Framed in Cornwall (8 page)

‘All right, if you’re sure.’ She made tea and took out the mugs, pint pots that both Dorothy and her husband had favoured. ‘What you told me,’ she began, ‘about those men. We’re going to have to tell the police.’

‘They’ll lock us up, they buggers.’

Rose sipped her tea. By us he meant himself, and he might be right. ‘Martin, you don’t have to answer me but did your mother … well, was she short of money?’ It had only just occurred to her that Dorothy might have sold the painting and replaced it with the print by way of consolation.

‘No, ’er always said she’d got more than she could possibly need.’

‘All right, but we do have to let them know. If they need to ask you any questions I’ll stay with you, all right?’

‘I s’pose so. Ma said you was a sensible woman.’

Rose bent her head to hide an amused smile then stood and reached for the old-fashioned telephone. Jack wasn’t at Camborne nor was he at home. She could have informed someone else but it did not seem appropriate and they might not have any idea what she was talking about. It could wait an hour. Martin’s relief was obvious.

Rose looked around the kitchen and found a scrap of paper upon which she wrote her telephone number. ‘Ring me any time you like. If there’s anything at all you want, just let me know. Oh, if I’m out I’ve got an answering machine. All you have to do …’ Seeing me hurt expression on Martin’s face, Rose stopped.

‘It’s all right, Mrs Trevelyan, I aren’t stupid. Your phone number’s in the book and I know how to leave a message.’

Rose felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. How patronising she must have sounded. She would not compound her mistake by offering an apology. ‘That’s fine then,’ she said briskly. ‘Oh, and Martin, will you let me know about the funeral? I’d very much like to be there.’

‘She’d want you to be and no mistake. She said you was ’er friend.’

‘And she was mine.’ Rose looked away, afraid she might cry. ‘Don’t forget, if you need anything, let me know.’

‘I suppose Peter’ll see to the arrangements an’ that. He never trusts me to do anything.’

‘Yes, I expect he will. Shall we call the dogs in, it’s getting late?’

Martin stepped out of the back door into the rain and gave a long, low whistle which brought the dogs, one bounding a little painfully, the other scurrying, but both saturated, to the back door. He held them away whilst they shook themselves. Star went straight to her basket, George stared balefully at Dorothy’s chair then, reluctantly, leaped into it. He looked brighter now but Rose hoped not too bright to recall he was supposed to growl at visitors. She said goodbye to Martin and left him to lock up.

It was now impossible to sketch even under the protection of waterproofs and her golfing umbrella. The best of the light of a miserable day had already gone and the rain was falling in sheets, obscuring everything beyond a few yards’ distance. Rose drove home slowly, peering through the windscreen as the wipers did their best to clear the spray the traffic in front was throwing up. It was an afternoon to be spent in the attic where she would start on the watercolouring of some previous work. The northern light would be of no use today but the lamps which she had had fitted and which gave off the next best thing to daylight would have to suffice.

Sodden and wet-footed, Rose kicked off her shoes inside the kitchen door and hung her jacket on its hook in the pantry where it dripped over the floor. The fluorescent light buzzed as she flicked the switch and its brightness illuminated the room. Water
from the gutters gurgled down the drainpipe, rain lashed against the window and the sea rolled relentlessly towards the land. She seemed to be in a liquid world with wetness everywhere.

Leaving the kettle to boil she went up to shower, throwing her clothes into the wicker laundry basket. She would not be going out again so dressed only in underwear and a long towelling robe. Feeling rather like a schoolgirl playing truant she ignored the kettle which had already boiled and pulled a bottle of dry white wine from the fridge. Jack often made sarcastic remarks about her having more alcohol than food in store but, she thought, Jack could do the other thing. She poured a glassful and took a sip before carrying it upstairs where she succeeded in doing a couple of hours’ work uninterrupted.

Three small paintings complete Rose had the satisfaction of knowing that they were better than she had anticipated. The sky was lighter now. Without her noticing the rain had eased considerably and the blackest of the clouds had rolled eastwards. ‘Rain heading from the west,’ she muttered. Someone elsewhere was in for it. She conscientiously cleaned her brushes then went down to her bedroom to study the view because there might be a rainbow.

