A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (12 page)

Nick reflected. For a moment, Megan was afraid he was going to be stroppy, but apparently he decided the moment had come to tell his side of the story.

“Since, presumably, you’re by now aware that Geoff must have died hours before Jerry Roscoe arrived—Sergeant Roscoe, if you prefer—I suppose yesterday morning would be the place to start. I was in London, had been there for a few days. I had a business appointment in the morning—”

“Who with?”

“Mr Alarian, of Alarian Galleries, in Albemarle Street.”

“Time?”

“Half ten. I got there a bit early, actually, but the place didn’t open till then so I hung about outside. You see, he—”

“I don’t need to know your business, Mr Gresham. Not at present, at least. How long were you with Mr Alarian?”

“An hour? About that. It was about noon when I phoned from Paddington.”

“Phoned who?”

“I tried Eleanor’s number—Mrs Trewynn—but she wasn’t at home.”

“Pity! Not that there’d be much hope of Mrs Trewynn knowing what time she talked to you, if she had.”

“Ah, but then I rang up Mrs Stearns. I shouldn’t think you could ask for a better witness than Mrs Stearns.”

“True,” Scumble admitted grudgingly.

“I told her the time my train was supposed to arrive at Launceston, just in case Eleanor might be collecting in that direction that afternoon.”

In the sure and certain belief, Megan translated to herself, that Aunt Nell would pick him up at the station.

“And I also rang Stella—Stella Maris, or Weller, whichever you prefer. She was taking care of my place. I sell her stuff for her in exchange for her taking over now and then, giving me a break.”

“So your relationship with Miss … Maris was a business one.”

“Yes. Well … yes.”

Scumble pounced. “
Well
?”

“She was a friend of mine. I did once think—Oh lord, there’s no way to say this without sounding a complete creep.” Nick glanced at Megan, who pretended she didn’t notice and kept her eyes on her notebook.

“Get on with it,” the inspector said impatiently. “Pencarrow’s a police officer, not a little old lady.”

“I wouldn’t tell you if it weren’t that Stella’s gone and landed me in the sh—in this mess. She did once gave me the come-on—what they used to call a come-hither look, but considerably more explicit. After I made it clear I wasn’t interested, she was a bit snotty for a while, and things were never quite comfortable between us after that. On my side, at least.”

“Are you a homosexual, Mr Gresham?”

“I can’t see what that has to do with anything, but no, as it happens, I’m not.” Nick’s tone of mockery returned. “I’m just saving myself for the right girl. Besides, being propositioned by Stella is not particularly flattering.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t care if Miss Pencarrow is a police officer or the man in the moon, I’m not going to elaborate. I shouldn’t have said that. Spiteful, and irrelevant.”

“All right, we’ll leave it at that. For the moment. When you phoned Miss Maris yesterday, what did you say to her?”

“I told her I’d be home that day, probably before closing time, possibly later.”

“So you didn’t tell her exactly what time?”

“I probably gave her the time the train reached Launceston. I expect I did, but I couldn’t swear to it. I couldn’t say when I’d reach Port Mabyn because I didn’t know whether Mrs Trewynn would pick me up or if I’d have to hitchhike or bus it.”

“Anything else?”

To Megan’s surprise, a slight flush tinged Nick’s cheeks. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of blushing, in spite of his reluctance to state outright that Stella Maris was promiscuous.

“As a matter of fact,” he said self-consciously, “I passed on some good news about my business with Mr Alarian.”

“Good news? Elaborate, Mr Gresham, if you will.”

“I’m sure Stella told your colleagues, and I can’t believe they didn’t pass on to you something so material to their imaginary case against me.”

Scumble’s comparative mildness vanished. “In this case,” he snarled, “you can take it from me that I do not have all the information I ought to have. What’s more, you should be damn glad I’m not swallowing what little I’ve been given. What good news?”

Nick’s blush deepened. “That Alarian’s interested in my work. He’s actually going to hang a couple of paintings. It’s rather a prestigious gallery. Of course, he’s a friend of Eleanor’s…”

He really had been “brought up proper,” Megan thought, if he was bashful about touting his own accomplishments. Rather old-fashioned, in spite of his pony-tail and sandals.

“Mrs Trewynn again! Popping up everywhere. It beats me how Pearce managed to overlook her.”

Nick looked amused. Megan couldn’t help wondering exactly what Aunt Nell had said or done to make DI Pearce assume that taking her statement would be a waste of his precious time.

