Framed in Cornwall (11 page)

The police had been to see him, turned up on the very night of Marigold’s death. He had had no idea they could be so insensitive. Of course, later he realised they could not have known. They were polite and respectful and had not come to question him about the past at all but about Dorothy. He had told them when he had last seen her and that she had seemed in good spirits. What else was there to say? Then they had expressed interest in the drugs Marigold took. There were none in the house now, of course, he had handed them over as he had been asked to do, but he had had no trouble listing them. For two years he had supervised the taking of them. Then they had left. Fred had been shaken but also relieved. It was Dorothy they were interested in, not that other thing.

Fred was still convinced that money could have saved Marigold. He had not had enough of it and blamed himself rather man fate over which he had no control. Dorothy could have lent him some but she had refused.

Now it was over and Dorothy was dead too. In an odd sort of way he missed her because she was a good listener and might have helped him deal with the pain. She was the one person who knew more about him and Marigold than anyone had. Both women had taken the secret with them to the grave.

Rose parked in a gateway, guessing that the farmer would not need to use it because there was stubble in the field and no more work would be done there until it was time for ploughing. Below her was the estuary, the tide low, the waders and gulls, settled in the middle, too far away to make out clearly. How Barry could be so sure she’d find the plant was a mystery but he must have done so himself or got someone else to because, after a wasted fifteen minutes, she finally saw the tiny delicate head of it and settled down to work. Not for much longer, Rose told herself as she held the drawing away from her to check it was exactly right.

She sat with her arms hugging her knees and looked at the small church on the brow of the hill, visualising it painted in oils. All right, she would finish all the jobs she had taken on then she would start again, see if she still had it in her to be a real artist It had been too easy to accept the praises of Doreen Clarke and Barry Rowe. What was it Jack had said once? Yes, that his ex-wife had bought one of her oils because she had liked it, because it had feeling even if it wasn’t technically a great piece of work. The technical side could be developed. Will be developed, Rose thought as she packed away her pencils. I will get my life sorted out and I will do my best for Dorothy.

Filled with determination she strode back to the car, her hair flying in the wind. Water was flowing back into the estuary and many of the birds had disappeared in large flocks. A solitary egret proceeded to the waterline with queenly grace, its white plumage unmistakable. Once rare here, they were now often to be seen.

She reached the car and headed towards the main road, racking her brains as to what the warning had meant. It has to be somebody close, she thought, someone who knows I won’t settle for less than the truth, someone who knows how much I cared about Dorothy.

It got her nowhere, less than a handful of people fell into that category and they were all people she trusted. Which reminded her, she had not been in touch with Jobber Hicks since their one conversation regarding Martin. He, too, would be lonely and missing Dorothy, his lifetime companion.

She sighed as she changed gear to pull into Dorothy’s drive and the engine missed. ‘You’ll really have to go,’ she told the Mini. There was no sign of Martin at the house so she walked over to the caravan. He wasn’t there either and could be anywhere so it was pointless to wait. Standing on the hillside in the unnatural silence, Rose shivered. Clouds scudded across the sky, intermittently obscuring the sun. Their shadows passed stealthily over the grass, deadening its colour; their shapes sliding over the boulders seemed almost human. For the first time she began to wonder if Martin had anything to do with his mother’s death: if someone had given her alcohol laced with
enough drugs to kill her where had the mug or glass been? The table had been clear and the sink empty when she came upon the scene. Fear rose in her throat and she stifled an exclamation as a huge black cloud blocked out the light and turned the moorland into a place of evil where unseen eyes watched her. The cloud was blown southwards and she blinked in the sudden brightness. It was time to leave.

She did not see Peter Pengelly passing in the opposite direction as she made her way to where she intended to finish a piece of work because she did not recognise his car.

