Boomerang (10 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DEATH OF A BIRDWATCHER

Miss Eaton tapped lightly on the door of Keith Parry’s room upstairs at the Porthcove Studios.

“Come.”

She opened the door and went in.

“Sorry to interrupt your rest, Keith,” she said. “Val told me you were taking five after lunch.”

Parry was stretched out on top of his bed, shoes off and ankles crossed, his hands behind his head.

“I always relax when I can—helps to keep me on top-line, I find. I’ll be going down to the harbour any minute now—so what can I do for Val’s favourite private eye?”

Miss Eaton perched birdlike on the edge of a chair and handed him the photograph of Jarvis’s stolen painting.

“What can you tell me about this? There seems to be some doubt that it’s a genuine Gauguin.”

Parry took the photograph and studied it for some moments.

“I’m not familiar with this painting,” he admitted. “But that proves nothing. Not all pictures get reproduced in art books—especially if they’re in private collections. I’d need to see the original to form an opinion.” He rose from the bed in a single graceful movement and took a book from the shelf. He turned the pages, pausing at different reproductions to compare with the photograph.

“I seem to remember seeing a film based on Gauguin’s life,” Miss Eaton remarked.

Parry answered absently.

“Yes...based on Somerset Maugham’s book,
The Moon and Sixpence
. Fiction, of course...impossible to be sure from a photograph. It looks as though it might be genuine, but....” He shrugged.

“I thought forgers only went in for old Masters,” Miss Eaton said brightly. “Dutch artists—Van Meegeren painted some, I believe.”

“You’re right about Van Meegeren, but wrong about the Old Masters. Plenty of modern artists are faked. It’s something of a joke in the art world—there are more Picassos in museums and art galleries than he ever painted.”

Parry looked thoughtfully at her. “Can I take it this is a photo of the stolen painting?”

“You can.”

“But if, as you appear to think, this is a forgery, why would anyone steal it?”

“So perhaps it isn’t.” Miss Eaton shrugged. “Or perhaps the thief believed it was genuine. Jarvis certainly does.”

“Confusing,” Parry said, and laughed.

“Isn’t it?”

They went downstairs together. Keith Parry whistled as he walked towards the road leading down to the harbour.

Miss Eaton brought a chair from the hall and sat in the sunshine on the lawn. She sat where Bert had told her Bullard set up his easel on the last afternoon of his life. She looked at the roses he had painted but no inspiration came.

She thought about the stolen picture that George Bullard had declared a forgery. Suppose he had been wrong? Even an expert can be wrong occasionally.

Or suppose he’d been lying? If the painting weren’t insured, would the police investigate as thoroughly? Possibly not.

So a valuable painting could be smuggled out of the country...and Bullard was dead. A gang of art thieves, a doublecross and murder. And then the theft?

The sequence seemed wrong. She felt irritated ond sighed and closed her eyes.

Trewin’s voice aroused her.

“It’s all right for some. You don’t have an Inspector chasing you for a report.”

Miss Eaton opened her eyes. “What’s the news about Duke?”

“Reid’s still holding him. The lab is sure it’s his bike involved.”

“There’s a French boat in harbour, the
Jean Michel
—”

Trewin grinned. “Reid may be a pain, but he isn’t daft. He got Customs to board and search her—no painting.”

“Bullard was at Red Wheal before,” Miss Eaton said.

“Was he now? That’s interesting. D’you think there’s a link between his murder and the robbery? No, that’s wrong—he was killed first.”

“There has to be a link, Frank,” Miss Eaton said.

“Not necessarily—coincidences do happen.” Trewin looked across the lawn to the house. “I’m off to the inn. Be my guest. You can’t visit Cornwall and not sample our local mead.”

* * * *

Margo Nicholas had found the shade of some rocks. She sat on her stool, sketchpad on her lap, engrossed in drawing the steps cut into the cliff face. She thought she had something good.

Parry joined her on his round of the students.

“Interesting, Margo. You’re the first this time to see the steps as a subject. Usually someone gets around to them during the fortnight. Let me sit there, will you?”

She rose and Parry took her place, looking from her pad to the cliff steps.

“I like your attack. Nice and bold, but with this particular subject, correct drawing is essential. And your perspective isn’t quite right.”

