Framed in Cornwall (20 page)

‘Yes, of course I did. Oh, I see what you mean. She was fine. Really she was.’ Gwen bowed her head. ‘I wanted to persuade her to give up the house, to go into a home. It’s far too big for one old lady, and Peter and I could have done with the money. Anyway, I was worried about her.’

Jack ignored the lie. If her daughter-in-law had been in the least concerned she would have visited far more frequently. ‘Did you argue?’

Gwen decided there was nothing for it but to tell the truth. Neither she nor Jack knew that it was Jobber who had seen her and made the call to the station. He had mumbled his name, passed on the information then hung up before he could be questioned further.

‘No more than usual. She wasn’t an easy woman to get on with.’

‘Can you clarify that statement? What were you arguing about?’

‘I think I can do that for you.’

‘Peter!’ Gwen spun around. ‘How long have you been listening?’

‘Long enough. My wife couldn’t stand my mother, Inspector. All she was interested in was getting her hands on her money.
You see, Gwen always thought my mother was beneath her. She wouldn’t even take the children up there.’

‘Oh, Peter, don’t, please.’ The redness of her face showed her humiliation.

‘You see, my mother once told us we would get what we deserved. I think I understand now what she meant. I think I can even guess what she’s done.’

Jack said nothing. He knew what the will contained. What interested him was the conversation which had taken place that Thursday tea-time. ‘I need to know exactly what was said,’ he continued.

Gwen swallowed hard as tears filled her eyes. ‘I shouted at her. I called her a selfish old woman. But she was all right when I left her, I swear it.’ She turned back to her husband. ‘You must believe me, Peter, you must.’

Peter remained rigid and avoided her eyes but Jack believed her. From what he knew of Dorothy it would not have surprised him if she had given the younger woman a run for her money.

‘Have you ever taken Nardil, Mrs Pengelly?’

‘Nardil? What’s that?’ Her astonishment was genuine.

‘It doesn’t matter. That’s all for now. I’ll see myself out and leave you to get on with your meal.’

He was about to step outside when his bleeper went. ‘I’m sorry, may I use your telephone?’ Peter waved a hand to indicate where it stood.

‘Sir? Where are you? We couldn’t get you on the car radio.’

He heard the words ‘Fred Meecham’, the name of one of Dorothy’s friends, but when he heard Barry and Rose’s names too he felt sick. Slamming down the handset he was out of the door and into the car in almost one movement. With tyres screeching he drove to the shop.

Barry was studying the other drinkers and found he was enjoying doing so. No wonder Rose took so much pleasure in watching people. Because he was beginning to unwind he did not, at first, notice how long she had been gone. He looked at his watch.
Something was wrong. He placed his drink on the bar and left the pub.

Outside he looked left and right and wondered which shop she could possibly have gone to. Surely they were all closed now. The street-lights were on, the pavements and road illuminated, but there was no sign of Rose. His stomach knotted in apprehension. How stupid he had been, he ought to have known that there would be more to their outing than a meal. If only she would confide in him more. And why had he not questioned her sudden need for something from a shop when she had had all day in which to buy things? He wiped his forehead and breathed deeply then began walking swiftly in the direction she had taken.

Ahead he saw a couple, hand in hand. It was no use asking them if they had seen a small, auburn-haired woman because they were oblivious to everything but each other. No lights spilled on to the pavement, each shop he came to was in darkness, the closed sign on the door. Until he came to Fred Meecham’s premises. There were lights on there and the door was partially open. Unable to see inside because of the display unit behind the window, Barry pushed open the door. It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. ‘Rose,’ he cried. ‘Oh, Rosie.’ With an enormous effort he swallowed the bile which flooded his throat and went inside. ‘It’s all right, it’ll be all right,’ he repeated several times as he stepped around the pools of blood and reached for the phone.

Jack’s car skidded to a stop as he parked at an angle against the kerb. If Barry Rowe had made the call he knew with a sickening certainty that Rose was hurt or in danger. He could taste the tuna roll he had eaten hours earlier and the coffee he had drunk too quickly. Rose did not want him, Rose only wished to see him as a friend. That was okay, that was good, that was fine by Jack Pearce, but to live without ever seeing her again? For the first time since his father had died he felt as if he might cry.

He was walking through treacle, everything was in slow motion. Ahead of him was an ambulance, its blue light casting
its eerie glow over the buildings on either side of the road as it revolved silently. The paramedics were loading a stretcher into the back of the vehicle, the patient invisible from where he was. His knees sagged.

