‘Dorothy’s place’s been broken into,’ he said without preamble, ’but young Martin sez nothing’s gone missing. We called the police and I’ve boarded up the window as best I can. Martin’s here with us now. You don’t think it’s our fault, maid, do ’ee?’
‘How can it be?’ Rose sank into a chair. Bad news followed bad news lately. She had been up to the house herself, she might be in some sort of trouble. With a sickening feeling she knew that whoever had also been up there had been looking for what was now in her possession. But why? Why had Dorothy made such a thing of it? Why not just tell Rose and be done with it? Then she knew. It was typical of Dorothy. She wanted justice to be done but not at the cost of additional pain.
‘That there Hinkston fellow, we told ’un Dorothy was dead. Martin thinks he came back to help hisself.’
‘But you just said nothing was missing. Besides, I just can’t see it.’
Jobber was silent. Rose imagined him scratching his grizzled head or rubbing his unevenly shaved chin.
‘I ’spect you’re right. Oh, there’s something else.’ Rose held her breath. ‘Martin’s got to go to Truro on Monday. Peter rang to say so.’
‘About the will?’
‘Tha’s right.’
‘And he wants me to go with him.’ Well, she had offered, she couldn’t back out now and he would need someone on his side.
‘If it’s not putting you out.’
‘Of course not. What time?’
The arrangements made, Rose poured a stiff gin and tonic. Tomorrow, no matter what, she must face the situation. She could not live with threats and the danger was real, she knew that now.
That night, for the first time since she had lived there, Rose drew the curtains and shut out the view of the bay. Then she made sure every door and window was firmly locked. When she went to bed she left the downstairs hall light on in case anyone was watching. They might believe she was still up.
The enormity of what she had done hit her as she lay, wide awake, beneath the duvet. She had removed what might turn out to be a vital piece of evidence, even if it was addressed to herself. Tomorrow she would know for sure.
12
Dorothy Pengelly was very much on Jack’s mind despite several other pressing cases. If Rose’s premise was correct, and Dorothy had not taken her own life, then who had? It was peculiar dealing with something he could not put a name to. This was no clear-cut murder, it might not be murder at all. However, certain things did not fit. The paracetamol bottle Martin had explained away. His mother kept them for his use. Jack did not need an explanation, he assumed they were for the times when Martin had over-indulged, and although the bottle had been lost along the way it was not paracetamol which had caused Dorothy’s death. Nor was it any of the drugs which Marigold had been prescribed: he had not just taken Meecham’s word for it, he had checked with her GP, the same GP who prescribed the mild sedatives for Gwen Pengelly. And, as Rose had said, Dorothy herself was not on the list of any local doctors. So where had the Nardil come from? The pathologist had said it was not a common drug and rather old-fashioned now, though still useful in certain cases. Phenelzine was its proper name and it was used in the treatment of depression and phobic states. More importantly it was an MAOI, which to Jack had meant nothing. ‘Monoamine Oxidase Inhibitor. Risky to give to depressives because it reacts badly with certain foods and alcohol and it shouldn’t be prescribed for the elderly.’
‘So someone in their seventies who’s never taken medication could swallow these MAOIs with alcohol and die.
‘You swallow enough of anything with alcohol and you’re not going to be too healthy,’ the pathologist had replied.
Fine. But who, if not Dorothy, had got hold of the stuff? And who had now broken into the place? They had been back once, with Martin who had let them in on the occasion when they had questioned him. There had been no sign of anything containing alcohol yet the PM results showed that Dorothy had been drinking. This alone was enough to convince Jack that Rose was right. Someone had been there and someone had removed the bottle. He had cursed himself for not realising this sooner but, on the other hand, there could still be another explanation. Dorothy may have accepted a drink knowing what was likely to happen, and whoever had provided it was innocent and had simply thrown the bottle away or taken it home with them because she had said she would not drink it. It didn’t hang together, though, not when he thought about it. It was hardly likely that Dorothy, receiving a visitor bearing alcohol, had suddenly thought, I’ll kill myself.
