by Carola Dunn
“Here’s our unexpected guest. Lady Bellowe, Sir Edward, this is Mrs Trewynn. As I was telling you, Mrs Trewynn runs the charity shop where the body was found.”
Georgina Bellowe, a massive lady with iron grey hair, dimples, and a double chin which could no longer be called incipient, alas, surged to her feet and advanced on Eleanor with arms held wide. “My dear Eleanor, too marvellous to see you again. It’s been far too long.” She clasped Eleanor to her well-fortified bosom.
“Gina, what a lovely surprise!”
“Oh,” said Mrs Wendell weakly, “you know each other?”
Sir Edward, as spare as his wife was abundant, and looking much in need of a holiday from his duties in the Commonwealth Relations Office, came to clasp Eleanor’s hand in both his and shake it heartily. “Mrs Trewynn, this is a lucky chance. You may be just the—”
“Later, Edward,” his wife commanded.
“Yes, of course, dear.” Sir Edward stepped back, leaving Eleanor wondering just what imbroglio he hoped to drag her into.
SEVENTEEN
Mr Wendell, who had hitherto regarded Eleanor with the lack of attention to be expected of a man sent to run his wife’s charitable errands, greeted her with slightly more interest today. She couldn’t be sure whether this was because of her connection with the murder or her friendship with the Bellowes, but she suspected the latter. Assuming he did business with the CRO, he was indeed a “fancy kind of banker.” Perhaps he thought she had some sort of influence in the awarding of contracts for overseas development aid. If so, he was far out in his reckoning.
At lunch, as delicious as the kitchen aromas promised, Eleanor deflected Mrs Wendell’s questions about the murder by announcing that the detective inspector in charge had forbidden discussion of the case.
However, Scumble couldn’t protect her from her hostess’s attempts to pinpoint her place in the social hierarchy. Some enterprising reporter covering the murder had delved into Eleanor’s background. Peter, before his death, had been Director of Field Managers, an imposing title which meant he spent most of his time flying around the world making sure LonStar projects ran smoothly and troubleshooting when they didn’t. Eleanor had rejoiced in the still more impressive title of Ambassador at Large. In this guise, she had hobnobbed not only with village elders but with heads of government. Unfortunately—from Mrs Wendell’s point of view—they were foreign heads of government, and mostly not even European. Still, she had to adjust her view of Eleanor, who was no longer, in spite of her tracksuit, just the little woman who ran the charity shop.
Not that Mrs Wendell was so lacking in social savvy as to say this outright, but Eleanor was amused by her all too obvious efforts to come to grips with the problem.
“But I don’t run the shop,” she insisted. “Mrs Stearns, our local vicar’s wife, is in charge. Do you know her? No? Such a delightful and thoroughly practical person. When the police have sorted everything out, I’ll give you a ring and you must come and meet her. As you’re so interested in LonStar, I’m sure she’ll manage to fit you into her volunteer schedule.”
Alarmed, Mrs Wendell started to babble about children and unreliable au pairs and spending so little time in Cornwall. She welcomed with relief Mrs Destry’s entrance with elegant glass bowls filled with a heavenly lemon soufflé. Georgina Bellowe deftly turned the conversation into less disruptive channels.
The Bellowes’ bags were already in the hall as they had to depart immediately after coffee to catch the helicopter to St Mary’s. The Wendells were in even more of a rush to pick up their offspring off the London train. Mr Wendell carried two of the Bellowes’ suitcases out and set them on the gravel behind their car. Teazle, who had found her way outside and was guarding the Incorruptible, gambolled over to Eleanor with a happy bark.
The Bellowes offered polite, though hardly enthusiastic thanks for hospitality received, to which the Wendells responded with equally unenthusiastic murmurs of “Must stop over again next time you’re down this way.” Then the Wendells dashed off in the Range Rover.
Sir Edward had brought out a third suitcase and an official-looking briefcase. Unlocking the boot and heaving in the first two, he said, “Wendell’s good at his business, but I think we won’t come again, Gee.”