Barry Rowe emerged from the shop doorway pushing up his glasses in that irritating manner. Then, behind him, deathly white and with bloodstains on the front of her dress but apparently unscathed, came Rose. Jack’s fear and anguish instantly turned to fury. He ran towards her.

‘You stupid bitch, what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ He towered over her, his anger coming from relief in the way a mother’s does when a child runs into the road.

Rose took a deep breath and controlled the trembling which threatened to start at any second. ‘Inspector Pearce, I was merely doing your job for you. Excuse me, Barry’s going to take me home. You can send someone else over to ask your questions.’ With as much dignity as she could manage, Rose took Barry’s arm and they walked unsteadily back to where he had left the car, neither caring that she was bloodstained.

Her own anger at Jack’s treatment of her had prevented her from passing out. As it drained away she clung more tightly to Barry’s arm. He helped her into the car and got the key into the ignition on the third attempt. He was shaken himself and thankful that he had had no more than half a pint of beer. And however small a gesture, driving Rose home was at least something he could do for her. Putting the awful scene to the back of his mind he realised he was pleased at the way in which she had spoken to Jack. He did not allow himself to hope that the relationship was over, that would be too much to ask.

Neither of them spoke until they reached the cottage. Staggering, Rose made it inside. ‘Please, go, Barry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be all right.’ But before he could answer she had fled upstairs and was violently sick.

At her insistence Barry had left. Rose lay in bed, shivering despite the two hot water bottles she had taken up with her. The fear she had felt when Fred grabbed the knife resurrected itself when she thought how close to death she had been. He had screamed at her, cursing her and Dorothy and saying other
things which she did not understand. His bereavement, she thought, had sent him mad.

Jack spoke briefly to the two officers who had arrived at the scene before him. Only after Barry and Rose had gone did he step into the shop. Barry, it seemed, had had the sense after he’d rung the emergency services to switch off the shop lights and turn the sign on the door to closed whilst Rose had remained with Fred, trying to stem the bleeding. The ambulance crew had said they believed he’d survive. Jack would have to wait to find out what had preceded their arrival. As Barry had done, he stepped around the pools of blood. From the floor he picked up the knife which Fred used to slice the joints of meat which he kept in the refrigerated counter if customers wanted them thicker than the slicing machine could provide. At some point someone would have to go and see Barry and Rose but he doubted they would be up to answering questions that day and he knew he could not face her himself so soon.

The first thing Rose did upon waking was to ring Laura. She was still shaking and needed to talk to someone before the police arrived, which she knew they would.

‘I’ll be right over,’ Laura said.

Rose replaced the receiver, knowing that what she had said must have come across as gibberish. She was still standing by the phone when she heard the tap on the kitchen door and Laura was there holding out her arms. ‘What on earth have you got yourself into this time, girl?’

As Laura made tea Rose explained all that had happened, from the time Jack had told her it was suicide up to his abysmal treatment of her when he had turned up at the shop. She looked up: a figure had passed the kitchen window and Jack Pearce stood in the doorway. Laura let him in. ‘I’m off now, Rose. Trevor’s sailing this afternoon.’

‘I’m sorry. I forgot.’

‘Hey. It doesn’t matter. What’re friends for.’ As she turned
slowly, Laura’s eyes travelled the length of Jack’s body. ‘You’re a bastard,’ she said and closed the door quietly behind her.

‘She’s right,’ Rose added in a voice so low he hardly heard her. ‘What do you want?’

‘Several things, Rose, but firstly and foremost to apologise. You see, I saw the ambulance, I thought it was you, I thought something had happened to you.’ He stood just inside the door with his hands in his pockets. Rose was still pale and her eyes were dull. ‘I didn’t mean to shout. I was scared, scared I’d lost you completely.’

‘If you’re here to take a statement you’d better sit down.’ She refused to look at him, to be influenced by what she knew she would see in his face.

‘I am. I have another officer waiting in the car, I just wanted you to know how I felt first.’

Rose closed her eyes and nodded. The sooner it was over with the better. Jack went outside and signalled for someone to join him. It was a female.

When they were all seated Rose spoke of her visit to Audrey Heath in Plymouth and about how Marigold’s disappearance had coincided with the stabbing of a man. She went on to say that Marigold had moved to Cornwall and that, for reasons of her own, Dorothy had wanted her to find the map of Plymouth which she had marked with a cross.

