Framed in Cornwall (16 page)

Rose smiled, touched by the kind offer, but she did not have the heart to say that there was no way she would give one of Dorothy’s cats house room. ‘Thank you. But I’m used to being on my own and I go out a lot. It wouldn’t be fair. They’re happier out in the country.’

As they drove down to the station Rose chatted casually about the following day, wanting to make sure Martin understood exactly what was to take place.

‘Mr Meecham might be there,’ he said. ‘He used to come up and talk to Mother. He’s got someone dead as well. Marigold.’ Martin gave a small giggle. ‘Silly name. Mother always reckoned she weren’t his sister. Why would he say she was if it weren’t true? Seems daft to me.’ His face was flushed. He was unused to making conversation and felt he might have said too much.
Nothing Dorothy told him was ever repeated but it was somehow all right to tell Mrs Trevelyan.

‘She told you that?’ Rose took her eyes briefly from the road.

‘’Ezz, course she did. Who else would tell me? Mother always talked to me, I reckon she thought I wasn’t listening half the time. She knew lots of things, did Mother. She knew Marigold wasn’t no Cornishwoman.’

‘She wasn’t?’

‘No. Couldn’t understand it myself. I knew Mr Hinkston wasn’t from round these parts, ’twas obvious, but I wouldn’t have known about Marigold. Mother did. She said to me, “if that’s not a Plymouth accent, I don’t know what is.”’ He nodded several times, pleased with his fairly accurate mimicry of Dorothy’s voice.

Plymouth. The accent was a lot different, just as local accents varied in different parts of Cornwall. If Dorothy had spotted it then others must have done too. Was that what Doreen Clarke had alluded to? ‘Are you sure?’

‘Course I’m sure. Mother was never wrong. She said it weren’t broad because Marigold had picked up the way we do talk, but she knew, Mother knew.’

All thoughts of forgetting her theory were wiped out. This new information gave her something to work on. But surely it would be impractical, if not impossible to go searching in Plymouth. Or would it? A perusal of the telephone directory for Heaths could do no harm, it covered the whole of Cornwall and Plymouth. If that failed it really would be the end of it.

Rose made a quick calculation. Marigold had been younger than Rose and both Rose’s parents were still alive, which reminded her she must ring them. It had been over a week since she had last done so. She smiled as she thought of their busy lives. Unlike many of their contemporaries retirement had not made them less active. They treated it as an opportunity to do all the things they previously did not have time for and they were rarely to be found at home. So far they had both been spared the inconvenience of the infirmities of the elderly and she hoped it would remain that way. They were close, but not in a cloying way. After David died they had done all they could
before returning home. It was Laura who had threatened to get them back down if Rose didn’t start living again. For a long time they had insisted upon a daily telephone call, made by one of her parents each evening. Four Christmases they had given up to be with her. Until the last one. Then they had taken a cruise, happy in the knowledge that Rose was to be spending the day with Jack Pearce.

There was a strong smell of kelp in the air as they reached the Promenade. A wind had picked up and was drying the brown weed where it lay in heaped piles along the beach, washed up by the high tides.

She saw Martin on to the bus then went home. There was a lot to think about, including Gwen’s visit to Dorothy’s house, and she wondered if she had been gullible in taking Bradley Hinkston at face value. Wasn’t he a little too urbane, too sure of himself? And what ready replies he had had to all their questions.

DI Jack Pearce had done all he could and was becoming more and more convinced that he was wasting time on a matter which did not merit it. Roy Phelps had now also been questioned by the Avon police.

Jack ran through Phelps’s statement once more. Both he and Hinkston claimed the former had not been near the Pengelly premises. More than likely this was true otherwise Phelps could have been used to alibi Hinkston. Once, or if, the cheque came to light then the picture might be a little clearer.

Half-way through the morning he received a call from Dorothy’s bank manager. ‘I only became aware of it today,’ he told Jack, ‘but Mrs Pengelly had a meeting with our financial adviser on Thursday afternoon. It was arranged rather hurriedly but he managed to squeeze her in. Apparently she was in the process of setting up a trust fund for her younger son, Martin, using the cheque you were inquiring about. We have a copy of the forms with her signature on but the papers from the trustees won’t yet have reached her address. Mr Rowe, that’s our financial adviser, is here with me now if you want a word with him.’

