’ve seen to Nicholas. Come to think of it, Timothy must be wondering where on earth I’ve got to. Eleanor, would you mind ringing him for me? Just tell him I’ve been a little delayed. Mr Wilkes, bring a basin of water, if you please.”
Dear Jocelyn, Eleanor thought as she went to the desk and dialled the Stearns’s number. At times her bossy nature might be irritating, but in times of crisis she came through with flying colours.
“Hello, Vicar, this is Eleanor. Yes, Eleanor Trewynn. I’m just ringing to say Jocelyn’s been delayed . . . No, nothing serious . . . No, of course not another murder . . .” Not quite.
Megan was about to ask Camilla to describe events at Withy’s End when Scumble, his intent to interrogate Trevor foiled, decided to take her and Aunt Nell’s statements himself. He sent Trevor to the kitchen with Wilkes so that he wouldn’t hear the evidence. By the time he was finished with Aunt Nell, Nick was feeling well enough to give his statement.
“You’d better ring the Yard, Pencarrow,” the inspector said. “The boy wonder’ll be wondering what’s going on.”
Waiting to be connected, Megan listened with amusement to Nick’s highly coloured account of the encounter with Donaldson. She didn’t really expect Ken to be at work so late—it was half six by now—but the switchboard put her through. In rather more temperate terms than the artist’s she told him what had happened.
“Strewth, Megan, you have all the fun down there! I should have gone back with you. So Donaldson’s going to be facing a charge of attempted murder?”
“Yes, I haven’t had time to think about it but that’s what it amounts to.”
“Silly git. Without that, the worst he could have been nailed for is accessory before, and if you ask me it’d be practically impossible to get a jury to convict. Besides, assuming your aunt’s account is correct, the boy’s death was manslaughter, not murder.”
“But there’s the faked robbery. Donaldson didn’t want to go to prison for making a fraudulent claim—”
“That’s why I said he’s a fool. You can’t charge someone with insurance fraud unless they make a claim. And he hasn’t. On the other hand, perhaps he’s just anticipating trouble. Our Fraud laddies are finding some interesting bits and pieces among his papers. They think he may have kept some of his records elsewhere.”
“Here, I’m sure. This place is more like a cross between an office and a hideout than a holiday home. There’s a hidden safe, too.”
“Is there now! Be so kind as to ask your lord and master not to muck about with anything till we can send someone down. Beg him, plead with him on bended knee.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I’ll pass on your request. The Fraud Squad didn’t start looking till Donaldson staged the robbery, did they?”
“No. If he’d been patient, he might well have got away with whatever it is he’s been doing.”
“The gaupus!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A Cornish silly git,” Megan explained. “I’d better ring off. This is going on the gaupus’s phone bill.”
Ken laughed. “Just one more point. As the insurance company hasn’t forked out, I imagine they may not feel obliged to pay the usual percentage for recovery of the jewels. But there’s a good chance your aunt will get some sort of reward.”
“Are you serious?”
“Certainly. I’ve no idea how much it might be.”
“Never mind. It’ll all go straight to LonStar, I expect.”
“Don’t tell her yet, in case it doesn’t materialise. Have you thought of a good place for me to take you to dinner when I come to interview Donaldson?”
“I haven’t had a chance! ’Bye, Ken.”
The phone rang the moment she put down the receiver. It was the solicitor in Port Mabyn. To Scumble’s irritation, in accordance with Mrs Stearns’s request, he had already arranged for a Bodmin solicitor to meet Trevor as soon as he arrived at the Bodmin nick.
DI Scumble was not a happy man, and for once Megan could sympathise. His murder case was dissipating before his eyes, turning into manslaughter—or even an act of heroism—by a juvenile, and he had a wounded civilian to account for, never popular with the top brass. If any laurels were proffered, they would no doubt have to be shared with Scotland Yard, in the person of Kenneth Faraday. Certainly none would reach Megan, who might conceivably be blamed for letting Nick Gresham put himself in danger.
