“Co-operate with a private ’tec? It’s your duty to report anything you learn. Anyway, how do I know you won’t blab to the papers? You seem well in with the local rag.”
“It was Gray who provided the lead.”
Trewin swore. “Sorry.”
“I’ve heard worse,” Miss Eaton said. “I’m a confidential enquiry agent. My living depends on keeping my mouth shut. Think about this—most people don’t enjoy police questioning. But I’m on the inside. I can watch the suspects, while you have access to official information. Working together, we might come up with something.”
Trewin deliberated, then sighed and nodded.
“All right,” he agreed. “We checked you out naturally, and you’re clean. So we’ll co-operate—but if you give anything to the press before I’m ready, I’ll see you get done for it. Now, tell me what you know.”
“You first,” Miss Eaton said calmly.
He still hesitated before taking the plunge.
“Our enquiries show several possibilities. Dickson now, he’s got a history of violence. He was running with a motorcycle gang and got involved in a fight. One of the rival gang had his head split open—it was only luck there wasn’t a murder charge. Dickson got six months.
“Nicholas, the alleged psychic—she’s known. Been up before the beak charged with fortune telling. One of her clients committed suicide after she gave a reading. She got away with a warning because the jury decided the victim’s mind had been unbalanced before she gave the reading. The judge slammed into her all the same.”
“How terrible for her,” Miss Eaton murmured.
Trewin continued, “Jacobi owns a small jewellers shop in a back street and is suspected of being a fence. He’s sharp, and nothing’s ever been proved against him, but his local bobby keeps an eye on him. The story is he deals in stolen property, furs and jewels and watches.”
“And if Bullard knew...I wonder why his body was left where it was? It would have been easy enough to drop it over the cliff into the sea.”
“We’ve considered that,” Trewin admitted, “and we think the killer must have been disturbed and was too scared to go back.”
“So who disturbed him—or her?”
“Mr. Fletcher likes his booze, and he was at the Inn that night. I hear he’d had a skinful by the time he got back here—and that would be about the time of the murder. So he may have disturbed the murderer—if he didn’t do it himself. We’re checking with the Australian police to see if he’s got a record, but that kind of long-distance enquiry takes time.”
Miss Eaton said, “Or it may have been Duke and Linda coming back from the roadhouse.”
“Possibly,” Trewin agreed. “At our interview, Jacobi seemed keen to throw suspicion on Mrs. Keller. After all, she discovered the body.”
“Convenient.”
“And Nicholas was adamant she wasn’t going to help us in any way.”
“Silly, of course. Anything on Bullard yet?”
“Nothing criminal. We’re looking to see if there’s any hint of blackmailing in his past—but nothing so far. Now it’s your turn.”
“This is what I got from Gray. Wilfred Keller is a local man and Joyce—the cook—is an old flame. There are possibilities there, I think.”
Trewin deliberated. “Yes. His wife wouldn’t like that. But it depends on Bullard knowing.”
“It’s possible he was snooping around the house the previous afternoon and saw them together.”
Sherry began to miaow and Miss Eaton picked her up and stroked her.
“She does like people to make a fuss of her. It’s not time for lunch yet—but perhaps a small sherry. Will you join me—er—constable?”
“Frank,” he said, and grinned. “And frankly, I don’t mind if I do!”
He had rather an engaging grin, Miss Eaton thought. But as they entered the house, Val Courtney called out:
“Telephone call for you, constable. It’s the Inspector—and he says it’s urgent.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NEWS FROM BIRMINGHAM
Detective Inspector Reid was feeling happy as he drove up to the front porch of the studio and got out of his Rover.
Trewin, alerted by his phone call, was waiting for him. “The bike’s around the side, sir. Dickson’s in his room.”
“Get him.”
Reid walked to the car park to look at the Kawasaki 750 leaning against the wall. He bent over to study the pattern of the tyre treads, and grunted his satisfaction.
