“I suppose so, if you put it like that. Well, yes, if Wilfred was threatened, I think Hilda would kill to protect him. Isn’t that what wild animals do? Mother bear with her cub?”
“An interesting comment,” Miss Eaton said as they walked around the harbour.
“There’s Wilfred—”
Keller was further along the quay, standing at an easel and laying in a pastel painting on toned paper. He appeared completely absorbed in what he was doing and his sketch of the customs house looked accurate to Miss Eaton.
He heard them moving over the cobblestones and paused to light a cigarette.
“Keith, I wondered when you’d be around. I think I’ve got something this morning I can work up later.”
Parry compared the sketch with the view.
“Well drawn, as usual. But I think you could emphasize the lights and darks a bit more—the tone values are rather close. It’s flat at the moment. Greater contrast would help to got more life into it.”
“I don’t want it to look melodramatic,” Keller protested.
“There’s no reason it should providing you don’t overdo it. A bit more contrast between the shadows on the building and sunlight on the cliffs behind. You’re trying to be too subtle—try cutting out some of the middle greys. I suggest working with a more restricted range of pastels.”
“Well, perhaps. I’ll think about it.”
As they walked through the afternoon heat, Miss Eaton wondered why Wilfred Keller bothered to join a painting course if he was reluctant to accept help. She tried to him as a cub of Mother bear...and wondered if, on some other course, he had met George Bullard.
Parry was smiling. “Wilfred believes he’s better than he really is—and his wife encourages him. He’s competent, no more. And I doubt if he ever will be.”
Sammy Jacobi sat on the harbour wall, a box of oil paints in his lap and a small canvas fitted into the lid of the box. He looked down into the harbour at a fishing boat with the name Jean Michel on her hull. A man in a blue jersey watched him, spat, and swore in French. His boat looked rather amateurish to Miss Eaton.
“Still struggling with your boats, Sammy? Why don’t you try another subject?”
Jacobi grinned. “I’ve got a thing about boats. I just hope I’ll improve with practice.”
“Yes, well, boats aren’t the easiest things to draw—especially to get them to look as if they’re floating in water. Later on, try one that’s beached.”
Parry inspected the box of oil paints.
“You’ve got plenty of paint there, so don’t be afraid to use it. At the moment, you’re using too much thinner. It isn’t water-colour, so lay it on thick and juicy. Try using a palette knife to lay your paint straight from the tube. I want to see some pure colour when I come round next.”
“All right, Keith, I’ll have a go. Nice and thick, just as you say.”
Jacobi’s paint-box was brand new, Miss Eaton noted, and wondered if he’d ever painted before.
As they left the harbour, Parry remarked, “Some people will never be much good, but that’s not important. If they enjoy painting, they deserve to be encouraged.”
They walked along the shore to where Linda and Margo were working close together. The sea broke in a froth of foam over blue-veined rocks. Both painters seemed glad to take a rest when their tutor arrived.
He looked at Margo’s picture first. To Miss Eaton, it appeared to be a swirl of criss-crossing lines drawn with coloured crayons and blue ink.
Parry said, approvingly, “Nice one, Margo. I’m pleased to see someone trying something different. Yes, I like it—just carry on the way you’re going.”
Miss Eaton looked at the wild eddy of lines intended to represent waves breaking over rocks and thought: she could be a wild card, free with her love—and hate.
Parry turned to the blonde girl.
“Now, Linda, first of all you’re attempting something a bit beyond you for the moment. Water-colour is a difficult medium to start with—and the movement of water is not an easy subject for a beginner.”
He clipped his pad to her drawing board. “Let me show you how to set about it.”
Linda rose from her three-legged stool and Parry sat down.
Miss Eaton watched, fascinated.
With a few strokes of a soft pencil, he indicated the position of the rocks. He loaded a sable brush with cobalt blue and swept in the sky with a horizontal wash. Quickly mixing ultra marine with some green he covered the sea area. Wiping his brush on a rag, he used the dry brush to wipe out the sea where it foamed over the rocks. The gleaming white of the paper suddenly became spray.
