“I assume,” said Kitty, addressing Steve, “that your grandmother eventually met someone else and married.”
“Yes, she met and married Jeff Martin, who was of course my grandfather and they had fifty happy years together.” As Steve’s words faded his eyes became transfixed on something across the room.
“Are you alright,” Lottie asked, aware that the colour had drained from Steve’s face.
“That bear,” Steve stood up and pointed to the spot where his eyes were focused, “Did he belong to David?”
Zac picked up the bear from his stool in the corner. “Yes, he was in the attic along with the rest of his stuff.” He gave the bear to Steve.
“He wasn’t in the suitcase though,” added Lottie, “he was inside an old pillowslip.”
Hetty was puzzled. “So how come you know about him?”
“Amongst Grandma’s pictures is one of her holding a bear. I didn’t bring it with me because it’s a bit blurred.” He stroked the top of the bear’s head. “This must be him though because he has the same sad face and is wearing the same thin tie round his neck. If I remember correctly, the bear was a birthday present to David from his father.”
Simon nodded. “That’s right, David and Peter were both given a bear by their father on their third birthdays. I have Peter’s bear. He’s just the same as this little chap only he has a blue tie.”
“Do you by any chance know his name?” Hetty asked Steve. “Several of us have had a guess but it’d be nice to know his real name so that we can stop referring to him as the bear.”
“I suggested Pilchard,” laughed Lottie, “because they were plentiful back then.”
Hetty groaned. “My guess was Fred so not very imaginative.”
“Because of the message on the postcard I went for Jimmy,” said Zac, “but of course we now know Jimmy’s the lifeboat.”
Hetty chuckled. “Our plumber friend had a guess too and he came up with Saffron Bun and he calls him Saff whenever he sees him.”
Steve sat down and placed the bear on his lap. “Your plumber must be psychic then because this little chap is called Saffron Bun.”
In the early hours of Monday morning, Simon Berryman suddenly woke, sat up in bed and switched on his lamp. “Jacob Wheatley,” he shouted, “his name was Jacob Wheatley.”
Sheila half-awake beside him frowned. “Who was Jacob Wheatley?” she yawned.
“The chap who drove the hearse for Dad and the family. It came to me just like that out of the blue. I was thinking about him when I went to bed and that must have caused my brain to get in the right groove. I must ring Hetty and Lottie and tell them.”
Sheila glanced at the clock and smiled. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. Not at half past five in the morning.”
“Damn, I’ll never be able to get back to sleep now.”
“Anyway, the lodger is no longer a suspect,” Sheila reminded him, “and he only ever was because he would have had access to the funeral parlour should it turn out that David was inside Peter’s coffin which I’m glad to say, he wasn’t.”
“True, but I’m sure they’ll still be pleased to hear that I’ve remembered the name at last although I’ve a sneaky feeling that Jacob died young and drowned while out on the lifeboat. At least I remember someone did but it might not have been him. The poor chap, whoever he was, went overboard during horrendous weather. They tried to get him back on board but the sea dragged him down and there were no more sightings of him until he was washed up on the beach a couple of days later.”
“That’s dreadful,” tutted Sheila, “Poor Jacob or whoever.”
“Yes it was dreadful,” Simon scowled trying hard to recall the details, “Dad told me about it and it’s a bit hazy but it was definitely during the war. It’s not easy to remember things that you hear as a child and it’s difficult to store them in the old memory, especially if there are no images to go with the facts, if you know what I mean.”
Sheila yawned. “Yes, I do.”
“Fancy a cup of tea?”
“No thank you.” Sheila turned on her side away from the light.
“Oh, well I think I’ll have one,” Simon climbed out of bed and reached for his dressing gown hanging on the door. “I need to write the name down as well because if I go back to sleep without doing so I’ll probably wake later and have forgotten again.” He put on his slippers. “Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?” But Sheila didn’t answer. She had gone back to sleep.
