Plotted in Cornwall (7 page)

The kitchen was amazing, made more so by the smell of baking and the assortment of cookery utensils.

‘There’s a sort of store-room,’ Louisa said as she opened a door. ‘We still haven’t finally sorted everything out. You know how it is, if you don’t do it all as soon as you move, it never gets done.’

‘I’ve got a similar room so I know what you mean.’

The dining-room was formal and not very interesting and ended the tour.

‘You’re very lucky,’ Rose said as she pulled on her coat. ‘I’ll see you next week at the same time.’

As she drove back to Newlyn Rose wondered what it was that had struck her as odd, as out of place. Not the empty room, not the women themselves. She was becoming used to their manner. She shook her head. ‘Forget it and it’ll come back to you,’ she told herself.

But it didn’t. Not that day.

Reaching home she wondered if it was worth hanging out the washing. There was no sign of rain. She did so, then watched with satisfaction as the cotton sheets and towels snapped in the salty breeze.

Taking an apple and a mug of coffee with her she went up to the attic. One corner had been partitioned off to form a darkroom. She developed two rolls of film and hung the negatives up to dry. Then she studied the sketches she had made. They look a bit too serious, she decided, but knew that with time they would relax, would become accustomed to being scrutinised and studied.

The telephone was ringing. It was Laura. Rose had been half avoiding her. She would know at a glance that something was wrong. ‘How are you?’

‘Fully recovered. But I feel I’ve been housebound for weeks. Fancy a drink tonight?’

‘Sounds good. Where were you thinking of going?’

‘How about the Laundry wine bar for a change?’

‘No.’

‘Rose?’

‘Sorry. I, uh, I … oh, God.’ And before she could stop herself she was telling Laura about Jack.

‘Good for him,’ Laura said with far less sympathy than Rose had hoped for. ‘Look, you’ve led him a dance for a couple of years now, what else do you expect. He’d have married you, Rose, given the chance.’

‘I know that, Laura. It doesn’t make it any easier.’

‘Okay, we’ll talk about it later. Look, why don’t we get a bus somewhere? Marazion or Porthleven. Somewhere we won’t run into them. We could eat out ourselves if you like.’ It was hardly likely Jack would take the woman to the same place twice within a space of six days but Rose was upset and needed humouring. And Rose was her friend, she hadn’t meant to make matters worse.

‘I do like. What time shall we meet?’ The arrangements made, Rose hung up. She stayed where she was, picturing Jack and the young, nubile Anna Hicks enjoying their meal. To an outsider the name of the restaurant might sound strange but the building had housed a laundry for as long as most people could remember. It had been converted, one part the wine bar, all white
and chrome with square candles with four wicks on each table. There were three pyramids of Daz boxes high on shelves, an in-joke to locals. Behind the bar was the restaurant, decorated in the same minimalistic style. Rose wasn’t sure whether it made it better or worse that she had been to the place where Jack had also taken his … what? Date? Girlfriend? Soon-to-be mistress? No. Floozie, she decided, then burst out laughing. It was a good feeling.

On Saturday evening Barry Rowe sat at the table anticipating with pleasure whatever it was that Rose had decided to cook for him. Cooking was another of her talents.

The first serious storm of the winter was building up, later in the year than usual and promising to be fierce. From the warmth and comfort of the kitchen they listened to the wind. Nothing could be heard over its constant shrieks. Through the window, even in the darkness, they saw the shrubs bend and sway. The sea had lost the myriad
colours of daylight and had become a black, threatening terror as it surged forcefully to the shore and crashed against anything that was in its way. The local news had warned that the Promenade was awash and already closed to traffic.

‘It won’t be long,’ Rose said as she turned from the window and lit the gas beneath the vegetables. ‘What is it?’ she asked, aware that Barry had been watching her.

He picked up a fork and twirled it between his fingers. ‘You tell me, Rosie, you’re the one who’s hardly speaking. You should’ve cancelled if you don’t feel well.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘But?’

He doesn’t know, she realised, word hasn’t spread as quickly as I thought it would. It was a week yesterday since Jack had broken the news and she had not heard from him since. Will Barry gloat? she wondered as she joined him at the table. ‘Jack’s found himself a girlfriend,’ she said, without preamble.

‘The bastard.’

It was not the reaction she had expected any more than her own had been when she learned of the existence of Anna Hicks. Barry’s anger was genuine, on her behalf, and she loved him the more for it. ‘Well, we
hadn’t been together properly for some time really.’

‘Don’t defend him, Rose.’

‘I wasn’t intending to. Anyway, now you know. Let’s eat.’

She served the mushroom soup she had made earlier and soft rolls from the local baker’s.

‘How’s the portrait going?’ Barry asked when half of his soup had been drunk. He would think about Jack later.

‘So far, so good, although I’ve barely started. We’re agreed on how the finished article should look.’

‘What’re they like, these spinsters?’

‘Sisters, not spinsters. One of them was married.’ And before she could stop herself she was telling Barry all she knew.

‘So the boy who persuaded you to butter up his father for him is their nephew. It seems odd them denying, what, at least four relatives, including the daughter.’