‘He did it, you see. Fred Meecham killed that man and Dorothy somehow found out about it. I went to the shop and showed him the map. He thought Dorothy had confided in me – she hadn’t, but he wouldn’t believe me. He went berserk, I didn’t really know what he was shouting but, but …’ She stopped, inhaling deeply. ‘He picked up the knife and I thought he was going to kill me.’ Rose squeezed her forehead between her thumb and forefinger. She felt exhausted. ‘I was trying to get out of the shop when it seemed he’d changed his mind, that it wasn’t me he meant to harm any more, it was himself. It was so quick I couldn’t stop him. He slashed both wrists. It was horrible. He dropped the knife and staggered around and fell to the floor. I grabbed some tea towels from one of the shelves and wrapped them round his wrists. I should’ve acted faster but the knife was
there beside him and I thought he might pick it up again and go for me. Then Barry was there, he turned off the lights and shut the door to stop any customers coming in. The knife … the meat knife – Oh, God, it had ham fat on it and blood. I …’

‘It’s all right, Rose. It’s all right.’ Jack wondered how much of it was his fault. He had told Fred Meecham that it was Rose who had given him his name.

‘Rose, can I use the phone?’

‘Yes.’

Jack was away for several minutes and she was unable to hear what he said. ‘Is there someone who can stay with you? Barry or Laura?’

‘No. I’m all right. I’d prefer to be alone.’

‘If you’re sure. We’ve got to go now, Rose.’ He reached out as if he was about to touch her but either the presence of the female detective or Rose’s change of heart stopped him. His own heart was behaving peculiarly. Wrapped in an oversized robe Rose looked very young and very vulnerable and he was partly to blame for the latter because he had helped to get her into the situation.

Rose watched them leave but then remained at the kitchen table, unable to drag herself upstairs to dress.

The morning passed and the shock was beginning to wear off. Gratefully Rose remembered that Stella Jackson’s dinner party was that evening. She had accepted the invitation with alacrity, delighted to hear that other artists would be present. She wondered if Nick Pascoe would be one of them but although she had rung him back and arranged to meet him for a drink on Tuesday, he hadn’t mentioned the Jacksons. It didn’t matter, whether he was there or not it was bound to be an interesting evening: her social life was finally starting to expand.

Rose decided to find out how Fred Meecham was faring but
she was not sure if the hospital would give her information as she was neither a relative nor a friend.

As she showered in preparation for the party she began to see how much she had to look forward to although she would also like to know the whole story behind Dorothy’s death. At least she had proved to Jack Pearce that she had not taken her own life.

Rose decided to travel to St Ives by the branch line train. It was too dark to appreciate the view from the rails which ran high up along the coastline and overlooked miles and miles of powdery sand running from Hayle and Carbis Bay to St Ives.

The Jacksons lived above their studio and gallery and immediately she entered their apartments she was back in the sixties. The floors were uncarpeted, the boards sanded and polished. Sofas lined the walls, deep and comfortable and half hidden by hand-made cushions and woven blankets. Rose saw immediately that the furnishings were not those of her own youth, items purchased or borrowed because of lack of finances. Stella and Daniel had deliberately created this atmosphere but it had not come cheaply. A table held an array of bottles and glasses and from the kitchen came the unmistakable smell of chilli. In an A-line calf-length denim skirt, a cream frilled shirt and a waistcoat Rose blended in with the other guests as if she had known them all her life.

Stella put an arm across her shoulders and led her around the room, stopping at the table to hand her a drink. ‘We’re so pleased you could come,’ she said, smiling. Her teeth were uneven and one pupil did not move as quickly as the other but beneath her straight black hair, cut just below her ears, her quirky face portrayed a lazy sexuality.

Rose had had time to study the other guests and felt only a slight disappointment that Nick Pascoe was not one of them.

When one of Stone’s taxis came to pick her up Rose felt exhilarated. The conversation had ranged from art to politics, from literature to the theatre, and she knew that soon she would host such an evening of her own.

In the morning she sang as the kettle boiled, not very tunefully
nor very loudly, but she was out of practice lately. It did not matter that a gale force wind was rattling the windows and bringing down more leaves. To Rose they looked beautiful as they skittered across the grass, their reds and golds colours she would capture in oils.

In the sitting-room she stood in the window, steam from her coffee misting the glass, and watched the waves battering the reinforced wall of the Promenade as they had done since it was built and would continue to do as long as it stood.

So many new and exciting people had entered her life that it was difficult to feel sorry for Fred. But it still hurt to think of Dorothy. There was plenty of time until she was due to collect Martin and take him over to Truro.

‘Oh, no.’ She backed away from the window but it was too late. Jack had seen her and waved as he strode up the path. She pulled her dressing-gown more tightly around her and went out to the kitchen.

‘Don’t be angry,’ were his words of greeting. ‘Knowing your curiosity I thought you’d want to hear the outcome.’

‘Come in. Coffee?’