He turned a page and made a quick sketch.

“Like that—d’you see? What I suggest is, make an accurate drawing first, then work it up afterwards. Okay?”

“I suppose so.” Margo sighed. “Drawing was never my strong point.”

Parry siniled briefly. “All the more reason to work at it then.”

Margo shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and looked up at the top of the flight of stone steps.

“Isn’t that Mrs. Keller up there? She’s got her binoculars on us.”

Parry glanced at his watch. “More likely checking on Wilfred—she’s a very possessive woman. I’m popping up to the tearooms for a break. Care to join me?”

“Not now. I want to get this drawing right.”

“That’s the idea. See you at dinner.”

Margo watched him lope away with long-legged strides towards the harbour and the road leading up the hill. She turned to a new sheet in her pad and sighed as she prepared to start a new sketch.

She glanced up at Mrs. Keller, put out her tongue, and bent her head over her pad.

Hilda Keller squatted awkwardly on the topmost ledge of the steps cut into the cliff face. A wide-brimmed hat shielded her eyes from the sun as she scanned the bay through her binoculars.

She could see Margo Nicholas below, alone, seated on a stool, sketching.

She had seen Linda earlier, from her vantage point by the tea-rooms. The blonde girl hadn’t been painting, just sitting and throwing stones in. the water. Brooding. Hilda thought, pining for her boyfriend. A foolish girl; she was well rid of him.

The Jew and that nice Australian had been further along the quay, painting side by side. And where, she wondered, was Wilfred?

It occurred to her that her post outside the tearooms was getting well-known, and she shifted to the top of the steps. Gulls wheeled and dived about the cliffs, screeching.

Was Margo waiting for Wilfred? Could he really be interested in that gypsy-looking woman with her ridiculous earrings?

And if he did turn up, could she get down the steps in time to confront them? She doubted it. The steps were narrow and looked dangerous.

She watched the tutor come along the sand and stop to give Margo instruction. He walked quickly back towards the harbour.

Margo went on sketching and Hilda waited. Eventually Margo gave up and looked up at her; she folded her stool and carried her sketching gear back towards the harbour.

Hilda watched till she was out of sight. There was still no sign of Wilfred. She wondered if Margo had gone to meet him and decided she would return to the tearooms.

She started to get to her feet, but she was sitting awkwardly and moved slowly.

She felt a pair of hands at the small of her back. She turned her head and said, “Is that you, Wilfred?”

The hands pushed hard and she toppled outwards, losing her balance. She made a wild grab for the rock face but her hands closed about air.

“Wilfred!” she screamed as she fell.

Her scream was lost in the screeching of the gulls and the noise of water breaking over rocks.

* * * *

Miss Eaton decided that mead was not to her taste. Used to a dry sherry, she found the honey drink too sweet for her palate.

Her session at the Harbour Inn ended when Trewin was called to the telephone.

Walking back up the hill on her own, she felt drowsy. Alcohol and heat, she thought, adds up to an afternoon nap. She was not expecting any immediate developments, so there was no reason why she shouldn’t indulge herself.

She found a gap in the hedge and squeezed through. She found a patch of soft grass and stretched out in the sun. Nice, she thought sleepily....

She woke with a start, yawning, and glanced at her watch. The afternoon had vanished; if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for dinner.

She walked briskly up the hill to her room, splashed cold water over her face and went along to the dining room. Dinner had just started and everyone appeared subdued.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

Sammy said, “Mrs. Keller is dead. She fell from the top of the cliff steps—”

“I was sketching at the bottom of the steps.” Margo’s face was unusually pale. “I saw her up top, using her binoculars. Then I finished my drawing and left. It must have happened soon afterwards.” She drew a deep breath. “I’m glad it didn’t happen before I’d left, that’s all.”

Fletcher said grimly, “So, did she fall—or was she pushed? The cops have taken Wilfred to the station.” He mimicked an English accent: “To help with our enquiries. And we all know what that means.”

“If it was murder, we can guess why, can’t we?” Sammy said. “She was always spying through her binoculars. A joke, really, her keeping an eye on Wilfred, but she must have seen everything that goes on around here. She must have spotted something someone wanted to keep quiet.”

