A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (6 page)

As an American friend had once said to her, “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“Stay,” she told Teazle, and she got up and went. Glancing up, Roscoe nodded as she passed the desk.

When she came out, Nick stood up, gestured at the window, and said, “Here come our interrogators. I’ll follow your example while I have the chance.”

Eleanor looked out into the dusk. It was darker than she expected. She glanced back at the clock over the counter. Nearly ten o’clock. No wonder she was hungry, and Teazle must be starving! She was sniffing at the water bowl in a discouraged way.

A dark grey saloon had stopped directly outside the station. Headlights blazing, two police cars pulled up to the kerb behind it, and a large van with police markings passed them all and parked just ahead. Doors opened. Large men, some in suits, some in uniform, climbed out of the vehicles to gather on the pavement around one of the plainclothes officers. He must be a detective inspector, Eleanor assumed. He had his back to the window so all she could see was that he was balding, taller than many of the others and comparatively slender.

She suddenly pictured all those giants tramping into the room and the dog getting lost underfoot. “Teazle, come!” she called.

Teazle whined and went to the door.

“Sergeant, the dog needs to go out.”

“
Now
?” Roscoe had just thumped down from his stool and was lumbering around the counter. “Just when the brass has arrived?”

“Yes, now. She’s been terribly good but you can’t expect her to hold on forever.”

“Not
now
!”

“Well, if you want to risk a puddle—”

“All right, all right, take her out. Under proper control,” he added sternly.

Eleanor couldn’t find the length of string. She searched her pockets and her handbag with increasing urgency as Teazle’s whine took on increasing desperation.

Nick, returning, took in the scene at a glance. “The string’s still attached to her collar, Eleanor. Here.”

As he stooped to pick up the end and hand it to her, she whispered, “Nick, for pity’s sake don’t argue or play the fool with the detectives.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. It’s hard to resist taking the mickey, but I’ll behave myself.”

The sergeant reached them just in time to hear his last words. “You’d better, Nick,” he warned. “You’re in big trouble, and these blokes don’t mess about.”

Nick opened his mouth, caught Eleanor’s eye, and closed it again.

“Here you go, madam.” Roscoe opened the door.

Teazle shot out, and Eleanor lost the end of the string.

The pavement, the Westie had been taught, was not a suitable place for relieving oneself. From a patch of lawn diagonally across the street, the sweet scent of greenery reached her quivering nostrils. She had also been taught to cross streets with caution, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Circling the group of detectives, she dashed between the grey saloon and the rear police car with Eleanor in hot pursuit.

“Stop!” someone shouted. Heavy footsteps pounded after her.

As soon as Teazle felt grass beneath her paws, she squatted. Half a dozen large policemen found themselves surrounding a small white dog and a small white-haired old lady.

The tall, thin, balding man stepped into the circle. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

Eleanor had had enough. Irritably she cut through a babble of bass voices explaining that they had taken her for a murderer on the run.

“My dog is answering a call of nature. These gentlemen seem to be extraordinarily interested in her bodily functions.”

“Extraordinary, perhaps, madam,” he said gently, “but hardly unnatural. You came rushing out from a police station where a murderer is being held under arrest.”

“He’s not under arrest. And he’s not a murderer.” Eleanor found herself in just the sort of argument she had advised Nick against.

“Oh?” He had his back to what little light there was, so she couldn’t make out his expression, but she could hear his raised eyebrows. “You know more about the matter than I do?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Then let’s go inside and you can tell me all about it.” He bent down to scratch behind Teazle’s ears as she sniffed at his shoes. “What’s her name?”

“Teazle.”

“Come along, then, Teazle.” He took the end of the string from Eleanor. Teazle gave a short, sharp bark of protest. “What’s up? Don’t you want to come with me? But your owner’s coming, too.”

“She’s hungry. She hasn’t had her dinner. And all the shops are long shut.”

“You don’t live in Padstow? Ah, well, we’ll manage something. Pearce,” he said to the one remaining detective who hadn’t melted away, “doesn’t DC Wilkes generally have something edible in his pocket? A former Boy Scout, I believe.”

“Yes, sir. I think I heard mention of a ham sandwich.”

“That will do very well, won’t it, Teazle? I’m sure Wilkes will be happy to come to the rescue.”

