A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (18 page)

She couldn’t speak for Jocelyn or her ethics, whether inspired by middle-class or church conventions, but to Eleanor, fairness was infinitely more important than a spot of eavesdropping.

Jeanette had slipped out. Now Oswald returned.

“No good, I can’t concentrate,” he grumbled. “I wish the fuzz would buck up and show up.”

“Don’t we all,” said Tom, continuing to mould clay as he talked. “I just want to get it over, and Jeanette’s having fits for fear it’s Mrs Trewynn who’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick, rather than Stella.” He smiled at Eleanor and shrugged. “I know who I believe. Stella’s always had a tendency to see what she wants to see.”

“Otherwise she’d never have fallen for Geoff,” Oswald agreed. “Thinks—thought, that is, the sun shone out of his … er, sorry.”

“And vice versa. A mutual admiration society. If anything, he was nuttier about her. I’d have thought she’d be able to stop him slashing Nick’s paintings.”

“Maybe she didn’t try too hard. She wasn’t all that keen on Nick. Besides, I don’t think I’d want to get in the way of Geoff with a knife in his hand.”

“Sounds as if he went berserk again,” Tom conceded. “He’d never concede that Nick’s a better painter.” He turned to Eleanor. “What’s all that about, Mrs Trewynn? Stella had too much else on her mind to tell us exactly what set Geoff off.”

Eleanor told them, omitting her part in connecting Nick with Alarian in the first place. She didn’t want to detract from his success. Nor did she want to be besieged with requests for introductions. Not that she thought it likely. Oswald seemed to have a realistic view of his abilities as an artist, Tom regarded his work as more craft than art, and both men apparently considered Nick’s luck to be deserved.

“It’s not just the technique,” Oswald said with a sigh, “though he’s streets ahead of me there—”

“Not streets,” Tom consoled him, “just a few dozen yards.”

“That’s as may be. But he has the imagination to go with it.”

“Not to worry. When he’s rich and famous we can boast that we knew him when he was just another unknown.”

“Yeah, and sponge on him! That’ll be the day.”

They both laughed. Tom gave a twirl to the pot on his wheel, which now looked like a serving dish, and said to Jocelyn, “How does that look to you, Mrs Stearns?”

“Beautiful. An elegant shape.”

“What colour, or colours, would you like it?”

“Me? Oh, but … I did tell you, Mr Lennox, that much as I admire them, I can’t afford your wares.”

“This is a gift. Or will be, assuming it comes out of the kiln in good shape. You can’t always guarantee the results.”

Jocelyn was rarely taken aback, and Eleanor had never before seen her so flummoxed. She was actually at a loss for words.

“But … but … why?”

Tom grinned at her. “Call it a reward for so bravely rushing to support your friend in this den of iniquity.”

The vicar’s wife turned bright pink, another first as far as Eleanor knew.

“I’ll leave you to choose your colours,” Eleanor said tactfully, or perhaps cowardly. She wasn’t sure whether Joce was flattered or considered the potter grossly impertinent. “It’s time I had a look at Oswald’s pictures, if you’d like to show me, Oswald?”

“If you like.”

“But I’d like to talk to you later, Tom, about an idea I’ve just had.”

“Anytime. I’ll be here.”

She and Oswald went out into the courtyard. There they met Albert. He was coming from the mini-bus parking place, gazing past them towards the far end of the row of studios opposite Oswald’s.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Eleanor and Oswald turned. Stella was lifting a box into another mini-bus, this one a blue, gleaming vehicle that looked as though it might even be comfortable and certainly didn’t smell of pigs.

“It’s Friday. It’s just Stella going to work,” Oswald said to Albert. “The home she works at send their bus to fetch her,” he explained to Eleanor. “They have trouble keeping staff.”

“She and the driver were loading stuff when I drove in, and they’re still at it.”

“Oh dear,” said Eleanor, “I’m afraid it’s my fault.”

“Your fault?”

She reconsidered her statement as the two men stared at her in surprise. “Well, not mine, exactly. The police detective who sent me here. I heard Stella having a row with Margery, saying she was going to move out because Margery was harbouring a friend of the man who killed Geoffrey. Which he didn’t, of course. Nick, that is. Didn’t kill Geoffrey.”

“I expect it’s hard on her, too, being right here where she was with him,” said Albert. “When my wife died, I just wanted to get away from everywhere we’d ever been together.”

