Snapped in Cornwall (11 page)

Rose drove for the first part of the journey home and they stopped again at the same services; she was fascinated by the crowds of people and asked Barry where he thought they could all be going. It was warm and they were surrounded with the smell of food. Rose could see how tired Barry was and insisted they drive with the radio on and the windows open.

It was with a sense of relief that she let herself in, threw on the light switches and dumped her holdall on the bottom stair. ‘We’ll get our priorities right here,’ she said aloud, reaching for the corkscrew and a bottle of claret. They had not had a drink as both of them were driving. She carried the glass through to the sitting-room. The light on the answering machine was flashing twice rapidly in succession before a short pause. She clicked it on. ‘I don’t particularly wish to leave a message,’ Laura’s voice told her, ‘but as your social life’s so full lately, I suppose I’ll have to. I’ll call round in the morning. I want to hear every sordid detail of your two nights in London.’

Rose smiled. Typical Laura. Straight in with what she wanted to say and no clue as to who was calling. Except that, after all those years, Rose could not mistake her voice.

‘Mrs Trevelyan,’ the second message started. This was a voice she did not know. Rose sat on the chair nearest the telephone with a pen and paper handy. ‘It’s Maggie Anderson. I’d hoped to catch you at home. It’s now six thirty. If it’s convenient I’ll try again later.’

But six thirty when? Tonight or yesterday? If it had been the previous day Maggie may have got tired of getting nothing but the machine. No, it had to be tonight. Laura knew when
she was due back and had said she would see her in the morning. Maggie’s call had come after Laura’s.

With a second glass of wine beside her, Rose ate some cheese on toast which was all she was up to making and thought over the events of the last two days. Tomorrow, maybe, she would commit those thoughts to paper.

At eleven thirty she pulled the duvet up around her ears and turned on her side with the intention of reading. When she woke the bedside light was still on and her book was on the floor, pages splayed. Maggie Anderson had not rung back.

Laura did not stay long once she had learned that Rose and Barry had remained in their separate rooms. Chewing her lip as she wondered if it was wise to invite Dennis to her home, Rose dialled the number anyway. He accepted the invitation on behalf of the three of them, having spoken briefly to Paul – he must have been in the same room for Rose heard a muffled conversation. Anna, who had not yet arrived down from London, was not to be consulted, it seemed.

It was a blustery day, the windows rattled and the first of the falling leaves were swept across the lawn. Rose made coffee and took it up to the dark-room where she developed the film containing the two jobs she had done the previous week. As she worked she planned what she would cook for the Miltons, a task she looked forward to. Apart from the occasional visit from Laura or Barry she had only herself to cater for and, although she ate well, she would enjoy having to make a real effort.

Mid-morning it began raining again. Rose flicked the switch and the kitchen was bright, the overhead fluorescent light dispelling the shadows. With a dog-eared cookery book open in front of her she made a shopping list. When the phone rang she half expected it to be Dennis, cancelling the arrangement.

‘Mrs Trevelyan? It’s Maggie Anderson. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I … well, I wanted to apologise. I was rude to you that day in Camborne. I hope you don’t mind me ringing.’

‘No.’ Rose was puzzled. She had known something wasn’t quite right when they had that one drink together and it had crossed her mind that the woman might try to contact her. But why? ‘I was surprised at what you told me, I didn’t think you were particularly rude.’

‘I shouldn’t have said anything. There was no reason for me to involve you.’

‘It’s all right. I shan’t say anything.’ Not to Dennis or his family or anyone else, but she had already told DI Pearce. To have hidden it, she excused herself, might be classed as shielding a suspect. Both Dennis and Maggie might have wished for Gabrielle to be out of the way.

‘Thank you. It’s too late for that, though. The police came to see me again last night. That’s why I was unable to call you back. It’s the second time since I’ve been home.’

During the pause Rose sensed her anxiety. ‘Do they suspect you?’

‘Yes. But I didn’t do it. God, if only I could turn the clock back. I should never have accepted that invitation. And Dennis won’t have anything to do with me, I believe he might suspect me too.’