“Jacob Wheatley,” gasped Hetty, who had answered the phone when Simon rang at nine o’clock. “Well, fancy you remembering. Not that it matters now as he’s off the hook.”
“Yes, that’s what Sheila said.”
“Mind you, he still might have been involved. After all he must have known David and so there could have been a rift between them. He did after all live here and so had access to the attic.”
Simon laughed. “Yes and lots of other people would have known David too. I’m afraid without a motive or even a body we’ve nothing to go on and so let’s hope he died peacefully in his sleep somewhere up-country when a very old man. He might even still be alive.”
Hetty laughed. “I doubt it. If he was born in 1912 he’d be one hundred and five now but I suppose even that’s not impossible.”
During breakfast, Hetty said that she would like to go to Penzance and make enquiries at any of the art galleries to see if anyone knew anything about S J Choak.
“But why?” Lottie asked, “You know his painting of Old Jimmy has nothing whatsoever to do with David and so forth.”
“I know that but I like the picture very much and so want to learn anything I can about the chap that painted it, that’s all.”
“Fair enough and I’m happy to go with you as I always like a trip to Penzance.” She turned to Zac, “What about you, Zac? Do have plans for today?”
“Yep, we’re playing volleyball on the beach against some holiday makers who are staying at Sea View Cottage, would you believe?”
“That sounds fun,” said Hetty. “I feel quite envious. I used to like volleyball back in my school days but then only because it didn’t involve too much running around.”
“But that was in the gym,” teased Lottie, “I should imagine it’s quite hard on the legs when played on sand.”
Zac nodded. “It is.”
Lottie stood up and dropped two slices of bread in the toaster. “Anyway, we’ll leave the key under the plant pot out the back when we go so if you come back for any reason you can get in.”
“Okay,” Zac finished his breakfast and put his empty plate on the draining board.
“Shall I ask Grace if she’d like to join us?” Hetty asked as Zac left the kitchen.
“Yes, I think you ought as she’ll be off home before we know it and we’ll miss her when she’s gone.”
“Yes, we will, she’s been like one of the family.”
Grace agreed to join them and before they left Hetty took a photograph on her phone of the Old Jimmy painting so that she could show it should anyone have heard of the artist, S J Choak.
At the first gallery they went into there was no-one in authority to answer questions and so they learned nothing at all. However in the second they were very surprised indeed. For the gallery had for one week only an exhibition of West Cornwall’s artists and among them were paintings by S J Choak loaned by the members of the public to whom they belonged.
“I don’t know what to say,” whispered Hetty, as they were approached by a middle aged man in a suit with the name Graham on a badge attached to his lapel.
“Can I help you ladies, at all?”
“Yes, is Mr Choak an accomplished artist?” Grace asked, “I must admit I’m very impressed by his work.”
“Was,” corrected Graham, “He was an accomplished artist and he died fifty years ago. This exhibition coincides with the half centenary of his death. But his work is recognised all over the country and is greatly sought after by people who
like paintings on a nautical theme.”
“Yes, I know he’s no longer with us because I Googled him the other day,” said Hetty, having found her voice, “I have one of his paintings, you see.” She took out her phone and showed it to Graham.
“Old Jimmy,” he gasped, “you have the painting of Old Jimmy.” Graham sat down.
Hetty felt a sudden pang of guilt. “Why are you so surprised?”
“We’ve been trying to locate it for several years but with no luck.”
Hetty felt even more guilty. “I bought it at a car boot sale.”
“You bought it at car boot sale.” The colour drained from Graham’s face.
Hetty nodded. “Yes, for five pounds.”
Graham suddenly started to laugh but at the same time he seemed on the verge of tears. “Sorry,” he said, “you must think me stupid but I’m in shock.”
“Perhaps Hetty’s painting is a copy,” suggested Lottie, hoping it might make Graham feel better.
Grace nodded. “Yes, perhaps it’s a print. Lots of artists have prints made.”
Graham shook his head. “There were never any prints made of Choak’s work.”
