A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (13 page)

“Aha! Did you keep it?”

“I can’t remember. If I did, it’s probably in one of my pockets, as I slept in my clothes last night.” Nick felt in the pocket anorak, then snapped his fingers. “No, wait a bit, they took everything off me last night. I had to sign a list. I’m sure it wasn’t there. I must have chucked it in the bin.”

“Pity. What did it say?”

“I can’t quote it. It was obviously written in a hurry, a mess of phrases, not a carefully thought-out screed. But she informed me that she’d told Geoff about my luck in London, he’d got into a tiswas and attacked my pictures, and she’d cleared out with him. If I’m not mistaken,” he added sardonically, “she did say she was sorry it had happened.”

“I’d like to get my hands on that note. I hope it’s safe at home in your waste paper basket. What did you do next?”

“Eleanor insisted on driving me to Padstow, feeling that in her presence I was unlikely to resort to violence. We parked in Rock and crossed by the ferry. The door of King Arthur’s Gallery wasn’t locked, so we went in. And I found Geoff in the back room, lying on his face with a dagger sticking out of his back. I knelt down to feel his pulse, just in case he was still alive, though he didn’t look it. No sign of a pulse.”

“You’re quite certain of that?”

“Absolutely. In fact, in spite of the warm day, he was already colder than I thought could be possible for a living person. I’d like to point out that I’m still wearing the same trousers, which are
not
bloody about the knees. At the time I presumed the colour I knelt on must be oil-paint, but that wouldn’t have dried enough in a few hours not to stain my trousers. I remembered later that he used coloured inks for his commercial work—it reproduces better. It also dries quite fast and keeps a sheen when dry.”

“Red ink.”

“Red ink.”

Margery Rosevear had declined Eleanor’s help with the washing-up.

“Why don’t you go and look round the studios,” she suggested. “Jeanette, dear, I’m sure Mrs Trewynn would love to see your work.”

Looking rather sulky, Jeanette added her own tepid invitation. As soon as they were out in the cobbled courtyard, she said, “Margery can be a bit bossy. You don’t have to look at my stuff. I hate showing it to people who feel obliged.”

“I’d like to see it, unless you’d rather I didn’t. I don’t want to disturb you if you’re about to get to work.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t expect I’ll get anything done today, not after what happened.” She hesitated, then said fiercely, “I don’t believe Nick Gresham killed Geoff. It was awful, what Geoff did, but Nick’s just not that sort of person.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“You don’t think so, either?”

“I know. I was with him the whole time.”

“You were?” Stopping with her hand on the knob of the middle door in the row of converted stables on the south side, Jeanette turned a hostile gaze on Eleanor. “Who are you? What are you doing here? I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain. Shall we go in?”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you mind if Teazle comes, too? She’ll stay outside if I tell her.”

“She can come.” Jeanette opened the door and stood back while Eleanor entered.

Following, she left the door open, though the morning air was still cool. Eleanor was quite glad to have an escape route easily available. Though she was not a suspicious person, and she was quite certain Jeanette was sincere, it did occur to her that someone more suspicious than herself might think the lady did protest too much. Her defence of Nick could conceivably be a smoke screen, though a rather complicated one, the ramifications of which Eleanor didn’t have time to sort out just now.

Her immediate impression of the studio was an almost obsessive neatness. Crammed into the small space were a painter’s easel, a draughtsman’s table, canvases tidily stacked against the walls, a sink, shelves, and all the other paraphernalia of artistic endeavour, including a faint smell of turpentine.

Jeanette said belligerently, “Well?”

“I’m Nick’s friend and next-door neighbour. I fetched him from the station in Launceston when he came home from London. I was with him all the time until we found Geoff’s body. He can’t possibly have stabbed him.”

“Oh, thank heaven! Then why haven’t you told the police? Or didn’t they believe you?”

“They were busy talking to everyone else. I was waiting for my turn and it never came. That’s why I’m here. Inspector Pearce told me they’d come and see me here this morning.”

“Oh, I see.” Jeanette sounded doubtful. “But I don’t understand why they didn’t question you last night. Then Nick needn’t have spent the night at the police station.”

