‘Come on, Rose, let’s eat.’
Laura’s comment pierced her concentration. Rose got up and followed her to the kitchen where steaming bowls of fish stew and crusty bread awaited them.
Rose picked up a spoon and studied her face in the back of it. ‘Everything’s changing, Laura.’ And as they ate Rose began to tell her what she intended doing with her life.
‘And about time. Your watercolours are good, but you’re capable of a damn sight better.’
Rose stared at her. This was the reaction from all her friends. Why had it taken her so long to discover it for herself? She grinned. ‘This fish is delicious. But, Laura, dear, the service is a little slapdash this evening. My glass is empty.’
‘Fill it up yourself, Mrs Trevelyan. You’re not usually so coy.’
Once the dishes were stacked in the sink Laura fetched a second bottle of wine. ‘I wouldn’t want to risk being called inhospitable,’ she said, waving it in the air.
Feeling that she had bored Laura with talk of Dorothy, Rose changed the subject. But just as she was leaving she couldn’t help saying, ‘Laura, I’ve been getting some odd phone calls.’
‘Oh?’ Laura’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean threatening ones, don’t you? And you haven’t told Jack.’ Rose shook her head. ‘You must. Apart from any danger, don’t you see that it proves there’s something to hide?’
‘Jack knows that. He’s come round to my way of thinking.’
‘You’ve always been the same, too bloody stubborn for your own good. Tell him, Rose, for goodness sake.’
Ignoring the advice she continued, ‘If you wanted to find someone, someone who had disappeared, how would you go about it?’
‘Ask someone who knows them.’
‘I can’t do that. Besides, I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing.’
‘Is this some sort of parlour game? No, don’t tell me. And you can’t ask Jack, of course. I don’t know what’s got into you, Rose. Perhaps Dorothy Pengelly is really a royal Russian exile and that Fred’s sister, Marigold, was Mata Hari. Oh, God, I’m sorry, Rose, I know how much you cared for Dorothy. Forgive me, put it down to the vino. But please, please be careful.’
‘It’s okay.’ Rose kissed her on the cheek. In a way the comment was no more than she deserved. She was inclined to get carried away. ‘Ah, I must go.’ They had both heard the toot of the taxi as it pulled up outside.
Rose’s journey home was no more than half a mile but she did not want a soaking before she went to bed. She would not allow herself to admit how much the telephone calls had scared her. Thanking Laura for the meal she left.
10
Martin Pengelly told Jobber Hicks he would think about his offer. He could not bear the idea of leaving the only place that had ever been his home until after his mother was buried. He was not unrealistic enough to imagine the house would always be there for him, nor did he want to live in it alone. Having overheard enough of Peter and Gwen’s conversations he knew that if it was up to them they would get rid of it at the first opportunity. At least his mother had been able to live her life out there. He still went to see to the cats and to feed George but he had not contemplated what would happen or how he would feel when someone else finally moved in. Peter would have to see to the paperwork and the will, Martin knew it was beyond his capabilities. The legal world was as much a mystery to him as technology would be to Star.
He did not know that Peter had been looking for him or that the police wanted to speak to him again. Most of his waking hours he spent tramping over the countryside that he had come to think of as his own. Jobber had found him, but Jobber always knew where to look. Only when it rained would he return to the van, soaked to the skin, and towel dry his longish hair. His body grew even firmer with the extra exercise but he was trying to walk off feelings he was ill equipped to deal with. He had not suffered pain like this before because Dorothy had always protected him. And now Jobber’s idea was making him reel. It seemed too good to be true. He would have someone to talk to and he would see George and Star every day. What frightened him was that he was not used to being treated as normal. He could not understand why Jobber should want him around.
Martin no longer cried but the awful ache somewhere inside him wouldn’t go away. He had no idea that Peter was also suffering, because his brother had never shown any interest in their mother. Gwen, he knew, disliked her intensely. At school Peter had run ahead or lagged behind when she came to meet them yet seeing her at the school gates had been the highlight of Martin’s day. He had been very upset when Dorothy said they were old enough to catch the bus by themselves.
