show you how to set about building up a painting from one of your holiday sketches.”
As he began to clean and wipe his brushes, the class crowded around the canvas to see it close up.
Linda asked about squaring-up.
“I should have explained that, Linda. It makes the drawing easier, if you transfer what is in one square in your sketch, to the corresponding square on canvas.”
Miss Eaton asked casually, “Did you get the chance to look around your room, Keith?”
“Yes, I did. Nothing’s missing, and nothing appears to have been touched.”
* * * *
Detective Constable Frank Trewin leaned comfortably against the bar counter of the Harbour Inn. It was after licensing hours and he was alone with the landlord. Reid had gone back to Penzance and left him to deal with the local—and routine—enquiries.
Ah, well, Trewin thought, cuddling a free pint of best bitter, there was something to be said for being left alone to get on with the job in your own way.
Calling to the landlord, he allowed his Cornish burr to show in his speech.
“You know me, Mr. Oakes. I’m a local man. You can say what you like and it’ll go no further.”
“Aye, up to a point—but remember this is my livelihood, Frank. I can’t afford to scare my customers away.”
“No fear of that. Just a hint is all I want. Tell me something about the Kellers. Who comes to see them? Do they get on together? Anything about them you think I ought to know. Remember, this is a murder job.”
Oakes removed his spectacles and polished them absently. “Not much to tell—they keep to themselves pretty much. She’s got the money and likes her comfort—bit of a snob, I’d say. He’s mad about painting, and she encourages him.”
He sipped a small whisky. “Visitors? Well, that chap I hear got himself killed was in one evening. Downright rude he was. The Kellers went up to their room pretty quick.
“Then there was the Aussie—tell him by his accent—he seemed to get on well enough with them. Took a few drinks, he did, but Aussies are like that—pour it straight down they do—comes of their peculiar licensing hours I suppose. Shocking way to treat good beer.
“And there was that spinster woman staying with Mrs. Courtney. She’s no painter—she called for a chat with Mrs. Keller one day.”
“Did she now?” Trewin straightened his lanky body. If a private eye was mixing in police business, she’d have to be warned off. Murder was a serious matter.
“How about the studio people? Mrs. Courtney and her husband? The tutor?”
Oakes finished his whisky, washed the glass and began to dry it.
“Don’t see much of the Courtneys during the season, though Reggie looked in a few days back. Keith will stop for a drink sometimes. In winter, it’s another matter. Mostly it’s Reggie Courtney and that tutor of theirs—reckon they’re old friends, those two.”
Trewin’s ears pricked up.
“Queer, you mean?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if Keith was. But not Reggie—no, I didn’t mean it that way. Just old pals.”
“Interesting,” Trewin said, draining his glass.
CHAPTER TWELVE
UNLIKELY ALLIES
Margo looked on with some amusement as Jim Fletcher patiently picked up the boomerang that Sammy had failed to get airborne. He handed it to Linda, and said:
“Watch how this sheila does it. Watch her wrist as she throws.”
Linda made her throw and Jim, Sammy and Keith watched. She was wearing tight jeans and a thin teeshirt and it wasn’t her wrist they were watching.
Margo shook her head slightly and brass earrings jangled. They were wasting their time. She recognized Linda’s type; a one-boy girl, no matter what. She was disappointed in Sammy.
“What an action!” Fletcher exclaimed. “Again, Linda.”
But before the blonde could throw again, Duke Dickson came around the corner from the car park, and he was angry.
“Somebody used my bike last night! Come on, own up—who was it? The tank’s nearly empty!”
Linda paused,
As he began to clean and wipe his brushes, the class crowded around the canvas to see it close up.
Linda asked about squaring-up.
“I should have explained that, Linda. It makes the drawing easier, if you transfer what is in one square in your sketch, to the corresponding square on canvas.”
Miss Eaton asked casually, “Did you get the chance to look around your room, Keith?”
“Yes, I did. Nothing’s missing, and nothing appears to have been touched.”
* * * *
Detective Constable Frank Trewin leaned comfortably against the bar counter of the Harbour Inn. It was after licensing hours and he was alone with the landlord. Reid had gone back to Penzance and left him to deal with the local—and routine—enquiries.
Ah, well, Trewin thought, cuddling a free pint of best bitter, there was something to be said for being left alone to get on with the job in your own way.
Calling to the landlord, he allowed his Cornish burr to show in his speech.
“You know me, Mr. Oakes. I’m a local man. You can say what you like and it’ll go no further.”
“Aye, up to a point—but remember this is my livelihood, Frank. I can’t afford to scare my customers away.”
“No fear of that. Just a hint is all I want. Tell me something about the Kellers. Who comes to see them? Do they get on together? Anything about them you think I ought to know. Remember, this is a murder job.”
Oakes removed his spectacles and polished them absently. “Not much to tell—they keep to themselves pretty much. She’s got the money and likes her comfort—bit of a snob, I’d say. He’s mad about painting, and she encourages him.”
He sipped a small whisky. “Visitors? Well, that chap I hear got himself killed was in one evening. Downright rude he was. The Kellers went up to their room pretty quick.
“Then there was the Aussie—tell him by his accent—he seemed to get on well enough with them. Took a few drinks, he did, but Aussies are like that—pour it straight down they do—comes of their peculiar licensing hours I suppose. Shocking way to treat good beer.
“And there was that spinster woman staying with Mrs. Courtney. She’s no painter—she called for a chat with Mrs. Keller one day.”
“Did she now?” Trewin straightened his lanky body. If a private eye was mixing in police business, she’d have to be warned off. Murder was a serious matter.
“How about the studio people? Mrs. Courtney and her husband? The tutor?”
Oakes finished his whisky, washed the glass and began to dry it.
“Don’t see much of the Courtneys during the season, though Reggie looked in a few days back. Keith will stop for a drink sometimes. In winter, it’s another matter. Mostly it’s Reggie Courtney and that tutor of theirs—reckon they’re old friends, those two.”
Trewin’s ears pricked up.
“Queer, you mean?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if Keith was. But not Reggie—no, I didn’t mean it that way. Just old pals.”
“Interesting,” Trewin said, draining his glass.
CHAPTER TWELVE
UNLIKELY ALLIES
Margo looked on with some amusement as Jim Fletcher patiently picked up the boomerang that Sammy had failed to get airborne. He handed it to Linda, and said:
“Watch how this sheila does it. Watch her wrist as she throws.”
Linda made her throw and Jim, Sammy and Keith watched. She was wearing tight jeans and a thin teeshirt and it wasn’t her wrist they were watching.
Margo shook her head slightly and brass earrings jangled. They were wasting their time. She recognized Linda’s type; a one-boy girl, no matter what. She was disappointed in Sammy.
“What an action!” Fletcher exclaimed. “Again, Linda.”
But before the blonde could throw again, Duke Dickson came around the corner from the car park, and he was angry.
“Somebody used my bike last night! Come on, own up—who was it? The tank’s nearly empty!”
Linda paused,
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