by Carola Dunn
“I started out as good as gold,” Nick protested. “Even called her ‘Sergeant’ rather than Megan, as it was official business.”
“Tell it to the Marines! What is all this about Geoffrey’s painting?”
“Probably nothing. Just that if he got a fair amount done, it would suggest that he’d been there for quite a while before he was killed. At best, it’ll narrow the time frame for them.”
“Oh dear, I don’t think we’ve been very helpful after all. I hope Megan will let us know.”
But all day Tuesday they didn’t hear from the police. Eleanor didn’t exactly forget about the murder—that would be impossible—but it was no longer on her mind constantly. She went out on her collecting round, took Teazle for a long walk, shopped, made spaghetti bolognese, and decided she’d better practise a bit more before she invited anyone to share it.
On Wednesday, at two minutes past eleven, a succession of thuds on the stairs, suggesting someone bounding up, set Teazle barking in her gruff little voice. After a perfunctory knock, Nick burst into the flat.
“Eleanor, I’m so glad you’re here. I thought you might have left the doors unlocked. They came, they saw, and she liked it!”
“Who? What?”
“The Harrisons. Mrs Harrison. Janice Hazard Harrison, the American I met in St James’s Park.”
“Land of Hope and Glory?”
“Exactly. I’m not sure that he was equally keen, but they’re honeymooners, you know, still at the ‘deny her nothing’ stage.” He waved a cheque. “Payment on the nail! I wrapped it, they put it in the ‘trunk’ of their American whale, and off they went. I’ve closed the shop for the rest of the day to celebrate. Now I can start thinking of something else. I suppose you haven’t heard from Megan about Geoff’s canvas?”
“Not a murmur.”
“Oh. Well, either Scumble dismissed it as insignificant, or it was so significant he’s keeping it under wraps.” He stared hungrily at the packet of digestives she was about to open.
“Elevenses?” she offered.
“Yes, please. I’ll take you out for a slap-up meal tonight. How about the Indian in Camelford? I’m feeling rich!”
The phone rang. “You make the coffee,” said Eleanor.
Jocelyn didn’t even wait for her to give her number before she started talking. “Eleanor, I’ve just had a most odd telephone call from Mrs Redditch.”
“Mrs… ? Oh, Mrs Batchelor’s friend? How odd!”
“That’s what I just said. Do concentrate, Eleanor.”
Eleanor muttered slightly rebelliously that she had meant it was odd that Mrs Redditch should ring up Joce, whereas Joce had implied the content of the call was odd. Quite different, but not worth quibbling over, she decided, especially as Jocelyn was in a most unusual tizzy.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. What did she say?”
Nick, spooning coffee powder into mugs, mouthed, “Who?” and Eleanor mouthed back, “Jocelyn.” This bit of by-play made her uncertain that she’d heard correctly. “What?” she asked. “She told you what?”
“Do listen!”
“I am listening. I just can’t believe my ears.”
“Nor could I,” Jocelyn admitted grudgingly. “She said Dr Fenwick was found dead in his bed—”
“At the home? I thought he was only there at weekends.”
“As far as I could gather, they had some sort of emergency last night and the nurse on duty called him in. After escorting the patient to Bodmin Hospital in an ambulance, he went back to Riverview and stayed in his flat upstairs rather than drive all the way back to Plymouth. And there he was found this morning dead in his bed, by that nice little maid, Maybelle.”
“Poor child! Very sad, but why on earth did Mrs Redditch ring you? Even if there was anything you could do about it, she’s not a parishioner. Nor was he, come to that.”
“She kindly rang on behalf of Mrs Batchelor. You know how it is, some elderly people still think of the telephone as a brand-new invention and don’t want anything to do with it. That’s one reason Mrs Batchelor’s son put her in the home in the first place—she doesn’t have a phone and doesn’t want one and wouldn’t use it if she had one, so she couldn’t call for help.”
“But what does Mrs Batchelor think you can do about the doctor’s death?”
