‘Rest? Oh, yes, I see.’ Was it selfish to have been working all day under the circumstances? ‘I need someone to talk to. Are you busy?’ she added hastily.
‘No. And I’m your man.’ I’m never too busy where you’re concerned, he thought, but he could never say the words aloud. He did not want to lose whatever he had with Rose, as little as it was.
‘Look, why don’t I meet you somewhere? Are you at the shop?’ Barry’s calls were automatically transferred from the shop to his flat. Throughout the summer he opened on Sundays.
‘No. I closed at six. I can pick you up.’
‘I need the walk.’ Her earlier ennui had worn off.
They arranged to meet outside his flat.
Rose was pale with dark semicircles under her eyes. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘I don’t mind.’
Barry’s flat was situated in a side street which led off the Promenade. They strolled down to the bottom and turned left, crossing the road at the pedestrian lights directly in front of the long glass frontage of the Queen’s Hotel. Rose realised she wasn’t as strong as she had believed. ‘The Navy?’ she suggested. It was a small, friendly pub just off the sea front.
To the left of the door was a pool table, tucked away in its own space. The bar itself formed three sides of a rectangle and there were individual tables around the walls. They carried their drinks to a secluded area at the back. Barry did not comment that Rose had offered to pay. It seemed she had forgotten.
‘There’s something not quite right,’ she said. ‘Look, what I told you about that woman, the one that Dennis kept looking at …’
‘Maggie.’
‘Maggie?’
‘Maggie Anderson. She introduced herself to me when you went walkabout.’
‘Did she?’ Rose turned in her chair and stared at Barry with new respect. Maggie was an extremely attractive female. Barry could not be described as handsome but he had a nice face; a kind face, if a little lived-in. His hair was thinning on top and his heavy-framed glasses kept slipping down. It was a characteristic gesture of his to be constantly pushing them back in place. ‘Well, do you think I should have said anything to the police? About my suspicions, I mean?’
‘Good heavens, Rose.’ Barry laughed. ‘Certainly not. You’ve met Gabrielle Milton only once, you don’t know her husband and you certainly can’t go around accusing people you’ve never set eyes on of having an affair.’
Rose felt herself blushing. That was the trouble with Barry. Although she suspected he was half in love with her he had no qualms about putting her straight. ‘All right, what about this then.’ From her handbag she produced the photograph of the house with Dilys ready to spring.
‘What about it?’ Barry nudged his glasses and frowned.
‘There. Can’t you see?’
‘It’s blurred, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Quite. And I’m sure I saw something move. And it wasn’t the cat like I thought at first.’
‘Rose, what are you trying to do? You can’t get involved, you know, and you’re seeing things that aren’t there. I know this isn’t an easy time for you but you know nothing about the Miltons and their friends, and a tiny blur in a picture doesn’t mean anything. Probably it was the wind disturbing something.’
‘There was no wind.’ Rose stared straight ahead, annoyed with Barry and with herself for being stupid.
‘Leave it to the police.’ But Barry took a second look. Between the shrubs was what he thought might be, if he allowed his imagination a free hand, the blurred image of a female body in profile. ‘It could be’, he said, thinking aloud without meaning to encourage Rose, ‘Gabrielle. You know, getting out of the way if she realised she might end up on the front of her Christmas cards.’
‘She was in the house.’ Rose replaced the picture in her bag. But she was smiling. Barry had seen it too.
‘I did notice something last night.’
‘Which was?’
‘The son, Paul, he kept trying to attract his father’s attention. Like he was agitated about something.’
‘He probably was. He and Anna were rowing. Drink up, it’s my round.’
Barry watched Rose as she approached the bar. Her figure was neat in a straight denim skirt and slimmer by half a stone, lost when David died and never regained. Her bare legs were brown and, from behind, with her faded auburn hair in an untidy pony tail, she looked like a much younger woman. He had been too slow in asking her out, he recalled. It was David who had stepped in and now it was too late. Rose treated him like a friend; he would never be more than that.
Barry was aware what people thought of him even if they kept these thoughts to themselves. ‘Boring,’ he muttered. ‘And it’s true.’ It was as if the burning passions which drove men to great heights or the depths of despair had passed him by, but he was still able to feel a twinge of jealousy when other men looked at Rose.
‘Thanks,’ he said when Rose returned with their drinks. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry.’ The sandwich lay heavily in her stomach, the nausea of the previous evening not far away. Work, and trying to make something out of a stupid photograph, had, she realised, been a way of trying to forget what she had seen. Delayed shock was setting in.
‘Well, I am.’ He studied the menu in its red leather cover. There was a large selection but Rose knew he would, as always, order one of Marg’s, the landlady’s, home-made pasties. She could only eat half of one herself.
‘Rose,’ Barry said later, when he had walked her home. ‘Just try and forget what happened. It wasn’t as if we knew them.’
But that, to Rose, was the whole point. It had been another missed opportunity in her life.
5
Dennis Milton had spent most of Sunday at Camborne police station where the questioning, along with shock and grief, had taken its toll. He knew that as her husband he was considered to be the main suspect, but surely enough people had been able to say he was either in the lounge or on the patio the whole evening?
