Boomerang

by Sydney J. Bounds

  “That might be interesting,” Miss Eaton said.

  After her meal, she took her coffee into the studio and found an empty stool at the back of the room.

  Parry had a medium-sized canvas on an easel and oil paints laid out on a small glass-topped table. On a second easel was a sketch—squared-up—of the cottages by the harbour.

  As she settled herself, Parry was saying, “Obviously I don’t have time to carry this through to a finish in one session. What I propose to show you is how to start off building up a studio picture from your holiday sketch. Something you can try at home on winter evenings.”

  “This is an old canvas I’m using again. I just slapped a coat of primer on and squared-up. It’s something you can do to save buying new canvas all the time. So....”

  With a stick of charcoal, he drew in the main lines of the composition.

  “Nothing too elaborate. Just guide lines to place the subject. Now, first of all, I want to get rid of the white—that helps to relate tones. The overall colour of the sky is blue, so I use cobalt with plenty of turps and a large brush.

  “Using the same blue but adding a touch of black, and a dash of white I lay in the cliffs. For the cottages I add an ochre.”

  Was he looking at her? Miss Eaton wondered. Surely he didn’t object to her attending his demonstration? No, hardly; he was smiling as he worked.

  “Now we have the canvas covered,” Parry continued, “and the overall tone makes it easier to work on. I’m using a smaller brush to sketch in the cottages. It’s worth taking some time over this, to get your drawing right.”

  She studied the faces of his students as he worked. They appeared absorbed in the lesson. No one was worrying about her, or George Bullard, or his killer.

  “Next, block in the main masses, light against dark, dark against light. Use the same colours, but thicker now. A hint of pink in the cottage walls. A touch of white to indicate cloud and break up the sky and show an aerial perspective. Some dark in the foreground—this also helps with perspective.”

  He paused. “That’s as far as I’ll take it this time. Obviously I can continue later and probably will. But it’s enough to show you how to set about building up a painting from one of your holiday sketches.”

  As he began to clean and wipe his brushes, the class crowded around the canvas to see it close up.

  Linda asked about squaring-up.

  “I should have explained that, Linda. It makes the drawing easier, if you transfer what is in one square in your sketch, to the corresponding square on canvas.”

  Miss Eaton asked casually, “Did you get the chance to look around your room, Keith?”

  “Yes, I did. Nothing’s missing, and nothing appears to have been touched.”

  * * * *

  Detective Constable Frank Trewin leaned comfortably against the bar counter of the Harbour Inn. It was after licensing hours and he was alone with the landlord. Reid had gone back to Penzance and left him to deal with the local—and routine—enquiries.

  Ah, well, Trewin thought, cuddling a free pint of best bitter, there was something to be said for being left alone to get on with the job in your own way.

  Calling to the landlord, he allowed his Cornish burr to show in his speech.

  “You know me, Mr. Oakes. I’m a local man. You can say what you like and it’ll go no further.”

  “Aye, up to a point—but remember this is my livelihood, Frank. I can’t afford to scare my customers away.”

  “No fear of that. Just a hint is all I want. Tell me something about the Kellers. Who comes to see them? Do they get on together? Anything about them you think I ought to know. Remember, this is a murder job.”

  Oakes removed his spectacles and polished them absently. “Not much to tell—they keep to themselves pretty much. She’s got the money and likes her comfort—bit of a snob, I’d say. He’s mad about painting, and she encourages him.”

  He sipped a small whisky. “Visitors? Well, that chap I hear got himself killed was in one evening. Downright rude he was. The Kellers went up to their room pretty quick.

  “Then there was the Aussie—tell him by his accent—he seemed to get on well enough with them. Took a few drinks, he did, but Aussies are like that—pour it straight down they do—comes of their peculiar licensing hours I suppose. Shocking way to treat good beer.

  “And there was that spinster woman staying with Mrs. Courtney. She’s no painter—she called for a chat with Mrs. Keller one day.”

  “Did she now?” Trewin straightened his lanky body. If a private eye was mixing in police business, she’d have to be warned off. Murder was a serious matter.