“She’s in a state and wants to come home. Apparently, after the body was found, someone overheard one of the staff saying they’d all be out of a job. Talk about setting the cat among the pigeons! Most of the residents seem to have jumped to the conclusion that the home will suddenly close without warning any moment. And to add to the flap, the police have turned up at Riverview.”
“The police? Dr Fenwick didn’t die naturally?”
“Of course he did. They have to be called in to any unexpected death.”
“Oh dear! I don’t suppose you know the name of the police officer who—”
“Someone called Pearce, I think. The name sounds vaguely familiar. At least they don’t have to contend with That Man. The trouble is, Mrs Batchelor’s son has gone off to Majorca or the Riviera or somewhere and can’t be reached, and of course she doesn’t have the funds to go to a hotel, or even to pay for a taxi home. Naturally we’ll advance whatever it costs to get her home, if necessary, but she’s still in need of help … Eleanor, what she really needs right now is reassurance. I ought to go over there, but I simply %can’t get away this afternoon. I’ve got a Mothers’ Union meeting and they’ll tear each other apart if I’m not there to keep the peace. You’ve no idea what they’re like.”
Though Eleanor had never attended a meeting, she was acquainted with some of the ‘Mothers’ and she was prepared to believe it. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll go,” she said resignedly.
“Will you really? You’re an angel! They can’t—surely!—expect the patients to leave today. Oh dear, there’s a parish council meeting this evening as well, and Timothy simply can’t cope on his own. Tell her I’ll get it all sorted out in the morning. LonStar’s not likely to be so busy I won’t be able to make a few phone calls. I’ve got to run now. Ring when you get back, will you?”
“I will. I hope you survive your meeting, Joce. ’Bye.” She hung up with a sigh.
Nick was all agog. “Go where?”
“Riverview.” Eleanor explained. When she got to the bit about DI Pearce arriving on the scene, Nick groaned.
“What’s he doing there? He’ll probably arrest the maid. Perhaps we’d better alert Freeth and Bulwer as a precaution.” The Port Mabyn solicitors didn’t handle criminal cases, but they could recommend, someone who did.
“Oh, rubbish, Nick! There’s probably nothing fishy about Dr Fenwick’s death anyway. But I do think Mr Scumble should be in charge, given the connection with Stella.”
“Indubitably. I wonder if anyone’s even bothered to inform him? Perhaps he’s the one we ought to alert. How can we get hold of him?”
“We could try ringing the police station in Launceston,” Eleanor said doubtfully.
“It’s worth a try. Want me to do it?”
“No, dear, I’d better. At worst they’ll just write me off as a meddlesome old lady, whereas they might—oh, I don’t know—think you have it in for Pearce?”
“I do.”
“Exactly.”
To Eleanor’s astonishment, she was put through very quickly to Superintendent Bentinck. He assured her that Mr Scumble was keeping him up to date on the murder investigation, had, in fact, reported the latest progress only that morning. He hadn’t heard about the death at the Riverview Convalescent Home, and he had no idea whether Scumble was aware of it. Grasping the significance at once, he promised to have the information radioed to the detective inspector immediately.
“And I’d better have a little chat with Mr Egerton,” he mused aloud. “Thank you very much for notifying us, Mrs Trewynn. How on earth did you find out so soon?”
“It’s a long story, Mr Bentinck, and I don�
�t want to delay you. Thank you for listening. Good-bye.”
“Well done!” said Nick, applauding. “I was sure he’d make you promise not to go there, but you rang off pretty smartly.”
“I don’t imagine it crossed his mind that I might. But I promised Jocelyn I would.”
“I’m going with you. You’ll need someone to protect you from Pearce.”
“Oh, nonsense, Nick. I’d be glad if you’ll drive, as it looks as if it’s going to rain, but you needn’t think Pearce can intimidate me.”
“I don’t really,” Nick assured her. “I just don’t want to miss the Battle of the Titans.”
THIRTY-THREE
“The bastard!” snarled Scumble.
“It’s possible Mr Egerton really didn’t see how Stella Weller could be involved, sir,” Megan pointed out without much conviction. “He must have heard about the doctor’s death just after you told him we’d traced her hotel in Plymouth.”
