There were two messages from Jack. The first said he would try again later, the second asked her to contact him at the station as soon as she got home. She tried but was told he wasn’t available. Rose left her own message with a sergeant then went upstairs to develop some rolls of film.
‘Goddamm the woman,’ Jack said when he returned to his office and found the note on the desk. He still had no idea how her meeting with the Pengellys had gone or if she had been there at all. Once more he rang her number and was relieved to hear her voice.
‘That’s it?’ he asked, disappointed when she had given her explanation.
‘Yes. Sorry, Jack.’
‘You did your best.’
Rose was glad he could not see her. He would have known by her face that there was more but she was not ready to tell him yet. After the trip to Hayle later would be the time to tell him whether or not anything came of it.
Perverting the course of justice? Obstructing the law? she asked herself, having replaced the receiver. No, she amended, more like bloody-mindedness. If Jack was doing his job properly he would know all about the nameless men in Hayle.
Rose was unaware that the landlord of the pub had already been questioned but was unable to supply the names because they had paid for their accommodation in advance, in cash, which might indicate that the transaction did not go through the books but was of no help in identifying them.
8
Bradley Hinkston stood at the bar with a brandy and soda in his hand, more shaken now than he had been yesterday. How right his initial instincts about the Pengelly family had been. Eccentric was not a strong enough word to describe them. The old lady must have been having him on in some way, although he couldn’t quite see how, not after his first visit. Then, out of the blue, he had been physically threatened by the son. The only thing to do now was forget all about it and pack up and go home. Too late tonight. He’d been drinking and Louise was not expecting him because he had telephoned to say he was staying on. Besides, he’d already paid for a second night and he couldn’t expect the landlord to give him his money back.
Tomorrow he intended visiting a village near Plymouth for a house clearance sale. From the catalogue he did not think it would be very profitable but there were a few nice pieces he wouldn’t mind if he could beat the other dealers to them. What annoyed him most was that if he had been able to get his hands on Mrs Pengelly’s other paintings and that rather nice commode it would have added to his reputation as far as his customers were concerned. With a mental shrug he decided to put it all behind him and enjoy the home-made steak and kidney pudding and fresh vegetables which were offered on the menu. He would have another drink to settle his nerves before he ordered. Louise tended to go for exotic foods or things which would not harm her figure. Alone, Bradley allowed himself to indulge in large helpings of plain cooking.
He moved away from the bar as more customers came in. He wanted to be sure of a table at which to eat. When a gust of wind told him that the door had been opened again he looked up automatically. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he whispered. It was the Pengelly boy and he had come with reinforcements. He hoped there would not be some awful public scene. However, the short, grizzled man and the extremely attractive middle-aged woman posed no real threat. It was the son who might be out for trouble. He placed a finger to his lips as he wondered what the disparate group wanted.
As they went up to the bar and ordered drinks he saw them whispering.
It was the woman who approached the table first, the two men close behind her. In the car they had decided that they had been stupid, that there was no chance of the men being there. Now they were actually facing one of them no one was sure what to do.
Rose quickly took in the debonair man who looked completely at ease. He reminded her of a fifties film star she was unable to name. The silver hair and well-defined features were attractive. Neither Jobber nor Martin appeared to want to initiate conversation so it was left to her. ‘Excuse us interrupting, but we’re friends of Mrs Pengelly. Well, two of us are,’ she began uncertainly. ‘This is Jobber Hicks. And this is her son, Martin. I believe you’ve already met.’
Bradley had not been expecting such polite introductions. He turned on his full charm. ‘Jobber, what an interesting name. And Hicks. Don’t tell me you’re responsible for that excellent local beer by the same name?’
‘No, I’m a farmer. We’d like to know who you are.’
‘Forgive me. Won’t you sit down?’ He waved a hand over the empty seats surrounding him. ‘It’s so relaxing down here it’s easy to forget one’s manners.’ He stood as they joined his table. ‘I’m Bradley Hinkston and I’m very pleased to meet you.’