Scumble sighed heavily. “I suppose Mrs Trewynn did in fact pick you up at the station in Launceston?”

“She did, Inspector,” Nick confirmed with a grin. “The train got in pretty much on time, at five past four, and she was waiting.”

“And she’s your alibi.”

“Well, yes. The Incorruptible can’t make it over the moors from Launceston to Port Mabyn in much less than an hour.”

“The incorr—Oh, her Morris Minor. Something about the French Revolution, I seem to remember.”

“Robespierre, Inspector, whom Carlyle called the ‘sea-green incorruptible.’ And the pea-green car.”

“Load of bollocks. We may have to test that time with a police driver. PC Dixon, I should think, would—”

“Sir!” Megan protested, with memories of a terrifying dash through the narrow, winding lanes with PC Dixon at the wheel, “I doubt Aunt Nell’s car could survive Dixon’s driving.”

“Maybe not. But you needn’t think I’ll let
you
do it. Mr Gresham, can anyone other than Mrs Trewynn confirm your whereabouts yesterday afternoon?”

“I don’t know. The ticket collector took my ticket at Launceston, but of course it didn’t have my name on it. No reason he should remember me. Donna from the pub helped to unload the Incorruptible in Port Mabyn, and the little Chins, too—”

“The little—? Ah yes, the children from the Chinese restaurant.”

“You have a good memory, Inspector. However, I suppose I could just as well have been doing that after returning from committing murder in Padstow. It must have been about five o’clock. What time did Geoff die?”

“We haven’t received the doctor’s report as yet,” Scumble said warily.

“So it was a policeman who actually took the trouble to examine the scene who decided I couldn’t have killed him just as the others arrived?”

“That’s as may be. I’m the one asking questions. %
Were
you unloading Mrs Trewynn’s car in Port Mabyn at five after returning from Padstow?”

“Hardly! You can easily find out from Mr Alarian what time I left him, if you really must. I’d rather he didn’t know anything about this business, of course. But, short of hiring a helicopter, I couldn’t possibly have reached Port Mabyn—or Padstow, come to that—earlier than half past four. Someone would surely have noticed a helicopter, not that I have the funds to hire one. Nor any reason to do so, considering I didn’t know till I got to my shop what that bastard had done.”

Scumble sat up straighter. “What he’d done. You’re referring to Geoffrey Clark.”

“Of course I’m referring to Geoffrey bloody Monmouth Clark!” Nick exploded. Then he calmed down. “Sorry, bad choice of adjectives in the circs.”

“That part of the story’s true, is it?”

“What do you mean? What story?”

“Miss Maris’s. Consider our position for a moment, Mr Gresham. When a statement is made by a hysterical woman—”

Megan coughed. For a wonder, he noticed and correctly interpreted the cough. He glared at her.

“Let me rephrase that,” he responded, however, thanks no doubt to a recent memo from Superintendent Bentinck. While decrying the demands of women’s lib, the Super had reluctantly ordered his subordinates to attempt to avoid stereotyping. “When a statement is made by an overwrought person, unsupported by other evidence, it is normally regarded with a degree of scepticism. When part of it is more or less disproved, the rest can’t be taken very seriously.”

“What did Stella say?” Nick demanded.

Scumble brushed this aside. “She has very little credibility just now. Or rather, what she said while in the throes of hyst—overexcitement has very little credibility. When she’s calmed down, she’ll get another chance. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Nick frowned. “She had every excuse for being distraught,” he said. “She’d been living with Geoff for a couple of years, two or three, and someone murdered him. I just happened to be there when she found him.”

“We’ll get to that later. Will you kindly tell me what happened when you reached Port Mabyn, or I’ll start thinking you’re stalling for time to invent your story.”

“Sorry.” Nick passed a weary hand over his face. “It’s … It’s something I’d just as soon forget. I drove back from Launceston. As I parked the car outside the LonStar shop, I noticed the closedsign hanging in the door of my place—it’s next door, you may remember. It wasn’t my summer closing time yet by half an hour or so, so I was a bit annoyed with Stella. I went straight away to see if she was still there.”

“You went into your shop? Was the door locked?”

“Yes. I think so. What does it matter? You people are always harping on locking doors.”