As if she could have stopped him! She hadn’t even known Donaldson was armed. But in spite of the casualty, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of triumph: Ken was hunting for the jeweller, but she had found their quarry first.
When the ambulance arrived, Nick refused to let himself be carted off to the county hospital in Bodmin. Properly bandaged by the ambulance men, he promised them he would see his own doctor next day.
“He shouldn’t come to no harm in the backseat of that Jag,” said one. “Mind, if you was thinking of cr
amming him into one of them Minis, let alone the Moggie, you’d be asking for trouble.”
They watched with interest as Scumble turned an unlovely shade of puce, not very different from Donaldson’s sofa.
“Want to watch your blood pressure there, mate,” said the second man. “I’ll just check it for you, shall I?”
“It’ll go down as soon as you get out of my sight!” Scumble bellowed.
They scarpered, leaving him with no alternative but to make use of Donaldson’s Jaguar. Neither Aunt Nell nor Mrs Stearns was willing to drive so high-powered a car, so he told Megan she would have to take Nick Gresham home to Port Mabyn.
“Then bring the car to Bodmin. It’ll have to be searched.”
“Before anyone goes anywhere,” Mrs Stearns pointed out, “you’re going to have to move cars out of each other’s way.”
Scumble gave her a look, but sent Megan and Wilkes out to sort out the vehicles. When they returned, Camilla was saying goodbye to Trevor, with Scumble eavesdropping. Mrs Stearns and Aunt Nell were fussing around Nick with a pillow and blanket presumably purloined from Donaldson’s bedroom. Joining them, Megan noticed that her aunt looked tired and worried.
“What’s wrong, Aunt Nell?”
“Shhh. I don’t want Mr Scumble to hear. I’ve just remembered I have to leave for the Scillies tomorrow morning—I don’t know whether he’d try to stop me. But the real problem is that I can’t take poor Camilla home to Taunton.”
“I’ll take her,” Mrs Stearns volunteered, her voice lowered. “That man can’t stop me. In fact, she’d better spend the night at the vicarage. Eleanor, why don’t you go with Megan and Nicholas in the big car and I’ll drive Camilla home in yours. It will be as easy for you to fetch the Incorruptible from the vicarage as from the car park in the morning.”
“It’s full of stuff for the shop.”
“We’ll unload it tonight.”
“It does sound very tempting. I am a little tired. If I hold Teazle on my lap, she won’t scratch the car seat.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Mrs Stearns ruthlessly. “Its owner is a criminal.”
Resisting temptation, Megan drove the Jag at a decorous pace. By the time she had helped Nick up the stairs to his bedsitter above the gallery, the Incorruptible was pulling up next door.
“I’d better help them unload,” she said as Aunt Nell tucked a cushion behind Nick’s head and spread a rug over him. “Then I’ll come back with fish and chips for three.”
“Just for two, dear,” said Aunt Nell. “I’m not very hungry, but Teazle’s dying for her dinner, and chips aren’t at all good for her.” Teazle yipped a protest. She liked chips, not to mention battered fish. “Besides, I really am quite tired, and I have to pack. I want to leave early to be sure to catch the helicopter. You know what traffic can be like on the road to Penzance. You two have a cosy supper together, and I’ll see you when I get back from the Scillies.”
Megan wasn’t at all sure she wanted a cosy supper with Nick Gresham. However, tackling the stairs had taken it out of him and he was in no state to get himself something to eat. She could hardly back out now.
He caught her studying him. “Am I looking pale and interesting?” he enquired.
“Pale, anyway. Perhaps I’d better ask Mrs Stearns to come and look you over.”
“Heaven forbid! All I need is a nice piece of cod and lots of chips.”
She went down with Aunt Nell and made sure she went straight upstairs to her flat. Then she had to dissuade Mrs Stearns from going to inspect Nick, and to suggest it would be a good idea to make sure he actually saw his doctor tomorrow.