“Oh, well you’re quite welcome to come and see it to check that it’s genuine,” said Lottie, “We’re only a few miles away in Pentrillick.”
“I should like to do that. When would be convenient?”
“We can be there whenever you want,” gushed Hetty, “today even because we’ll be going back soon.”
“I can’t make it today because I’m here on my own but if you leave me your phone number I’ll give you a ring to arrange a time later in the week.”
“Excellent,” With enthusiasm Hetty wrote down their address and phone number in her neatest handwriting.
Later that evening Alex called in after work to say his friend had cleaned up the two films found in the suitcase and had offered to bring along the necessary equipment to show them on Tuesday evening.
“How exciting,” squealed Hetty, “We’ll lay on a bit of food and get in a few bottles of wine. I can’t wait to see them.”
“I must admit I’m eager to see them as well,” acknowledged Alex, “especially if they’re taken in and around Pentrillick which I should imagine they are.”
“Your friend hasn’t said anything about them then?”
Alex shook his head. “No, I told him I wanted them to be as much a surprise to me as they will be to all of you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Grace called in for coffee on Tuesday morning and with her she had a bag of chocolate eclairs made by Chloe.
“I see there’s a van outside,” she said to Hetty who had answered the door, “Is it the carpet fitters?”
“Yes, and we’re so excited. Once the carpets are down we’ll be ready for the furniture. Not that we’re having much because we only need beds, chairs and bedside cabinets. We’re so glad Basil suggested built-in wardrobes as they’ve saved us a lot of space.” Hetty closed the door. “Lottie’s already made one pair of curtains and of course we’ll need some pictures for the plain white walls, but we’ll get them from the charity shop. They had quite a lot when we were last in there.”
Grace smiled sweetly. “I look forward to seeing it when it’s finished and you already have one picture anyway. I’m referring of course to Old Jimmy.”
“Oh no, Old Jimmy stays in my room. He’s hanging on the wall now opposite the window so that he can look out towards the coast.”
“A fitting location for a celebrity lifeboatman and I’m sure he must appreciate it,” teased Grace.
“Oh yes, without doubt his smile is broader now than it was when I first brought him home. Having said that we don’t actually know that he was a lifeboatman, we just assumed he was because I stupidly claimed that he was our mystery hearse driver who of course we now know was called Jacob Wheatley.”
“Good point, I hadn’t thought of that but judging by the appearance of Old Jimmy he must either have been a lifeboatman or a fisherman.”
“Or perhaps even both.”
Hetty led Grace into the kitchen where Lottie was filling a vase with water in order to arrange dahlias which she’d just brought in from the garden.
“I was going to text you but I don’t need to now that you’ve come round,” said Hetty, “You see, Alex called in last night to say that the films are ready for us to watch at last and so we’ve agreed to have a film show this evening. I’ve already phoned Simon so he’ll be here with Sheila and it’d nice if you could join us too.”
“Films,” Grace looked puzzled, “what films?”
Hetty frowned. “David’s films. Surely we’ve mentioned them to you before?” She took a plate from the cupboard and placed the eclairs on it. “Hmm, they do look nice. I wish I could bake like Chloe.”
Grace sat down on a kitchen stool. “Yes, they do, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I mean, what are David’s films?”
“Oh dear didn’t we tell you? Silly us. Would you like tea or coffee with your éclair?”
“Coffee, please.”
“How about you. Lottie?”
“Same for me.”
Hetty filled kettle and then spooned coffee granules into three mugs. “We found the films in the suitcase, Grace, along with a cine camera. There were two but of course we had no way of seeing what’s on them. Fortunately for us Alex next door has a friend who is into stuff like that and so he took it all away and sorted it out. In retrospect I suppose that’s why you hadn’t seen or heard of them because Alex had already taken them before we met you.”
“But that’s amazing. So what are the films of?”
