Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“I got between him and the door and grabbed his arms and shook him. I think I was shouting at him, I can’t remember.
Then I let go and gave him a shove away from the door.
” Trevor started crying. “He lost his balance and sort of stumbled backwards and then he fell and hit his head on that table thing. I could see he was dead. His neck was crooked and his eyes went blank. I must have been shouting, because I remember I couldn’t understand why no one came. Teazle wasn’t even barking.”
“Eleanor—Mrs Trewynn—was out,” said Jocelyn.
Trevor, tear-stained, stared at her in horror. “You mean I could’ve let Norm go up? She wasn’t there, so he couldn’t have hurt her?”
“She wasn’t there,” Jocelyn confirmed. “The jewels were shut up in the safe. He’d never have got hold of them if he had gone upstairs. It was all for nothing.”
Eleanor was furious with her. The boy had enough to face without that.
But Camilla said stringently, “That’s rubbish. You can’t tell me that when Norm didn’t find the jewels, he wouldn’t have waited till Mrs Trewynn came back. It was awful for you, Trev, but you had to stop him. You didn’t mean to kill him.”
“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t! I came back next night to explain to you, Mrs Trewynn. And I sort of hoped if I saw the shop again, the stockroom, I’d be able to stop thinking about . . . But there was a cop lying in wait and I ran.”
Eleanor reached out and took his hand. “All I can say is thank you, Trevor.”
He clung to her hand. “Will I have to go to prison?”
“I don’t know, my dear, but you can be sure I’ll do my best to prevent it. You’ve saved me twice.”
“Twice?” asked Jocelyn.
“When I arrived here this afternoon, Mr Donaldson jumped to the conclusion I knew all about his . . . er . . . misdeeds. He was going to tie me up and hide me away somewhere while he made his get-away abroad. Trevor arrived just in time to rescue me.”
“And I came in, too,” said Camilla. “I saw Trev going round the back, so I thought I’d better follow Mrs Trewynn.”
“Between the two of you,” Eleanor agreed, “he had no choice but to flee.” And neither of the children, nor Jocelyn, would ever know that she had been pretty confident of extricating herself from Donaldson’s toils. “I wonder if Mr Scumble’s caught up with him.”
All at once, their attention no longer absorbed by Trevor’s narration, they heard the sound of cars outside. They trooped out.
The Incorruptible had been moved to Donaldson’s parking spot.
Down the lane and over the stream came a plainclothes Mini, driven in reverse by DC Wilkes.
It stopped several yards beyond the cottage.
He jumped out and set up a POLICE barricade behind the car.
After the Mini came the maroon Jaguar, also in reverse, driven by Megan.
Last in the procession, right way round, came a panda car, its roof light flashing, driven by Polmenna.
He stopped with its front bumper a foot from the Jaguar’s.
Approaching the Jaguar, Eleanor saw Megan twist to look anxiously over her shoulder at the backseat. “Aunt Nell,” she called, “Nick’s hurt!”
Jocelyn hurried forward. “I was a nurse during the war. What happened?”
“Donaldson shot him. I don’t think it’s terribly serious—” A heartrending moan from the backseat belied her words. “Unless he’s got a cracked a rib or something. But it keeps bleeding. We only had Polmenna’s shirt as a bandage. Luckily he wears cotton. My slip’s nylon, of course.”
“We’ve radioed for an ambulance,” said Scumble, hurrying from the panda. He looked thunderous, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Trevor, go and see if your uncle has bandages and gauze,” Jocelyn ordered as she opened the back door and dived headfirst into the Jaguar. Muffled questions and responses emerged. Megan was kneeling on the driver’s seat now, joining in.
Trevor and Camilla disappeared into the house.
“Did you catch Mr Donaldson?” Eleanor asked Scumble.
“The others did. Pencarrow and Polmenna, and the artist.” He gestured at the panda.
Eleanor saw the jeweller slumped on the backseat. Polmenna sat stolidly in the driver’s seat, shirtless, his unbuttoned jacket showing a glimpse of a string vest.
“Is he hurt too? Donaldson?”
“Not so’s you’d notice, unfortunately. When he started shooting, that fool Polmenna tackled him, but the ground was soft after the rains.
He was handcuffed to a barbed wire fence for a bit, while they saw to the artist, but he managed to stand still enough not to scratch himself.
Don’t need a warrant for him, not after he shot someone in the presence of police officers. ”
“But you do for Trevor?”
He looked surprised, as if she had displayed unexpected deductive powers. “Well, yes, strictly speaking.”
“You told him he was under arrest.”
“Yes, well, I was in a hurry, wasn’t I. We’ve got more than enough to take him in for questioning.”
