‘What’s her name?’ Rose had asked impatiently.
‘Josie Deveraux. At least, it was, she might have married.’
Rose had written it down, disappointed when Maddy went on to say, ‘She moved away ages ago.’
Sitting quietly at the end of a long day Rose felt extremely sorry for Renata Manders. Her domineering mother-in-law had alienated her from her family and she had been more or less forbidden to see what may have been her only friend.
When Rose had gone to St Ives that morning she found the house where Josie Deveraux used to live was now inhabited by an elderly couple who had never heard of her. She realised now that even if they had done so they were hardly likely to have answered the questions of a complete stranger.
Why she wanted to know about the Deveraux woman, Rose wasn’t sure, except it stemmed from her innate curiosity which would not be satisfied until she knew the whole story.
She had hoped the two women had kept in
touch. Deep down she wanted to hear that, if it wasn’t Renata they had found, things had worked out for her, that she was now happy.
Rose’s head ached. A dull thudding behind her temples made her nauseous. It was time for bed.
By morning her headache was worse. Rose regretted acceding to Laura’s wishes by opening the second bottle of wine. There was a heavy stillness in the air which did not help. As she watched, the grey canopy of the sky became sulphurous and then darkened. She realised that it was the weather rather than the wine which was responsible for how she felt. The bitter scent of the narcissi filled the room just as the first flash of lightning crackled over the bay. Seconds later thunder crashed and seemed to shake the house. The rain came suddenly, hammering down. Storms such as this had been known to roll around the bay for hours on end. Rose had intended going to Penzance to try to find something to wear for her party but for the moment it was impossible to go out.
The storm died down around eleven and the rain eased a little. She gave it half an hour then picked up her car keys and left the house.
The traffic was heavy and she joined the
slow crawl up through Market Jew Street where buses were at the stops on both sides of the road causing further delays.
Her expedition was unsuccessful. Being a size eight and only five feet two inches tall, Rose was swamped by most modern fashions. She put it down to the after-effects of the headache which made her feel uneasy, but she had the impression that something was wrong.
As she turned into her drive she noticed a van parked across the road. The driver’s face was turned away but she still recognised him. She quickly locked the car and went into the house, also locking the kitchen door, something she rarely did unless she was going out. Her heart was racing. Had she been right all along? She rang Jack immediately. Aware that she was gabbling she wondered if Jack had any idea what she was talking about.
‘Stay there. Don’t move,’ he told her. ‘I’m on my way.’
Minutes later there was a knock on the kitchen door. For a second Rose was filled with relief. It was too soon for Jack to have arrived but Laura had said she might call in with some paper plates and serviettes she had left over from her own Christmas preparations.
But on the other side of the glass stood Alec
Manders, rain running down his face. ‘Let me in,’ he mouthed.
Rose froze, mentally urging Jack to drive faster. She backed out into the hall, terrified by the anger in the man’s face. If she got to the front door she could reach the side of the house unseen and come out further down the drive below him. Then she would have a chance of making it to the road before he realised what was happening.
‘Oh, God.’ Her voice was hoarse. She had heard glass breaking. The key was on the inside of the kitchen door. If she had had the sense to remove it Alec Manders would have had to smash the wood which supported the four panes and she would have had more time.
In one movement she reached the front door and unlocked it. Grabbing the round, brass handle and the flat metal plate of the Yale, she heaved. The door didn’t budge. So recently she had broken a nail doing this and promised to do something about it. More rain had swollen the wood further. It was too late now.
‘Mrs Trevelyan.’ His voice was low and controlled and therefore all the more terrifying. ‘Why are you asking questions about me?’
He wanted to talk. Maybe that was all he wanted. ‘I’m not.’
‘You’ve been speaking to people in St Ives. You bothered an old couple who live near me. And you came to my house to offer your condolences which was just an excuse to poke your nose into my business. I know what you’re thinking and it isn’t true. And you’re not the only one. I didn’t kill my wife. She left me, you stupid bitch.’
Something about his words struck a chord. He had not denied killing Jenny. ‘Why did you break in?’ Rose knew she must keep him talking.
‘So
you’d
know what it feels like to have your privacy invaded. You’re in the phone book, it wasn’t hard to find you. What were you doing out at the mine?’