The tightness around his chest sometimes threatened to suffocate him, making him want to lash out. He knew the dangers of that so kept himself away from people. He had come very close to hitting Mr Hinkston the day he had found him snooping around but was glad now that he hadn’t. When they met him in the pub he found he quite liked him. And Mrs Trevelyan thought he was all right, so he must be.
He trudged across the open land and the fields, mile after mile, until George was so tired he had to carry him. Suddenly he stiffened. In the distance, way down below him, he saw Gwen’s car in his mother’s driveway. Starting to run, he felt the panic subside. It was all right, she didn’t have a key. He crouched beside a boulder and watched and waited. Gwen came away from the front door and walked around the side. Had he locked the kitchen door? Yes, he must have done. A few minutes later Gwen got back into the car. He heard the reverberation of the slamming door before she drove away. Martin did not know what to do but the one person who might be able to help him was Mrs Trevelyan. Although she was a lot younger and prettier than his mother she reminded him of her, and her house, although smaller, had the same feel about it. When she’d taken him there it seemed right sitting in her kitchen, not saying much, but letting go of some of the grief which the welcoming atmosphere seemed to absorb.
Bypassing the caravan he took George back to the house and opened some food for him. George ate half-heartedly then scrabbled at the armchair where Dorothy had once sat, managing to make it into the sagging seat on his third attempt. He fell asleep immediately. Martin watched him then gave him a gentle pat. He checked there was water in his bowl then went to the telephone and found the book with Rose’s number in it. He dialled the digits slowly and carefully as his mother had taught him because he became confused if he got a wrong number. With relief he heard Rose’s voice and not a recording of it.
As he listened to her calmly saying it was fine for him to come and see her any time he wanted, some of the tightness in his chest slackened. Tired from his long walk Martin knew he would have to catch the bus. One passed hourly along the main road on its way back from Truro. It would take him to Penzance bus station. From there he would walk the rest of the way. He had a handful of change ready and waited at the bottom of the drive. Despite the circumstances of his one and only visit to it Martin recalled exactly how to find the house in Newlyn.
Rose lay in bed for several minutes. Would she be able to paint before the mystery of Dorothy’s death had been solved? She bit her lip and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Instinct told her to continue, that she was close to something even if she had no idea what.
Dorothy had left a will, which Martin knew about and, unbelievably, so did Bradley Hinkson. Bradley met Martin by chance, learnt of the Stanhope Forbes and then it disappeared. No, to be fair, Rose recalled, Bradley said he still had it and admitted leaving a print in its place as per Dorothy’s instructions.
Marigold Heath was dead, although there was nothing suspicious in those circumstances, only sadness. She had been ill for a long time and everyone had known the only possible outcome, everyone except Fred who would not admit it; Fred who admitted that he loved her. But Fred had also known Dorothy, had spoken to her about the possibility of getting hold of a substantial sum of money for treatment for Marigold. Rose dared not continue with that line of thought, and she did not have a single fact t
o substantiate any of it. To mention her suspicions to anyone would be foolhardy and irresponsible and possibly cause irreparable damage to an innocent person. She had formed an hypothesis which was probably wildly off the mark. But to continue would be satisfying – except that she needed a copy of a birth certificate and without a name, date and place of birth, and other details such as the father’s occupation, she would not be able to procure it. Only one thing was out of place. Why, in this day and age, would anyone care? That was the question which had revolved in her subconscious all night.
Now it seemed she might have the answer. Fred Meecham was a church-going man, he lived the life of a good citizen nothing was too much trouble if he could help someone out. Too good to be true? Rose wondered. Or did he have something to hide? Yet it still seemed impossible to imagine that Fred had killed Dorothy because she would not give him the necessary funds to send Marigold to America. Rose was very much afraid she was fitting the circumstances around the facts rather than the other way around.