Maggie Anderson was paying for her sins and Rose felt some sympathy. There was little she could say to her, and she was not really sure why Maggie had rung. Why apologise to someone you had spoken to once and you were not likely to come across again? Unless it was a ploy – perhaps Maggie hoped she’d put in a good word for her with Dennis. But Rose was not going to interfere. A bit late for that, she thought, when the conversation had come to a faltering end. Why else had she invited the Miltons over?

When the rain stopped she walked down to the shops and purchased what she would need for the following evening plus staples for the fridge. Not fancying a struggle up the hill with the groceries she stood at the bus stop where several other people were already waiting. When a car she did not recognise tooted, Rose did not, at first, realise that DI Pearce was behind the wheel. He leant across to the passenger side. ‘Need a lift?’ he asked through the partially opened window.

She hesitated, feeling curious eyes upon her. ‘Thank you,’ she said coolly and got into the car.

‘Home, I take it?’

‘Please.’ She remained silent, wondering why he was in Newlyn and hoping it was not because he needed to speak to her again.

He pulled in off the road but was unable to get into the drive. His car was too large and Rose’s was parked there anyway. ‘Do I get invited in for coffee? You do make nice coffee.’

‘Really? You left it last time. I do have things to do.’ She had imagined his tone was playful.

‘I, too, have things to do, Mrs Trevelyan,’ he replied, letting her see her mistake. ‘I have to find whoever killed Gabrielle Milton. Can you spare me a few minutes?’

‘Yes.’ It was an official visit then. How stupid of her to have thought otherwise. She tried to ignore her disappointment.

DI Pearce did not offer to carry her shopping. She dumped it on the back doorstep and unlocked the door, leaving him to follow and shut it behind him. Silently she filled the kettle. It would be instant this time.

‘Mrs Trevelyan –’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, call me Rose.’

‘Rose, then. I asked you before if you knew of anyone who would wish Mrs Milton harm. You assured me you did not. You claim you barely knew the lady. You also claimed you had never set eyes on Miss Anderson before the party either.’

‘It’s true.’ Rose jumped to her own defence. Jack Pearce irritated her.

‘All right. But I find it hard to understand, if you have so little interest in the family, why you’ve been poking around in London, turning up at the Miltons’ flat and questioning Paul Milton’s partner.’

Rose felt the colour flooding into her face. Put like that, she sounded like an interfering old bag.

‘What you told us, about Miss Anderson, has been very helpful but I find it surprising that she confided such a matter to a stranger. Can you enlighten me?’

‘No. I don’t know why she did it. And she telephoned to apologise for doing so. Perhaps she just wanted to get it off her chest.’ Better to admit to the call; the way Pearce was getting at her she wouldn’t be surprised if he had tapped her line.

‘Possibly. Another possibility is that she thinks you know something; that she is trying to cultivate your friendship in order to find out what it is.’

‘You have a nasty mind, inspector.’

‘It’s a nasty job, Rose. What were you aiming to do? In London?’

‘I don’t know.’ She tightened the band around her hair for something to do with her hands, feeling like a scolded child. ‘Maybe you think I killed Gabrielle. Is that why you keep coming here?’

‘It crossed my mind.’

She had, she realised, asked for that. Naturally everyone who had attended that evening would be under suspicion. And she had found the body. ‘I never went upstairs.’

‘Upstairs?’

‘She was pushed from the balcony.’

‘Was she? Now who told you that?’

‘Well, I assumed … we all assumed …’ She stopped, knowing each time she opened her mouth she made herself appear more of a fool in DI Pearce’s eyes.

‘Assumptions are dangerous things, Rose.’ Absent-mindedly he heaped four spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. ‘However, I have it on good authority you would not be capable of murder.’

‘Oh?’

‘Your friend, Laura.’ He smiled. ‘I bumped into her the other day.’ Rose Trevelyan, he thought, is extremely uncomfortable in my presence, but her feelings do not arise out of guilt.

Rose, as if realising the impression she was making, sat down, glad she was wearing a Viyella checked shirt and a newish pair of cords. She was not at quite such a disadvantage as the other times he had seen her. She had forgotten about first impressions, and that Jack Pearce’s initial sight of her had been when she was dressed for the party. ‘I see. You
make a habit of discussing suspects or witnesses with their best friends, do you?’ She was furious to think Laura had chatted with him in such a manner.