Rose introduced herself as his eyes slid appreciatively down to her legs.
Bradley sipped his drink. ‘Mr Pengelly, I’m pleased that we’re now on better terms. Unless, of course, this is your hit-team?’
The incongruity of the comment and the man’s wry humour amused Rose. Jobber took it more seriously. ‘Martin meant nothing by his behaviour, sir. Naturally, he was upset.’
‘Yes. It must’ve appeared as if I was trespassing, but Mrs Pengelly –’
‘Just a minute.’ Rose stopped him. Unless he was a true con artist he did not know that Dorothy was dead. ‘Mr Hinkston, Martin’s mother died on Thursday night.’
‘What? Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry. No wonder –’ but he stopped himself that time. ‘Oh, dear, I should’ve telephoned first.’
‘Wouldn’t’ve been no point. She couldn’t have answered,’ Martin stated philosophically.
‘I can’t believe it, she was fine when I last saw her.’
So he had been to the house before and he was making no attempt to hide the fact. This, Rose knew, would be important to the police, more so in view of his next comment.
‘Thursday! I was with her on Thursday. I didn’t know she was ill, she really showed no signs of being so. Oh, dear. If only she’d said.’
‘Would you mind us knowing what it was you went to see her about?’ Jobber had taken the initiative.
‘I don’t know what all this is about, but would you allow me to freshen your drinks before we continue?’
Rose and Jobber said yes but Martin put a hand firmly over his glass. He knew what had happened the last time. ‘Why not, ’e looks like ’e’s got a few bob,’ Jobber whispered but Martin shook his head.
Bradley returned with the glasses then leant back in his seat ready to answer their questions, not admitting that he was as baffled as his interviewers. They listened, astonished, to what he had to tell them. Later, in the car, Martin surprised them. A will existed and he knew where it was.
It was nine thirty before Bradley got to eat his steak and kidney pudding, and it gave him indigestion. Foolishly he had ignored his instinct which had told him not to return.
‘No,’ Peter Pengelly stated firmly. ‘You are not going up there. The solicitors’ll sort it out. Knowing Mother, everything will be in order.’
‘But it needs a good clean.’
Peter knew Gwen’s intention was to remove anything she thought to be of value, small things, maybe, but nonetheless, they were not hers to take. He still could not understand the urgency: they both believed that the bulk of the estate was coming to them. If Gwen feared Martin had the same intention as herself she need not have worried. His brother was completely trustworthy.
Peter turned his head as he heard the swish of his wife’s legs crossing. Her skirt had slid higher up and the top of one stocking was visible, as he knew it was meant to be. He sighed. Did she really think her blatant methods would work now? Was she incapable of seeing that he was still grieving? Even allowing for her miserable childhood he was impatient with her.
Peter’s grim face showed Gwen she had made the wrong move. She tugged her skirt into place and sat up straight. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, Peter, I just thought if the house had a good clean it would be easier to sell. I keep meaning to ask you, do you know where
the will actually is?’
‘No. But her solicitors or the bank probably have the original.’
‘I don’t mean to sound mercenary, but they won’t necessarily know she’s dead, not unless we tell them.’
He frowned. It was true. It was the first sensible suggestion she had made. It was up to the relatives to make it known. ‘I’ll see to it in the morning. Failing that I’ll get the key off Martin and we’ll look for it together.’
Gwen’s face relaxed.
‘Me and Martin, I meant.’
Gwen saw there was no point in arguing.
Rose unlocked the kitchen door. She was much later than she had anticipated. The hall was lit, the timer switch had come on a couple of hours ago. It had been Jack’s idea and he had installed it for her. It was yet another reminder of the way she had allowed him into her life.
