‘All right, Mrs Trevelyan, let’s move on to those screams you claimed to have heard. What were you doing out at the mine?’
‘Painting.’ Rose knew that whatever she said she would end up under suspicion.
‘Inspector Pearce thinks there might be a connection between the death of Miss Manders and the body recovered from the mine. And,
for whatever reason, you seem to have become involved with both of these women.’
‘But I’m not. I had no idea there was a body there. How could I have done?’
‘Perhaps the screams were in your imagination. Perhaps it was your way of telling us we ought to investigate.’
‘That’s a bloody stupid theory.’ She was angry. How dare Jack have allowed this situation to have arisen. Hadn’t he told her he would interview her himself?
WPC Sanderson raised her eyebrows sardonically. Rose thought her too smug for her own good. ‘Maybe someone
did
know what was down there and the screams were meant to scare me away. Look, I can’t explain why you didn’t find anybody there at the scene but I definitely heard them. Could they have been recorded?’ Rose asked doubtfully.
Her question was ignored. ‘When did you move here?’
Rose was shaken. ‘About twenty-eight years ago,’ she said.
WPG Sanderson stood and gestured for her colleague to do the same. Her cat-like smile was explicit in its meaning. Rose had been around when the woman in the mine shaft had died.
‘Thank you, Mrs Trevelyan, that’ll be all for now.’ DS Green nodded a farewell as his colleague followed him out into the hall. Rose let him open the front door himself.
‘Right! Work,’ she said with determination but before she could leave the house Nick telephoned.
‘God, Rose, what a mess. It seems I’m a suspect.’
‘Well; don’t think you’re so special. So am I.’
‘You?’ He started to laugh then realised just why she might be considered so.
‘Older, jealous woman removes the obstacle to her happiness,’ she said bitterly.
Nick was uncertain exactly what she meant by this. Did she feel more for him than her manner suggested? Did she want him that much? ‘I’m sure they don’t …’
‘They do. Nick, when exactly did Jenny turn up at your place that night?’ Rose suddenly realised she had, if not lied, then been economical with the truth. She did not know that Jenny had been there when Nick telephoned, she had, she realised, only guessed as much.
‘After the preview. I told you.’
‘Before or after you rang me?’
‘Hey, what is this? As we were talking, actually. I wasn’t expecting her. Why do you want to know?’
‘No reason, really. Just curiosity.’
‘Anyway, I know you’re busy but is there any chance …?’
‘No, Nick. Let’s leave it until Saturday as arranged.’
‘Okay. You’re the boss. I’ll see you then.’
His disappointment sounded genuine but Rose did have other things to do. Work, for a start, and she needed time to think about all that had occurred over the past few days.
She got into the car and found herself heading towards St Ives. She could not stop thinking that it was Nick who had had the perfect opportunity of following Jenny after she had left his place. Or Stella, she thought. But no, not Stella. Maybe she really had gone to bed. She had looked very tired.
It was another fine day, but chilly. Rose’s hair, left loose, flew around her face when she got out of the car. In her uniform of jeans, shirt, sweatshirt and waxed jacket she made her way towards what was locally called the island although it was joined to the mainland. Her route took her past Stella’s gallery.
Stella was behind the counter, some paperwork spread out in front of her. Daniel, dressed smartly in trousers, shirt, jacket and tie, was on the
telephone. Both looked pale, as if they had not slept much.
‘Rose. Nice to see you.’ Stella looked up when the door opened. Her eyes shifted to the canvas bag over Rose’s shoulder. ‘Are you over here to work?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you’d be more adventurous. Absolutely everyone’s had a bash at painting St Ives.’
Rose ignored the comment. ‘Have the police been to see you?’
‘Yes. Last night. We weren’t able to be much help, I’m afraid. Do you get the feeling they think someone killed her? Perhaps it was a lover. She wasn’t too fussy when it came to men.’
Shocked at such callousness so soon after Jenny’s death, Rose was still aware of the odd look which was exchanged between husband and wife. The tell-tale flush spreading along Daniel’s high cheekbones confirmed what Rose already suspected. Jenny had had an affair with Daniel Wright. Did Jack know? Well, it’s up to him to find out, she thought, she was in enough trouble as it was. And did Jack know that Stella went walking after previews? No wonder the pair of them appeared anxious, she thought, if they
weren’t together it gives them both a motive: Stella’s being jealousy, Daniel’s the threat of being found out. It was crazy to be suspecting her friends, but perhaps no more crazy than the police suspecting her.