Who was the visitor? Who was it who had removed the bottle and washed up after them? Martin? Peter or Gwen? Rose? She was a welcome visitor and Jack knew that she had not been left out of the will. Jobber Hicks and Fred Meecham were her only other friends. Bradley Hinkston? The first transaction seemed genuine but had he gone back for another look or for some other reason beyond Jack’s imagination?
Several times he had gone through the statements taken from those who had known Dorothy. He was not entirely happy with Gwen Pengelly’s account and Rose had expressed suspicion of the woman. Now there was more evidence – if it could be so called, for it had been given anonymously and was, as yet, unsubstantiated. Gwen Pengelly had been seen at the house prior to the death. He must speak to Peter’s wife again.
All the time he sat at his desk the telephone remained silent. Now and then he would glance at it as if he could will it to ring and Rose to be on the other end. He had left a feeble message on her machine.
Sighing, he picked up his jacket, felt for his car keys and drove over to see Gwen Pengelly.
She had worked it out, she was sure she knew what had happened to Dorothy. Once she had proof Rose was going to contact Nick Pascoe. When she met him she wanted nothing more on her mind than art and the pleasure of his company. It was as if she was keeping him as a reward for her efforts.
She needed someone to accompany her because of the risk involved and did not listen to common sense dictate that Jack was the answer. Was Barry or Laura more suitable? It was Barry’s number she finally dialled, having stood by the phone chewing a nail for several minutes.
‘But why?’ he wanted to know, sounding surprised.
‘If I told you you wouldn’t come.’
‘What on earth can I do with you, Rosie? All right, what time? Seven’s fine. No, don’t argue, if we’re going, we’re going in comfort. I’m not risking my neck in that bone-shaker of yours. I’ll pick you up.’
‘Thank you.’ ‘Thank you,’ she whispered again as she stared at the phone. All she had to do now was to get through the rest of the day.
Nick Pascoe’s words echoed in her mind. There were no more oils, not like the one she had given to Mike, only the immature attempts of her youth and the not very interesting ones she had painted after her marriage.
Rose went up to the attic and got out her easel. It was adorned with cobwebs; it was a very long time since it had been part of her equipment. At the back of the cupboard, carefully wrapped in clean sacking, were several canvases but she would need more. Having packed the one she had already prepared, plus the easel, paints and brushes, into the back of the car she went back into the kitchen and filled a flask with strong coffee. She pocketed an apple and a banana and set off. Could she execute another oil as good as the one she had given Mike Phillips? Yes, she kept telling herself, yes, you can. And all the time she was conscious of what she was going to do later and wondered what she was letting herself in for, how much danger she was in.
It was many months since she had been to St Agnes but the journey was worth the trouble. She had needed to get away to paint and to try to forget and the steep ruggedness of the landscape suited her mood. Surf rolled into the bay and covered the sand in long sweeps, and droplets of spray caught the sun like prisms. From where she sat on her canvas seat, partly sheltered by the bonnet of the Mini, the wind still took her breath away. She tied a scarf around her hair and pulled a heavy jumper on top of the one she was weari
ng, then she got down to work.
The sky was clear but it remained cold. Only when Rose’s fingers were too numb to continue did she stand back from the easel which she had stabilised with metal pegs and study what she had achieved. Excitement flooded through her. The painting was nowhere near finished but she had blocked out the background and fixed the perspective and the initial brush strokes were confident. But it was more than that, she saw that she had painted with her emotions as well as with her skills. Instead of limiting her, fear and anger had set her free.
It was a pleasure to be out of the cold. Rose let the car engine warm up then began the drive home.
She said nothing to Barry about where she had been and why, that would come later, when the painting was finished. He was punctual, as she had known he would be.
‘You’re right, you know. I really ought to get out more often,’ he said as they drove smoothly down through Newlyn, his car engine purring quietly, the padded seats comfortable behind their backs.