Fingers of sunlight lit up the white windmills which produced electricity on the hills far across the bay. It was not often she could see them. The sea was now aquamarine in the foreground and deeper blue in the distance. You are procrastinating, she told herself, you know you really ought to tell someone about Dorothy’s painting even if you do make a fool of yourself. Before ringing Jack’s direct line at Camborne she poured another glass of wine to give her courage. There was no answer. She sighed. But at least temporarily it solved the problem. Half an hour later she tried again. ‘It mightn’t mean anything, Jack, but –’

‘When you come out with things like that my nerves start jangling,’ he interrupted.

She could hear the smile in his voice but there was no sudden desire to see him although she knew that she must. ‘I think it might be better if we spoke face to face.’

‘Is that a veiled invitation, Mrs Trevelyan?’

‘It might be important,’ she snapped, sorry he had misinterpreted her words.

‘Put like that, I can hardly refuse. I won’t get away until eight, is that too late?’ His tone was mildly sarcastic.

‘No.’ Wearily she relented. ‘You can share my supper if you want.’

‘Is it something I like?’

‘For goodness’ sake, Jack, I –’

‘Only teasing. See you later.’ And with that he hung up.

Jack Pearce is no one’s fool, she thought, and although Rose liked to keep him at arm’s length, he was quite adept at the same game himself. She busied herself preparing the meal then remembered she wasn’t dressed. She did not want Jack to get the wrong idea. Remedying the situation she put on tan tailored trousers, a cream shirt and a brown cord waistcoat. She loosened her hair to brush it. There were waves where the band had constricted it and the dampness had dried and shaped it. Rose turned her head in front of the mirror and decided it looked quite nice.

It was a quarter to nine before Jack’s car pulled into the drive. She had poured him a glass of wine before he reached the kitchen door.

Fred Meecham sat at Marigold’s bedside holding her hand. She had been in a coma when he arrived but he whispered softly to her. The nurse had said she might be able to hear him. The words he used were gentle and loving and he carried on talking even after he knew she could no longer hear him.

‘Mr Meecham, come away now.’

‘What are you going to do with her?’

‘We’re going to put on a clean nightdress,’ the nurse explained tactfully. ‘I’m really sorry, you were so close to your sister, weren’t you?’ She touched his hand, knowing there was nothing he could say. ‘Is there someone we can telephone to take you home?’

Fred shook his head. Home. The word was meaningless now.
He shuffled out of the ward, turning back too late because the curtains had been redrawn around Marigold’s bed. No! he wanted to scream, but he knew it was no use. Down in the carpark he sat cocooned in the car watching the rain stream down the windscreen. It was as if with the final closing of Marigold’s eyes his own had been opened. He saw himself for the hypocrite he was, his whole life a lie. Yes, he believed in and prayed to God but he had broken many of the commandments. He took no comfort in the fact that none of it had been for himself; it did not lessen the wrongness of the deeds. Had Dorothy been right all along? Now was not the time to think of Dorothy.

He drove home and sat in the flat with the lights off, his head in his hands. If he had been a drinking man he reckoned he would have got drunk. But he wasn’t, it was one of the vices he did not have.

Later that evening when Fred went downstairs to answer the summons of the bell at the side of the shop door he initially thought that it might be a customer in urgent need of something. Then he wondered if his thoughts had somehow transmitted themselves to the rest of the world. Why else should the police be standing on his doorstep? All that other business was years ago.

‘What a great welcome. Cheers.’ He took a sip of wine. He had been expecting Rose to behave coldly towards him. Pulling out a chair he sat down and leaned back. Rose wondered what it was that made people more comfortable in her kitchen than anywhere else in the house. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what it is that might or might not be important?’ Quite relaxed, he crossed his legs.

Rose explained about the painting, adding the alternative possibilities she had worked out for herself.

‘But the others are still hanging, you say?’

‘Yes. And there’re a couple that are worth a few bob.’

Jack was thoughtful. ‘So why not take them all? Look, Rose, a thief isn’t going to bother to swap a painting.’

‘Why not? What if he knows Dorothy can’t see too well, what then?’

‘You have a point, but how would he have had access to her bedroom?’

‘You’re supposed to be the detective.’

‘Yes, but you think like one. Answer me this one, then. If the drugs were not self-administered, how come she didn’t notice them being forced down her throat or taste them in something or other?’

Rose shrugged expressively, causing her hair to fall forward. Jack reached out to push it back, touching her face as he did so. Rose’s head jerked up, startling Jack.

‘What is it?’

‘Alcohol.’

‘Alcohol?’

