Framed in Cornwall Read online

  There would be no repeat performance that night. Her hair damp and wearing only an old T-shirt of Peter’s, she had gone back downstairs to wait. She was anxiously chewing the skin around her nails when he returned. Whatever happened the police must not find out about that evening. If they thought that Peter was a violent man what else might they think? Gwen decided she would never mention it.

  When Peter came into the kitchen she felt as though she had been holding her breath. He looked her up and down and took in the unmade-up face, the bare feet and the tatty T-shirt. She had not blow-dried her hair and it lay flat against her skull. Never before had she looked so young and so vulnerable. ‘Oh, Gwen,’ he said, reaching for her and pulling him to her. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Let’s forget it, shall we? I’ll make us some tea.’

  Peter nodded. ‘That’d be nice.’

  Gwen pulled away from him and in a businesslike way got out the cups and saucers. The temptation to tell him what she had done had completely disappeared.

  Two days later things were back to normal until the police had returned with their questions. Peter, grey and old-looking, had only shaken his head when they mentioned the word suicide. Gwen had become hysterical and if one of the detectives hadn’t calmed her down he was sure he would have slapped her. Peter’s guilt increased with the knowledge that his mother had been unhappy enough to take her own life. He was unable to see in which direction the questions were heading.

  Rose stretched then sat up in bed, brushing the hair out of her eyes as she squinted at the alarm clock. Seven thirty-five. She had had a good night’s sleep after all. Sliding back down under the duvet she felt warm and comfortable, until she remembered the telephone call and what she had determined to do.

  She slipped out of bed and went downstairs to make tea. The sun slanted in through the sitting-room window where the curtains were never drawn. Rose could not bear to shut out that view. As the kettle boiled she scanned the sky with its promise of a fine day, although she knew how often those promises were not fulfilled. The warning horn of a beamer boomed out as it negotiated the gap between the two piers and left the harbour. Out in the bay it gathered speed, bowing and dipping, spray flying along its sides although the sea was cellophane smooth from where she stood.

  The kitchen was cool. Only when the sun was setting did the golden rays reach the side window. Rose poured boiling water on to the tea leaves in the pot and lit the grill to make toast. She had never possessed a toaster and guessed that she and David must have been the only couple not to have been given one as a wedding present. Sadly she got out the last jar of orange marmalade, one of a batch which Dorothy had made and given to her.

  Opening the door to enjoy the weather Rose realised how few such days were left before the storms of winter set in for real. After the rain the grass was verdant once more. She stood and watched a blackbird who, head on one side, was also watching her as he finished his business of stamping on her unkempt lawn to bring the worms to the surface. She smiled. He must have been hungry for her presence did not deter him. Finally he succeeded in his task. Watching him eat reminded her that Barry Rowe was cooking her a meal that evening. It was quite a while since she had been to his flat.

  Rose took her breakfast upstairs and ate it in bed, having drawn back the curtains and opened the window fully in order to watch the beamer’s progress. It was already passing in front of the Mount. She cursed when the phone rang as she had to go downstairs to answer it. She kept meaning to get an extension for the bedroom.

  ‘Rose, it’s Jack. I’ve got to cancel, I’m afraid. There’s someone off sick and they want me to go in. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

  ‘It’s okay. Really.’ Wednesday. She had completely forgotten they were supposed to be spending the day together. You don’t love him, girl, Rose told herself, you’ve got to do something about him. Yet she had remembered her date with Barry. Barry she did love, but as a friend, one she would not let down if she could possibly help it.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Yes …’ Jack paused, unsure what to say. ‘Well, goodbye then.’

  Rose knew she had not sounded disappointed. She shrugged. There was no point in encouraging him.

  She ran a bath and whilst it was filling opened the cabinet to get out a new bar of soap. On the shelf were the disposable razors she had bought for Jack because she did not want to see his own where David’s had once lain. Or so she had thought. Now she realised that was not the sole reason, it was also because Jack’s own razor in her bathroom would have smacked of a permanence she did not want. Is that how I see Jack, too? she thought. As disposable?

