A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery (9 page)

“Wasn’t thinking of that so much. Just wondering if the problem is him so often taking a woman driver.” He chortled.

Megan, furious with herself for not seeing he was setting her up—as usual—rolled her eyes. “I’m surprised you trust me with an 1100,” she said dryly.

“We can’t have them in Bodmin thinking we haven’t got any decent cars for our CID. What’s taking you down there, then?”

“I don’t know the details.”

“What I heard is, your auntie’s in trouble again and they need you and Mr Scumble to help ’em cope with her. These old ladies, they get a bit funny in the head, don’t they.”

She had had enough. Taking her notebook from her shoulder-bag, she said coldly, “Who told you that? You know how the Super feels about gossip.”

“Hey, keep your hair on! I was just kidding, see? I don’t know nothing. Nobody ever tells me anything. Here.” He thrust a set of car keys at her. “That dark blue one over there. Just been serviced and rarin’ to go.”

“Thanks.” She started towards the car, knowing she’d overreacted.

“You’re not gonna report—”

“Just kidding,” Megan tossed over her shoulder.

Whatever his faults, he and his assistant had done a good job on the car. The engine ran smooth as silk as Megan negotiated the one-way streets of the town centre, still empty at this all-too-early hour, and zipped along Western Road to the new roundabout. The A30 was clear, too, apart from a few lorries. In a couple of minutes she reached the turn-off to the village where Scumble lived.

Tregadillet was a typical Cornish hamlet, built mostly of moorland granite with roofs of Delabole slate. A few of the cottages had been white-washed, but the majority were the natural grey of the stone, patched with yellow lichen. Here on the north edge of Bodmin Moor, it was too far from the coast to have attracted the rash of holiday bungalows and caravan parks that disfigured so many seaside villages.

The sun broke through the clouds, illuminating Scumble’s small front garden. It was bright with columbines and Canterbury bells, with tall hollyhocks against the wall of the house. Megan was always slightly surprised by her boss’s love of gardening. In fact, she suspected he took credit for his wife’s green thumb. He seemed too belligerent by nature to grow anything so delicate and fanciful as columbines.

On the other hand, perhaps he worked off his aggressive instincts on slugs and snails and greenfly.

She had only ever met Mrs Scumble to say “good morning” on the doorstep, and today was no exception. Though she was ten minutes early, Scumble was waiting for her. He popped out of the glossy green front door before she had time to turn off the ignition.

“What took you, Pencarrow?” he demanded accusingly. “Well, now you’re here, let’s get going. I know those tricky bastards have something up their sleeves, and they’re not going to catch me with my trousers down.”

The image this conjured up was too appalling to contemplate. Megan said without sufficient forethought, “You don’t suppose it’s only because Aunt Nell is mixed up in it, sir?”

“Don’t suppose … ! Of course it’s because your aunt’s mixed up in it. They hope because I’ve survived one encounter with Mrs Trewynn more or less intact, I may conceivably do so again. They may even be cretins enough to imagine having you with me will be more help than hindrance.”

Megan held her tongue. Scumble held his breath while she did a three-point turn in the narrow lane. Then he resumed, his voice taking on a ruminative note.

“That’s how the brass see it, I bet. If her part in it can be swept under the carpet, so much the better. A sweet little white-haired old lady who runs a charity—there’d be hell to pay if we came down too hard. But that’s not why Pearce’d hand over a nice, simple murder case. After all, he’s much better at the kid-gloves stuff than I am. Wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant?”

The sod! Reaching the end of the lane, Megan leant forwards over the steering wheel and glanced from side to side, pretending she had to concentrate on oncoming traffic in order to turn right, back onto the A30.

Luckily he was always a bit twitchy when being driven. He waited until she’d made the turn before he jeered, “Cat got your tongue? All right, no need to incriminate yourself. We both know diplomacy isn’t my strong point. So something’s making Pearce think that sweet-talking witnesses isn’t going to be enough to pull him through on this one. Right?”

“It makes sense, sir. You did say Bodmin, sir? Isn’t the crime scene in Padstow?”

“The SOC team have done it over and the body’s gone to the mortuary. We’ll go over there later, but I want to read the reports first, take a look at the photos, and talk to Gresham.”

