Jack was hardly able to think straight. He would have liked Rose to be there. He could have unburdened himself, talked it all over with her. Maybe tomorrow he would do so. He poured a drink and sank into his favourite chair, then he smiled wryly. Imagining eleven thirty was too late to ring her he realised she wouldn’t even be at home. In half an hour she would be raising her glass, along with Laura and Barry, to drink to the New Year. At some point during the day he had managed to forget the date.
He didn’t hear the church bells ringing at midnight. Before he had finished his drink Jack had fallen asleep in the chair.
17
Rose opened her eyes and smiled. She didn’t feel too bad considering the lateness of the previous night and the amount of wine consumed, she thought as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Only a hint of a headache and a bit of a thirst, nothing that a glass of water and several mugs of strong coffee wouldn’t cure. It had been an enjoyable evening, drinks, good conversation and some of Laura’s excellent chilli.
She drew back the curtains and looked out over the bay, which was flooded with sunlight. The bedroom, above the sitting-room, enjoyed the same view.
I’ll clean the house thoroughly and take down the tree, she decided. Once New Year’s Eve was out of the way Rose believed the celebrations were all over and, besides, the tree was beginning to shed its needles. She was not superstitious about leaving it up until Twelfth Night. She would take it outside and saw it up and when she next lit the fire she would burn it. The resin from the pine logs smelled wonderful and they ignited easily. And tomorrow I will paint, she told herself firmly.
Half-way through the morning no trace of Christmas remained. Feeling virtuous and with only the upstairs left to do, Rose rewarded herself with coffee and a cigarette. Later she would have a walk, which she tried to find time for daily then spend the evening doing her hair and her nails. But she had not even sat down when the telephone rang. It was Jack.
‘I’d like to talk to you,’ he said.
‘I told you everything I know yesterday.’
‘I know.’ He hesitated before continuing, unsure if he was being wise. ‘I meant I need to talk to Rose Trevelyan, my friend.’
Rose inhaled sharply She had not expected such seemingly harmless words to induce such a rush of emotion. ‘Be my guest.’
‘Not over the phone. Can I see you? If you’re not busy maybe we could go for a walk. I’m in need of some fresh air.’
Housework was not one of Rose’s favourite occupations but she wanted to complete it that day. However, there was something in Jack’s voice that told her this was important – and she had intended having a walk later anyway. ‘All right. Where shall we meet?’
‘I’ll pick you up. We can drive somewhere first. It’s a lovely day.’
‘I’ll see you when you get here then.’ Rose looked down at her threadbare jeans, the old shirt and the baggy jumper. Too bad, she would have to do.
There would not have been time to change because Jack arrived within ten minutes. He, too, wore jeans, a shirt and a jumper but much neater versions. ‘I thought we might go to Lamorna and take the cliff path,’ he suggested as Rose pulled on her waxed jacket.
She nodded, pleased now that she would not miss the good weather.
Jack was silent throughout the short journey Rose glanced at his profile. He looked tired and worried. Her stomach churned. She could guess what was coming. He wanted to break the news gently. He was going to move in with Anna or, maybe, even marry her. Could she bear to hear that? He had not mentioned her the other evening. Maybe he feared Rose would create a scene in the restaurant and had waited, maybe that’s why he’d chosen an open-air venue today.
Jack parked near the harbour and locked the car. A mild breeze rippled the surface of the milky green water within its walls as they began their ascent over the rough grass.
‘I forgot,’ Rose said. ‘Happy New Year.’
‘You, too.’ Jack took a deep breath of the crisp, fresh air. ‘But it won’t be for some.’
Meaning me? Rose wondered. She waited. Jack would get to it in his own time. Her calves had begun to ache before he suggested a rest. They sat on lichen-covered boulders because the grass was still damp and gazed out at the sea.
‘You were right and you were wrong,’ he began. ‘There has been a murder and Louisa Jordan has been charged.’
Rose held her breath and waited.
‘Wendy’s dead, Rose, not Frank.’
‘Dead?’ Rose was confused. It was Wendy not Anna, Jack wanted to talk to her about.
‘Louisa killed her. She claims it was self-defence.’
‘My God. Poor Wendy. And poor Miranda.’ Rose bowed her head. So Louisa was a murderer after all. ‘Jack, I have to ask, was I responsible in any way?’ Her voice was low.
‘How could you be?’ He turned in time to see the misery in her face.
‘By interfering.’
‘No. It was always on the cards.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘You were right about the letters. Frank Jordan has been living in Spain ever since he left Penzance. He took his boat with him. The police traced him easily enough even though he was using false identification. Had he committed a crime out there they might have got on to him sooner. It transpires he not only owes his brother-in-law a small fortune, but there are others as well, others who aren’t as patient or tolerant. There was no chance of him ever being able to pay anyone back, nor, it seems, did he have any desire to. He had to get out, and he had the connections to enable him to do so.’
‘Are you saying he and Louisa planned it between them?’
