A Colourful Death: A Cornish Mystery by Carola Dunn Page A

beans. To the left was a row of fruit trees; to the right, washing lines, with a view of moorland rising beyond. A flagged path led back to a gap in a hedge of red and purple fuchsias, giving a glimpse of a muddy yard surrounded by the metal buildings Margery had mentioned.
    Teazle ventured out of the house. Alerted by canine radar, two black and white collies dashed over from the yard, barking.
    Teazle met them with unconcern. They stopped barking to sniff. Since there was no growling, snapping, or snarling, Eleanor left them to it. As she closed the door, she heard a whistle and someone shouted for the farm dogs.
    Since Margery was up and about, Eleanor decided she might as well have a quick wash and go and get dressed. But when she returned to the kitchen, Teazle once more at her heels, Margery had just made tea.
    “Here’s some bits and pieces for the dog, and I thought you might like a cuppa. Take it back to bed with you if you’re not ready to face the world.”
    “Thanks, that’s just what I need. I’ll drink it here, if I won’t be in your way.”
    “Not at all. I’ll join you.” For a few minutes they sat sipping in silence, while Teazle polished off a bowl of ham scraps. Then Margery said in a low voice, “I didn’t sleep a wink. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was horrible! All that blood … I understand why Nick was upset. Geoff was a bastard, but you don’t go round killing people because they’re a pain in the neck. Nick’s always seemed so laid-back. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “What do you mean? Are you feeling all right? I was right there.”
    “Come on, you can’t leave it at that. What did you actually see, with your own eyes?”
    “Nicholas Gresham standing over the bloody body of Geoff Clark.”
    “If you walked into a room where someone was apparently lying on the floor in a pool of blood, what would you do?”
    “Faint.”
    “I don’t think so, Mrs Rosevear. Margery. I almost fainted, and you dealt with the situation calmly and competently. And kindly, I might add.”
    “I suppose I’d check his pulse.”
    “So what would the next person coming in see?”
    “Me, standing over the body,” she said slowly. “But Stella said she saw Nick kill him.”
    “Would you consider her to be totally
compos mentis
at the time?”
    Margery frowned. “No. That’s hardly likely, when her … boyfriend was weltering in his own blood—”
    “It wasn’t blood.”
    “What do you mean? That much I did see with my own eyes. Bright red, not the colour of dried blood, and glistening. A great pool of blood.”
    “On the contrary,” said Eleanor, shaking her head. “If anything’s certain, it’s that the red wasn’t blood.” Not that she had checked for herself. In fact, on seeing it she, too, had taken it for blood, but she wasn’t going to admit that. She trusted Nick, though it was a pity he hadn’t been able to identify the substance. “The police won’t have any trouble telling the difference.”
    “Then why did they arrest him?” Margery’s tone suggested she was now just humouring Eleanor.
    “They didn’t. He’s helping them with their enquiries.”
    “Everyone knows that’s the same thing. Look, Mrs Trewynn, I don’t want to believe Nick’s guilty any more than you do, but you have to face facts.”
    Eleanor had thought she was doing brilliantly at leading Margery to grasp the truth. Discouraged, she realised they had just gone round in a circle. She made one more attempt.
    “It’s not a matter of belief. I
know
Nick didn’t kill Geoffrey.”
    “Why didn’t you tell the police?”
    “I was waiting for my turn to answer their questions, but they packed it in for the night before they got to me. It’s the little-old-lady syndrome. You just wait till you’re white-haired and over sixty and you’ll discover lots of people—men in particular—assume you have nothing to contribute that can