Rose glanced across at him. He sat with his head jutting forward, both hands on the wheel, as he peered through his glasses at the road ahead. For once they remained firmly on the bridge of his nose.
‘Pull in here,’ Rose said as they approached the car-park of the pub where she and Martin and Jobber had met Bradley Hinkston. ‘I thought we’d have a drink first, we’ve got plenty of time.’ She had told him that if he was prepared to accompany her she would treat him to a meal but there was something she had to do first.
There were other customers waiting to be served and not many spare seats. ‘I know this is your treat, but you must let me buy you the first drink, by way of celebration.’
‘Celebration?’ It was the last thing on Rose’s mind.
‘Mm. Your new life?’
‘I see. Thanks, I’ll have a white wine, please. Look, you order it, I’m just going over the road. There’s something I want from the shop. You’ll be served by the time I get back.’
Half puzzled, half amused, Barry nodded and held out a five-pound note to attract the attention of the busy bar staff. The smell of the food wafted out from the kitchen at the back of the building and he began to feel hungry. He wondered where Rose was taking him, he was more man ready to eat. At last it was his turn to be served. He got the drinks and moved to the corner of the bar where there was more room.
Rose hurried from the pub, looked both ways and crossed the road. The tide was out and fishing-boats leaned against the harbour walls, seemingly stuck in the mud and shadowy in the darkness. There were no other pedestrians in sight.
Fred Meecham’s shop was open, as she had known it would be. Dorothy had told her that winter and summer he did not close until nine.
It was more than a grocery store. Apart from the shelves and cold cabinets stocked with food there was now a pile of wire baskets to enable customers to help themselves. There were the usual postcards and toiletries and a small rack of paperback books. At the back, in heaps, ready for the colder weather, were bags of coal and logs. In the spring their place was taken by bags of compost.
Rose swallowed, it was now or never, then she progressed slowly down the aisle to the far end of the elongated shop. Fixed to the wall was a slotted wooden box which held free pamphlets advertising local places of interest. She flipped through them idly. Fred was busy at the till serving a woman with a basket full of goods. When she left they were alone.
‘Can I help you?’
Rose had not heard him approach but she was unaware he had been able to see her in the curved mirror which hung over the counter from where whoever was serving could watch for shoplifters. Her actions may have seemed suspicious for she had not taken a basket and did not seem to know what she wanted. She forced a smile. ‘I’ve brought you something. From Dorothy. I think you were looking for it.’ She reached into her shoulder bag, almost dropping it because she was trembling. As she looked up and met his eyes she knew with certainty that she was right. Dorothy had known but she had left it to Rose to do whatever she thought was necessary. When Marigold was dead, Rose realised. But had Dorothy had some sort of premonition that her own life would end prematurely?
Fred took the envelope she held out to him, glanced briefly at her name on the front of it then withdrew the street plan of Plymouth. He froze when he unfolded it and saw the cross, marked in red felt-tipped pen at the corner of two converging streets.
Whatever reaction she had been expecting, Rose was totally unprepared for the one she got. Colour drained from Fred’s face and his skin acquired a clammy sheen as he clutched at the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. He swayed and she thought for a second he might faint.
‘She told you. I knew she had. I knew you wouldn’t let it go. I saw you out there snooping around at the house.’ His voice was strangled and rose several semitones as he spoke. He pulled his shoulders back and came towards her, menacingly slowly, a peculiar expression on his face which had turned almost as red as his hair.
Rose flinched and took a step backwards, unable to scream. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she croaked untruthfully, realising what an idiot she had been not to confide in anyone. She saw that he did not believe her. Fear turned to terror. It was so stupid to have come alone, especially when Barry was only a matter of yards away. For God’s sake, she thought, come and find me. And then, as Fred swung around and she saw what he was about to do, a voice in her head shouted, Jack, for Christ’s sake where are you?
