Grease streaked the windscreen as she drove away. Rose pressed the washer switch and cursed further as foam replaced the diesel smears. She had put too much washing-up liquid in the water.
Along the Promenade spray hit the car as the first waves of the high tide flung it up over the railing along with slimy bits of seaweed and a shower of small stones. It was early in the year for such weather but it would be far worse in February when gale force winds and torrential rain would cause the fishing-boats to lie idle far too long for the liking of their owners and their crews.
Stopping at a neat bungalow on the outskirts of Penzance, Rose hurried to the door and handed over the boxed package which contained the proofs. ‘I’ll let you know which ones I want within a couple of days,’ Mrs Harvey told her. Rose refused the offer of a cup of coffee and returned to the car. The rain was coming down heavily and splashed against the back of her bare legs. Droplets of water ran down her face as she turned the ignition key, praying the engine would jump into life immediately. It did.
Leaving Penzance behind her she tried not to think of the scene which had awaited her on her last visit to Dorothy.
The sea fret had rolled inland and hung depressingly over the countryside and shrouded the house. Two stunted trees shed a deluge of water on to her as a gust of wind hit them. With a shudder Rose reached for the door handle. It didn’t turn. Martin had locked the door. She suspected Jobber had told him to do so. Rose let herself in. To her surprise everything was just as it had been when she had found Dorothy and Martin in the kitchen.
The cats were nowhere in sight but they had the freedom of the flap on the back door. Star was in her usual place, in her basket, and took no notice of her entry. Even George seemed to have lost some of his vitality: he did not growl at her or pretend to nip her ankles as she nervously crossed the kitchen expecting him to change his mind and remember to protect his territory. There was no sign of Martin but there was food in the animals’ bowls and water in dishes. Feeling like the intruder she was, Rose checked the cupboards. There was a good supply of tins for both cats and dogs and an unopened sack of biscuits.
Feeling disorientated in Dorothy’s empty kitchen she sat down in the seat where she had last drunk tea with her friend. She wondered if the dogs had been out but was not certain they would respond to her in the way in which they once had to Dorothy when she called them back. She took a chance and left the door open because the room smelled stale. Breathing in the moist air perfumed with gorse and heather, she watched Star stagger out of her basket, sniff the air herself then, in her less than youthful manner, lope up the side of the hill. George followed, yapping excitedly.
Through the kitchen window she watched the rain hitting the flagstones of the small yard where Dorothy used to hang her washing. Beyond it was the towering hill which always cast the room in shadow. A figure was approaching. Rose breathed a sigh of relief. It was Martin. He stood straighter and had more colour and if she failed, he’d get the dogs back in.
‘I saw you,’ he said, pointing over his shoulder as he stood in the doorway. ‘I saw from up there that the door was open. I didn’t know it was you, though, I thought they might have come back.’
‘Who might have, Martin?’ Rose stood, her hands at her sides, waiting. He knew something, of that she was sure, but whether it was relevant was difficult to tell. Outwardly he seemed to have accepted Dorothy’s death. It was a mistake to have invited him to her house; Martin’s solitude was not an enforced situation, it was one which he preferred and which she now saw would enable him to come to terms with his grief in much the same way as she had done.
‘The men I spoke to.’
‘I still don’t understand, Martin. You told me you spoke to some men in me pub. Are you saying they came here?’ She was, for the first time, alone with him in that large house with no one else around. For some reason she was afraid to ask him again why he thought he had killed his mother.
He nodded dumbly and looked at his feet then raised his eyes to stare at Dorothy’s empty armchair. ‘I didn’t see ’em, but I know they came.’
Rose frowned in bewilderment. She had no idea what he was talking about. His next words made her catch her breath.
‘Will you come upstairs with me?’
Rose inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. There was no one for miles around and Martin was twice her size. Without meaning to she glanced at his muscled forearms before realising she was behaving neurotically. Martin would not hurt anyone. ‘What for?’
‘To see if they’ve taken anything.’
‘Of course,’ she said with relief.
She followed him up the uncarpeted stairs, their footsteps echoing. There was a sharp angle half-way up where three steps were triangular-shaped as the stairwell changed direction. Rose was careful to keep to the wider bits. The upstairs corridor was quite light as it reached a level with the brow of the hill. Martin, it seemed, believed that someone had come to the house with the intention of robbing Dorothy, but if that was the case why hadn’t the police followed it up and why had he told her he thought he had killed her? There was the additional problem that although the police would not be able to tell if anything had been taken it was not certain that Martin would know either.
