Framed in Cornwall (4 page)

‘Got shot of him, have you?’ Dorothy cackled down the phone.

‘No. We still see each other.’

‘Time you was married then. I can’t understand you. With me it were all or nothing. Sorry, maid, take no notice of me.’

‘It’s all right. Really it is.’ Dorothy knew that for Rose, too, it was all or nothing. It had been with David. ‘I still don’t know how I feel about Jack.’

‘Early days yet, it’s not hardly a year, is it?’ Dorothy contradicted herself. ‘You’ll know, right enough. One day you’ll wake up and say he’s the right one or he isn’t. My, my, listen to that. Can you hear it down your way?’

Rose could. The wind had strengthened and an unexpected rattle of rain hit the window. ‘Yes. I hope the electricty doesn’t go off again.’ It was a common problem. ‘I must go, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘I’ll look forward to seeing ’e, maid.’

Rose hung up. She could already smell the familiar mixture of dogs and cigarettes and Pear’s soap which was Dorothy.

In the attic which she had had converted into a dark-room Rose developed two rolls of film and left them hanging in the drying cabinet prior to taking prints from them. Jack was coming over. He said he was tired and fancied a quiet night in but he was prepared to provide supper in the form of an Indian takeaway and some alcoholic refreshment Rose had taken pity on him and had offered to cook provided he brought the drinks.

‘And will I get to rest my weary head on your pillow?’ Jack had half teasingly wanted to know when he rang her. Despite his brashness and his inability to deal with certain matters tactfully he made up for his deficiencies with his offbeat humour
and Rose was aware that his show of masculine superiority was only a disguise for his need for reassurance. Jack Pearce, she thought, was as vulnerable as the next man. But do I really want a vulnerable man? was a question she often asked herself.

A crack of thunder made her jump and the rain became a torrent of water which streamed down the side of the house, taking with it mud from the flower beds. The tide was high. By now the waves would be breaking over the Promenade. Rose did not know whether she preferred the vibrant colours and heat of the summer or the violent but spectacular storms of winter.

She showered and washed her hair and changed into a dress, spraying her wrists and neck with perfume which Jack had bought for her last Christmas but which she rarely remembered to use.

Jack could be unpunctual when his job prevented him from being otherwise but tonight he arrived on time, sprinting around the side of the house to the kitchen door, the entrance which all her friends used. She let him in, water dripping from him on to the floor.

‘See, I didn’t forget.’ He kissed the top of her head as he placed a bulging bag bearing the logo of an off-licence on the table. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ He nodded towards her short-sleeved dress.

‘Not really.’ But soon the dress would be put away for the winter. The evenings were noticeably pulling in and twice in a week she had had to close the bedroom window at night. Jack did look tired but it did not detract from his dark good looks. In jeans and shirt and raincoat, left unbuttoned, his powerful body was shown to advantage. Beside him Rose felt tiny and was never able to get over her surprise at the way in which he seemed to fill a room. But Jack was also trying to fill the life she was building without David. She wasn’t quite sure how she had allowed it to happen.

The following morning Rose told Jack she was going to visit Dorothy. ‘I’m worried about her. She was a bit pale last time I saw her.’

‘Can’t you get her GP to call in and see her?’

‘I doubt if she’s got one. Besides, she’d be furious. God, look at the time. Push off, Jack, I’ve got loads to do.’ He was not on duty until the afternoon but she didn’t want him under her feet any longer. She was already regretting letting him stay.

‘Is that all the thanks I get for my superb performance last night?’

‘Oh, Jack.’ He had meant it as a joke but she knew he tried to please her in every way. What was missing was on her side alone.

‘I do believe you’re blushing, Mrs Trevelyan. I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.’ He bent to kiss her but something in her eyes warned him not to. ‘It’s all right, I’m going. Unwillingly, but I’m going. I’ll give you a ring later.’

She nodded and watched him leave, his bulk blocking the light from the kitchen window as he passed it.

It was going to be one of those days. No sooner had she washed the dishes which had been left after the previous night’s meal than Laura’s figure replaced Jack’s, although hers was of different dimensions. She too was taller than Rose but thin, naturally so. As she bounced up the path her corkscrew curls bobbed around her shoulders, restricted as they were by a towelling band.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long,’ Laura said, laughing because she had seen Rose’s dismayed expression. ‘I know you’re busy but as I was passing I thought I’d let you know that film we said we’d see is now on in Truro. Fancy going some time?’