“It was a mistake,” his wife agreed. “That was very wicked of you, Eleanor. Somehow I simply can’t see the woman helping behind a counter, even in a good cause.”
“No, and somehow I can’t see Jocelyn appreciating the introduction either. Sir Edward, what did you mean by ‘a lucky chance’?”
“I’m going to ask a favour of you,” he said, “as I expect you’ve guessed. There’s some nasty intertribal troubles that seem to be brewing in Nigeria. A coup d’état, possibly, or secession, either leading to civil war. I’ve got a couple of chaps, one a Hausa, one Ibo, coming to our house in the Scillies to see if we can’t sort things out amicably. I think you may know one or both.” He told her their names.
“I’ve met both of them,” Eleanor said. “I wouldn’t say I know either well.”
“However, you’re an expert at making people believe in other people’s good intentions. We don’t want to make a big song and dance of it by bringing in a horde of diplomats—”
“But one little old lady shouldn’t raise any eyebrows?”
“Exactly!”
“Edward, that’s hardly gallant!”
“Gallant be blowed. What I need is competence, charm, and discretion. Not that you don’t have all those, my dear, but your competence is in making people comfortable. Mrs Trewynn’s is in making them see eye to eye.” He turned back to Eleanor. “Will you come?”
“If you really think I can help . . . The only thing is, I’m rather tied up by the police at the moment. I seem to be caught in the middle of this investigation, and I doubt Detective Inspector Scumble will be happy if I trot off—”
“Scumble?” Sir Edward took out a notebook and wrote down the name. “Cornish police, or Scotland Yard?”
“He’s CaRaDoC.”
“Caradoc?”
“That’s what the Constabulary of the Royal Duchy of Cornwall call themselves.” Eleanor was pleased with her command of the vernacular. “My niece is a junior detective. Scotland Yard is involved, too, but I think only peripherally.”
“Never mind, I’ll sort it all out. Could you come on Tuesday? The CRO will pay your fare, of course, and you’ll stay with us. Our house is on St Mary’s, so it’s just the helicopter ride from Penzance.”
“And your dog is welcome, too,” Georgina put in. “You’ll be comfortable, I promise. After all, my own husband admits making people comfortable is my forte! Come along, Edward, or we’ll miss the helicopter.”
Sir Edward picked up the last of their luggage, his briefcase, and placed it carefully in the boot. The sun caught the letters stamped in gold on the side, OHMS, and the monogram by the handle: E for Edward and B for Bellowe thoroughly mixed up with what could have been an R for his middle name, whatever it was.
It reminded her of the monogram on the jewelry case. Had she mentioned it to DI Scumble? No, she distinctly recalled describing the case to him and having a feeling she was leaving something out. With his customary impatience, he had interrupted her train of thought and rushed on to something else. If only she could remember what the letters of the monogram had been. Like Sir Edward’s, they’d been hard to disentangle. She hadn’t been sure—
“So we’ll see you on Tuesday?” Sir Edward’s voice pierced her abstraction.
“What . . . ? Oh, yes, if you make it all right with the police. And send me directions.”
“Here’s our phone number.” He tore a sheet from his notebook. “Reverse the charges, of course. Let us know which flight you’re taking and one of us will meet you at the heliport. Yes, Gee, I’m coming.”
Eleanor waved as the Bellowes disappeared down the drive, then she turned to the Incorruptible. Bill Destry, man-of-all-work, was leaning against the car.
&n
bsp; “You didn’t lock up, Mrs Trewynn, so I’ve stuffed in as much as’ll go in. The boss’ll bring the rest to Port Mabyn later, or tomorrow, seeing as I don’t drive nowt bigger’n my mowing machine.”
“It looks like fun.”
He grinned, his leathery face crinkling. “That it is, and no worries about anyone getting in my road.”
“True! Thanks, Bill. Please say thanks and goodbye to Mrs Destry for me. I need to be getting home.” Surely by the time she found Scumble to tell him about the monogram she would remember the letters! “Hop in, Teazle.”
“Dyw genes, Mrs Trewynn.”