She knew then that she was right. Alec Manders, most probably through Jenny, had learnt that she was working there. ‘Painting.’
‘Painting.’ His voice was scornful as he took a step nearer.
She had her back to the door. To her left was a small table which held a plant pot. Beside it was an old walking-stick stand. All it contained was an umbrella. Rose reached for it as Alec simultaneously reached for her. She felt the heat of his breath on her face and, as she tried to swing away and he grabbed at her hair, she thought how clean he smelt.
There was a jolt of pain in her back. Opening her eyes Rose realised that she was on the floor, that what she had felt was herself falling. Alec was on top of her, one knee pressed into her stomach, pinning her down. The pain made her want to vomit. ‘I didn’t want to have to do this,’ she heard him say from a distance. ‘But I didn’t kill Renata.’
Weakly she raised her hand and brought the umbrella down on his head. It was the most ineffectual thing she had done in her life. It bounced off his thick hair causing him to jeer. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Trevelyan.’ He wrenched it from her and threw it down the hall, his knee still in place. Above Rose’s head the ceiling began to swim as she struggled for breath. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said, pulling her to her feet. Rose tried to kick out at his shins but he twisted her arm behind her. She felt it might snap. There’s still a chance, she thought, he hasn’t killed me yet and I don’t think he’ll do it here. I’ve got to play for time, to give Jack a chance to get here. She was convinced that her destiny also lay in that mine shaft.
There was glass all over the kitchen floor from where Alec had stuck his elbow through the pane. It scrunched beneath the soles of Rose’s
boots. They had almost reached the door but Alec pushed her sharply against the edge of the sink, her arm still bent behind her. With his spare hand he rummaged in drawers, cursing when he couldn’t find what he was looking for.
He has to tie me up, Rose realised. He has to do that before he can go and fetch the van. There was string upstairs, and whole rolls of strong cord with which she hung her pictures. Would he think of that? It would use up more time, he would have to take her up there with him, time in which Jack might arrive. Part of her mind was listening for cars but none had slowed. She sensed Alec was losing control of his temper. He yanked harder at her arm and she screamed in agony. ‘There’s string upstairs,’ she told him, unable to help herself. She would do anything to make the pain stop.
Halfway up the stairs she stumbled. What if Jack wasn’t coming? What if he was so fed up with her he couldn’t be bothered or he had decided she was making a fuss about nothing again? Tears were rolling down her face and her nose began to run. If he did turn up she vowed she would never, ever be horrible to him again.
A car door slammed and was echoed by
another. Downstairs there was a noise, quite a lot of noise, Rose thought.
‘Let her go.’ Jack took the stairs two at a time and twisted Alec around to face him. Rose fell awkwardly on the stair above but not before she had seen Jack raise his fist.
‘Sir!’ DS Green grabbed Alec’s hands, one then the other, and encircled his wrists with the cuffs he had pulled from his pocket. He turned to Jack with a glare. ‘It’s just as well you didn’t,’ he said.
Jack nodded. He had nearly lost it there, had almost broken the rule about least possible restraint, and all because of Rose Trevelyan. ‘Take him out to the car,’ he said gruffly, reaching for Rose’s arm.
Rose winced, staring at Jack uncomprehendingly as he got her upright with far more force than was necessary. Instead of gratitude she felt only disappointment. Hadn’t she just provided the necessary evidence for them to arrest the murderer? Why did she always rub Jack up the wrong way?
There were two uniformed officers downstairs. One offered to make Rose a cup of tea. ‘Thank you.’ She sat at the kitchen table, trembling. Jack ignored her until the tea was in front of her. ‘Tell us what happened,’ he said. ‘Not your
assumptions or any wild guesswork, just the facts as they relate to today.’
Rose did so, wishing she had a chance to show him she had been right. It did not take long.
‘Thank you. Now I suggest if Laura Penfold is busy you get your good friend Barry Rowe to come over.’
The way he spoke Barry’s name made Rose cringe. Inspector Jack Pearce could be truly obnoxious when he chose. ‘He’ll be delighted,’ she said spitefully, already having forgotten her earlier vow.
‘Come on.’ Jack nodded to the man who had made the tea, indicating that it was time to go. ‘And ring someone to take care of this,’ he added, pointing to the broken pane. ‘We’ve got to go. Your other friend, Mr Pascoe, has just been arrested.’