And so he should, Eleanor thought, considering how many meals she had fed the detective constable. She decided against informing this soft-voiced yet somehow alarming man that she was acquainted with Wilkes, though no doubt he’d find out sooner or later.

As they went back across the street, he said, “I haven’t introduced myself. How very remiss of me. Detective Chief Inspector Bixby.”

“Mrs Trewynn.” Eleanor would have preferred him to remain ignorant of her name. But after all, Trewynn—variously spelt—was quite a common Cornish name. He wouldn’t necessarily associate her with the LonStar affair. At least, not at once. Not until Sergeant Roscoe told him, she remembered gloomily.

Why had she ever presumed that her retirement would be peaceful?

Roscoe stood at attention by the door of his station. He saluted as DCI Bixby approached with Teazle on her string and Eleanor at his side.

“Sergeant Roscoe, sir. I hope it’s all right, sir, letting the lady take the little dog out for a minute.”

“Unavoidable, I suppose, considering the alternative,” drawled Bixby. “Go and direct the lads in the van to the scene, would you, Sergeant? And that looks like Dr Prthnavi pulling up behind them.”

Rajendra Prthnavi! The police surgeon was a friend of Eleanor’s, but she had forgotten he was bound to be called in to examine the body. Rajendra wouldn’t be fooled even for a moment by the red paint.

“Yes, sir, right away. My report’s on the desk, sir.”

“Excellent.” He gestured to Eleanor to precede him inside.

The Rosevears and Stella were sitting on the bench. Nick stood apart, by the window, turning away from it to face Eleanor and her escort as they entered.

“Detective Chief Inspector Bixby,” the thin man introduced himself. “And this is Detective Inspector Pearce, who will be in charge of the case, under my direction. I’ve already made the acquaintance of Mrs Trewynn and the delightful Teazle.” He handed the end of the string to Eleanor. “So I’d be grateful if the rest of you would be so kind as to give us your names?”

Having spoken, Bixby crossed to the counter, sat down on the stool, and proceeded to read Roscoe’s report.

While DI Pearce, a pale, plump man in heavy black-rimmed glasses, took down Margery’s name and address, Eleanor went to sit on the chair by the window, close to Nick. He put his hand on her shoulder and gave a slight squeeze, whether for comfort or warning she couldn’t tell. Teazle sat in front of her looking up hopefully.

DC Wilkes separated from the group of large men—a mixture of detectives and uniformed officers—who had entered after Pearce. He came over, and Teazle immediately transferred her hopes to him. When he squatted down, she put her forefeet on his massive thigh so that she could reach to nose at his jacket pocket.

He laughed. “Hungry, eh? Well, you’re in luck.” He took out a square package wrapped in wax-paper. “Ham and cheese do you? I better take out the pickle.” He looked up at Eleanor and whispered, “In hot water again, eh, Mrs Trewynn? That’s lah vee for you, as the Frogs say.”

“Please, don’t tell Mr Bixby it’s ‘again’,” she whispered back.

He winked. Grateful for his sympathy as well as his sandwich, she persuaded him to give the little dog no more than a quarter of the latter. “And perhaps you’d better take the top bit of bread off. I’d hate her to be sick on Sergeant Roscoe’s floor after he so kindly let us go out.”

Wilkes took out a pocket knife. With the aid of the window-ledge and Nick, he managed to cut one half of the sandwich in half, rather messily. While they were at it, Eleanor listened to Stella arguing with DI Pearce about whether she should be addressed as Miss Weller or Miss Maris.

“Honestly, Stella,” said Margery, exasperated, “how can you make a fuss about your name when Geoff’s lying murdered?”

Stella buried her face in her hands and said in a muffled voice, “I just can’t believe it.”

Margery put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

Doug said plaintively, “What I can’t believe is that they’re getting fed while we’re starving.” He was staring towards Eleanor.

“It’s just the little dog,” Wilkes told him, and hastily rewrapped the rest of his sandwich while Nick fed the mangled quarter to Teazle.

Eleanor glanced at DCI Bixby, who looked as if he wished he had never suggested offering Wilkes’s sandwich to the dog. He called Sergeant Roscoe over to explain something in the report.

Pearce had overruled Miss Stella Weller, on the grounds that the police couldn’t be expected to address her by her pseudonym while using her legal name in their reports, as required by regulations. He was aided by the fact that she was now weeping copiously into his handkerchief. He wrote down Douglas Rosevear’s name and came over to Eleanor and Nick. Wilkes hastily rejoined the group of officers at the door.