Jack did, but he only received confirmation of what he had just been told. Mr Rowe, he thought after the call was over. It was a common enough name in Cornwall but it still had the power to disrupt a good mood. He believed Rose when she said there was only friendship between herself and Barry, but what Jack envied was the long-standing relationship, the years which the two of them had had to get to know one another. He was, he supposed, plain jealous but he could not expect her to stop seeing Barry. At least he had the answer to the missing cheque, but why Dorothy Pengelly had gone about things in such an unusual manner was beyond him. Surely people set up trust funds when their children were small? Then he began to understand. To make the necessary arrangements had meant selling off her valuables. Dorothy had probably wanted to enjoy them for as long as she could and only as she reached what soon would naturally have been the end of her life did she decide to provide for Martin in this way. Martin would not be able to handle a large sum of money, nor would he have known how to go about selling the house contents. Even if he had done so there was the danger of his brother, or his brother’s wife, persuading or cheating him out of his inheritance. This way Martin was guaranteed an income that could not be misused by himself or Peter. Another point crossed Jack’s mind. Rose had said that Dorothy was concerned about the amount of alcohol Martin sometimes consumed. A regular income would prevent him blowing the money on drink in a few years whilst ensuring her son’s needs were met for the rest of his life. Another motive out of the window.

So what next? As he ran a hand through his dark hair Jack realised it needed cutting. Too often lately the job seemed to come before all other things, especially Rose. Not that she complained. Not that she seems to care at all, he added silently but bitterly. ‘What next is that I forget the whole thing.’ The words were addressed to the empty room in which he was sitting. Hinkston and Phelps were surely in the clear; Dorothy Pengelly’s death might have been untimely but it no longer seemed suspicious.

It was after six before he got the chance to ring Rose. His
stomach knotted with disappointment when he heard the click of the answering machine. He was missing her more than he liked to admit. He was about to leave a message when he heard what he thought sounded like ‘Oh, bugger’ over the top of the recording. Then ‘Hold on.’ He smiled as he pictured Rose running down the stairs to answer the call but getting there too late. The line cleared. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, it’s me.’

‘Ah, Jack.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m sorry about that, I forgot the stupid thing was still on.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

There were times when he wanted to shake her. She sounded so offhand and not in the least pleased to hear from him. He could not recall knowing a more infuriating female. ‘Are you free tonight?’

‘Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing. You see, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘Oh?’

‘Not on the phone. Can I meet you somewhere?’

‘Yes,’ he said as his stomach churned. ‘Wherever you like.’

Somewhere quiet, Rose thought, somewhere where we won’t come across any of the numerous people we know between us. But in West Penwith that was almost impossible. In the end she decided on the Cutty Sark in Marazion. Jack agreed to be there at eight. Whatever happened he would not be late.

Later, under the shower, he felt as though his life was on the line. Unlike Rose he did not possess intuition or what was often referred to as a sixth sense, but that evening Jack would have bet money on what she was going to tell him.

Rose was nervous, unable to think of the best way of breaking the news. There is no best way, she decided, I’ll have to take it as it comes. Beneath her anxiety was the anticipation of the dinner with Stella and Daniel and the knowledge of her next move as far as Dorothy was concerned. I still have the keys, she thought, but she was reluctant to use them. It had to be more
than coincidence that after each visit to the house she had received an anonymous call. Someone was watching the place. Her pulse raced. Or me, she amended.

But crowning everything was the sight of the canvas, primed and ready for her to start work.

At seven thirty she went out to the car. It was a balmy evening, the wind had dropped and the sky was clear. It would not be too long before the clocks went back and the rhythms of winter were set in motion.

Because she was early, Rose left the car in the car-park some way down the road from the pub and strolled, hands in the pockets of her jacket, up towards it. People were eating at the polished wood tables at the front of the premises but over their heads she saw Jack standing against the bar which ran at right angles to the door. She swallowed.

‘Dry white wine?’ he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

‘Please. With soda.’

Having paid for the drinks Jack turned to face her. ‘Well, Rose?’ Towering over her all he could see was the top of her head because she was studying the contents of her glass.

She sighed, shoulders drooping, before she met his eye. ‘Jack, I’m sorry. I’d like us to be friends but …’

‘I see. So it was just a fling.’ His voice was like ice.

‘No, it wasn’t that, it was much more than that.’ She felt near to tears seeing the pain and bitterness in his face. ‘I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. You see, after David I thought there’d never be anyone else. And then I met you and you proved me wrong.’

Jack nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I see. I was the trial run, the practice before you got back into the swing of things. Thank you so much for telling me.’ He threw back his drink, emptying the glass. ‘Well, sod you, Rose Trevelyan.’

‘Jack, wait, I’m scared.’ Rose spoke quietly but it was too late. His glass was on the bar and there was an empty space beside her. Briefly his large frame filled the doorway and then he was gone, a few heads turning inquisitively to follow his departure.

