A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (11 page)

Before she decided whether to speak up, Marge placed in front of her a misshapen plate of bacon, fried egg, fried bread, sausages, and baked beans. “Help yourself to toast,” she said. “There’ll be fresh coming up in a minute. Leila, get Mrs Trewynn coffee or tea, will you?”

“Coffee, please.” She would need her wits about her this morning. “Milk, no sugar.”

Leila presented her with a huge mugful. Quentin, standing up to leave for his stint at their co-op shop, passed her a toast-rack, butter and home-made marmalade, all in various pieces of peculiar pottery.

In the face of this overwhelming hospitality, Eleanor felt a bit guilty for her intention of reporting the general dislike of Geoff to the police. She hoped she wouldn’t have to open the subject, but if she was asked, she couldn’t lie about it. Not that Pearce seemed very interested in what she had to say, but once she’d provided Nick’s alibi, perhaps he would change his mind. She wished she could explain everything to Megan—if it weren’t that Megan came with DI Scumble attached.

Quentin, Leila, and Albert departed.

The potter, Tom, hitherto had been silent as he ate his way through an even larger plateful of breakfast than the one Eleanor was bracing herself to tackle. Now, his fingers permanently stained with clay, he wiped up the last of the egg yolk with a final piece of toast and asked, “Where’s Stella?”

“She was asleep when I went down earlier to check.” Margery at last sat down with her own breakfast. “She was in such a state last night, I gave her … something to help her sleep.”

Something illegal? Eleanor wondered. It was none of her business. Anyway, in many parts of the world, marijuana was regarded as a useful medication.

“I was just thinking,” Tom went on, “will she be fit to work this weekend? Because if not, maybe someone ought to phone. She’s always on about how the place couldn’t function without her.”

“By someone, I suppose you mean me,” said Margery resignedly. “You have a point, though. I wouldn’t want all those convalescents to be without proper care. But I don’t want to get the doctor in a fuss over nothing, either. I’ll go over a bit later and ask Stella if she feels up to it.”

“Stella works in a convalescent home?” Eleanor asked. “I remember you said something about her being a nurse.”

“She’s not a Registered Nurse,” Jeanette said. “She got bored with the training before she qualified. She made quite a habit of dropping out of various courses, I think. But she got a job at the Riverview Convalescent Home, near Wadebridge. They have a hard time getting staff for the weekends. The people aren’t that ill. I mean, obviously, they’re supposed to be getting better or they wouldn’t be there.”

“Riverview? It sounds familiar. It has a good reputation, doesn’t it?”

Margery snorted. “Dr Fenwick—he’s the owner—spends his weekends there, too. With him in charge, I dare say even Stella can’t do much harm. I can’t remember why on earth I mentioned to you that she’s a nurse.”

“When was that?” Oswald asked. “Not to be nosy, but didn’t you say you just met Mrs Trewynn at Geoff’s gallery last night?”

Eleanor had a sudden flash of memory, so clear she could almost hear the tones of voice. “It was when I was so stupidly faint,” she recalled. “You were helping me, Margery. Stella told you Geoffrey was dead. You said you couldn’t believe it, but that she was a nurse so she must know.” Margery had sounded more preoccupied than shocked, as if Geoff’s death came as no surprise. Of course, she had been concerned about Eleanor’s condition, but all the same …

And while considering odd reactions, what about Doug, who hadn’t even taken the trouble to come and see what was going on before calling the police to report a murder?

Stella, on the other hand, had sounded melodramatic, as if determined to wring the last ounce of histrionics out of the situation. Still, to be fair, was there or could there be such a thing as a “normal” reaction to finding one’s lover’s body sprawled on the floor with a dagger in his back?

“Hysterical,” said DI Scumble in disgust. “If there’s anything I can’t abide it’s a hysterical witness.”

“Difficult to deal with,” Megan agreed.

“That’s the least of it. With any luck, she’ll have calmed down by today. The thing is, you can’t trust a word they say. What we’ll get is what she believes she saw, which may or may not have much relation to reality. And there’s no way of knowing, because she’s sure she’s telling the truth. They can be damnably convincing.”

“We’ve got the other witnesses.” Megan didn’t want to believe Nick Gresham was a murderer, but the evidence seemed plain.