For two hours she continued without interruption. The threat of rain had passed and she could feel the autumnal warmth of the sun on her head. Gorse was still in its second flowering and bees hummed around the clover amongst which she was sitting. Putting aside her watercolours she lay back and closed her eyes, enjoying nothing but the colourful patterns which formed behind her lids. They reminded her of a kaleidoscope she had had as a child. A bee, black and gold like a Cornish rugby shirt, landed near her ear. Rose remained motionless whilst it went about its business. When it had flown off she sat up and poured coffee from her flask. Traffic was a distant murmur, not enough to disturb the peace. Ahead and surrounding her was nothing but scrubland with a few scruffy trees, but she felt no fear now. If it had not been for the brightness of the gorse she might have been on a hillside in Italy or Greece. Ah, yes, she thought, the gorse and the crumbling stack of a copper mine. Scattered the length and breadth of the county the old mines were so much a part of it, it was as if nature and not man was responsible for their presence.

With bent legs, knees splayed, Rose sat with the plastic cup of the flask held in both hands between them, her posture that of an unselfconscious teenager rather than a mature woman. Her denim skirt had slipped up her thighs exposing her tanned legs, the muscles toned by all the walking she did. Overhead a flash of silver caught her eye. It was a plane, reflecting the sun, too high for its engines to be heard and only visible because of the clarity of the air. In its wake was a vapour trail which was breaking up into white balls of fluff. ‘Time to move,’ she told
herself, screwing the lid back on the flask and putting away her equipment. She shook dry seeds and grass from her clothes and strode back to the car. The almost smooth-stemmed Western Gorse, its flower more delicate than the everyday kind, had challenged her which was good, because she had a tendency to become complacent at times. The series would be complete before Barry actually required it. Tempting as it was to stay out of doors Rose knew there was more to be done at home. And the sooner it was done the sooner she could get out her oils.

There had been no message from Jack who was either still tied up at the station or too tired to want to see her. She did not contact him. Leaving the house at a few minutes to seven she arrived at Barry’s promptly at seven thirty. He was flushed with a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up showing pale, freckled forearms gleaming with golden hairs. Over one shoulder was a tea towel and his glasses, perched on his nose, were faintly misted. He pushed them into place impatiently and kissed Rose chastely on the cheek. She was cool and smelled clean from her recent shower. He recognised the pale blue dress as the one she had bought on a trip to London with him and was flattered that she had worn it because he had said how much he liked it.

‘I wish I hadn’t attempted something so complicated. Help yourself to a drink, Rosie. This won’t be ready for a while yet.’ Barry turned back to the small counter upon which was a pile of dirty utensils.

‘What’re we having?’ Rose reached for the wine bottle.

‘Beef Wellington,’ Barry replied with a touch of satisfaction as he wrapped shop-bought pastry around the meat he had spread with pâté.

‘What? No pasta?’

‘It’s not the only thing I can cook,’ he replied defensively.

‘No, but it’s the only thing which turns out right.’

‘I shall ignore that. I’m simply trying to pay you back for the lovely things you cook for me.’

Rose handed him a glass of chilled white wine. ‘Have a slurp of this before you explode.’

He did so, his fingers leaving greasy prints on the stem. Rose watched him struggle with the beef but was tactful enough not to say he could have bought the whole thing ready-made.

The kitchen was cramped and ill equipped. She took one of the two unmatching chairs and sat at the rickety table. Barry had lived in the one-bedroomed flat over the shop since she had known him. His financial status was of no concern to her but she knew that he could have afforded somewhere far better. He was, she decided, in a rut, but one in which he seemed content to remain.

‘There! Or should I say
voilà
? It’s in the oven. It might be an idea to drink ourselves senseless in case it’s a disaster. Right, now you can tell me what you’ve been up to.’ The chair creaked beneath him as it took his weight.

‘What makes you think I’ve been up to anything?’ He looks so boyish and helpless at times, she thought. It’s a shame no woman’s got hold of him. ‘I’m well ahead with the wild flowers. I did the Western Gorse this afternoon. It won’t be long until they’re all done. Why’re you looking at me like that?’

‘You’re babbling, Rosie, and I know what that means.’ He reached across the table and touched her hand. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you the other day, I know how you felt about Dorothy.’