Rose smiled stiffly at the barmaid who could not have helped but overhear their conversation then she finished her drink,
taking her time because she did not want anyone to see how upset she was.

As she drove back to Newlyn a few spots of rain hit the windscreen but she would be home before it started in earnest. Jack, she thought, would no longer bother about Dorothy Pengelly. All the time she had believed he had taken an interest only because she, Rose, was involved. Suicide. And why not? Except, through her own foolishness, she had not told Jack about the phone calls. Laura was right, they proved there was more to it than that. It’s up to me now, she thought, standing in the space between the parked car and the kitchen door. Heedless of the rain she was unwilling to enter the house just yet. She inhaled deeply. The air smelled different. There was the usual salt tang and the rich smell of damp earth but there was something else. Rose realised it was the scent of freedom.

Marigold was at peace. Fred, with the assistance of some of his customers, had had to organise drinks and sandwiches in the function room of an hotel in Hayle. He would not have bothered but the two women who came to help serve in the shop had been shocked and told him it was expected. It was ironical to be paying for the sort of food he could have provided from the shop but he had had no intention of inviting people back to the flat.

The day after the funeral he felt exhausted, as if he had been awake for many more nights, but sleep eluded him.

Tomorrow was Dorothy’s funeral but he would not be attending. It was too soon after Marigold’s for it to mean anything.

With a jolt he realised the relevance of this. His face, which for so long had been creased with misery, altered. What he had started had been a waste of time. It didn’t matter now. Whatever Dorothy had in the house didn’t matter, no one could possibly find out now. The knowledge should have brought comfort but as the hours passed it had the opposite effect. He required certain knowledge and he wouldn’t rest until he had it.

Rose, too, tossed and turned. She felt bad about Jack but her life was changing. Ever since she had arrived home from Marazion she had been expecting him to ring. He had not. Perhaps he remembered it was Dorothy’s funeral the next day and thought better of causing an argument.

Her body heavy with lack of sleep she dragged herself out of bed in the morning. What she was about to do was against her better judgement but for Dorothy’s sake she would do it.

Half an hour before she was due to pick up Martin and Jobber she pulled up outside Dorothy’s front door and let herself into the house. Standing still she listened. She was alone and there had been no sign of life outside. Holding her breath she opened the drawer beside the sink in the kitchen. There was the envelope she had seen Dorothy place there. She picked it up. It was sealed and her own name, in Dorothy’s spindly writing, was on the front. ‘Well, well,’ Rose said as she slipped it into her handbag. There was no time to think about it now.

Martin was waiting anxiously at the end of the lane when Rose’s Mini came into sight. He knew what to expect but he could not have faced it alone. The anger was still there, burning away inside him, but Jobber had said that that was all right, that soon it would go. He was very glad that Mrs Trevelyan would be with them, nothing could go wrong. The only other funeral he had attended had been that of his father but he was too young to remember anything other man the sun which had beaten down on his uncovered head and the solemnness of the adults which had seemed out of place on such a lovely day.

Rose saw Martin standing apprehensively in the gateway. It seemed impossible that it was only yesterday afternoon he had come to her house with all that had intervened. She had returned from dropping him at the bus station and gone straight up to the
attic to attend to some paperwork, forgetting to switch the answering machine off. When she ran down to intercept the call which she had hoped would be from one of her new acquaintances it had been Jack. As soon as she had heard his voice she had known that the time for procrastination was over. There had been no word from him since.

Rose waved and tried to smile, putting herself in Martin’s position. ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see,’ she told him as she got out to let him into the back seat. ‘Where’s Jobber?’

‘He’s just coming.’

Rose got back behind the wheel. Without anyone suggesting it Martin had dressed in grey trousers, a white shirt and a tie. She had no idea where the tie had come from but guessed it was an old one of Jobber ’s. Over this he wore a waxed jacket which was the only coat he possessed. The sky was a clear blue but a cold wind blew from the east. Rose suddenly realised that the weather was irrelevant, Dorothy was being cremated, they would not be out in the open.

‘Ah, here he is.’

Jobber walked down from the farmhouse towards them, his bent legs working quickly. He, too, was dressed in his best clothes, in his case a dark suit, shiny with age. Rose was surprised to notice the black tie and armband. She did not realise that people still wore them.

‘Morning,’ he said solemnly.

‘Hello, Jobber,’ she replied as he got into the front passenger seat. She did not know which of the two men looked the more despondent. ‘Shall we go?’ It was an inane question, only intended to break the tension but no one answered.