“Pah! The Rosevears? Not worth the paper it’s written on. Rosevear doesn’t even claim to have seen the stabbing. And I’ll bet when we take his missus through it carefully, all she saw was the body and the blood. She heard this Maris woman shrieking that she saw Gresham kill Clark, but she also says she was concentrating on getting your auntie sat down before she fainted.”

“So even though she doesn’t seem to have been hysterical, her evidence isn’t worth—”

“Evidence! I haven’t seen any evidence yet.” Scumble stuck Stella’s statement back in its folder and, pushing it aside, read the name on the last in the pile. “Jerry Roscoe, Sergeant. Ah, here we are. The local copper. Last but let’s hope not least. We ought to be able to believe the evidence of
his
eyes.”

Sergeant Roscoe’s report was that of a man to whom the written word does not come easily. It relied heavily on police jargon and tended to get bogged down in lengthy clauses.

For all its weightiness, however, it did not actually say much. Scumble skimmed it in less than a minute and threw it down on the desk with a snort.

“He didn’t even go into the studio. Afraid of disturbing the scene of the crime! Glanced in and closed the door. For all he knew, the chap could have been lying there slowly bleeding to death.”

Megan, struggling with a copy from a carbon paper on its last legs, took a little longer to finish. “Mr Gresham went quietly. You think Nick—Mr Gresham can explain what he was doing there, sir?”

“Oh, I think the Rosevears and the Weller woman are probably right that he went to the gallery to have it out with Clark about the damage he’d done. What came next we might have some idea of if that idiot Pearce had taken the trouble to ask instead of going along with a load of hysterical rubbish.”

“Was DI Pearce trying to soften Gresham up, letting him stew for the night in the cells?”

“There’s nothing to say Gresham wasn’t willing to talk. Let alone Mrs Trewynn, who was doubtless dying to have her say, though on past form she would probably have left out the important bits. Pearce was just too bloody lazy to talk to them when he hoped to pass this mess off to me. What’s harder to credit is that he doesn’t seem to have gone himself to the gallery. Or if he did, he didn’t bother to give us a report of what he saw.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it, that Gresham didn’t explain his side of the story in the car on the way over from Padstow?”

“For all we know he did, and no one bothered to write it down.”

“Shall I bring him in here, then, sir?”

“Hmm. I’d really like to hear what Forensics have to say before I talk to him. Dr Prthnavi, too. I need something concrete to go on. I wonder if it’s too early to get hold of them?” He frowned at the wall clock. “I doubt they’ll have written up their reports yet, but anything they can tell us will be more than we know. You might as well give ’em a try.”

Megan dialled the switchboard and asked for Forensics. The girl put her through.

“Jenkins.”

“DS Pencarrow here. DI Scumble would like to know what you’ve got on the Padstow murder.”

Jenkins snickered. His voice came to Megan slightly muffled, as though he had turned away from the phone: “Padstow.”

The single word was sufficient to provoke gales of mirth from someone in the background. Megan held out the receiver towards Scumble. She expected fireworks, but after a momentary tightening of the lips, he looked smug and waved to her to continue.

“Well?” she said. “You have something to tell us?”

“Scumble, you said? DI Pearce was in charge.”

“He handed over to Mr Scumble. What’s up?”

“Not what we were told to expect, at any rate. Bloke swimming in his own blood, I don’t think. Course, time of death’s not our business, but I was the SOC man on duty last night and you can take it from me, when we got there the victim had been dead for several hours, and he had hardly bled at all. As DI Pearce would’ve known if he’d bothered to take a look. Or condescended to ask us. Cold as charity, he was, with a lot of red ink splashed about, dry as a bone.”

“Red ink?” Megan repeated, astounded.

Sounds of merriment assailed her ear.

“Give it here.” Scumble reached for the receiver. “All right,” he bellowed, “you’ve had your fun. What’s this about red ink? You’d better not be cackling about the plonk you swilled last night!”

As he listened, Scumble reached for a biro from the biscuit tin and started scribbling notes on one of the folders. As he wrote, a smile started to spread across his face, a sight that astonished Megan almost as much as the transmutation of blood into red ink.

“You’re dead certain?” he said at last. “Right, thanks. I owe you one.” He hung up. “Pearce really buggered up this one,” he told Megan with immense satisfaction. “Jenkins swears the artist’d been dead at least several hours, and I’d trust his judgement over a hysterical woman any day. We needn’t bother Dr Prthnavi yet. Also, there are fingerprints on the hilt of the dagger. Not Gresham’s. Probably a woman’s.”

