‘Come off it, Rose. You surely didn’t fall for that?’
‘Why not? He says he paid her by cheque. There’ll be a record of it somewhere.’
‘But why did she want the picture replaced?’
‘That’s the thing. She wanted him to come back as soon as he could and buy more stuff from her but all under the same conditions. She didn’t want her family to know anything was missing. And again according to Bradley, it was to do with her will.’
‘I don’t understand. If she’d made one, however she divided her estate, selling her possessions wouldn’t make any difference.’
Rose shrugged and brushed back her hair. ‘I know. You’ll have to get the will to find out.’
‘We’d already asked questions at the pub,’ Jack said to fill the silence which followed Rose’s last statement. He vaguely resented it, it was as if she was telling him how to do his job. ‘The landlord wasn’t any help. He knew we wanted to speak to those men – he should have got in touch when they came back.’
‘Only one of them came back and he went out to Dorothy’s for a second time.’ Rose paused. ‘The day before yesterday.’
Jack’s mouth dropped open and Rose could not help smiling. One to me, Jack Pearce, she thought, and here comes a second one. She opened her bag which was hanging over the back of her chair. ‘Bradley Hinkston’s business card. In case you wanted to speak to him.’
Jack stared at it, then at Rose who was unable to hide a smirk. He nodded as he placed the card in his inside jacket pocket. ‘I suppose you know how grateful I am?’
‘Naturally, and with justification.’
‘Then you also know you should have told me all this before, as soon as you went to Dorothy’s and Martin told you Hinkston had come back.’
‘What difference would it have made?’ Trust you, she thought. Maybe he’d like to charge her with something. But deep down she knew he was right.
‘It would have saved us a day. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?’
‘No. That’s it. I thought I ought to leave some of it to our wonderful boys in blue.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Rose.’
‘No. But you were the one who suggested I go and see Peter, you’re the one who got me involved and you obviously know a lot of things which you can’t tell me. One day won’t make any difference, Jack, not to Dorothy anyway.’ To her consternation Rose found she was crying. The tears came without warning because it had suddenly hit her that she would never see Dorothy again.
‘Oh, Rose. Don’t. Please.’
He got up and went around to her side of the table where she sat with her face in her hands and gently touched the back of her neck beneath her hair. He had forgotten that feelings were involved, that Rose had been Dorothy’s friend. Nothing seemed important other than that she stopped crying and told him it was not all over between them. Hinkston was an honest man, Dorothy had killed herself, Dorothy had been murdered, he would believe anything if it meant not losing Rose.
Rose straightened up. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a long time since I’ve made such a fool of myself.’ Her voice was cold. ‘There’s nothing else I can tell you so you might as well leave.’
‘No.’ He knelt on the flagstone floor. ‘No, Rose, I won’t leave until you say I can see you again.’
‘And if I don’t?’
He raised his palms helplessly. ‘Then I don’t know what I’d do,’ he said very quietly.
Rose wiped away a last tear with her index finger. ‘Give me a ring this evening. I need to be on my own right now.’
He stood and walked slowly to the door. It wasn’t a definite no, he had to be content with that.
When he’d gone Rose cried again, her head on the table as the hot tears of release flowed down her face. She had not realised how tense she was and how hard it would be to say goodbye to Jack. Not that she had done so yet. It was also a relief to hand everything over to him. But she had forgotten to tell him about the telephone call. She had almost forgotten it herself. Bradley Hinkston? Why not? Perhaps Dorothy had mentioned her name, or Martin for that matter. More likely Martin, who may have built her up out of all proportion. But why would Bradley think that Rose would not be satisfied with a suicide verdict? And hadn’t she told Jack she thought he was honest?
Nothing made sense. She promised herself a long, hot bath and an evening with a book. Apart from the party, there was nothing in her diary for tomorrow; she would find a suitable card and present for Mike.