‘Please.’

Rose made instant and handed him a mug, omitting to ask him to sit down.

‘Meecham’s going to pull through – it wasn’t as bad as it looked.’

Rose nodded, biting her lip, guessing that Fred would have wished it otherwise. ‘I think all he wanted was someone to love him, someone of his own.’ She was sure he had begun life as a decent man but circumstances and insecurity had changed him. Looking up she saw what was going through Jack’s mind. She ought not to have mentioned love.

‘Yes. He lost his first wife, then his son. We now know he paid regular visits to Plymouth to visit prostitutes, one in particular. Marigold Heath. It was the old story. He fell for her in a big way and wanted to take her away from it all, to save her, if you like. The irony is that, in a way, he did, despite the fact that he, a church-going man, was frequenting such a woman.’ Jack took a
few sips of his coffee. ‘You should’ve told us about the map, Rose, and you were extremely foolish not to mention those threatening calls.’

She remained silent although she had noticed the use of the plural pronoun which depersonalised the conversation. ‘What’ll happen to him?’

‘Psychiatric reports. All that.’

‘He won’t last, you know.’

‘He may not go to prison.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I don’t think he wants to live, not now. He spent all those years with Marigold, firstly protecting her from that pimp of hers, killing him for her sake, then protecting her from gossip. That’s why they didn’t marry, isn’t it? Because he, or they, thought that it would draw attention to themselves and that someone might make the connection. A sister’s always a safe bet.’

‘You’re probably right. He’s confessed, Rose, to the murder of Harvey, that’s the man in Plymouth and to murdering Dorothy. You understand that this mustn’t go any further, there’s his trial to come yet and –’

‘You don’t need to tell me, Jack.’

‘No. I’m sorry. It’s … well, it’s the new circumstances, I’m not sure how to deal with you.’

Rose turned away to hide a smile. Deal with her? Was she that awkward?

‘Marigold was involved too. She’d told him how Harvey treated her, he was a sadist, and there was no way he was going to let her walk off into the sunset. They set it up together. Heath led Meecham to him. It was as easy as that. Then he provided her with an alibi. Heath made sure she was seen with Harvey earlier in the evening, as she would have expected to have been, and he was fine when she left him. Meecham wasn’t known in Plymouth and there was no reason why he should have come under suspicion. He’d booked a hotel room, a double, and made a show of taking her up mere but they slipped out later. When he got back to Cornwall the next day he put it around that his sister was coming to live with him.’

‘Dorothy knew all this, is that why he killed her?’

‘Yes, Dorothy knew, or guessed. She’d been unpacking some china with a view to selling it. It was wrapped in old newspaper. She happened to come across a report and put two and two together.’

Rose frowned. It was unlike Dorothy not to have done anything. Then she remembered that the unpacking would have been recent and she had done something, she had put the map in an envelope for Rose to find, trusting her not to do anything until Marigold had been buried. Maybe Dorothy suspected how Fred would react if he was confronted, maybe she was trusting him, too, to do the right thing.

‘But why was Dorothy selling her things?’

‘This is strictly between you and me. She was setting up a trust fund for Martin. She wanted Hinkston to provide prints or replicas of everything she sold him in case Peter and Gwen noticed the missing items and made life difficult. She was terrified they’d get a doctor in to say she was unfit to live on her own. We know that the daughter-in-law went up there and an argument took place, but I suspect Gwen Pengelly got her money’s worth from your friend.’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘Anyway, Meecham went up there as well, a couple of nights before her death. It was late in the evening. He was intending to make one last attempt at squeezing money out of Dorothy and to soften her up had taken along a bottle of decent whisky. He knew it wasn’t something she normally drank and he imagined, quite correctly, that a few glasses would do the trick. But again she refused his request, as he’d expected she would, but then she made the fatal mistake of telling him what she knew, what she had read in that old report in the
Western
Morning
News.
He denied it and left, forgetting to take the whisky with him. He knew he had to act quickly or Dorothy might go to the police. We now know that whilst he was in Truro and had begun seeing Marigold he’d suffered from severe depression, caused by guilt, the psychiatrist believes, because he was frequenting prostitutes, and also because he knew he was going to kill Harvey, that at some point he would have to. Meanwhile he moved to Hayle and life started to improve so he didn’t get around to taking the
Nardil that was prescribed for him. Like Dorothy, Meecham didn’t sign on with a doctor here, that’s why we couldn’t trace where the drug came from.’

‘Poor Dorothy, first Gwen has a go at her, then Fred kills her. But how did he do it?’