At first they thought that Dorothy’s funeral had attracted a crowd until they realised that the mourners milling around were from the previous service and had gathered to look at the flowers which were laid out for inspection. Their own party consisted of the three of them, Peter and Gwen, and two elderly strangers Rose did not know. There was no sign of Dorothy’s grandchildren. At the last minute Doreen Clarke hustled into one of the pews, her face red beneath her tea-cosy hat. ‘I managed to get an hour off,’ she whispered as the music stopped playing.

‘’Tis a sad day,’ Jobber said, wiping his eyes when they filed out. ‘Are you all right, boy?’

Martin nodded. He seemed stunned.

After the short service Peter came over to them and thanked them for coming then, after a noticeable hesitation, invited them back to the house. Rose did not know what to say. She had provided the transport, if she drove Jobber and Martin back to Hayle who would take them home? It was Peter’s duty to see to it but she doubted if he would.

Jobber met Rose’s eyes and gave a small shake of the head before he looked at Martin. ‘Do ’e want to go back to your brother’s?’

‘Of course he does,’ Gwen said, taking his arm.

‘No. I’m going along with Mrs Trevelyan.’

‘Are you sure?’ Rose asked, noticing the disparaging look Gwen gave her, as if she alone was responsible for Martin’s decision. Peter showed little interest in the interchange. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his skin seemed to be sagging. He stared into the distance somewhere above their heads. Gwen’s attitude was entirely different. She seemed brisk and efficient, trying to organise people, but Rose noticed she was trembling and unable to meet anyone’s eye.

In the car Rose suggested that they ought to do something in the way of seeing Dorothy off. She invited Jobber and Martin back to her cottage.

‘Naw. ’Tis out of the way, girl. You both come back to me. I’ve got a drop to drink and Angela’s there with the kiddie, she can soon knock some sandwiches together.’

Rose had not been inside the farmhouse before. It was warm and comfortable and not a bit as she had imagined it to be from the outside. The furnishings were shabby but it was a home, one which was loved and lived in. Star was livelier than she had ever seen her. She got out of her basket clumsily and licked Jobber’s and Martin’s hands. George growled, which made Rose smile. Something was as it should be. The Jack Russell had been adopted into farming life in advance, Rose suspected, of Martin’s joining them.

‘I heard they was wanting to talk to Mrs Pengelly again,’
Jobber commented innocently as he poured three glasses of port. ‘They say ’er car was seen up at your mother’s place the same day as she died.’ The words were addressed to Martin but Rose knew they were meant for her. She supposed by ‘they’, Jobber meant the police but she had no idea how he came by the information. That was one of the quirks about Cornwall, everyone seemed to know everything without actually being told. It was as if knowledge was absorbed by osmosis. But this piece of information did not fit in with the picture she was building up. Was she so wrong, was it Gwen Pengelly who was watching her?

Rose stayed for only half an hour. The port was strong and she had to get the car home and catch up with some work. Martin was having supper with Jobber so she knew he would be in safe hands for what was probably the worst day of his life.

Once home Rose felt the sudden need of someone to talk to. She rang Barry. ‘Are you busy?’

‘No. Hardly anyone about today, surprising as it’s turned out fine. Mind, it’s bloody cold in the wind. And you know I’m never too busy for you, Rosie.’

How she wished that Barry would not make his feelings so obvious. He was bound to gloat when he heard about Jack.

‘How did it go this morning?’

‘As well as these things can. There were only a few of us there.’

‘I think you need a bit of cheering up. Look, let me take you out tonight. Put your glad-rags on and we’ll go and have a decent meal somewhere.’ And please don’t say you’ve already arranged to meet Jack, he prayed.

‘I’d love that. Thank you, Barry.’ They arranged a time and she hung up, picturing him in his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up as he worked his way through the ever-increasing mound of paperwork which littered his desk in the back office. He reminded her at times of an absent-minded professor. Perhaps it was the thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses which did it. He’s a good friend to have, she thought, as she settled down to some paperwork of her own.

Barry’s main downfall was the lack of a sense of humour. He
took life and himself too seriously, which was the opposite of what Jack had accused her of. But that evening he excelled himself. Sensing Rose’s grief over Dorothy and something else he was unable to define, Barry went out of his way to entertain her and he managed to succeed.

‘So, what plans for the immediate future?’ he asked as he helped her on with her coat prior to taking her home.

‘I’m having a shopping trip to Plymouth. It’s ages since I’ve done that.’