Dorothy had hinted that there was more to Fred than met the eye. And there was something else, some hint, some small clue, something which might mean nothing. ‘I tried to talk him out of it, I said he should spend time with Marigold, not waste it seeking the impossible.’ Dorothy had told Rose how she tried to convince him of the wildness of his scheme. Had Fred then helped himself to Dorothy’s painting and, noticing the switch, had she called him to task and had he then killed her? Too far-fetched, Rose, she told herself, and how would he know it was there? As far as Rose was aware few people had known. But what about that envelope? Had she misread what she took to be Dorothy’s way of telling her something? Stop it, she told herself. This isn’t getting you anywhere.
An aunt, Dorothy’s last surviving relative apart from her sons, had left her the money. The proceeds had come from the husband’s business, coffee, she thought it was, somewhere in Africa when times had been good. That was no longer important. Laura was wrong, Rose thought, I don’t believe Marigold Heath was Mata Hari but I don’t believe she was Fred’s sister either. She was trying to rationalise something that was no more than a gut feeling and she hoped it was not simply a way of avoiding facing Dorothy’s death in the way she had done with David’s. Tell Jack, her conscience kept saying. Sod him, her emotions retaliated. Her better nature dictated that matters should be left alone but curiosity and stubbornness were not so easily conquered.
Rose had half a dozen photographic assignments left to fulfil and she would not let her customers down. Soon she would be mixing with artists again; she was impatient, but she did not want to give up one area of her life leaving a bad taste behind. One of the messages which had been waiting on her machine was an invitation to dinner at Stella and Daniel’s place in St Ives on Sunday. There would be eight of them.
Rose wondered who had been invited to partner her.
Piling her equipment into the car she suddenly knew what her next move would be. She returned home just in time to take Martin’s call.
A knock at the front door an hour and a half later puzzled Rose because she wasn’t expecting anyone and most people came around to the side. ‘Martin!’ she exclaimed when she saw him standing on the doorstep, his face sorrowful. She was astonished that he had taken her up on her offer so quickly. ‘Come on in.’
He followed her, pleased that they were going to the kitchen and not to some other room. There was a pile of clothes in a basket on the table waiting to be ironed and a strong smell of coffee. Martin only drank tea but he thought he wouldn’t mind trying whatever it was Mrs Trevelyan had in the machine that spluttered and hissed.
Rose followed his eyes, smiled, and got out two mugs. She offered him milk and sugar, moved the clothes basket to the floor and sat down with him. Martin was not the sort to pay a social visit but he seemed reluctant to break the silence. ‘Is something the matter, Martin?’
Martin pushed back his thick hair and nodded. ‘I don’t feel right. I hurt and nothing looks the same any more. Am I sick?’
Rose’s own emotions were in turmoil as he described what he was feeling. ‘No, you’re not sick. It’s what happens to people when they lose someone they love. It’ll pass, Martin, I promise you it will. But it takes time, sometimes a very long time. Have you told Peter any of this?’
‘No. I ain’t seen ’im. Nor ’er, not till today. She was snooping up at the house. And now I don’t know what to do.’
‘About what?’ Gwen, up at the house? She would think about that later. She listened as he explained about Jobber’s proposal and once more she felt a great warmth towards the man who was prepared to step in and take over where Dorothy had left off. At the same time she was disgusted with Peter for ignoring his brother. ‘I don’t want to be there when there’s new people.’
‘Is the house being sold?’
‘It’ll have to be.’
‘Is Peter seeing to all that?’
‘I dunno. But I don’t know if ’e knows about Mother’s papers. I don’t think she told ’un where they was. She told me, though.’ He folded his arms across his broad chest as if to underline the importance of what he was saying.
Rose frowned. She had told Jack where the will was, surely someone should have contacted Peter and Martin by now. But perhaps someone had and that was why Peter was keeping out of his brother’s way. If only she knew what was in it.
‘I wasn’t to tell, see, about the papers.’
