Boomerang (5 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

LOCAL NEWSHOUND

Miss Eaton sat with Val upstairs in the Courtney’s private sitting room. It was a large room, furnished with quality antiques; the table was highly polished with a bowl of roses as the centrepiece. Two pictures pf the Cornish coast hung on the walls and a hi-fi played softly in the background.

Miss Eaton relaxed with a glass of sherry. The room smelt of roses and polish and had a homely, lived-in feel to it. The Blue Persian lapped contentedly from a saucer. Val was on her second glass.

Val Courtney looked harassed.

“Please don’t even think of returning to London tomorrow,” she said. “When I hired you to take Bullard off my hands, I never dreamed anything like this would happen. It’s a nightmare. Business will fall away and we’ll be ruined.”

“I doubt it very much,” Miss Eaton said briskly. “You really must get a grip on yourself, Val. It seems to me much more likely you’ll get even more bookings—people do so like to visit the scene of a murder.”

Val shuddered. “But I don’t want ghouls of that sort here! And I’m not happy about the Inspector questioning everyone. It’s obvious he doesn’t have a clue who did it. It could be anyone—it doesn’t have to be someone staying here.”

“No, but it most likely is. And police enquiries have to be thorough—that takes time.”

“But just suppose they never find out, Belle? It’ll drag on and on, and we’ll always be under suspicion. I couldn’t stand that. This business must be settled, one way or the other.”

Val poured herself another sherry.

“Do you remember that awful Tate girl? The Case of the Missing Money, we called it afterwards...someone was helping herself to our pocket money, and you set a trap and caught her. After we’d dealt with her, she never stole anything again. You were quite the heroine—nobody laughed at your awful American magazines afterwards, I want you to stay and find out who killed Bullard. Will you? Oh, say you will....”

Sherry jumped onto Miss Eaton’s lap and began to knead. Absently, she stroked the silky fur.

“The Inspector won’t like it...but then, it would be rather a feather in my cap if I beat him to the murderer, wouldn’t it?”

“You’ll stay here free of charge of course,” Val said quickly. “I don’t know what your rates are, but we’ll meet them somehow—we’ve got a bit of money put aside for emergencies.”

“All right,” Miss Eaton said. “I’ll do it—for St. Agatha’s!”

They both laughed, and the tension eased.

Val said, “Those were the days. Remember the head girl? What a freak...and the rag? Not even you discovered who piled up all the chamber pots outside the games mistress’s door. I know you were always keen to be a detective, but how did you get into the business?”

“I pestered all the local enquiry agencies when I left college until I got a start—just handling office routine, of course. Then I switched to another agency, after misrepresenting the work I’d been doing, and got the chance to serve process papers and attend court. After that, I was partnered by an ex-copper to learn the enquiry business and get to know police procedure. In time I worked on my own cases. Then I got lucky and had a big win on the pools—enough to set up on my own—which is what I always wanted, of course.”

Miss Eaton smiled ruefully.

“The first year was a disaster, but I learnt to stand on my own feet and handle my own cases in my own way. A private investigator is all I ever wanted to be. Eventually business picked up and now I’m established and accepted by other agencies in the profession.”

“But why do it at all?” Val asked. “I mean, it seems so odd.”

“I suppose I’m just curious about people—and their secrets. They behave so strangely, and everyone has something to hide.”

Miss Eaton put Sherry on the floor and stood up.

“It would be best if I have a room with the students—that’ll give me a chance to mix and observe them.”

“Of course. There’s no problem—we have a spare room because the Kellers are staying in the village. I’ll show you.”

Downstairs, Val led her through the common room—now empty of any police presence—to a passage. One door had been sealed; George Bullard’s room.

Miss Eaton asked, “Who’s in which room? I’d better know.”

“First on the left, Sammy Jacobi. Then—” Val made a grimace—“the next room was Bullard’s. Fletcher, the man with the boomerangs—I can’t blame him for what happened, I suppose, but I wish he hadn’t come. Bath and loo. The far door leads into the grounds.”

“That’s not locked?”

“No. It serves as a fire exit.”

“On the right, Duke and Linda. The second room is yours, the next Margo.”

Val opened the door and Miss Eaton looked into an airy room with two single beds, washbasin and wardrobe, two chairs and a dressing table.

