‘I’d like to think so.’
‘Anyway, Meecham went up there as well, a couple of nights before her death. It was late in the evening. He was intending to make one last attempt at squeezing money out of Dorothy and to soften her up had taken along a bottle of decent whisky. He knew it wasn’t something she normally drank and he imagined, quite correctly, that a few glasses would do the trick. But again she refused his request, as he’d expected she would, but then she made the fatal mistake of telling him what she knew, what she had read in that old report in the Western Morning News. He denied it and left, forgetting to take the whisky with him. He knew he had to act quickly or Dorothy might go to the police. We now know that whilst he was in Truro and had begun seeing Marigold he’d suffered from severe depression, caused by guilt, the psychiatrist believes, because he was frequenting prostitutes, and also because he knew he was going to kill Harvey, that at some point he would have to. Meanwhile he moved to Hayle and life started to improve so he didn’t get around to taking the Nardil that was prescribed for him. Like Dorothy, Meecham didn’t sign on with a doctor here, that’s why we couldn’t trace where the drug came from.’
‘Poor Dorothy, first Gwen has a go at her, then Fred kills her. But how did he do it?’
‘Ground up the pills to powder and went out there on the pretence that he wanted to apologise. He said they might as well have some of the whisky. It affected Dorothy very quickly and he topped up her glass, adding more of the Nardil. He watched her die.’
‘Oh, Jack!’
‘On his previous visit he had called her a hypocrite, saying she didn’t spend any money and she begrudged it to a dying woman. That’s when Dorothy had explained that he was the bigger hypocrite with his church-going ways when she knew what he had done. She was probably already exhausted on that final visit after having dealt with Gwen earlier.’
‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘That’s okay.’
She stood. ‘I have to get ready to go out. Goodbye, Jack,’ she said quietly but with a certain finality.
Jack didn’t reply. He turned to leave, knowing that what he had had with Rose would never be again.
The wind howled, rocking the car. Through the windscreen his vision was blurred for several seconds but it wasn’t raining. He sighed. Yes, they would meet from time to time but Rose Trevelyan had become a different person.
At eleven she picked Martin up at the gate of Jobber’s farm. He was dressed in his best, his hair slicked down with water. Making general conversation they drove into the city and parked the car. Martin was still pale and his hands shook but the blankness had gone from his eyes. Being with Jobber was the best thing that could have happened to him.
Together they entered the old building which was smartly decorated inside, and were asked to take a seat. Peter and Gwen arrived seconds after them. The words of their greetings were cordial but Rose sensed an underlying hostility on Gwen’s part. She had promised to stay and give Martin a lift back as the solicitor had said he would not detain them long.
‘Ah, good morning.’ Henry Peachy was tall and thin with deep lines etched in his face. He wore a suit which was by no means new and his shoulders were stooped but what struck Rose was his warm smile and something about his eyes which suggested that he was content with his lot and that there was little which could disturb his equanimity. Shaking hands with them individually he glanced inquisitively at Rose.
‘I gave Martin a lift,’ she explained. ‘I’m Mrs Trevelyan, I was a friend of Dorothy’s. Can I wait here or shall I come back later?’
‘Mrs Rose Trevelyan?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, my dear, you might as well join us. This involves you too.’
Rose felt Gwen’s eyes on the back of her head and was glad she could not see the expression in them. They followed Mr Peachy to a room at the end of the corridor. It was not an office, it housed only a large walnut table and eight chairs.
‘I thought we’d be more comfortable here.’ Henry Peachy placed some papers on the table and invited them to sit down. ‘I knew Mrs Pengelly for many years,’ he began. ‘I suppose you could say that she was more than a client. I can’t tell you how sorry I was not to be able to attend her funeral.
‘Now, before we get down to business I’ve asked for some coffee to be sent in.’
There was a strained silence while they waited for it although the solicitor seemed not to notice as he continued to study what was in front of him. When it arrived he indicated that they should all help themselves.
‘I think it’ll be easier if I read out Mrs Pengelly’s instructions first, then if there are any queries I’ll be happy to answer them for you.’ Methodically he went through the heading of the will. Then, ‘“To Peter James Pengelly I leave the property known as Venn’s Farm.”’
Rose’s head was tilted slightly as she tried to gauge Gwen’s reactions without appearing to. She seemed to be smirking but hid it by raising a hand to her mouth then pushing back her fair hair. Rose, having been through something similar, began to see that Gwen had misunderstood the statement.