Trewin returned with Duke Dickson, who looked fed up.
“What’s all this about then?” Duke asked angrily. “First someone borrows my bike. Now—”
Reid smiled broadly. “Got your story all ready, have you? It had better be good, lad.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Arrange transport, constable,” Reid said briskly. “I want this bike taken to the lab.”
“Do the tyres match?”
“As far as I can tell by looking, yes. It’s up to the experts to prove it.”
Reid began to fill his pipe. “Now, Mr. Dickson—did you go out on your bike last night? Or in the early hours of this morning?”
“No way are you going to pin anything on me. I was with Linda all the time.”
“As an alibi, I don’t think your girlfriend will make a good showing in court.”
“Why would I need an alibi?”
“Because there was a break-in at Red Wheal last night. A valuable painting was stolen—worth several thousand pounds according to the owner. Tyre marks of a motorcycle are clearly visible in the grounds—marks that match the tyres on your machine.”
“Hell, there are plenty of bikes around with the same make of tyres. As far as I know, Kawasaki always fit Avon tyres.”
Reid shook his head, lit his pipe and said: “We’ll let the lab decide. Tyres wear differently, lad—I think we’ll get a match.”
Duke flushed. “You’re just trying to frame me,” he said bitterly.
“We don’t do that sort of thing. I’m asking you to accompany me to the station to help with enquiries. Are you coming quietly?”
Trewin tensed.
For a moment, Duke stood with clenched hands. He looked wildly about him as if he might lash out or make a run for it. Then his shoulders slumped.
Reid puffed contentedly on his pipe.
* * * *
Miss Eaton overheard the end of their conversation as she hurried towards the car park.
“It’s quite true, Inspector,” she said. “Mr. Dickson mentioned this morning that someone had borrowed his machine.”
Reid gave her a long-suffering look. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”
She turned to Duke.
“I think you’d better go along with the Inspector, Duke. It’s a formality, and nothing to worry about. I’ll tell Linda where you are. You’ll do no good by running away. The police will discover quickly enough that you’re innocent and release you. It might not even be your bike that’s involved.”
Duke Dickson looked beaten.
“I suppose I can’t get out of it. I’ve been framed, that’s what.”
“If you have, I’ll do my best to find out who framed you.” Miss Eaton promised. He got into Reid’s car and she watched them drive away. She thought: first a murder, and now a burglary—could there be a connection? Who could have used Duke’s motorcycle last night?
A police van arrived in answer to Trewin’s phone call and the Kawasaki was loaded aboard.
Miss Eaton returned to her room, stretched out on the bed and read a chapter of Model for Murder.
I was mad as two sidewinders with one rattle as I pistol-whipped the man.
“Take me for a sucker, do you?” I screamed at him.
Bone crunched. Blood streaked his face. Teeth sprayed like gravel from a getaway car.
“First it looked like somebody framed Velma. Then it looked like somebody framed Josie.”
He was ch
oking like he couldn’t stand the taste of his own blood.
“It didn’t work, wise guy. When I turned the notion around, I saw that somebody was just trying to take suspicion away from himself.”
The man was tough as butter in a heatwave when I’d finished beating a confession out of him....
It could be, Miss Eaton thought. But who was trying so hard to divert suspicion from himself?
When she looked at her bedside clock, she realized the painters would shortly be returning for dinner. She went outside and waited on the lawn.
Linda and Margo Nicholas came up the hill carrying their sketching gear.
Miss Eaton said, “Now, Linda, I don’t want you to start worrying, you—”
Linda turned pale. “It’s Duke, isn’t it? What’s happened to him? Is he hurt?”
She really does care about that young man, Miss Eaton thought, and beamed her approval. She always enjoyed a romance.
“The police have invited him to the station to answer some questions, that’s all. Apparently there was a burglary last night—”
“A burglary?” Linda seemed relieved by this idea. “It’s not the murder then?”