‘Rose? I said, would you like a coffee?’
‘Oh, no thanks, Stella, I’ve got a flask. I just called in as I was passing.’ What’s happening to me, she thought as she left the gallery. It’s as if I don’t trust anyone. She blamed it on the circumstances. Murder was ugly and its repercussions spread like ripples in widening circles of doubt and suspicion.
Once on the island Rose got to work, one eye on the sky as she waited for the weather to decide what to do. Grey clouds blew in from the sea then dispersed again and the threatened rain was held at bay because of the speed with which they scudded overhead. Despite the fingerless gloves in which she worked, Rose’s hands were cold and stiff. She gave it up as a bad job, dissatisfied with what she had produced but not unduly upset as she had already seen ways in which it could be improved.
Gulls swirled in noisy flocks as she made her way down the grassy slope. On a high, jutting rock a black-back, neck stretched, sharp curved
beak open, squawked noisily. Beneath her lay St Ives, peaceful on a winter’s afternoon without the clutter of cars and tourists the season would bring. Herring-gulls lined the harbour wall, facing the wind, their feathers unruffled. They cocked their heads to watch her as she passed, each with one bright eye visible, assessing whether she was a danger to them, but they did no more than take a couple of sideways steps. These scavengers were used to people.
Rose had known all along what she intended doing but only now admitted it to herself. But was it the right thing to do? She was being presumptuous. She grinned. Barry Rowe would have certainly thought so. She pulled her hair from the confines of the collar of her jacket and walked on. But Barry Rowe isn’t here to see me, she told herself.
She knew the street in which Alec Manders lived because Jenny had mentioned it, but not the number. It was Maddy who had filled her in on Jenny’s childhood. Rose could not imagine what it must have been like to have a mother abandon you at an age when her presence was so necessary. Rose’s own upbringing had been totally secure. Maybe that was why David’s death had hit her so hard – she had taken security for granted. No, it
wasn’t that. It was because I loved him in a way I’ll never be able to love any other human being, she decided. And with that thought she felt better about doubting Nick. She knew her feelings for him would never be as deep.
The street, like many others, was wide enough to allow only one car to pass because it had been built at a time when horses and carts dragged boxes of pilchards and other fish along the roads which wound steeply up from the harbour. The front doors opened directly on to the pavement.
Two women stood talking but paused in their conversation to eye her curiously as she approached them. ‘Can you tell me where Alec Manders lives?’ she asked with a smile.
‘That’s his place, there.’ The one wearing a tightly knotted headscarf pointed diagonally across the road, avid inquisitiveness unconcealed in both her demeanour and her expression.
‘The one with the plant pots?’
‘Ess.’ The woman nodded emphatically. ‘What do ’ee want with ’en?’
‘Thank you.’ Rose smiled again, fully aware of their disappointed silence and their eyes on her back as she walked up the street.
The plant pots were stacked on the stone steps at the side of the building. They contained only
dead things. Rose knocked and the door was answered by a woman younger than herself who smiled welcomingly and said, yes, Alec was at home.
Rose stepped over the threshold and smelt new wood and fresh paint.
Maddy Duke had a job to concentrate as she gave change to customers. In the run-up to Christmas the shop was doing well.
She felt unsettled. Stella was keeping something from her, she sensed it, and Nick was being evasive. It was beginning to get to all of them. Yet she could not bring herself to feel sorry that Jenny was dead. Watching her, distraught, running away from the direction in which Nick’s house lay, Maddy knew what had happened. Jenny had tried to seduce him. Her remarks about Rose Trevelyan earlier that evening had not gone unheeded although Maddy could see that there wasn’t much doing there. At least, not yet. Nor would there be if she had her way.
It was peculiar really because she had liked Jenny and she liked Rose. She hated herself for the ambiguity she felt towards her friends, liking but envying them. In Nick’s case she wanted him badly but she also wanted her freedom, to
have no ties if Annie should seek her out. She had invited Peter Dawson to accompany her in the hope of making Nick jealous. But now she was worried. What had Nick been doing that night? And, more to the point, had anyone seen her hurrying through the deserted streets? She wondered if she even cared.