“You’re lucky, Belle. You get a double to yourself—now I’ll leave you to freshen up for dinner.”

Alone, Miss Eaton walked to the door at the end of the passage and looked out at browning grass and apple trees. There was a path leading around the side of the house. Anyone could come and go, she noted—and if the rooms were empty or people sleeping, without being seen.

She bathed and changed, opened the window wide and joined the painters in the dining room. The small table reserved for staff was empty and the cook was serving.

The atmosphere, which had seemed strained before, was almost cheerful considering that one of their number had been recently murdered.

Miss Eaton suspected the truth hadn’t sunk in yet... that they were all regarded as suspects by the police...except possibly for one person seated around the long table.

As she slid quietly into her seat, Jim Fletcher was retailing a ditty in his flat Australian accent:

“So down in Jones’s alley

All the members of the putsch

Laid a dark and dirty ambush

For the bastard from the bush!”

He got a cheer. Jacobi was sitting next to the gypsy-looking woman; he nudged her in the ribs and laughed.

“That’s great, Jim!”

Miss Eaton thought there might be a holiday romance budding there and regarded them kindly.

Linda, the very pretty blonde, was laughing loudly. Her boyfriend, Duke—he hardly seemed the right companion for her—looked surly. Girls today don’t seem to know how to choose, Miss Eaton thought; if they ever did, which she doubted.

Margo said, “Whoever killed George did us all a favour. This is the only cheerful meal we’ve had since we arrived.”

Joyce smiled as she handed round the vegetables. “Yes, we can do without that trouble-maker.”

“Yeah,” Duke added, nodding. “It saves me the trouble of smashing his face in.”

Linda looked warningly at him. “You ought to be more careful what you say, Duke. The police might be listening.”

“But it’s true,” Margo insisted. “The atmosphere is different. When the psychic aura is calm, I know I can relax.”

She turned to Miss Eaton. “You wouldn’t believe what we’ve had to put up with. The air was thick enough to cut with a knife.”

“So I believe,” Miss Eaton said politely, and turned to ask Joyce: “Don’t the Courtneys or Mr. Parry eat with us?”

“Indeed they do, miss, usually—but the Inspector’s having a go at them upstairs.”

Fletcher asked, “I suppose you’re another painter come to join our little group?”

“Nope,” Miss Eaton said in her toughest American accent. “I’m a private eye, and Mrs. Courtney has hired me to find out who killed George Bullard.”

* * * *

Reid looked casually around the upstairs sitting room. Nicely furnished, and no cheap stuff.

“Drink, Inspector?”

Reid smiled easily. “I shouldn’t, but I will. A small whisky, if you please. All that questioning has given me a thirst. Thanks.”

He sipped slowly, relaxing, enjoying himself. A malt whisky. There must be money in running a studio.

“Are you getting anywhere, Inspector?” Val asked anxiously.

“It’s early days yet, Mrs. Courtney. But we’re making progress. Information is coming in all the time. We’re in touch with the Birmingham police, to see what they can find out about Bullard’s background.”

“Then it could be someone who followed him here?”

Reid sipped his whisky, enjoying the warm glow it gave him. He looked from Val Courtney, to her husband, to the tutor.

“I suspect everyone connected with George Bullard until we arrest his murderer. As we shall eventually.”

“I suppose that’s good news.”

“What I’m enquiring into at the moment is the financial position of this studio. I get the impression that you don’t actually do a lot of business—and money’s tight.”

“Someone’s been talking,” Reggie said suddenly. “Who? That’s our private business.”

Reid shook his head sadly. “Wrong, Mr. Courtney. Nothing’s private in a murder enquiry. That doesn’t mean we go around talking about people’s private affairs—but we have to know everything. You appear to have had a substantial sum paid in last winter—”

Parry interrupted. “That was me, Inspector. I’m not just a paid tutor, but an old friend. I often stay here during the winter months. It’s convenient for painting—and gets me away from the commercial grind in London. I knew Reggie and Val were struggling, and put in some money to help out.”

Reid drained his glass. “Nice of you, Mr. Parry.”

“Why shouldn’t I help my friends? I’m quite successful in the commercial art field, and this is a good place to work.”

“No reason why not,” Reid agreed. “We just like to know these things.”

