Rose liked the spaciousness of the city, rebuilt after the heavy bombing of the war with its added attractions of the Hoe overlooking Plymouth Sound and the Barbican, steeped in history with its cobbled streets and eating places and art galleries and where she and David had once done the tour of the gin distillery. It was housed in a building which had been a monastery and a prison amongst other things. It was after three and she had almost given up. In desperation she went into a boutique from whose doors throbbed rock music. And there she found exactly what she was looking for; bright, flamboyant clothes, items which reminded her of her youth. But it was not her adolescence she was trying to recapture, it was the freedom of spirit she had once possessed. As she came out of the changing room a flowered dress caught her eye. She tried it on and bought that too. Her purchases wrapped and paid for, she left the shop.
With a smile of satisfaction she walked the last couple of hundred yards back to the station and was just in time to catch the London train, Inter-City.
It was dark when she arrived back in Penzance and there were damp patches on the pavement where a passing shower had occurred in her absence. Although she had walked a fair distance in Plymouth she needed to stretch her legs after the two-hour journey. As always, each time she returned she felt as though she had been away longer and it was a pleasure to fill her lungs with the fresh salty air.
She walked briskly, carrier bags swinging as she looked forward to a drink and a meal. She had not eaten anything since breakfast.
It had been an odd but enjoyable day. Rose was thinking about what Mrs Heath had told her but nagging at the back of her mind were Jobber’s words, about Gwen Pengelly having been seen at Dorothy’s place on the day of her death. Gwen was aware of her involvement with the family and must surely have been suspicious of her reasons for calling on her and Peter. That’s it, she thought, remembering the details of the neat kitchen and the immaculate appearance of her hostess. Beside the kettle had been a brown plastic container of pills. Tranquillisers? Rose wondered. Gwen had struck her as the type of woman to resort to them. And if so? No, Jack would have made inquiries. It was not up to her to speak to the woman. Wrapped in thought she had not seen just ahead of her, leaning on the railings, a man whose profile, even outlined against the darkness, she recognised. Smoke trailed from a cigarette as he tapped ash over the sea wall. It was Jack. She was about to cross the road when he turned his head and saw her. It was too late to avoid him and it would have been childish to pretend she had not seen him. She carried on walking, more slowly now.
‘Rose?’
‘Hello, Jack.’
They stood looking at each other. ‘Are you on your way home?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was just taking a walk. Rose, I’ve been out of my mind since I saw you. I wanted to ring you. Every minute I’ve wanted to but I told myself it was no good, you wouldn’t speak to me. I owe you an apology, I was very rude. Are you still angry?’
‘No, Jack, not angry. Disappointed, though, because I’d hoped you’d understand. Believe me, it wasn’t your fault.’
He threw the end of the cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. ‘I’d like to remain friends. I’ve had time to think about it and I promise you there’ll be no pressure.’
She was ashamed to acknowledge a new disappointment. Jack Pearce seemed to have got over her very quickly. ‘Good. I must get home, I’ve had a long day.’ She swung the carriers. ‘I’ve been up to Plymouth.’ It would mean nothing to Jack. Marigold’s death was not the one he was investigating but she felt a mean streak of smugness that she knew things of which he was completely unaware. Her white plastic bags glistened under the street-lights as she began to move away.
Jack’s eyes moved over her face. Rose had enjoyed herself, he could see that. He would not have been able to if their roles were reversed, but there was something else, an undercurrent of excitement which had nothing to do with her day out or seeing him. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked quickly before she had taken more than a couple of steps.
She hesitated before agreeing. It would be a test, a way of seeing if Jack would keep to his word. ‘Yes. But it’ll have to be a quick one.’
He did not ask why, he was too pleased that she had not refused. They crossed over and walked back to the Yacht which was set back from the front, a Union Jack and the Cornish flag flying from its turreted roof. Like the Jubilee Pool, it had been built in the thirties.
Rose ordered a gin and tonic, Jack had a pint of beer. They took their drinks to the curved seat in the bay window.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘No. But I’ve got something planned at home,’ Rose said firmly. Seeing Jack unexpectedly had unsettled her. There were things she knew now which she ought to tell him and things she had guessed at, but it would mean spending more than half an hour with him to discuss them and she was not ready to do that.
‘Okay.’ His tone was light and almost relaxed. Rose wondered if he thought he’d won a minor victory.
They spoke little, neither sure what would now offend the other. One thing was certain, the relationship was on a different basis. To emphasise this Rose told him about the party and the dinner to which she had been invited and then she said she must leave.
He nodded and stood as she picked up her bags but he was not going to make the mistake of offering to walk her home. Instead he went back to the bar.
Peter Pengelly had taken the rest of the week off. After the funeral he and Gwen had returned to the house with the two elderly friends of Dorothy’s whom neither of them really knew but who, having participated in many such events, expected to be fed. Gwen had done her best to be charming but was relieved when they left. She was aware that their departure quickly followed a comment about collecting the children who had gone to a neighbour’s straight from school.