“A lovers’ tiff?”

“Could be. You can go fetch Gresham now. And be polite.”

“Should I tell him he’s off the hook?”

“Off Pearce’s hook, at any rate. But no, don’t tell him. For all we know, we may have to hook him again ourselves, who knows? With any luck his story will give us a clearer picture. If I ever get to hear it…”

“I’m on my way, sir!”

“Good.” The inspector was back to his sarcastic self. “On your way back, no chitchat and kindly do not inform the suspect that his custody was a mistake. Even though,” his triumphant words followed her out of the room, “it was not
my
mistake!”

When Nick was brought out from the cells, the first words he said to Megan were, “I’ve worked out what it was. Obvious, really, but I suppose I wasn’t thinking very clearly last night.” Then he did a double-take. “Megan? Though, in the circumstances, I expect you’d prefer Sergeant Pencarrow. Have you been transferred to Bodmin? I hope you’re not having to work with that cretin Pearce.”

“No, sir,” Megan said as stolidly as she could manage. “DI Scumble has taken over the case.”

“‘Sir!’ Well, tit for tat, I suppose. So Scumble’s in charge now? He’s a bloody-minded so-and-so, but at least he’s not stupid. He must have realised by now that—”

“Save it for him, will you?”

He grinned. “I was only going to say, all that glitters is not gold.”

Megan was reminded just how infuriating he could be. Here she was brimming with sympathy for his plight, while he loped along the corridor ahead of her with a jaunty insouciance that failed to recognise any need for sympathy.

On the other hand, if he expected sympathy it would be because he felt badly treated, in which case she’d now be dealing with an angry man. She should be grateful, not irritated. Which conclusion didn’t make her any less resentful. He ought to be angry.

Could anyone who took a night’s false imprisonment with such calm conceivably work himself up to murder?

He paused at a cross-passage to wait for her. She ushered him into the room where Scumble sat waiting, spiderlike, weaving a web not for Nick but for DI Pearce.

“Hello, Inspector,” Nick greeted him cheerfully. “We meet again.”

“Good morning, Mr Gresham. Have a seat and tell me how you got yourself into this mess.”

“It’s not my mess.” He moved to the chair facing the desk, then glanced around and saw Megan still standing. “We need another chair.”

“I can stand.”

“I dare say, but I can’t sit if you don’t. I were brought up proper, I were.”

“Sergeant Pencarrow’s a police officer,” snapped Scumble. “She’s accustomed to standing.”

“But Miss Pencarrow is also a … female—I expect she’d be insulted if I called her a lady.
O tempora, o mores!
Come on, I don’t want to be here forever. I have an urgent commission I need to get going with. I don’t mind standing. Or better,
I’ll
fetch a chair.”

“You stay here! Pencarrow, go find yourself a bloody chair.”

Hastily, Megan went. It was lucky for Nick, she thought, that Scumble was after other game and willing to conciliate him. On the other hand, Nick was virtually uncrushable so perhaps it didn’t make much difference. The trouble was, you could never be sure whether he was deliberately being difficult with intent to annoy, or just being his maddeningly flippant self.

When she returned with a chair from the office next door, Nick was lounging on the corner of the desk, whistling “Land of Hope and Glory.” Scumble was tight-lipped, fingers tapping impatiently on the desktop.

“Where the hell you been, Pencarrow?”

“I made a quick telephone call, sir.”

“Not to your auntie, I hope! She’s a witness, remember.”

“No, sir, I didn’t speak to any of the witnesses.” Megan sat down quickly and took out her notebook. Nick took the other chair.

“May we now proceed?” Scumble asked acidly.

“Certainly. I didn’t want DS Pencarrow to miss any of my enthralling story. As I’m sure you’ve worked out by now, it’s all about red ink. Ironic, really, considering Eleanor and I never even acquired the bottle of bubbly I’d been looking forward to.”

Scumble gave Megan an I-told-you-so look. As he’d said, Aunt Nell had somehow got herself mixed up in the case.

To Nick he said in a heavily patient voice, “Perhaps we could begin at the beginning, Mr Gresham? Don’t worry about what we already know or don’t know. Just tell us what led to you being found yesterday evening in a picture gallery in Padstow with a dead body at your feet.”