“Like that,” he said, rising. “Work quickly. Go for the broad masses. Use a large brush, and try one quick sketch after another.”
“That’s great,” Linda enthused. “D’you think I’ll ever be able to do anything as good as that?”
“Perhaps in time. It takes a lot of practice—so just keep at it.”
“I will,” Linda said fervently.
And she might be a girl who’d do that, Miss Eaton thought. A girl who’d stay with something—or someone. Like Duke, if she set her mind to save him.
Linda turned to Miss Eaton and asked, “Are you really a private detective?”
“Sure am.”
Linda sighed. “It must be an exciting life. I get bored working in an office, just filing and typing.”
“This is the first time I’ve come up against murder. Usually it’s something much more mundane. I think you’d find the waiting and watching just as boring.”
Margo snorted. “Well, you’ll get no help from me. Bullard got what he asked for—and I told the Inspector so.”
“Perhaps that was a bit tactless,” Miss Eaton suggested. “You’re a suspect, like the rest of us.”
“He won’t try to pin it on Duke, will he?” Linda asked anxiously.
“Why should he?”
The young girl hesitated, then lowered her voice. “You see, Duke’s been in trouble with the law before. Nothing serious, but—”
Miss Eaton said briskly, “I don’t believe you need worry. Our police don’t make a habit of framing the innocent.”
Parry looked at his watch. “Time for lunch, I think.”
As they left the painters, he added, “Most students are content with sandwiches at midday. They’re keen you know, and want to work straight through. I like to sit at a table and be waited on—it’s salad today.”
They came to the road leading up the hill and Miss Eaton said, “I noticed some steps in the cliff further along.”
“Oh, yes, that’s an alternative way up. They come out quite near the studio. but it’s a real climb. And if the steps are wet, dangerous. I’ve been down for an early morning swim in good weather, but I don’t advise using them.”
“I’m a good swimmer,” Miss Eaton said.
“If you slip and bang your head on a rock, it won’t matter how good a swimmer you are.”
They walked up the hill and, as they reached the tearooms, Parry said, “There’s Hilda—Mrs. Keller.”
Miss Eaton saw Wilfred’s wife at a table under a sunshade, looking down at the harbour through a pair of binoculars.
“I’ll stop for a word with her, and see you at the house later—”
“Well, don’t be late, or you’ll upset Joyce. Our cook.”
“Ten minutes at most.”
* * * *
Reid drove at a steady speed, the window open and smoking his pipe. His favourite mixture did not give him the usual satisfaction.
The road from Penzance to Porthcove passed through countryside that was a tourist attraction but he saw none of it. He was still waiting for information to come in from a number of different sources, and he had a feeling that this case wasn’t going to be an easy one to break.
The feeling annoyed him and, unconsciously, he looked for someone to blame.
Constable Trewin wasn’t the ideal man for the job. His lack of experience meant
he was probably missing vital leads. On the other hand, he was local and knew the area. Perhaps he’d turned up something by now.
There was that idiot woman, Eaton. A female private eye with a corny line in Yank dialogue. She didn’t help by constantly being underfoot.
Apparently Mrs. Courtney had hired her to find the murderer...some hope! Or had she hired her just to get in his way? Reid puffed on his pipe as he considered this idea.
Then there was the reporter, Gray. Reid had nothing against newspapermen when he finalized a case. He enjoyed giving interviews and seeing his name in the paper—at the end of a successful case.
But was this one going to be a success? He had his doubts about that.
With only a few months to go to retirement, he’d bought a house and could look forward to a decent pension. All he needed was one successful case so he could retire in a blaze of glory.
He knocked out his pipe as he pulled up outside the Porthcove Studios. This case wasn’t going to, be the one he wanted. Well, he had a fallback position. He could ease himself out and leave Trewin to carry the can.