Half an hour later, after haggling over who was paying for the fish and chips, Nick said casually, “By the way, I’ve been wondering, who’s the ‘boy wonder’?”
“Oh, it’s what Scumble calls an old acquaintance of mine from my days with the Met.”
Nick looked startled. “The . . . ? Oh, the Metropolitan Police, I take it, not the New York opera company.”
“Of course. He’s been handling the Scotland Yard end of the enquiry.”
“I’m afraid Scumble isn’t very happy with the outcome. ‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’ I like G&S but I’m not a great fan of opera in general. Too obvious. Why don’t you put on a record and relax? The Brahms Second Serenade—I think it’s on top.”
Megan held up greasy fingers. “You don’t want me touching your LPs like this. And when I’ve finished eating, far from relaxing, I’ve got to deliver the Jag to Bodmin. I only hope Scumble isn’t waiting and wondering why the hell I’m not there yet.”
Finishing before he did—chewing was all right but swallowing, he said, was painful—she washed her hands and put on the record. She listened while she made tea. She had always vaguely thought of Brahms as ‘difficult’ music, but the serenade was pleasant enough.
When she took him a cloth to wipe his hands and a cup of tea, he thanked her, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. “A dark palette,” he muttered, “but not sombre.”
With a sudden flash of insight, she realised that some of those paintings downstairs that she hadn’t understood were visual depictions of music. She could practically see shapes and colours burgeoning in his mind. Perhaps if she listened to the right sort of music, she’d have some chance of working out what the paintings were about.
The question was, did she want to put that much effort into understanding his art?
“I’ve got to go. Will you be able to get yourself to bed?”
He looked at her vaguely. “I should think so. Could you pass me my sketch pad? And put the transistor over here where I can reach it.”
She set the wireless on the floor beside him and found a large pad of paper and several pencils on a shelf. “Here you go.”
“Ta muchly.”
“Take care, won’t you. If you have any trouble, just ring Mrs Stearns. I’m sure she’ll be down in a flash.”
At that he grinned. “Not on your life. I’ll be fine. Thanks, Megan. Drive carefully.”
“And you move carefully. Good night.”
Walking down to the car park, she found a bit of Brahms circulating in her head. It didn’t conjure up any pictures, but the idea that it could was intriguing. When she got into the Jaguar, equipped of course with a car radio of the non-police variety, she tuned it to a concert on the BBC Third Programme.
Eleanor got out a packet of soup, looked at it, thought about washing up the pan, and put it away again. She dined on Weetabix and an orange, then packed her suitcase.
She took Teazle down for her last outing. No policemen lurked in the gorse bushes, thank heaven, and if she forgot to lock up when she went upstairs, no one would scold her.
In the aftermath of the gale, breakers boomed as they crashed against the rocky cliffs of the inlet and the jetty sheltering the harbour. From Nick’s open window came the voice of an announcer, followed by music—Mozart, she thought. The intermittent flash of the Crookmoyle light reflected off a layer of low cloud. A breeze brought the salty smell of seaweed to mingle with the scents of gorse and blackthorn. Eleanor breathed deeply.
On such a peaceful evening, it was difficult to believe the events of the past week had really happened.
“Come on, Teazle. Time for bed, girl.”
At last she snuggled down under the covers, with Teazle keeping her feet warm. Tomorrow she’d have to turn her mind to the dire situation in Nigeria. Before she left, she must make sure Jocelyn would keep an eye on Nick’s injury, little though he’d appreciate her interference. When she returned from the Scillies, she’d have to see what she could do to help Camilla and poor misguided Trevor. Then she ought to go up to London for some work with her Sensei—practising Aikido on her own was all very well, and she’d considered it sufficient in peaceful old England, but obviously she badly needed to hone her reflexes.
So much for the future. Tonight she drifted into sleep already dreaming of Nick and Megan living happily ev
er after.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
