A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (25 page)

“Most important?”

“First on the scene.”

“Third, surely, sir. After Gresham and Aunt—Mrs Trewynn. As a matter of fact, it seems she’d already left before we got here.”

“Hnnn. You say you know where she’s gone?”

“Yes, sir. Apparently she works weekends at a nursing home near Wadebridge. She has a room there.”

“Oh, so she’s just gone off to work as usual.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Yes or no, Sergeant!”

“No, sir. She packed up bag and baggage and shook the dust—”

“Don’t get fanciful on me!”

“She’s taken all her belongings with her. She’s never coming back. She can’t bear to stay here where she was so happy with Geoff. That’s what she said, sir. Or rather, what I’ve been told she said.”

Scumble nodded approval of the emendation, for once without adding that he might make a detective of her yet. “Who told you? The landlady?”

“No, Mrs Rosevear didn’t mention it.” She frowned. “It’s a bit odd, really. She was talking about renting out Clark’s bungalow. I’d have expected her to be planning for Stella’s studio, too.”

“Never try to fathom the mind of a witness.”

Megan thought that was pretty much what her job consisted of, but she didn’t contradict him.
Never try to fathom the mind of your gov’nor
, she told herself. “Shall I go and look in the studio to see if her stuff is gone?”

“No hurry. Why would anyone tell you she’s gone if she hasn’t?”

Gritting her teeth, Megan managed not to shout,
Never try to fathom the mind of a witness!
The fact that she couldn’t imagine any reason why Jeanette should have misled her didn’t mean there wasn’t one. “Shall I go after her right away?”

“No, I still want to leave her till last. Let’s get on with the ones you haven’t let get away.”

He was definitely being more awkward than even his usual high standard. Megan hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts about his ability to beat DI Pearce at his own game.

“Do you want a report on what I’ve already got, sir? It would help if I knew what Aunt—Mrs Trewynn’s told you. I’d have a better idea of what to ask.”

Grudgingly Scumble agreed that it might conceivably be useful to exchange information. He handed her Wilkes’s notebook, which he’d been conning, and took hers in exchange. After one glance at the shorthand, he closed it again and said, “Tell me in your own words. Briefly. I’ll read the reports when they’ve been typed up.”

She gave him a précis of her interviews with Margery Rosevear and Jeanette Jones.

In return, he told her little more than that her aunt and Mrs Stearns between them had confirmed Gresham’s story. “I sent Wilkes to radio Launceston to send someone to the station to talk to the ticket collector.” He glanced at his watch. “Where the devil has the lazy sod got to? I wonder if he can be trusted to take himself down to Padstow to talk to the bloke who’s at their shop today. Quentin something?”

“I don’t know his surname, sir.”

“Why not? What do we know about him?”

“I haven’t heard anything to suggest that he had any particular quarrel with Clark. DC Wilkes could probably cope, at least with the initial interview.”

“Good. Oh, there you are, Wilkes. Where the hell have you been?”

The detective constable came out of the back door of the farmhouse, bearing a tray. “Mrs Rosevear called me into the house, sir, and asked me to bring this out. Homemade clotted cream, homemade raspberry jam, homemade splits, and a nice pot of tea.” He set the tray on the bench beside Scumble.

“Very nice, too. Pity you’re off to Padstow but maybe the chap at the artists’ shop down there’ll give you a cuppa.”

“Sir!”

The heartfelt protest failed to induce Scumble to relent. “I want to know what he was doing yesterday afternoon. Also, try to get him talking about Clark, find out what he thought of him. Off you go, and don’t be all day about it.”

Wilkes gave the tray a last wistful look. “Yes, sir,” he said gloomily and trudged away round the corner of the house.

“Who’s left?” asked Scumble, his mouth already full.

“Douglas Rosevear.” Megan poured two cups of tea. “Albert Baraclough. Oswald Rudd. Tom Lennox.”

“He’s the one who’s sweet on Miss Jones?”

“Yes, sir. Very protective.”

“Supposed to have driven to Wadebridge yesterday. That the lot?”

“One more, Leila—again, I don’t know her surname, I’m afraid. They don’t seem to go in for surnames much here. All I know about her is that she walked to Padstow yesterday afternoon, leaving here after the mini-bus, and came back in the bus with the others. I haven’t seen her about.”

“Not another one gone!”