“If it was unlocked, anyone could have got in and … But I’m getting ahead of you. Go on. You unlocked the door and—”

“Yes, I’m sure I did. It was locked. I went into the gallery. I could see right away that…” He swallowed. His face was very pale and Megan wondered if she should offer to fetch a glass of water, or strong tea, or something stronger, to counteract shock. Remembered shock, though, not immediate. He’d survive. “That several of my paintings had been wrecked.”

“Wrecked?”

“Slashed, with a knife. Or perhaps a dagger. There would be a kind of poetic justice in that, if I’d stabbed Geoff. I knew at once that he must have done it.”

“Wasn’t that rather jumping to conclusions? Why should he do such a thing?”

“Envy. Jealousy.”

“Which? Did he find out about and object to his—uh—girlfriend making a pass at you? Were you a much more successful artist?”

“Nothing to do with Stella. At least, I doubt it. And he made much money than I do. But—I don’t know if you’ll understand this—being an artist is as much a matter of passion as any love affair. What he hated was that I make a living of sorts solely by selling my paintings to people who appreciate them as art.” He frowned, reflecting, then nodded. “Yes, I think you can say that even of the tourist landscapes. Geoff’s money came from his commercial work. I’m sure you must have seen his adverts for Tintagel Brewery’s King Arthur’s Stout?”

“He painted those?” Megan asked, forgetting her place. “The one with King Arthur standing there with his sword drawn? And it quotes, ‘A stout heart and a trusty hand…’ That one?”

Scumble scowled at her.

“That’s one of them,” Nick confirmed. “Lots of people notice and remember it, but not one in a hundred knows who painted it, or cares. The trouble is, he’s obsessed with the Pre-Raphaelites, and no one really cares for them these days, neither the general public nor connoisseurs.”

“Wait a bit! What are these Pre-Whoosis when they’re at home?”

“You’ve heard of the Arts and Crafts movement? No. William Morris? Burne-Jones? Dante Gabriel Rossetti?”

Scumble stared at him stolidly. Megan, anticipating a lecture, wondered how much to write down and how much to leave out of her report.

“All right. To keep it simple, they were a group of Victorians who rejected modern mass-production and advocated a return to individual craftsmanship. They also developed a style of painting based on mediaeval themes. Geoff works in—worked in that style, which has been very much out of fashion for decades, like everything Victorian. It sells beer, apparently, but people don’t actually want it hanging on their walls. There’s a revival of interest in the fantasy-mediaeval genre, though, since
Lord of the Rings
has become so popular. If he’d been patient—”

“Geoffrey Clark didn’t choose to die just as his work was about to stage a come-back, Mr Gresham.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was just speculating, selfishly, I suppose, that—But you don’t want to hear my speculations.”

“On the contrary. Go ahead.”

“Oh, it’s just that if Geoff had expected success in the near future, he wouldn’t have been jealous enough to damage my work. Then perhaps he would have spent the afternoon peacefully at my place with Stella and wouldn’t have scarpered to his own gallery to be murdered, saving us all a lot of trouble.”

“You seem to think the two things are connected, the murder and the vandalising of your paintings.”

“We’d get on faster, Inspector, if you’d just rid yourself of the notion that I’ve discovered some miraculous means of being in two places at once. The two are obviously linked in time, in sequence. I’m damned if I can see any cause for the sequence.”

“Let’s go back to your discovery of the vandalism. Did you find any evidence, beyond guesswork, of who was responsible?”

“Not right away. I didn’t look very far because Donna appeared on the threshold, wanting to know if she should start to unload the car. I didn’t want her to see and start asking questions, so we—”

“We?”

“Eleanor—Mrs Trewynn had followed me in. We went out. I locked the door behind me. I unloaded the car—”

“Aided by Donna and the little Chins,” said Scumble, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly. Mrs Trewynn went up to her flat to make tea.”

“Tea!”

“Tea. We had, after all, found damaged paintings, not, at that point, a body. Though come to think of it, we were also dosed with tea at the police station after finding the body. Eleanor hoped it would calm me down before I dashed down to Padstow and did something I might regret.”

“Like killing Clark.”

“Like giving him a bloody nose. Which reminds me, in the middle of tea I suddenly wondered whether Stella might have tried to protect my stuff and been attacked by Geoff, who was, you will recall, in a fury and wielding a knife. I had a horrid vision of her lying bleeding behind the counter, or in the studio, somewhere I hadn’t looked. So I rushed off to check, and that’s when I found her note.”