“It was just the opposite for me,” Eleanor told him. “When Peter was killed, all I wanted was to retreat to Cornwall. We were both born here and always came back for our holidays. But then, we’d spent so much time abroad. But what will Stella do? Will she be able to stay temporarily at the convalescent place, do you think?”

“Oh yes,” Albert assured her. “She has a room there. She always spends Friday afternoon to Monday morning there. Weekend staff’s even harder to find than weekday, so she’s left more or less in sole charge.”

“Or so she’d like us to think,” said Oswald.

“It’s not as if it was a hospital, though she did once tell me that Dr Fenwick, the owner, has a flat there where he spends most weekends and he’s always on call. That was quite a while ago, but I imagine it’s still the case. She’s not a fully qualified nurse.”

“If I was old and ill,” Oswald commented, “I wouldn’t want Stella looking after me. Typical of her, going off like this, not thinking of anyone else. How’s she going to get into Padstow? The rest of us will have to cover her days at the shop.”

“She can catch a bus. There are plenty between Wadebridge and Padstow. Should we go and say good-bye, do you think?”

“Not me!”

“Someone ought to.” Albert hesitated, then squared his shoulders and marched off across the courtyard.

“I’m not staying to watch the slaughter. If you’d really like to take a gander at my daubs, Mrs Trewynn…?”

“Yes, of course.” Eleanor went with him, but her mind was elsewhere. “Stella seems to have had three … well … places of residence,” she mused aloud. “I’m sure someone said she lived with Geoffrey. As Margery was planning an artists’ colony, I assume his bungalow has a studio she could use, and he has—had one behind his gallery in Padstow as well. Why on earth would she go on paying for her own studio and bedsitter?”

“Well, er, you see,” Oswald mumbled, not looking at her, “they lived together in the sense that they were—um—lovers. I mean, they—um—you know, slept together as well as being in love with each other. But Stella isn’t the sort to give up her freedom for love. I mean, she wasn’t faithful to Geoff, or anything. He didn’t own her just because she loved him. He wasn’t faithful to her, either, come to that, however crazy he was about her. I mean, that’s all sort of old-fashioned, if you know what I mean. People can’t own each other.”

“Oh,” said Eleanor blankly. Though she did her best to make allowances for what some called the “generation gap,” there were certain aspects of contemporary mores that she would never understand. She could tell herself that equating faithfulness with ownership was no more outré than many customs she had seen in far parts of the world, but the truth was, she hadn’t expected to come home and find conventions of morality so altered.

Oswald hurriedly changed the subject. “Here they are,” he said, with a gesture encompassing a covered easel and several stacks of unframed pictures leaning against one wall.

The paintings were of local landscapes, beauty spots, and landmarks such as Jamaica Inn. Though pleasant enough, they somehow lacked the vividness of Nick’s work, evident even in his “tourist” paintings of similar scenes.

Eleanor would have liked to ask what made the difference, but in spite of his acknowledgement of Nick’s superiority, it would hardly be kind. Besides, if he knew, presumably he’d do whatever it took to improve his.

“Very attractive,” she offered.

“At least I make a living of sorts at it, which is more than most artists can say. I know I’m not brilliant,” Oswald admitted bitterly, “but Geoff had no call to say they’re junk.”

On arrival in Padstow, the police convoy parked in the yard of the station, now closed thanks to Dr Beeching’s cuts. Scumble gathered his team around him.

They were all Bodmin officers, because strictly speaking it was Bodmin’s case. Megan knew surprisingly few of them. Launceston and Bodmin were not distant geographically, but on the whole each district’s CID was kept busy on its own patch. Rarely did either suffer a major crime that required collaboration. However, as the only female detective based in North Cornwall, she was recognised by all.

Detective Constables Wilkes and Polmenna she had worked with on a previous case. Wilkes had been with DI Pearce last night. No doubt he was responsible for everyone being aware of her aunt’s involvement in the present case. Not that anyone mentioned it. Megan could tell from the smirks, sly glances, and covert snickers.

Obviously Scumble had noticed. His fearsome scowl quickly shut everybody up.

He sent Polmenna with two uniformed constables to go door-to-door along the street opposite and next door to Geoffrey Clark’s gallery.