Rose nodded and a loose hair fell on to her lap. She picked it off the material of her dress and wound it around her finger. ‘I shall miss her. I’m already missing her.’

‘I know.’

‘The police said it was suicide, now they’re not so sure but …’ She shrugged and picked up her wineglass.

Barry’s mouth tightened. By the police he assumed she meant Jack Pearce.

Correctly reading his expression Rose added, ‘She didn’t kill herself, Barry, I don’t believe that for one minute. You don’t think that, do you?’

‘Oh, Rose.’ Barry rubbed his forehead as if he was tired.

It had been best to get it over with before he heard from other
sources and accused her of having secrets from him. This was the one aspect of his character which infuriated her. If she told him things he accused her of meddling, if she did not he called her secretive. Rose then announced that she would not be readily available for commercial work, she was reverting to oils. The expected outburst did not come.

‘At last,’ Barry said, smiling.

‘Don’t you mind?’

‘Mind? Good God, Rosie, why should I? It’s your life, your career and, to tell you the truth, I was disappointed when you didn’t keep going. You see, I always thought you’d improve. Each one was always slightly better man the last. Go for it, that’s what I say.’

She could barely believe what she was hearing but the encouragement was worth more than any commission. Her desire was now not to let Barry down. ‘Oh, and I’ve been invited to a party on Saturday.’

‘Oh? The glasses were pushed up once more, this time the gesture was deliberate, to disguise what would show in his face when Rose said that Pearce was taking her. ‘Why’re you grinning?’

‘Because I can read your mind.’ She twirled her glass between her fingers knowing that she was teasing him. ‘I’m going by myself.’

‘I see.’ No Jack, he thought, but no Barry either.

‘My social life’s becoming as restricted as yours. I miss the times when I was mixing with other artists and writers. I have to do something about it.’

Barry nodded. She was right. They talked of general things until it was time to serve the meal. It was far better than either of them had anticipated and they ate the lot. ‘I think I’ll walk home rather than get a cab,’ Rose said.

‘And I shall accompany you. I need to walk it off, too.’

There was a three-quarter moon illuminating the bay. Pale ripples spread into the surrounding blackness of the water. The lights of Newlyn were to their right when they stopped to lean over the railing to absorb the sound of the sea sucking at the pebbles. Rose thought she could listen to it for ever. The
distinctive cry of a curlew reached them as it took off from Larrigan rocks which were completely visible now the tide was out. ‘Come on, we’d better make a move.’

Arm in arm they walked along past the Bowls Club, situated right on the front and exposed to the elements, past the Newlyn Gallery and around to tine Strand and the now shuttered fish market then up the hill. To their left the harbour was lit by moonlight and the lifeboat,
Mabel
Alice
, lay slightly on one side as the incoming tide lapped at her hull, gently nudging her upright.

Barry left Rose at her door then began the return journey. He chewed his mouth thoughtfully, knowing that if there was anything unusual about Dorothy Pengelly’s death Rose would not rest until she had found out what it was. Better to think of that than Jack Pearce or whom she might meet at Mike and Barbara’s party.

Rose threw her shoulder bag into an armchair. The clasp had been undone and the contents spilled out on to the floor. She ignored them and kicked off her shoes, always preferring to be barefoot in the house. The evening had gone well and Barry’s reaction to her involvement with the Pengelly family had not been as censorious as she had expected. In fact, he had surprised her in several ways.

The sitting-room was half lit by the moon and the light from the hall. Rose turned to take one last look at the bay as she did every night. As she left the room she saw the red light of the answering machine winking in the corner. Jack, she thought. Her brow creased in a frown when she heard Jobber’s voice. He had started the message twice, the second time was clearer. It was too late to contact him or Martin now so she would do as he had asked and meet them in the morning. Was it too late to ring Jack? She was surprised he had not been in touch, if only to find out if she had been to see the Pengellys. ‘No, bugger him,’ she muttered and went upstairs to bed.