“Goodbye.” She knew the Cornish phrase, but having been brought up speaking the King’s—now Queen’s—English, she felt it would be presumptuous to use it. Ridiculous, really, considering the number of languages in which she had in her time said goodbye and thank you without being able to speak another word.
Eleanor didn’t want to dwell on the prospect of civil war in Nigeria, so as she drove homeward, she sang “Green Grow the Rushes-oh” from beginning to end, and “Ten Green Bottles,” and all the other time-passing songs from her school days. Teazle didn’t care if she was out of tune.
The Incorruptible was heavily loaded and struggled up the steeper hills. Leaning forward to urge it on, Eleanor sympathised. Like her, the poor thing was not as young as it had been. At last they reached Port Mabyn. She drove up to the shop and parked as usual with two wheels on the pavement. It was just after three o’clock, so the helpful children wouldn’t be out of school for a while. Nick didn’t pop out to lend a hand. He must be back in his workroom, painting. The flood of sensation-seekers pouring into his shop had slackened after the first couple of days, though the weekend would doubtless bring a new lot.
Eleanor let Teazle into the passage and told her to go upstairs. Then she popped into the shop. A couple of visitors were browsing the bookshelves, watched with an anxious eye by Mrs Drover, an elderly incomer whose retired husband spent all his time on the golf links.
“Oh, Mrs Trewynn, you’re back already. Mrs Stearns is in the stockroom, pricing. Isn’t she brave?” Mrs Drover added in a whisper.
“How is it going today?”
“I haven’t been here very long. Mrs Stearns said it was very busy this morning, with lots of people asking about . . . you know.” Again she finished in a whisper. “But I don’t know anything so it’s no good them asking me.”
“I’m very grateful to you for coming in, Mrs Drover.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let Mrs Stearns down.” Wouldn’t dare, her voice and expression suggested. No doubt she was more afraid of Jocelyn than of mere ghosts.
“I must have a word with her. I’ve got a carload of donations outside.”
Eleanor went back to the stockroom, nodding hello to the strangers, aware as she passed that they put their heads together and looked after her. She shut the door behind her.
No one was visible.
“Joce?”
Jocelyn stuck her head through between the clothes hanging on a rack. “Eleanor, you’re back early. No luck?”
“On the contrary, the Incorruptible is bursting at the seams. I’ll tell you later. I must see if Nick can help me unload before Bob Leacock gives me a parking ticket.”
“I’ll give you a hand if he can’t, but there’s a tremendous lot to do here after not being allowed in for two days. Not to mention the mess the police left! I’ve cleared some space for you by the back wall.”
Where she had found the body, it seemed like eons ago.
“I’ll shout if I need you.”
Eleanor went out by way of the passage and the back door to avoid the book-browsers in the shop, in case they had summoned up the audacity to approach her in hope of lurid details.
She found Nick in his studio. He was painting a pair of choughs pecking for insects among the wiry sheep’s fescue on the brink of a cliff, with a view of the sea and a towering headland beyond, in the background. The birds were unmistakable, with their red legs and bills. He was just adding touches to make their glossy black feathers shine.
Black feathers. Black birds.
“Nick, what other black birds are there? Crows, rooks—”
“Black birds? Why on earth?”
“There was a monogram on the briefcase with the jewelry, and I can’t remember what the three letters were but somehow I associate them with black birds.”
He laughed. “That probably means they actually spell something connected with blue birds. You know how it is. A word is on the tip of your tongue and you’re quite sure it begins with P and then it turns out to be T. T I T, bluetit? N U T, nuthatch? I can’t see how you can turn kingfisher into three letters, though, and I can’t think of any other blue birds. Not English ones, at any rate.”
“Not blue, black,” Eleanor insisted. “I just can’t think of anything in three letters.”
“Plain common-or-garden blackbird. Coot. Cormorant. Black swan. Raven. Oystercatcher.”
“Not black and white, black all over. Raven . . . No, jackdaw!” she said triumphantly.
“Seven letters.”
“Often known as a daw. D A W. That’s it. I can picture them now, all wound together. I must tell Mr Scumble. Dearest, kindest Nick, could you come and help me unload, and then I’ll ring the police.”