  She bathed quickly and tidied the kitchen, throwing more washing into the machine in case the weather held. ‘He’s got a nerve,’ she said aloud, unfairly blaming him when she knew she could have called a halt to the relationship at any time. And then to suggest she had a word with the Pengellys on the feeble pretext that she was offering condolences – who did he think she was? He had said that Peter and Gwen had already been questioned but he would be interested in her opinion. She would do it but on her own terms, for herself but, more importantly, for Dorothy. Then she would have to decide whether or not to mention any of it to Barry whose reaction she could predict. The threatening telephone call was still on her mind. Only Jack and Barry were aware of her suspicions. And Martin. She stifled the thought. Barry would not have discussed them with anyone so how could anyone know what was on her mind? Laura? No, not Laura and not Doreen Clarke either. Besides, she was sure it was a man’s voice. It didn’t make sense, it was as if someone was already outguessing her. Foolish, maybe, to ignore the threat but her stubbornness dictated that she would try harder to find out why Dorothy had died.

  One of the wild flowers listed by Barry grew close to the Hayle estuary. Rose took this as a sign. She would call upon the Pengellys because she had reason to be in the area. Jack had told her that Peter worked shifts but had taken some compassionate leave and was almost certain to be at home. She had met him only once; Gwen she had never met.

  Throughout the short drive she tried to plan what she would say but her mind kept returning to the phone call. It was silly not to have mentioned it to Jack. If there was another one she would do so.

  The house was exactly as Dorothy had portrayed it on an occasion when she had tried to describe her daughter-in-law. ‘Typical Gwen,’ she had said. ‘Neatness means more to ’er than anything.’ It was one in a terrace which stepped down towards the estuary. The lower halves of the buildings were brick, the tops pebble-dashed and painted white. Each had a small shed to the side of the front door with its entrance at right angles to the house. There were spotless net curtains at the windows. In front was a small patch of grass. Tiny wooden fences divided the gardens.

  Rose rang the bell. She knew from Dorothy that Gwen did not go out to work so it was likely that both Pengellys would be in. ‘Mrs Pengelly?’ Rose smiled warmly then realised it was a mistake. The woman in front of her was slender and beautiful in a waif-like way but her features showed signs of misery. She had not expected this reaction, not after what Dorothy had led her to believe. But Rose did not know about the events which had shaken Gwen to the core. Sizing her up quickly, Rose took in the expensive haircut, the straight blue skirt, soft blouse and high-heeled shoes. It seemed an incongruous outfit for a housewife and mother on a weekday, one who was recently bereaved. ‘I’m Rose Trevelyan. Dorothy may have mentioned me.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I believe she did. You paint or something, don’t you? Won’t you come in?’

  Rose nodded. This was a far cry from Doreen Clarke’s extravagant praise of the way in which she earned her living. Doreen had obliquely let it be known that she did not like Gwen Pengelly but Rose would not let her opinion cloud her own judgement.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘If you’re not too busy. I only came to say how sorry I was. Dorothy was a good fr
iend to me.’

  Gwen seemed surprised to hear this. ‘I see.’ She plugged in a percolator. ‘Please sit down. Excuse me, I must put these in.’ Gwen picked up a pile of children’s clothes and bundled them into the washing-machine.

  It was such an ordinary, everyday domestic task yet Rose would have been less surprised if she had said she was about to leave for a modelling engagement. In her faded denim skirt, a pink and yellow checked shirt, frayed rope espadrilles and her soft hair already escaping from the wooden clasp at the nape of her neck, Rose felt a complete mess beside her. One day she really would do something about her wardrobe. The sound of running water filled the sunlit room as the machine filled then began its cycle.

  Gwen stood up and looked at her hands as if she was unsure what to do with them. ‘We were going to see her on Sunday. Dorothy.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It must have been a dreadful shock for you.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Do you know when the funeral will be held?’

  ‘It’ll be at Truro Crematorium but we haven’t got a date yet. We can’t do anything until after the inquest on Friday. If you leave me your phone number I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rose rummaged in her shoulder bag for one of her business cards.

