A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (5 page)

“S’pose so, Mrs Rosevear,” Roscoe said with obvious reluctance. He looked at his constable as if debating the wisdom of sending him instead to view the body. With a gloomy shake of the head, he said, “You stay there by the door, Arnie, and don’t let a soul through.”

Which was, Eleanor thought, a surprisingly tactful way of telling them all to stay put. But a face peered in through the door glass as if to prove the precaution was aimed in both directions. Her start when she saw it alerted PC Arnie. He drew down the blind. Not quite so gormless as he looked.

Meanwhile, heavy police boots tramped across the stone floor. The last person out of the studio had left the door open. Roscoe stopped on the threshold, looking in.

“Bloody ’orrible!” he exclaimed with a shudder, and turned away quickly, his face pale.

“Bloody’s the word,” Nick murmured, “at least at first glance.”

Eleanor gave him an old-fashioned look. “Really, Nick, being facetious is not helpful.”

“It’s helpful to my nerves.”

“Miss Maris,” the sergeant said hopefully, “you’re a nurse, I’ve heard? You’re quite certain he’s dead?”

“Quite certain.”

So Sergeant Roscoe wouldn’t have to check the body close up. He gave a sigh of relief, then tried to turn it into a cough. “I rang Dr Wenlow—our local GP—before I came over, but he’s gone out to a confinement.” He took out an enormous handkerchief and used it to hold the doorknob, gingerly, as he closed it. “You’d all best come up to the station—”

“Nick’s the one you want,” objected Stella.

“I’ve got to take statements from all of you, miss. ’Specially you, that saw what happened. And Bodmin’ll want you to wait till the detectives get here, I don’t doubt. I must call them in right away.”

“Phone’s over there,” said Doug, pointing to a shelf behind the cash register. As the gigantic handkerchief once more emerged, he added, “I used it to ring you.”

“You never know,” Roscoe observed weightily, dropping the handkerchief over the receiver before he picked it up and dialled. His beefy forefinger barely fitted into the holes.

Of his end of the ensuing muttered conversation, Eleanor heard little: “…blood everywhere…” made her look at Nick.

He shrugged, resigned. “I assume the CaRaDoC CID is capable of telling the difference,” he said in a low voice.

“Of course!” After all, Eleanor’s niece was a detective in the Constabulary of the Royal Duchy of Cornwall. “Sergeant Roscoe didn’t even look properly.”

“No point arguing with the locals. Besides, I’m not sure what exactly it is.”

Most of the rest of what she heard was “Yes, sir,” “No, sir.” There was an interruption when Teazle barked outside.

“My dog! She sounds upset. I must bring her in, officer.”

The constable blushed and looked at the sergeant. “Sarge…?”

Roscoe gave him a ferocious scowl, then shrugged, nodded, and returned his attention to the telephone. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re not supposed to go out, madam,” PC Arnie whispered. “I’d better get it. Will it bite?”

“Certainly not.”

Arnie—Arney? Christian name or surname? Eleanor wondered—opened the door to admit a babble of voices. “Move along there,” he said officiously. It was probably about the only thing he ever did have to say in the normal course of his duties.

A moment later Teazle pulled the string out of his hand and bounced to a halt in front of Eleanor. “
Woof?”
she asked.

“Yes, we’ll be leaving soon,” said Eleanor. “I hope.” She stuck her hand in the pocket of her skirt, but she’d come away in such a hurry she hadn’t brought any dog bics.

Blushing furiously, Arnie dug a small-size Bonio out of the depths of his uniform tunic and, with a sidelong glance at his superior, bent down to offer it to Teazle. Delicately she took it from his fingers. He smiled and patted her head.

If they were to be stuck in the police station for several hours, as seemed probable, Eleanor hoped he had plenty more.

With a final “Yes, sir, PC Bennett’s with me,” Roscoe hung up and turned to face them. “Well, they’re on their way, Scene of Crime team and all. Nothing like this has ever happened in all my years here in Padstow, and I’m bound to say, I don’t like it.”

Looking round those present, Eleanor felt she could safely say none of them liked the situation, except possibly Teazle, who was advancing hopefully, stumpy tail wagging, on PC Arnie Bennett. On the other hand, no one, not even Stella, looked exactly devastated by Geoff Monmouth’s death.

Stella did look overwrought, keyed up to a pitch that might very well result in hysteria. She could hardly be blamed in the circumstances. Eleanor hoped the police station would provide a nice, soothing cup of tea. She could do with one herself, come to that.