* * * *
As Parry continued up the hill in long-legged strides, Miss Eaton approached Mrs. Keller and took the empty seat beside her.
Wilfred’s wife was a large woman running to fat. Her clothes were fashionable and expensive, her perfume discreet. But she was older than her husband and her rather plain face had the hint of a moustache.
“Mrs. Keller. I’m Miss Eaton, a private investigator. Valerie Courtney has retained me to look into the death of George Bullard, and I’m hoping you can help me.”
Mrs. Keller lowered her binoculars, sipped from a cup of tea and daintily nibbled at a fresh cream cake.
“I know nothing whatever about it.”
“You discovered the body.”
“By chance. As I told the Inspector, I was looking for Wilfred.”
“He’s a wandering eye, has he?” Miss Eaton managed to get a note of sympathy into her voice.
“I do sometimes wonder. I’ve never actually caught him with another woman—but he does go missing from time to time. Of course, it may all be perfectly innocent. He is keen on his painting.”
She waved her binoculars.
“These are good for more than watching the feathered variety. From here, I have a good field of observation. I can keep an eye on him—and that blonde girl.”
“Quite,” Miss Eaton said, and decided to bring her own binoculars here. It was an ideal vantage point from which to observe the painters down below.
She turned in her seat and looked up the hill. The roof of the studio and the top row of windows only were visible.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Keller said. “Only the other day I noticed somebody appear at one of the upstairs windows. I couldn’t make out who it was.”
Miss Eaton wondered. There weren’t many people it could have been. Val or Reggie, Joyce the cook. Presumably Parry would have been out with his students.
“Which day?” she asked. “At what time of day?”
Mrs. Keller looked astonished. “That’s interesting—it simply hadn’t occurred to me before. It was the day before yesterday—and yesterday I found that awful man’s body on the lawn. It seems years ago. In the afternoon it was, I remember now.”
I’ll check with Val, Miss Eaton thought, and said, “I don’t believe you have to worry about young Linda. She seems completely wrapped up in her boyfriend.”
Mrs. Keller snorted.
“A most unsuitable type for a young lady to associate with. But, to be fair to him, nowhere near as bad as Bullard. I’m glad he’s dead. He ran down Wilfred’s pictures, you know.”
“He seems to have run down everyone.”
“Wilfred was with me during the evening and night,” Mrs. Keller stated firmly. “In case you’re wondering. It was in the early morning he went out sketching.”
Yes, Miss Eaton decided, Parry was right; she was rather like a mother bear who would kill to protect her cub. And just how early had Wilfred left her bed?
She said, “I’m off to lunch,” and started up the hill at a brisk pace.
When she reached the studio, she passed through the common room to reach her own room. She met Detective Constable Trewin in the passage and he looked curiously at her.
“Miss Eaton,” he said, “I’ve just searched your room on the Inspector’s orders.”
“I don’t doubt it. And every other room too, I imagine. At least, that’s what I’d do in your shoes.”
He smiled, and she thought he had a pleasant smile under his mop of ginger hair. His face had a freshly scrubbed appearance that made him look very young.
“You’re right, of course. Confidentially, your bourbon smells peculiar.”
“I don’t like the stuff,” Miss Eaton confessed. “It’s really apple juice—but the bottle is good for my image.”
Trewin grinned.
“You’ll notice the hair next to the latch on your suit-case has been disturbed. Did you think I wouldn’t notice it?”
“Oh, no.” Miss Eaton said. “I’d expect a professional to notice. But—have you forgotten?—there’s a murderer around somewhere. And I doubt if he or she, is a professional.”
For a moment, Constable Trewin looked disconcerted.
CHAPTER TEN
PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
Lunch was ham salad with Val, Reggie, and Keith Parry, taken at the small table in the dining room.
Miss Eaton said, “Mrs. Keller told me she saw someone at a front upstairs window of this house the afternoon before Bullard was killed.”
“That’s odd,” Val said, and frowned. “I was shopping in Penzance.”