  “How about the studio people? Mrs. Courtney and her husband? The tutor?”

  Oakes finished his whisky, washed the glass and began to dry it.

  “Don’t see much of the Courtneys during the season, though Reggie looked in a few days back. Keith will stop for a drink sometimes. In winter, it’s another matter. Mostly it’s Reggie Courtney and that tutor of theirs—reckon they’re old friends, those two.”

  Trewin’s ears pricked up.

  “Queer, you mean?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if Keith was. But not Reggie—no, I didn’t mean it that way. Just old pals.”

  “Interesting,” Trewin said, draining his glass.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  UNLIKELY ALLIES

  Margo looked on with some amusement as Jim Fletcher patiently picked up the boomerang that Sammy had failed to get airborne. He handed it to Linda, and said:

  “Watch how this sheila does it. Watch her wrist as she throws.”

  Linda made her throw and Jim, Sammy and Keith watched. She was wearing tight jeans and a thin teeshirt and it wasn’t her wrist they were watching.

  Margo shook her head slightly and brass earrings jangled. They were wasting their time. She recognized Linda’s type; a one-boy girl, no matter what. She was disappointed in Sammy.

  “What an action!” Fletcher exclaimed. “Again, Linda.”

  But before the blonde could throw again, Duke Dickson came around the corner from the car park, and he was angry.

  “Somebody used my bike last night! Come on, own up—who was it? The tank’s nearly empty!”

  Linda paused, boomerang in hand. “But you were going to fill it, Duke. Perhaps you forgot.”

  “I didn’t forget. It cost me a tenner only yesterday.”

  Margo’s memory stirred. “I thought I heard a bike when I woke up last night. Early this morning, I should say. I didn’t think much of it at the time—I suppose I assumed it was you.”

  “It wasn’t me. It must have been somebody here—and they should have filled the tank for me.”

  Fletcher drawled, “Maybe there’s no all-night garage around here.”

  “Why would anyone want to use it in the middle of the night anyway?” Sammy asked.

  “Whoever it was, is going to pay for the petrol,” Duke said grimly.

  “I suppose it could be some local kids joyriding,” Parry said. “Though we’ve never had that sort of trouble before.”

  “If I catch ’em, you won’t have it again!”

  * * * *

  Hilda Keller sat at the dressing table in their bedroom at the Harbour Inn. She massaged a new and expensive face cream into her skin as she watched Wilfred in the mirror. He was getting his sketching gear together.

  “Have you started smoking again, Wilfred?”

  “No, dear. You’ll always smell cigarette smoke in a hotel room.”

  Hilda let it pass.

  “I think we ought to leave, Wilfred. That woman detective was here yesterday and practically accused us of being suspects—”

  “We are, dear.”

  Hilda looked at her husband.

  “Did you kill that dreadful Bullard person, Wilfred? I’d quite understand—he deserved to die. I must know so that we get our story straight. An alibi? Is that the word? And, of course, I’ll stand by you. I’ll hire the most expensive l
awyer.”

  Wilfred looked startled. “I assure you that I haven’t killed anyone.”

  “Then we’ll leave today.”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea. The police wouldn’t like it, dear. To them, we should look guilty, d’you see? No, we must stick it out.”

  Hilda pressed her lips into a firm line and took a deep breath.

  “So you don’t want to leave? Is, there another woman?”

  Wilfred sighed. “Of course not, dear. Let’s go down to breakfast. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.”

  * * * *

  Miss Eaton arrived at a trot, completing her morning jog along the cliff path. She crossed the lawn to the boomerang throwers.

  “What now?” she asked, looking from one to another.

  “Another mystery for you,” Linda said, and smiled.

  “Someone used my bike last night,” Duke broke in angrily.

  “Where is it?”

  Miss Eaton followed Duke around the side of the house to the car park. The Kawasaki was propped up against the wall.

  She placed her hand on the engine. “Cold.”

  “The tank’s almost empty.”

  “You didn’t lock it?”

  “I didn’t think there was any need to here.”