Now it’s over, she thought, now we can get on with our lives. She had cleared away the plates and glasses and thrown the paper serviettes in the bin. It would have been a mistake to discuss anything with Peter that evening. She knew he had struggled through the day, trying to be polite when all he had wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. Now, twenty-four hours later, he sat in his chair in the living-room facing the blank television screen. She had no idea what was going on in his head.
Gwen gave the children milk and biscuits although they would be having their tea soon. She was trying to silence them because they were noisily demanding to know what exactly had happened to their grandmother. She looked at them fondly. They and Peter were her life. Would there be enough to be able to afford to send them to private schools? But not as boarders, she couldn’t bear that. Guilt did not tarnish her anticipation of the money that was to come although waves of it kept taking her unawares. With her back to the children she swallowed one of the tablets prescribed for her although they did little to reduce her permanent anxiety. No one could have seen her go to the house that day or the police would have questioned her about it. No one need ever know.
Shushing them once more she left the children at the table with instructions not to disturb their father. Rearranging her features into what she hoped was a semblance of sorrow she went to see what comfort she could offer Peter.
The shop was closed and had been for over an hour. Illuminated only by the street-lights Fred Meecham’s face was pudgy and jaundiced. He did not know how long he had been standing there, only that his legs had stopped trembling, but they ached. He peered around in the gloom and pulled a plastic milk crate towards him, upended it and sat down, oblivious to the discomfort of its hard moulded surface.
All this was his. The shop, the goods, the living accommadation overhead. His kingdom, as he used to joke with Marigold. His kingdom, and she was the queen. She used to like it when he called her that. It might not be much by some people’s standards but to Fred it represented a lifetime’s work and loyalty to his customers which they had repaid. So many shopped at supermarkets these days. Now there was no one with whom to sh
are it all and this saddened him. One day everything would go to his son who would sell up and it would be as if Fred Meecham had not existed.
It shouldn’t be this way, he kept thinking. Marigold was so much younger than himself. He should have been the first to go, she would have been left in a comfortable position. Now he would have to change his will. He supposed he ought to do the right thing by Justin even if they did not communicate. Marigold had given him more happiness than he had believed possible although he had been aware that his love was not reciprocated in quite the same way. Until the end her feelings had been those of gratitude and fondness. That did not matter. Having her under his roof had been enough for Fred. The first time he met her on one of those shameful visits to Plymouth he had recognised a need in her, one that he believed he could fulfil. To the best of his knowledge he had done so. The security she had craved he had provided in the only way he knew how and he had removed her from danger, protected her to the end. He would continue to protect her for ever. His only regret was that they had not married, but they had been agreed upon that because it was too much of a risk. The bond that united them had been secrecy.
His life loomed ahead, stretching endlessly into nothingness, the days marked only by the opening or the closing of the shop. He jumped when he heard someone tapping on the window. Peering in, hand shading her eyes, was one of his regular customers. Wearily he got up to open the door. ‘You couldn’t let me have half a pound of butter, could you? I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but I saw you there and, well …’
‘It’s no trouble.’ The words came automatically, he used them almost every day of his life. He took the money and gave change from the float in the till. It made no difference how long the hours he worked, there was always someone who had run out of something. Knowing that in some small way he was needed, he had decided to keep on the shop. There seemed little point in selling, he had nothing else to do with his time.
He knelt on the cold floor and prayed. ‘Forgive me, God,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. It was all for Marigold.’
Sometimes God answered him, Fred could hear His voice, but more and more lately there seemed to be no response.
He double-locked the shop door and went up to the empty flat.
As Martin walked past his mother’s house he ran his fingers along the rough granite wall, almost enjoying the scrape of the stone in this farewell gesture. The sun was rising behind the hilltops but there was a low-lying mist in the valley above which everything else was crystal clear. Dew sparkled on the grass and stained the leather of Martin’s boots as he breathed in the richness of damp vegetation. There was time to kill until Jobber came with his tractor to tow away the van. Everything was ready, Martin’s few possessions were stowed away in the overhead lockers or firmly tied down. The previous afternoon they had made a thorough check of the vehicle because it had not been moved for many years. Jobber had seen to the tyres and inspected the tow-bar and between them they had made the necessary adjustments.
George had already gone to the farm, Jobber had come for him the day before Dorothy’s funeral. There had been an ecstatic reunion between the two dogs until they each remembered their respective positions in life and settled down to ignore one another. The cats, too, had gone with him, spitting and scratching until Jobber had them safely in the back of his truck, the sliding glass windows firmly closed behind him as he drove for fear they would go for his scrawny neck. Back at the farm he had opened the rear doors and all three cats had fled screeching across the yard. Whilst they were seeing to the caravan Jobber had said they had disappeared, but he had found the remains of several rats and mice so he knew they could not be far away. They would be useful. His own cat, Mathilda, had never shown the slightest inclination to do what should have come naturally and Jobber had had to resort to poisons to keep vermin at bay. Mathilda preferred the comfort of the hearth, an armchair and regular supplies of food which she did not have to catch herself.
Jobber had thought it best to remove the animals first. It would be less of a wrench for Martin when the time came and they would be there at the farm to welcome him.