Jobber Hicks had got into his ramshackle van and made his way slowly to Dorothy’s house. He had not wanted to burden Martin with his request too soon because the boy might give him an answer he would later regret. He always drove at a leisurely pace because he saw no reason to rush through life. The end would come at some point. Happily ignoring impatient drivers behind him he slowed to take the bend then indicated right, turning into Dorothy’s drive.

Jobber’s calloused and roughened hands gripped the wheel at precisely ten to three, the way his father had taught him, and his head, tortoise-like, jutted forward from the loose collar of his shirt as he peered through the windscreen. His lack of height did not bother him. All his family had been short. The skin of his face, neck and forearms was weathered but the rest of his body had not seen the sun since childhood. Only in repose did the starburst of lines around his eyes relax enough to reveal the paler skin in the creases. His grey hair was cropped short and he wore whatever happened to be nearest when he got dressed. All his clothes held a faint suggestion of manure.

The van was worse. It stank of animals. Often a single sheep or pig was loaded into the back of it to be taken to market. For more than one he used the horse-box.

He killed the ignition and let the silence fill his ears, half expecting Dorothy to come to the door. Jobber studied the sky and nodded knowledgeably. It would rain before the day was out. He, like his father before him, could predict the weather with more accuracy than any satellite station.

Leaving the van where it was, he walked around the side of the house and peered through the kitchen window. The dogs were there, in their usual places. Star was scratching behind her ear in an ungainly fashion. They looked restful and their bowls were empty. Martin must have seen to them already.

Jobber continued on up the hill, his pace so steady his heartbeat did not alter. In the distance, slumped against a boulder, he spotted Martin. He waited until he was near enough to talk in a normal voice before he spoke.

Martin raised his face. He looked haggard. ‘He came back,’ he said.

‘Who did? Who came back?’

‘The bugger I saw in the pub.’

Jobber’s eyes narrowed. What had Martin been saying to this stranger? ‘Have you told the police, son?’ Jobber, too, had been questioned and was aware that things might not be as straightforward as everyone had initially believed.

‘No.’ Martin got to his feet. His nostrils were pinched and he was white around the mouth. ‘Won’t bring ’er back, will ’un?’

‘No. Nothing’s going to do that. Why don’t us go on down to the house. There’s something I want to ask you.’ He thought Martin looked in need of a strong mug of tea.

Together they negotiated the irregular route back down. The dogs greeted them both in a friendly way and Jobber put the kettle on. They drank the tea black. ‘Are you coping?’ Jobber nodded towards the animals.

‘They’re no trouble. I take ’em out twice a day and feed the cats.’

Jobber leant forward. ‘Martin, do you think I could have Star? I’d look after her proper, like, you can rest assured of that. I’ll even pay you for ’un, if you’ve a mind.’

Martin stared at the greyhound. There was no room for her in his van and if she went to the farm she’d have company. ‘All right. I don’t want no money, though.’

They sipped their tea in silence. Both were men of few words. ‘I should stay here, at the house. He’ll come back again else.’

‘Who is this man you keep on about? If you think he’s trouble you’ve got to tell the police.’ Jobber’s hands shook. If Martin was right he had no need to feel any guilt. He had cried in the belief that he might have driven Dorothy to her death, unaware that he had not been as persistent as he thought, that a lot of it had been in his head.

‘No. I’ll tell Mrs Trevelyan. ’Er’ll know what to do.’

Jobber nodded. Rose Trevelyan was a sensible woman and had been more than a good friend to Dorothy. Good-looking with it, too, he thought. He nodded again and ran a hand around his badly shaved chin. Although he had had few dealings with the police he had an inborn prejudice against them. ‘We could telephone her now.’

‘You do it.’