  “I wonder who it could have been,” Miss Eaton murmured. “And why?”

  “When I find out, they’ll hand over a tenner. And I don’t care why they took it.”

  They went in to breakfast. No one admitted to borrowing the motorcycle, and Miss Eaton mentioned the matter to Val Courtney.

  Val asked Duke, “Are you going to tell the police?”

  “What for? They wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  After breakfast, Val opened the shop for anyone needing materials. Sammy was first in line.

  “A large tube of white,” he said. “And ochre, cobalt and ultramarine. I’d better have a green too. It’s Keith—he wants me to use a palette knife, so I’m going to need a lot of paint.”

  He began to grumble in a good-natured way. “This painting lark is costing me a bomb!”

  Val smiled. “It’s good for business anyway—Keith knows what he’s doing.”

  Sammy chuckled. “You can say that again!”

  Miss Eaton waited till all the students were served and had gone on their way; then she said, “I want to talk to Joyce. Do you know if she smokes?”

  “She’s in the kitchen,” Val said. “And no—few cooks smoke. It spoils their taste buds.”

  Miss Eaton nodded and walked along the passage to the kitchen. Joyce was stacking dirty crockery near the washing machine, ready for the part-time help. Sherry was attacking a bowl of fish as if she were starving.

  “Ah, that’s where she’s got to. I might have known.” Miss Eaton beamed at the cook. “Sherry’s got her head screwed on—she makes friends with the cook wherever we stay.”

  “A beautiful cat,” Joyce said.

  “Did you see anything of Bullard on his last afternoon? Did he ever try making a pass at you?”

  “Bullard?” Joyce appeared astonished. “Never!” She flourished a carving knife. “A good thing he didn’t, after insulting my cooking. I’d have used this on him!”

  Miss Eaton strolled outside as Reid drove up, looking for Trewin. She waited on the lawn, studying the house as an old Ford arrived with a rattle and a bang.

  Gray, the local reporter, got out, smoking a cheroot. He seemed in high spirits as he thrust a copy of the Herald at her.

  “Here, read all about yourself. Any more copy for me? The local coppers aren’t giving much away.”

  He winked. “Keep me in touch, won’t you? Any tips you provide mean a story for me—and publicity for you.”

  “When I get something, you’re welcome.”

  Miss Eaton took a pace back as he edged closer, breathing out beer fumes.

  “I’ve been doing a spot of digging myself, so maybe I’ve got a lead for you. That character staying at the Inn—”

  “Keller?”

  “Yes, him. He’s a local man. And he had a girlfriend before she got married to someone else.” Gray grinned slyly. “You’ve met her—here. Joyce Willis, your cook. Maybe he came back to see his old flame—what d’you think?”

  “So it was Wilfred,” Miss Eaton murmured. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “I can’t stop now,” Gray said. “There’s been a burglary at Red Wheal—Jarvis’s place. I’m on my way to cover it now. See you around.”

  The reporter hopped back into his car and drove off in a belch of blue smoke.

  Miss Eaton reconsidered: Wilfred and Joyce? Hilda wouldn’t stand for that, and she controlled the purse that paid for Wilfred’s painting. If Bullard had found out and put pressure on....yes, that would be a motive for murder.

  She opened the newspaper to see that Gray had done her proud. She had the front page headline:

  PRIVATE EYE PROBES MURDER MYSTERY!

  “Miss Isabel Eaton, top London investigator, has been hired to uncover the murderer at Porthcove Studios.

  “After the police enquiry stalled, our reporter interviewed ace private eye Eaton, cigarette dangling from her lip. Miss Eaton, speaking in a tough American accent, stated firmly: ‘I’ll nail the killer before the cops do!’

  “She promised Herald readers....”

  Inspector Reid, coming out of the porch, paused as his eye caught the headline. He snatched at the paper, scanned it and snorted.

  “Stupid rubbish. I’ll can that reporter—and you, if you get in my way.”

  He went quickly to his Rover and drove off. Miss Eaton was amused. He seemed quite upset.