So Megan stayed on the A30 instead of branching off towards Wadebridge and thence to Padstow. They were climbing up onto the moors now. On either side stretched slopes of pinkish-purple ling heather; the grey-green of gorse thickets, still in vivid yellow bloom here and there; short, wiry grass, with an occasional emerald patch of bog; lichened slabs of granite—the Earth’s skeleton exposed to view.

A particularly noisy lorry scared a group of wild ponies into galloping off, tossing their shaggy manes, westward towards Brown Willy. Sun shone on the great boulders atop the rugged tor, but in the far west a line of cloud on the horizon warned of more rain on the way.

Megan overtook the lorry. The road was clear ahead. The Morris 1100 leapt forwards and Scumble studiously kept his gaze turned away from the speedometer.

“Something’s fishy,” he said, “and I want to get there early to see if we can’t find out what smells before the others come in. Step on it, Pencarrow.”

Megan obeyed.

The Bodmin police station, set on a hillside by the church, was an ugly modern concrete building with big windows, very different from the ancient, cramped Launceston nick. Several panda cars were parked underneath, in a sort of open semi-basement, but as a visitor Megan drove round behind. They climbed the steps to the entrance. The duty sergeant, obviously surprised to see them so early, took one look at Scumble’s stormy expression and directed them to an office set aside for them.

The décor seemed to have been imported wholesale from the old place. Dingy green and sickly pale yellow walls surrounded a battered metal desk with a swivel chair behind it and two wooden chairs in front. On the desk were a telephone, an old biscuit tin—so scratched that the words Peek Frean’s Tea Time Assortmentwere barely legible—half full of jumbled biros and varicoloured pencils, a memorandum form addressed to DI Scumble, and several manila file folders.

Ignoring the memo, Scumble pounced on the pile of folders.

“This is something like!” He read the name on the label of the top one: “Rosevear, Douglas.” Flipping it open, he remarked, “Someone was up late typing. Sit down, Pencarrow, and have a gander at this.” He dropped into the swivel chair and pushed a smudged carbon copy across the desk.

Megan picked it up, looking forward to the day when she’d have enough seniority not to get the carbon every time.

Douglas Rosevear was a farmer, aged forty-two. Yesterday afternoon he had finished the hay-cutting, so he had been able to take the time off to go to the pub for a pint before supper. He had driven into Padstow to the Gold Bezant Inn—

“What the hell’s a bezant when it’s at home?” demanded Scumble.

“A Byzantine coin,” said Megan. “There’s several on the coat of arms of the Duke of Cornwall.”

“Hmph.”

—with his wife and Miss Stella Maris. Yes, he knew that was not her real name; he had been told she used it for artistic reasons. He didn’t understand that sort of stuff. It was none of his business what she chose to call herself.

“Stella Maris!” Megan exclaimed. “Flying high!”

Scumble looked up with a scowl for the interruption, since he wasn’t doing the interrupting. “Flying high? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means ‘Star of the Sea.’
Stella maris
does, I mean. In Latin. It’s one of the titles Catholics give to the Virgin Mary. The only reason I know is that it was in a piece we sang in my school choir.”

Somewhat to her surprise, Scumble was interested. “Star of the Sea, eh? Fancies herself, doesn’t she!”

“Either that,” Megan said cautiously, “or she’s got so little self-confidence, she thinks she can boost it by giving herself a fancy name.”

“You reckon?” He didn’t slam her down, as she half expected. “Well, now, we’ll find out when we meet her, I expect. Or when we read her statement.” He shuffled through the folders. “Here, third down. Might as well take ’em in the order Pearce left ’em.”

Megan returned to Rosevear’s statement. At the Gold Bezant, he had reported, Miss Maris, alias Miss Weller, insisted on sitting in the window although it meant waiting for seats. She wanted to be able to see people in the street, because she was anxious about the safety of the deceased, Geoffrey (alias Geoffroie Monmouth) Clark.

Geoffroie indeed!
thought Megan.
Talk about the artistic temperament!

Stella Whatever—the detective constable taking notes had conscientiously written both names every time—told the Rosevears that Clark, in a fit of envy at Nicholas Gresham’s good fortune in placing pictures with a swish London art dealer, had damaged several of Gresham’s paintings. Stella was afraid Gresham might physically attack Clark.