He was allowed to return to the house but his bedroom was still out of bounds. Forensic experts had gone over it and would probably do so again. For the time being the door was taped.
It had been confirmed that Gabrielle had fallen from the balcony but the police refused to tell him why they were certain she had been pushed.
Anna had also been questioned at length but told she was free to return to London as long as she remained at the address she had given. She returned by train as Paul had volunteered to stay with Dennis.
On Monday morning Doreen Clarke telephoned and asked if her services were needed. Unable to think rationally, Dennis said yes, then spent the rest of the day sitting on the bench at the end of the garden, his eyes averted from the path leading down the side of the house. He was numb, but what was worse was that Gabrielle’s death was no accident. And it was unbelievable that she had been there long enough to make an enemy of someone. He refused to face the alternative.
‘I don’t know what to do about Mrs Trevelyan,’ he said to Paul as they picked at the meal Doreen had left for them.
‘Do about her?’
‘I feel I ought to speak to her. I mean, she found … she was the first …’ He did not want to say it. ‘She must be very upset herself.’
Paul shrugged. He had never been an emotional child outwardly but Dennis knew he suffered in his own way. His dark hair made a stark contrast to the paleness of his face and there was a slight tremor in his hands unless they were employed. As an only child the loss of his mother must have come hard. Dennis suddenly realised he had no idea how to comfort Paul.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t finish this,’ he told Doreen when she came to clear the plates. She had taken it upon herself to stay for a couple of extra hours but she, too, realised there was little she could do for the Milton men except keep the place tidy and produce food at regular intervals.
‘Shall I come tomorrow?’ she asked.
D
ennis nodded. ‘Please.’ He could not bear the thought of having only Paul for company.
Rose Trevelyan’s number was listed in the telephone book. Dennis lifted the receiver, then changed his mind. The telephone was not a method of communication he favoured; it would be better to speak to Mrs Trevelyan face to face. And it would get him out of the house.
Rose was cleaning her brushes when she heard a knock on the door. She was puzzled – all her friends came round to the side. The police, she decided, as she wiped her hands on the old towel she had tied around her waist. For most of the day she had succeeded in blocking out what she had seen.
‘Mr Milton!’ She stepped back, surprised. ‘I’m sorry. Come in, please.’ She showed him into the sitting-room and apologised for her appearance. ‘Excuse me just one moment.’ There was a jacket potato in the oven, which she turned down, and a piece of steak marinading. She had intended clearing her working areas, then making some salad. On the table near where she had asked Dennis to sit down was a bottle of red wine, open, and a glass beside it. It was too late to hide it and she wondered why she felt she should have. Ought she to have written a note of condolence? People had been so good to her when David died, but what did you say to a man whose wife had been murdered?
‘Would you like a drink? I’ve just opened a bottle.’ Rose bit her lip. This, then, was what you said.
‘I … er, yes. If you’re having one.’
Rose fetched another glass and filled both, stopping herself in time from saying ‘Cheers’. They sat opposite each other, either side of the fireplace. Dennis was in David’s chair but that did not hurt her any longer. Rose took the initiative and broke the awkward silence. ‘I should have telephoned,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. But I didn’t know what to say. I know I hardly knew her, but I liked Gabrielle. How’s your son taking it?’
Dennis ran a hand through his thinning sandy hair which he wore swept back from his forehead. His stubby fingers, Rose noticed, were freckled. ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t said a lot. It’s a terrible thing to admit, Mrs Trevelyan, but somewhere over the years we’ve drifted apart.’
‘Rose.’
‘Rose, then. I suppose it started when we sent him away to school. Gabrielle was against it. I …’ He stopped again. He seemed unable to take a thought through to its full conclusion. Every now and then the reality that he would never see his wife again hit him. It was like being winded. ‘I struggle to make conversation with him. What do you think I should do?’ He made eye contact for the first time.
Rose found it odd that this recently bereaved virtual stranger should be sitting in her house asking her advice. She gazed out over the bay. A purplish dusk was falling and the lights of Newlyn harbour flickered on. There was no inspiration there.
‘Perhaps if you sat down and really talked to him, told him what you’ve just told me. He probably feels the same.’
‘Yes.’
But Rose was not sure if he had even heard her.
‘I felt I had to come. To make sure you were all right.’ Dennis meant it but underneath he saw that, because Rose had found Gabrielle’s body, a sort of bond existed between them.
‘Please don’t worry about me, Dennis, you’ve got enough to think about. Have the police gone yet?’
‘No. They’re still in and out and they’ve got one of their van things parked at the front. They said it was fortunate that most of the guests were local. Fortunate.’ He spat the word. ‘For them, maybe. Not for Gabrielle.’
Rose studied his face as he sipped his drink. There were lines of fatigue and strain but it was a pleasant, almost handsome face. Something told her there was more than his wife’s death on his mind.
‘I’m in a bit of a mess,’ he said, as if he had telepathic powers.
‘Oh?’
‘Who wouldn’t be?’ he said quickly, unaware he had spoken aloud. ‘You have a nice place here. This is the sort of thing I imagined Gabrielle wanted, something with more of a family feeling than our London flat.’
