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

possibly be worth their time. I didn’t kick up a fuss, because as soon as Inspector Pearce consulted the policemen who actually went to the gallery he was bound to find out Stella was talking through her hat.”
    “Jerry Roscoe, our local sergeant, was at the gallery.”
    “But he barely glanced into the studio. I noticed.”
    “Well,” said Margery doubtfully, “we’ll see.” She turned with obvious relief to the two women who came in through the front door at that moment. “You’re up with the lark this morning.”
    “Is it true what Quentin told us?” demanded one of the two, a short, thin woman with very short dark hair, wearing trousers and a man’s striped shirt.
    “This is Mrs Trewynn,” Margery said in a tone of slight reproof. “Leila and Jeanette.”
    As they exchanged greetings, Eleanor tried to recall what her hostess had told her about these two yesterday evening. The second, Jeanette, was tall, sturdy, and rather pale, with fair, flyaway hair cut in a pageboy, the refusal of which to lie sleek probably caused her much anguish. Shell-work, Eleanor thought. And Leila must be the one who painted abstracts to compensate for the sentimental puppies that paid her bills.
    Leila returned to her question. “Well, is it true?” Away from the back-lighting of the doorway, she was obviously older than she had first seemed, in her forties, at least, though it was difficult to tell, as she appeared to have spent a lot of time in the sun.
    Eleanor hoped no one could call her vain, but she was glad she had grown up before sun-bathing became fashionable. Spending so much time in the tropics, she had always worn a hat. Crinkles at the corners of her eyes from squinting against the glare were the worst damage the sun had inflicted on her.
    “Is what true?” Margery temporised.
    “Quentin says Stella told him Geoff is dead and she saw Nick Gresham stab him.”
    Margery glanced at Eleanor. “It’s true that Geoff is dead, and Stella says she saw that happen.”
    “I don’t believe it!” Jeanette was obviously upset. She was considerably younger than the other two, in her late twenties, perhaps thirty.
    “It’s true that that’s what Stella’s been saying.”
    “I can easily believe that. What I can’t believe is that Nick killed Geoff. He wouldn’t! Even though Geoff mucked about with Nick’s pictures, he just wouldn’t.”
    “Come off it, Jeanette,” Leila sneered. “Everyone knows you’ve had a lech for Nick forever.”
    “Leila, must you be so vulgar? Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m running a home for deliquent adolescents!”
    Jeanette was scarlet. “What about you and Geoff, then, Leila?” she retorted. “At least Nick’s a nice person. I’d like to hear either of you two say as much of Geoff.”
    The other two looked at each other sideways, not quite meeting each other’s eyes. Eleanor watched with interest. What did it mean?
    Neither answered directly. Leila muttered, “Nice?” though whether she wondered if the word could be applied to Geoff or merely scorned its feebleness was not apparent.
    “I suppose you want breakfast,” said Margery. “What about you, Mrs Trewynn?”
    Eleanor realised she was still draped in the borrowed dressing-gown, several sizes too large. “I’d better get dressed,” she said hastily.
    No doubt she was old-fashioned—and certainly she had been in many parts of the world where women wore a great deal less—but the men would be coming in soon, she assumed. She’d feel more comfortable asking them about Geoff if she were fully dressed, though she risked missing whatever else Margery, Leila, and Jeanette had to say about him.
    As she went out, she heard Leila say, “I’ve got to get down to the cove while the tide’s low, Marge. Any hope of a lift?”
    Which suggested that Leila, not Jeanette, was the shell artist. So much for appearances, though it would explain her tanned face.
    Teazle scampered up the stairs ahead of Eleanor, already