  Gwen took it and read it slowly. ‘Look, I apologise. I didn’t mean to sound offhand. It hasn’t been easy lately.’ She paused. It would have been pleasant to confide in another woman but she did not know Rose Trevelyan. ‘At least Dorothy had a reasonably long life. We must be grateful for that. Oh, Peter, I thought you’d gone out.’

  Neither of them had heard the door leading to the hall open. There had been no other sounds in the house and she, too, had imagined Peter was out. It was him she had come to see but she had the feeling that Gwen had been about to confide in her. She watched them both: there was tension between them.

  Standing in the doorway, looking unsure of himself, Peter’s hand was still on the handle. ‘I heard the bell. I came down to see if it was the police again. It’s Mrs Trevelyan, isn’t it?’ Rose nodded. ‘I thought I remembered you.’ Dressed far more casually than his wife, in jeans and a sweatshirt, Peter had not yet shaved. His hair showed the first signs of thinning in small indentations at each temple.

  ‘I came to say how sorry I am about your mother.’

  ‘We meant to telephone. We said we would, didn’t we, Gwen? The police told us you did what you could to help. Martin wouldn’t have been capable of coping on his own. It was a good job you were passing. Thank you.’

  Rose saw that Peter was right. Martin was not stupid but, left to his own devices, he might have sat there, rocking Dorothy, for hours. ‘Thank you.’ Gwen had placed three cups of coffee on the table.

  ‘I’m just glad the children are back at school. It’s better for them. If this had happened during the summer holdiays …’ The sentence trailed off and Gwen shrugged.

  ‘God, nothing seems to make sense,’ Peter said, ignoring his wife’s comments. ‘First they lead us to believe she had a heart attack, then they tell us it’s suicide, but when that inspector bloke turned up on Monday night we didn’t know what he was getting at.’

  So Jack had come here after leaving her place. He had not mentioned that when he rang earlier. And she hadn’t mentioned the threatening call. If they were back to playing those games Rose was determined to win.

  ‘Who could possibly wish her harm? She was just an old lady. I mean, no one went out there, did they?’ Peter had slumped into a chair.

  Rose knew that Dorothy had more friends than he realised. He was, she saw, genuinely upset whereas Gwen almost shrugged it off. Something different was troubling her; she seemed to be under a lot of strain. Women use drugs and poison far more than men. The thought flashed through her mind. Don’t be so stupid, she told herself.

  ‘It must have been awful for you, walking in on it.’ Gwen decided it was time she made a contribution.

  ‘It wasn’t very pleasant How’s Martin?’ Rose could have predicted the answer.

  ‘Martin?’ Gwen glanced briefly at her husband.

  ‘He prefers to be up at the caravan,’ Peter put in quickly, ashamed that he had only tried once to find him despite his intention to behave decently. But Martin had not contacted them either. ‘I expect you know that,’ he continued with a ready excuse. ‘I heard that he went home with you but didn’t want to stay.’

  ‘He doesn’t feel things the way most people do.’ This was from Gwen. Rose thought it was the strangest comment she had heard in a long time. Gwen sighed. ‘There’s such an awful lot to do and we can’t start until the police give us the go-ahead. We can’t even put the house on the market yet.’

  Rose raised an eyebrow in surprise. Gwen was taking a lot upon herself unless she knew for certain that it had been left to her. And poor Martin, it was as if he did not exist. It was not her place to bring it up but Jack, damn him, had encouraged her. Besides, she liked Dorothy’s younger son and someone had to be on his side. ‘Won’t Martin have some say in the matter?’

  Gwen made a sound which Rose could not interpret. ‘Oh, he’s just fine up in that van of his. He won’t be interested in the house. Anyway, Dorothy told me she’d left a will and that she’d done the right thing by us. We’ve got a young family to bring up. After all, Martin’s only got himself to think about.’

  ‘Mm.’ Rose was non-committal. Dorothy could be cryptic at times and it was extremely doubtful that she would let Martin lose out financially. But perhaps she was wrong.