Rose understood. The will had been a secret between Martin and Dorothy but he realised it was time his brother knew although he was not prepared to tell him himself. ‘It’s all right, the police know all about it. I had to tell them, Martin.’
He surprised her by smiling. ‘I knew you’d do the right thing. I never thought of that.’
‘Would you like some more coffee?’
‘Yes, please. ’Tis lovely.’
As she poured it Rose recalled the tension between Peter and Gwen and wondered again what might have been the cause of it. ‘Would you like me to speak to your brother?’ She had uttered the words before she had a chance to think of the wisdom of them. Whatever the response, it was Martin she was thinking of. He nodded enthusiastically.
The telephone conversation was brief and to the point. Rose was sure that Peter knew of the existence of a will by now but it would put Martin’s mind at rest.
‘Dorothy’s solicitor has been in touch,’ Gwen Pengelly said coldly. ‘Not that I think it’s any concern of yours.’
‘It isn’t,’ Rose replied mildly, ‘but Martin wasn’t sure if you knew.’
‘Martin! Oh, I suppose he was told first.’
Rose mumbled something and said goodbye. Gwen could think what she liked, at least some unpleasantness had been avoided. What infuriated her was that no mention had been made of Martin, no inquiry as to how he was or even where he was. Rose walked stiffly back to the kitchen trying not to let her anger show. She explained to Martin what would happen now but that these things took time. There was nothing he need do, the solicitor would see to it all. ‘You might have to go and sign some papers but if you like, I’ll come with you.’ Satisfied that he understood and saw there was nothing to fear she gently broached the subject of his mother’s funeral and offered him a lift to the crematorium. That was something else which seemed not to have crossed Gwen’s mind, how he would get there or even if he knew when the ceremony was taking place. It had been Jobber who told him, who had gone to the trouble of ringing up to find out when the service was to take place. ‘Look, why don’t we do as we did before? You go to the farm and I’ll pick you and Jobber up at the same time. I’ll ring him to let him know.’
‘Like the other night?’ He seemed to take comfort in the fact that the three of them would be together.
‘Yes, something like that. Now, shall I run you home?’ But Martin would only take a lift as far as the bus station. He showed her his return ticket so Rose let it go at that. ‘Hang on, I’d better make that call first.’ She did not want
Martin turning up at Jobber’s only to find he’d got a lift with someone else or taken his old pick-up truck. ‘That was lucky, he’d just popped in before seeing to the hens.’
‘Don’t you keep no pets?’ Martin looked around the kitchen for evidence of one.
‘No. Not since I was a child.’
Martin thought about this. ‘You ought to. Where’s your husband then?’
For a split second the pain came back. ‘He died, Martin.’
‘Like Mother.’ There was another pause. ‘So we’re the same, you and me. You ought to get yourself a pet though. I’ll tell ’e what, you can have one of the cats if you want.’
Rose smiled, touched by the kind offer, but she did not have the heart to say that there was no way she would give one of Dorothy’s cats house room. ‘Thank you. But I’m used to being on my own and I go out a lot. It wouldn’t be fair. They’re happier out in the country.’
As they drove down to the station Rose chatted casually about the following day, wanting to make sure Martin understood exactly what was to take place.
‘Mr Meecham might be there,’ he said. ‘He used to come up and talk to Mother. He’s got someone dead as well. Marigold.’ Martin gave a small giggle. ‘Silly name. Mother always reckoned she weren’t his sister. Why would he say she was if it weren’t true? Seems daft to me.’ His face was flushed. He was unused to making conversation and felt he might have said too much. Nothing Dorothy told him was ever repeated but it was somehow all right to tell Mrs Trevelyan.
‘She told you that?’ Rose took her eyes briefly from the road.
‘’Ezz, course she did. Who else would tell me? Mother always talked to me, I reckon she thought I wasn’t listening half the time. She knew lots of things, did Mother. She knew Marigold wasn’t no Cornishwoman.’
Framed in Cornwall Page 15
