Morwen tutted. “What are you doing hanging about here, Maggie Binnie? You should be in the bathroom of Boscastle scrubbing out that shower. Fay and I have got this under control.”
Grumbling to herself, Maggie went back to her work.
When she was gone, Morwen turned to Fay. “Do you think she could be right? Did he slip off without paying?”
“He’ll be sorry if he did. It’s not that easy to disappear in this day and age. I’ll find him and set collection agents after him.”
Fay pounded on the door with her fist. “Mr. Caldwell, are you in there? It’s time to vacate your room, sir. It’s eleven o’clock.”
“Mr. Caldwell, are you awake?” Morwen hammered on the door. She turned to Fay. “You’d better use the master key. It looks like Maggie was right. He disappeared while we were busy with breakfast.”
“Maybe it isn’t even locked,” said Fay. But when she tried the door handle, nothing budged. “We’re coming in, Mr. Caldwell. I’m using my master key to enter this room.”
Fay inserted the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door.
The room was dimly lit. All the electric lights were off, and the drapes were tightly closed over the windows. The only sound was the hum of the central heating. Fay reached sideways against the wall and flicked a switch so that the room was flooded with light.
“What’s happening?” Morwen tried to see over Fay’s shoulder. “Is he lying on the bed?”
Fay turned to face Morwen. “I need you to stay here, Mor. Don’t come into the room, and don’t touch anything. Not even the door frame.”
“But I want to see.”
Fay shook her head. “Please. Just stay here.”
She turned and walked into the room, being careful about where she put her feet. There was an open box of pizza lying on a table next to the bed. It was decorated with green and red stripes and printed with a brand name – Pappa’s Pizzeria – the finest pizza in town. Only one slice had been removed from the pie. Fay reached out and held the tips of her fingers near the congealed cheese of the pizza. It was cold.
Then she turned to the bed. Mr. Caldwell was a man in his early forties. He had thinning brown hair and a slender build, with a small paunch starting in the middle. He was fully dressed in jeans, a grey windbreaker, and white Converse sneakers. His eyes were slightly open and there was a residue of dried, foamy saliva around his mouth.
He was quite dead.
Fay took three giant steps backwards out the room and slammed the door behind her. Morwen stared at her with round eyes.
“What’s going on? Is he sick? Is he … is he dead?”
“He’s dead. I think he’s been poisoned. We need to call the police and a doctor. Please go downstairs and phone the police station. See if you can get them to send Sergeant Jones. This is a bit above Constable Chegwin’s pay grade. Then call the surgery and ask them to send Doc Dyer urgently.”
“Urgently?” Morwen looked dubious. “The poor man’s dead. How urgent can it be? Doc Dyer is a sweetheart, but even he won’t be raising Mr. Caldwell from the dead.”
Fay shooed her along. “I have a dead body in my guesthouse, Mor. I want this sorted out as soon as possible. Tell Doc Dyer it’s urgent. Tell everyone it’s urgent.”
Morwen trotted down the stairs, muttering to herself. Then she stopped and looked at Fay. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to stay right here and guard the door. Nobody goes in or out until the police get here.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll get Maggie to come and stand by the door.”
“Absolutely not. Would you trust Maggie not to open the door and take a peek? I wouldn’t.”
Morwen had to acknowledge the truth of this. As she hurried down the stairs, Fay leaned against the wall and resigned herself to a long wait.
She didn’t have much faith in either Sergeant Jones or Doc Dyer. A tiny place like Bluebell Island was not a hotbed of crime. Sergeant Owen Jones was a nice enough man, but traffic violations and tipsy teenagers were more his speed. And while Doc Dyer was indeed a sweetheart, he was also a small-town GP who had probably never seen a case of murder in his life.
Still, the least she could do was keep the scene clean and uncontaminated until they arrived.
Twenty minutes passed before Fay heard the sounds of an arrival downstairs. She could hear a deep baritone voice and the higher sounds of Morwen’s reply. Then there was a thumping noise and Morwen pounded up the stairs, looking flushed.
