Snapped in Cornwall (3 page)

‘Oh, Rose, it’s just
you
,’ Laura said when she arrived, breathless from hurrying up the hill in the warm evening air. The storm of the previous night had only provided temporary relief. ‘Here.’ She placed some wine which had been in her woven bag on the table as was their custom when they ate in one another’s houses.

‘Do you think it’s dressy enough?’ Rose held the outfit in front of her and looked at it doubtfully.

‘Yes. No one goes mad these days.’

The skirt was of pastel swirls, chiffon over a silky underskirt, the long, loose matching top of chiffon only. Beneath it she would wear a pale blue silk vest the same colour as in the pattern. ‘I suppose if I put my hair up?’

‘Rose, you’ll look lovely. I wish you’d stop worrying. Where’ve you hidden the corkscrew this time?’ Laura had pulled open a couple of drawers, knowing things could not usually be found in the same place twice. Discovering it beside the bread bin she yanked out the cork, holding the bottle inelegantly between her knees. ‘What shoes are you wearing? Don’t tell me, you forgot. You can borrow my white sandals, I’ve only worn them twice.’

‘Thanks, Laura.’

The same size feet was all they had in common physically.
Laura was several inches taller than Rose, and thinner, her hair cut level with her ears, the dark curls awry. Laura hated her hair but Rose always pointed out that people paid a lot of money to have theirs done that way.

Wineglasses at hand, they settled down for an evening of serious conversation and gossip, and, in an hour’s time, some food.

The weekend had passed unnoticed. That is, for Rose, the days were the same as any other. She took advantage of the weather and continued with outdoor work apart from a quick job in Penzance on Saturday morning. The mother of a boy about to start secondary school wanted a professional photograph of him in his new school uniform. ‘Before he ruins it,’ she had added with a resigned expression.

Barry took her to the cinema on Sunday evening but they parted immediately afterwards. Then, with the weekend behind her, Rose found the rest of the week slipping by. She gave the following Saturday afternoon up to pampering herself: a bath, instead of a shower, and a coat of pale gloss on her fingernails. Her hands, she realised, could have been better taken care of but, despite rubber gloves, photographic chemicals had taken their toll.

At eight fifteen there was a toot from the main road. Rose did not recognise the car. Peering harder she saw Barry getting into the back seat.

Picking up her handbag she went to join him. ‘A taxi?’

‘No.’ The driver laughed. ‘Barry here’s conned me into driving you over. You’ll be coming back in a taxi, though.’

Rose turned and raised her eyebrows.

‘Sorry. This is Geoff, works on the printing side.’

‘Ah.’ And probably Geoff had been responsible for printing the rather formal greeting in Gabrielle’s Christmas cards. She had remembered to bring the proofs with her. ‘Hello. Nice to meet you at last.’

‘You, too.’ Geoff smiled into the rear-view mirror.

The printing was done in Redruth but Barry had suggested 
Geoff make himself useful by collecting some urgent artwork and, whilst he was at it, dropping them off on his way home.

‘Nice bloke,’ Rose commented as they walked up the drive.

‘Yes. Nice house.’ Barry nodded towards the granite building, the stone softened by the warm tones of the sun as it began to set. There would be few more evenings such as this one. Of course, Rose remembered – it was the bank holiday weekend. How on earth could she have forgotten with the Newlyn Fish Festival on Monday?

The same woman Rose had seen before answered the door. She was wearing a brown dress, like something out of
Rebecca,
Rose thought, guessing it was the woman’s own choice, not Gabrielle’s. The look she received was fractionally more pleasant than on her previous visit. They were shown into the long lounge which ran the length of the house and which had once been two rooms.

‘My, my,’ Barry whispered, holding her elbow.

Gabrielle had decorated the room with flower arrangements; their scent filled the air. In the alcove in the far corner a table had been set up, covered with a cloth and holding an array of bottles and mixers. There was also wine but, to Barry’s disappointment, he could not see any beer.

Rose was more interested in the other guests, one or two of whom she already knew and smiled at. She studied them not as people, but as subjects to paint. However, portraits were her weak area; she was never able to capture the essence of a character in oils.

‘Mrs Trevelyan, I am so pleased you could come. May I call you Rose?’

‘Of course. This is Barry Rowe.’ Rose briefly explained what he did. ‘I know one or two people here.’