Eleanor sighed. “Yes, I expect so. But it wasn’t murder, you know. Norman’s death was an accident. Trevor was protecting me. Or thought he was.”
“Been telling you a sob-story, has he?” Scumble said nastily.
“I believe him.” His sceptical look made her add, “What’s more, so does Mrs Stearns,” though she wasn’t absolutely certain of Jocelyn’s opinion. At least it gave him pause. “His uncle will tell you it was Norman who beat him up, not Trevor.”
“Hmph.”
Camilla and Trevor came out with a roll of two-inch bandage, some cottonwool, and a bottle of TCP. By this time Nick was inching his way out of the Jaguar, feet first, with Jocelyn urging him on and Megan telling him to take care.
“This is all we could find,” said Camilla, Trevor lurking nervously behind her.
Examining their finds, Jocelyn snorted and said, “Clean tea-towels?”
Nick stood, bent slightly at the waist, supported by Megan.
The torn shirt wrapped round his chest was soaked with blood on one side.
He was pale and obviously in some pain, but he gave Eleanor a crooked grin and croaked, “ ‘See the conquering hero come.’ ” She thought he looked dreadful, but obviously Jocelyn didn’t consider him to be at death’s door, and Jocelyn was usually right.
Wilkes hurried to help Megan support him into the house.
Jocelyn took charge of the operation. “Bring him in here,” she said, leading the way into a sort of study. “We don’t want to tackle the stairs, and this appears to be the only room in the house with a sofa.”
How she knew, Eleanor couldn’t guess. They had all stayed in the kitchen before, but Jocelyn was omniscient.
The study had a wide window looking out over a patch of rough grass to the row of willows and the stream.
In spite of the pleasant view, it seemed to Eleanor an uninviting cross between an office and a sitting room.
The large desk, four-drawer file cabinet, and bookshelves were functional modern metal.
The seats were a particularly hideous maroon leather, a colour Donaldson seemed fond of, though comfortable enough to judge by the sigh of relief with which Nick subsided on the sofa.
There were no pictures on the walls. The only homely touch was a Dutch tile stove in one corner.
Scumble made straight for the stove and opened the stoking door in the front.
“Safe,” he said, jingling keys in his pocket.
“Ah well, it can wait for a search warrant. Your statement can wait, too, Mr Gresham, as I have two official witnesses. Pencarrow, you stay in here and take statements from Mrs Trewynn and Miss . . . Camilla. Wilkes, you and I will have a word with this young feller-me-lad in the kitchen.” He gestured at Trevor and jerked his thumb towards the door.
Jocelyn straightened abruptly from leaning over her patient. “Oh no, Inspector! Trevor isn’t going to talk to you until he has a solicitor to advise him.”
Scumble glared at her. “All I want just now is a preliminary statement.”
Trevor stammered, “I d-don’t mind—”
“How old are you, Trevor?” Eleanor asked.
“Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.”
“A juvenile!” Scumble was disgusted.
“I don’t care how old he is, he’s not answering questions without a lawyer,” Jocelyn said adamantly.
“I shall telephone Freeth and Bulwer as soon as I’ve seen to Nicholas.
Come to think of it, Timothy must be wondering where on earth I’ve got to.
Eleanor, would you mind ringing him for me?
Just tell him I’ve been a little delayed.
Mr Wilkes, bring a basin of water, if you please. ”
Dear Jocelyn, Eleanor thought as she went to the desk and dialled the Stearns’s number. At times her bossy nature might be irritating, but in times of crisis she came through with flying colours.
“Hello, Vicar, this is Eleanor. Yes, Eleanor Trewynn. I’m just ringing to say Jocelyn’s been delayed . . . No, nothing serious . . . No, of course not another murder . . .” Not quite.
Megan was about to ask Camilla to describe events at Withy’s End when Scumble, his intent to interrogate Trevor foiled, decided to take her and Aunt Nell’s statements himself.
He sent Trevor to the kitchen with Wilkes so that he wouldn’t hear the evidence.
By the time he was finished with Aunt Nell, Nick was feeling well enough to give his statement.
“You’d better ring the Yard, Pencarrow,” the inspector said. “The boy wonder’ll be wondering what’s going on.”
Waiting to be connected, Megan listened with amusement to Nick’s highly coloured account of the encounter with Donaldson.
She didn’t really expect Ken to be at work so late—it was half six by now—but the switchboard put her through.
In rather more temperate terms than the artist’s she told him what had happened.
“Strewth, Megan, you have all the fun down there! I should have gone back with you. So Donaldson’s going to be facing a charge of attempted murder?”
“Yes, I haven’t had time to think about it but that’s what it amounts to.”