Reggie Courtney said: “You think we did it because Bullard might have ruined us, don’t you?”

Reid set down his empty glass and stood up to leave. “The possibility did cross my mind—yes.”

* * * *

Miss Eaton was up early in the morning and, wearing a tracksuit and running shoes, jogged along the cliff path. Below, blue-green sea foamed about jagged peaks of rock. Miss Eaton never dieted; keeping fit was a matter of eating less and taking regular exercise.

She wondered why Bullard’s corpse had been left on the lawn when it could so easily have been dropped into the sea, to wash up miles away at a later date. Had the killer been interrupted?

The path wound up and down between bracken and she saw no one. Gulls screeched above a wild and desolate coastline.

When she returned to the studio, she found Jim Fletcher with Linda and Sammy on the lawn, throwing a boomerang.

“Oh, good,” she said, “Can I have a go?”

“Why not?”

Fletcher demonstrated, then positioned her, and Miss Eaton threw her first boomerang—straight into the ground.

“It’s a knack,” he said. “Keep trying—you’ll get it in time.”

Miss Eaton took four throws before she got the curved wood airborne—and observed that Linda had no trouble. When the blonde threw, the boomerang sailed across the sky and returned to her every time.

Sammy was almost as bad as Miss Eaton.

Keith Parry and Margo joined them and the tutor said, “We can go out painting this morning. The Inspector’s given his permission to leave the grounds—but no one’s, to leave Porthcove, of course.”

“After breakfast,” Margo said. “Is that the gong? I could eat a horse—this air gives me an appetite.”

Miss Eaton accompanied Jim Fletcher as he put his boomerangs back in his Datsun. It was not a new car and she knew she’d have no difficulty with the lock.

“Is that a killing stick?” she asked, pointing inside. “May I handle it?”

Fletcher looked gloomy as he reached in and handed her the weapon.

The stick was solid and heavy, slightly crooked. She swung it thoughtfully.

“No need to throw that,” she remarked.

“I told the Inspector so.”

“Did you ought to leave it in your car?”

“Too late to worry. Reckon nobody’s going to pinch this one—and there isn’t another George Bullard about anyway.”

She saw Parry waiting for then and joined him.

“Keith—I’ve noticed everyone uses your Christian name—I’d like to join you on your round today. It’ll give me the chance to observe each student in turn. I’ll just stand in the background while you give your comments.”

“I suppose it’ll be all right.” He seemed doubtful.

“Val has asked me to investigate.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I meant that some students might be embarrassed having you around while I criticize their work.”

“I’ll stay well back,” Miss Eaton promised.

As they went in to breakfast, Parry asked, “Do you really believe you can find the killer before the police?”

“I doubt it. The police have the organization, but Val wants me to stay, so I shall. I can’t just walk out on her when she’s in trouble.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Over scrambled eggs, Sammy said, “The police have searched and sealed George’s room. Now they’re searching the rest of the house.”

“Whatever for?”

“Who knows? Let’s ask our very own private eye—what do you think, Miss Eaton?”

“I imagine they’ll be looking for some link between any one of you and George Bullard.”

“Some hope,” Duke muttered. “Nobody knew him before he turned up here.”

“That has yet to be proved,” Miss Eaton said mildly. “It’s possible that his killer knew him from somewhere else.”

After breakfast, the students set off with their painting gear and Miss Eaton lingered with Val and Parry over another coffee.

“I give them time to get started on something,” the tutor explained.

“Can you always find then?”

He shrugged. “Oh, they don’t stray far. The usual places—the harbour and cottages, the rocks below the cliffs. They tend to pick the same subjects each time.”

Miss Eaton set off with Parry, sketch-block under his arm and a pocketful of coloured pencils. Just beyond the gate, a battered Ford was parked. One man sat inside, balding, and wearing an old sports jackets with leather patches. He was smoking a cheroot.

When he saw them, he jumped out of the car and tossed his cheroot away.

“I’m Gray,” he said affably. “
Penzance Herald
—hope you can spare a few minutes of your time. I’ll get your picture in the paper.”

“Certainly not,” Parry said. “Go away!”

Miss Eaton touched his arm lightly, and murmured, “Hold on just a moment.” She beamed at the reporter. “Of course I’ll be delighted to talk to you.” She stuck a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and talked around it in her American voice.