“Your name, if you please, madam?” Pearce asked. He seemed to favour his boss’s soft-spoken approach.

“Eleanor Trewynn, Mrs.”

“Would you mind spelling that for me?”

Eleanor complied. He wrote it down, then stared at what he had written.

“Not … Where do you live, Mrs Trewynn?”

“In Port Mabyn.”

“Not, by any chance, at the LonStar shop?”

“I’m afraid so,” she admitted.

“Now look here!” said Nick angrily. “Just because—”

“Hush, Nick. It’s not as though I have a police record or anything I desperately want to keep quiet.”

Pearce had turned to Nick. “And according to what Sergeant Roscoe told us on the phone, you must be the person Miss Weller says stabbed the victim.”

Nick bowed. “Nicholas Gresham at your service. Port Mabyn. Gresham’s Gallery, next door to the LonStar shop.”

Frowning, the inspector gave them both a slow, thorough scrutiny. Eleanor had to resist an urge to poke at her hair, sure she must look as if she’d been dragged through a bush backwards. Usually her white curls stayed reasonably tidy through thick and thin—in her opinion if not in Joce’s—and she’d been in too much of a hurry to bother to check in the mirror in the loo.

“Thank you.” With a nod, Pearce left them and went over to DCI Bixby. They spoke in low voices, with frequent glances at Nick and Eleanor.

Just then, a uniformed constable came in and joined them. “Message from Superintendent Egerton, sir. Will you please call in at once.”

Bixby reached for the telephone, then looked around the crowded room and drew back his hand. “Suppose I’d better take it on the car radio. You hold on here till I see what’s what, Pearce. Take a dekko at Roscoe’s report.”

He and the constable went out. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the rustle of Pearce turning pages, the shuffle of feet, Stella’s sniffs, and Teazle’s nails scrabbling on the lino in a dream. She had fallen asleep after eating and was probably chasing rabbits on the cliffs. Eleanor wished she could follow her.

Bixby came back. “Something’s come up,” he told Pearce. “I’ve got to go back to Bodmin right away. You can cope with this business. It looks pretty straightforward.”

“With respect, sir, I should like at least to consult DI … you know.”

“You really like to complicate your own life, don’t you,” Bixby said impatiently, moving towards the door as he spoke, with Pearce at his heels. “Have it your own way. Ring him in the morning. I must go. Tonight you’d better take statements from—” The door closed behind them.

“That’s a good sign,” Eleanor said.

“A good sign?” Nick asked with the gloom attendant upon an empty stomach with no prospect of food. “I haven’t noticed any. What is?”

“That Inspector Pearce doesn’t agree that it’s straighforward. Bixby seems to assume you’re guilty.”

“Oh, that. He’ll have to change his mind as soon as he gets reports from the forensics men and the pathologist.”

“I suppose so. But first impressions are so important. Once someone’s made up his mind, it’s much more difficult to make him change it than to make him see reason in the first place, no matter what the evidence.”

“True.” He smiled at her. “We’ll regard DI Pearce’s open mind as a good sign. I don’t particularly want to spend a night in the lock-up.”

“Nick, surely not!”

“If they believe I’m a murderer, they can hardly let me run loose. I might bump off the supposed eyewitness to my crime.”

“Don’t joke about it.”

“It’s not really a joke. The woman’s a menace to society. I could kill her. Metaphorically, of course,” he added hastily as DI Pearce returned at precisely the wrong moment and gave him a hard stare. “Damn, that’s torn it.”

“Do you think he heard? You really shouldn’t talk any more without a lawyer present.”

“I don’t seem to be able to stop putting my foot in it tonight,” Nick admitted ruefully. “I’m dog-tired.”

They both looked down at Teazle, snoring peacefully in the sleep of the exhausted. They were both taken by surprise when Pearce said, close by, “It is my duty, Mr Gresham, to advise you that you need not say anything, but that anything you choose to say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

“Oh hell!”

Wilkes, at Pearce’s elbow, solemnly wrote it in his notebook. Nick was not amused.

“I want to go home!” Stella wailed.

“Inspector,” Margery appealed, “can’t I take her home? She’s just about had enough.”