Martin stopped. A pane in the window of the back door was broken. It was no accident. The glass had been knocked out and the door was unlocked. Had George still been on the premises the intruder would not have got away lightly. His face paled. If it wasn’t Peter or Gwen trying to get in without a key then it had to be Hinkston come back to get his mother’s things. Hinkston knew that his mother was dead and that the house would be empty.
Carefully stepping over the shards of glass which glinted in the weak sunlight he went inside. Puzzled, he walked from room to room. Nothing seemed to be missing.
Martin was sitting on the step of the caravan when Jobber arrived. He was pleased to hear the noisy engine of the tractor as it made its lumbering progress up the side of the hill.
Jobber stepped down, nodding seriously when Martin told him what he had discovered. ‘All right, boy, let’s go over to the house and tell the police.’ He had a good idea who might be responsible but kept his thoughts to himself.
Despite their preparations it took until the late afternoon before they were on the move. First they had to wait for the arrival of a patrol car then they had questions to answer. As nothing was reported as missing the two officers suggested it was a case of vandalism, kids who had heard that the place was uninhabited and who had probably been scared away by the hoot of an owl or headlights which played over the hillside as cars rounded the bend. DI Pearce had been making inquiries about the sudden death of Mrs Pengelly, so they decided to inform him of the vandalism, if that was what it was. It could be that someone had smashed the window in order to remove evidence or, if it was Martin himself, who held keys, in order to make it look that way. The police officers left them to it.
Just as they thought they were ready, one of the tyres went down and as they began their descent the sound of grating metal caused them to stop and investigate the underside of the van. Finally they were on the road and began the painstaking journey to the farm. Jobber was watching the road and the traffic coming from the rear, Martin sat sideways in the front of the tractor, looking over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the movements of the vehicle they were towing. Neither of them saw Peter’s car as it headed towards Dorothy’s house once more, this time in search of Martin to tell him about the appointment on Monday.
Gwen had received a telephone call from Dorothy’s solicitor in Truro asking if she and Peter could go in and see him on Monday regarding the contents of her will. She agreed readily although she was not certain of Peter’s shifts. Martin was to be there too although Henry Peachy had been unable to contact him. Gwen offered to let Martin know or to get Peter to do so. Silently she made plans for the future, their future. Hiding her excitement was not easy.
‘The van’s gone,’ Peter said when he returned that evening. Only as he said it did he realise that he had passed it. It was unremarkable, old-fashioned and painted cream, but he had not been expecting to see it being towed behind a tractor. It had not crossed his mind that Martin would ever go anywhere else. The first person he thought of was Jobber Hicks. He telephoned the farm and was surprised to learn that Martin had taken up residence there, then he waited until his brother came to the phone.
‘He’ll be there,’ Peter told Gwen. ‘He said he’ll make his own way.’
Gwen nodded, hoping that Rose Trevelyan was not involved with Martin’s transport arrangements.
The answering machine was blinking furiously as Rose opened the sitting-room door. Nine calls, she calculated, watching the flashing light in disbelief. But only three messages had been left. Jack’s was the first, a tentative ‘Rose? Are you there?’ followed by a pause and the clunk of his receiver being replaced. The next came from Jobber who asked apologetically if she could ring back as soon as possible. ‘You’ve let yourself in for it,’ Rose told herself. The final message she replayed twice, forgetting the six non-existent calls.
‘You may not remember me,’ a smooth male voice said. ‘My name’s Nick Pascoe, we met at Mike and Barbara’s. I wondered if we might meet again. I own a gallery just outside St Ives and I was impressed with your work. I was hoping there are some more like that.’ The pause lasted for so many seconds that the first time she listened Rose thought he might have been cut off. ‘Look, what I said is absolutely true, but I’d like to see you anyway, Rose.’ She grabbed a pencil to write down the number he was dictating slowly then she sat down to think about it.
Stella and Daniel had introduced her to Nick, who had said little at the time. She recalled the lanky man of an indeterminate age, dressed in jeans, a fisherman’s shirt and a frayed denim jacket. His greying hair hung over his collar. But his face was what she remembered best. It was a strong face; uncompromising, lined, firm-featured and weathered, but his eyes were unreadable, the grey pupils speckled in a way she had not encountered before. In her excitement at meeting new people she had supposed he had taken little notice of her. She knew his work but she had not met him until that evening.
It was after nine and Rose had no way of knowing whether the number was that of the gallery or his home address but she refused to get out the phone book to check, nor would she appear too eager by ringing back at once. Just as she was deciding what an appropriate time might be, the phone rang again. She reached for it immediately thinking it might be Jack, that he had not accepted what she had said and was going to start pestering her. ‘Hello?’
‘I warned you. This time –’
‘This time, nothing. You’re wasting your time.’ Rose slammed the receiver down so hard she thought the plastic might have cracked. Too late she realised how foolish she had been. She was alone in the cottage, unprotected, and she had not told Jack about the threats. And she could not, would not ring him now. He would misread the situation and think she had made it up just to get him over there. Three times she had been to Dorothy’s empty house, three times she had been threatened. And instead of keeping the caller talking, trying to recognise the voice or background sounds, she had hung up. Desperate to hear a friendly voice she rang Jobber.
Framed in Cornwall Page 18