Bradley Hinkston had stopped off in Plymouth as arranged but the house clearance sale had been a waste of time. He had left half-way through the bidding which he had watched just as a matter of interest. When he arrived home he was not surprised to learn that someone from the Avon police was coming later to ask him some questions.
Jack had arranged this and he remained at Camborne until the transcript of that interview was faxed through. Every few minutes he was tempted to pick up the phone and ring Rose but he knew it was best to leave it until he went home.
He studied the fax. It corresponded with what Rose had said almost verbatim, except she had omitted the threats Martin had made to Hinkston. Her loyalty had never been in question; she would not have wanted Dorothy’s son to be under the slightest suspicion. It did, however, show that Martin was capable of threatening behaviour, although this was hardly unusual if he was protecting his mother’s property.
The will surprised him. The lawyer in question had been more co-operative than some and Jack had been allowed to read the contents in the privacy of the older man’s office.
Peter Pengelly was to inherit the house. ‘It won’t fetch a great deal,’ the solicitor had told Jack. ‘Its isolation will only appeal to a few, there’s no central heating or double-glazing and it needs an awful lot of work done to the interior. A new kitchen and bathroom for a start.’
Even so it was a house with a saleable value and Jack would not have turned his nose up at it. What was interesting was that Dorothy Pengelly had left the remainder of her estate to Martin. This would include the house contents and her not inconsiderable savings which had now come to light. Why, then, had she been trying to sell off Martin’s inheritance? Had she been worried that Peter and Gwen would get their hands on her valuables and sell them off or did she believe that Martin would not realise their worth and be duped out of them?
He studied the list again. It contained over thirty items. Alongside each was a detailed description and an approximate valuation. Jack whistled through his teeth. The amount in question made Martin Pengelly an extremely wealthy man and was motive enough for anyone to commit murder. Martin Pengelly would be as rich as a lottery winner.
Only one thing was wrong: the cheque Bradley Hinkston claimed he had given Dorothy for the Stanhope Forbes had not been paid into either of her accounts.
The bank had a record of a telephone call from Dorothy but the cheque had not, as Hinkston believed, been subjected to special clearance. Dorothy had only gone as far as to verify that there were enough funds to meet it. Therefore, he concluded, she at least had had it in her possession at some time. Had Hinkston somehow retrieved it? Surely he wouldn’t have bothered writing it out if he had intended harming her.
And what of Martin? Had he killed his mother for the money because he couldn’t wait for her to die? Did money actually mean anything to him? He drank too much but otherwise his needs were basic.
Jack shook his head in frustration. The timing didn’t fit. Hinkston had visited Dorothy on the Thursday morning. Dorothy had had enough time to contact the bank and although an exact time of death was impossible to pin-point she certainly had not died that early in the day. There was no reason for Hinkston to have waited, to have gone back later – he could have done whatever he intended whilst he was there. Unless, Jack thought, Dorothy had said she was expecting someone. Maybe Hinkston thought she would not have had a chance to pay the cheque in, which now seemed likely. With the man’s consent they were now
checking Hinkston’s account to see if the relevant sum had been debited or transferred elsewhere.
He was too tired to think straight and Rose kept intruding upon his deliberations. He had not seen her cry before and, if he had his way, he would never let her do so again. But with Rose Trevelyan it was not a case of having his own way. He picked up the telephone and dialled her number. There was no reply but he had already steeled himself to that probability.
9
Rose woke at a quarter past four. The previous evening she had unplugged the telephone and enjoyed a long soak in the bath followed by a decent meal. At nine o’clock she had collapsed into bed and fallen asleep immediately, her unopened library book sliding off the bed unnoticed. Consequently she was awake early.
She opened her eyes and listened for sounds. There were none, not even the soughing of the wind in the chimney breast. Not a noise, but a dream, she thought, realising what had woken her. But it was rapidly dissolving, slipping away from her as easily as the sun burned off an early morning mist. She tried not to think about it, hoping it would come back, but whatever pleasant memories it had evoked had now disappeared.
