much smuggling here?”
“A little, sometimes. But, of course, they don’t always sail into harbour. This is a routine check. We keep an eye on foreign boats—and anyone lingering near them.”
“Like me. Well, thanks....”
From the harbour, Miss Eaton walked around the headland and along the shore. She walked quickly, ignoring the heat. She was excited.
Smuggling. Suppose Bullard had been involved? Or had he stumbled on a gang by chance? That would provide a strong motive for murder.
She’d never been happy with the idea that someone was sufficiently upset by Bullard’s barbed remarks to actually kill him. Unless, as in Duke’s attack, they simply lashed out in anger. But the killing stick had been locked away in Jim’s car—and that meant premeditation.
She reached Parry, where he was commenting on Margo’s latest effort—a study of the cliff face—and paused to ask:
“Is anything missing from your room, Keith? Anything moved, or out of place?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not that I’ve noticed. I don’t keep much of value there anyway—apart from my paintings, that is. Why?”
“Mrs. Keller seems sure it was at your window that she spotted the intruder.”
Parry laughed. “Always assuming she didn’t imagine it. But I’ll take a closer look now that you mention the matter.”
Miss Eaton continued along the sand until she reached the steps cut into the face of the cliff and started up. It was a steep climb and the steps were narrow; obviously they would be dangerous in wet weather. But a quick way up or down for smugglers.
She wondered about Wilfred and Hilda. Staying at the Inn by the harbour made them strong suspects. Suppose Bullard had seen something and tried blackmail? Or he could he have been one of the gang and tried a double-cross? Could there be a second gang involved? A hi-jack?
She reached the top of the steps and the cliff walk, and could see the studio not far away.
What was being smuggled? Marijuana? Something small presumably. Gems?
A memory nagged at the back of her mind, something she had read recently but couldn’t recall immediately. She felt annoyed with herself. It was something she would have to check out.
When she arrived at the studio, she used the pay-phone in the hall to call Geary in Birmingham. He was a private investigator she’d used before to save herself a journey to the Midlands.
“Mr. Geary? Miss Eaton. I need some background on George Bullard—”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got yourself mixed up in murder, Isabel?” Geary chuckled.
“I’ve been retained to investigate.”
The voice on the phone became serious. “Well, look after yourself. There’s a killer loose—and it’s a police job anyway. What d’you want to know?”
“Anything you can get me quickly. His job. Was he married? Who benefits? His style of living, just general background stuff.”
She gave the number of Porthcove Studios.
“Try to get back to me tomorrow, will you?”
“I’ll try—and you owe me one.”
Miss Eaton got into her Fiat and drove away. She turned onto the main road and put her foot down. In Penzance, she stopped once to ask the way to the Public Library. She found the reading room and began to go through back issues of the Daily Independent , searching for that elusive memory.
She turned pages, scanning rapidly, going back day by day until—
GREAT DIAMOND THEFT
“A daring robbery was carried out in Amsterdam yesterday, when diamonds estimated to be worth a quarter of a million pounds were stolen from the House of Hertman.
“A police spokesman said that so far no trace of the thieves or the missing gems had been found, but several lines of enquiry were being pursued.
“It is thought that the diamonds may already have been smuggled out of the country....”
Miss Eaton sat back in her chair with a feeling of satisfaction. Diamonds, worth a fortune, smuggled out of Holland—and into Porthcove? It was possible, she decided.
She made brief
“A little, sometimes. But, of course, they don’t always sail into harbour. This is a routine check. We keep an eye on foreign boats—and anyone lingering near them.”
“Like me. Well, thanks....”
From the harbour, Miss Eaton walked around the headland and along the shore. She walked quickly, ignoring the heat. She was excited.
Smuggling. Suppose Bullard had been involved? Or had he stumbled on a gang by chance? That would provide a strong motive for murder.
She’d never been happy with the idea that someone was sufficiently upset by Bullard’s barbed remarks to actually kill him. Unless, as in Duke’s attack, they simply lashed out in anger. But the killing stick had been locked away in Jim’s car—and that meant premeditation.
She reached Parry, where he was commenting on Margo’s latest effort—a study of the cliff face—and paused to ask:
“Is anything missing from your room, Keith? Anything moved, or out of place?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not that I’ve noticed. I don’t keep much of value there anyway—apart from my paintings, that is. Why?”
“Mrs. Keller seems sure it was at your window that she spotted the intruder.”
Parry laughed. “Always assuming she didn’t imagine it. But I’ll take a closer look now that you mention the matter.”
Miss Eaton continued along the sand until she reached the steps cut into the face of the cliff and started up. It was a steep climb and the steps were narrow; obviously they would be dangerous in wet weather. But a quick way up or down for smugglers.
She wondered about Wilfred and Hilda. Staying at the Inn by the harbour made them strong suspects. Suppose Bullard had seen something and tried blackmail? Or he could he have been one of the gang and tried a double-cross? Could there be a second gang involved? A hi-jack?
She reached the top of the steps and the cliff walk, and could see the studio not far away.
What was being smuggled? Marijuana? Something small presumably. Gems?
A memory nagged at the back of her mind, something she had read recently but couldn’t recall immediately. She felt annoyed with herself. It was something she would have to check out.
When she arrived at the studio, she used the pay-phone in the hall to call Geary in Birmingham. He was a private investigator she’d used before to save herself a journey to the Midlands.
“Mr. Geary? Miss Eaton. I need some background on George Bullard—”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got yourself mixed up in murder, Isabel?” Geary chuckled.
“I’ve been retained to investigate.”
The voice on the phone became serious. “Well, look after yourself. There’s a killer loose—and it’s a police job anyway. What d’you want to know?”
“Anything you can get me quickly. His job. Was he married? Who benefits? His style of living, just general background stuff.”
She gave the number of Porthcove Studios.
“Try to get back to me tomorrow, will you?”
“I’ll try—and you owe me one.”
Miss Eaton got into her Fiat and drove away. She turned onto the main road and put her foot down. In Penzance, she stopped once to ask the way to the Public Library. She found the reading room and began to go through back issues of the Daily Independent , searching for that elusive memory.
She turned pages, scanning rapidly, going back day by day until—
GREAT DIAMOND THEFT
“A daring robbery was carried out in Amsterdam yesterday, when diamonds estimated to be worth a quarter of a million pounds were stolen from the House of Hertman.
“A police spokesman said that so far no trace of the thieves or the missing gems had been found, but several lines of enquiry were being pursued.
“It is thought that the diamonds may already have been smuggled out of the country....”
Miss Eaton sat back in her chair with a feeling of satisfaction. Diamonds, worth a fortune, smuggled out of Holland—and into Porthcove? It was possible, she decided.
She made brief
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