“Goodness me,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting that. It’s not old Doc Dyer at all. It’s young Dr. Dyer.”
Fay wondered if she was supposed to be impressed by this declaration.
“Young Dr. Dyer? Who’s that? His son?”
“Yes, yes. The one who went to Oxford and Harvard. You know.”
Fay shook her head. “Not a clue.”
“Oh, that’s right. He hasn’t been back on the island since you got here. Young Dr Dyer is … well, you’ll see him for yourself.”
They turned to look as a tall man walked up the stairs towards them.
Chapter 3
“What’s all this about a guest being found dead in his bed? Sounds most unlikely to me. He probably had too much to drink and is sleeping it off.”
Fay blinked as a dark-haired man in a suit brushed past her and went into the Penzance suite.
“He can be a little abrupt,” said Morwen. It sounded as though she was apologizing for him.
“Abrupt? I think the word you’re looking for is rude.” Fay gestured to Morwen to stay in the passage while she went into the room to see what the doctor was doing.
“Well?” she said. “Is he dead?”
The man fixed her with a pair of intense dark eyes. “Who are you?”
“I’m Fay Penrose. This is my guesthouse.”
“Any relation to old Mrs. Penrose?”
“I’m her granddaughter. This is my place now.”
“You’re American.”
“Guilty as charged.”
The doctor took another look at the man on the bed. “You also happen to be quite right. He is dead. Has been for several hours, I’d say. Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?”
“The bathroom is through there.” Fay indicated a door near the foot of the bed.
As Dr Dyer opened it, a black and white cat shot out of the bathroom, ran past Fay, and streaked down the stairs. He was licking his lips and foaming slightly at the mouth.
“Whisky!”
Fay shot off after him.
“I don’t think whisky had anything to do with it,” said the doctor from the bathroom.
“Whisky is the name of her cat,” explained Morwen.
“Whisky! Come here, boy. Let me look at your mouth.” Fay chased him through the kitchen and out the back door into the courtyard where he stopped to paw at his mouth. She scooped him into her arms. “Let me look at you.”
Her heart sank like a stone when she saw that she had not been imagining it. There was clearly a residue of foam around his muzzle. Just like Mr. Caldwell.
“Oh, no.” Fay tried to peer down his throat. “How long does cyanide take to work?”
“Less than two hours.”
Fay jumped and turned around. The cat leaped out of her arms and retired behind a bush to wash his muzzle.
Maggie Binnie held up her phone. “I googled it for you. A small animal like a cat would be dead in less than two hours if it had been licking cyanide. Probably a lot less.”
Fay watched as the cat finished washing his face and came to sit next to her. He was still pawing at his muzzle every now and then.
“If he hasn’t been exposed to poison, why is he foaming at the mouth like that?” She bent to sniff his fur. “And why does he smell sort of … soapy?”
Maggy peered around the kitchen door. “Is that the black and white one? Don’t worry about him. He’s been licking the soap again.”
Fay stared at her. “He w
hat?”
“I keep finding him in the bathrooms licking at wet, soapy patches. He’s a fiend for a shower or a bathtub.”
“I wondered why he runs into the shower stall the moment I step out of it in the mornings. Thanks, Maggie.” Fay looked down at her pet of four years – the one she had brought over from New York with her when she had moved here. “You’re a silly boy, aren’t you? You gave me a big fright.”
Whisky squeezed his eyes at her and gave a tiny mew.
Fay scratched him on the head and went back into the house. Morwen was standing at reception, showing Dr. Dyer out.
“Wait!”
He gave her an impatient look. “What is it?”
“You can’t leave. You have to estimate the time of death. You need to find out how he died. You must fill in a death certificate and sign it.”
Dr. Dyer’s right eyebrow quirked upwards. “This is not your first death, is it?”
“You could say that.”
“The man upstairs died between nine and ten o’clock last night. I suspect he ingested poison of some kind, possibly cyanide. An autopsy may be needed to confirm that. I have death certificates back at the practice. I will fill one in and lodge it with the proper authorities.”