‘“To Joseph Robert Hicks I leave one thousand pounds and the Queen Victoria Jubilee mug of which he is so fond. To my friend, Rose Trevelyan, I leave one thousand pounds and a Beryl Cook original of her choice of three.”’
But Rose wasn’t listening. She was delighted at Jobber’s bequest although it had taken her a couple of seconds to realise who Joseph Robert was. But there had been no mention of Martin. Had Jack been wrong? Something registered. She looked up, her mouth open. Henry Peachy was smiling at her, he repeated what he had just read out.
‘And a Beryl Cook? Oh, how wonderful.’ She grinned around the room. Only Martin grinned back. He seemed unconcerned or unaware of the way things were going.
Mr Peachy coughed and continued. ‘“The residue of my estate I leave to Martin John Pengelly.”’
Another silence followed until Gwen had worked out what this meant. ‘No, that can’t be right.’
‘It is perfectly correct, Mrs Pengelly. Your mother-in-law’s wishes are quite clearly stated. You may see for yourself if you choose.’
‘But what’s he going to do with it all?’
‘That is for Mr Pengelly to decide. Of course, none of this takes place with immediate effect. Probate has to be proved. Now, is there anything you’d like to ask me?’
Rose and Martin shook their heads, Peter stared down at his hands. ‘Mother’s done the right thing,’ he said.
Gwen jerked around in her chair. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Can’t we challenge this? She can’t have been in her right mind when she made this will. What about us? We’ve got the children to think of.’
Henry Peachy hid his indignation well. ‘My client was of perfectly sound mind when she came to me with her instructions and we have discussed the matter again recently regarding a trust fund when she provided me with a list of all her valuables and their estimated worth. We also have a record of her savings. As executors my firm has been instructed to arrange for the sale of any goods Mrs Pengelly has not been able to dispose of, the proceeds of which are to be placed in the said trust fund for Martin.’
There seemed to be nothing more to say. Gwen and Peter left first, followed by Martin and then Rose who had stopped to thank Mr Peachy. At the door she took Martin’s arm. ‘Great, isn’t it? You’ll never have to worry now.’ But Martin was too bemused to reply.
Back at the farm she went in with him to tell Jobber the good news. Tears filled his eyes. ‘I always had my tea in that mug, she never cared that it was worth a bit. Still, the boy’s taken care of, that’s what matters.’ They had a celebratory drink then Rose drove home planning where to hang the painting and what sort of car she would exchange the Mini for.
Peter and Gwen did not speak on the drive back to Hayle. When they reached the house Peter remained in the car. ‘I’m going for a drive. Alone,’ he said. At some point since his mother’s death he had co
me to see how much Gwen had influenced him where Dorothy was concerned. ‘You’re sick, do you know that? Martin deserves it, he deserves the whole bloody lot if you ask me.’
‘I’m sorry, Peter. Look, at least we’ll be able to move.’
‘Will we?’ He crunched the gears, prior to pulling away from the kerb. ‘You’re forgetting that the house was left to me. It’s my decision whether we stay here or move to Venn’s Farm. When I’ve made up my mind you can decide what you’re going to do.’
With a sinking feeling Gwen watched him drive away. She knew what his decision would be and that she would have to spend the rest of her life in that awful place without enough money to restore it for years.
Rose stopped at the Co-op in Newlyn and bought a bottle of champagne. It was far too early in the day to be drinking but she didn’t care. Once home, she placed it in the freezer section of the fridge to chill quickly. A new car and the painting, a new life and a date with Nick Pascoe tomorrow – and the mystery of Dorothy’s death had been solved. So had another, one which had taken place years ago, Harvey’s, and she, Rose, had helped to solve it. ‘I deserve it,’ she said as she popped the cork and watched the pale gold liquid effervesce in her glass.
On Monday night Nick Pascoe lay in bed, his hands clasped behind his head. He was smiling. Tomorrow he was seeing Rose Trevelyan. He did not know which excited him more, the woman herself or her painting.
By Janie Bolitho
Snapped in Cornwall
Framed in Cornwall
Buried in Cornwall
Betrayed in Cornwall
Plotted in Cornwall
Killed in Cornwall
Caught Out in Cornwall
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
12 Fitzroy Mews
London W1T 6DW
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain in 1998.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2015.
Copyright © 1998 by JANIE BOLITHO
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1784–2
Framed in Cornwall Page 21