‘We make a habit of speaking to anyone who knows anyone at such times. But if it makes you feel better, it was a chance meeting and your name came into the conversation.’

Rose stood up and began unpacking the groceries, hoping he would take it as a hint to leave. She had not done anything illegal, he must know that.

‘You like a drink?’ He nodded at the wine rack and at the two bottles she had bought at the Co-op to go with the meal she would cook for the Miltons.

‘Is that any of your business as long as I don’t go out in the car?’ She could not be civil to him. He seemed to fill the kitchen and, always, he seemed to be enjoying a private joke at her expense.

‘No offence meant. I like wine myself.’

‘It’s for a dinner. I have asked the Miltons over. It’s easier for me to tell you now, it’ll save you another journey.’

Jack surprised her by ignoring the comment. He stood up to leave. ‘The filter coffee’s better,’ he said, ‘but thanks anyway. And Rose?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t get involved. I don’t think you realise quite what you’re dealing with.’

So that was the reason for this appearance; to warn her off. Did he already know something? He had not said she was not to socialise with the Miltons, therefore there was no reason not to go ahead.

When she lay in bed that night she went over all she had learned, but it was what she had not found out that puzzled her. It might be that tomorrow evening would provide the solution.

Before she fell asleep she thought about sex. She missed it, missed David’s warm body next to hers, although she had not done so during the months of his illness. Too many other things had taken priority then. Since his death she had been
out with only one man – apart from Barry, with whom her relationship was platonic – and Rose knew she had been rushing things. Lonely and miserable, she had tried to find a replacement. Within a fortnight she knew that a husband could not be replaced, that one day, in the distant future, she might meet someone whom she wanted to live with or even marry, but he would not be a substitute, he would be someone she loved.

Living alone had made her selfish, made her think it would be ideal to have a man for company when she required it and who would fulfil her baser needs when necessary without making any demands on her. She smiled to herself. But I wouldn’t like a man who allowed me to treat him that way, she thought.

She had no idea how sex had come into her head. And she didn’t even like Jack Pearce.

Rose hummed as she worked with the radio on, enjoying the distraction of preparing three courses. Hopefully Dennis and Paul would have regained their appetites. Would they notice if she wore the same outfit she had bought for the party? Anna might, but not the men, surely, and it did not matter, as long as it did not act as a reminder.

‘Come in.’ Rose held open the front door, suddenly experiencing nervousness at entertaining three people she hardly knew.

‘I brought some wine,’ Dennis said. ‘And it really is very kind of you to have us. I didn’t know as many people as Gabrielle, but I get the feeling we’re being avoided,’ he added as she showed them into the sitting-room.

‘People don’t always know what to say. They feel embarrassed.’

‘I expect you’re right.’

‘Anna, I didn’t get a chance to speak to you before. I’m glad you could come.’ Rose’s social graces seemed to be in order. She poured drinks and explained they would be eating in the
kitchen. Then she excused herself to attend to the food. Anna, she thought, was polite enough but not a great conversationalist. With her figure and colouring she was stunning but seemed a little ill at ease, although that was understandable. Satisfied that the table looked elegant and that there was nothing lying around which shouldn’t have been, she told them that the meal was ready.

Dennis initiated the conversation once they were seated, commenting again on how comfortable and welcoming Rose’s home was. He was more relaxed, less grey-faced than before; Paul, too, had lost some of his tenseness and was, on this third meeting, almost animated.

‘Anna’s had the last fitting for her dress,’ he informed Rose. ‘It’s had to be taken in again. Pre-wedding nerves, on top of everything else, I expect.’ He smiled fondly at his fiancée. ‘At least she’s enjoying your cooking tonight.’

‘I’m not a very good cook,’ Anna admitted, ‘but I’m learning. If we find someone like Mrs Clarke she won’t be there all the time. Still, I expect as Paul makes more and more business contacts we’ll also eat out quite a lot.’

There was an uncomfortable pause which Anna misinterpreted. Father and son exchanged a quick glance but neither spoke of Paul’s financial difficulties.