“Give me five minutes to finish off this bird.” He dabbed with a delicate brush. “What have you got in the car this time? Any mysterious objects?”
“I sincerely hope not! I don’t actually know what’s there as someone else loaded up.”
“Much more fun that way,” Nick said absently, reaching for a rag.
“As long as they’re not going to present us with another dolphin table!”
“Hmm?” He wasn’t listening.
Eleanor left him in peace. She considered ringing DI Scumble while she waited for him, but she might be stuck on the phone for ages while he was looked for, or finished whatever he was doing, or upbraided her. Instead, she went upstairs and let Teazle into the flat (which she had remembered to lock, and the keys were in her pocket where they belonged), filled the kettle ready for a cuppa later, and went back down to start unloading.
She took a bag in. Returning through the passage, she met Nick, invisible behind the pile of boxes in his arms, but instantly recognisable by the paint-stained jeans.
Standing aside to let him pass, she said, “It’s all so well packed, I still don’t know what we have.”
“Makes life interesting. Any briefcases?”
“If we find one, I’ll return it unopened!”
“Good idea.”
When they had finished, Eleanor said, “If you don’t have to hurry back to your choughs, come up and have a cup of tea. Joce can’t leave the shop.”
“The choughs can wait, and I left a note next door saying I could be found here. Just in case there should be a sudden swarm of people wanting my pictures. I’ll take the Incorruptible down while you boil a kettle, shall I? Then I’ll come back and hold your hand while you ring the Scumble.”
“Oh bother! I’d managed to forget that temporarily. Nick,” she said in a sudden panic, “what were the initials?”
“D A W. Jackdaw. I’d definitely better come and hold your hand.”
He returned just as the kettle boiled, and made the tea while Eleanor dialled the Launceston police. To her dismay, she was told that DI Scumble was already on his way to Port Mabyn.
“What on earth does he want now?” Nick asked crossly.
“They didn’t say. They’re going to tell him on the car radio that I want to speak to him. Botheration! I’d much rather deal with him at telephone’s length.”
“I won’t desert you.” He glanced at the window, where the sunny day was dissolving in a sea mist. “No one’s going to stroll about in this looking for the perfect painting for their sitting room wall. You know, I’d like to paint Port Mabyn on a misty day, but all the tourists want is sun, even if it rained every day of their h
olidays.”
Eleanor thought of the inspector driving from Launceston. Sometimes mist at sea-level left the moors in sunlight. Sometimes it enveloped the higher land in fog that rivalled the pre–Clean Air Act London pea-soupers.
She wouldn’t wish a Bodmin Moor fog on anyone, but wouldn’t it be nice if Scumble was sufficiently deterred to turn round and go back to Launceston!
EIGHTEEN
It was nearly five o’clock when DI Scumble at last arrived. He was not happy. He had indeed hit fog on Bodmin Moor. His cretin of a driver had missed the turn to Port Mabyn. They had been wandering about unsignposted back lanes for most of an hour before finding the B road again, and then had been unsure whether they needed to turn north or south.
“Tea, Mr Scumble?” Eleanor suggested soothingly. “I’ll make a fresh pot.”
“I won’t say it wouldn’t be welcome, ma’am,” Scumble conceded.
“What about your driver?” she asked, filling the kettle.
“He and the other two idiots I brought with me are doing some house-to-house. Going from door to door, asking a few questions,” he clarified.
“I hope they don’t get lost in the fog,” Nick said, in what seemed to Eleanor a purely inflammatory spirit.
The inspector glared at him. “And what exactly are you doing here, Mr Gresham?”
Before Nick could add fuel to the flames with the remark about protecting her from police harassment that she saw hovering on his lips, Eleanor said quickly, “Nick helped me unload the car and came up for tea.”
“Another load of donations? Any mysterious briefcases?”
Nick burst out laughing, and after a moment, Scumble grinned. “As a matter of fact, Inspector,” Nick said, “we kept a careful lookout for anything of the sort. No such luck.”
“No such bad luck,” said Eleanor, opening a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits. “What did you want to see me about, Mr Scumble?”