“Bollocks! No, I do not want siren and lights!” he snapped at Wilkes, who had just executed a hair-raising U-turn on the busy A38. “Just get us there. Alive. I’d told him the Weller woman is a person of interest and we’ve been told she’s engaged to this doctor. The first thing he should have done when he heard the doctor died was notify us, not leave us rolling to our rendezvous with the Plymouth force and send that cretin Pearce to balls up the scene. You didn’t hear that, Wilkes.”
“No, sir.”
“I suppose he wanted to give his own man a chance to redeem himself,” Megan guessed. “I wonder how the Super—ours, Mr Bentinck—found out?”
“We’ll never know, nor how he forced the bastard to acknowledge that it’s our case. Alive, I said!” he yelled as the 1100 zipped through the streets of Bodmin’s town centre, busy with last-minute early-closing-day shoppers.
As much to distract him as in hope of any answers, Megan said, “Sir, I don’t see why she would kill the doctor before they were married, let alone how she did it, when he was at the convalescent home and she was in Plymouth.”
“Nor do I, Pencarrow, nor do I. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she didn’t kill Clark, and we’re on the wrong track altogether. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let any idiot go messing about with what could turn out to be evidence in my case.”
“I don’t believe we’re on the wrong track.”
“All right.” Scumble leant back and closed his eyes, only his white-knuckle grip on the edge of the seat indicating his dislike of the way Wilkes was taking the curves on the winding road to Wadebridge. “Convince me.”
Megan took a moment to marshal the mixture of facts and speculations that had put them on Stella’s trail.
“Never mind getting things in the right order. Get on with it.”
“Sir. First, Weller’s engagement gave her a motive for wanting to be rid of Clark. As suggested by Lennox’s statement, Clark was in fact, jealous of her casual liaisons. Several of the others at the farm agreed when pressed that the only reason he didn’t kick up a fuss was that he was afraid of driving her away if he tried to curtail her freedom. If she married, he’d lose her altogether, reason enough for threatening to spill the beans to her fiancé about her promiscuity. A middle-aged man, he’s—he was unlikely to take a lenient view.”
“Luckily we don’t have to prove motive. If she’d told Clark she was going to get married, why didn’t he tell anyone else?”
“Um … He found it humiliating? That she’d drop him for a much older man?”
“I’m getting a very confused picture of Clark’s character.”
“I know what you mean, sir. It could be that all the braggadocio was cover for a fundamental insecurity. An inferiority complex. Or perhaps he really was full of himself until he took up with Stella and she put him in his place.”
“Reasonable,” Scumble grudgingly agreed. He didn’t approve of what he had been known to call psycho-drivel.
“Then we’ve got the evidence that the whole business was planned: The blacksmith in Tintagel says Clark told him Weller had asked him to pick her up in Port Mabyn at midday. He’s prepared to swear that Clark said ‘pick up,’ not ‘drop in on.’ Weller told us he arrived earlier than expected and she left Gresham’s shop early, in spite of having promised to stay till closing time, only because of the damage Clark did to Gresham’s work. It was a stroke of luck for her that Gresham rang from London with his good news. Although, if he hadn’t, she could doubtless have found some other way to work on Clark’s jealousy of Gresham, possibly sexual as well as professional. She may even have done the damage herself, while he fetched his car from the car park. It wouldn’t take more than a few seconds.” Megan paused for comment.
“Go on.”
“The evidence of the SOCO and the pathologist is that Geoffrey Clark had not started painting when he was killed. Given his eagerness, affirmed by several people, to get to grips with—uh—” Not a felicitous choice of words.
“‘Get to grips’ will do,” Scumble said impatiently.
“Given his eagerness to try his hand at painting his new dagger, this suggests that he died shortly after arriving at his studio. Weller admitted to going there with him. It wouldn’t have taken more than a moment to stab him, less time than to get a drink of water and take off her nylon tights, which is what she claims to have gone in for. The pathologist says the dagger is hard and sharp enough to notch bone, and she has at least some anatomical knowledge, partial training in both nursing and art, so she’d have a good idea where to aim a lethal blow.”