Rose did not point out that it would have been easier to telephone but she did understand that on Trevor’s first day back at sea Laura felt the need for company. Her three children were grown up and had left home. Two of them had made her a grandmother which, looking at Laura, seemed hard to believe.

‘Yes. But not tonight. You might as well put the kettle on now you’re here.’

‘You obviously had company last night‚’ Laura said as she nudged Rose out of the way and ran the tap. ‘Was it the ever faithful Barry Rowe or the delectable Jack Pearce?’

For the second time that morning Rose blushed. Laura had not failed to notice that there were two sets of crockery and cutlery
on the draining-board and had probably guessed the reason why the dishes had not been seen to until just now.

‘No need to answer, your face says it all.’ Laura grinned again and creases formed in the tight skin of her face, but instead of ageing her they had the opposite effect. She reminded Rose of an oversized imp.

Rose did not begrudge her the time. Her friend had seen her through the months of David’s illness and the awful year which had followed his death. Not once had she told her to pull herself together and she had listened patiently throughout the stage where repetition becomes monotonous and most people get bored. For half an hour they chatted amiably then Laura said she must go.

Bradley Hinkston and Roy Phelps, his associate, had paid a visit to Hayle where they had taken bed and breakfast accommodation at a pub. Two days after their conversation with Martin Pengelly they were on their way back to Bristol where the business was based. Roy was driving the van although Bradley was none too comfortable in the passenger seat, preferring the comfort of his Jaguar.

‘It was worth it, then?’ Roy took his eyes off the motorway winding ahead of them for a split second. The van had no radio and Roy was not a man at home with silence.

‘Oh, yes. It was defintely worth it. The old dear’s got a treasure trove there.’ From the corner of his eye he saw Roy’s thin-lipped smile.

‘What’s she like? A proper Janner if her son’s anything to go by.’

Bradley’s arms were crossed. He raised a hand and smoothed his cheek with a forefinger. ‘No. Oh, she’s got the accent, all right, but I don’t think much escapes Mrs Pengelly’s notice.’

They had reached the M5 and both were anxious to be back in the city. Since his divorce Roy had lived alone, over the shop, an arrangement convenient to them both and to Bradley’s insurers who were pleased to have the rooms over the business occupied. The premises were not the sort that generally passed for an
antique shop. There were no oddments of china, no broken chairs and no boxes of junk scattered on the floor. The items he sold were genuine and well cared for. Mostly they consisted of large pieces of furniture along with the occasional bit of porcelain or silver. Everything was displayed under bright lights and there were grilles which pulled down over the windows at night. Roy was never sure if any of Bradley’s deals were crooked because he was not privy to them all, like the Pengelly woman, for instance. Still, it was best not to ask. One or two sales a week were enough to keep them both but they usually made far more than that. ‘What if she talks?’

‘Oh, she won’t talk, sunshine, I can guarantee that.’

They reached the outskirts of Bristol and were heading for the centre just as the rain that was sweeping from the west hit them. They drove past Temple Meads Station and continued on to the shop where they unloaded what they had managed to purchase in Cornwall.

‘Fancy a drink before I drop you off?’

Bradley nodded as he padlocked the door grille. ‘A gin and tonic would go down a treat. I can’t be long because I promised the wife I wouldn’t be late tonight.’ His voice was cultured, his manner urbane. ‘All in all a good trip, wouldn’t you say?’

Together they walked quickly through the city streets. The shops were closed but the traffic was still heavy. The rain hit the pavements with a steady hiss and the drops bounced up again. They began to walk faster.

After a single gin Bradley glanced at his watch and said it was time he was going. Roy drove him to his house in the suburbs which, he estimated, was worth more than he would ever be able to afford. He bore no grudges because he liked the man with his silvery hair and the twill trousers he favoured who was so very different from himself but who treated him like a father. But he felt unsettled that day. Within him was a sinking feeling that Bradley might have gone over the top back there in Cornwall. He wished he would confide more in him. No, he amended, there had been no need for confidences. Roy knew exactly what Bradley had planned to do.

Bradley’s wife welcomed him with an absent-minded kiss on
the cheek before carrying on preparing a tray of canapés. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, ‘but you can use the bathroom first.’

Bradley went upstairs anticipating an excellent meal.

