Snapped in Cornwall Page 8

  ‘You know.’

  ‘Yes. Several sources told us Mrs Penrose was in the habit of following her husband. He himself admitted he had heard she was up at the house that day, and the lady in question has held up her hand.’ He did not add that there was still the matter of her absence around the time Gabrielle was killed. That was not Rose’s business.

  Rose swallowed. She might as well go the whole way no matter what sort of fool she appeared. ‘There’s something else which I’m sure you’re also already aware of.’ It was harder than she had anticipated, this running to the police with tales, and it made her feel disloyal, although to whom she wasn’t sure. ‘I’ve been speaking to a lady named Maggie Anderson.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She and Dennis Milton were having an affair.’ No village gossip could have felt worse than Rose did at that moment. She sensed the colour rise into her face.

  ‘You know Miss Anderson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how come she thought fit to confide in you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I met her by chance and we started talking.’

  ‘Before the night of the party?’

  ‘Oh, no. I don’t think I even heard her name that evening. Today, I meant.’

  ‘Today?’

  Rose felt a moment’s satisfaction. Pearce did not know she was back. ‘She’s staying at Tyacks.’

  Jack Pearce tapped the desk with the end of a biro, his mind elsewhere. He had not known about the affair although there had been speculation. Miss Anderson’s background had been checked and it was true that the firm Milton worked for had once used the agency’s services. Having questioned Milton in depth he was certain he had had no intention of leaving his wife but he had not broken down and confessed to his adultery. Why? To protect himself or his wife’s memory, or even the other woman? Or was there a more worrying reason? Rose Trevelyan had been far more helpful than she would ever know but what she had told him was no more than hearsay, if it was true. Anderson may have lied to her for some reason of her own, perhaps to make her jealous. Mrs Trevelyan had, after all, been to the Milton place for dinner.

  ‘Anything else, Mrs Trevelyan?’

  ‘No.’ She saw him lean forward and open the top drawer of his desk, stare at something for a second or two, then seem to change his mind. He slid the drawer shut and stood up in one motion, his body, in the small room, appearing taller and better muscled than she remembered it to be. He ran a hand through his dark hair as he held the door open.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘’Bye,’ Rose said, unable to help seeing his face. He was laughing at her and not doing a very good job of disguising it. ‘The bastard,’ she hissed as she left the building.

  7

  ‘Did I do the right thing by telling her, Cyril?’

  ‘Leave it, Doreen. That’s the third time you’ve asked me. You’ve done it, you can’t change that.’

  ‘But supposing I was wrong?’

  ‘How can you be? You told me at the time what you’d seen.’ Cyril gazed anxiously out of the window, eager to be outside or, failing that, in the greenhouse, not that there was much to do at this time of year. Once the rain starts in these parts, he was thinking, it can go on for weeks.

  ‘I didn’t sleep a wink last night, worrying about it.’

  Cyril ignored this exaggeration, realising that the real problem was not what she had told Rose Trevelyan: Eileen’s antics were known to everyone. It was the thought that the job might be coming to an end and so far she had not had any luck in finding a replacement. ‘Do you need any veg, love?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I might even start on the chutney this afternoon. What time do you want dinner?’

  ‘Oneish.’

  Doreen started chopping the tomatoes. Dinner, to her, was the midday meal. Up at the house they ate it in the evening but she always kept the two vocabularies separate. Toilet and lavatory, lounge and front room, napkins and serviettes. Still, she thought, each to their own. Her mind was a storehouse of clichés.

  At least she had done her bit and saved Mrs Trevelyan from more bother.

  Jim Penrose had had more than enough. He slammed out of the house without touching the food Eileen had prepared for him. It was no good arguing, he always lost. He had never met anyone as expert as his wife at making the smallest omission or the slightest grievance sound like a major crime. Why he stayed with her was beyond him and if everything he did upset her so much, the reverse was also true.

