Chapter Seven
SEVEN
In a whirlwind of activity, the vicar’s wife had washed, dried, and put away every sign of their lunch. “I hope they’ve already eaten,” she said. “Not that I mind feeding your niece, of course, but the inspector looks as if he’d eat us out of house and home.”
“I’m sure they won’t expect you to give them lunch. That reporter was a nice young man, by the way.”
Joce looked conscience-stricken. “I was very rude to him, wasn’t I? And he was only doing his job. I’ll apologise if he comes my way again, but I can’t help hoping he won’t.”
“Not him, perhaps, but he warned me—we’ll probably have London reporters to deal with sooner or later.”
Before Joce could express her horror with more than a look, Scumble knocked on the door and called out, “Hello, ladies. Expecting burglars, are you?”
Eleanor went out to the hall. “I saw you coming,” she explained as Megan caught up with him, slightly out of breath, “and left the door open for you.”
“Glad to hear you had a reason.”
Coming up behind Eleanor, Jocelyn enquired, “Have you lunched, Inspector?” Her tone was uninviting.
“Yes, thank you, madam. Your bakery does a good pasty, I must say.”
“Don’t they?” said Eleanor. “So convenient when I don’t feel like cooking and don’t want to go out to eat.”
“I suppose you have more questions for us. You’d better come in here.” Jocelyn led the way into the sitting room.
Scumble handed her a list. “This is everything my chaps have found in the stockroom, barring going through a few pockets they haven’t got to yet.
I’d like you to check it and see if anything’s missing.
” He turned to Eleanor. “And this is the contents of your flat, Mrs Trewynn. I did it myself, and I don’t think you’ll find anything out of place when you get back. ”
“Thank you, Inspector.” Eleanor recognised the kindly intent of not letting a horde of policemen paw through her undies drawer, though a horde of English policemen was infinitely preferable to some of the Third World customs officers who had emptied out her suitcases for the world to view.
She took the list. “Good heavens, I never dreamt I owned so many things!”
He hadn’t listed every individual pair of socks or knickers, presumably assuming no thief would want to pinch them.
But he’d counted every book in her shelves, every cup and saucer, two salt-and-pepper sets (why did she have two?
who could possibly need more than one?), pots and pans, jars of home-made jam (from the village fête; settling down after her peripatetic life, she had intended to cultivate the domestic virtues, but had never found the time), mop and carpet-sweeper.
Surely she had nothing worth stealing! Even her few personal ornaments were cheap bangles and bead necklaces given by grateful clients, pretty but not valuable, except that each reminded her of the giver.
All in all, anyone who considered her belongings worth stealing must be in desperate straits and she didn’t begrudge them a thing.
“I don’t think anything’s missing,” she said doubtfully, handing back the list.
He took it without a word, but his look spoke volumes. Victims of burglary were supposed to assess their possible losses with proper concern.
“You don’t own a television?” he asked after a moment.
“No, I prefer the wireless. And books. I never had time for much reading till I retired.”
“Hmm.”
Jocelyn was doing a far more thorough job of studying her list. She was ticking off items, apparently against a list in her head.
When at last she handed the papers back to Scumble, she said, “Not only is nothing missing, a good deal of this stuff doesn’t ring a bell.
I assume it’s the donations Eleanor collected yesterday. ”
Scumble looked at Eleanor.
“I had a good haul,” she said. “Woolly animals and detective stories and—”
“Thank you, madam.” He made a move as if to hand her the stockroom list, then changed his mind, clearly deciding there was no point, given the state of her memory.
“I’m afraid we’ll probably have to come back to you with further questions, but that will be all for the present. I appreciate your cooperation.”
DI Scumble was frowning as he and Megan started back down the hill.
Megan felt compelled to defend Aunt Nell. “It’s not that my aunt’s memory is failing, sir. It’s just that she’s not very interested in possessions.”
“So I gathered,” he said dryly. “It’s a pity the people we’re after aren’t equally uninterested.”
“You’re pretty sure this murder was a quarrel between burglars, sir?”
“I was speaking generally. Most villains are greedy. But yes, I reckon a couple of delinquents walked down that path behind the shops, trying doors. They found that one unlocked and walked in. Like as not, they didn’t even realise it was a charity shop.”
“What do you think they quarrelled about?”