“Not much hope,” he said, “seeing there’ll have been tourists coming and going all afternoon, but maybe someone noticed something odd, or even what time the closedsign went up. Make a note, by the way, that’s something you’ll have to ask about in Port Mabyn, too: what time Gresham’s shop closed. You can find out what people thought of the dead man, too, and make a note of any strong reactions. Any questions? Right, off you go.” He turned to Wilkes, who wilted a little. “You. You know Mrs Trewynn, don’t you. And you renewed the acquaintance yesterday evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’m sending you straight to this communist farm place to have what you might call a preliminary chat with her. Get the straightforward questions sorted before I have to face her. You know what to ask?”

“I—I think so, sir.”

“I should hope so.” Scumble glared at him.

Megan was both amused and indignant at Scumble’s reluctance to face Aunt Nell. Glancing at Nick, she guessed that his feelings were much the same. Anyone would think Aunt Nell was a fire-breathing dragon, not a kind, charming, inoffensive old lady. Scumble just couldn’t fathom the way her mind worked, the fact that she remembered people perfectly well but was rather vague about things and events and times.

Wilkes’s plump face was unhappy. “I don’t know how to get there, sir,” he said.

“Use your initiative, man! You know what that is? If you haven’t got any, I suggest you go and ask the local man.”

Wilkes scurried off. Scumble, Megan, Nick, and the remaining uniformed officer followed at a more leisurely pace.

When they reached the King Arthur Gallery, Scumble told the constable, Lubbock, to stand outside and make sure they were not disturbed. He had the key on a bunch taken from the victim’s pocket by the Scene of Crime officer and sent over with his report.

He handed the clanking bunch to Megan. “Here, you sort it.”

The ring held seven or eight keys, but only three were Yale. Naturally, Megan tried the wrong two first. Naturally, Scumble acted as if she were being deliberately obstructive. The lock was stiff. At last the door opened, with a jangle of its bell.

After reading Sergeant Roscoe’s report of the blood-soaked crime scene, Megan was a little apprehensive when it came to entering the studio of the King Arthur Gallery. If her stomach rebelled, she would never hear the end of it from Scumble.

She reminded herself that the techs had confirmed Nick’s claim that the pools of blood were nothing but red ink, but the image raised by the original description stayed with her.

Scumble had brought Nick into the gallery with them. The artist appeared not in the least apprehensive. Whatever ghost lingered here, he didn’t expect it to haunt him, Megan thought, then wondered where such a fanciful notion had sprung from in her usually prosaic mind. Nick’s fault, she decided resentfully. Somehow his presence made her brain stretch in directions it didn’t want to go. It didn’t help that the pictures in Geoffrey Clark’s shop were the stuff of fantasy and legend, straight out of Tolkien, as Nick had mentioned. Or vice versa; she wasn’t sure of the sequence of events.

A detective needed a certain amount of imagination, but too much could be a decided handicap.

She wondered why he had chosen to use the name Monmouth for his work. Geoffrey—or Geoffroie—Monmouth. Vaguely it rang a bell. Perhaps it had no particular meaning and anything other than Clark would have done. Clark wasn’t much less common than Smith, after all.

“Stay here,” Scumble ordered Nick.

“Right you are,” Nick said amiably. “I shall occupy my time in studying Geoff’s technique.”

“If it amuses you. Come along, Pencarrow.” He strode to the door at the back, opened it, and entered the studio.

Megan followed, closing the door behind her. The corpse was long gone, of course. The place where it had lain was clearly marked by the bare floor-boards between two splotches of red, bright, glossy red, the colour of fresh blood. It might fade with time, but no amount of scrubbing would get it out of the unfinished wood.

“Ink!” said Scumble explosively. “What I can’t make out is why Pearce didn’t at least come and have a look-see for himself. He’d only to touch it to know it’s not blood.”

The desk sergeant hadn’t actually told Megan not to pass on the information about DI Pearce’s new wife. He had just suggested there was no need to do so. She decided Scumble did need to know, if only so that he could stop wasting brainpower on wondering at his rival’s strange behaviour instead of devoting it to solving the crime.

“I’ve heard, sir, that Mr Pearce has a new young wife who doesn’t like him getting home late.”

“Huh! Had to be something like that. There’s no fool like a middle-aged fool. Right, get Gresham in here.”

Nick came reluctantly. “Geoff had some good ideas,” he admitted. “I’ve never really studied his painting before. It’s a mistake to dismiss someone’s work because you happen to dislike him intensely.”