Perhaps the way she was stemmed from the past, from the loss of her child, the one thing she really wanted and could not have. Even though her prayers would be answered if her daughter made contact when she reached her eighteenth birthday early next year, she would never be able to retrieve the years of her babyhood and childhood. There would be no compensation for that.
When she had closed the shop she went upstairs to study the script for the Christmas pantomime although she was almost word perfect. She had joined the drama group as a way of overcoming her lack of confidence as well as to make new friends. At first she had been rejected at every audition and had had to settle for helping with costumes and scenery but once she had begun to tape, in secret, the voices of her friends she had tried to copy them and had eventually become a good mimic. She had finally landed a decent part
because she could now speak in voices other than her own accentless one.
On the stage she could become someone else but no one knew how far she carried this over into her real life. And certainly no one knew of her small collection of tapes on which were recorded the voices of her friends in conversation.
‘It’s not much to go on.’ Inspector Jack Pearce hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets and leant his large frame against the windowsill in his office. The results, so far, of the examination of the bones of the female found in the shaft showed that she was white, of average height and build and aged somewhere between twenty-one and thirty-five. There was no jewellery, no remnants of a handbag, nothing at all to suggest who the woman was. This added to the likelihood that she had been murdered.
Jack walked to his desk and read upside down, as if to confirm what he already knew. He tapped the top sheet of paper. ‘And that’s all we needed to know.’
The only other occupant of the room was a grizzled sergeant, more astute than his amenable manner and gentle expression suggested. He knew Jack was referring to the dental report. All the woman’s teeth were her own and there wasn’t a trace of amalgam. Whoever it was had lain there for twenty-five to thirty-five years but the computer file which held the information regarding missing persons had not come up with anyone who fitted the flimsy description. The few who came closest had reappeared or had been found elsewhere somewhere along the line, either living or dead. He knew Jack had also gone to the trouble of checking an extra five years either side of the margins given them by Forensics.
Jack was baffled. A holiday-maker, even if alone, would have left some trace of herself. There would be unclaimed belongings in her accommodation, no matter how lowly or grand, and there would, presumably, be the matter of an unpaid bill. On the other hand, someone local would certainly have been missed. He hoped that the abruptly curtailed life had not belonged to some lonely individual with no one to care whether they had lived or died; someone who had come to the area with the sole purpose of ending it all. If that was the case her identity
might remain a mystery for ever. But Jack had a feeling it was vitally important to know who she was.
For now there was the more pertinent case of Jennifer Manders. He needed to speak to the dead girl’s father. She had been dead only a few days and therefore there was still a good chance of apprehending her killer. The other woman, whose death might yet turn out to be accidental, had waited twenty-odd years for someone to take an interest. A little while longer couldn’t hurt.
Oh, Rose, he thought, as he went out to the car. Why on earth did you have to become involved? On the other hand, without her involvement they would not have found the anonymous female. He headed towards St Ives where Alec Manders had been told to expect him, praying that Rose would not get herself into deeper trouble.
Almost the same thought was going through her own mind as Rose chewed the ends of her hair, a childhood habit her mother thought she had cured but which recurred when she was deep in thought. She needed someone to talk to, someone to whom she could voice her suspicions aloud, but the most suitable listener was Jack, and he
had too much else on his plate to spare her any time. Not that she had asked him to.
She glanced at her watch – six thirty – but rang his number anyway, surprised when he answered in person. ‘I’ve just this minute got home,’ he told her. He was tired and disappointed at the outcome of his interview with Manders.
It was some time since Rose had been to his flat in Morrab Road but she could picture it clearly. It was on the ground floor, one of two into which a solid-looking house had been converted. He had moved there after his wife had returned to Leeds, taking with her their two sons. They were men now and had always visited Jack regularly; the divorce was a thing of the past.
Jack, having yearned for experience away from the area, had been transferred and had met and married his wife in Yorkshire. When the boys were small he had moved back, drawn to his roots as were most Cornishmen if far from home for any length of time. His wife had been unable to settle. There was no chance of a compromise; Jack’s wife refused to stay and Jack refused to leave again.
‘I’ve decided to throw a party on New Year’s Eve. Will you come, Jack?’
The way she said his name still gave him a
strange sensation in his stomach. He thought about it then smiled wryly. ‘Will I get a kiss at midnight?’
‘If you’re exceptionally well behaved you might.’ But she had to warn him. ‘The St Ives lot will be there, you know, Nick and everyone.’