‘Ground up the pills to powder and went out there on the pretence that he wanted to apologise. He said they might as well have some of the whisky. It affected Dorothy very quickly and he topped up her glass, adding more of the Nardil. He watched her die.’

‘Oh, Jack!’

‘On his previous visit he had called her a hypocrite, saying she didn’t spend any money and she begrudged it to a dying woman. That’s when Dorothy had explained that he was the bigger hypocrite with his church-going ways when she knew what he had done. She was probably already exhausted on that final visit after having dealt with Gwen earlier.’

‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘That’s okay.’

She stood. ‘I have to get ready to go out. Goodbye, Jack,’ she said quietly but with a certain finality.

Jack didn’t reply. He turned to leave, knowing that what he had had with Rose would never be again.

The wind howled, rocking the car. Through the windscreen his vision was blurred for several seconds but it wasn’t raining. He sighed. Yes, they would meet from time to time but Rose Trevelyan had become a different person.

At eleven she picked Martin up at the gate of Jobber’s farm. He was dressed in his best, his hair slicked down with water. Making general conversation they drove into the city and parked the car. Martin was still pale and his hands shook but the blankness had gone from his eyes. Being with Jobber was the best thing that could have happened to him.

Together they entered the old building which was smartly decorated inside, and were asked to take a seat. Peter and Gwen arrived seconds after them. The words of their greetings were cordial but Rose sensed an underlying hostility on Gwen’s part.
She had promised to stay and give Martin a lift back as the solicitor had said he would not detain them long.

‘Ah, good morning.’ Henry Peachy was tall and thin with deep lines etched in his face. He wore a suit which was by no means new and his shoulders were stooped but what struck Rose was his warm smile and something about his eyes which suggested that he was content with his lot and that there was little which could disturb his equanimity. Shaking hands with them individually he glanced inquisitively at Rose.

‘I gave Martin a lift,’ she explained. ‘I’m Mrs Trevelyan, I was a friend of Dorothy’s. Can I wait here or shall I come back later?’

‘Mrs Rose Trevelyan?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case, my dear, you might as well join us. This involves you too.’

Rose felt Gwen’s eyes on the back of her head and was glad she could not see the expression in them. They followed Mr Peachy to a room at the end of the corridor. It was not an office, it housed only a large walnut table and eight chairs.

‘I thought we’d be more comfortable here.’ Henry Peachy placed some papers on the table and invited them to sit down. ‘I knew Mrs Pengelly for many years,’ he began. ‘I suppose you could say that she was more than a client. I can’t tell you how sorry I was not to be able to attend her funeral.

‘Now, before we get down to business I’ve asked for some coffee to be sent in.’

There was a strained silence while they waited for it although the solicitor seemed not to notice as he continued to study what was in front of him. When it arrived he indicated that they should all help themselves.

‘I think it’ll be easier if I read out Mrs Pengelly’s instructions first, then if there are any queries I’ll be happy to answer them for you.’ Methodically he went through the heading of the will. Then, ‘“To Peter James Pengelly I leave the property known as Venn’s Farm.”’

Rose’s head was tilted slightly as she tried to gauge Gwen’s reactions without appearing to. She seemed to be smirking but
hid it by raising a hand to her mouth then pushing back her fair hair. Rose, having been through something similar, began to see that Gwen had misunderstood the statement.

‘“To Joseph Robert Hicks I leave one thousand pounds and the Queen Victoria Jubilee mug of which he is so fond. To my friend, Rose Trevelyan, I leave one thousand pounds and a Beryl Cook original of her choice of three.”’

But Rose wasn’t listening. She was delighted at Jobber’s bequest although it had taken her a couple of seconds to realise who Joseph Robert was. But there had been no mention of Martin. Had Jack been wrong? Something registered. She looked up, her mouth open. Henry Peachy was smiling at her, he repeated what he had just read out.

‘
And
a Beryl Cook? Oh, how wonderful.’ She grinned around the room. Only Martin grinned back. He seemed unconcerned or unaware of the way things were going.

Mr Peachy coughed and continued. ‘“The residue of my estate I leave to Martin John Pengelly.”’

Another silence followed until Gwen had worked out what this meant. ‘No, that can’t be right.’

‘It is perfectly correct, Mrs Pengelly. Your mother-in-law’s wishes are quite clearly stated. You may see for yourself if you choose.’

‘But what’s he going to do with it all?’

‘That is for Mr Pengelly to decide. Of course, none of this takes place with immediate effect. Probate has to be proved. Now, is there anything you’d like to ask me?’

Rose and Martin shook their heads, Peter stared down at his hands. ‘Mother’s done the right thing,’ he said.