‘Well, they certainly are related. When I developed the roll of film I took I could see the distinct likeness between Joel and his Aunt Wendy I knew she reminded me of someone the first time I went there. And, of course, there’s this Frank Jordan thing.’

‘Rose.’ Barry’s voice was stern.

She laughed. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Over the top of your glasses like a martinet schoolmaster.’

‘It’s because I worry about you. Especially now with Jack no longer on the scene to keep you in check. You’ll only get involved in something that is none of your business and find you’re out of your depth and
he
won’t be around to bail you out.’

‘Then I’ll just have to rely on you. And
he
didn’t keep me in check, as you call it. Besides, Jack is irrelevant because Joel’s father asked me to find out what I could. I liked the man and if I can help, I will.

‘But you have to admit, it’s a peculiar situation.’ Rose stood to clear away the soup bowls. She drained the vegetables and served the mackerel stuffed with apricots and almonds. Barry’s favourite.

For a while they ate in silence. The wind continued to howl and the first splatter of rain hit the windows. Rose was unconcerned. The house, built of Cornish granite, had withstood over a century of battering by the elements. She cooked by gas, the heating was fuelled from the same source and there were plenty of candles should the electricity be cut off again.

‘Do you think,’ Barry began, picking a small bone from the side of his mouth, ‘that the sisters did away with Frank Jordan just before they moved away and that’s the reason they are denying they’ve any family? Perhaps they don’t want anyone to make the connection.’

‘That’s a bit fanciful, even by my standards. No, Doreen Clarke told me he was a bit of a womaniser. I think the move simply provided the opportunity for them to split up.’

‘The daughter, too? Even if she was unhappy at home there was no reason for her to give up her university place.’

Rose shrugged as she speared some broccoli. ‘Maybe she’d had enough of it all and changed her mind. It’s unlike you to play the devil’s advocate.’

Barry smiled. Rose wished he would do so more often. His face altered radically. Gone was the line bisecting his forehead and the careworn expression. He was almost handsome. She suddenly realised what else was different about him: both jacket and shirt were new. It was a sad reflection upon herself that she had not noticed before in view of her nagging about his appearance. ‘Let’s forget the Jordans. I have to tell you, you
look really good tonight. I like the new image.’

‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure you’d noticed. The fish was truly delicious, Rose. Thank you again.’

She refilled their wine glasses and took the plates away, scraping the bones into the bin. ‘I haven’t done a pudding but there’s cheese or fruit or ice-cream.’ Barry rarely ate sweet things so surprised Rose for a third time that evening by choosing the latter.

She opened the larder door. The floor was slate, the walls granite and there was no heating. All edible foodstuffs had been stored there in the days when the property was first built. But it wasn’t the chill, the sudden drop in temperature which made her stop and frown. It was what she was seeing. Old coats and boots, a few bits of junk, two spare chairs and the deep freeze. Perfectly normal, just as it always was, nothing had changed. Perfectly normal for me, Rose thought, realising what had been bothering her on the drive back from Bodmin Moor.

‘Vanilla all right?’ she called out.

‘I take it that means it’ll have to be.’ Barry knew that, like himself, Rose preferred savoury food. The ice-cream would be left
over from some other occasion when she had entertained.

She brought the tub to the kitchen and hacked out a serving with a tablespoon. Licking a finger, she placed the glass dish in front of Barry. ‘What you were saying, about my clients – you could be right.’

‘Oh?’ Barry glanced up. The light made blanks of his glasses, hiding his eyes from Rose.

‘Perhaps they did do away with him and took the body with them. Don’t grin at me as if I’m mad.’

‘Not mad, never that, but it was you accusing me of being fanciful earlier.’

‘Okay. Tell me this, then. Why should Louisa Jordan and Wendy Penhaligon have a chest freezer in their larder when they don’t have electricity, gas or a generator?’

‘Ah, you have me there. Maybe they use it for storage. Not for a body, though. They’ve been there for more than a year, they couldn’t have lived with the stench.’

‘No, but they could’ve used it to transport him then buried him somewhere on the moors.’

‘I see. So not only did they take the risk of the removal men lifting the lid, these women you could hardly describe as young
then went out wielding spades or shovels and dug him a grave in the wilderness. It’s as well Jack… Hell, I’m sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to bring up his name again.’

‘It’s all right. It isn’t something we can avoid. Besides, Laura said I had it coming to me.’

‘Did she?’ It surprised Barry how candid women friends could be with one another, but as he had never had any close friends himself he was unsure whether the same applied to men. ‘I don’t feel happy about you going up there. I mean, if there’s the slightest basis of truth in your suspicions you could be in danger.’

‘My suspicions? It was you who first voiced them. Besides, you’ll know I’m there on Thursday mornings.’

‘Quite. But if you didn’t come back one day, it’d be too late to help you.’

‘Now who’s crazy? I can’t give up this commission. The money’s more than good but I’ve also got to think of my reputation. It could lead to more work. It certainly won’t if I let them down.’

‘Not if they’ve cut themselves off so drastically.’

Rose considered what Barry had said and wondered anew exactly why the sisters
wanted their portrait painted.