“I don’t understand it myself, my dear. If I hadn’t been so very tired, I expect I would have made a fuss, but by the time I realised what was going on, it was too late. Margery offered to put me up for the night, and off we went.”

“Margery did?” She frowned. “Don’t you think that’s fishy?”

“Fishy?” Eleanor asked in surprise. “I thought it was extremely kind of her.”

“She complains about how much work we make for her. Why should she add another person to take care of, unless she has an ulterior motive?”

“Just for one night!”

“Suppose she killed Geoff. She wouldn’t want you to have a chance to persuade the police Nick didn’t do it.”

“Why on earth should Margery want to kill Geoff?”

“They had an affair, when Geoff first came here. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I think Doug found out and they had a row. I mean, no one cares about that stuff nowadays, only Marge wanted to go off with Geoff—she was really in love with him—but he said it wasn’t serious. You can imagine how that hurt.”

“But he’s still living here? I’d have thought Doug would throw him out.”

“Marge had given him a two-year lease. Of course Doug had signed without reading it. It’s very difficult to break a lease, I gather. Over time, naturally, everything simmered down. Besides, apparently Geoff’s one virtue is that he pays his rent on time, and it’s not so easy to find someone who’ll take a whole bungalow in the middle of an artists’ colony. Most of us can’t afford more than our two rooms.”

“It simmered down, you say. Is there a reason why it should suddenly boil up again just now?”

“Oh, I dunno. I’m not saying it
was
Marge who stabbed Geoff, but if it wasn’t Nick, it’s got to be someone else, right? Doug perhaps. Or one of the others. No one could stand him—except Stella, of course. I just said Marge because of her inviting you, but that’s the sort of thing she’d do, really. She’s a nice person.”

“I must say, that was my impression. What was it you particularly disliked about Geoffrey?”

“Me?” Jeanette’s fair colouring made her blush startlingly vivid. “I didn’t have anything in particular against him. He just … I just didn’t much like him. D’you want to look at my picture books or my paintings?”

“Both. But in case you’re expecting an expert, I should warn you that I don’t know much about art and I haven’t any children.”

Jeanette giggled. “That’s all right. The ones that drive me up the wall are the ones who pretend to be terribly knowledgeable. Though I must say they often buy something just to prove they know what they’re talking about. Then there are the people who page through the books, leaving thumbprints and bent corners, and say, ‘How adorable, but you never can tell with children these days, I always give book tokens.’”

Eleanor hastily examined her hands. “No thumbprints, I promise.”

Judging by Margery’s comments, she had expected the picture-books to be mawkishly sentimental, but to Eleanor the puppies and kittens involved, though engaged in unrealistic pursuits, looked very realistic, and—well, adorable. She didn’t like to say so, since the adjective had aroused such apparent scorn in the artist, but she did say she liked them very much. “I hope my nieces and nephews will start families soon, so that I can justify buying them. You must love animals to be able to paint them so well.”

“I do. I wouldn’t mind spending all my time drawing and painting them.”

“Why don’t you, then?”

“Oh, it’s not proper art. I just do it to make some money to live on. They’re sold in bookshops all over the country.”

“Oh good, then I’ll be able to find them when I have someone to buy them for. Let me see your ‘proper art,’” Eleanor requested.

She didn’t expect to understand the paintings Jeanette now turned face out from the wall. She was surprised, though, to find she actively disliked them. They were abstract, as Margery had told her, but despite the innocuous, not to say bland titles, they radiated energy. At least, that was the best way Eleanor, unfamiliar with the proper artistic vocabulary, could explain it to herself.

She suspected that the very fact that they spoke to her so strongly must mean they were “good,” whatever that meant.

They reminded her of one of Nick’s paintings in particular,
Storm over Rough Tor
, but that was a semi-abstract celebration of the power of natural forces. Jeanette’s
ZigZag
was angry. So, less explicably, was
Grey Circle
.

How could a grey circle express anger? Was it all in Eleanor’s imagination? She didn’t know, but it made her uneasy. She must remember to ask Nick’s opinion.

As much as anything, the contrast with the puppies and kittens was disturbing. Which was the real Jeanette? And what was she angry about?

“You don’t like them,” said Jeanette with a resigned sigh.