‘Ah.’
‘And the Clarkes, Doreen and Cyril. Remember them? And Laura and her family, and Barry, of course.’
‘I should hope so. The sycophantic Mr Rowe would cut his wrists if he didn’t receive an invitation.’
Rose stiffened. Was he being sarcastic or gently mocking? If she could have seen his face she would have known it was the latter. It was true, though, Barry would have monopolised her if she had not been firm. However, if Rose ran him down silently now and then, that was one thing, but she was completely loyal to her friend and would not allow anyone else to do so. ‘He’s a kind, decent man, Jack, and a very good friend to have.’
‘Sorry, Rose. I know that. And he succeeds in those things without trying.’
She had no idea what he meant but she was more intent on finding out if he was coming to the party. ‘You still haven’t said, will you be here?’
‘Can you put me down as a maybe? It all depends, you see.’
‘Of course.’ Rose understood it might be awkward for all concerned as Jack would have already interviewed some of her guests, might even, she realised, have arrested one of them by then.
‘Thanks for asking.’
Rose had wanted to talk to him but sensed that he was anxious to get off the phone. She said goodbye and hung up with a shrug. Her amateur detection work would have to wait. ‘Really, Mrs Trevelyan, this won’t do,’ she told herself. ‘Seven o’clock and no wine opened.’
This remedied, she put a casserole in the oven to reheat then sat at the kitchen table doodling on a piece of paper. Rose stared at what she had written; the names Nick Pascoe, Stella Jackson, Daniel Wright and Maddy Duke, in that order. Maddy? Despite the animosity she had felt between Maddy and Jenny on that one occasion there was no reason to think she might have killed her. Then Rose remembered the pointed remarks concerning herself and Nick. What was going on there? And Maddy hadn’t wasted any time in ringing Nick to confirm that Jenny had been with him after Stella’s preview.
‘Oh, no.’ Suddenly Rose saw it clearly. Maddy wanted Nick for herself. How far would she have gone to get him? I was blind not to see it before, she thought. And Maddy was an actress. Had she been there at the mine and given those screams, throwing her voice in some way, or whatever it was called? But why? And what relevance did it have to the remains found there or Jenny’s death?
Alec Manders, she wrote next, alongside the list. Not because she thought he was a suspect but because the written name helped to bring him closer. He had been touched rather than annoyed or upset at her visit and had recalled, without prompting, meeting her that day with Jenny and the fact that she was an artist. Rose had been flattered, and glad that she had called to offer her condolences. She knew from experience that it helped in the months to come, that comfort was taken from the kind words of friends and people whom you hardly knew. It had taken her a long time to realise how hard these words were to say, that the platitudes were meant despite being what they were – how else could anyone really express what they felt for the bereaved? And how much easier it was to ignore the one suffering.
At least he has Angela, Rose thought. And they did seem well suited, comfortable together,
if an unlikely pair. From the little Rose knew of him via Jenny and Maddy she had gained the impression that Alec expected people living under his roof to obey him. Angela, however, appeared to have made him more biddable and had an air of being able to do more or less as she pleased.
Alec had been more open with Rose than she had anticipated. She was a virtual stranger, but that might have made it easier for him to talk, especially as she saw him as a man who did not waste words. But Rose was unaware that the brandy, which he was not used to, had loosened his tongue.
She ran a hand through her hair, tangled by the wind because she had left it loose. A faint smell of meat and vegetables escaped from the oven and made her mouth water but the casserole would not be hot enough yet.
With only the hum of the fridge and the low buzzing of the fluorescent tube for company, Rose sipped a second glass of wine.
Did Renata Trevaskis, or Manders, or whatever she might now be calling herself, know that the daughter she had abandoned was dead? Alec Manders had more or less told her the same thing as Maddy. Renata had taken to drink and running around with other men and had finally
run off altogether with one of them. Alec had received one letter giving little more information than her address.
‘I don’t know why she bothered,’ he said to Rose, ‘she never wrote again, not even to the child. Still, it saved a lot of trouble when it came to the divorce. The solicitors needed to know where to write and to advise her to get her own lawyer.’
After a six-year separation there had been no need for either party to attend court. There were no objections on either side and Renata had made no claim upon his money. She had also admitted that she had not set foot in the marital home during that time and that she had been cohabiting with someone else. He had told her all this spontaneously, as if glad to have an opportunity to talk about the past. It was noticeable that he had chosen to do so whilst Angela was out of the room.