“I’ll go and ask Mrs Rosevear.” Megan hoped there would be some splits and cream left when she returned. Cornish cream teas were an indulgence she usually managed to resist, but homemade, and free …

Margery Rosevear was sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands, staring into the depths of a mug of tea. She turned, startled, when Megan knocked on the open door.

“Thanks for the tea,” said Megan.

“You can’t have finished already!”

“No, I just have a quick question for you.”

A wary look crossed Mrs Rosevear’s face. “Yes?”

“Two questions, actually. What is Leila’s surname, and where is she?”

“Arden. She went to Trevone Bay to collect shells for her work. Albert gave her a lift when he took Quentin to the shop.”

“When do you expect her back?”

She shrugged. “By suppertime, I imagine. More likely earlier. She goes her own way. She may phone for someone to pick her up, but quite likely she’ll walk home. She likes walking. It’s not that far cross-country.”

“Thank you. One more question while I’m here: Where can we find your husband this afternoon?”

“He said he was going to muck out the pigs. Go through the yard and the pens are just over the brow of the hill.”

Guess who’s going to get that job
, Megan thought sourly. With that prospect before her, clotted cream didn’t sound like such a wonderful idea after all. What a pity Wilkes had already left for Padstow!

Would it be worth suggesting that the farmer would probably respond better to a male questioner? It might even be true, but no, she had worked long and hard to convince the gov’nor she could do the job as well as any man. She wasn’t going to jeopardise her progress just to get out of a nasty job.

When she told him, Scumble said, “Well, now, sounds as if both of ’em are trying to avoid us. They must have guessed we’d turn up. I’ll send that oaf Lubbock to fetch the farmer.” He gave Megan a knowing look as she swallowed a sigh of relief. “If I can find him. Where the hell has he got to? Then we’ll deal with the others and see if the shell woman turns up by the time we’re done. As you know all about what happened between Clark and Jeanette Jones, you can take Lennox.”

Quickly, before she could be sent off without her tea like Wilkes, she sat down, picked up her cup, and took a swig of the lukewarm liquid. After all, rank had its privileges, and she was a DS, not a mere DC. She cut open a split, spread jam, and slathered it with what was left of the cream.

He eyed her irritably. “I hope
he
’s not going to disappear before you finish eating.”

“I doubt it. He’d surely be gone by now. I heard his potter’s wheel whirring as I came away from Miss Jones’s studio.”

“He rescued her from Clark’s unwanted advances, you said.”

“Worse than advances. It was pretty nasty.” Megan hoped he wouldn’t ask for details. She would have to put it all in her report, but she wasn’t sure she would be able to bring herself to pass on Jeanette’s description verbally, face to face with the inspector.

“I suppose you’d better use a bit of tact with the fellow.”

“Of course, sir.” No wonder he had given Lennox to her. His own make-up included not an atom of tact, and to do him justice, he knew it.

“That leaves me with Oswald Rudd and Albert … What was his name?”

“Baraclough, sir.”

“What a mouthful! What do you know about them?”

“Not much, sir. I saw Rudd briefly. Jeanette Jones said he’s a painter. He was in charge at their shop yesterday. Mrs Rosevear, Jeanette Jones, and Leila Arden met at the shop and Lennox picked them up there on his way back from Wadebridge, but that was after four. I haven’t heard anything about his relationship with Clark.”

“Which probably means he had no major quarrel with him,” Scumble grumbled. “Waste of my time.”

“Perhaps he’s really good at hiding his feelings, behind his red beard. Regard it as a challenge, sir.”

He groaned. “Not a beardy-weirdy!”

“They are artists, after all. You have to expect a bit of excess hair.”

“At least Gresham wears his behind where you don’t have to stare at it. What about Baraclough?”

“I don’t know about his facial hair situation, sir. Only that he’s supposed to have stayed here yesterday afternoon. This morning he drove Leila Arden to the cove and the sculptor, Quentin, to their shop, then came back.”

“Right. If you’ve quite finished eating, let’s get going.”

She had finished, if only because there was no food left. “I’ll just take the tray back to Mrs Rosevear.”

“Leave it. I’ll take it in. I want a word with her and your next job’ll probably take longer than mine, ‘challenge’ or not.”

