A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (17 page)

They had, in fact, come to the end of the pavement, just past the barracks of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry, and the top of the slope. Ahead, the road dipped beneath a railway bridge—they had passed the boarded-up central station halfway up the hill. Beyond, a wide valley spread lushly green to the next ridge.

“Yes,” Megan agreed, “we’d better be getting back. I didn’t realise we’d come so far.” She checked her watch. “Or been gone so long! He’s going to kill me.”

“I doubt it. You’ve extracted plenty of information to keep him happy.”

Extracted? Megan wondered. She felt more as if she had been force-fed a quantity of information, most of which tended to show that Nick had no motive for being jealous of Geoffrey Clark. How much of it could she believe?

On the other hand, Nick already had a credible motive for killing Geoff in the destruction of his work. Either his alibi was valid, or he was still in big trouble. All in all, Megan realised with irritation, she had no good reason for her relief that his relationship with Stella was purely a matter of business.

They walked back into town mostly in silence. Megan was afraid it had been a mistake to ask Nick whether he’d lied to Scumble about not being a homosexual, but whether from the police or the personal point of view she couldn’t decide.

Nick started whistling the tune from “Pomp and Circumstance” again.

“Can’t you get that out of your head?” Megan asked. “It’s so annoying when something keeps going round and round like a stuck record.”

“What? Oh, no. I’m planning a painting. I don’t so much hear it as see it.”

“All red, white, and blue?”

“Good god no! Sorry if it’s irritating.”

“Could be worse. I once got caught by ‘I’m ’Enery the Eighth, I am’ for hours. Now that was ’orrible!”

“I hope you haven’t just given it to me!”

Megan sang softly, “‘Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,’” to put him back on track. She wished she could understand just what was going on in his head.

When they reached the Bodmin nick, Scumble greeted them with the expected, “Where the bloody hell you been, Pencarrow?” but he couldn’t suppress a gleeful smile. Rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, he went on, “Forensics and the medical report both agree with your version, Mr Gresham. We’ve got the bastard cold. Pending autopsy—these doctors are always cautious buggers—Dr Prthnavi says the deceased died before three o’clock, latest. And, as the dagger was left in the wound, there would have been next to no flow of blood.”

Megan and Nick both let out long breaths.

“Then, Forensics analysed the red ink. It’s the kind the deceased used for his adverts, all right, and SOC found a couple of empty bottles, or canisters, or whatchamacallems, in the waste bin under the sink. Wiped clean of prints, as you’d expect these days.”

“So what’s next, sir?”

The inspector’s smile turned malevolent. “First things first.” He glanced at the wall-clock. “I’m going to see the Bodmin Super, Egerton, in three minutes. You made it back barely in time. Want to come along and see how to demolish a colleague without saying anything actionable? No, on second thoughts, you’d better read these reports. We’ll have to get going immediately after.”

“Taking me home?” Nick said plaintively.

“Eh? Oh, yes, of course. Eventually.” Scumble heaved himself out of his chair.

“Sir, I could read the reports in the car, couldn’t I? I do think I ought to be present to witness your … to learn the proper way to … er…”

“Stab a colleague in the back?” Nick suggested.

“I may never have another chance,” Megan said quickly.

Scumble turned on Nick and snarled, “I wouldn’t talk about stabbing colleagues in the back if I were you. You’re not out of the woods yet.” He picked up the phone. “Scumble here. I want adetective constable up here on the double to … keep Mr Gresham company for a few minutes … No, he’s not bloody under arrest! He’s feeling lonesome and homesick … That’s right, laddie, got it in one. I don’t want him buzzing off, and no phone-calls.” He slammed down the receiver. “Come along, then, Pencarrow, if you’re coming!”

As they left the room, a hefty man came puffing up. “Sir! You want an eye kept on that artist bloke, right?”

Scumble stared at him. “Wilkes!” he said in disgust. “Think you can manage not to let him outwit you this time?”

“This time, sir? But last time it wasn’t—”

Scumble didn’t wait to hear his protest. Megan following, he swept on into Superintendent Egerton’s office.

Egerton reminded Megan of a toad. He appeared to be wedged inextricably into his chair, as toads like to wedge themselves into a rocky niche. Doubtless he had his uses, snapping up societal pests as toads snap up horticultural pests. Megan had nothing against toads. Her mother had always been happy to find one in the garden. His appearance was unprepossessing, however, though at least he was not visibly warty.