“Not me,” Reggie said, helping himself to another slice of ham. “I was down at the harbour buying fish for dinner.”
Parry poured water from a jug into a glass. “That’s right—I remember seeing you. I was there too, with the students. How peculiar. Is anything missing?”
Val Courtney and Reggie looked at each other.
“I haven’t noticed anything.”
Reggie laughed. “Of course! She saw Joyce—there isn’t anyone else it could be.”
Miss Eaton questioned the cook when she brought their dessert from tine kitchen.
“It wasn’t me,” Joyce declared. “I was resting on my bed, and my room’s at the back of the house.”
Parry said, “So Mrs. Keller must have imagined it.”
“Unless you had an intruder. Would there have been anyone in the grounds?”
“Only Bert, our part-time gardener. But he wouldn’t go into the house.”
“I’ll ask him,” Miss Eaton said.
After coffee, she fed Sherry and strolled into the grounds behind the studio. Bert had the deliberate movements of a countryman as he weeded between rows of vegetables. A wide-brimmed hat shielded his neck from the sun.
When Miss Eaton posed her question, he took his time answering.
“In the afternoon, Miss? I do remember they was all out. Only me here—and the cook. Nobody else in the house that I know of.”
“Was anyone in the grounds?” Miss Eaton asked patiently. “Did you see anyone at all.”
“Only the gent painting. Didn’t see nobody else. Quiet, it was.”
“Do you know which painter it was?”
“No, Miss. I see ’em around, but I don’t know any of them by name.”
“Keith will probably know,” Miss Eaton said. “Thank you.” She went back to the house.
In the hall, Val had opened the art shop to provide the tutor with a new sketchpad. Inspector Reid was speaking to her as Miss Eaton arrived.
“The fact is, Mrs. Courtney, anyone in this house—anyone at all—could have murdered Bullard. Surely that is obvious? Now, if I may have your cooperation—”
“Stop bullying her,” Miss Eaton said crisply. “Of course Val didn’t do it, Inspector—she’s an old girl of St. Agatha’s!”
Reid looked sour. “That means
nothing to me.”
“Keith,” Miss Eaton said. “I’ve just spoken to Bert and he told me that someone was painting in the garden that afternoon. Can you remember who it was?”
“Of course!” Parry struck his forehead with the heel of his palm. “How did I forget that? It was George—he said he wanted to paint flowers. He was on his own here all afternoon.”
“What’s this?” Reid demanded. “Bullard? Something you forgot to tell me?”
Parry repeated his story for the Inspector, who grunted. “I don’t see how that gets us anywhere.”
“So it could have been Bullard that Mrs. Keller saw at the window?” Miss Eaton said.
“But why should he go upstairs? The upper floor’s private—all the students know that.”
“Exactly. If it was Bullard, it gives us another light on his character.”
“But nothing’s missing,” Val protested.
“So what was he doing?”
“Snooping?”
Miss Eaton heard Duke’s bike and walked outside and around the side of the house to the car park. He was taking off his crash helmet, releasing a mop of unruly black hair as she approached.
“Cops still here?” he asked.
“The murder team’s finished and left. Reid and Trewin are still around.”
Duke pulled a face. “Well, I took a ride to get away from them—I can’t stand the pigs poking their noses into my affairs.”
“Linda mentioned that you’d had some trouble with the police before.”
He scowled. “Linda wants to keep her mouth shut. It was nothing anyway. Just a bit of a dust-up.”
“The police will dig it up, you can be sure,” Miss Eaton warned. “They’ll be looking into the backgrounds of everyone here.”
“And they’ll pick on me,” Duke said savagely.
“They treat everyone as a suspect.”
“Yeah? Well, me and Linda alibi each other.”
Miss Eaton ignored this, and said, “I heard that you hit Bullard.”
“So what? He was annoying Linda.”
And you might easily have hit him again, Miss Eaton thought—and too hard a second time.
She asked; “How do you get on with Keith? He spends some time with her.”
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