She padded downstairs, barefoot, and made a pot of tea. To her side were some notes she scribbled down; her own thoughts which could in no way be construed as evidence or facts. She studied them until the yellow light of dawn appeared on the horizon then decided to complete the work she had begun yesterday. She was rapidly approaching her goal but the jobs still on hand would be done to the best of her ability. Her own dissatisfaction, she thought, was nothing compared with that of Gwen Pengelly. Hooking her hair behind her ears she wondered what had made her think that. The downward turn of the mouth, maybe, the nervous energy? Or was it guilt? Still in her towelling robe she mounted some photographs under the enlarger. It was only six thirty. Ahead of her was a whole new day and she was going to take a walk along the beach. Rose, like almost everyone in Newlyn, knew the movements of the tide as well as most people know the days of the week.
As daylight rose into the eastern sky she stepped down on to the pebbles below Newlyn Green. All the rocks beyond the shore were exposed, dark and jagged against the limpid sea. There was no one in sight, which surprised her for she was not alone in taking early morning strolls. She wanted to speak to Doreen Clarke who would not have thanked her for a call before 7 a.m., even if she was an early riser.
Her shoes scrunched into the the shifting mounds of stones until she reached the hard, wet sand left uncovered by the tide. She stood quietly, watching the waders as they fed along the shoreline and in the crevices of rocks. Most of them had returned now for the winter. A crow, unintimidated, scavenged alongside herring-gulls, dunlins sank their beaks into the yielding wetness and a flock of sanderlings scurried along the edge of the lapping water like miniature road-runners. A man approached and let his dog off the lead. In unison the birds took off and circled until they felt safe to land again. The air was full of their wings and their calls. The labrador stopped to sniff at something then ran on further, barking gruffly at a row of gulls further along the tide-line. They squawked indignantly, rose as one then settled down again as soon as the dog had passed.
Rose walked the full length of the beach until the walls of the Jubilee Pool were towering above her. It was closed for the winter but she was fond of the 1930s art deco construction and had been pleased when it had been restored for use.
The tide crept slowly in. There was no way now around the pool whose foundations were built out on to Battery Rocks. She mounted the slope which led up to the Promenade, stamped the sand from her shoes and retraced her steps on firmer ground.
Doreen Clarke usually left the house at eight thirty; if she walked quickly Rose would just have time to catch her before she set off for work. She could not understand how anyone could choose to earn a living cleaning other people’s houses, especially on a Saturday morning. Facing her own housework was bad enough for Rose.
‘Anything the matter, dear?’ Doreen inquired, surprised to hear the hesitancy in Rose’s voice.
‘No, not really. But there’s something I wanted to ask you. Fancy coming over for coffee later?’
‘Suits me. You know I always love a bit of a chat with you. Besides, I can’t get any sense from Cyril at the moment, he spends half his time guarding those blasted vegetables of his. Don’t ask me why, he hardly ever wins a prize.’
Rose was smiling when she replaced the receiver. Doreen was a good soul and down to earth but it was easy to see why her husband spent a lot of his time in the garden or greenhouse. He had suffered the same fate as many others when Geever mine closed but he had taken up gardening and Rose often benefited from his gifts of produce.
Armed with her painting things she set off on foot again. Going down through the village, she stopped for a moment to watch the auctioneers in the market as they gabbled the prices for boxes of fish. After choosing a birthday card in the paper shop she carried on up the Coombe, worrying about whether her choice of gift for Mike was acceptable. The river, to her right, flowed steadily, bubbling over the stones and under the bridge and spreading around the stems of the giant rhubarb which flourished there. To her left the fish shops were preparing for the day ahead.