“DI Scumble, sir,” his secretary announced, “from Launceston. And…?”

“DS Pencarrow, sir.”

Egerton signed the paper in front of him and moved it from one neat pile to another. Raising his head, he fixed them with a cold, black, unblinking stare. “Ah yes.” His voice was diconcertingly high and thin. “Scumble. Bentinck sent you down to tie up the loose ends on that case of Bixby’s. You’ve dotted all the
i
’s and crossed the
t
’s, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“What? What’s that? Bixby assured me Pearce had the culprit in custody already. Some sort of artist, wasn’t it? You haven’t let him slip through our fingers, I hope?”

“Certainly not, sir.” Scumble sounded shocked. Megan had never guessed he could act so well. “The man is still in the building.”

“I’m not talking about his physical presence, Inspector. You’re not going to let him slip through some loophole in the law?”

“I hardly think he need look for loopholes, sir. As things stand, we have no case against him. There never was anything but the accusation of a hysterical woman, which is contradicted by the physical evidence. I’ve got the forensic and medical reports here to show you.”

Superintendent Egerton waved them away. “Are you telling me DI Pearce arrested this fellow on the word of an hysterical female? Without any other evidence? The man must be stark raving mad.”

“Oh no, sir, I’m sure Mr Pearce would never do anything so … so … unwise. ’Specially with a popular local artist who’s an up-and-coming star on the London arts scene. Mr Gresham was never arrested, never charged, though I’m afraid he spent an uncomfortable night in the cells. But there, from what I hear you’ve got ’em set up all comfy-like, not like in the bad old days.”

Something sly in Scumble’s tone reminded Megan of hearing Egerton described as a “bring back flogging” copper. Or was it “hang, draw, and quarter ’em”?

The super’s cheeks swelled. “Is he going to lodge a complaint?”

“I doubt it, sir. A very easygoing gentleman. Not the sort to hold a grudge. Nor to stab someone in the back, though it’s true you never can tell.”

“So you’ve released him?”

“Yes, sir, but kept him close, like. We still have to check his alibi for the actual time of death.”

“Any chance Pearce was right to pick him up, if for the wrong reasons?”

“I rather doubt it, sir. The alibi looks good. But like I said, it’s got to be checked.”

“Quite right, quite right. Then I suppose you’ll have to start from scratch.”

“I wouldn’t say that, sir. We—Sergeant Pencarrow and me—we’ve got a few cards up our sleeves.”

“I’m glad to hear Pearce didn’t completely drop the ball.”

“Mr Pearce didn’t pass on any names, sir. Well, you couldn’t expect him to, could you, seeing he was sure he’d got the case sewn up. These are leads we’ve developed ourselves. Of course, Mr Pearce would soon have found ’em if he’d stayed with the case.”

“Of course,” said Egerton grimly. “Right, get on with it.”

Megan followed Scumble out of the room. With the door firmly closed behind them, she asked, “Which leads are those, sir?”

“We’ll find ’em, Pencarrow, we’ll find ’em. Don’t forget, we’ve got a nest of commies to roust out to begin with. I wonder if your auntie’s managed to infiltrate,” he added jocularly. He was very pleased with himself.

Though quite impressed by the way her gov’nor had handled the Super, Megan was less than thrilled at the thought of Aunt Nell, all unwary, infiltrating a bunch of possibly murderous commies, even if they weren’t actually communists. Still, it wasn’t Scumble who had sent her to Cold Comfort Farm, or whatever it was called. DI Pearce was to blame. Megan hoped Egerton gave him a rocket.

“What did you get from Gresham?”

“Uh … sir?”

“Come on, Pencarrow, I didn’t send you out to babysit him. Don’t tell me you spent nearly an hour discussing the flowers that bloom in the spring. Tra-la.” He stopped with his hand on the door-handle of their room and gave her an enquiring look.

“He confirmed that Stella Maris Weller made a pass at him, which he rejected. In an extremely insulting manner.”

“Ah, he did, did he?”

“The implication being that he had no motive of jealousy for doing in Geoffrey Clark.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Pencarrow. I can see an implication when it bites me in the arse. What I can’t see—yet—is the relevance. He’s already got an adequate motive. At least, I assume so. I want to see those paintings of his, and I’d really like to see the note he claims Miss Stella Weller left for him. Though unless she wrote the date and time on it, it won’t be conclusive. You’ll have to go and see this artsy-fartsy London dealer anyway.”