‘Yes. Everything of any value was put in her name, leaving Jordan just enough to start up in Spain using his new identity. There’re enough ex-pats out there for him to con. The idea was that she got away from Penzance and all their old connections then, after a reasonable period, she was to sell everything and join him. She hadn’t reckoned on Wendy and didn’t know how to handle her. When Frank left she was terrified it would all go wrong, that he’d change his mind about her joining him and she’d be left on her own. At least there would have been Wendy to fall back on. And Wendy knew that.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘She admitted it.’
‘But why stay in Cornwall?’
‘It’s her home, Rose. She loves it. She knew she’d have to make a fresh start abroad, but meanwhile she wanted to stay here as long as she could.’
‘I can see that, but why the farmhouse? There’s no electricity and it’s so inconvenient.’
‘Because Jordan knew it would appreciate in value. They intended having electricity put in, hence the deep freeze being there. It was almost new but they wouldn’t have got much for it if they sold it. Anyway, Louisa realised it would be a waste of their money because the cost of being connected would not add the equivalent value to the price of the house. Besides, several other people had been up against them when it was put up for auction and, despite the lack of amenities, it fetched quite a bit more than the reserve amount. She intended selling the house and the collection of paintings at their now inflated price and going out to Spain.’
‘Oh, Jack, I believed Louisa had killed Frank. It’s almost as if I’ve made her murder someone.’
‘You mustn’t think like that. Look, Miranda had come home. With or without your help she would have gone to see Joel at some point. Even Miranda believed her mother capable of violence.’
‘But why did she kill Wendy?’
‘There was a tremendous row. Louisa says it was self-defence, that Wendy came for her with a knife in her hand. They struggled and the knife slipped. Her story rings true. It’s often the way these things happen.’
‘Did you interview her?’
‘No. She was taken to Bodmin. I expect someone from Plymouth would have been present. But the details were faxed through to us as we were already involved.’
‘Louisa admitted
that she had sprung her decision to sell up on Wendy too quickly. She said that, given time, things might have been very different. But she couldn’t wait, she couldn’t stand being away from Frank any longer. House prices have been increasing rapidly, the time was right, and, unbeknown to her sister, Louisa had already had the paintings and antiques valued and knew what they would fetch at auction.’
‘So why didn’t she go with Frank in the beginning?’
‘Had they both disappeared it might have led people to start looking for them. Of course, they hadn’t counted on Miranda’s reaction. Anyway, the idea was that people would assume Frank had gone off with someone else and that Louisa had moved to forget her troubles or, maybe, to be out of reach of the people who were looking for Frank. And they needed time for the house and the art collection to increase further in value. But Frank couldn’t wait any longer, any more than Louisa could. He wrote, via a post office box number, and asked her to come as soon as possible.’
‘So the catalyst was the letter and not Miranda?’
‘I think so. You see, despite her feelings for Miranda, it was Frank Louisa loved more than anyone else. He wasn’t interested in his daughter but her mother tried hard, tried to convince herself how much Miranda also mattered, but in the end she knew she didn’t. Also, once Louisa had seen her again, once she knew she was safe and well with a boyfriend and a career to look forward to, she felt safe in leaving.’
‘I think I can see why she wanted that portrait done. If Miranda hadn’t come back when she had I’d have completed it and Louisa would have made sure it reached her at some point. It was to be a reminder of the two women who had brought her up.’
Jack nodded. ‘You’re right, Louisa almost said as much. She admitted her feelings for Miranda were never as strong as they should have been, but has it occurred to you that she also thought the portrait might increase in value, that it might have been meant as a legacy to her daughter?’
It hadn’t. Rose was flattered by the idea.
‘Louisa was set to go whether or not Miranda returned. Maybe not for a few more months, but certainly within the year.’
‘And Frank?’
‘He’s here now. He loves his wife, you see, he wanted to be by her side. All this talk of other women was just that, a screen they developed between them as part of the plot. He’d never have left her.’
‘I wondered about that.’ Rose was sceptical, she thought it was more likely to do with the money. ‘And his debts?’
‘That’s something he’ll have to sort out. It wouldn’t surprise me if Roger Penhaligon lets him off, he strikes me as a decent sort of man.’
‘And Miranda?’
‘She took it better than I anticipated. Having lived so long in the belief that her mother was capable of murder it was probably easier for her to accept. By the way she’s going to live with the Penhaligons until she goes to university.’
‘Will she see her father?’
‘That’s up to Miranda. At the moment she isn’t interested, she can’t forgive either of them for their deceit and she still can’t understand the almost obsessive bond between them.’
‘So Wendy was the only one who really stood in Louisa’s way. By making a fuss things had become awkward and that’s why she killed her.’
‘It’s a possibility but I think someone as calculating as Louisa Jordan would have found a way around it if she hadn’t stupidly sprung the news so quickly No, I think it was just as she said, it all happened on the spur of the moment.
‘Rose, you’re shivering. Come on, let’s go.’
‘I’m not really cold.’ But as she stood, hardly able to take it all in, she spotted the rain clouds which had gathered in the west and then noticed the drop in temperature. Jack was right, it was time to go home.
As they made their way back downhill he took her hand. Rose let him. Jack’s was large and warm and strong.
It was Rose who was quiet on the journey home. When he pulled up behind her blue Metro Jack turned to her. ‘Rose, are you all right?’