‘I’m glad. I’ll introduce you to my family. Dennis?’ She turned to address a tall, suave man in a yellow polo shirt and cream trousers. The man approached, smiling urbanely, obviously used to social gatherings. He also had the advantage of being on home ground.

Rose realised two things: she was slightly nervous, and she had allowed herself to get into a rut. As they were introduced,
she hoped Barry did not feel out of place in a jacket and tie: no other male seemed to be wearing one.

‘Ah, the photographer.’ Dennis shook her hand. ‘And I believe I’m to inspect your handiwork this evening.’

‘Yes. The proofs at any rate.’

‘Dennis, I’m sure our guests would like a drink first.’

‘Of course. Over there.’ He indicated the table, behind which a thin, scowling woman was pouring drinks. ‘I don’t think there’s anything my wife’s not got in.’

Was he, Rose wondered, being snide? Dennis had one of those impassive faces upon which emotions did not register.

‘I don’t see any food,’ Barry said as they crossed the room.

‘There’s bound to be. It’s probably in another room. Gabrielle won’t want smoked salmon trodden into the Wilton.’

Rose asked for a glass of dry white wine with a splash of soda. If it was going to be a long evening she didn’t want to drink too much. Barry took a chance and asked if there was any beer.

‘What kind?’ the woman said. Behind her were several crates of bottles, but, more importantly, a firkin of Hicks. His eyes lit up.

Glasses in hand they found Gabrielle at their elbow once more. ‘I’d like you to meet my son, Paul. And his fiancée.’ She led them to where the couple stood. Paul was undoubtedly his father’s son. The girl with him was beautiful, her looks spoilt at that moment by the sullen downturn of her mouth. They were in the middle of some sort of argument and were only just polite. ‘We might as well have a look at those photos now,’ Gabrielle said, more to cover her embarrassment at her son’s behaviour than out of real interest.

They went to a small room across the hallway and Rose laid them on a table. It was left to Dennis to decide; Gabrielle liked them all. ‘May I leave them here until later?’ Rose asked, not wishing to be left holding the envelope all night.

‘Of course. They’ll be quite safe. Come on, I’ll let you get to know the others.’

Mike and Barbara Phillips were just arriving. ‘Rose. Good to see you, and you too, Barry.’

‘You know Dr Phillips?’ Gabrielle seemed surprised, unused yet to the fact that it was a close-knit community.

‘We’re old friends, actually. Hello, Barbara, you look great.’ Rose did not add that Mike had been responsible for David’s hospital treatment and that it was he who had broken the news of the prognosis to her.

Guilt rose anew. What would Mike and Barbara think of her partying so near the anniversary of his death? And she wished Barry would not keep taking her arm in that proprietorial way. ‘Excuse me, I need to find the toilet.’

‘David,’ she said, pressing her face against the coolness of the mirror. ‘Oh, why aren’t
you
here with me?’ She stayed several minutes until she felt able to face the assembled company and make the required small talk. It had been a mistake to come.

There was no sign of Gabrielle but she made an effort to talk to strangers rather than huddle with people she knew. Barry, it seemed, was doing the same. Perhaps he sensed her earlier resentment.

‘Doreen tells me the food’s ready,’ Dennis said, trying to make these new friends of his wife’s at home although he barely knew anyone himself. There were two couples from London, real friends, not just acquaintances.

And Maggie.

And how he was coping with her presence was beyond him. Gabrielle seemed to have accepted that she was a work colleague Dennis had invited but who had had doubts as to whether she would be able to make it. Now was not the time to sort that little problem out. As soon as he was back in London he would make it clear to Maggie that the relationship was no longer viable. It had taken this semi-separation for him to realise how much he thought of his wife.

But where was she? Surely she should be presiding over the food? He grinned ruefully. If Doreen Clarke allowed it, he amended.

Most of the guests had already had several drinks and needed a base on which to soak up any more.

‘Impressive,’ Rose said quietly as she and Barry surveyed the trestle tables laid up on the patio at the back, the food
protected by awnings which, when rolled back, were virtually invisible in their holders neatly slotted into the stonework.

‘This is very nice,’ Doreen commented.

‘Oh. I’ll try some then.’ Rose gave Doreen the full benefit of her smile. The ice had been broken. ‘Delicious. Did you make them?’

‘Yes. It’s easy though.’ Doreen Clarke spoke sharply to disguise her pleasure. ‘Mrs Milton and I did it all between us. She likes cooking.’

It was not easy to picture their elegant hostess up to her elbows in flour.