“Who knows? The victim had been smoking cannabis, so it’s good bet the murderer had been too.”
“But, sir—”
Scumble held up his hand. “Before you tell me addicts are rarely violent, let me tell you that I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you, and this generation did not discover marijuana.
What it does is reduce the ability to foresee consequences.
A couple of students smoking in their flat are not likely to go out and bash an old lady on the head, I’ll give you that.
But a pair of sneak-thieves on the prowl, that’s another matter altogether.
Don’t tell me your years with the Met have left you with any rubbishy romantic fantasies about honour among thieves. ”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Then let’s get moving. We’ve got a couple of dozen volunteers to be talked into giving their fingerprints for elimination.
You get on with that.” He shuffled through a fistful of papers.
“Here’s the list Mrs Stearns gave me. And don’t forget to talk to the kids who helped last night, when they get out of school.
No need for the younger ones’ prints. They’re easily distinguished. ”
Another list! So far, Megan thought, this murder investigation seemed to consist largely of lists.
“I take it you’ve no great desire to attend the autopsy with me.”
She gulped. “If you think I ought to, sir . . .”
“You ought, but there’s far too much else that needs doing. You can skip it this time.”
Megan breathed again.
That afternoon, an amazing number of people developed a sudden interest in helping in the LonStar shop.
Jocelyn took the telephone off the hook, but the vicarage doorbell rang constantly with a stream of would-be volunteers.
Though she wrote down all their names, she avoided inviting anyone in by saying in hushed tones, “It’s been a terrible shock to poor Mrs Trewynn, you know. ”
“But I’m quite all right,” Eleanor protested. “They’ll think I’m utterly prostrated. And a real drip.”
“It’s only a slight exaggeration. You did have a terrible shock. You don’t want them coming in and pestering us for details, do you?”
“No, of course not. Mr Scumble specifically told us not to talk to anyone.”
“There you are, then.” And Jocelyn went off to explain yet again that poor Eleanor had had a terrible shock.
“Poor Eleanor” gritted her teeth.
In between callers they sat in the kitchen, so as not to be visible from the street through the sitting-room window, and wondered when they’d be able to reopen the shop. Ever efficient, Jocelyn had long since telephoned that day’s volunteers to tell them their services would not be required.
“But should I ring tomorrow’s people? Or just ring Mrs Davies and let her deal with it, as it’s her day? She’s bound to make some remark about it all being my fault.”
Mrs Davies was a thorn in the flesh of Jocelyn, who was reluctant to admit that the Methodist minister’s wife was almost as efficient and undoubtedly equally honest. Eleanor often had to take evasive action so as not to find herself caught between the pair.
“She can’t. Yesterday was her day.”
“That’s right!” Jocelyn brightened and started to stand up.
“No, Joce, you are not to! If you dare to so much as hint at blame, I’ll .
. . I’ll give you the sack!” Though it was an empty threat, at least it showed how strongly she felt.
“If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. If I wasn’t so wretchedly vague about keys.
If I had just remembered to lock the doors—”
“You could remember if you really tried,” Jocelyn said severely, but she sat down again instead of going to offend Mrs Davies.
“Still, I daresay they’d have broken in if the doors had been locked, and then we’d have had the damage to repair.
I must say, it still seems to me inexplicable that they should have taken the trouble to burgle a charity shop full of second-hand odds and ends. ”
“But if they came in by the back door, they wouldn’t necessarily have known what—Oh, I’ve just remembered.
I picked up a donation yesterday that may be quite valuable.
I’m not sure. It’s some jewelry, paste of course, but it looks to me as if it’s quite good.
Not that I know anything about the subject. I’ve no idea what it might be worth.”
“Eleanor, really! How could you have forgotten?”
“You must admit there’s been plenty going on to occupy my mind! Finding that poor boy, and then the police asking questions I couldn’t answer, and the reporter—”
“All right, never mind, at least you’ve remembered it now. Who gave it?”
“I don’t know. No one mentioned it. They must have slipped it in with some other donation.”
“How very odd. I do wish people would realise that we have to know the provenance of anything of value. You did put it in the safe, I hope?”
“Of course. I’m surprised Mr Scumble didn’t ask me about the safe. Do you suppose he didn’t find it? Hiding a safe behind a picture isn’t exactly a novel idea, is it?”