Locking the door behind her she reached out for the kitchen light switch then boiled a kettle for tea. At the moment the idea of sleep was impossible. There was so much else to think about and she ought to ring Jack immediately. There were several messages for her but they all concerned work. Rose made a note of the numbers. She would return the calls but it was doubtful if she would take on the jobs. Leaving a message for Jack on his answering machine she went to bed. Her sleep was patchy and she dreamed of the life she had stayed in Cornwall for, where her friends were talented or bohemian or both, and their minds were intellectual. Deep sleep only came before dawn and she awoke feeling drained, but the first thing she did was to get out her oil paints.
At eight she rang Jack’s flat only to find she had missed him. He was not at his desk at work either. She did not leave a message.
Rose made a list of the things she needed to do: a trip to the library, some grocery shopping, a dozen rolls of fast film and some business cards to collect from the printers; mundane chores after her grand plans, but they had to be done. After that, coffee with Laura whom she felt she had been neglecting.
With her books in a carrier and her bag slung diagonally across her body, Rose set off for Penzance. Once all the items were ticked off her list she still had twenty minutes to spare so she decided to call in at the book shop in Chapel Street to order an illustrated art book she had seen reviewed in the paper. It was her favourite street. Dog-legged at the bottom and steeply sloped, it was lined with historic buildings, including the Union Hotel from where news of the death of Nelson was first announced. Further down, the pavements were high and cobbled and so narrow that two people could not walk abreast.
She ordered the book then walked up Causewayhead where they were to meet. Ahead of her were three young people, travellers, as they were now called. It was the way in which they were dressed which caught her eye, the multi-coloured layers of the girls’ clothing and their beaded plaits. She had dressed in a similar manner in her own youth.
‘Look.’ Laura nudged her and smirked.
Rose jumped, she hadn’t seen her approach. She followed Laura’s gaze.
‘Why do they do it?’ A middle-aged man in loud Bermuda shorts was accompanied by a woman his own age in a pastel lemon towelling tracksuit through which the bulges of her flesh were visible.
‘Holiday gear.’ Many tourists were so predictable. Rose saw the parallel with her own life.
‘Why the dark glasses?’ Rose asked when they were seated in the café and had ordered their coffee. ‘Afraid you’ll be recognised?’ Trevor was at sea so they had not had one of their rows which left Laura tear-stained.
Laura removed them. ‘That’s why. Both my sons arrived last night and we had a bit of a pub crawl. I feel a little poorly this morning.’
‘Yon look it. But it serves you right.’
‘Don’t be smug, Rose, dear. You’re not exactly abstemious yourself. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve got shares in a vineyard. Shall we have something to eat?’
‘Not for me.’
‘Are you okay? I didn’t mean to be flippant.’ She knew Rose must still be thinking about Dorothy.
‘I’m worried, Laura, none of it seems right. Anyway, I’ve got other things to tell you.’
‘You want to prove something to Jack.’
They had been friends for years, since they were in their early twenties, and could say almost anything to each other without causing offence.
‘Maybe, but it’s more than that. However, Jack’s no longer part of the equation.’
‘What? He’s quite a dish, Rose. Why not just enjoy what you’ve got?’ Laura replaced the sunglasses to hide her astonishment.
‘I don’t want to any more.’
‘He’s crazy about you, Rose. Are you afraid of taking a second chance? I’ve noticed that every time you seem to be getting closer you distance yourself from him. He’d try to make you happy, you know.’
‘Yes, he’d try but it wouldn’t work if I don’t want it. And you’re always saying you shouldn’t rely on other people to provide your happiness. So, how are the boys?’
Laura began to understand that her friend had finally pulled through. It had been a long haul but she had got there. She chatted about her sons and their families, animated when she spoke of their achievements. Watching her, so full of vitality even after a heavy night out, Rose found it hard to believe that there were two generations growing up behind her. Laura’s life was full and she was contented, but in a different way from the way Rose wanted.
When they left the café Rose found an outfit to wear to Barbara and Mike’s party and said she would have it without looking at the price tags. It was unlike any of the clothes in her existing wardrobe.