‘What?’ She looked startled. ‘You bastard,’ she hissed loudly enough for Jack to hear as he walked away. As he closed the door firmly another shard of glass fell to the floor.
On the last morning of the year Rose began to lay out the food and drink for the party, which no longer seemed like a good idea. Since Alec Manders had broken into her house there had been no word from Jack, officers she did not know had taken her statement. Nor was there any further news of Nick.
With all that had happened she wondered how many people would turn up. Certainly not Jenny and Nick and, by his silence, not Jack either. That a man had been arrested for the murder of Jennifer Manders had been given out on the news, that his name had been withheld was irrelevant. Everybody locally knew it was Nick.
Alec’s attack upon Rose convinced her that he had known of the presence of the woman in the mine shaft even if he hadn’t put her there. Why else would he have been so angry and determined to stop Rose asking further questions?
I must forget it, she told herself. She had been way out in her calculations and was relieved now that she had not had a chance to mention them to Jack.
Tomorrow was the start of another year, one she would be entering with the loss of three friends. Jenny was dead, Nick in prison and Jack had finally abandoned her. The last, she thought, was no more than she deserved yet this loss hurt her most of all.
At lunch time she walked down to Newlyn to buy the olives she had forgotten. What does Peter Dawson make of me? she thought as she stopped to count the fishing-boats in the harbour.
She had cancelled their dinner date after Alec’s unwelcome visit but had offered no explanation.
It was a mild day and the smell of fish hung in the air. Rose returned with the olives, reassured by the sight of her car in the drive. It had been returned as promised a week ago with the cursory comment that it would not be required again. Nick’s car had not been returned as far as she
was aware so she could only assume the worst: it had contained incriminating evidence and that was why he had been arrested. To someone of Rose’s temperament it was extremely frustrating not to know what was going on.
At six o’clock, satisfied that everything was ready, she ran a bath and tried to relax before spending some time on her hair and make-up. There was no new dress and the wardrobe didn’t hold out too much promise. In the end she chose a plain black velvet dress she had had for a number of years. Around her neck was the single strand of pearls David had bought her for no other reason, he had said, than because he loved her.
By eight thirty everyone Rose had expected had arrived, including Doreen and Cyril Clarke. Doreen was even more matronly in a tight-fitting brocade dress. ‘Leave it, do,’ she said to Cyril as he fidgeted with his tie. ‘I like a man to look smart,’ she added. Despite her views on ‘they people’ Doreen made it her business to speak to everyone from St Ives. Knowing she would be grilling them about their backgrounds and who they were related to caused Rose some amusement. She would be interested in Doreen’s opinion of them. That she would eventually hear it was certain.
Barry had turned up with a case of champagne which he suggested they put in the freezer half an hour before midnight as it would not all fit in the fridge. Rose was taken aback. He was thoughtful and kind but not renowned for such generous gestures. ‘I thought it was time I spent something of what I earned,’ he told her, kissing her cheek.
Drinks were flowing and Rose had turned up the music. When she turned around her mouth dropped open. Standing in the sitting-room doorway, a drink in his hand, was Nick Pascoe.
‘I can see you weren’t expecting me,’ he said with a smile.
He looks awful, Rose thought, as if he’s already served a prison sentence. It was also the first time she’d seen him dressed so smartly. He had not made the effort for Maddy’s do and Rose was unsure what to make of it. Over well-cut trousers he wore a cream silk shirt and a black velvet jacket as if by way of telepathy they’d chosen matching outfits. ‘They let you go? Well, obviously they did.’
‘It was a mistake. In retrospect I don’t blame them, there were things I should have said from the beginning.’
‘What made them think it was you?’ Rose blushed. Even at her own party, the first she had
hosted for many years, she still could not help interrogating a guest.
‘There was blood in my car. Jenny’s blood. And to make it worse it was on the back seat. It was useless trying to explain that she’d stepped on some glass when we were out one day. She never did wear shoes if she could help it. Anyway, it was a bad cut. I put her in the back of the car and told her to keep her foot up then I drove her to Treliske hospital. It required several stitches. I’d forgotten about it until now.’
