First things first, he decided as he left the A30 at the Hayle junction. He pulled up in the car-park of the pub where he had stayed before and went into the bar. Lunchtime customers were ordering food. Bradley was flattered to be remembered by the landlord.
‘Same room if you like,’ he was told. ‘The missus’ll show you up. Let her know if there aren’t any towels. We weren’t expecting much more trade.’
Bradley entered the low-ceilinged bedroom with its tiny en suite bathroom. There was a shower stall, a lavatory and a small hand basin. The plumbing was efficient and it was adequate for his needs. He hung up the spare clothes he had brought and placed his toilet bag on the glass shelf above the sink. After splashing his face with cold water he went down to the bar for a quick drink before going over to the Pengelly place. It was a risk returning, he knew that, especially if what he had learned about the daughter-in-law was true. Gwen Pengelly was angling to get Dorothy into an old people’s home in order to get her hands on her possessions. It was too late now for Gwen Pengelly to have her way; Dorothy had made other arrangements.
Marigold’s funeral was not taking place until the following week. Fred had needed time to let everyone know and he felt it would have seemed like rushing her departure from the world if he took the first date which was offered. He could not contemplate how he would get through the intervening days. It was unbearable in the shop receiving the pitying glances and hearing the well-meaning words of his customers. ‘She’s no longer suffering,’ was the most oft repeated. Fred wanted to shout at them, to say that she shouldn’t have been made to suffer at all. It was even more unbearable upstairs in the flat with nothing but his own thoughts for company and Marigold’s possessions all around him.
Out of a perverse desire to please, he had lined up the condolence cards he had received from his customers on the shelf behind the counter. All the crosses and lilies made him feel sick. A thousand sackfuls of cards couldn’t bring Marigold back. But he, Fred Meecham, was going to preserve what they had had together and protect their secret until his own dying day. At any cost, he told himself.
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.
7
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 re
quest 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.
Framed in Cornwall Page 10