“Certainly not. A valuable painting has been stolen from a house not far away. The police believe that Duke’s bike was used by the thief.”
“Well, someone did borrow it.”
“We know that,” Margo said. “So obviously, there’s no need to worry.”
“He was with me all night,” Linda said earnestly. “I’ll swear to it.”
“No doubt you went to sleep at some time,” Miss Eaton pointed out dryly.
“I’m a very light sleeper—the least thing disturbs me. But will they believe him?” The blonde girl seemed determined to worry. “He’s innocent, I know he is. He turned over a new leaf when we took the decision to live together. You’re a detective—can you help? Find out who borrowed Duke’s bike, I mean.”
“I’ll help if I can,” Miss Eaton said.
“It’s ridiculous, really. Why should Duke take a picture? He wouldn’t know if it was worth anything—he knows even less about painting than I do.”
“And that’s our thought for today,” Margo Nicholas said cheerfully. “Hang on to it, Linda. Come on, I’ll get you a drink before dinner.”
As they went into the house, Val called, “Telephone for you, Belle.”
Miss Eaton picked up the receiver and put on her American accent: “Eaton Investigations.”
Geary chuckled. “Don’t get tough with me, Isabel. You don’t want to frighten me half to death, do you?” He became serious.
“First of all, it’s going to be difficult to find anyone who’ll grieve over Bullard’s decease. Seems he was disliked by everyone he came in contact with—apparently he made a lifelong habit of upsetting people. That broadens the field quite a bit, I’d say.”
“I’ll let the police worry about that.”
“Smart girl. As far as I can find out, no one benefits to any great extent. His wife divorced him years ago. There are no children or close relatives. He lived up to the hilt of his income. Just casual girlfriends—one night stands you might say.”
“I doubt it, Mr. Geary.”
“He worked as a valuer for several of the large insurance companies in Birmingham and was highly regarded in the profession. He specialized in valuing paintings and I’m told he had a sharp eye for a forgery.”
“How very interesting,” Miss Eaton said. “That might be the lead I want. Can you find out one more thing for me please? If he ever valued any paintings for somebody named Jarvis at a place called Red Wheal?”
“Never satisfied, are you?” Geary’s voice sounded cheerful. “What’s a red wheel when it’s out?”
“The name of a house near Porthcove—there’s been a painting stolen. And it’s Wheal. Spelt W-H-E-A-L. Cornish for a mine.”
“Learning the lingo, are you?” Geary said. “Okay, I’ll get back to you. How’s the murder business?”
“Quiet.”
Miss Eaton was thoughtful as she replaced the receiver. She had another idea. Perhaps it wasn’t gems being smuggled into the country—but art treasures being taken out.
She had no doubt that a valuable painting could be sold to a private collector abroad. And Bullard had been connected with the insurance of paintings—an ideal set-up for a gang of art thieves.
And a motive for murder if the gang fell out.
She went in to dinner, which was a subdued affair.
“They’re at it again,” Sammy said gloomily. “The police are back, searching the place room by room—looking for the stolen painting I suppose.”
“They must be daft,” Margo declared in a ringing tone. “If Duke took it—and I don’t believe he did for one moment—he wouldn’t bring it here.”
“You bet he wouldn’t,” Fletcher added. “No one in his right mind would. But you can’t tell coppers anything—that Reid is a know-it-all. Duke wouldn’t have the first idea how to get rid of a painting like that. And whoever took it knew what he was doing. You, can bet your life it’s on its way to wherever it’s going.”
“Where’s that?” Margo asked.
Fletcher shrugged.
“A collector somewhere. You can be sure it had a new home—waiting before it was ever lifted. Maybe not even in this country.”
Miss Eaton kept a low profile. It occurred to her that the Australian sounded as if he knew something about dealing in stolen art treasures.
Linda Snow pushed back her plate, leaving the meal half-eaten.
“It’s not fair,” she burst out, and hurried from the room.