The telephone interrupted her thoughts. It sounded tinny and distant over the noise of the storm which had increased in force, building itself up for the small hours when it would blow itself out with the turn of the tide. ‘Put the coffee on, would you? I won’t be a minute.’

Rose crossed the hallway and went into the sitting-room. The telephone was on a small table behind the door, facing the window. Through the rain she could just make out the mountainous waves and the high spumes of spray which had rendered the Promenade impassable. ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully, expecting it to be her mother.

‘Hello, Rose.’

She swallowed, wondering at the tightness in her chest. ‘What do you want, Jack?’

‘I just called to see how you are, if you’ve escaped the flu. That’s what friends do.’

His words made her feel vulnerable and a little ashamed. It had been her suggestion they remained friends, Jack was now simply acting upon it. And she had rarely hesitated before telephoning him even after their initial affair had ended. ‘I’m fine, thank you, although Laura’s been pretty rough.’ Laura’s brother had been to school with Jack.

‘I know. I called in to see her the other day. Didn’t she mention it?’

‘She might have done.’ Rose knew she hadn’t. ‘How did it go, your date with Anna?’

‘Great. We got on really well.’

Meaning what? Rose thought. Great company? Great in bed? Great food? It was unlike Jack to be enigmatic. ‘Good luck, then. I have to go, I’ve got someone here for dinner.’

‘Barry Rowe?’ he asked, making Rose wish she could come out with the name of a man he’d never heard of.

‘Yes. Look, Jack, was there something particular you wanted to discuss?’

‘No. Like I said, this was just a friendly call and it’s been over a week since we’ve spoken.’

‘Keep in touch. I must go. Bye.’ With a shaking hand she replaced the receiver. It would be good to be out in the storm, to let the wind and the rain cool her burning face. But Barry was waiting. ‘Before you ask, that was Jack,’ she told him.

‘You didn’t talk long.’

‘There was nothing to say.’

The coffee was still filtering through the machine, making soothing plopping sounds.
A sudden crash made them both jump.

‘It’s the shed.’ Barry was on his feet and out of the door before Rose began to move. She ran after him, pulling the kitchen door inwards against the wind, straining her muscles as the rain swept towards her.

Barry coat flying, rain plastering his shirt to his body and his thinning hair to his head, yanked at the shed door and managed to get it closed despite one of the hinges having been damaged. He padlocked it shut and ran for the house.

‘Thanks. I meant to lock it earlier.’ There was nothing in there of value but the door had a tendency to fly open in strong winds. ‘Give me your jacket and go and sit by the fire. I’ll bring the coffee in.’ She laid a tray; adding a bottle of brandy and two glasses. ‘You can’t walk home in this. Wait until you’re dry then order a taxi.’ The window panes rattled and sudden draughts blew smoke back down the chimney. Now and then the logs hissed as moisture found its way into the fireplace. ‘God, listen to it.’ She hoped the fishermen who were out were beyond the storm. There would be a lot of damage done before morning.

Barry’s cab arrived at eleven. Rose wondered how he could bear to return to his
awful flat over the shop. It was cramped and in need of decoration and he cared little for furniture as long as he had enough for his use. But it was his choice and he seemed content.

Rose decided to clear up rather than leave the task for the morning. She needed to think, about Jack and about Louisa Jordan and what had become of her husband. She could not back out of the job, not now. Maybe, she decided as she put out the light, I’ll finish the portrait without saying anything.

Miranda lay on her bed listening to music. The piano concerto she normally enjoyed sounded harsh to her ears. She got up and turned off the CD player. It wouldn’t be long before she would be going home. The flat was furnished. Everything she owned would fit into the second-hand car she had purchased a few months previously. She and Michael had come to an agreement. Miranda would go back and assess where she stood and, if everything worked out, he would visit her after Christmas. ‘The situation at home isn’t right,’ she had explained. ‘I need time. I’ll ring you each day I promise.’ But she had refused to give him a
contact number, not that she knew it. Michael had concurred because he couldn’t force himself upon her family not when she wasn’t certain she’d be welcome herself. She had disappointed her mother and her aunt when she’d taken off for London and not told them where she would be living.

It had not been easy cutting all the ties. It wasn’t a case of forgiving her mother or hating her for what she had done. She had left to protect her. If she wasn’t around and no one knew where to find her, no one could ask any questions. And what had happened had made university become of secondary importance. If it all came out no one would have employed her anyway, degree or not. But she had begun to wonder if her fears had been justified.

She had dropped the name Jordan. In London she was known as Miranda Penhaligon, a name rightfully hers as she had been registered at birth as Miranda Penhaligon-Jordan. Her mother was proud to be Cornish and had wished her daughter to retain the name.

Rain pattered against the window. London rain which left the glass smeared; not with salt but with smuts and grease. She leaned her head against the pane and watched the
traffic in the street below. Tail-lights showed as red streaks on the wet tarmac and water from the building opposite dripped from faulty guttering on to an awning below.

But there’s no salt spray on Bodmin Moor, she thought, reminding herself once more that her mother had moved, because all her memories were of Penzance and she had never been to the new place.