  Peter had clammed up and seemed content to let his wife do all the talking. He blew on his coffee and avoided making eye contact with either of the women. Rose did not know how or whether she should bring up the subject of the Stanhope Forbes. To her surprise Gwen did it for her.

  ‘She’s got some lovely old pieces up there. And her paintings. There’re some very good ones. We’ll probably keep a couple, I expect, but the rest will have to be sold.’

  Peter seemed unperturbed by the mercenary turn in the conversation. He might have been in a world of his own except for what he did next. He got up abruptly, almost knocking over his chair. ‘It’s my mother you’re talking about,’ he hissed at Gwen then left the room, banging the door behind him. Rose had listened carefully, trying to think how the voice on the telephone had sounded, but she couldn’t be sure. Taking her cue she stood too. There was nothing to be learned from Peter and whatever Gwen had been about to tell her earlier she would not find out now. ‘Thank you for the coffee. If there’s anything I can do, well, you’ve got my number.’

  ‘Thanks. I won’t forget to let you know the date of the funeral.’ Gwen walked her to the door and closed it as soon as Rose had stepped outside. She had learned little other than that Gwen was neurotic, and whether or not there was a will it was up to a solicitor to sort out. She could not see Martin switching that painting, but if Peter suspected he had been left nothing could he have done so? There would have been no problem in gaining access to the house, Dorothy would have let him in unquestioningly. Was that why Gwen was so anxious? Did she know something? Rose shook her head. Nothing seemed to make any sense. She got into the car and drove down the hill convinced that there was more to it than a missing painting. There were undercurrents in the Pengelly household which she could not define. And she had taken an instant dislike to Gwen which might interfere with her objectivity. She would sketch the damn flower then go and see Martin.

  Bradley Hinkston told his wife that he would be away overnight again. She seemed not to be listening. Seated at the breakfast bar, both elbows resting on its surface, she held a magnifying mirror in one hand and a mascara wand in the other. Clad in cream leather trousers and a scarlet silk shirt Louise was preparing for a morning’s shopping and lunch with a girlfriend. The breakfast dishes lay scattered around – they and the rest of the chores would be left for the woman who came in to see to them. ‘Louise, did you hear me?’

  ‘Sorry, darling.’ She looked up
and smiled. ‘Can’t talk when I’m doing my eyes. Just tonight, is it?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll let you know either way.’

  ‘Good. I don’t like it when you’re not here.’ Her actions seemed to belie her words because she immediately turned away and stretched her lips to apply lipstick.

  Cursing mildly as the sleeve of his jacket brushed spilt tea on the work surface, Bradley reached down and picked up his briefcase. He could not really blame Louise. She ran her own beauty business, although nowadays she mostly left the manager in charge, and she had as little inclination towards housework as he had himself.

  It was mild but overcast as he left the outskirts of Bristol behind him and, as the holiday brochures optimistically promised, the nearer he came to his destination the warmer it was and the brighter the sun shone. He knew from experience that this was not always the case. Twice before he had driven into heavy rain. Depressing the switch which activated the electronic windows he felt the breeze produced by the speed of the car cool his face. It was more subtle than the consistent air-conditioning. With luck he would get accommadation at the same place. It was clean and comfortable, the room was attractive and the food was plentiful and good. Better still, the landlord did not hurry him upstairs once the bar was officially closed. Bradley had stayed in hotels which were of a lower standard. By himself he was quite happy with bed and breakfast. When Louise accompanied him she preferred more luxurious surroundings.

  Dorothy Pengelly was an interesting woman and she had made him an interesting proposition but he hadn’t trusted her to keep quiet about it. Initially it had crossed his mind that senility had taken a grip but, on reflection, he sensed that she was an extremely acute old lady and knew far more about what made people tick than he did himself and he was no fool.

  The season may have been over but there was still plenty of traffic heading towards the south-west. A caravan swayed dangerously ahead of him and as soon as he had an opportunity he overtook it. The driver of the car towing it was travelling too fast. He tooted his horn and gestured towards the rear vehicle as he passed it but the driver ignored him.