“I warned you that I’m a Philistine. I’m afraid I wouldn’t choose to hang one on my wall, if I had room in my little flat, which I don’t.”

The young artist regarded her
Grey Circle
moodily. “No, they need plenty of space around them.”

“I find them interesting, though, which is more than I can say for most abstract painting. I never realised—” She stopped as a man appeared in the doorway.

Against the light, his face was indistinguishable.

“All right, Jeanie?” he asked. To Eleanor, his voice sounded studiously casual.

“Yes! Oh Tom, Mrs Trewynn was with Nick practically all day yesterday and she’s going to tell the police he couldn’t possibly have killed Geoff. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Eager to hear the potter’s reaction, Eleanor didn’t bother to dispute this misstatement of her words.

There was a distinct pause before he said, “That can’t be right. Stella said Nick rang from Paddington at midday—Unless you were in London with him, Mrs Trewynn?”

Eleanor repeated her account of meeting Nick at the station and being with him thereafter.

“But—”

Jeanette broke in: “See? Mrs Trewynn’s just waiting till the police come so she can tell them everything. I don’t know why you’re so keen to believe the worst of Nick.”

“I’m not!” Tom protested. “I just don’t want … Oh, what’s the use. Mrs Trewynn, while you’re waiting for the police, would you like to come and inspect my humble endeavours? I’ve just put some pots in the kiln and I’m about to start on a new batch.”

“Yes, I’d love to.”

Tom’s place was next door, at the end of the row. He had an oil-fired kiln outside. The farm, he explained, had never had gas laid on, switching straight from candles and kerosene to mains electricity. Tom relied on oil because the electricity supply was liable to fail in stormy weather, which could ruin an entire kiln-ful of pots. He showed Eleanor the thermostat and made a minute adjustment to the temperature. She recalled Doug calling him a businessman. A cool head and a steady hand.

They went inside. Eleanor noticed the earthy smell of wet clay, but Teazle smelled something more interesting. She headed straight for a back corner and started to sniff suspiciously.

“Mice?” Tom said with a groan.

“Sometimes she imagines them.”

“Let’s hope.”

Eleanor had seen primitive potteries all over the world and she was interested in the methods of a modern handcraftsman. However, Tom had lured her thither under false pretences. He wanted to talk.

“That’s rubbish,” he went on bluntly. “What you said about being with Nick the whole time, I mean. He had only to go into Geoff’s studio a few paces ahead of you to stab him without you seeing. I understand you’re a friend of Nick’s and don’t want to believe he could do a thing like that, but the police are never going to swallow it. Jeanette’s going to be shattered when she realises he’s not off the hook.”

“As it happens, I was close enough to be quite certain Nick didn’t stab Geoffrey. Apart from anything else, he knocked over his easel when he fell. I couldn’t have helped hearing it.” Eleanor was pleased to have thought of this corroborative detail. After all, she had only Nick’s word for it that the flood of red was not blood, and while she believed him implicitly, others might not.

It went to show how right the police were to keep asking the same questions over and over again, however irritating it was—though it was even more irritating when they didn’t ask any questions at all.

“Oh, well, if you’re absolutely sure…” Tom picked at the ingrained clay under his fingernails. “It’s just that Jeanie gets so upset…”

“It’s a horrible business, enough to upset anyone. Geoff must have been a friend of yours.” Eleanor paused, but Tom didn’t comment on her assumption.

She tried to remember what, if anything, he had said about Geoffrey at breakfast. No one had expressed grief for the painter’s death. Tom, she thought, had been more concerned about whether Stella would let down the employer who counted on her to turn up for the weekend nursing shift at the convalescent home. What was the doctor’s name? Fenwick, that was it, like the Grand Duchy in
The Mouse that Roared
. She had forgotten the name of the home already. No doubt the police would find out soon enough if Stella did go to work and they wanted to talk to her at the weekend.

While Eleanor reflected, Tom had gone to his workbench and scraped a piece of clay off a large lump beneath a damp cloth.

“Everyone seems to know Nick, too,” said Eleanor, watching him knead and mould the clay, adding a splash of water now and then from a bucket beside the bench. He had big hands, unusually well muscled from his work. If Geoff had been strangled—She suppressed a shudder.