  He returned to work, having decided he would not go straight home when he had finished. ‘I’ll give her something to think about,’ he said, his anger mounting when the van refused to start until several attempts later.

  ‘Did you drive here?’

  ‘No, I got the bus most of the way.’ Rose shook out her jacket and hung it over the door knob.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was raining that hard again.’ Barry turned back to the saucepan in which he was stirring something.

  ‘What’re we having?’

  ‘Pasta. With my own special sauce.’

  ‘How unusual.’

  ‘Don’t be ungrateful, woman. You know it’s one of the few things I don’t ruin.’ He pushed his glasses up, unheedful of the steam which had rendered them useless. ‘And if you’re rude to the chef, you won’t get any wine. You may as well open it, I’m sure you’re ready for some.’

  Whilst the sauce simmered they sat on the two unmatching chairs either side of the formica-topped table. Barry made enough money for somewhere better but claimed his surroundings didn’t bother him. The flat was small enough for him to manage, but to Rose it seemed cramped and inconvenient.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  Rose had produced an A4 envelope from her bag. ‘Just some notes. Tell me what you think.’

  Barry saw immediately what she was up to. His instinct was to tell her to stop at once, to leave things to the relevant people, but it might be that she was trying to exorcise a ghost, David’s ghost, by facing another sort of death. If she did, would he have a chance?

  Rose waited for the verdict. Now she was warm and dry and sipping Barry’s wine, which was always superior to what she bought, she began to relax again, forgetting the humiliation Jack Pearce had inflicted upon her. Barry stopped reading once, to place a large pan of water on the cooker to boil, then again to ease in several handfuls of spaghetti.

  Rose watched his serious face as he continued to read. The flat was at the back of a building, the only sounds the plopping of the boiling water and a dripping tap, both of which were restful. Condensation covered the windows and the room was aromatic with garlic and tomatoes and the faint smell of soap powder from Barry’s shirts which were drying on an old-fashioned wooden pulley strung from the ceiling.

  ‘You’re in the wrong trade,’ he said at last, jumping up as he remembered the spaghetti. ‘You should’ve joined the police.’ He was thoughtful as he strained the pasta. That bit about the trains, it fitted. If it had been someone from Gabrielle’s circle in London they would have needed to arrive and depart by car. No trains left the area that late at night and a taxi was out of the question. How could the person, assuming the murder was premeditated, have asked a taxi to wait? It was a ridiculous idea. Nor could one have been called – someone would have remembered if a guest departed early. Besides, as Rose had noted, everyone, according to what she had overheard that night, who was on the guest list was still present when the police arrived. She had ruled out someone on foot; they would have been conspicuous on the narrow lanes, and no one in their right mind would be walking over the cliffs and dunes at night. So, she had concluded, it had to be one of the guests.

  They ate in silence for several minutes. Rose was hungry, she had not eaten all day. First Laura, then Maggie, and by the time she got home from speaking to Inspector Pearce she had gone past wanting anything. ‘It’s excellent, as always.’

  ‘Thanks.’ At moments like that, seeing her smile, he was tempted to ask if
Rose would like a live-in chef but Barry knew he would not be able to take the disappointment her reply would cause.

  ‘Have the police been back to see you?’ she asked after a few more mouthfuls.

  ‘No. Should they have?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose it means they don’t consider you to be a suspect.’ She had not told him they had been to see her and did not want to discuss it now.

  ‘Rosie, do you think you know who might have done it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She looked down. David used to call her Rosie. Barry did so now occasionally but she didn’t have the heart to tell him not to.

  ‘Here, your glass is empty. Did I mention that I’m going to London soon?’

  ‘No. Trade fair?’

  ‘Yes. And if it’s all right with you, I’m taking some of your work.’ Barry’s firm, small as it was, also supplied other outlets. Soon, he realised, he would need to take on a couple more staff. He liked things as they were; expansion scared him and he knew he would not have survived in a city. ‘Want to come with me?’ he asked casually as he cleared away the plates.

