After dinner, Margo made a fuss of Sherry.
“I’ve got five cats of ny own,” she said. “Not pedigree animals like yours—just strays I’ve given a home to.” She waited till the others were out of hearing. “I may be able to help.”
Miss Eaton murmured, “It’s a nice evening—let’s walk in the garden.”
“Help to find the killer, I mean,” Margo said as they strolled around the goldfish pond. “I’m a genuine psychic. If you can provide something of George’s, I may be able to provide a clue. From the psychic aura.”
Miss Eaton looked at her enquiringly.
“It’s called psychometry. By holding a personal object in my hand, I can receive extra-sensory perceptions that tell me about the people and circumstances connected with that object.”
Miss Eaton said, “I imagine the police have all of Bullard’s psrsonal effects under lock and key. And I doubt if I could persuade Inspector Reid to go along with your object reading.”
Margo scowled. “You can bet the Inspector won’t—he doesn’t like me at all.”
“Yes, I heard that one of your clients died. I’m sorry.”
Margo looked unhappy. “It’s always being dug up and thrown at me. I was younger then, and used to speak my mind. It taught me a lesson. I’m careful now to temper any bad news...but if you can somehow get hold of something personal of George’s, I can try. It might give you a lead.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Miss Eaton said.
“You must find this murderer and clear the rest of us. I shan’t feel safe until he’s arrested and put in prison.”
As Margo Nicholas left her, Miss Eaton wondered: was it a genuine offer, or something else? And, if genuine, could she really do anything?
She thought Trewin might be persuaded to get hold of something of Bullard’s. Failing that, Wilfred might loan some personal item belonging to Hilda...it was an idea.
Miss Eaton rose early the next morning and went out for her regular training run. If anyone had their eye on her, it wouldn’t appear she was breaking her usual routine. A waicher would not be aware that under her jogging suit she wore a bathing costume.
She turned out of the drive and ran down the hill to the harbour. The sky was light by the time she reached the quay and found Constable Trewin waiting in a dinghy.
She jumped aboard and he unloosed the rope and pushed off.
“What’s this all about?”
“Wait and see.”
Trewin used the oars skilfully, the blades barely skimming the water’s surface on their return.
Outside the harbour, Miss Eaton instructed, “Keep well inshore. I don’t want anybody up at the studio to see us.”
“So that’s why you specified no engine on the phone.”
She nodded. “Aim for the cliff steps.”
Trewin rowed easily and Miss Eaton watched the shore and calculated the spot she wanted.
“It looks different down here.” She drew a mental line from the steps to the rocks. “About there, I think.” She pointed.
The water remained calm, gently lapping at projecting crags of rock as the dinghy edged between them.
She peered down. Everything looked distorted, a jumble of odd shapes formed from rock and seaweed.
“About here will do. I hope.”
Miss Eaton shed her tracksuit and went over the side in a clean dive. Down and down, holding her breath and fealing the cold bite. She clung to a rock, trying not to disturb the water. It was difficult to see—a sandy bottom, some shells and a starfish. And, yes, there it was—an oblong shape.
She swam towards it and tried to lift it. The thing was heavy and resisted her effort to raise it. Then she saw the cord around it.
She swam back up to the dinghy and held on to the side till she got her breath back.
“It’s weighted. Have you got a knife, Frank?”
Trewin took a clasp knife from his pocket, opened it and handed it to her handle first.
She sucked air into her lungs and dived again, this time straight onto the object. She sawed away at the cord. It was tough—nylon probably—and not easy to cut underwater.
She went up again and rested, breathing deeply.
“Nearly got it. This time.”
She dived a third time, slashed through the frayed cord, releasing the canvas from its iron weight and brought it up with her.
She handed it to Trewin and climbed into the boat. He handed her a towel and she dried herself and put on her tracksuit.
“Well, Trewin said admiringly. “You’ve found Jarvis’s stolen picture for the Inspector. And he’s just going to love you for showing him up—but why would anyone chuck it into the sea?”
