Chapter Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
Mr Wendell, who had hitherto regarded Eleanor with the lack of attention to be expected of a man sent to run his wife’s charitable errands, greeted her with slightly more interest today.
She couldn’t be sure whether this was because of her connection with the murder or her friendship with the Bellowes, but she suspected the latter.
Assuming he did business with the CRO, he was indeed a “fancy kind of banker.” Perhaps he thought she had some sort of influence in the awarding of contracts for overseas development aid. If so, he was far out in his reckoning.
At lunch, as delicious as the kitchen aromas promised, Eleanor deflected Mrs Wendell’s questions about the murder by announcing that the detective inspector in charge had forbidden discussion of the case.
However, Scumble couldn’t protect her from her hostess’s attempts to pinpoint her place in the social hierarchy.
Some enterprising reporter covering the murder had delved into Eleanor’s background.
Peter, before his death, had been Director of Field Managers, an imposing title which meant he spent most of his time flying around the world making sure LonStar projects ran smoothly and troubleshooting when they didn’t.
Eleanor had rejoiced in the still more impressive title of Ambassador at Large.
In this guise, she had hobnobbed not only with village elders but with heads of government.
Unfortunately—from Mrs Wendell’s point of view—they were foreign heads of government, and mostly not even European.
Still, she had to adjust her view of Eleanor, who was no longer, in spite of her tracksuit, just the little woman who ran the charity shop.
Not that Mrs Wendell was so lacking in social savvy as to say this outright, but Eleanor was amused by her all too obvious efforts to come to grips with the problem.
“But I don’t run the shop,” she insisted.
“Mrs Stearns, our local vicar’s wife, is in charge.
Do you know her? No? Such a delightful and thoroughly practical person.
When the police have sorted everything out, I’ll give you a ring and you must come and meet her.
As you’re so interested in LonStar, I’m sure she’ll manage to fit you into her volunteer schedule. ”
Alarmed, Mrs Wendell started to babble about children and unreliable au pairs and spending so little time in Cornwall.
She welcomed with relief Mrs Destry’s entrance with elegant glass bowls filled with a heavenly lemon soufflé.
Georgina Bellowe deftly turned the conversation into less disruptive channels.
The Bellowes’ bags were already in the hall as they had to depart immediately after coffee to catch the helicopter to St Mary’s.
The Wendells were in even more of a rush to pick up their offspring off the London train.
Mr Wendell carried two of the Bellowes’ suitcases out and set them on the gravel behind their car.
Teazle, who had found her way outside and was guarding the Incorruptible, gambolled over to Eleanor with a happy bark.
The Bellowes offered polite, though hardly enthusiastic thanks for hospitality received, to which the Wendells responded with equally unenthusiastic murmurs of “Must stop over again next time you’re down this way.” Then the Wendells dashed off in the Range Rover.
Sir Edward had brought out a third suitcase and an official-looking briefcase. Unlocking the boot and heaving in the first two, he said, “Wendell’s good at his business, but I think we won’t come again, Gee.”
“It was a mistake,” his wife agreed. “That was very wicked of you, Eleanor. Somehow I simply can’t see the woman helping behind a counter, even in a good cause.”
“No, and somehow I can’t see Jocelyn appreciating the introduction either. Sir Edward, what did you mean by ‘a lucky chance’?”
“I’m going to ask a favour of you,” he said, “as I expect you’ve guessed.
There’s some nasty intertribal troubles that seem to be brewing in Nigeria.
A coup d’état, possibly, or secession, either leading to civil war.
I’ve got a couple of chaps, one a Hausa, one Ibo, coming to our house in the Scillies to see if we can’t sort things out amicably.
I think you may know one or both.” He told her their names.
“I’ve met both of them,” Eleanor said. “I wouldn’t say I know either well.”
“However, you’re an expert at making people believe in other people’s good intentions. We don’t want to make a big song and dance of it by bringing in a horde of diplomats—”
“But one little old lady shouldn’t raise any eyebrows?”
“Exactly!”
“Edward, that’s hardly gallant!”
“Gallant be blowed. What I need is competence, charm, and discretion. Not that you don’t have all those, my dear, but your competence is in making people comfortable. Mrs Trewynn’s is in making them see eye to eye.” He turned back to Eleanor. “Will you come?”
“If you really think I can help . . . The only thing is, I’m rather tied up by the police at the moment. I seem to be caught in the middle of this investigation, and I doubt Detective Inspector Scumble will be happy if I trot off—”
“Scumble?” Sir Edward took out a notebook and wrote down the name. “Cornish police, or Scotland Yard?”