  Rose calculated quickly. She was as up to date as she was ever likely to be. ‘I’d love to,’ she answered. But she hated herself when she saw his face light up. She had her own reasons for wanting to go.

  ‘I’m glad,’ Rose said when Laura, during their daily telephone conversation, told her she had spoken to Trevor.

  ‘He was a bit cool, but I don’t think I’ve driven him away completely yet.’

  Rose told her about the trip to London. ‘With Barry? Is that wise? He might get the wrong idea.’

  ‘No. He went out of his way to let me know he had booked separate rooms.’

  ‘Oh, Rose, I wish we could turn the clock back. We used to have such fun, the four of us.’

  ‘I wish we could too.’ But she was not in the mood for Laura’s reminiscences. Laura still had a husband. Just. But life had been fun. It was an element which was missing from Rose’s present existence.

  Replacing the receiver, she was on her way back to the kitchen when her plans were disturbed once more. This time, with the sun behind him, Rose recognised the shape of DI Pearce through the dimpled glass of the front door. ‘Yes?’ she said abruptly, wishing she didn’t look such a mess every time he saw her.

  ‘May I come in?’ He followed her into the kitchen and conspicuously eyed the filter machine through which coffee dripped slowly.

  He had been polite to her and offered her a drink. ‘Would you like coffee?’ she heard herself saying ungraciously.

  ‘Love some.’

  Rose’s mouth was a grim line as she got out milk and sugar. She had intended having half an hour with the paper before setting off for her first appointment of the day.

  Jack Pearce leant against the worktop, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, as relaxed, apparently, here as he was in his own office. He was in jeans, a blue and white striped shirt and a grey leather jacket. The uniform of the CID as it appeared on television, Rose thought sneeringly, allowing that it did suit him.

  ‘We were concerned about those photographs you took, Mrs Trevelyan, for the very reason you came to see us. We thought they might contain something incriminating and had therefore been stolen. However, there was an innocent explanation for their disappearance. Here.’ He handed her the envelope. ‘Mrs Clarke had taken them home with her. She thought they would be an upsetting reminder for Mr Milton.’

  Rose was pouring milk into the coffee. She turned to look at him, her head on one side. Doreen had not mentioned it to her. ‘And she’s just remembered and handed them in?’

  DI Pearce ignored the question. Rose guessed they had already been in his possession the previous day. Was that what he had been deciding when he looked in his drawer? So why the visit now? ‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’ll do with them. I don’t suppose Dennis will want them now. Sit down,’ she added belatedly. But Jack Pearce, it seemed, preferred to stand.

  He sipped his coffee and asked if she minded if he smoked. She found a blue glass ashtray with the Courage Brewery logo and placed it on the worktop beside him. He glanced at it with a wry grin.

  ‘It was left here by the previous occupants,’ she said, annoyed that she felt she had to make an excuse. If he wanted to think she was in the habit of nicking things from pubs, let him.

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan, you seem to be taking quite an interest in this case. Have you now got any ideas as to who might have killed Mrs Milton?’

  ‘No.’ She was surprised at the question but she did not know DI Pearce was aware that she was the type of person people confided in and that she might actually know more than she thought she did. Her answer was not strictly honest; she was beginning to have a vague idea but it was based on instinct rather than elimination or facts.

  ‘Ah, well. I’d better be going. Thanks for the coffee.’ Rose noticed he had left half a mugful as he let himself out through the kitchen door.

  There was just time to hang out the washing that had been in the machine overnight. She was taking a chance but it didn’t look like rain at the moment. Her first assignment was a portrait for a local writer whose publisher required a new picture for the jackets of his books. It was straightforward work: a few shots in his own home. She made sure she had the background sheet which folded down to nothing in its metal frame. It would not be worth coming back again because at twelve thirty she was due at the offices of a firm of solicitors where one of the partners was retiring. He had been with the firm for thirty years and a surprise party was being held during the lunchtime. She was to take a photograph of the presentation of whatever it was they had decided to give him.