Contrariwise, Marge and Doug seemed uncomfortable but remarkably calm. Where did they come into the picture? They were obviously friends of Stella’s, and Nick knew them, if only through the darts team. They must have been acquainted with the dead man. Doug, at least, knew Sergeant Roscoe well enough to be on christian-name terms, so he must be a local. Marge was
Mrs
. Were she and Doug married?

“Let’s get going,” Roscoe said without enthusiasm. “You’ll have to walk beside me, Nick—Mr Gresham. It’s that or handcuffs, the detective inspector says, and I don’t want to … If it wasn’t for what
she
says, and what I saw with my own eyes…” His voice trailed off.

Suddenly Eleanor was worried. The sergeant seemed to be unwillingly convinced that Nick had killed Geoff. What if her faith in CaRaDoC’s detectives proved misplaced?

Nick would be in desperate trouble.

The march through the streets to the police station was embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as Eleanor’s previous similar experience. For one thing, unlike in Port Mabyn, she wasn’t known to everyone here in Padstow, nor were many people out and about. For another, she didn’t have a police officer holding her by the arm, just the sergeant in front and Constable Bennett bringing up the rear. She wasn’t alone, she was one of five, not counting Teazle; and best of all, the press hadn’t arrived yet.

On the other hand, last time she had been escorted to her own home. This time they were heading for the police station.

It might be just around the corner, but it was up a steep hill. Trudging upwards, Eleanor was growing tired. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet, not by a long chalk.

Whereas the Port Mabyn police station consisted of Bob Leacock’s front room, Padstow’s occupied one half of a double, two-story cottage. Over the entrance a policesign glowed blue. Painted on the glass of the door was crdc, with the Duchy’s arms beneath, and then in smaller letters: Police Station.

Roscoe unlocked and opened the door and ushered in his flock. He sent PC Arnie Bennett back to guard King Arthur’s Gallery.

It was gloomy inside. Clouds had hidden the sun, now low in the sky, and dingy paint and battered furniture failed to brighten the room. Roscoe turned on the light. It glared down shadeless from the centre of the ceiling, pitilessly illuminating the scratches and worn patches in the grey linoleum. There was a wooden counter with a stool and a couple of brownish-grey metal filing cabinets behind it. An extremely unhappy aspidistra wilted on top of one of the cabinets. Against one wall a bench offered an unpadded seat to no more than three people at a time.

“Sit down, Eleanor,” Nick urged. He was too polite to say she looked like death, but she was sure she must. She took a seat on the bench and Teazle hid behind her legs. To the sergeant Nick proposed, “Jerry, how about rustling up a cuppa all round?”

Jerry Roscoe looked disconcerted. Eleanor sympathised. It must be difficult for him to hold his darts opponent in what amounted almost to arrest. “I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered.

“I’ll do it,” Marge offered. “Just tell me where.”

“There’s a kettle and the makings upstairs in the office, Mrs Rosevear, thank you kindly.”

Marge went up the stairs against the wall on the other side of the room. Next to them was an alarming steel door with a small barred opening high up.

Nick noticed Eleanor regarding it with dismay. “Yes, the lock-up,” he said, sitting down beside her. “I’d be in it, no doubt, if I hadn’t been playing darts with Jerry for years.”

Sergeant Roscoe caught his name and looked up. He had moved behind the counter, taken off his cap, put on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and was laboriously writing something in his notebook. “Sorry, Nick,” he said, obviously deeply embarrassed. “They said I’m not to let you talk together. Not none of you,” he added severely to Doug and Stella, who were conferring in low tones at the far side of the room.

“They can’t have meant me,” Stella protested. “I’m the one who—”

“Not
no
body. Now, what I’ve got to do is, I’ve got to get all your names and addresses. Miss Maris, from what I’ve heard, that’s not your right name. More like a pen-name, is it?”

“More or less,” she said ungraciously.

Pencil poised, he waited. And waited. “Miss Maris? Your real name?”

“It’s a free country. I can call myself whatever I want.”

“Very true, miss. But there’s times, like this here, when what’s needed is your true legal name. So, unless you changed it by deed-poll, the which I take it you haven’t or you’d’ve said by now—”

“Oh, if you must know, it’s Weller. How would you like to be called Stella Weller?”

Nick hummed a tune. “Mellow yellow”; the words, in a vaguely American accent, floated into Eleanor’s mind. More like “mella yella”; pop music, she guessed, not his usual classical. She must have heard Donna singing it, she supposed.

Mella yella
. Stella Weller. What could her parents have been thinking of?