Alec’s face had hardened when Rose asked if Jenny’s mother would be attending the funeral. She got the impression that Renata didn’t know. But perhaps after such a long time she had moved from the original address given and Alec had been unable to locate her.
The kitchen was becoming very warm. Rose
turned off the gas, slipped on her oven gloves and, momentarily backing away from the blast of heat as she opened the oven door, bent her knees to reach for the smoked-glass dish with its bubbling contents.
She realised she was starving, which was a good sign, and looked forward to a slice of Doreen Clarke’s home-made saffron cake afterwards. It was rich in colour and full of fruit, and she would spread it generously with butter.
Nick Pascoe was more worried than his friends knew. He had been on edge ever since Jenny had disappeared and he knew it didn’t look good for him. He had lied to the police and he had lied to Rose. And although Maddy was the last known person to have seen Jenny alive as far as the police were concerned, he knew better. But he was in any case the last person known to have spoken to her. And he had made no secret of the fact that they had argued.
Rose seemed to have cooled towards him but whether this was because she was upset over Jenny’s death or because she had heard what he had tried to keep from her, he didn’t know. Maybe she was simply hurt because Jenny had been with him that night. At least she hadn’t dropped him
altogether. He knew little of Rose’s past, only that she had been married, happily married, but the name Jack Pearce had cropped up often enough for Nick to have drawn the correct conclusion. If his assessment of her was accurate, Rose was a truthful, open and sensible woman, and certainly not prone to histrionics as Jenny had been. But he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth.
On Wednesday, unable to concentrate, Nick mooched about the bedroom he used as his studio for most of the long, wet day, assessing his work and finally choosing the last two paintings for the exhibition. The rain hammered on the corrugated iron roof of the bathroom extension below him. Less than thirty years ago these cottages had only had a stone sink with a cold tap in the kitchen. An outside lavatory had once stood at the end of each small back yard but since the modernisation of the row they now acted as storage sheds.
Normally Nick found the sound of rain soothing: today its constant staccato beat in time with his jumping nerves. The telephone receiver sat quietly on its cradle, although most of his friends knew he rarely answered it when he was working and left their calls until after six. Today he could have done with some company. His hands were shaking and did not
feel as though they belonged to him. Angrily, he pulled on a leather jacket, closed the door of the cottage and walked down the hill to the harbour. The tide was out. A few small boats lay at an angle waiting to be righted by the incoming tide. The fine wet sand lay in hard rippled ridges in which herring-gulls left their footprints as they stalked aggressively across them. Far out to sea a beam-trawler cut through the swell, white spray sweeping over its bows. It would dip and roll a lot more once it was further out to sea. The smell of brine was mingled with that of wet tarpaulin and frying onions from one of the cafes. With his hands in his pockets Nick walked around as far as the lighthouse, breathing deeply as if he could clear the clutter in his mind. The rain was heavier than he had realised. His jeans clung to his legs stiffly and chafed. He ought to go home.
In dry clothes he stood by the telephone, hesitating before dialling Rose’s number. She might be working and he would feel bad if he disturbed her. She had made it clear she was not prepared to see him before the weekend. Three times he lifted the receiver, three times he decided against calling her.
What the hell’s wrong with me? Nick thought. It’s more than Jenny and more than the weather
and I’m acting like a petulant child. It struck him that he might be just that, albeit in an adult body. No attempt had ever been made to curb his selfish streak. He also had a deep-seated fear that he wasn’t quite up to the mark and this caused him either to withdraw or to behave badly towards people whom he liked.
Although he was lucky enough to have been recognised during his lifetime he was far from sure his talent would outlive him. Which was worse? To die unknown then become famous when it was too late to matter, or to fear that your life’s work would be forgotten once you were no longer around?
He did try to minimise the violent mood swings from which he suffered but perhaps other artists also underwent periods of self-doubt followed by bursts of euphoria. Could Rose Trevelyan cope with his moods? More to the point, could he cope with her? He was not used to her total independence and straightforward ways. Being the sort of man who, when he wanted something, had to have it immediately also meant the reverse applied. He was capable of rejecting whatever he had desired just as quickly. Jenny had not been malleable, far from it, but in retrospect Nick saw that he had been so
busy double-guessing her that his own feelings had been put on hold.