The phone rang as soon as she got back. Jack wanted to see her immediately. Rose plugged in the percolator but she did not offer him anything to eat when he arrived just before one.
‘We seem to keep missing each other. Did you have a chance to speak to Martin?’
She leaned back against the rounded edge of the worktop and folded her arms. No hello, no kiss, nothing but The Job. Under the circumstances her annoyance was ridiculous. ‘Yes. I ran your errands for you, Jack.’
He squinted at her quizzically. ‘Teasy today, aren’t we?’
‘Are we? I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m sick and tired of not having a minute to myself.’ She turned her back and fiddled with the coffee pot. He had not really deserved that and she disliked herself for her sharpness, it was out of character. It was going to be difficult to finish it. ‘Sugar?’ Unable to soften her tone she pushed the bowl towards him, then sat down herself. ‘I told you on the phone that seeing Peter and Gwen was a waste of time. She didn’t seem particularly upset although I’m pretty certain she is worried about something. I think Gwen’s main concern is what’s in the will.’
‘The will?’ Jack looked surprised.
‘Yes. And they’re not just guessing. I know for a fact that one exists.’
‘All right, Rose, let’s hear it all.’ He leaned forward, his deep blue eyes on her face. She lowered her head because when he looked at her like that it did something strange to her stomach.
‘We’d just finished talking to Bradley Hinkston when Martin told us he knew where the will was kept. Dorothy’s solicitors have it, and Martin seems to think they’re the executors too. He says his mother didn’t keep a copy in the house but he doesn’t know why.’
‘Martin told you? I would’ve thought – never mind. But who the hell is Bradley Hinkston?’
‘Well, it was like this.’ She took a deep breath then carefully explained from the beginning, from the time Jobber had telephoned her. Jack listened in amazement at the plan they had formed and how successful it had been.
‘The Three bloody Musketeers. As I’ve said before, you really do slay me, Mrs Trevelyan. Go on.’
There had been admiration in his voice. ‘The will first. Martin’s positive about it because he went with her to Truro when she drew it up and again when she signed it, although he was made to wait outside.’
Jack wrote down the name of
the solicitor in question. ‘That’s great, we can take it from there. Now this Hinkston bloke.’
Rose drained the last of her coffee and went to pour more. Jack held out his mug. He was familiar with all her actions and this one, the ritual refilling, was, in Rose’s case, much the same thing as someone rolling up their sleeves ready to get stuck in.
‘Bradley Hinkston is an antiques dealer from Bristol. He has an assistant called Roy Phelps. Someone else usually runs the shop while they go out buying and selling. Occasionally they are asked for a specific object and Bradley says that’s the part he enjoys most, the search for whatever it is a customer wants. They also do valuations.’
Jack sat back, crossed his long legs at the ankles and folded his arms. He was impressed.
‘Purely by chance, or so he says, they came across Martin when he turned up at the pub in which they were staying. They got chatting and Martin, a bit the worse for wear, started boasting about his mother’s possessions once he knew what line of work they were in. They bought him more drinks. Now I don’t know whether this was to loosen his vocal chords further or whether there was a more innocent explanation.’ Rose looked thoughtful. ‘He didn’t strike me as a dishonest man, but that’s only my opinion, for what it’s worth.’
Your opinion is extremely valuable to me, Jack thought, and you’re a damn good judge of character. ‘So Hinkston hot tails it out to the Pengelly place to do Dorothy out of her paintings or whatever.’
‘Not according to him. He says after he spoke to Martin he looked up the number and address in the phone book and contacted her first. He put his cards on the table and she invited him out there. Naturally Bradley was interested, who wouldn’t be? But he wasn’t sure if Martin was telling the complete truth. Dorothy gave him a warm welcome and said something along the lines about his having come at the right time. He couldn’t believe his luck. He said she offered him the Stanhope Forbes and that she had a pretty good idea how much it was worth. There was, however, one proviso. He had to find her a replica. He got one that day, they’re not hard to come by.’
Framed in Cornwall Page 12