Rose saw the room properly for the first time in ages. It was far too long since she had decorated and the floral covers of the suite were fading. She could never have drawn the curtains, shutting out the sun and the view, to prevent it happening. Now, she thought, was not the time to be thinking of soft furnishings.
‘I love it here. So did my husband. He died four years ago tomorrow. Of cancer.’
Dennis’s expression was sympathetic. He guessed she wanted to reassure him that he was not the only one to suffer, that life would go on regardless.
‘Would you like some more wine?’ Rose was thankful she preferred the skin of baked potatoes crispy. Dennis seemed oblivious to the warm cooking smell which was drifting in from the kitchen.
‘Please. And the view. It’s amazing. The whole bay. That was another thing I couldn’t understand, moving down here and looking out at sand dunes and gorse. You can just see the sea in the distance. And the extra bedrooms when Gabrielle made it clear she didn’t want people coming down from London all the time. God, listen to me. I didn’t mean to criticise.’
‘Perhaps it was the space she wanted.’ Rose meant mentally as well as physically. She could understand it. When she had to spend a couple of days in London the first thing she did upon her return was to walk. She’d take a cliff path and surround herself with sea and sky and breathe in the clean air.
Dennis bowed his head. ‘I loved her, you know. Despite everything, I really loved that woman. And now I shall have to sell the house that she loved.’
Rose braced herself. Had Dennis been drinking? Surely two glasses of mediocre wine was not enough to make him maudlin. She recognised the difference between that and genuine grief. Grief, she knew, had no time for sentimentality. Grief was hard and sharp, the pain almost physical. It was tempered with cleansing anger.
Dennis, she suspected, was working himself up to making a confession and she would put money on her assumption that he was having an affair.
‘I didn’t know many of the guests, they were mostly people Gabrielle had met, but I feel responsible somehow, for putting them through this, all these questions. God, what a mess.’ Dennis shook his head. ‘Look, I’ve taken up enough of your time already. I really must go.’ He placed his empty glass on the table and stood. ‘Thank you, Rose, for listening. I won’t bother you again.’
She saw him to the door and watched as he pulled away, his headlights sweeping through the darkness until the car had disappeared.
Rose put the steak under the grill and wondered if it had been an act, if Dennis Milton had killed his wife and was trying to put himself in a good light with people. Her natural curiosity made her want to find out more about the Miltons. Something, definitely, was not quite right.
Maggie Anderson had provided the police with her home address and that of her place of work. Like Anna, after endless questions, she had been allowed to return to London. She had explained that she had known Dennis for about eighteen months, which was true, that they had met through business and that her being at the party was probably to redress the balance. Almost everyone else was a friend of Gabrielle’s.
‘It’s over,’ Maggie told herself when she boarded the train on Sunday evening. She had not had to lie but she had omitted many points. If they checked, the police would discover that Dennis’s company was once a client of the advertising agency for whom she worked. And they would check, she was sure.
The train swayed through the darkness, stopping at all the stations until it reached Plymouth. Leaving Cornwall behind, she sighed with relief.
Saturday night had been spent under Dennis’s roof, as had been the case with several of the guests. By the time the police had finished with them it was too late to go to bed and no one felt like sleeping. Maggie, along with two couples she did not know, remained in the lounge, resting as best they could on the settees. She had reserved a room in a hotel although she had hoped she would be invited to spend the night – not that Dennis would have issued the i
nvitation. The matter was taken out of her hands.
It was hard to feel sorry for Gabrielle. The obstacle to Maggie’s plans had now been removed.
Analysing her feelings, Maggie knew she was not in love with Dennis but he represented everything she wanted from life. He had money and power and knew how to use them although he had been unaware of her manipulation of the situation. Inexpensive restaurants had been chosen with care, the better to show herself in contrast to what she imagined was Gabrielle’s extravagance. Gabrielle’s contentment with books and her renewed enthusiasm for broadening her mind were not known to Maggie. But Dennis refused to discuss his wife with her.
Now, of course, it was only a matter of time before she got what she wanted.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’re crazy.’ Laura was studying the enlargements Rose had made of the view of the Milton house, concentrating on the right-hand side of the photographs. ‘It’s just a blur. It could be anything.’ But Laura was prepared to humour Rose today. She had not forgotten the date. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I don’t know. Barry agrees with me, though.’
‘Ah.’ Laura grinned. ‘Barry would.’
‘Should I show it to the police?’
‘What for? It was days before she was killed. Besides, it’s probably the gardener or Doreen.’
The idea of a gardener had not crossed Rose’s mind. ‘You know Doreen?’
‘Of course I do. She was at school with …’ Laura ran a hand through her dark curls. ‘I keep forgetting you weren’t at school with us. Shows how you’ve become part of the scenery.’
‘Doreen’s the same age as you?’
‘Yes. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ She was not being vain – it was simply that Doreen looked years older than her age. ‘Could be to do with marrying a man some years her senior, but she doesn’t seem to bother what she looks like.’
Snapped in Cornwall Page 5