“Don’t forget to let me have a copy.”
Dr. Dyer’s eyebrow rose even higher. “Why on earth would I do that?”
Fay recollected herself. Of course no one would let her see the death certificate. Why would they?
“Sorry, yes. I forgot for a moment.”
He shook his head and turned to walk to his car.
“What a lovely man.” Fay rolled her eyes. “A real charmer. I can just imagine what his bedside manner must be like.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Morwen. “He’s terribly good-looking, isn’t he? Did you notice what intense eyes he has?”
Fay remembered the dark stare that had hit her like a tractor beam upstairs. “I can’t say I did. I wish he had done a more thorough job on Mr. Caldwell. It feels wrong to leave him up there all on his own.”
“But he’s not all on his own. I forgot to tell you. The long arm of the law has arrived.”
“You mean Constable Chegwin?”
“Him and Sergeant Jones, just as you asked. They’re up there right now collecting evidence.”
“Oh, boy.”
Fay trotted up the stairs. She could hear the two police officers speaking as she approached the suite. It was easy to tell their voices apart. Constable Ronald Chegwin spoke with the accent of the lifelong Cornishman. Sergeant Jones had lived on Bluebell Island for a long time, but still retained some of the sing-song of his Welsh origins.
“… looks a bit creepy lying there with that stuff all around his mouth, doesn’t he?” said Constable Chegwin. “Between you and me, Sarge, have you ever seen a dead person before?”
“Of course I have, Chegwin. Don’t be ridiculous,” said his superior officer. “Mind you, it was twenty years ago, and it was just my old granny. She was lying in her coffin, but I remember noticing that they’d put her lipstick on all skew. Still, it’s not a sight you forget, is it? Your first dead person. What was that noise?” His voice sharpened with alarm, making Fay climb the stairs faster.
“It’s just my stomach rumbling, sir,” said Constable Chegwin. “I hardly had time for breakfast this morning. I had to rush out in a great hurry to sort out that fender-bender on the coast road. I’m starving.”
“Looks like this poor chap never got to finish his last meal yesterday.”
“I’m very partial to cold pizza,” Constable Chegwin said wistfully.
“Go on, have a slice,” said Sergeant Jones. “I won’t tell anyone, and it’s not as though this poor chap will miss it.”
Fay took the last few stairs three at a time and flung herself into the Penzance suite. Constable Chegwin had a slice of cold pizza in his hand and was just about to take a bite. His eyes were closed in anticipation, as his teeth clamped together.
Fay flung herself at him like an Olympic long jumper, her hand outstretched. She hit his wrist hard. The pizza slice flew out of his hand and landed on the carpet.
Constable Chegwin’s eyes opened in shock.
“What?” he said. “What happened?”
“Fay love,” Sergeant Jones rebuked her. “Was that really necessary? The poor man is hungry. He missed his breakfast this morning.”
Fay took a breath. “Sorry about that, Constable. It’s just that there’s a good chance the pizza is poisoned. Most likely with cyanide.”
“Says who?” Constable Chegwin’s eyes were as round as saucers.
“The doctor was here a moment ago.”
“Old Doc Dyer?” said Sergeant Jones. “Sorry love, but between you, me, and that doorpost, Doc Dyer wouldn’t know cyanide if it stood up and bit him on the …”
“Not old Doc Dyer. It was the young doctor.”
Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin exchanged glances. They looked impressed.
“Oh,” said Sergeant Jones. “Young Dr. Dyer. Why didn’t you say so? That makes all the difference. If young Dr. Dyer says that pizza is poisoned, then it’s poisoned.”
Constable Chegwin sat heavily in an armchair. He had turned rather pale. “I nearly took a bite of that there pizza, Sarge. I came this close.” He held his finger and thumb together to show how close he had come to death.
“Lucky our Fay here tackled you then, wasn’t it? She practically saved your life, son.”
