“No, Duke’s just keeping me company. I was too nervous to come here on my own.”
“You won’t be on your own for long,” Bullard said with a smirk.
The woman who looked like a gypsy said, “Margo. I like to use a mixture of different media—crayons and ballpoints and wash and well, just any old thing that comes to hand. Chalk and pencil and the end of a brush dipped in ink.”
“Yes, it’s possible to get some interesting effects that way.”
“Call me Jim,” the Australian drawled. “I do a bit of everything, but it’s mainly drawing that interests me.”
“Fine, Jim.”
“Sammy,” the Jewish man said. “I paint in oils too and I want to concentrate on boats. Harbour scenes—that sort of thing.”
“You’ve come to the right place, Sammy. Porthcove has a fine old Cornish harbour and fishing boats still work from here.” Keith Parry paused. “That’s it then. Val runs a small shop in the hall where you can buy paints, brushes and paper if you run out.”
“I bet she does,” Bullard said. “Anything to get more money out of us.”
Parry continued as if he had not been interrupted.
“Breakfast at eight. We’ll meet at nine-fifteen and walk down to the harbour together. There’s one more to join our group—Wilfred. I’ve met him before, and he uses pastel. He’s staying at the Harbour Inn with his wife.”
“Bit of a snob, is he?” Bullard jeered.
“I’ll be giving a demonstration one evening this week,” Keith Parry said. “And, George, it would help if you could say nice things sometimes.”
“Not nearly so interesting though,” George Bullard said, and laughed.
* * * *
Linda Snow was up early next morning. She left Duke, her boyfriend, in bed, lit a cigarette and went through to the hall. The front door was open and she heard voices outside.
On the lawn, Jim Fletcher was demonstrating boomerang throwing to Margo and Sammy.
Linda’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Can I have a go?”
Fletcher smiled. “Too right you can, Linda.”
She dropped her half-smoked cigarette and trod it carefully into the grass.
The Australian showed her how to grip the curved wooden missile and positioned her, one foot in front of the other, turning her to take advantage of the early morning breeze.
“When you throw, use the wrist. Like this.” He demonstrated with a flick of his wrist. “Remember, it’s all in the wrist action.”
Linda gripped the boomerang at one end, took three or four quick steps forward and flicked it. A breeze caught the crescent of smooth wood and lifted it. It sailed up into the sky and began to curve back towards her.
“Don’t take your eye off it,” Fletcher called. “Don’t try to catch it—get ready to duck.”
Linda watched the boomerang coming back and turned to watch its flight. She was poised ready to duck, but it brought up short and dropped at her feet.
“Good on yer!” Fletcher exclaimed. “The sheila’s got the knack first go.”
“This is a nice idea,” Keith Parry said as he joined them on the lawn. “I can see you people are getting on well together.”
“Throw again, Linda, while you’ve got the knack of it.”
She flicked her wrist and the boomerang sailed up and away and began its return flight. Then she noticed George Bullard coming out of the house, a stout figure with a neat dark beard. He bustled over the grass towards them, his eyes gleaming.
“What’s this then? A new toy for the kiddies? Haven’t you lot grown up yet?”
Jim Fletcher looked at him and looked away. He bent over to retrieve the boomerang, calculated a trajectory and flicked it into the air. The swiftly rotating wood swooped and rose on a current of air. Travelling fast, it came hurtling back.
Fletcher stepped neatly aside and it passed him by.
Bullard saw the approaching boomerang only at the last moment. He tried to step back in a hurry, tripped and fell flat on his face. The missile passed over his prone body.
When he got up, his face was red. He wiped dew from his clothes with a handkerchief. “You lunatic! You—you dangerous idiot!”
Sammy laughed as Bullard stalked away. Parry frowned and glanced at his watch. “Almost time for breakfast,” he said.
Fletcher was smiling as he collected his boomerang. They all walked with him to his hatchback, and Margo said with satisfaction. “That’s made my day, that has.”
Fletcher unlocked his car and tossed the boomerang onto the back seat.
“What are those?” Linda asked, pointing at at two wooden sticks.
“Those are the real thing,” Fletcher said. “What you sailed this morning are toys—George was right about that, at least.”
He picked up one of the sticks to show them. It was over a metre in length and looked like the branch of a tree with the bark removed and worn smooth by handling. There was a slight curve to it that was not as pronounced as the curve in a boomerang. The wood was hard and the stick heavy.
“These are what the abos use to hunt with—killing sticks.”
“Do they return too?” Linda asked.
Fletcher shook his head. “They’re not meant to. When one of these hits a ’roo, that animal is meat. A killing stick has a different action from a boomerang. It doesn’t go through the air, but end over end along the ground.”
Casually, Fletcher tossed the stick into the back of his car.
Keith Parry said. “I hope you keep your car locked, Jim. Those things look lethal to me.”
Fletcher seemed mildly irritated. “I’ve just explained—they are. And I’m not stupid, you know.”
He locked the car and they went in to breakfast.
CHAPTER TWO
MY FAVOURITE CORPSE!
After breakfast, Linda carried her sketching gear around the side of the house to the car park. ‘Duke’ Dickson was checking the oil and tyres of his Kawasaki 750.
“Oh, there you are, Duke. I’m just off. I’ve remembered where I saw Jim—it was on television.” Linda sounded excited. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere before. He was talking about koala bears.”
“Yeah? He gets around, that Aussie. Nice bloke though—not like George.” Duke spat on the tarmac. “I’ll murder that arrogant pig before we leave. I can just see it happening.”
Linda laughed. “I don’t let George worry me because I can see through him. He enjoys needling people. He does it deliberately. You shouldn’t let him upset you.”
Duke grunted.
Sammy, strolling around the corner, murmured, “Easier said than done.” He stood admiring Duke’s motorcycle. “I used to ride a Triumph when I was young—getting too old for that now.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Duke said. “You’re never too old to ride—have a nice day, Linda.”
Linda and Sammy set off down the hill towards the harbour, following the rest of the sketching party. Keith Parry and Bullard were leading. Margo and Jim Fletcher dropped back.
“Keith’s got lumbered,” Margo said, and made a face. “I like men, but George is