“Well,” Miss Eaton said. “We’ll never know now, will we?”

She ate quietly, wondering what it could have been that Mrs. Keller saw.

When Joyce brought in the dessert, she looked upset. Did she suspect her lover of killing his wife?

Miss Eaton made a smile for Linda. “I should imagine the police will be releasing Duke soon,” she said brightly.

“I hope so.”

When she had finished her meal, Miss Eaton strolled into the kitchen. Sherry, well-fed and content, had rolled onto her back, inviting the cook to play with her. She seemed hurt that Joyce should ignore her.

Miss Eaton rubbed the Persian’s stomach till she purred.

“Is it true they’ve arrested Mr. Keller?” Joyce asked nervously.

“I don’t think they’ve arrested him. But it’s usual to question the husband of a woman who dies in suspicious circumstances.”

“Wilfred wouldn’t have pushed her,” Joyce muttered. “He’s not like that.”

“You know him well?”

“I suppose it’s bound to come out now. He was visiting me when he could get away. It was just a bit of fun.”

Miss Eaton didn’t think it had been just a bit of fun for Joyce.

“She kept him, you know. All he was interested in was his painting. He was always like that.” The cook seemed sad.

Miss Eaton said: “I think you should be told that the local reporter knows you were friendly with Wilfred before you married.”

“Does it matter?”

“It might. The police, suspicious by the nature of their job, might think you pushed her.”

“Oh, I never would!” Joyce looked shocked.

Miss Eaton thought she was probably telling the truth and urged Sherry out into the garden.

The blue Persian was in a playful mood and made straight for Reggie as he used a hose to water the dry earth. She sneaked up behind him and rubbed herself against the back of his legs.

“Made me jump,” he said.

Sherry was purring.

“She knows who likes her,” Miss Eaton said, and thought: what’s he scared of?

Reggie Courtney kept darting nervous glances about the garden. “How’s the investigation going? Any ideas yet?”

“I’ve one or two ideas. Obtaining proof is the problem.”

Reggie was sweating badly. He wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” he muttered. “First Bullard—now the Keller woman. I suppose she was pushed? Everyone seems to assume so. That would make a second murder—any more and we’ll have to shut down.”

“Do you know any reason why there should be more?”

“Of course not. What d’you mean?”

“Do you suspect someone in particular?”

Reggie didn’t answer. He looked towards the house, his head cocked to one side.

“That’s Val calling...must go.”

Miss Eaton gazed after him. She hadn’t heard anyone call and her hearing was good.

She walked through the gardens towards the front of the house, leaving Sherry chasing butterflies.

Constable Trewin came up the hill from the Inn, his ginger hair flaming in the evening sun.

“What’s new?” Miss Eaton asked.

“We’ve got a line on Fletcher. The Australian police have suspicions—no proof, no convictions—that he’s a con-man.”

Miss Eaton nodded. “He’s a good talker, popular.”

“He certainly smooth-talked Mrs. Keller and she held the purse-strings. If Bullard had suspicions too, he wasn’t the sort to keep his mouth shut. A strong motive for murder if Fletcher’s pulling a con here. Now Wilfred gets her money and I’ve got to question Mrs. Willis.”

Trewin paused. “Reid thinks it’s murder—”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

“—and he’s blaming me. I’m investigating one murder when there’s a second.”

“That’s ridiculous. You weren’t to know, and you can’t be everywhere. He might as well blame me because I took an afternoon nap.”

“He probably will,” Trewin said. “And nobody will have an alibi. They’ll be scattered all over the landscape, painting. Anyone of ’em could have done it.”

“Joyce is upset already,” Miss Eaton warned. “It might be a good idea if I’m with you when you question her.”

Trewin hesitated, then nodded. “Why not?”

When they entered the kitchen, Joyce was cleaning down her workbench.

“Mrs. Willis,” Trewin said, “I have to ask you where you were at approximately four o’clock this afternoon.”

Joyce answered reluctantly.

“I was out walking, alone. When anything worries me, I always walk it off.”

“I know what you mean,” Miss Eaton said sympathetically.

“I was upset about the murder of Mr. Bullard and the police being here asking questions. I thought they might start asking about me and Wilfred.”