Chapter Seventeen #2
“I must have a word with her. I’ve got a carload of donations outside.”
Eleanor went back to the stockroom, nodding hello to the strangers, aware as she passed that they put their heads together and looked after her. She shut the door behind her.
No one was visible.
“Joce?”
Jocelyn stuck her head through between the clothes hanging on a rack. “Eleanor, you’re back early. No luck?”
“On the contrary, the Incorruptible is bursting at the seams. I’ll tell you later. I must see if Nick can help me unload before Bob Leacock gives me a parking ticket.”
“I’ll give you a hand if he can’t, but there’s a tremendous lot to do here after not being allowed in for two days. Not to mention the mess the police left! I’ve cleared some space for you by the back wall.”
Where she had found the body, it seemed like eons ago.
“I’ll shout if I need you.”
Eleanor went out by way of the passage and the back door to avoid the book-browsers in the shop, in case they had summoned up the audacity to approach her in hope of lurid details.
She found Nick in his studio. He was painting a pair of choughs pecking for insects among the wiry sheep’s fescue on the brink of a cliff, with a view of the sea and a towering headland beyond, in the background.
The birds were unmistakable, with their red legs and bills.
He was just adding touches to make their glossy black feathers shine.
Black feathers. Black birds.
“Nick, what other black birds are there? Crows, rooks—”
“Black birds? Why on earth?”
“There was a monogram on the briefcase with the jewelry, and I can’t remember what the three letters were but somehow I associate them with black birds.”
He laughed. “That probably means they actually spell something connected with blue birds. You know how it is. A word is on the tip of your tongue and you’re quite sure it begins with P and then it turns out to be T.
T I T, bluetit? N U T, nuthatch? I can’t see how you can turn kingfisher into three letters, though, and I can’t think of any other blue birds. Not English ones, at any rate.”
“Not blue, black,” Eleanor insisted. “I just can’t think of anything in three letters.”
“Plain common-or-garden blackbird. Coot. Cormorant. Black swan. Raven. Oystercatcher.”
“Not black and white, black all over. Raven . . . No, jackdaw!” she said triumphantly.
“Seven letters.”
“Often known as a daw. D A W. That’s it. I can picture them now, all wound together. I must tell Mr Scumble. Dearest, kindest Nick, could you come and help me unload, and then I’ll ring the police.”
“Give me five minutes to finish off this bird.” He dabbed with a delicate brush. “What have you got in the car this time? Any mysterious objects?”
“I sincerely hope not! I don’t actually know what’s there as someone else loaded up.”
“Much more fun that way,” Nick said absently, reaching for a rag.
“As long as they’re not going to present us with another dolphin table!”
“Hmm?” He wasn’t listening.
Eleanor left him in peace. She considered ringing DI Scumble while she waited for him, but she might be stuck on the phone for ages while he was looked for, or finished whatever he was doing, or upbraided her.
Instead, she went upstairs and let Teazle into the flat (which she had remembered to lock, and the keys were in her pocket where they belonged), filled the kettle ready for a cuppa later, and went back down to start unloading.
She took a bag in. Returning through the passage, she met Nick, invisible behind the pile of boxes in his arms, but instantly recognisable by the paint-stained jeans.
Standing aside to let him pass, she said, “It’s all so well packed, I still don’t know what we have.”
“Makes life interesting. Any briefcases?”
“If we find one, I’ll return it unopened!”
“Good idea.”
When they had finished, Eleanor said, “If you don’t have to hurry back to your choughs, come up and have a cup of tea. Joce can’t leave the shop.”
“The choughs can wait, and I left a note next door saying I could be found here. Just in case there should be a sudden swarm of people wanting my pictures. I’ll take the Incorruptible down while you boil a kettle, shall I? Then I’ll come back and hold your hand while you ring the Scumble.”
“Oh bother! I’d managed to forget that temporarily. Nick,” she said in a sudden panic, “what were the initials?”
“D A W. Jackdaw. I’d definitely better come and hold your hand.”
He returned just as the kettle boiled, and made the tea while Eleanor dialled the Launceston police. To her dismay, she was told that DI Scumble was already on his way to Port Mabyn.
“What on earth does he want now?” Nick asked crossly.
“They didn’t say. They’re going to tell him on the car radio that I want to speak to him. Botheration! I’d much rather deal with him at telephone’s length.”
“I won’t desert you.” He glanced at the window, where the sunny day was dissolving in a sea mist. “No one’s going to stroll about in this looking for the perfect painting for their sitting room wall.
You know, I’d like to paint Port Mabyn on a misty day, but all the tourists want is sun, even if it rained every day of their holidays. ”
Eleanor thought of the inspector driving from Launceston. Sometimes mist at sea-level left the moors in sunlight. Sometimes it enveloped the higher land in fog that rivalled the pre–Clean Air Act London pea-soupers.
She wouldn’t wish a Bodmin Moor fog on anyone, but wouldn’t it be nice if Scumble was sufficiently deterred to turn round and go back to Launceston!