“I’ve got ideas about that,” Miss Eaton said, and took the oars. She needed the exercise to warm her up.
“Listen Frank, you hand the Gauguin to Reid and let him return it.” What am I saying? she thought. Jarvis offered to pay me to get it back. What I do for St. Agatha’s! “That’ll keep him out of our way.”
“And wrap it in the towel when you go ashore. I want to get back to the studio before anybody realises I’ve been swimming. That would spoil everything.”
“Yes? Have you got any more ideas? The holiday painters will be going home this weekend, and I’m damn sure one of them is the murderer. We can’t hold them all on suspicion. They’ll be spread right across the country, and Reid will see I get the blame for not catching the murderer.”
Miss Eaton smiled.
“Stop worrying, Frank—I’ve got an idea to persuade the killer to give himself away. So let the Inspector grab the credit for getting Jarvis’s picture back. You’ll have your murderer!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RETURN OF THE PRODIGALS
After lunch, Miss Eaton waited until the annexe was deserted, then went on the prowl. First she entered Margo’s room and took a long hard look at her cheap jewellery. Dissatisfied, she searched Sammy’s room.
As an afterthought, she went through Fletcher’s room without finding anything incriminating. Not that she expected to.
She decided she had too many ideas on the boil, any one of which might be the right one. Or two. She returned to her room, opened the window wide—the afternoon was hot, dry, and windless—and stretched out on the bed.
She felt drowsy and her subconscious recalled a Sam Pike story, The Medium Screams Murder:
The room had wallpaper the colour of blood and smelled of incense.
Doctor Origami, lost in a striped bathrobe, sat across the table from me. A single ruby gleamed in his turban, like an evil third eye.
He hunched over a crystal ball and his voice hissed like a snake about to strike.
“I see death, Mr. Pike...your death!”
But I was already moving. The blade of a throwing knife drew a bead of blood from my ear in passing.
“You cheap blackmailer,” I snarled, and crowned him with his own crystal ball....
Suddenly Miss Eaton wasn’t sleepy any more. She felt sure her idea was going to work.
* * * *
Val Courtney said, “Have you any news for me, Belle?”
Miss Eaton was in the upstairs sitting room, enjoying a sherry before dinner.
“Soon now,” she murmured absently. “Things are coming to a head.”
She heard a car drive up and left her chair to look out of the window. It was a police car, and Duke Dickson and Wilfred Keller got out. The car drove away.
Val joined her at the window. “You don’t seem surprised, Belle.”
“The police have no real evidence to make a charge stick.”
She watched Linda run out of the house, throw her arms around Duke and kiss him. Then Fletcher, smiling broadly, came up to Wilfred and took his arm.
“Wilf, mate, I’m sorry about Hilda. Look, you don’t want to stay at the inn on your own. Bunk in with me for tonight—we’ll get sloshed together. How about it?”
Wilfred looked grateful. “I think I’d like that,�
�� he said.
Miss Eaton frowned, finished her sherry and hurried downstairs. She intercepted them as they came into the hall.
“Mr. Fletcher. May I have a quiet word with you?”
“Why not? Excuse me a moment, Wilf.”
When they were alone, Miss Eaton said, “The local police have heard from Australia, where you appear to be well known. If I were you, I’d forget about exploiting Mr. Keller.”
Fletcher’s face flushed angrily. “You can’t prove a thing. Open your mouth, and I’ll sue!”
“Just remember the police have their eye on you.”
She turned, and hurried after Wilfred.
“Mr. Keller, I need your help. I believe I can expose your wife’s murderer, and that will lift suspicion off you.”
His face brightened at once.
“I’ll do anything. I can’t—er—marry again while people think I killed Hilda. I didn’t, you know.”
“I believe you,” Miss Eaton said. “What I want is something personal of Hilda’s. Some object that she handled every day.”
Keller looksd surprised, then doubtful.
“It seems an odd request if I might say so. Will a hair-brush do?”
“Admirably....”
Miss Eaton was already moving away from him, through the common room and along the passage to Margo’s room. She knocked on the door.