Rose realised that such an injury would have shown up during the post-mortem. However, the police would not have let Nick go for that reason alone. Rose had gone over all the possibilities then turned them on their heads. None of her friends came out well in her analysis but she still doubted their guilt. Could it be that Alec Manders, who had had no compunction about smashing his way into her house and becoming violent, had killed one or both women? But what possible reason could he have for harming his own daughter? ‘Well, I’m really pleased you’re here, Nick.’
‘Are you, Rose?’
‘Yes.’ She was glad, but not in the way he might have imagined. He was extremely good-looking
and quite sexy with that question still lingering in his eyes, but she saw all this objectively now. She was glad but only because she had not wanted one of her friends to be guilty and, more selfishly, she had not wanted to be wrong. ‘I’d better circulate. And so had you. Just look at all the curious faces.’ Rose moved away before he had a chance to say anything more.
As Rose crossed the hall on her way to the kitchen to pour more drinks she saw Stella, who was on her way up to the bathroom. Her face was flushed. Rose hoped she had not drunk too much. Several minutes later, when the food was uncovered and people had been told to help themselves, there was still no sign of Stella.
Rose went upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Stella? Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Open the door. Please?’
Seconds later Stella did so. ‘Are you ill?’ Rose was shocked at the misery in her face. It was covered in red and white blotches and there were smudges of mascara under her eyes. ‘Come with me,’ she said, leading her to her bedroom. ‘Is it Daniel? Have you had a row?’
‘No.’ Stella’s voice was low. She sat on the
edge of the bed and laced her hands. The knuckles were white. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done.’
‘What do you mean?’ She sat beside her. If Stella needed to talk she would not do so with Rose looming over her judgementally.
‘I can’t understand what comes over me at times. Oh, Rose, why can’t I be happy like you?’
Rose did not answer. There was none to give. Happy? Yes, with David she had been. Then had come the cancer which had destroyed them both in different ways. Since that time she had made the best of life and had come to accept that peace was the most that she could hope for. Happy? No. But there were still moments of pleasure and times of laughter. ‘Was it you, Stella? Those screams at the mine?’
Stella still had not lifted her head. Now her lower lip was white as she bit it. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But why? Do you dislike me that much?’
‘No. No, of course I don’t. I just … I just couldn’t bear it, watching you go through something I achieved years ago. I wanted it all back; the first hint of success, the first exhibition, the first large cheque and the knowledge that the future was ahead of me. Once you’re successful you lose all that. You just end up treading water to stay where you are.’
‘But that’s not true, Stella, each painting is a new challenge.’
‘It sounds so feeble now,’ Stella continued, ignoring Rose’s comment, ‘but I just couldn’t cope with the competition. It’s hard enough with Daniel.’
‘Is that how you see it?’
‘He’s always been more talented than me, yet he’s far more relaxed about it.’
Poor Stella, Rose thought. With so many self-imposed obstacles life must be extremely difficult.
‘I’m back on medication again but it doesn’t seem to be working this time.’
Certain things fell into place. Stella’s nervous habits and the occasional lapses where her expression was vacant and she lost concentration were not due to artistic temperament but to a genuine psychiatric disorder, the cause of her mild paranoia. ‘But had I not returned to the mine, what would you have achieved? I’d have painted elsewhere, Stella, you wouldn’t have stopped me—’ But how far would she have taken it? Rose wondered with a shudder of fear.
‘That painting was so good. I knew it immediately you showed it to me even though it wasn’t finished then. I thought if I could stop you this time you might lose heart.’
She really is sick, Rose realised, and she probably ought not to be drinking on top of medication but perhaps the combination had prompted the admission. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I got the idea from Maddy. I knew she used tapes to practise accents. I recorded my own screams, right at the end of a blank tape, then I waited until I saw your car and set it going knowing there was at least forty minutes of silence until you heard the screams. I’ve lived here all my life, I knew exactly where to hide. Oh, Rose, what have I done?’
Rose handed her some tissues from the box on her dressing-table.
‘I had no idea you’d ring for help, really I didn’t.’
‘But why do it again?’
‘Nick told me you’d said you’d made a fool of yourself. I was certain you wouldn’t call out the emergency services a second time.’
