Chapter Six #2
Jocelyn had somehow woven these disparate elements into an attractive whole. To Eleanor, who had sat on cushioned divans with turbanned sheiks and on mats on mud floors with loin-clothed Africans, it all seemed very comfortable.
In the depths of one chair, a grey-and-black-striped cat dozed. When Teazle went over to sniff, he opened yellow eyes in an unblinking stare. Samson and Teazle were old acquaintances, if not friends. Much the same size, they tolerated and generally ignored each other.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drop of brandy, Eleanor?”
“No, thanks. And no more tea. I’m awash.”
“You know where the loo is.”
Eleanor retired. One could never be too grateful for modern plumbing.
Returning to the sitting room, she found Jocelyn gazing out of the window. “The mist’s getting thicker,” she said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged Timothy to go out.”
“His little put-put doesn’t do much over thirty, does it? I doubt he’ll come to grief, even if he hits a sheep. Anyway, St Endellion is inland. It’s probably clear there.”
“Yes.” She turned away and they both sat down. “I suppose I’ve just got the wind up because of that poor boy. Death can come so suddenly and unexpectedly. It’s something we need reminding of now and then.”
Eleanor didn’t want to talk about the murder.
Soon enough the police would reappear and it would be unavoidable.
“That reminds me, Joce, can’t you persuade him to call me Eleanor, so that I can call him Timothy?
I’ve asked him, but he just murmurs vaguely.
I do feel awkward calling him ‘Vicar,’ when I’m not, strictly speaking, one of his flock.
We’ve known each other for nearly two years now. Isn’t that long enough?”
“It’s not a matter of time. If you live in his parish, he counts you one of his flock, whatever your beliefs or unbeliefs.
More to the point, he has to consider his parishioners—the actual members of the church, I mean.
If he called you Eleanor, you wouldn’t credit the petty jealousies that would arise.
Many of the older people would be offended to be called by their Christian names, yet they’d regard it as a sort of favouritism if he used yours, or anyone’s over the age of twenty. ”
“There are places in the world where people only have one name. They seem to manage quite well.”
“I daresay, but you’re in England now.”
Eleanor sighed. “I suppose I’ve lived out of the country too long. All right, ‘Vicar’ it is, and evermore shall be so.”
“There’s no need to feel awkward about it. Think of it as a sort of nickname.” Joce smiled. “If you can call your car the Incorruptible, I don’t see why you can’t call Timothy ‘Vicar.’ ”
“Maybe I’ll shorten it to Vic,” Eleanor said with a laugh.
“Don’t you dare! The ructions—Well, I can’t begin to imagine!
Now, let’s be practical. We don’t know when the police will let you back into your flat, whatever the inspector said, so you’d better reckon on staying here tonight.
And as long as you like, of course, if you don’t feel comfortable there. ”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Certainly not! Do you?”
“No. So why should I avoid going home as soon as the police let me?”
“My dear Eleanor, I suppose—” She stopped as a piercing shriek came from the kitchen.
“Ah, the kettle. That’s the water for the peas.
You don’t mind frozen, do you? I hadn’t anything planned for lunch as I was to be at the shop and Timothy’s out for the day—Mrs Lockhart always gives him a pasty or a sandwich—so I thought we’d just have an omelette. ”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You must eat to keep up your strength, my dear. An omelette will be just the thing.”
Eleanor abandoned useless protest. Offering to help, she was sent out into the back garden, dripping now, to pick some mint for the peas and parsley for the omelette. Teazle accompanied her hopefully but failed to find a single rabbit hole.
Since Jocelyn cooked as competently as she did everything else, the omelette was delicious. They were sitting over coffee and slices of home-made Bakewell tart when the doorbell rang.
“That will be the police, I imagine.” Jocelyn went to open the front door.
Eleanor could hear but not see what followed.
“Mrs Stearns?” enquired a cocky young voice with a touch of West Country in it. “David Skan, North Cornwall Times. I understand you were—”
“A reporter! You people are shameless! How dare you come bothering—”
“Joce, let me speak to him.” Eleanor came up beside her friend.
Obviously Jocelyn had no idea how to handle the press, whereas an important part of Eleanor’s job had involved trying to persuade reporters that the efforts of LonStar were worthy of as many column inches as she could squeeze out of them.
She could not ignore the opportunity to do just that, cold-blooded as it might appear to anyone who had never held a child dying of starvation. The boy was dead. Perhaps some good could come from his untimely death.
“Mr Skan, I’m Mrs Eleanor Trewynn. I live above the LonStar shop where this terrible event occurred.
I can’t tell you any more about it than the police have, or will, but I can tell you this: Horrified as we are by what has happened, we shall not be deterred from our vital mission for a moment longer than absolutely necessary.
The plight of the hungry children of the world demands that we put aside our own feelings to continue our work for the London Save the Starving Council. ” Enough? Too much?
He gave her a considering look, followed by a nod.
She could read his thoughts: Yes, he’d buy it.
This was a story he could run with. He was young, working for a minor local rag, and ambitious.
LonStar was an international charity. Add murder to the mix and it just might be his ticket to the national press.
She spelt her name for him and saw him wondering whether he dared ask her age—he didn’t quite. “Elderly,” he’d write, or OAP, though her state Old Age Pension was minimal because she had lived so much abroad. She didn’t mind, as long as he got the details about LonStar right.
“Trewynn. That’s Cornish, right?”
“Yes, my late husband and I were both born in the Duchy, though we met in India, before the war. We both worked for Lon-Star then and continued to do so. Peter was . . . was killed in Indonesia, a couple of years ago.” The precise date and time were engraved on her heart, but David Skan didn’t need to know that.
“I came home and started the LonStar shop here in Port Mabyn.”
“So you run the shop, as well as living above it?”
“Mrs Stearns runs it,” Eleanor said firmly.
Jocelyn had retreated to the kitchen, whence came sounds of vigorous washing up.
“I’m merely an assistant. Local people have been very generous with donations and with their time, and many visitors to the area support us with their purchases.
We’ve been able to send worthwhile contributions to LonStar headquarters in London, but we can always do with more help. ”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, Mrs Trewynn, I’ll make sure you get your plug, if I have to set the type myself.”
“Thank you, Mr Skan.”
“And when things are back to normal—” He turned to look downhill and gestured in the direction of the shop.
“—maybe I’ll get my editor to let me write a feature about your adventures.
Ah, here come the cops. Thank you for your time, and please tell Mrs Stearns we’re really not all ghouls and bullies.
Just wait till the lads from London descend on you. ”
He went off jauntily down the hill, his thick, Scandinavian-blond hair sticking up like a shock of wheat. Eleanor saw him accost the approaching detectives. Inspector Scumble brushed him off and forged ahead. Megan stopped, presumably on her boss’s orders.
Leaving the door open, Eleanor went into the house to warn Jocelyn that the police were about to turn up again.