“Thank you, Miss Weller.”

“You can call me Miss Maris, can’t you, whatever you have to write down? Or just Stella.”

Roscoe nodded. “I reckon so, seeing I’ve got you down as ‘known as Maris.’ Address?”

“Upper Trewithen Farm.”

“One of your lot, Doug. Thought so. Douglas Rosevear. Now spell that for me, would you? I never was certain just how it’s written.”

“Old Cornish name,” Doug said complacently.

As he spelt it, Nick whispered to Eleanor, “Turned his family farm into an artists’ colony. Sort of half-baked commune. His forebears must be spinning in their graves.”

The sergeant gave him a severe look and he shut up.

“And your missus, Doug? Would that be Margery with a
g-e
or a
j-o
?”

“
G-e
, and a
y
on the end, not
i-e
.”

“Doug, give me a hand with the tray!” Margery with a
g-e
and a
y
called from above.

Obediently, Doug arose.

“No comparing notes,” Roscoe reminded him. “You come right on down again. Now, madam.” He turned to Eleanor.

“Eleanor Trewynn, Mrs.” She spelt it, and couldn’t resist adding, “An old Cornish name. I live in Port Mabyn, next door to Nick. Number 21a, Harbour Street, above the LonStar shop.”

Roscoe stopped writing and stared at her. “Not
that
Mrs Trewynn?”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Nick demanded, starting up.

Eleanor put her hand on his arm, but said a trifle tartly, “Yes, though the LonStar affair’s got nothing whatsoever to do with this imbroglio.”

“Are you Nick’s aunt or something?” Stella asked.

“No relative, just a friend and neighbour.”

The sergeant’s lips ceased moving silently in what seemed to be a puzzled rehearsal of
imbroglio
. “No talking,
if
you please! Nick—Mr Gresham, is that your legal name or some la-di-da invention?”

“What’s la-di-da about Nicholas Gresham, for heaven’s sake? It’s on my birth certificate. I don’t happen to have a copy in my pocket.”

“You’re another artist. And you live next door to Mrs Trewynn, in Harbour Street, Port Mabyn?”

“Guilty as charged, officer. Number 22.”

“Nick,” Eleanor said crossly, “stop being so stroppy. Sergeant Roscoe has to ask these questions for the record, as you know perfectly well.”

This time the look Roscoe cast at her was grateful. “That’s right, madam. Have my hide, they will, if I don’t get all these details down right.”

“Sorry. This is getting on my nerves, I suppose. And you don’t need to write that down, Jerry.”

“Only natural,” said the sergeant non-committally, “considering the sticky spot you’ve been and gone and got yourself into.”

“Oh lord,” Nick groaned, but to Eleanor’s relief he said no more. Nothing was to be gained by antagonising the local man, and it would all get sorted out as soon as the detectives arrived.

Doug brought down a tin tray of tea, a large brown earthenware teapot, thick white china mugs, a half-empty bottle of milk, and an opened packet of sugar. He put it on the scratched counter, beside the sergeant.

At least, Eleanor thought, there was a pot, rather than a soggy tea-bag lurking in each mug. And Margery had thought to find and fill a bowl with water for Teazle. Eleanor thanked her as the dog lapped thirstily.

“Shall I pour, Jerry?” Margery asked.

“If you’d be so kind, Mrs Rosevear.” Roscoe glanced around the room in a dissatisfied way. “Doug, would you mind bringing down a couple of chairs? There’s no knowing when they’ll get here from Bodmin.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Nick offered, “unless you’re afraid I’ll shove you down the stairs.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Doug. “Come on.”

Stella came over to sit on the bench.

The men returned with two folding metal chairs, the kind designed by someone who never expected to sit on them. Nick set his near the window and subsided onto it.

The only words exchanged for the next quarter of an hour concerned milk, sugar, and refills. Sergeant Roscoe continued to write industriously as he drank. Presumably he was producing a report. In moments of disillusionment, Megan claimed that the chief purpose of the police force was not the reduction of crime but the production of reports, most of which were filed unread.

The tea made Eleanor want to go to the loo. She had noticed a door under the stairs with a wcsign, but she wasn’t sure if she should just get up and go, or would that lead to Roscoe’s demanding to know where she thought she was off to? She felt like a small child wondering whether she dared raise her hand and tell the teacher she needed to spend a penny. She reminded herself of the many and varied parts of the world where, as LonStar’s roving ambassador, she had met similar circumstances with dignity, in Bedouin tents and Mongolian yurts alike.