A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (38 page)

“Stella Weller,” Scumble’s cold voice cut through the din, “you’re under arrest for attempted assault. Further charges may follow. You have the right to remain silent but anything you choose to say will be taken down and may be used in evidence. Polmenna, Wilkes, take her out.”

Eleanor sat down. “Good gracious,” she said, “if that’s how she behaves when she’s really in a passion, I’m not surprised poor Geoffrey always gave in to her. She’s certainly showed her true colours.”

Megan surprised herself by saying, “‘The man who has no music in him … is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.’ And woman, too. I noticed, in her room, she doesn’t even have a transistor radio.”

“Well I never,” said Meadowes. “Well I never.”

“Well I never,” said Jocelyn. “And I thought a Mothers’ Union meeting was hazardous. My dear Eleanor, I never would have asked you to go if I’d dreamt—”

“Of course you wouldn’t, Joce.”

“Eleanor, would you like this last bit of chicken dopiaza?” asked Nick.

“No, dear, you eat it. I’m FTB and TTT.”

“Eleanor, really!”

“Come on, Mrs Stearns, she didn’t say ‘full to bursting’ or ‘tummy touching table.’ Surely the acronyms are acceptable?”

“From children.”

“I must say,” Eleanor quickly intervened, “these take-away meals are a wonderful value. Much cheaper than eating in the restaurant. Oh, there goes the phone. I hope the reporters haven’t caught up with us yet.”

“Don’t answer,” Nick advised.

“It’s probably Timothy, wondering if I’m going to get back in time for the parish council. I’ll get it.”

Jocelyn went to the phone. “Oh, hello, Mr Alarian. No, this is Eleanor’s friend, Mrs Stearns … No, we haven’t had the pleasure … Yes, she’s right here … Nicholas Gresham? Yes, as a matter of fact he’s here, too … Nicholas?”

Nick was already at her side, reaching for the receiver. “Mr Alarian, Gresham here.”

Eleanor waited in an agony of anticipation while he listened to the art dealer talking, his face a study in incredulity. She couldn’t be sure whether he was delighted or horrified. What if some disaster had overtaken another two of his best paintings?

At last he said, “A conductor, sir? No, I’ve never heard of him … Oh, I see. Thank you, sir. And thank you for letting me know so promptly … Yes, of course, I’ll ship another two to you tomorrow … Yes, insured … Yes, here she is. And thank you, sir. Good-bye.”

Eleanor was forced to listen to several minutes of rhapsody in Alarian’s eclectic accents before she was able to hang up, turn to Nick, and exchange big hugs. He started to waltz her about the room but it really was too small for such activity.

“Both of them!” he crowed.

“Congratulations, Nicholas. I couldn’t help overhearing—to a conductor?”

“A wealthy amateur patron of the arts who supports a local orchestra in exchange for being permitted to conduct it. Not Giulini, perhaps, but he paid the full price without argument.” Nick sat down rather suddenly. “I can hardly believe it!”

The phone rang again. Eleanor answered it.

“Aunt Nell, I’ve been worrying about you.”

“Megan dear, I’m perfectly all right, truly. I’ve just overeaten enormously.”

“Did you go to the Indian?”

“Yes, we got take-away in the end. Such a pity you couldn’t join us.”

“I’m still writing reports. But the gov’nor’s so pleased to have put one over on DI Pearce that he’s actually gone to the length of giving me tomorrow off. I’ll come over and see you.”

“That would be lovely, dear. Come to lunch. I’ll get something special that doesn’t require complicated cooking.”

“Lovely. And we’ll take Teazle for a walk afterwards if it’s fine?”

“If that’s what you’d like. Or you can put your feet up and relax. You’ve been working awfully hard for the past week. We’ll decide when you get here.”

“Right. Good night, Aunt Nell. Sweet dreams. Don’t think about you know who.”

“I’ll try, dear. Good night.”

Eleanor hung up and turned to find that Jocelyn had dashed off to her parish council meeting. Nick was clearing up the mess of boxes and papers and foil.

“Nothing left but half a paratha,” he said. “I’ve given a bit to Teazle.”

Teazle sat at his feet, tail wagging, gazing up at him hopefully.

“No more,” Eleanor said severely. “It’s hard to believe I’ll ever want to eat again, but Megan’s coming to lunch tomorrow. I’m hoping she’ll fill in the gaps, because I don’t feel I’ve quite got a grasp yet of exactly what Stella did. Do say you’ll join us? I thought you’d want to give her the news from London yourself.”

“Do you think she’d be interested?” Nick asked doubtfully.

“It’s part of the case, after all, your visit to Mr Alarian.”

Eleanor thought of Jeanette, a painter like Nick, with similar interests, who fancied herself in love with him. Would she suit him better than Megan? She was so angry at the world, but in time that would fade now that Geoffrey Clark was dead. Perhaps her infatuation with Nick would fade, too, and with a new perspective on life, she might turn to poor Tom Lennox.

Tom Lennox: Eleanor had plans for him. She must go back to the farm and talk to him about sharing his skills with the primitive potters of Africa.

“Well, if you think it won’t bore her, I’ll be happy to come and do a little boasting about my national and international triumphs.” Nick grinned. “I’ll try to get hold of some Champagne at last, the real thing!”

Policewoman and artist—an odd couple, perhaps, but Eleanor still had hopes …