Hetty shrugged her shoulders. “No idea. Probably all fishing stuff, trains and lifeboats, but I hope one of them at least has people on it and hopefully they’ll be people whose names have cropped up in our searches. Not that we’ll know who they are. I mean, they’re hardly likely to be wearing name badges, are they?”
Grace shook her head.
“But we’ll be able to recognise David’s girlfriend, Edith Triggs,” said Lottie, “because Steve had some really nice, clear pictures of her.”
“And of course we’ll be able to recognise the brothers as well,” gushed Hetty, pouring water into the mugs, “because of the photograph that was in the suitcase.”
“And Steve Martin had a nice one of him too,” Lottie added.
“That’s right, he did.”
Lottie picked up the vase of flowers to take into the sitting room. “So we’ll be able to recognise at least three people providing they’re on the films of course. It’s a shame Simon’s family pictures were damaged because the ones we saw didn’t help much at all. Still, never mind. Bring my coffee through please, Het, and the eclairs and let’s go into the sitting room where it’s nice and sunny.”
As Luke Burleigh closed the gate of Fuchsia Cottage early on Tuesday evening, he saw a car pull up further along Blackberry Way outside, he estimated, Primrose Cottage. The slamming of the car doors was followed by the chatter of excited voices, the house door closed and then all fell silent.
The evening felt a little chilly and so Luke zipped up his jacket and as he walked he whistled a happy tune and looked to the sky, mottled with shades of orange and pink in the west. And then he stopped in his tracks remembering he had put on a clean pair of jeans and had forgotten to transfer his wallet from his other pair. Tutting, he retraced his steps and returned indoors where Natalie was watching television. After explaining the reason for his sudden return home he again left the house and resumed his walk to the pub.
As he neared Primrose Cottage something caused him to slow his pace. A dark figure was crouching outside the front garden wall of the house. In its hand the figure held a large container and its behaviour was furtive and suspicious.
Luke’s pace slowed to a halt when the figure sprang forwards and dashed through the open gates. To make sure he was not seen, Luke stepped from the road and onto the grass verge in front of the b
oundary wall of Hillside and, from behind the cover of a fuchsia bush, he listened and watched for any further activity. The figure whoever it was had not gone inside the house or even knocked on the door. For the door had not opened and no cheerful voices had welcomed the mystery person to cross the threshold. Luke crouched down low. From within the house he could hear lively chatter and joyful laughter, yet outside all was quiet. Intuitively he kept still. Something was wrong and he was determined to remain in his hiding place until the dark figure reappeared or the reason for his unease became apparent.
Inside Primrose Cottage, Hetty and Lottie offered glasses of wine to their guests: neighbours, Tommy and Kitty and Alex and Ginny; friends: Bernie the Boatman and his wife, Veronica, Sid the plumber and of course Simon and Sheila Berryman.
Ginny pulled the curtains to darken the room and while Alex set up a projector ready for the film show, as instructed by his friend, Zac and Emma were busy in the kitchen putting snacks into dishes for the guests.
“What was that?” Zac suddenly asked, glancing around the kitchen.
“What was what?”
“I don’t know. It was a sort of clicking noise.”
Emma shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
Zac reached up to a shelf where a radio sat, turned down the volume and listened for any more sounds. He tutted. “I must have dreamt it.”
“Yes, come on, let’s take these in the other room because we don’t want to miss anything.”
From behind the fuchsia bush, Luke heard footsteps walking across the tarmacked driveway and then they stopped. Someone coughed and he heard what sounded like liquid sloshing around in a vessel. The sound of splashing followed and then he heard the shuffling of feet and more splashing. Luke lifted his head. His nose twitched. Petrol. He could smell petrol. He scrambled to his feet and dashed forward just in time to see someone wearing a hooded top push lighted paper through the letterbox and then throw a match onto the clump of pampas grass swaying in front of the sitting room window. As Luke ran forwards shouting and waving his fists, the feathery plumes of the pampas grass burst into flames and the figure ran away.
The Suitcase In The Attic Page 15