As he shaved for the second time that day and got ready to receive their guests he mentally listed the deals he had made during his visit to the West Country and calculated how much money they would make. The Cornish, he thought, are a strange lot. But strangest of all had been the time he had spent in the company of Dorothy Pengelly.

Rose intended making a start on the wild flower sketches after she had seen Dorothy. She drove out of Penzance and joined the dual carriageway, taking a left at the roundabout.

The rain had eased off but the road was still wet and drops of moisture clung to the long grass in the verges, glittering in the sunshine. Behind her was St Michael’s Mount, Rose caught a glimpse of it in her rear mirror, and around her was countryside. It would be a nice day after all. But something was wrong, Rose knew it. David had once said she was more superstitious than the Cornish and that her sixth sense was developed enough for her to be classed as one of them. Please let him be wrong, she prayed as she neared Dorothy’s house.

There was no ferocious barking from George as she swung into the drive nor did Dorothy come to the door at the sound of the Mini’s engine. A car passed on the main road, but other than that there was silence. Not even a bird sang. Anxiety gripped her as she approached the front door. On the grass to one side of her a crow, busy shredding something with its beak, paused to glance at her then hopped a few paces away before flying off. The front door was slightly ajar. Rose stopped, her heart beating faster. She could hear something now, some faint sound coming from within the house. It might have been someone in pain. At least she would be able to do something about it if Dorothy had
fallen over. She knocked and called out but there was no response. Pushing open the door she called again. ‘Dorothy? It’s me. Rose.’

The sounds were coming from the kitchen. Rose hurried towards them then stood in the doorway trying to make sense of the scene before her. Dorothy lay on the floor, her head cradled in Martin’s lap. It was Martin she had heard. He was gently rocking his mother and making crooning noises as tears ran down his face. Star was asleep in her basket and George, normally so volatile, whimpered quietly, curled up in Dorothy’s armchair.

‘What’s happened? What’s happened to her?’ Martin asked Rose, seeming unsurprised to see her there.

‘I don’t know, Martin. Have you called an ambulance?’

He shook his head. Rose quickly took over. She bent over Dorothy and touched her. She was stone cold and her eyes were slits, the half-moons of her irises dull. Dorothy Pengelly was dead. Rose knew that at once. It was too late for an ambulance but she was not qualified to presume that. She rang for one anyway. Mike Phillips, she thought, Mike who had cared for David, he would tell her what she ought to do. No wonder Dorothy had been pale the other day, she had obviously been ill. Too late, Rose wished she had taken Jack’s advice and sent a doctor anyway.

One of the hospital switchboard operators bleeped Mike and he came to the phone quickly, knowing that Rose would not disturb him unless it was necessary.

‘Mike. My friend … Dorothy … oh, Mike, she’s dead.’

‘Stay calm, Rose. Have you rung for an ambulance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s her GP?’

‘She doesn’t have one.’

‘Look, I think you ought to call the police as well. The paramedics’ll probably do it anyway. If she’s always been fit the police surgeon will want to take a look at her.’

‘Thanks, Mike.’ Rose replaced the receiver feeling stupid to have telephoned but it had been reassuring just speaking to him.

Martin had not moved, he was still rocking Dorothy. She wondered whether she ought to make him some strong sweet
tea but felt a sense of repugnance at the idea of moving around Dorothy’s kitchen and using her things whilst she lay there on the floor.

It seemed a long time until she heard a vehicle turn into the driveway although it could not have been more than a few minutes. The police arrived first. She had contacted Camborne station as it was the nearest.

One of the PCs made a quick examination of Dorothy and nodded to his colleague who turned away and spoke into his lapel radio. Martin ignored them all.

‘Are you a relative?’

Rose shook her head. ‘A friend. Martin’s her son.’

They all stared at him. ‘There’ll be a doctor here soon. I think the lad needs attention too.’

The ambulance arrived, its siren shattering the subdued silence. The crew assessed the situation and saw that their services were unnecessary.

By the time the police surgeon had joined them the kitchen was crowded. ‘There’ll need to be a PM,’ he told Rose, realising that Martin was in no state to take in anything. ‘I’ll arrange for her body to be collected. Is there anywhere Martin can go?’

‘He can come back with me.’

‘Good. And I suggest you get his GP to have a look at him.’

Rose nodded. It would have to be her own. He could not be left alone now and she could not begin to think what the loss of his mother would do to him.

‘We’ll need to ask you some questions,’ one of the officers said. ‘And Mr Pengelly in due course.’