When the pavement ended she took the path between two rows of trees and tried to remember exactly where Barry had told her she could find Saw-wort. It was, apparently, common in the south-west but scattered elsewhere, preferring damp, grassy places with woods nearby. Having taken the precaution of checking in one of her reference books she knew what she was looking for. It was a thistle-like plant but without spines and flowered until October. I’ll say one thing about this, she thought, my knowledge of natural history’s increasing.
As always when she painted, time passed quickly. Only the altered angle of the sun told her how long she had been working.
Regretting she had not brought the car Rose began the walk home. Some fishermen she knew were heading for the pub. ‘Absolutely not,’ she told them, smiling, but with a firm shake of the head when they tried to persuade her to join them. There would be enough to drink later.
Taking her canvas bag up to the attic Rose paused on the way back down to look at her new outfit which was on a hanger hooked over the top of the bedroom door. Yes, she thought, it’s definitely me.
Turning away she pulled open the bottom drawer of the wooden chest set against the wall opposite the window. With shaking hands she lifted out a flat, rectangular object wrapped in clean sacking. It was the oil painting she had started when David first became ill and which she had completed in the dark months after his death. It had not been out of the drawer since.
‘My God.’ She almost dropped it. Finishing it was a vague memory yet now she saw it she clearly recalled almost attacking the canvas with her brushes. The strokes were strong, the colours vivid.
She propped it on the chest and stood back. As if her circulation had been sluggish Rose suddenly felt the blood pulsing through her veins. ‘Bloody hell, Rose Trevelyan, it’s good.’ And it was. It was exciting and real: the picture lived. Had that been the missing ingredient of her youthful attempts? Were pain and experience necessary to produce decent work? No, she rationalised, not always, but they are with me.
The idea had been to give it to Mike but now she hesitated. Only when she conceded that if the past was to be completely behind her she needed to make this final gesture did she go down to the kitchen and wrap it in tissue and sheets of shiny gold paper.
Doreen arrived at twelve, straight from her Saturday job and before going into Penzance to shop. ‘Like I said, you can’t have a proper chat with Cyril under your feet,’ she complained although Cyril was rarely in the house.
She sat down heavily and placed her bag neatly on the floor beside her, surreptitiously studying Rose’s face. ‘You look different, somehow, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Do I?’ It was typical of Doreen that she had noticed. Rose felt different; alive and full of an enthu
siasm that even Dorothy’s death could not dispel. Or maybe her death was partly responsible for it, having made Rose aware that life should not be wasted. ‘Well, I’m going to a party tonight.’ Explanation enough for Doreen who would not understand the complexities of Rose’s mental metamorphosis, or her decision concerning Jack.
‘Ooh, lovely. Where?’
‘Blast.’ The telephone was ringing, Rose regretted plugging it back in.
‘Keep away from Dorothy’s place. Understand?’ The voice was gruff, unrecognisable. The line went dead before Rose could say she would not be intimidated by someone too cowardly to give his name. ‘I will not give in,’ she said. ‘I will not.’ She returned to the kitchen determined not to let Doreen see that anything was wrong. Had she been watched that day when she couldn’t find Martin? Perhaps it was not imagination after all.
‘How’s Martin? Have you seen him recently?’ Doreen asked as she spooned two sugars into her coffee and stirred it vigorously.
‘I think he’s beginning to come to terms with it.’ Rose hesitated. ‘Doreen, what you were saying the other day, about Gwen and Peter, is there anything else you can tell me?’ Rose wished she had listened more carefully at the time.
‘Maybe. Hey, you’re not trying to do your young man’s work for him, are you?’ There was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes and her round, red face lit up expectantly, but Rose did not answer.
‘Well, if you want my advice, and I don’t suppose you do, he’s a decent enough bloke and if he’s any sort of a detective he ought to realise what a good catch you are.’
Rose appreciated the flattery but realised that it was useless discussing Jack with Doreen, who was of the opinion that a woman should be grateful for any man she could get hold of then make it her duty to keep him.
Framed in Cornwall Page 13