“Bash him on the nose,” Scumble said doubtfully, obviously reaching the same place in the statement, “but would you call that a motive for murder?”

Douglas Rosevear, himself, couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. You could always paint more pictures. It wasn’t like burning a hayrick or leaving a gate open so the cows could wander off and get hit by cars.

“Depends how bad the damage is, I suppose,” said Megan, equally doubtful, “and which paintings. What if it was the ones—or the kind—the London dealer was keen on?”

“That’s a thought. There’s been murder done for less.”

“But why hang about in the pub watching? Why not go and guard Clark at close quarters?”

Scumble shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Rosevear turned bolshie and insisted on drinking his pint in peace. Read on for the next exciting installment.”

He was getting impatient, though this latest interruption had been his own. Megan took out her notebook so that she could write down questions. She read on quickly and kept her comments to herself.

According to Rosevear, he had proposed the obvious step of going to the nearby gallery. Stella said Clark was in such a foul mood, he’d probably walk out the moment they appeared, and then they’d have to try and follow him.

So they stayed in the Gold Bezant, Rosevear getting hungrier and hungrier for his supper and Stella refusing to leave. He’d have left her to walk home—it was only a couple of miles, after all—well, maybe three—but Mrs Rosevear wouldn’t hear of it, considering the state Stella was in. He’d had a few pints. Dusty work, haying, and say what you would, a packet of crisps and a pickled egg wasn’t a decent supper for a farmer who’d been at it all day and he didn’t much like pickled eggs anyhow.

DI Pearce must have told his note-taker to write down every detail, if not exactly in Rosevear’s own words. What on earth could potato crisps and pickled eggs have to do with the murder?

At last, Stella had announced that Gresham was coming up the street.

No, Rosevear didn’t know what time it was. Clock-watchers were no use on a farm. You couldn’t tell a cow in need of milking that the government had decided the sun was going to rise an hour later on a certain day in April. Time enough to have drunk enough to need to visit the WC …

Officialese, Megan thought, not the term Rosevear would have used.

… before tramping off to confront an angry artist. Yes, he’d known Nicholas Gresham for years. An easygoing chap, never got in a fuss over a game of darts. But what Clark had done was a bit thick. Rosevear considered Gresham had a right to be narked.

Megan glanced back through the statement—yes, the opposite of what he’d said before, but probably the man had mixed feelings on the subject.

Whatever Stella said, Rosevear wasn’t going to stop Gresham taking a pop at Clark. He agreed to go along more to make sure the women kept out of it, really. But by the time he returned to the bar, they were already halfway across the street.

He had hurried to follow and arrived at Clark’s gallery feeling a little dizzy. No, of course he wasn’t drunk. Lack of food was what it was, after a day slaving in the sun.

The door to the gallery wasn’t locked. He was close enough to see Stella push it open and to hear the tinkle of the bell. The door swung closed behind the women, so he had to open it again to go in. His fingerprints would be on it, but they already knew he’d been inside.

As he stepped in, he heard Stella cry out in the inner room, Clark’s studio, accusing Gresham of killing Clark. He hadn’t gone to see for himself because his wife had told him to ring the police.

He had done so, using the telephone behind the shop counter.

And there the statement ended. Megan turned over the paper in a futile attempt to find more, though it was obviously complete as it stopped in the middle of a page.

“Part of my copy seems to be missing, sir.”

“I don’t think so, Pencarrow. The lazy sod was so sure he knew the answers he didn’t bother to ask half the obvious questions.” Scumble sounded oddly pleased. “Hell, he didn’t even bother to think! Didn’t want to risk being confused by the facts, maybe. Too happy to use Auntie as an excuse to pass off the drudgery to us. If he’d done a more thorough job, I’d be worried.”

“Uh, worried, sir?”

“That he might be right. We’ll look at the rest of this stuff before we count our chickens, but the way it looks, it’s worth doing my damnedest to prove Pearce wrong.”

“Wuff?”

Eleanor opened her eyes to see Teazle’s bright brown ones under their white fringe, peering anxiously at her from a few inches away. The dog had slept on the bed as usual, with Margery’s permission.

Margery. Yesterday’s events, never far from Eleanor’s dreams, flooded back to her consciousness. She felt as if only an hour or two of sleep had intervened, though it was broad daylight outside the open window.