The telephone rang and she put on her tough American voice to answer.
“Eaton Investigations.”
“Belle? It’s Val Courtney. Val, from St. Agatha’s—the name was Forbes then. Remember?”
Middle-age dropped away from Miss Eaton along with her tough accent. St. Agatha’s College for Young Ladies, gym tunics and the class bell, hockey and sausage-rolls in the dorm after lights out....
“Of course I remember, Val! How are you? Are you in London?”
“I’m harassed, and speaking from Porthcove in Cornwall, along the coast from Penzance. My husband, Reg, and I have a studio here, and we need advice. I read somewhere that you’re running a private detective agency and thought you might know the answer.”
“Glad to help an old girl.”
“We’ve got a problem student—George Bullard by name—a most obnoxious person who upsets everyone. I’ve asked him to leave and he simply laughed at me, and I’m at my wit’s end.”
“I’ll soon get rid of him for you,” Miss Eaton said.
She had a vision of getting out of London in a heat wave to a cool breeze off the sea.
“Oh, I do hope you can.”
Miss Eaton said. “Nothing to it. I’ll run down and sort out this Bullard for you.”
* * * *
“You what?”
Reggie Courtney looked at his wife in astonishment. His voice was unusually sharp.
“A detective? Coming here? Why on earth did you do that?”
They had met at the bottom of the staircase in the hall. Val coming down to go to the kitchen, Reggie coming in from the garden and going upstairs to wash.
‘’You heard what Keith said. He wanted me to do something about Bullard.”
“That’s true. But he didn’t mean you to call in the police. You know Keith—he’s artistic, he dramatizes. One awkward student won’t ruin us.”
“Well, Bullard refused to leave. And Belle isn’t police—she’s a private investigator.”
Reggie relaxed but still looked doubtful. “She might upset the students, all the same. Nobody likes a snooper. Don’t forget they’re our bread and butter.”
“I’m sure they’ll be as pleased to see the last of Bullard as I’ll be.”
“I don’t doubt that, but—”
“I was at school with Belle. She was always reading those dreadful American stories about private eyes and finding out things for us. I’m sure she’s very good, and won’t upset anyone.”
Reggie Courtney sighed. “And she’s coming?”
“Yes. You’ll see, she’ll know how to handle George Bullard.”
CHAPTER FOUR
WILFRED GOES MISSING
When Miss Eaton arrived at the converted mews off Chelsea Reach she had made her home, she began to pack a suitcase.
Sherry, a large blue Persian cat, prowled around her restlessly. Sherry knew her mistress was going away, and protested loudly.
“Stop it, Sherry. You’re coming too.”
Miss Eaton opened a bottle of dry sherry and poured a little into a saucer. The Persian purred and rubbed silky fur against her legs; she was one cat who liked her tipple. She lapped delicately until the saucer was clean and curled up in her basket to sleep it off.
Miss Eaton’s home, unlike her office, was spotless. Behind glass in a row of bookcases reposed her personal library of Sam Pike novels, and an almost complete collection of Black Mask detective magazines.
She packed a tracksuit and swimming costume, her Smith and Wesson and binoculars. She showered and inspected her slight figure in the mirror; fit at forty, and her sharply pointed nose might be taken as an indication of her chosen profession.
She dressed for comfort and carried the cat basket, with Sherry still asleep, out to her car. She returned early, to get her case and an early Sam Pike novel, Model for Murder, and locked up.
As she drove out of London, Sherry dreamed of fat mice in a cat Heaven in the back of the small Fiat saloon. Miss Eaton drove along the M3 motorway into the west country through the early evening. She felt relaxed and drove at an unhurried pace
She stopped at a motel outside Exeter and booked a room for one night. There was no hurry. She regarded this job as a bit of a holiday, a chance to gossip about old times with Val. Bullard would be no problem.
As she dropped off to sleep, with Sherry on the bed at her feet, Miss Eaton wondered idly what was happening at Porthcove.
* * * *
George Bullard chuckled to himself as he wiped his brushes. He was alone in the grounds of Porthcove Studios. His easel was set up in the shade, and trees screened him from any casual eye.
He was reasonably pleased with the result he had captured in oils: the bloom of dark red roses against the pale yellow of sunlit grass.
Pleased, too, with the way he had stirred things up during the last few days. It always amazed him how easy it was to upset people.
He looked towards the house. Parry and the rest of the holiday painters were down at the harbour. Courtney had gone too. Fish again for dinner he thought; I’ll have a moan about that. Val was shopping in Penzance.
The only sound was a drone of bees over the flowerbeds on a sleepy afternoon. There was no traffic about. The part-time gardener was in the greenhouse at the rear of the studio. The cook, he’d learnt, invariably took an afternoon nap.
“A chance to take a quick look around,” he thought, and walked around the pond towards the front porch. He whistled an old-fashioned tune under his breath.
“Never know what I might find....”
* * * *
Hilda Keller sat beneath a sunshade at a table outside the tearooms between the inn and the studio. The afternoon was hot and she ate strawberries with cream as she studied the view through binoculars.
They were, of course, essential for bird watching—and useful for keeping an eye on Wilfred. Where, she wondered, was her husband at this moment?
The tearoom, halfway up the hill, was an ideal spot for observing the coastline. There was a clear view of the harbour and pink-and-blue cottages below.
She could see some of the painters at work and watched their tutor move briskly from one to another. The blonde girl was alone near the rocks that jutted out from the headland. Sammy had set up his easel on the quay close to the fishing boats. There was no sign of Wilfred.
She focused on a chough, a crow-like bird with a red bill, as it wheeled above the cliffs.
She turned in her chair and looked up at the studio. She could see only the roof of the building, and the upper row of windows. There was somebody at one of the windows. Staff, she imagined. She’d heard that the top floor was private and off-limits to students, so it couldn’t be Wilfred.
Hilda sighed and put her binoculars away. She got to her feet and began a slow descent to the village.
She couldn’t hurry; she was too heavily built for that—and no beauty. She knew Wilfred had married her for her money and didn’t care. He was her husband; she loved him and intended to keep him.
She reached the cottages and moved along the quay, lips pursed and handbag swinging. Sammy was painting a group of boats in the harbour. She didn’t like talking to a Jew, but he might know something.
“Have