Jobber glanced at his watch. It was getting on for seven o’clock. Mrs Trevelyan would probably be at home. He found the number in the book beside the telephone and felt a sharp pain in his chest seeing Dorothy’s large, rounded writing. He began speaking before he realised he was talking to a recorded message. ‘Damn things,’ he said, feeling stupid and self-conscious. Clearing his throat he stood straighter as if Rose’s disembodied voice was able to see him. He said that Martin had something important to tell her and asked if she was free to come to Dorothy’s house at ten the next morning. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely at the end of the message. ‘There, all done. That just leaves the problem of Star.’

They loaded half of the tins of dog food and her blanket and basket into the back of the van, then finally Star herself. Martin patted her fondly and watched as Jobber turned around and drove to the end of the lane.

Star whined and fretted and rested her front paws on the back of Jobber’s seat where he had left the dividing window open. He spoke to her soothingly and quietly. Star would settle down in a day or two. Jobber had had many dogs in his life and knew their ways well.

Fred Meecham sat with his head in his hands, his red hair sticking up untidily. The vicar had shown no surprise that his sister’s surname was different from his own, it was known that she had been through a bad marriage. Marigold Heath was the name on her death certificate. No one had yet asked to see this certificate. The woman who had issued it at the register office had needed nothing other than the form from the hospital doctor who had pronounced her to be dead.

Her headstone would be simple, bearing only her name and her dates and his own contribution, ‘always loved’. Fred did not know what to do about her other relatives, or even if they were alive. Time was running out and many things were preying on his mind. Both Marigold and Dorothy would have known what to do but they were no longer in a position to help him.

Jack Pearce was not in the best of moods, which irritated him as much as anyone else. The whole thing was shambolic but he couldn’t blame the officers who had been the first at the scene. Dorothy Pengelly had been an old lady who had died accidentally or deliberately from an overdose. The police surgeon had seen it almost immediately and this had been confirmed by the pathologist. There had been no need for the murder team. He still wasn’t as convinced as Rose that it was anything else and any evidence, if it was evidence, had been destroyed. The paracetamol bottle had disappeared and any container in which the drug had been administered would have been washed up. They could still fingerprint the place but what would that show? Martin and Rose had keys, old prints were likely to have been disturbed or smudged and they only had Rose’s say-so on who might have been in the house.

Was there a will? Was money the motive? If there has been a crime, Jack reminded himself. If Dorothy was intestate both sons would inherit equally, if there was a will it might be a different matter but murdering her would not alter its contents. If one or other son stood to gain little he would want her alive in order to have a chance of persuading her to change it. But the reverse was also true. Supposing Dorothy had left everything to one son but had been about to change her own mind? And where was the painting? One of her children must have it. He shook his head in exasperation. Here, too, was information based only on Rose’s opinion. Jack warned himself to be careful. He must not let his professional judgement be clouded because he trusted the instincts of Rose Trevelyan.

Interviewing the family had been a waste of time. No one had a decent alibi but why should they have if they were innocent?
Peter and Gwen claimed to have been together watching television all evening and had gone to bed around eleven. With two small children this was more than likely true. Martin said he had been alone, in his van. Either he was totally honest or he knew they would not be able to prove otherwise.

Jobber Hicks and Fred Meecham, apparently Dorothy’s only other friends, had also been questioned. Meecham’s sister had just died and he was understandably too upset to be of much help. Jobber, Jack knew from Rose, was Dorothy’s ardent admirer and he could see no reason why he should wish her dead.

I’m wasting my time, he thought as the day drew to a close. The old lady decided she had had enough of life. It’s as simple as that.

Three times during the evening he dialled Rose’s number only to get the answering machine. He could have left a message but what he really wanted was to speak to her in person. Strange that she should be avoiding him, unless she knew something she didn’t want him to know just yet. That wouldn’t surprise him at all. But he was unaware that Rose was spending the evening in the company of Barry Rowe, the man whom he considered to be his rival.

Fred Meecham was trying desperately hard to get on with the everyday running of his shop. It was a delivery day and, at least for the morning, the added work helped take his mind off Marigold. He checked the forms against what he had ordered then unpacked the goods and re-stacked the shelves although this was usually the job of one of his part-time assistants. Beneath his red hair his face was whiter than usual. He realised that these were still early days, that at some unspecified point in the future he would come to terms with it all and live normally again. For now his grief and anger were eating away at him.