“He’s CaRaDoC.”
“Caradoc?”
“That’s what the Constabulary of the Royal Duchy of Cornwall call themselves.” Eleanor was pleased with her command of the vernacular. “My niece is a junior detective. Scotland Yard is involved, too, but I think only peripherally.”
“Never mind, I’ll sort it all out. Could you come on Tuesday? The CRO will pay your fare, of course, and you’ll stay with us. Our house is on St Mary’s, so it’s just the helicopter ride from Penzance.”
“And your dog is welcome, too,” Georgina put in. “You’ll be comfortable, I promise. After all, my own husband admits making people comfortable is my forte! Come along, Edward, or we’ll miss the helicopter.”
Sir Edward picked up the last of their luggage, his briefcase, and placed it carefully in the boot.
The sun caught the letters stamped in gold on the side, OHMS, and the monogram by the handle: E for Edward and B for Bellowe thoroughly mixed up with what could have been an R for his middle name, whatever it was.
It reminded her of the monogram on the jewelry case.
Had she mentioned it to DI Scumble? No, she distinctly recalled describing the case to him and having a feeling she was leaving something out.
With his customary impatience, he had interrupted her train of thought and rushed on to something else.
If only she could remember what the letters of the monogram had been.
Like Sir Edward’s, they’d been hard to disentangle. She hadn’t been sure—
“So we’ll see you on Tuesday?” Sir Edward’s voice pierced her abstraction.
“What . . . ? Oh, yes, if you make it all right with the police. And send me directions.”
“Here’s our phone number.” He tore a sheet from his notebook. “Reverse the charges, of course. Let us know which flight you’re taking and one of us will meet you at the heliport. Yes, Gee, I’m coming.”
Eleanor waved as the Bellowes disappeared down the drive, then she turned to the Incorruptible. Bill Destry, man-of-all-work, was leaning against the car.
“You didn’t lock up, Mrs Trewynn, so I’ve stuffed in as much as’ll go in. The boss’ll bring the rest to Port Mabyn later, or tomorrow, seeing as I don’t drive nowt bigger’n my mowing machine.”
“It looks like fun.”
He grinned, his leathery face crinkling. “That it is, and no worries about anyone getting in my road.”
“True! Thanks, Bill. Please say thanks and goodbye to Mrs Destry for me. I need to be getting home.” Surely by the time she found Scumble to tell him about the monogram she would remember the letters! “Hop in, Teazle.”
“Dyw genes, Mrs Trewynn.”
“Goodbye.” She knew the Cornish phrase, but having been brought up speaking the King’s—now Queen’s—English, she felt it would be presumptuous to use it.
Ridiculous, really, considering the number of languages in which she had in her time said goodbye and thank you without being able to speak another word.
Eleanor didn’t want to dwell on the prospect of civil war in Nigeria, so as she drove homeward, she sang “Green Grow the Rushes-oh” from beginning to end, and “Ten Green Bottles,” and all the other time-passing songs from her school days. Teazle didn’t care if she was out of tune.
The Incorruptible was heavily loaded and struggled up the steeper hills.
Leaning forward to urge it on, Eleanor sympathised.
Like her, the poor thing was not as young as it had been.
At last they reached Port Mabyn. She drove up to the shop and parked as usual with two wheels on the pavement.
It was just after three o’clock, so the helpful children wouldn’t be out of school for a while.
Nick didn’t pop out to lend a hand. He must be back in his workroom, painting.
The flood of sensation-seekers pouring into his shop had slackened after the first couple of days, though the weekend would doubtless bring a new lot.
Eleanor let Teazle into the passage and told her to go upstairs. Then she popped into the shop. A couple of visitors were browsing the bookshelves, watched with an anxious eye by Mrs Drover, an elderly incomer whose retired husband spent all his time on the golf links.
“Oh, Mrs Trewynn, you’re back already. Mrs Stearns is in the stockroom, pricing. Isn’t she brave?” Mrs Drover added in a whisper.
“How is it going today?”
“I haven’t been here very long. Mrs Stearns said it was very busy this morning, with lots of people asking about . . . you know.” Again she finished in a whisper. “But I don’t know anything so it’s no good them asking me.”
“I’m very grateful to you for coming in, Mrs Drover.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let Mrs Stearns down.” Wouldn’t dare, her voice and expression suggested. No doubt she was more afraid of Jocelyn than of mere ghosts.