Megan found both Jeanette and Oswald Rudd in Lennox’s pottery, as well as an elderly, clean-shaven man—wearing a suit!—whom they introduced as Albert Baraclough. The potter’s wheel was silent. Lennox was incising swirling marks on a row of reddish-brown bowls with what looked like an ice-lolly stick.

“Mr Rudd, Mr Baraclough, Detective Inspector Scumble will be coming to talk to you in a few minutes. Mr Lennox, I’d like a word with you now.”

“I’ve got to get this done before the clay dries.”

“That’s all right, sir. Judging by your company, you can talk and work at the same time.”

“I suppose so,” he said grudgingly. Then he gave her an unexpected grin. “Yes, of course I can. Ask away.”

Rudd and Baraclough had departed but Jeanette Jones still lingered, perched on the seat by the wheel.

“Miss Jones, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“I know you’re going to be talking about me. Can’t I stay?”

“No.”

“Off you go, Jeanie.”

“Oh, all right.” She left, pouting.

“She’s a bit young for her age,” said Lennox, excusing her. “Not stupid, just…” He shrugged.

“Unsophisticated?”

“Yes, that’s it,” he agreed, a bit too eagerly.

What was it he shied away from saying? Immature, perhaps? Emotionally immature?

Why didn’t he want to come out with it? Perhaps he was afraid that Jeanette, with little control over her emotions, had stabbed Clark in a fit of retrospective rage.

Megan could obey the injunction not to “try to fathom the mind of a witness,” or she could go with her instinct. “Tell me about her paintings,” she requested.

“Jeanette’s paintings?” he asked, startled.

Obviously the last subject he had expected, and it was never a bad thing to have a witness off balance. “Yes. I caught a glimpse of a couple. They didn’t seem to me unsophisticated.”

“I don’t pretend to understand art. I’m a craftsman, and a good one, and that’s all I aspire to.”

Properly put in her place! And stymied. Oh well, it had been nothing more than the vaguest of hunches that Jeanette’s work might have some significance. All the same, Megan wondered whether Nick Gresham might have something to say on the subject.

Changing gears, she asked about his movements the previous afternoon.

“I made a delivery to a shop in Wadebridge, as I’m sure you’ve been told.”

“Where to? What time? Details, please.”

Leaving Padstow at two, he had taken a good half an hour to drive to Wadebridge, going carefully with due regard to the twisting road, his fragile cargo, and the vagaries of the mini-bus. By the time he had found a parking spot, unloaded his crates, and trucked them to the shop on his handcart, it was past three. The shopkeeper had revived him with a cold drink, then insisted on opening all the crates and checking the contents for breakages. He had barely made it back to Padstow to pick up Margery, Jeanette, and Leila at half past four.

“Thank you. And before you left here?”

“Before? I was packing up the crates and loading them into the bus. Just out there, in the courtyard. Quentin gave me a hand and two or three people came over for one reason or another.”

“Who?”

“Let me see. Jeanie—Jeanette wanted to be sure I’d get her to the village in time to catch the afternoon post. Leila told me she was going to walk down and would like a lift back. I think that’s the lot.”

“Can you give me times?”

He shrugged. “Not a chance. I suppose Quentin might know, but I can’t see why he should. He had no reason to look at his watch, and Upper Trewithen Farm never ran to a stable clock.”

Everything would have to be checked, but at first sight Lennox’s alibi looked pretty solid. Megan wondered whether she really needed to delve into the embarrassing business of his rescue of Jeanette from Geoffrey Clark. More to the point, would Scumble consider it necessary?

She compromised. “Tell me about Clark.”

“I’m sure you’ve already heard it all.”

“Probably. But I’d like your perspective.”

“He was an arrogant, malicious bastard who enjoyed making people squirm.”

“Completely insensitive to other people’s feelings?”

“On the contrary. He had an instinct for the weak spot. When the mood took him, which was all too often, he could be not only offensive but hurtful.”

“Did he pick on anyone in particular?”

“Like all bullies, he didn’t bother those who could defend themselves. Or, more accurately, those he couldn’t get a rise out of. Albert, Quentin, and I were more or less immune. We’ve all got thick hides. Stella wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from him, either. Perhaps that’s why he fell for her. I may be risking my life saying this to a female police officer, but on the whole women are comparatively thin-skinned.”

Megan wasn’t about to let him get a rise out of her. “You’re saying on the whole he despised women?”