Framed in Cornwall (10 page)

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 friend 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.

First things first, he decided as he left the A30 at the Hayle junction. He pulled up in the car-park of the pub where he had
stayed before and went into the bar. Lunchtime customers were ordering food. Bradley was flattered to be remembered by the landlord.

‘Same room if you like,’ he was told. ‘The missus’ll show you up. Let her know if there aren’t any towels. We weren’t expecting much more trade.’

Bradley entered the low-ceilinged bedroom with its tiny
en
suite
bathroom. There was a shower stall, a lavatory and a small hand basin. The plumbing was efficient and it was adequate for his needs. He hung up the spare clothes he had brought and placed his toilet bag on the glass shelf above the sink. After splashing his face with cold water he went down to the bar for a quick drink before going over to the Pengelly place. It was a risk returning, he knew that, especially if what he had learned about the daughter-in-law was true. Gwen Pengelly was angling to get Dorothy into an old people’s home in order to get her hands on her possessions. It was too late now for Gwen Pengelly to have her way; Dorothy had made other arrangements.

Marigold’s funeral was not taking place until the following week. Fred had needed time to let everyone know and he felt it would have seemed like rushing her departure from the world if he took the first date which was offered. He could not contemplate how he would get through the intervening days. It was unbearable in the shop receiving the pitying glances and hearing the well-meaning words of his customers. ‘She’s no longer suffering,’ was the most oft repeated. Fred wanted to shout at them, to say that she shouldn’t have been made to suffer at all. It was even more unbearable upstairs in the flat with nothing but his own thoughts for company and Marigold’s possessions all around him.

Out of a perverse desire to please, he had lined up the condolence cards he had received from his customers on the shelf behind the counter. All the crosses and lilies made him feel sick. A thousand sackfuls of cards couldn’t bring Marigold back. But he, Fred Meecham, was going to preserve what they
had had together and protect their secret until his own dying day. At any cost, he told himself.