There was little Rose could tell them. She described the scene as she had come upon it and they were told they could leave. ‘What did she die from?’ Rose asked.

‘I’m not sure. Heart maybe?’ The surgeon shrugged. He wasn’t sure but there was a smell of alcohol and an empty paracetamol bottle which one of the police officers had picked up and shown him discreetly. The post-mortem would show if his suspicions were correct. It was not for him to blab to all and sundry that Dorothy Pengelly had taken her own life.

With the help of one of the policemen she got Martin to his
feet. Taking his arm she led him out to the car. Tall and big-boned as he was, he allowed himself to be gently settled into the front passenger seat. Rose took a quick look at him as she started the engine. His dark hair grew long over his collar, his face was tear-stained and his brown eyes were unseeing but Rose did not think he would do something stupid, like trying to jump out of the car while it was moving. ‘Martin?’ she tried tentatively, touching his arm. ‘We’re going back to my place. You can stay the night with me.’ Her voice was firmer now. She had to take control, not let her own grief surface until she was sure Martin was all right. There were still some of David’s things in the airing cupboard, it was ironic that it had taken another death for them to be put to use. Driving home she was glad that they would not be there to see Dorothy’s body taken away.

When Martin finally spoke his words frightened Rose. ‘She’ll be all right soon, won’t she?’ he asked, making it clear that he had no idea of the finality of it.

‘She’s dead, Martin,’ Rose said quietly, but she could not bring herself to say that she would never be coming back. Once they were safely at home she would try to get through to him.

She parked on the small concrete patch at the top of the path alongside the house and let them in. In her handbag were Dorothy’s spare keys which the police had told her to take as someone would need to feed the animals. She had told them that Martin lived elsewhere and that there was another son who needed to be informed. Thankfully, that would not be her job. As she placed the keys on top of the fridge tears filled her eyes. Shock had worn off and she felt the loss of her friend badly. With her back to Martin she waited until she was more in control until she turned to face him. She had noticed there were four keys on the ring, two Yale, two Chubb, and realised that she had two identical sets. Presumably Peter would have a third.

Tomorrow the police wanted to question Martin. Rose owed it to Dorothy to ensure that he was ready and able to face up to their questions. She pulled out a chair and sat next to him.

‘Peter,’ he said before she had a chance to begin. ‘You have to tell Peter.’

Rose nodded. It was a good sign. He understood that his
brother needed to know which meant he was aware that something was dreadfully wrong. ‘The police will go and see him, there’s nothing to worry about.’ Useless words, Rose knew better than most. But there were no words which could ease the pain or change the situation. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Dorothy had mentioned her anxiety on this count but these were exceptional circumstances. She barely remembered the three days after David’s funeral when she had locked herself in the house, refusing to answer the door or the telephone as she sat drinking one bottle of wine after another, unwashed and without food. The long months of nursing and the final days spent at the hospital had taken their toll. Only then did she allow herself the indulgence of obliteration. It was Laura who had finally shouted at her through the letter-box, saying that if she didn’t open the door she’d break the bloody thing down. If Martin now needed the temporary comfort of alcohol she would not deny him it.

‘I’d like some tea, please. Can I smoke?’

‘Of course you can.’ She got out the only ashtray she possessed and placed it on the table. Rose smoked occasionally but no longer got through a packet a day. As she made the tea with shaking hands she wondered if Dorothy had left a will. As far as she was aware there were no relatives other than her two sons. It was an uncharitable thought but she hoped that Peter and his wife did not hold another set of keys because she suspected they might remove anything of value before probate had been finalised.

Impossible to work now. Even if she’d been up to it Martin needed someone to be with him. He was, she realised as she placed his tea before him, the same size as Jack but he appeared to have shrunk somehow.

Catching sight of her wrist-watch she saw it was already mid-afternoon. Without asking if he was hungry Rose made some sandwiches but Martin did little more than take a few mouthfuls and crumble the bread between his fingers. His grief was plain to see but he seemed ill at ease. Rose watched him as she tried to eat her own sandwich. She had a habit of skipping meals and recently her jeans had become looser. She kicked off her canvas shoes and hooked her hair behind her ears. She must eat to
encourage Martin although she gagged on the bread, and then she had to get him to talk.

Without warning he stood up. ‘I think I killed her,’ he said. ‘I want to go home.’