After breakfast next morning, Miss Eaton lingered over a second cup of coffee with Val. The telephone rang and Val hurried to answer it.
“For you, Belle.”
It was Geary, her Birmingham contact again.
“You’re a good guesser,” he said. “Bullard visited Red Wheal a few years back to value some paintings owned by Mr. Jarvis. The insurance company Bullard was representing at that time were reluctant to speak plainly, but admitted he recommended not insuring. Obviously he spotted something funny.”
“Thanks,” Miss Eaton said. “I hope I can do as much for you one day.”
She got directions from Val and drove her small Fiat along narrow lanes that twisted between grey stone walls, up onto the moor. Red Wheal was sign-posted and, eventually, she came on an old tin mine. It was obviously shut down but the big winding wheel still stood at the minehead and, not far off, was the house of the mine owner.
She turned into a gravel drive that led to the front door. The house was weather-beaten and screened by a row of trees that hinted at the weather in winter on this exposed coast.
As she rang the bell, she recalled stories about wreckers and smugglers and highwaymen, and wondered if things had changed all that much. She looked back at the moor; even in sunlight it had a desolate air.
The door was opened by a servant.
“Eaton Investigations,” she said crisply. “Will you ask Mr. Jarvis if he can spare me a few minutes to discuss a matter of insurance.”
“I’ll find out, Miss. If you’ll wait in here.”
She was shown into a small room off the hall. There were brocaded chairs from a previous century, a grandfather clock, and Staffordshire pottery locked away behind glass.
Jarvis, when he appeared, was middle-aged with grey in his sideboards. He wore an expensive suit and his voice sounded pompous.
“If you’re from an insurance company—”
Miss Eaton handed him her card. “I’m a private investigator.”
“I see. Well, if you can recover my stolen Gauguin, I’ll pay generously.”
“I believe Inspector Reid is looking into that.”
“I doubt if the police are concerned with getting my painting back. It struck me your Inspector was more concerned with making an arrest.”
Miss Eaton said, “I’m investigating the murder of George Bullard. I’ve been
told he visited here to value your paintings.”
“The man was a fool,” Jarvis said shortly. “He refused to put a value on it—claimed the Gauguin was a fake. Ridiculous, of course—my own expert assured me it was genuine and I paid forty thousand for it.”
Miss Eaton refrained from comment. Instead, she asked, “I assume the Gauguin was a part of your collection? Was only the one painting taken?”
“Yes, and yes.”
Jarvis produced a colour photograph of the painting. It showed peasants in a field; the forms were simplified, the colours flat—more like a design for something, Miss Eaton thought.
“I want my picture back,” Jarvis said.
“How long is it since Bullard was here?”
“Oh, four, five years—something like that.”
“And that was the only time he visited?”
“I’ve never set eyes on him since. Didn’t want to—an unpleasant man. Can’t now, of course....”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DEATH OF A BIRDWATCHER
Miss Eaton tapped lightly on the door of Keith Parry’s room upstairs at the Porthcove Studios.
“Come.”
She opened the door and went in.
“Sorry to interrupt your rest, Keith,” she said. “Val told me you were taking five after lunch.”
Parry was stretched out on top of his bed, shoes off and ankles crossed, his hands behind his head.
“I always relax when I can—helps to keep me on top-line, I find. I’ll be going down to the harbour any minute now—so what can I do for Val’s favourite private eye?”
Miss Eaton perched birdlike on the edge of a chair and handed him the photograph of Jarvis’s stolen painting.
“What can you tell me about this? There seems to be some doubt that it’s a genuine Gauguin.”
Parry took the photograph and studied it for some moments.
“I’m not familiar with this painting,” he admitted. “But that proves nothing. Not all pictures get reproduced in art books—especially if they’re in private collections. I’d need to see the original to form an opinion.” He rose from the bed in a single graceful movement and took a book from the shelf. He turned the pages, pausing at different reproductions to compare with the photograph.
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