When it opened, she slipped inside and closed the door. Margo had pans and a rag in her, hand, obviously about to clean the ink off the tools she had been using. A sketch pad showing a drawing of the customs house was propped up on the bedside table.
“I’m taking you up on that idea of yours for an object reading,” Miss Eaton said quickly. “Wilfred will provide a hair-brush of Mrs. Keller’s. Will you do it?”
“Of course I will,” Margo said. “I can tell you, I’m more than a bit nervous with a murderer on the loose. There’s no telling who he might pick on next. And when we leave here and go our separate ways, whoever it is could pick us off one by one. I’m convinced it’s a maniac.”
“I don’t think so,” Miss Eaton said confidently. “And I’m sure I can remove any danger to you. Now listen carefully....”
She told Margo Nicholas exactly what she wanted her to do. As she passed through the common room to look for Keith Parry, she paused to look at the painting of fishing boats entering Porthcove harbour, and chided herself: I should have noticed that before. She moved on, shaking her head gently. It was true, she thought; what was right under your nose all the time was the one thing you never really saw.
She found the tutor with Val in the hall as she was locking the art shop door.
Miss Eaton said calmly, “I’m planning to trap our murderer this evening. Keith, you can help if you will.”
“But it’s our exhibition evening! We always have one before the course ends and I’ve just been fixing it with Val...but yes, I’ll help, naturally. Just let me know what you want. Poor Reggie is worried stiff.”
“This needn’t interfere with your exhibition. In fact, that may even be useful—it’ll get everyone together.”
Miss Eaton turned to Val.
“Can you lay on some drinks and a snack afterwards? I want to keep people together while I try a little experiment.”
“Anything to settle this business,” Val Courtney said eagerly. “I’ll tell Reggie and Joyce. What are you going to do?”
Miss Eaton smiled, and went to make a couple of phonecalls.
* * * *
When Gray and Miss Eaton entered the studio, the holiday painters were already gathered there. Around the walls was pinned one sketch by each of the students, selected by their tutor for special comment.
“I hope you don’t mind my inviting Mr. Gray,” she said. “But I promised him a story.”
Keith Parry smiled. “Welcome, Mr. Gray. Perhaps the Herald will give Porthcove Studios a bit of publicity?”
Gray, breathing beer fumes, lit a cigarette, and waved smoke into the air. “I might just do that.”
Miss Eaton found two seats at the back and they sat down. She noticed that Parry’s demonstration painting of the harbour was still on an easel—and Duke and Linda were holding hands.
The students lookod a bit subdued. A public criticism was not tho same thing as a word in private, she imagined. She watched faces as Parry began his commentary.
“I especially like this one of Margo’s, with the sea breaking over rocks. As an example of the use of mixed media, it’s worth your study. Very nice, Margo.”
He moved next to an oil painting of The High Street.
“Jim, this is still a bit on the slick side. More like an illustration than a painting, in my opinion. It’s good, but you need to loosen up—take a chance now and then.”
He paused before a watercolour of fishermen’s cottages.
“Linda, I’m pleased with this effort—you’re really beginning to make progress. The drawing of the houses isn’t quite right—the left-hand wall looks as if it’s falling over. You need a lot more practice at drawing. Don’t rush to start painting—take your time and look hard. Don’t ever forget, painting is seeing. As I’ve said before, water-colour is a difficult medium so, when you get home, try poster colours.”
“Next, a pastel by Wilfred. Competent as usual. It would do no harm to try less conventional subjects—a coil of rope or a reflection in a puddle. Something you have to look at closely. This should help you to develop.”
He stopped in front of an oil impasto of fishing boats.
“Well, Sammy, you’re certainly using your paint thicker. Quite a juicy effect here. But it needs more control, I feel. Again, the drawing could do with some attention—and I’d like to see you try for rather more subtle effects in the colour. Try a cerulean blue for the sky, for instance.
