Chapter Thirteen
THIRTEEN
When the phone call came, Megan was attempting to turn Scumble’s scribbled notes into a moderately coherent typed report.
It was not an occupation she would have chosen, given her druthers.
She had pointed out to the inspector that she was not a typist. However, the typists had both gone home for the night, and Scumble himself had to report in person to the superintendent.
Since the super was already half an hour late for a dinner party, on the whole Megan preferred her own task, however demeaning. But she was not a typist. She was searching in her desk drawer for the little bottle of Tippex white-out when the phone rang.
“Pencarrow here.”
“It’s CID Scotland Yard for the inspector.”
“He’s with the super. Scotland Yard! You’d better put it through to them, Nancy.”
“Not bloody likely—pardon my French. I’m not going to be responsible for his majesty missing the soup as well as the hors d’oeuvres. Don’t be wet, Megan, you can handle it. You worked for the Met, didn’t you?”
“T Division, not the Yard.”
“Close enough. Half a mo. Sir? DI Scumble is unavailable. I’m putting you through to DS Pencarrow, who’s assisting Mr Scumble with the case.”
“Pencarrow here,” Megan said quickly, to prevent the caller assuming she was a man.
“Well, well, well, our little Meggie. Detective Sergeant, no less. Doing well for yourself down in the western wilds, are you?”
Only one person on the force had ever called her Meggie, first patronising, then teasing, then with affection—and then not at all. On the phone, it was hard to tell what his present tone meant. If anything.
Megan strove for casualness. “Quite nicely, thank you, Ken. And you’ve transferred to the Yard? Congratulations. You’ve got some information for us?”
“You seem to have found something we’ve been looking for. What’s all this about a dragon’s hoard of jewelry discovered in a charity shop?”
“We’ve got one. You want one?”
“Your description matches the proceeds of a robbery with violence, City of London jeweller’s, last Friday evening.”
“Friday!” Megan was concerned. Admittedly their list had been compiled only today, but someone here in Launceston ought to have noticed the similarity with the Yard’s list of stolen property.
“Not to worry.” He’d always had an irritating ability to guess what was on her mind. “Your lot hasn’t dropped the ball. The jeweller—”
“Name?”
“Donaldson. Wilfred Donaldson. He was roughed up quite badly and couldn’t remember what was taken till yesterday. Division did the rounds of London fences before handing the whole mess over to us. Our list was just about to go out when yours came in. What’s your excuse?”
“Excuse?”
“Word is that a body was found in the same shop on Wednesday morning. This is Thursday night.”
Megan had no intention of trying to explain Aunt Nell. If Aunt Nell was explicable, which she was by no means certain was the case. “We didn’t find the loot till this morning,” she said vaguely, “and then we weren’t sure the gems were real. By the time we had a jeweller value them—”
“Yes, well, never mind. They’ll have to be identified by Donaldson. We’ll send someone to pick them up. There won’t be any trouble over that at your end, will there?”
“Shouldn’t think so. My guv’nor’ll probably be glad to see them go. We haven’t got your facilities for storing valuables. Did Donaldson manage to give you a description of his assailant? We’re not absolutely sure the jewels are connected to the murder, but we have to work on that assumption.”
“He said there were two of them. Masked, of course, the usual nylon stockings, so he couldn’t identify them, but for what it’s worth, they were both on the tall side and hefty, and well-dressed, gloves and all.
Bully-boys in business suits. Apart from the stockings, that is.
Well-spoken, but brutal. The doc suspects knuckledusters were used. ”
“Damn. What we’ve got looks more like a sneak-thief. And not a very successful one, at that.”
“Pity. Looks as if he must have pinched the goods from our pair and run for it—and got caught. He must have hidden the stuff well for them to have left without it.”
“Well, not exactly.” Megan had no intention of telling him about Aunt Nell.
“No? You’d better send me a report.”
“That’s up to the super, Ken, you know that.”
“Special favour?” he wheedled.
“It’s up to the super. I’m sure he’ll pass on all necessary info, and I’ll tell the DI you’d like a full report. Who’s in charge at your end?”
She took down the name of the detective inspector in charge of the robbery investigation.
That meant Ken was still a sergeant. She couldn’t help feeling a mean satisfaction.
Still, he was only a couple of years older than her.
Being a man, he’d probably make chief inspector while she was still a sergeant.
She’d probably retire as a sergeant in twenty years.
