Chapter Twenty-Three #2
It took them a good hour to get to Launceston as the Incorruptible objected to doing over thirty-five miles an hour except downhill.
When they reached the police station, Nick still hadn’t come up with a convincing scenario to fill in the gaps.
Eleanor remembered the DI’s remark about “birds of a feather” and his request for Nick to draw a portrait of Trevor.
It seemed to her that the only viable explanation involved the boy as a thief and probably a murderer. She didn’t want to believe it.
“We won’t talk about the murder on the way home,” she said as Nick parked in the square. “If she’s spent the day being bullied about it by Mr Scumble, the poor child won’t want to—”
“Child! How old is this waif we’re rescuing?”
“Megan said a ‘young girl,’ which translates to ‘child’ from the heights of my great age.”
“Teenager, I should think. I hope she’s not one of these impossible modern adolescents whose motto is ‘never trust anyone over thirty,’ ” he said from the heights of his great age. “We’ll see. Do you think I should wait in the car? The Scumble may not be pleased to see me.”
“What, and miss the chance to wallow in Megan’s gratitude?”
“That’s a point. Here I come.”
“Bring the cardigan from the backseat, would you, Nick?”
The desk sergeant directed them to a small room, painted institutional cream and dark green, furnished with a battered table and a few hard chairs. Here they found a spruce WPC and a crumpled, drooping, disconsolate slip of a girl.
The policewoman stood up, looking relieved. “Mrs Trewynn?”
“Yes, and this is Mr Gresham. We’ve come to fetch Cam.”
Eleanor smiled at the girl, who managed a faint smile in return and started to rise.
“If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, ma’am, DS Pencarrow should be on her way. She’d like a word before you go.”
Cam subsided wearily. Nick went and sat down beside her. He eyed with disgust the two thick white china mugs half filled with scummy tea.
“Revolting!” he said.
“Isn’t it? They keep plying me with tea and sandwiches. I’m not hungry.”
“If the sandwiches are anything like the tea, I’m not surprised. But I bet you would be, faced with decent food. I know I am. We’ll stop for something on the way home.”
“Who are you?” she blurted out.
“Nick. Mrs Trewynn’s next-door neighbour. It’s no fun driving over the moors at night alone, especially in an old rattler like her car, so I came with her. I’m an artist.”
“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever met an artist before. Not a real one.”
“I’m as real as they get. Ah, here’s Miss Pencarrow.”
The WPC exchanged a word with Megan as she entered, then took herself off. Camilla jumped up eagerly. “Megan, can’t I stay with you? Please?”
Megan looked almost as worn as her pet witness.
“Sorry, Cam. I’d love to have you, but it’s just not on.
We’re running about back there like chickens with our heads cut off, though with more purpose, I hope.
I don’t know what time I’ll get away, and I’ll be working tomorrow.
Aunt Nell will take good care of you, I promise. ”
“Oh, all right. But I’ll see you again, won’t I?”
“Yes, of course. Monday, if not sooner.”
“Fab!”
“Aunt Nell, Cam’s been an enormous help to us.
You absolutely mustn’t ask her anything about that, though.
Nor you, Nick—Mr Gresham. I wish I could tell you more, but DI Scumble won’t hear of it.
Cam, for heaven’s sake remember, don’t you dare breathe a word about what Mr Scumble told you not to talk about. ”
“I won’t, honestly.”
“Good. Otherwise, you won’t see me on Monday because he’ll have cut off my head or sent me to Siberia or something. You know how reluctant he is to let you out of our clutches.”
Camilla giggled, but she took a firm grip on Eleanor’s sleeve. “I won’t forget, Megan. And I won’t be any trouble, Mrs Trewynn, honestly,” she added anxiously.
“I’m sure you won’t, my dear. Nick has a warm cardy for you, if he hasn’t put it down somewhere.
” She retrieved it from over the back of a chair.
“Here you go. You’ll probably think it’s terribly old-ladyish, but it’s quite chilly out.
Oh dear, I’m afraid it’s rather dog-hairy.
” She brushed at the blue cable-knit, but in the miraculous manner of dog-hair, it had woven itself into the wool.
“I don’t mind. I love dogs. Did you bring yours with you? What kind of dog is it?”
“She’s a Westie, a West Highland terrier. Teazle. Yes, she came with us, and it rather looks as if she slept on this in the backseat.”
“That’s all right. She can sleep on it again on the way home, on my lap. If she likes me.”
Nick turned away from his conversation with Megan to assure Camilla, “Teazle’s a friendly little thing. There’s nothing she likes better than a lap to sit on.” In an unexpected fit of gallantry, he held the cardigan up to help her to insert her arms.
Eleanor glanced at Megan and read a certain degree of cynicism in the gaze she fixed on Nick.
Could Nick possibly be displaying his plumage, demonstrating to Megan what an attentive mate—boyfriend—he could be?
With a touch of “there are other fish in the sea,” of course.
And if so, was he doing it consciously or unconsciously?
“Duty calls, I must go,” Megan said. She kissed Eleanor’s cheek. “I’ll ring tomorrow, Aunt Nell. ’Bye, Cam. ’Bye, Mr—Nick, and thanks.”
How wonderful it would be, Eleanor thought, if they should take a fancy to each other, once the investigation was out of the way. They were perfectly suited to each other . . .
Or perhaps not. An artist and a policewoman? Eleanor sighed. Perhaps not.
In any case, courtship had changed since Eleanor’s youth and she wasn’t sure she knew how to recognise it nowadays.