  She followed the path beside the annexe to the vegetable garden behind the studio, and saw Reggie Courtney talking to Bert. How easy it was to overlook Val’s husband, she reflected. He stayed in the background, quietly getting on with his chores. It occurred to her that anyone so easily overlooked stood the best chance of seeing or hearing without being noticed.

  She waited patiently till he had finished talking to the part-time gardener then, as he returned to the house, she intercepted him.

  “What can you tell me about Joyce?” she asked.

  “Joyce?” Reggie stared at her. “She’s a good cook. Reliable. Surely, you can’t seriously suspect her?”

  “I mean her background. Local girl? Married?”

  “Joyce is local, yes. A widow, actually. Her husband was a fisherman who was drowned in a storm. After that she applied for a job here.”

  “And she never married again? Was there anyone before she married?”

  Reggie shrugged. “She never married again,” he agreed. “Before? I wouldn’t know—we haven’t been here that long. Even after twelve years, we’re still foreigners to Cornish people.”

  “A pity. How did you get into this business anyway? It seems a bit unlikely for Val.”

  “Val’s a good organizer. She could run any kind of business. The chance of buying this studio came up—and we were fed up with city life, the dirt and the noise and petrol fumes.”

  “At the time I was working in an art-shop as a picture framer—I’ve always been good with my hands. That’s where I met Keith. This place was advertised and we came down one weekend to look at it, liked Porthcove, and snapped it up.

  “It’s taken time and a lot of effort to build up the business. In fact, it’s still a bit dodgy—but Keith put some money in to help out. So, providing we can live with this murder, we’ll survive.”

  “I suppose you get down to the harbour a fair bit?” Miss Eaton asked. “A drink at the Inn?”

  Reggie laughed. “There’s not much chance of that in the season. We don’t have a big staff, as you’ve seen, so we do a lot of the work ourselves. In winter, yes—we’ll walk down for a quiet drink when the weather’s good.”

  And be on the spot for snuggling, Miss Eaton thought, and said, “I imagine the winters can be bad on this coast. Did you notice anything special about George Bullard? Did he, f
or instance, speak to one person more than anyone else?”

  “Not that I noticed—but then he seemed to spread his favours around.” Reggie grinned suddenly. “Not that I had much to do with him—I took good care to avoid him. I just keep in the background mostly, doing the odd jobs. There’s always enough of those to keep me busy.”

  “The afternoon before Bullard died,” Miss Eaton probed. “Bert seems sure he was here in the grounds. Keith confirms that.”

  “Well, Bert would know,” Reggie paused. “I was down at the harbour, buying fish.”

  Miss Eaton noticed Constable Trewin approaching. Reggie said, “I’m off. More to do than answer questions, you know.”

  Miss Eaton watched him move away and vanish into a greenhouse. She gave her attention to the young constable, and decided he was looking down in the mouth.

  “On your own now?” she asked lightly.

  The local detective nodded.

  “And it looks as though I’m being set up as the scapegoat if we don’t catch this murderer. The Inspector’s just informed me he’s away to investigate a burglary—leaving me in charge here.”

  “What’s he like to work with?”

  “All right, I suppose,” Trewin admitted grudgingly. “For a foreigner. An old hand at looking after himself, I’d say. He only arrived from London a few months ago, chucking his weight about, and house-hunting for when he retires. That’s the reason he put in for a transfer. He’s sitting pretty, and doesn’t intend to be involved in an investigation that doesn’t lead to an arrest.”

  “No leads then?”

  Trewin shook his head.

  “Too many people had a grudge against the dead man—and not only here. It could be anyone of them and, so far, there’s no evidence pointing to one rather than another.”

  He looked thoughtfully at Miss Eaton. “I ought to warn you off, poking your nose into a murder enquiry, but...have you learnt anything?”

  Miss Eaton smiled. Sherry strolled up, rubbed herself up against Constable Trewin’s leg and purred loudly.

  “She likes you.... I’ve got one thing you might be interested in. Can we deal? You’ll get the credit for any arrest of course—I’m only interested in seeing Val in the clear.”

  Trewin hesitated, and made a fuss of her cat.