Barry knew Rose’s aversion to shopping but refrained from commenting. Perhaps Jack was taking her out for the day which might make it more appealing. He did not want to know. When she changed the subject he decided he was wrong, that Rose was probably off on one of her crusades, and he wanted to know even less about that. Of course, it might all be innocent; Rose rarely bought new clothes but perhaps the trip was intended to cheer herself up after losing a friend. At least he could credit himself with having helped a little in that direction.

Neither of them mentioned Jack. Rose knew that to make a point of explaining the situation would only lead Barry to build up his hopes. She thanked him for the meal and left him wondering what was going through her mind.

Thursday morning dawned crisp and bright. Too crisp for September. Rose shivered as she pulled her dressing-gown around her waist and belted it tightly before closing the bedroom window. Twisting a towelling band around her hair she went downstairs.

In the garden the leaves were beginning to show signs of red and gold. Autumn was usually late in Cornwall, but not that year. The climate, despite the rainfall, was suitable for subtropical plants to flourish. Rose could only ever recall one occasion where frost had damaged them.

While the water trickled through the coffee machine she fingered the envelope which still lay on the table. Addressed to herself it contained no letter, only a street map. A few days ago
it would have meant nothing, now it told her that her suspicions were correct. That Dorothy had left her a message, cryptic though it might be.

Plymouth, she thought, as she gazed out upon the now tidy garden. There were plenty of trains and there was no point in going through an endurance test with the car. She checked her timetable and picked an early one. Penzance being the terminus there would be plenty of seats. Half an hour later she set off on foot, enjoying the level walk along the Promenade and the crisp wind in her hair.

She bought a day return ticket and a coffee to drink on the train. For the first half-hour she looked out of the window, emptying her mind of all that had gone before that week. The sea was rolling in over the sands of Marazion beach. Shallow breakers with white crests broke along the shore. The causeway leading out to the Mount was still covered. Later, when the tide turned, people would be able to walk across.

Rose had made sure her credit card and cheque book were in her handbag. Whatever else happened that day she was determined to buy some more new clothes. But before she did that she was having coffee with Audrey Heath.

The simplicity with which she had found Marigold’s mother had been astonishing. Her number had been listed in the telephone directory, although it was not the first Heath she had rung. She was not certain who Mrs Heath believed her to be. Rose had been vague over the telephone and allowed her to draw her own conclusions. Having ascertained that she was related to Marigold Heath, and Rose did not think there could be two people of that name, she had said she wanted to ask her some questions. Mrs Heath had said she would be pleased to talk about her daughter but, in her own way, had been as enigmatic as Rose.

The train pulled into Bodmin Parkway before Rose realised where they were. It would not be long now. Mrs Heath lived in St Budeaux, on the outskirts of Plymouth, but the Inter-City train on which Rose was travelling passed through the small station there without stopping. This meant catching a local train or getting a taxi as she was uncertain of the bus routes.

Loud tannoy announcements greeted Rose as she stepped on to the platform. Hurrying across the brightly lit concourse she had to swerve to avoid passengers gazing up at the arrival and departure screens. Outside a row of black cabs stood waiting. The driver of the front one was reading a paper but he reached out of the window and behind him to open the door without looking up as if he had sensed Rose’s arrival. She gave him the address and folded herself into the back seat. The driver chatted as he negotiated the city traffic. She was only half listening because they were driving down streets she did not know and she was curious, taking everything in.

Soon she was knocking nervously on Mrs Heath’s front door. The house was identical to the others which lined the road. Muffled footsteps were followed by the sound of a bolt being drawn. A round face peered out through a gap of a few inches before the door was opened fully. ‘Mrs Trevelyan? You found me all right then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on in. I didn’t know what to think when you rang, but if it’s to do with Marigold, well, I thought it was time I knew.’ The Devonshire vowels were rounded, the speech slower and more drawn out than Rose was used to hearing. She did not have a good ear for accents but the difference was obvious. If Marigold had retained a trace of her origins then Dorothy would not have missed it.

She followed Mrs Heath down a narrow hallway, the carpet of which was protected by a clear plastic runner. There was to be no formality, she was shown into the kitchen. It was clean but untidy. A bottle of milk stood on the table alongside a plate of toast crumbs. Mrs Heath made no excuses nor did she remove the plate. ‘I more or less live out here. It’s warmer in the winter and I get a better reception on the telly. Take a seat. I’ll put the kettle on then we can have a chat.’

Audrey Heath tipped the used tea-bags from the pot into the sink. As the kettle boiled she lit a cigarette and offered Rose the packet. Rose accepted one, it was the brand she smoked. It was a useful prop, something with which to occupy herself as she
thought how best to approach the subject. It was quite clear that her hostess did not know her daughter was dead.