“Yes, this anatomical knowledge, it’s going to be a problem. How could even a half-trained nurse possibly delude herself that we’d mistake dried ink for fresh blood?”
“Double bluff,” Megan said promptly. “She knew it wouldn’t fool anyone for long—”
“Long enough to cook Pearce’s goose.”
“Yes, sir. She expected us to reason that a nurse would know she couldn’t hope to fool us, so we’d see it as a point in her favour. What’s more, together with her subsequent actions, the instant impression of floods of freshly spilled blood had the additional advantage of throwing immediate suspicion on Nick Gresham.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
“She had a grudge against him, probably related to his having turned down her offer of … er, sexual favours, though we have only his word for that. I don’t see why we should disbelieve him, though, do you, sir?”
“Who knows? Weller was obviously happy to throw him to the wolves, whatever the reason. If Pearce can be described as a wolf. Go on to her subsequent actions.”
“Later that afternoon, after allowing time for Gresham to reach Port Mabyn and discover the wreckage, she told the Rosevears her story and insisted on their going with her to protect Clark against Gresham’s vengeance. Her note to Gresham practically assured that he would come. She wanted witnesses when she followed him into the studio and accused him of stabbing Clark. She made sure she was first in. Mrs Rosevear, who is not only imaginative but impressionable—in my opinion that’s proved by her infatuation with Clark, the fact she took him at his own value—Mrs Rosevear was convinced she also had seen the actual stabbing. That was a real bonus for Weller.”
“What do you make of her hysterical grief.”
“Fake,” Megan said promptly. “On further questioning, Douglas Rosevear remembered that after Weller burst into tears on his wife’s shoulder, she was sufficiently compos mentis to remind him not to let Gresham escape. What’s more, not a tear was shed until the local copper was almost on the scene. And Mrs Rosevear told us that among the training courses Weller started and didn’t finish was acting! I still wonder what she expected to gain from casting suspicion on Gresham, apart from working off her grudge by giving him a hard time. She must have known he’d soon be cleared.”
“Save your wondering for how we’re going to prove—” He cut off abruptly as the car swerved across the road. “What the hell?”
“Nearly missed the sign, sir,” Wilkes e
xplained cheerfully, slowing as they continued down the winding drive. “Here we are.”
In front of the house stood several cars. Among them was an aged pea-green Morris Minor.
“Noooo!” moaned the inspector, his face apoplectic. “Tell me I’m seeing things!”
Megan was unable to oblige, and Wilkes rubbed salt in the wound by observing quite unnecessarily, “That’s Mrs Trewynn’s car. I’d know it anywhere.”
They went into the house. To Megan’s relief, Aunt Nell was not immediately visible. Nor was Detective Inspector Pearce. Only PC Lubbock stood in lonely vigil at the foot of the stairs.
As he came forward eagerly, saluting, Megan could have sworn she still detected a slight odour of pig.
“Sir! DC Polmenna told me to stop anyone going upstairs. That’s where the deceased died.”
“Not DI Pearce?”
“No, sir. When he heard you were going to be in charge, sir, he went back to Bodmin and left DC Polmenna in charge. He said it’s obviously an accident anyway, seeing the doctor said the deceased was a dire-betic and—”
“Where’s Polmenna?”
“Over there, sir, in the office. I’ll show you the way.”
“You stay here and guard the stairs.”
“Yes, sir! No one’s tried to go up,” Lubbock added sadly.
“The body’s still there, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wilkes, have a chat with the constable and find out if he knows anything,” ordered Scumble, turning away.
They crossed the hall. From outside the open office door, they heard Polmenna’s pleading voice. “Please, sir, just another five minutes. I’m sure he’ll be here by then and he’s bound to want to talk to you.”
“And here I am,” Scumble announced. “It’s very good of you to wait, Doctor. I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced.”
Dr Prthnavi was usually the most equable of men, but now he spoke quite sharply, his English more clipped than ever. “Your colleague suddenly dashed off without an explanation, Inspector. I am not—Well, that is water over the bridge.” Even his usually perfect grasp of English idiom had slipped. “You wish for a report on the deceased and I will not waste more time.”