Gwen was serving supper. The radio was on to dispel the gloomy atmosphere of the household. Peter had hardly spoken to her all week. She called him and he came through from the living-room and sat down. She stemmed her irritation at his refusal to discuss what they would do with his inheritance and tried to get the children seated and quiet.
Sensing their father’s mood, the children picked up their knives and forks and began to eat.
Gwen sighed. She had had enough. ‘Peter, we’ve got to talk. We can’t go on like this. Oh, now what?’ Whoever was at the door could have chosen a more convenient time to call. Gwen went to answer it.
‘Yes?’ She tossed her head and the short fair hair fell immaculately back into place.
‘Gwendoline Pengelly?’ She nodded and bit her lip. She did not know the man but she guessed who he was. ‘Detective Inspector Pearce. I’d like, to clarify a couple of points. May I come in for a minute?’
‘We’re just having our meal.’
‘I won’t keep you long.’
‘All right,’ she said begrudgingly and flung open the living-room door. She stepped aside and followed him in. The room was gloomy, the light had faded. Gwen impatiently flicked on a table lamp.
‘Who is it?’ Peter called, getting up from the table.
‘It’s the police. I’ve got to answer some more questions. You go and finish your supper or you’ll be late for work. You can put mine in the oven. What do you want?’ she asked rudely when Peter had returned to the kitchen.
‘One of my officers called before, not long after Mrs Pengelly’s death. You said at the time that you hadn’t seen her for weeks. We now have information that you were seen turning into the drive on the day of your mother-in-law’s death and that you were there again afterwards. Perhaps you’d like to clarify this?’ Out of the corner of his eye Jack had seen a small movement in the gap of the door. Peter Pengelly was listening outside. So be it, he thought.
Gwen’s hand was at her throat, nervously fingering a silver Celtic cross on a chain. She licked her lips. ‘I did go there but I couldn’t get in. I thought the back door may’ve been unlocked.’
‘And the reason for your visit?’
‘I thought I’d clean the place up a bit.’
‘So why not ask Martin for a key?’
‘I didn’t know where to find him.’
Jack took this at face value. If she had intended helping herself to some of Dorothy’s bits and pieces she had not succeeded. ‘And the first time?’
‘It was about tea-time
. Peter was at work and the children were next door.’
‘And you spoke to Mrs Pengelly?’
‘Yes, of course I did. Oh, I see what you mean. She was fine. Really she was.’ Gwen bowed her head. ‘I wanted to persuade her to give up the house, to go into a home. It’s far too big for one old lady, and Peter and I could have done with the money. Anyway, I was worried about her.’
Jack ignored the lie. If her daughter-in-law had been in the least concerned she would have visited far more frequently. ‘Did you argue?’
Gwen decided there was nothing for it but to tell the truth. Neither she nor Jack knew that it was Jobber who had seen her and made the call to the station. He had mumbled his name, passed on the information then hung up before he could be questioned further.
‘No more than usual. She wasn’t an easy woman to get on with.’
‘Can you clarify that statement? What were you arguing about?’
‘I think I can do that for you.’
‘Peter!’ Gwen spun around. ‘How long have you been listening?’
‘Long enough. My wife couldn’t stand my mother, Inspector. All she was interested in was getting her hands on her money. You see, Gwen always thought my mother was beneath her. She wouldn’t even take the children up there.’
‘Oh, Peter, don’t, please.’ The redness of her face showed her humiliation.
‘You see, my mother once told us we would get what we deserved. I think I understand now what she meant. I think I can even guess what she’s done.’
Jack said nothing. He knew what the will contained. What interested him was the conversation which had taken place that Thursday tea-time. ‘I need to know exactly what was said,’ he continued.
Gwen swallowed hard as tears filled her eyes. ‘I shouted at her. I called her a selfish old woman. But she was all right when I left her, I swear it.’ She turned back to her husband. ‘You must believe me, Peter, you must.’
Framed in Cornwall Page 19