  The author was charming and did not interfere or make suggestions. Rose told him he could expect the proofs in a week to ten days’ time, then left his terraced house. Because they had been chatting, Rose asking questions about his books, she had only half an hour to kill. She might as well get there early and be prepared.

  There was space for the car in the firm’s small car-park. Taking her equipment with her, she asked the receptionist which room was to be used for the presentation. ‘In there, the senior partner’s office.’ She pointed to a door across the passage. ‘It’s all right, you can go in. They’re just laying out the food.’

  Rose introduced herself and was handed a glass of wine. A cold buffet had been set out on a white sheet covering the large desk. She shuddered, recalling the last buffet she had attended.

  Finally most of the staff were assembled and a smiling man was led in by a secretary. Rose captured his expression as the door opened but guessed, by how hard he tried to look surprised, that he could not have missed all the activity that had been going on during the morning.

  She took two shots of the wrapped gift being handed to him by the senior partner and another of the retiring man holding the gift box open. It contained a carved wooden pipe rack and two expensive-looking pipes and, by the smile on his face when he opened it, the contents would give him far more pleasure than the ubiquitous clock.

  ‘One more, please.’ The senior partner paused. ‘Ready?’

  Rose nodded and focused on the two men. This time an envelope was involved but she did not get to see the amount written on the cheque it contained.

  She was duly thanked and left with the rest of the day free. There were two exposures left on the roll of film; she would, as she often did, waste them. Rose tried to keep one job to one film but today, each client needing so few shots, she had used the same one.

  The sky over Newlyn was darker, grey clouds banking up behind the houses built in the side of the hill. With luck she would get back before it rained and if the washing was dry she would iron it.

  Maggie Anderson did not want to cut her losses but if she stayed she would antagonise Dennis further. His reaction to her arrival was violent. ‘How dare you?’ he had shouted when Paul had shown her in. She had not been allowed the chance to explain that her invitation to the party had been iss
ued by Gabrielle, that she had not gate-crashed. But why should he believe it? She had not mentioned it in London. She had kept the invitation, it was still in her handbag, and it stayed there because, before she could utter another word, Dennis had gripped her by the elbow and virtually thrown her out of the house.

  Later, after her encounter with Rose, Maggie had telephoned the house and left a message with the housekeeper to say where she was staying, asking Dennis to ring her. He had not returned the call and, after a second night in the hotel, Maggie knew there was no alternative but to return to London.

  She paid her bill, her face gaunt, her auburn hair dull. The loose-cut trousers and blouse which hung perfectly could not make her attractive after two nights without sleep. She threw on an olive raincoat, picked up her holdall and left, unaware that an hour later Inspector Pearce came looking for her.

  Once on the M5 she settled into the driving. The conditions were good; no rain to cause spray, no sun slanting at an awkward angle. The greyness overhead suited her mood. She felt bad about Rose Trevelyan; she had been arrogant in her company, behaved badly, and the woman did not deserve it. She had been the one to find the body and had probably not recovered from the shock. But why had Dennis had her to dinner? Surely he wasn’t deceiving Maggie the way he had his wife? She couldn’t leave it alone. She must find out.

  The Cornwall she had left behind was drab and dreary, so different from the warmth of her arrival. She did not want to go back again. London was the place for her with its theatres and cinemas and restaurants and shops, where it didn’t matter if it rained.

  ‘Yes,’ Jim Penrose had admitted when Eileen placed his midday meal in front of him. ‘I went up there a third time. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. Mrs Milton simply wanted me to show her where the stopcock was. It was well hidden, it wasn’t an excuse. Besides, I’ve told the police all this. Anyone’d think you suspected me. You’ve got more reason than me for killing her, with your nasty, jealous ways.’