“That’s about it. I hope you’ve enjoyed your painting, and that our two beginners will go on with it. Now—”
The door opened and Val Courtney came in, with Reggie and Joyce. She was pushing a kitchen trolley with plates of savouries, wine bottles, and glasses.
“We’re throwing a bit of a party,” she said, “because your holiday has been spoilt.”
Reggie Courtney and Joyce got busy handing around glasses of wine and persuading people to help themselves. Gray needed no persuasion.
When they were all served and seated again, Val said: “And now Miss Eaton has something to say.”
Miss Eaton looked at Margo and Keith Parry, and nodded. Margo brandished a hairbrush, and Parry slipped out of the room.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
REVELATIONS
Miss Eaton dominated the room. She had a small table in front of her, and the holiday painters and residents of Porthcove Studios sat on chairs or stools grouped in a half-circle about her. Behind her was an easel supporting Parry’s demonstration painting.
Some were still eating, others held wine glasses. Wilfred, she noticed, was chain-smoking.
From her handbag, Miss Eaton brought a pint bottle of Kentucky Bourbon and half filled a tumbler. She lit a Camel and let it dangle fron her bottom lip. She placed her Smith and Wesson on the table, beside an old newspaper, a piece of rag, and Trewin’s clasp knife.
When she spoke, she used her tough American voice.
“Waal now, all the suspects are gathered and tonight we are going to unmask a murderer. A double murderer. Some of you wanted to shield the person who killed George Bullard—but attitudes have changed since Hilda Keller was pushed to her death. You’re not sure who might be next....”
She paused, and beckoned Margo to take the empty chair next to her.
“Margo Nicholas, a genuine psychic, has agreed to help. Margo....”
Margo held up the hair-brush, and said solemnly:
“This brush is the property of Mrs. Hilda Keller, deceased. What I am about to perform is called ‘psychometry’. Some of you, perhaps, will be familiar with the term. For the benefit of the others, I shall explain.”
Miss
Eaton leaned back in her chair, watching faces. Gray’s cheroot had gone out and he chewed the end as he scribbled in his notebook.
“All personal objects handled daily gather some of the aura of the owner,” Margo said. “A psychic can sense this aura—and sometimes get an accurate reading from the object. It can tell me something about the owner. In the case of violent death, I can receive a message from the departed. This may be a cry for vengeance. Sometimes the identity of a murderer may be revealed.”
Someone coughed. Feet shuffled.
“May I have quiet, please? I am going to try for a message from beyond, and I need absolute silence so that I can concentrate. No distractions, if you please.”
The room grew quiet. Gray scribbled furiously. Every eye was riveted on Margo Nicholas as she closed her eyes and took deep breaths.
Miss Eaton studied cach face in turn. Linda clutched Duke’s hand, her face pale. Reggie Courtney looked unhappy. Fletcher shifted uneasily.
Margo seemed to go into a trance and, when she spoke next, it was in a different voice. A disembodied voice.
“I see white mist...the mist clears slowly and I see the figure of a woman...she is sitting high up...now a pair of hands...behind her, a man!”
It seemed as if everyone drew a deep breath at the same time. Tension grew in the studio. The only sound was that of the strange voice coming from Margo’s lips.
“The man moves stealthily...his hands reach out for the sitting figure...and pushes. As she falls, he says, ‘Schmuck’!”
The last word was spoken in an accurate imitation of Sammy Jacobi’s voice.
Sammy leapt his feet, his face flushed and hands gesturing wildly.
“It’s a lie! A lie—I never killed anybody in my life. I swear it!”
On cue, Keith Parry entered the room and placed a box of oil paints on the table in front of Miss Eaton.
He said, “From Sammy’s room, as you instructed,” and took a seat.
Margo came out of her trance and asked, “Did anything happen?”
Sammy looked as if he wanted to bolt, but daren’t.
“Sit down, Mr. Jacobi,” Miss Eaton said sharply.
Reluctantly, he obeyed. Miss Eaton opened the box of paints and took out several fat tubes of new oil colours. Jacobi watched apprehensively as she used Trewin’s clasp knife to slit them open.
Boomerang Page 12