At that moment the telephone rang. ‘Sit down, Martin. I won’t be a minute.’ Rose went to answer it, too dazed to think straight. It was Doreen Clarke, a woman she had met some time ago when she had been commissioned to take photographs of the house of a wealthy family. Doreen cleaned other people’s houses and was a great source of gossip, a pastime for which she was renowned. But surely even Doreen couldn’t have heard the news yet?

‘Rose, dear,’ she began, ‘I was wondering if you’d open the Christmas bazaar for us this year? I know it isn’t until December but you can’t leave these things until the last minute. Only, you see, we tried to get whatshisname, the MP, but he’s got other commitments and we can’t find anyone else who’s willing.’

Despite everything Rose felt a flicker of amusement. The two women’s initial dislike of each other had mellowed and turned into mutual respect until they had finally become friends. Doreen now considered her to be a minor celebrity but it was apparent that she was by no means first choice for the job. ‘What’s the date?’ Rose flicked through her diary knowing that she had nothing booked that far ahead. ‘Yes, that’s fine. But I hope people won’t be disappointed, I’m sure no one will know who I am.’

‘Of course they will,’ Doreen assured her firmly. ‘I’ll make sure your name’s on all the posters and in the adverts in the paper. Here, why don’t you bring along some of your stuff? You might make a sale or two?’

‘I’ll think about it. Doreen, I’ve got a visitor at the moment, I’ll have to go. Thanks for asking me.’ Rose replaced the receiver and went back to the kitchen. Martin hadn’t moved. He remained standing behind his chair, his large-knuckled hands gripping the back of it, his eyes staring. For a second Rose wondered if he was mad.

‘I don’t think you ought to be alone, Martin. Why not stay here tonight?’

‘Please, Mrs Trevelyan, I want to go home.’

‘I’ll drive you, but first you must tell me what you mean.’ Martin was frightened. Perhaps Dorothy had still been alive when he found her and he now realised he ought to have called for help.

‘I told ’un.’

‘Told who, Martin? I don’t understand you.’

‘They men.’

‘What men?’ She couldn’t guess how the police would deal with him.

‘In the pub.’ He clamped his mouth shut. ‘I want to go home.’

Rose hesitated then nodded. He was in shock, he didn’t know what he was talking about. Dorothy had told her how he drank too much, it was highly unlikely he’d remember anything he’d said to someone in the pub. Assessing him she saw that perhaps he was better on his own. Men like him, used to solitude and uncomfortable in other people’s homes, would heal quicker if left alone. Tomorrow she would go and talk to him again.

Reluctantly she drove him back, praying that she was doing the right thing. Martin had been so close to his mother that she feared for his state of mind. If anything happened to him it would be on her conscience for ever. Already she had ignored the advice to get a doctor to see him. It would be pointless, a doctor couldn’t bring Dorothy back, nor could he ease Martin’s pain. All he could do was prescribe pills to blot it out temporarily. Besides, she tried to reassure herself, she could not force a grown man to remain under her roof.

The working day was coming to a close and the traffic heading in the opposite direction was building up. Although there was little on her side of the road she got stuck behind a tractor piled high with bales of hay. It turned sharply into a farm gateway, the rear end of the trailer swinging behind it. The clouds were moving faster, building up from the west until they were banked in a grey mass. Rose wound up the window as the wind changed direction. On the slopes the heather was beginning to flower. Walking through it, hand in hand, were a couple. Had Martin ever had a girlfriend? she wondered. It would have been nice if there was someone other than herself to comfort him. She doubted his brother and his wife would trouble themselves.

Stopping as near to the caravan as she was able she watched him climb slowly up over the rough ground, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply at his sides. She had no idea what was going on in his head. For a second she had a maternal urge to run after him and hold him tightly but it would embarrass them both. When he had disappeared over the brow of the hill she turned the Mini around and went home to find another message on her answering machine. It was Barbara Phillips, the wife of Mike Phillips whom she had rung earlier in the day. ‘Rose, are you there? Never mind. It’s me, Barbara. Mike told me what happened. You poor tiling. Give me a ring when you can. Look, I know this isn’t a good time but I’m having a bit of a do to celebrate Mike’s fiftieth. Saturday week. You’ve got to be here, and I won’t take no for an answer. Ring me when you can. We’ll be thinking of you.’ Dear Barbara, who had during that awful year gently but persistently encouraged her to go out more but who now did so forcefully. Here was a chance to meet new people. I’ll go, Rose thought. Alone. No Jack and no Barry.