“It seems we’re on the same case again, Meggie—oops, sorry, Megan, just like the old days. You’d better have our direct number.” He gave it to her, adding, “Keep in touch, won’t you.”
Professionally, of course. “We’ll expect someone to pick up the jewels tomorrow, right? You’d better let us know his name in advance, once someone’s been assigned.”
“Will do. Or I might just come myself,” he said, and rang off.
Bugger him, Megan thought. If he came, she’d make sure to be elsewhere.
She glanced at the wall clock. Not too late to ring the vicarage and give Aunt Nell the news about the jewelry. With luck Scumble would be stuck with the super for a while yet.
The Reverend Stearns answered the phone. “Good evening,” he said courteously. “This is the vicar, or Mr Stearns, if you prefer. I really don’t mind either way. Can I help you?”
“Good evening . . . er . . . Vicar. This is Megan Pencarrow. May I speak to my aunt, please.”
“Aunt?” He sounded anxious and uncertain, as if he’d never heard the word before. “Ah, you must be one of Jocelyn’s nieces.”
Megan was sorry to spoil his pleasure in reaching this reasonable conclusion. “No, actually, Vicar. Mrs Trewynn’s. She’s staying with you.”
“Oh, yes, but . . . I don’t think . . . You’d better talk to Jocelyn. Oh dear, I think she’s left for the Mothers’ Union meeting . . . No, here she is.” His voice continued more faintly as he turned away from the phone. “A Miss Pencarrow, Joce. Or Mrs? Mrs Trewynn’s niece . . . ?”
“It’s Megan, dear, the detective.”
“Oh yes,” said the vicar with heartfelt relief. “She asked for her aunt.” Into the phone, he said, “God bless, my dear.”
“Thank you, Vicar.”
“Megan!” Mrs Stearns greeted her. “Didn’t that man tell you? He let her go back to her flat.”
“No, he didn’t happen to mention it.” Megan was annoyed, though not surprised. “I’m in Launceston. I’ll try to ring to remind her to lock her door, but in case I don’t have time—the inspector will be back any moment—or she’s out walking the dog or something, would you mind—”
“Of course not. That’s a good idea. In fact, I’ll make sure Nicholas checks that she actually does lock up, downstairs as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs Stearns.” She hesitated. “She told you about . . . what was in her safe, didn’t she?”
“Naturally,” the vicar’s wife said stiffly. “I had to know since it was connected with the shop.”
“I’m not saying she shouldn’t have. I just wanted to be sure. . . . The thing is, we’ve now discovered that the stuff was stolen from a shop in London. I’m afraid LonStar won’t be able to keep it.”
“That’s no surprise. I never really thought we would. Eleanor was too sanguine. The unfortunate youth stole it, I suppose, and quarrelled with his confederates?”
“He wasn’t actually one of the robbers, it seems. The description is quite different. But I mustn’t say more, Mrs Stearns.” She didn’t actually know much more. “I just didn’t want Aunt Nell to go on hoping it’s a generous donation, so if you could break it to her . . . ?”
“I will, though not till the morning, I’m afraid. I’m just leaving for a meeting. But I’ll have Timothy ring Nicholas about locking up.”
“Thanks so much. I’m sure she’ll be all right. It’s just that—Oh, the inspector’s coming. I must ring off. But Mrs Stearns, suppose they believe the loot is still on the premises? We have a couple of men out there but all the same, I wish her guard dog were a little larger!”
In spite of the Stearnses’ kindness, Eleanor was happy to be back in her own flat.
Stretching her culinary skills to the limit, she grilled a lamb chop for supper and ate it at her desk so that she could look out at the lighthouse blinking—two flashes, pause, three flashes, longer pause—against the last purple glow of sunset over the headland.
Then she fed Teazle and took her downstairs for her final run.
The night was mild and clear. Overhead a million stars shone.
The air smelt sweetly of gorse, with the musky scent of blackthorn blossom and a tang of seaweed.
In the quiet, Eleanor could hear the slap of waves against the quay.
Nick was in, his upstairs window a bright rectangle.
He usually had music playing in the evenings, but perhaps he was turning over a record, she thought.
She strolled up the path, past the back of the row of shops and cottages, while Teazle scuffled around in the scrub.
The dog gave one short, sharp bark. Perhaps she had found the lurking policeman, but if so, she quickly decided he was a friend.
A few windows were lit, some with the eerie blue glow of televisions.
Voices reached her, and snatches of music, but no one else was about.
Coming this way, the burglars had faced little risk of being seen or heard.