Fay’s foot tapped against the carpet. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m delighted that Constable Chegwin here hasn’t joined Mr. Caldwell at the big pizzeria in the sky, but do you think we could get on with collecting evidence now? Have you dusted for fingerprints? Have you collected trace evidence? Have you sprayed Luminol around the room and checked for blood under UV light? Have you taken scrapings from his fingernails?”
Constable Chegwin’s mouth hung open slightly. “Is she for real, Sarge?”
“Watch it, Chegwin. She used to be one of us, remember?”
Chapter 4
“What’s that, sir?” Constable Chegwin stared at Fay. “Are you telling me she used to be a cop? She never did.”
In her jeans and soft blue sweater, with her fair hair caught up in a ponytail, Fay wasn’t Chegwin’s idea of a police officer. She looked too young, for one thing.
“You were though, weren’t you, Fay love?” asked Sergeant Jones.
Fay admitted it. “Back in New York City, yes. It was only six months ago, but it feels like longer.”
“What was your rank?” Chegwin was still suspicious.
“I was a homicide detective in the 48th Precinct of the NYPD. That’s in the South Bronx.”
“Why did you give it up?”
“My grandmother died and left me this place.” Fay’s gesture encompassed the house. “I had a choice between selling Penrose House or taking it over myself.”
“You were thinking of selling?” Sergeant Jones sounded scandalized. “But there have been Penroses at Penrose House for the last …”
“Four hundred years,” said Fay. “Yes, I know. That’s what everyone told me when I got here. They made it sound like I had no choice. But I was looking for a change anyway. I was burned out at my old job. It was a very high-crime precinct. There was a lot of gang violence. You know the kind of thing - young men, hardly older than boys, killing each other for wearing the wrong colors. I’d had enough.”
Sergeant Jones nodded, although the police work she was describing sounded like a cop show on television to him.
“Well, love, I don’t know about all that stuff you were talking about – the Luminol and so forth – but we don’t have anything like that on Bluebell Island. We can dust for fingerprints and poke about looking for evidence. And we can make sure that the body gets down to the surgery in one piece, but that’s about it. We’ll do our jobs and do them properly, even if we don’t come from some high-tech New York precinct.”
Fay stole a
glance at the piece of poisoned pizza currently lying on the floor in a corner of the room. She remembered how close Constable Chegwin’s teeth had come to chomping down on it. She made a noncommittal sound.
“You leave us to it, love.” Sergeant Jones ushered her out the room. “We know what we’re doing.”
“Are Laurel and Hardy still busy upstairs?” Morwen asked as Fay walked into the kitchen.
Fay had to smile. Even the islanders didn’t have much faith in their local police officers.
“Yes, they’re still at it. I don’t think they’ll be long though. They said they’ll take Mr. Caldwell’s body with them and drop it off at the surgery.”
Morwen turned back to the golden mixture she had bubbling in a pot. Judging by the delicious smell emanating from the stove, and the pastry she was rolling out on a big wooden board, there was chicken pie for lunch. The Cat’s Paw only offered bed and breakfast, but Morwen cooked lunch and dinner every day for the staff, which consisted of herself, Fay, Maggie from the village, and Pen, the gardener who lived in a cottage outside and kept the grounds in perfect order.
“I hear it was poisoning that poor man died of,” said Morwen. “It must have been accidental, surely? Who would do such a thing on purpose?”
“I don’t think cyanide accidentally finds its way onto a takeaway pizza. That man was murdered.”
“Dear, oh dear. To think of such a terrible thing happening right here on the island. I know Mr. Caldwell wasn’t a pleasant man, but he didn’t deserve to die.”
“Did he order that pizza himself?” Fay noticed that the light had gone off on the dishwasher. She opened the door and began to unload the dishes.
“He must have done because I didn’t make the call for him. The first I knew about it was when young Joe from Pappa’s turned up here with a large pizza, saying it was for the gentleman in the Penzance suite. I asked if there was anything to pay, but he said it had already been paid for in full by credit card over the phone. I popped it onto a tray with a knife and fork and some salt and pepper, and a napkin, and I took it up to him.”
The Cat That Had a Clue Page 2