“Alarian? Why me, sir?”

He gave her an evil grin. “You’re the one with friends in the Met. I’m sure the boy wonder’ll be happy to go with you to hold your hand.”

Megan didn’t bother to protest. It was true that Ken, a detective sergeant with the Metropolitan Police, would probably be helpful, and the fact that she’d prefer not to see him, let alone ask for his assistance, would not weigh with the gov’nor, even if she wanted to tell him so, which she didn’t.

“But we mustn’t keep
Mr
Gresham waiting any longer in case he decides to lodge a complaint! The victim’s gallery first, I think. Let’s get this show on the road.”

In spite of the inspector’s words, it was some time before they left Bodmin. They needed officers to go house-to-house in Padstow, and it turned out, in the face of Scumble’s expressed disbelief, that the Bodmin district really was unusually busy. Egerton had instructed his flock to cooperate, but the better part of the morning was gone before the caravan of two pandas and the 1100 got under way.

In the meantime, taking advantage of the bustle and confusion, Nick had slipped out into the town, returning with a drawing pad and a box of coloured chalks. He took no further notice of proceedings.

Eleanor and Jocelyn took two colanders full of pea-pods through the back corridor to the kitchen.

“Is there anything else we can do to help?” Jocelyn enquired.

“No, thanks, Mrs Stearns. It’s all under control. There’s just the four of us. The ravening hordes are supposed to forage for themselves in the middle of the day. You won’t mind Doug in his work-clothes, I hope? No point him changing when he’ll go straight out again after.”

“Of course not,” Eleanor assured her, while Joce murmured something not quite appropriate about the labourer being worthy of his hire. “I’d really like to see more of the workings of Tom’s pottery before the police interrupt.”

They went out to the courtyard.

“What are you plotting, Eleanor?” Joce asked suspiciously.

“Plotting? What do you mean?”

“I know that look.”

“Not plotting, just thinking. Wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“I can’t do anything about it at present anyway. It wouldn’t be fair to Margery. So you can stop worrying. Will you come with me to watch Tom Lennox make those dishes you so admire?”

“I suppose I might as well. It’s very inconsiderate of the police to keep you waiting.”

Tom’s door still stood open. Approaching, they heard the whir of his potter’s wheel. Above it rose the sound of a female voice.

“Champagne!” exclaimed Jeanette. “I want the real thing.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Tom queried. “The fuzz are going to think it’s pretty odd to celebrate the murder of a fellow-artist so … so blatantly.”

Eleanor held Jocelyn back, too intrigued to worry about the ethics of eavesdropping.

“You can’t expect me to pretend to mourn him. If you hadn’t heard me scream … But I can wait for the Champagne till Nick’s safe for sure.”

“Till after the funeral. And the inquest.”

“Inquest! Does there have to be an inquest when he was so obviously murdered? I mean, you can’t stick a dagger in your own back, either by accident or on purpose, can you? Not that Geoff would ever have committed suicide. He had far too high an opinion of himself. An inquest! Oh, Tom, do you think we’ll all have to go? As witnesses?”

“I don’t know about that,” the potter said grimly, “but you’ve got to face it, the police will be asking us all a lot of questions.”

“I can’t talk to them!” Jeanette sounded panic-stricken.

“You won’t have any choice. None of us will. You needn’t be afraid I’ll tell them anything, though. You know I’d do anything—”

“Yes,” said Jocelyn loudly, “I would like to see more of Mr Lennox’s methods.” She gave Eleanor a reproachful look, to show she felt she had been led astray, and marched into the workshop.

Eleanor sighed and followed. In theory, naturally she disapproved of eavesdropping. In general. But there were times …

Such as when one was attempting to track down a murderer. The trouble was, the new scrap of information that Eleanor had collected, before Joce’s scruples overcame her, had made her less certain than ever that this was a murderer she wanted to see caught.

What had Geoffrey done to frighten Jeanette? she wondered, while apparently listening intently and nodding intelligently to Tom’s explanation of some process or other. Perhaps the girl was oversensitive? Much as she was coming to dislike and despise Geoffrey Clark, she must try to be fair.