‘You said the police surgeon noticed the smell, I did too. Dorothy didn’t drink. Well, not really. A glass of sherry on special occasions. If someone gave her, say, whisky, she wouldn’t have noticed.’ Her face was animated. Whatever Jack Pearce decided, she was going to discover the truth. ‘Perhaps whoever it was didn’t mean to kill her, just knock her out for a while. Perhaps they didn’t realise she wasn’t used to drink or medication of any sort.’

Jack was only half listening. What had happened to the paracetamol bottle? If it had contained the means of Dorothy’s death there might be fingerprints. ‘Rose, as I said, I’d already decided to ask a few questions. I think I ought to start tonight. But tell me one thing, you’re certain that what you saw the first time was an original?’

‘Yes.’

Then it was worth a considerable sum and, with the way things were in the county at the moment, enough to consider murdering for. Fishing-boats were being decommissioned whilst foreign ships trawled British waters and the Government as well as the EU thumbed its nose, South Crofty, the last working tin mine, was on the verge of shutting down unless something truly drastic happened and the towns and villages that had relied
upon both industries were fast losing their identity as the once proud miners and fishermen became no more than statistics in the unemployment figures. Jack ground his teeth. And the beef crisis was causing farmers to tear their hair out. Their three main industries were being wiped out and Cornwall, his birthright, was being sanitised for the sake of the emmets who littered the place with their fast food containers and ignored the signs telling them not to feed the gulls and who preferred the tourist attractions and visitor centres to the unspeakable beauty all around them. He was angry, with himself as well as the world, because he was powerless to change the way things were going, angry also with the people who brought to Cornwall or expected to find here all that they had come to escape. One bloody great theme park, that’s what we’ll be, he thought. Youngsters were moving away because the average wage would have been laughed at elsewhere. Yes, he decided, an original Stanhope Forbes was definitely worth killing for.

‘Jack?’

‘I’m sorry, Rose, I was thinking.’ The scowl left his face because of the concern showing in hers. ‘Well, not thinking exactly, more like conducting a mental diatribe against the human race.’

‘Me included?’

‘No, Rose, never you. I’ll have to go. I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble with the meal. What was it anyway?’

‘Monkfish with fennel.’

He groaned. ‘Just my luck. I’ll make it up to you.’

‘No need.’ Just get to the bottom of this, Jack, she thought as she bolted the kitchen door behind him.

‘Shall I come back later?’ he called through the partly open window.

Rose looked down. ‘No, not tonight.’

She might as well eat, and eat a proper meal. As she slid the monk into the pan she tried to see if she could be wrong, if there had been anything different about Dorothy on her last few visits. There hadn’t, not unless she counted that business with the envelope. ‘Oh, no!’ The fish slice clattered to the floor. All that fussing around with the envelope – had that been a pantomime
she was meant to remember? The last time she had been to see her, Dorothy had slipped something into an A5 envelope, written ostentatiously on the front, sealed it and tossed it into a kitchen drawer in a rather dramatic manner. Surely it wasn’t a suicide note? There’s only one way to find out, she decided. But it was too late that night.

Fred Meecham’s sister, Marigold, outlived Dorothy Pengelly by only a couple of days. Naturally it was Doreen Clarke who rang Rose the following morning to tell her. ‘I know you never met her, but you know Fred and I thought you might want to write a note or something. The shop’s shut, he’s put a sign on the door. It’ll be a double blow for him. First Dorothy, now this. It’s awful, isn’t it, both of them going in a week?’

Going. Typical Doreen, Rose thought. If there was a euphemism available Doreen would use it. Rose had met Fred Meecham on several occasions when he had stopped at Dorothy’s place to deliver a case of dog food or a box of heavy groceries, and once or twice she had been into his shop. With her painter’s eye, in the way she did with all interesting faces, Rose had committed the details of his to her mind. He had a shock of red hair which seemed to have a life of its own. With his washed-out blue irises and pallid complexion he was far from attractive but his lean body and sensual mouth made him seem so. His Cornish accent was not pronounced and bespoke his Truro origins. Dorothy had told Rose about the sister, Marigold, and had said she thought it was time that Fred faced up to the gravity of the situation. ‘He won’t allow himself to believe she’s dying. And he should have more sense than to think money can solve everything,’ she had said. ‘It’s going to hit him hard when it happens.’ At that point Dorothy had clammed up, realising – too late – that it was another painful reminder for Rose.