When customers spoke he answered them as best he could, aware of the glances which passed between them and the assistant behind me counter.

Life had dealt him two harsh blows where women were concerned, first the departure of his wife with the young sales
rep and now Marigold. On top of this his son was an ingrate, unappreciative of the sacrifices Fred had made for him. He had not seen him for years now and Fred was not sorry.

He had always stuck to the rules, done things by the book, and it had got him nowhere. During those first years with his ex-wife he had borne with stoicism the endless rows and her avarice, never resorting to violence or taking consolation elsewhere. She had repaid him by moving out and leaving their son behind. That son, too, had gone.

Abandoned now for the third time Fred went through the motions. He collected up the empty cardboard boxes and took them out to the back where he would later burn them. He needed some air and to spend a few minutes away from the shop. Pounding away in his head was the idea that he had deserved all he had got, but there had only been two aberrations in his life. One had given him immeasurable pleasure, the second nothing but a fleeting minute’s joy followed by a hopeless rage.

He returned to the shop, picked up a price gun and began marking tins of corned beef.

Biting her lip, Rose tried unsuccessfully to arrange her hair in a neat roll at the back of her head. She claimed she kept it shoulder-length because there was so much more she could do with it, something about which Laura teased her. ‘You’ve either got it loose or in a pony-tail,’ she said. But Laura wasn’t there to admire her effort when she finally got it right.

It was not so much her hair which bothered her at that moment but herself. She was sometimes gregarious and other people’s lives and personalities fascinated her but, like Martin Pengelly, she required stretches of isolation. This was one of the reasons she had not been able to make a commitment to Jack and she recognised it as a fault. She had known she would not mourn for ever and had enough insight to see that she had used Jack as the first stage in her recovery. Laura had it both ways. Trevor, at home to enjoy and fuss over, then periods of a week or ten days when he was at sea. And now, when she needed some breathing space, she would not allow herself any because she was worried
sick about Martin. Yet her feelings were ambiguous. One minute she wanted to protect him, the next to put as much distance between them as possible. She was, as Barry would have pointed out, becoming too involved. Martin worried her in various ways but Jobber would be there too.

It had rained overnight and the road was still damp. The clouds, a curving canopy of grey, domed over the sea. The salvage tug which came and went was once more anchored in the bay after refuelling in Falmouth. It pitched and tossed on white-capped waves.

The Mini was buffeted as she picked up speed on the main road and the canvas cover of a high-sided lorry flapped noisily as it passed her going in the opposite direction. Knowing flocks of gulls drifted inland and took refuge in the fields.

The blank windows of Dorothy’s house reflected the car as she drew up in front of it. Jobber’s old van was already there, parked on the grass to allow her room.

He appeared at the side of the building as she stepped out into the blustery morning. ‘We’ve made the tea,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘I’m glad you could make it, Mrs Trevelyan. Martin’s in a bit of a state.’

She followed him around to the back door, neither of them wishing to presume to use the front one. The wind whipped at her clothes as they turned the corner.

Martin was sitting at the kitchen table. He seemed to have shrunk further and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Despite his spartan living conditions he kept himself clean and tidy. He wore jeans and shirt and a V-necked jumper and his durable boots. His brown hair was neatly combed. ‘Where’s Star?’ Rose asked, surprised to see that the space her basket usually occupied was empty.

‘I’ve taken her. She’s a bit restless, but she’ll soon get used to the place. I didn’t bring ’un this morning, though, it’d only confuse her.’

It was Jobber who poured Rose’s treacle-coloured tea, adding milk which he had brought from the farm. She waited, wondering which one of them would be the first to speak. Martin’s eyes
were dull, his expression flat as he stared at the mug in front of him. ‘Martin? Was there something you wanted to tell me?’ she asked, half expecting another admission.