‘Yes. I’ve been thinking.’
‘Thinking about what?’
‘That once we’d have talked this through together, right from the start. We seem to have been on opposite sides lately.’
‘Is that how you feel?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘That, and I feel really tired as well. I think we overdid it at Christmas.’
‘Too tired to offer a man a glass of wine?’
She turned to look at him. He was smiling. She smiled back. ‘You certainly know how to tempt a woman. It’s just what I need. You’d better come in.’
A second glass of wine led to an invitation for Jack to stay to supper.
‘Only if you’ll allow me to cook it,’ he said.
‘Carry on,’ Rose leant back in her armchair. She was too tired to argue. Last night was catching up on her. And Jack was a better cook than Barry, whose repertoire barely extended beyond pasta. Amidst the clatterings from the kitchen she fell asleep.
A gentle hand on her shoulder woke her. ‘It’s ready. Come and eat.’
A pungent aroma filled her nostrils. ‘Curry?’
‘And an excellent one at that, too. There was a plate of turkey in the fridge. I used that. I hope it was all right.’
‘That’s fine.’ Rose had frozen the remains of the eighteen-pound bird she had bought but had taken some out to defrost that morning, believing that at least a week should elapse before even thinking of using up Christmas left-overs.
She relaxed over the meal and felt better for some food. They were talking as they used to talk, discussing all they knew about the Jordans and the Penhaligons, interrupting each other and occasionally laughing. But there was still no mention of Anna.
‘Wendy was meant to be alone with Jordan on that last day. Louisa kept out of the way deliberately.’ Jack said at one point during the evening. ‘He hinted that there was someone else. Every last detail was planned.’
Rose could now believe it. She could almost sympathise with Louisa, who had felt for Frank what she had felt for David. ‘I really enjoyed that,’ she said, when they had eaten. ‘I’ll let you cook another time.’
‘Will you?’
The way in which he was looking at her made Rose realise just what her words had implied. She didn’t know what to say.
‘Will you, Rose? You see, the thing is … well, Anna and I … well, it didn’t come to anything in the end.’
‘You’re not seeing her any more?’
‘No. Not since before Christmas.’
Rose bit her lip. It was the first she knew of it and he hadn’t said anything at her party. Her face was already flushed from the food, the wine and the warmth of the kitchen. It was now even hotter. It was, she realised, her move, but she didn’t have a clue how to make it.
Jack shrugged. ‘For some reason it just didn’t work out.’
‘What didn’t? In what way?’
Jack’s laugh startled her. ‘You never give up, do you? You always have to know every detail.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She fiddled with her knife whilst trying to feign a casual interest. ‘What do I always have to know?’
‘In this instance, whether or not we made love.’
‘Well, did you?’ Oh, hell, damn and blast, she thought. She’d had no intention of asking him.
‘Almost. Once. But no.’
Relief flooded through her and she felt like cheering, but no way was she going to let Jack Pearce know that. Instead, she sniffed, got to her feet and began to clear the table.
Jack sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and watched her. When Rose finally turned to face him she saw the familiar laughter in his eyes although his firm lips were pressed together.
‘You’re a bastard, Jack Pearce, do you know that?’ she said as she cuffed him with the tea towel.
‘Maybe. But remember what we were saying the other week about loveable rogues and how much loyalty they
could command?’
‘God, there’re times when I hate you.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘You don’t really, do you?’
She looked down into his face. It was serious now. ‘No. No, Jack, I don’t.’
‘Good. Then you can pour me another drop of wine, woman, before I go home. I can pick up the car tomorrow.’ It was too soon to push things. Jack knew that, but given a little time, the situation might improve.
Rose changed her mind about painting a scene on Bodmin Moor. It still evoked too many bad memories. But she had decided to go further afield than West Cornwall to work.
Barry had taken her out for dinner, over which they had discussed some watercolours for a new batch of greetings cards he wanted her to do. It was too soon to start on them, they would have to wait for the spring when the pastels of hedgerow flowers would be at their best.
She sat, partly sheltered by rocks, and studied the bleak countryside around her. Ahead was the Cheesewring, a pile of large, smooth, flat stones balanced in such a precarious way it seemed they would fall over at the slightest touch. East Cornwall for a change, she had decided, with its varying shades of browns and greens although it was bleak in winter. She had gone for starkness again, which suited her style and the medium of oils. The Minnack work was finished, this would be the second in a series of six. Rose shivered. It was hard to believe what Geoff Carter had said. He had come to the house with a bottle of champagne and a broad smile on his face. ‘Rose, you’ll never guess,’ he’d said. ‘A gallery in Bristol wants to show twelve pieces of your work.’
Bristol. It wasn’t London, but it was still an honour, and it would be the first time she had shown outside the county. She still couldn’t believe her luck.
The wind was sharp and made strange noises amongst the stones but Rose was in her element. January was almost at an end. Her classes had resumed and it was still a pleasure to tutor Joel who continued to improve. He talked of Miranda who had settled down and found a job to keep her going until October.
Petra and Roger had telephoned. They had invited her for dinner the following week. Rose sensed they would become close friends.
Plotted in Cornwall Page 20