Rose had only been on the upper floor once, on the occasion when Dorothy had shown her the painting. Presumably Martin wasn’t expecting her to recall what had been there but had needed company to make this search.
He opened the door of what used to be his own bedroom and stared around vacantly. It was sparsely furnished but had a panoramic view over the landscape with a distant hint of the sea. He shook his head. ‘Nothing gone,’ he said, closing the door. The next room, slightly larger, had been Peter’s when a child but had long since been turned into a storeroom. Boxes were piled high on and around the single bed. Most were sealed and covered with dust. Only one had been opened, the cardboard flaps upright and yellowed newspaper lying crumpled on the floor as if something had been removed. To Rose it looked as if nothing else had been touched for years. Martin closed this door too but did not speak.
Outside the third one he hesitated. This was where his mother had slept, where she had slept all her married life and where she had given birth to both of her sons. ‘I never went in here,’ he offered and Rose saw that she had been right. This had been his mother’s sanctuary, her one place of privacy, and he did not want to invade it alone. It was Rose who opened the door.
It was by far the biggest room and had two windows which looked out over the rainwashed countryside. The top of a minestack could be seen lower in the valley and cars, like small insects, wound their way along the main road. Opposite the window was the wooden-framed bed with its patchwork quilt. The pillowslips were white and clean, as was the edge of the sheet which was folded back over the blankets. On the chest which also served as a bedside table was a fringed reading lamp and a pile of books, Dorothy’s place in the top one marked with an old envelope. The unread novel saddened Rose and she had to look away.
There was a wardrobe, probably Edwardian, and a small table beneath the windows. Everything was neat, everything seemed just as it ought to be. The Stanhope Forbes hung in its rightful place and there were no lighter patches on the faded wallpaper to indicate other paintings had been removed. ‘Everything looks all right to me, Martin. Can you see anything wrong?’
He shook his head and stroked the patchwork quilt. Like Rose he was able to smell Dorothy’s presence. Martin, she thought, was confused about the conversation in the pub which may or may not have taken place. He might even have dreamed it. ‘Come on, let’s go back down.’ It was affecting them both, being in her room.
Rose turned to leave, her artist’s eye naturally settling again on the Stanhope Forbes. Then she froze. ‘Martin,’ she finally said as calmly as she was able, ‘did your mother keep her special things somewhere safe?’ His brow creased with non-comprehension. ‘I mean her paintings, did she put them somewhere safe and hang copies
on the wall?’
‘No. Not ’er. She liked her bits where she could see ’un.’
Rose stepped slowly towards the painting. It was identical to the one she had seen before, even down to the frame. Only this one was a print; not a copy, she had only used the word so as not to confuse Martin further. Had Dorothy noticed? Despite her pretence to the contrary, her eyesight wasn’t good. But had Dorothy had time to notice? Was she dead even before it was swapped? Martin may not have been mistaken in thinking that the men he had spoken to had come to the house. Now you’ll take me seriously, Jack Pearce, she thought. ‘She hasn’t changed this painting?’ Rose pointed towards it; she had to be sure.
‘No. ’Tis the same one.’
To Martin it probably seemed so. She had to let Jack know. If Dorothy had decided to put the original away for safe-keeping it was not her place to make a thorough search of the house. But the police would need to speak to Martin and that worried her. If he repeated his fears that he had killed his mother they would question him endlessly and he would probably say things he didn’t mean. There were other items to be considered, ones which Rose had not been shown and which might also be missing. She guessed that more valuables were stored in the boxes in Peter’s old room. And one of those boxes had been opened.
Retracing her steps she peered into the other rooms. Her expert eye told her that what was on the walls had not been tampered with. There were one or two local scenes from some of the lesser known painters. Strange, then, that only one had been replaced, and why bother unless it was meant to conceal a crime? She smiled at Martin. ‘I’ll make us some tea. Do you think I could use the telephone?’
‘Course you can. ’Er won’t mind.’
As she preceded Martin down the narrow staircase she asked what he intended doing about the animals. For the time being they gave him something to do, a reason for getting out of the caravan rather than dwelling upon his mother’s death.
‘Well, I can’t leave ’em starve. Me an’ George’ve never got on too well but I expect he’ll treat me different when he knows it’s me what’s going to feed him. I can’t have them at the van, though, there’s no room.’
Rose let it go. The house would be sold, or Gwen and Peter might live in it – either way, at some point a decision about the animals would have to be made. ‘Martin, I’ve still got the keys. Do you want them back?’
He frowned with concentration. ‘No, you keep ’em. I don’t want Gwen out here.’
‘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 sp
oke 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.
Framed in Cornwall Page 7