Oh, Nick, you lied to me more than once, Rose thought. He had denied telling Stella. ‘Stella, tell me, did you leave the gallery that night after the preview?’ She was unbalanced enough to have done anything, including killing Jenny. Being jealous of Rose’s work was one thing, but being jealous of another woman in her husband’s bed
was another. When Stella did not answer Rose knew it was so. They had all, in their various ways, lied. She felt sick with disgust and near to tears herself. But what did any of it matter? She had done her duty by telling Jack all she knew – or, at least, most of it – and this evening was supposed to be a celebration. For a second she wished she could simply ask all of her guests, bar Barry Rowe, to leave. In Stella’s case she did not have to.
‘We’ll go now, Rose. I think it’s for the best. Will you tell the police?’
‘I don’t know, Stella, I honestly don’t know.’ And then Rose saw that not only had Stella lied about several things but she was also about the same age as the unknown female. Perhaps the whole story of wanting to damage Rose’s career was a further fabrication. Had she been too trusting? Did Stella prefer to admit to a spiteful trick rather than more serious reasons for not wanting anyone in the vicinity of the mine? Rose hated the whole business.
Somehow she got through the rest of the evening. At least her guests were enjoying themselves. Laura’s son had Barbara Phillips in fits of laughter and Nick Pascoe was dancing with Doreen Clarke who held herself stiffly,
keeping a good three inches between her body and Nick’s. Rose was tempted to go upstairs and get a camera. Laura, Maddy and Barry were in deep conversation in a corner and Peter Dawson, chatting to Mike Phillips, surveyed the room with an amused smile and winked at Rose as she carried out some paper plates. Daniel had made excuses for their early departure. No one, looking at Stella, could have doubted she felt unwell.
At midnight Barry poured the champagne and they toasted the New Year. The party finally broke up at two. Rose could hardly go back on her offer that those wishing to stay the night could do so.
Having settled Barbara and Mike Phillips in the spare bedroom and Peter Dawson on the settee with a sleeping bag and pillow, Rose stood in the kitchen surveying the detritus and wished Jack would get in touch soon. No one had heard what had happened to Alec Manders and there had been no further news bulletins regarding an arrest for either murder. But the more Rose thought about it the more confused she became. Nick had apparently been cleared but now Stella seemed a likely candidate. Yet deep down she had a feeling that it was Alec Manders who had put the woman down that shaft.
The first to wake, Rose recalled that she was still playing the role of hostess to three of her guests. Originally Nick had been intending to stay. Last night he been polite and friendly but had left around one. He had paid a lot of attention to Maddy but, to Rose’s amazement, Maddy had treated his advances with a casual nonchalance even though she agreed to share the same taxi home. Surprisingly, considering he was supposed to be her guest, Maddy had been even more blasé about Peter Dawson staying the night.
Washing and dressing quickly to leave the bathroom free for her guests, Rose went down to make coffee and light the grill. She had never possessed a toaster. Above, floorboards creaked as someone else went to the bathroom. Ten minutes later Barbara appeared, closely followed by Mike. ‘I hope you feel better than you look,’ Barbara commented unkindly to her husband, holding his jaw between finger and thumb the better to scrutinise him. ‘Ah, coffee. Wonderful.’ They sat at the table and all three turned when Peter appeared in the doorway. He wore only his shirt and a pair of underpants. Rose felt herself blush when her eyes dropped to his long muscular legs. He seemed quite unabashed at his half-dressed state.
‘I smelt the coffee,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. There was reddish stubble on his chin, interspersed with silvery grey which glinted beneath the overhead light.
Rose handed them each a mug and placed the sugar bowl and milk on the table.
‘Is the grill on for warmth or are we to be offered sustenance?’
Rose caught Barbara’s eye. Her friend was trying not to laugh. ‘Toast,’ Rose snapped. ‘I don’t have any bacon.’
‘Toast is fine.’
He had not mentioned their broken date. After the incident with Alec Manders she had only just remembered to ring him in time to prevent him setting off to meet her that evening; she had offered no excuse because she had not wished to tell a lie, but neither could she face talking about her ordeal. Barry had come over for an hour but had soon realised Rose wanted to be alone. As if the thought of him had made him materialise, he walked past the kitchen window. This time both Rose and Barbara could not suppress their grins as Barry adjusted his glasses and glared pointedly at Peter’s bare legs. ‘I came for the champagne glasses,’ he said.