Barry remained silent, his mouth too full to speak. His plate, Rose noted, was piled high. She had never known anyone able to eat as much and remain so lean. Rose strolled across the grass. Paul and his young lady were nowhere in sight. Presumably they were too upset to eat. It was difficult conducting a row in a room full of people. She and David had done so once, hissing at each other out of the sides of their mouths. And the woman on her own, who was she? They had not been introduced, but Rose had noticed the grim glances Dennis Milton was throwing in her direction. Was there something not quite right going on there? Gabrielle didn’t seem put out. Another one who wasn’t hungry, Rose decided. Perhaps the sight of all that food as it was being prepared had put her off.

Relieved to see Barry in deep conversation with Barbara Phillips, Rose took advantage of his absence to study the garden. The neatly cut grass put her patch to shame. There were no dandelions and no humpy bits. Still, they probably had a gardener. To the side of the house was a walkway, about five feet wide, bordered by hardy shrubs. Projecting from the building was a balcony, the ornate iron rail newly painted. On the paving stones, Rose saw what appeared to be one of the white damask table-cloths. She really ought to wear her glasses more often although her slight short-sightedness was no real handicap.

Strolling towards it in order to retrieve it, Rose munched some celery filled with cream cheese and garlic. Then she froze.

‘Oh, God. Oh, my God.’ She threw the paper plate and its contents into the shrubbery and ran towards the crumpled figure of Gabrielle Milton.

Rose took three deep breaths to steady herself. There was blood on the ground, oozing slowly from a head wound but already coagulating. She felt for a pulse, knowing in advance she would not find one. Gabrielle was on her side; one glassy eye stared at Rose through the strands of her hair.

Her own pulse racing, she went to find Dennis who came outside at once.

His face white with shock, he rang immediately for an ambulance. It was the instinctive thing to do, even though his wife was dead. ‘And the police, I think,’ Rose said quietly.

Almost incoherent, Dennis had the job of explaining the situation to his guests. ‘There’s been an accident,’ he said. ‘Gabrielle … she’s, well, she’s fallen from the balcony. I think she might be dead.’ Impossible to admit it was so.

Rose heard a small scream. A male voice said, ‘Shit.’ Then for several seconds there was utter silence.

Rose was amazed to hear her own voice, loud and authoritative. ‘I think it would be better if we all stayed in here.’

Perhaps because she was alongside Dennis the guests assumed she was closer to the family than she really was. Whatever their reasons, those who had been about to go outside remained in their places. ‘An ambulance and the police are on their way,’ she continued, realising everyone was waiting for someone to say something, to take charge of a situation which was in danger of taking on nightmare proportions.

Doreen Clarke helped shepherd the people who were still outside into the lounge. She had seen Rose’s pallor when she rounded the corner on her way back to the house. She had also seen the way the young woman named Maggie Anderson had been looking at her employer.

Doreen Clarke busied herself clearing away empty dishes and generally tidying up the area where the food had been served. It was unlikely anyone would want to eat now. Rose Trevelyan,
she thought, wasn’t at all what she had imagined. She had seen a couple of articles about her in
The
Cornishman
and recognised her from the photographs. For some reason she had imagined she would be a bit above herself. In the flesh she seemed quite nice. And she’d certainly handled things sensibly. Doreen had spoken to her husband, Cyril, about the lady painter but he, in his usual way, had just grunted. Cyril didn’t fool her, Doreen knew he took in every word she said even if he chose to ignore most of them.

Doreen knew that Mrs Milton had not fallen off that balcony.

She resisted the temptation to creep round the side and folded the table-cloths ready for the laundry, wondering if, or for how long, her services would now be required.

‘Please, everyone, have another drink.’ Dennis was becoming more agitated with every minute that passed, aware that no one knew quite what to say. And should he, as her husband, be keeping vigil by the body? Of course he should, but he could not bear to see his wife like that.

‘Where’s Eileen?’

As he spoke she came back into the room. By the puzzled expression on her face she was apparently oblivious to what had happened. ‘Pour everyone a drink, Eileen. A large one.’ Dennis’s hand trembled as his own glass was refilled.

Detective Inspector Pearce had commandeered several rooms and the process of interviewing the guests individually had begun. It was late but no one had been allowed to leave.

Outside a team of forensic experts were at work and through the curtains of the small room at the side of the house the pop of flash-bulbs could be seen.

Rose, being the person to find the body, was the first to be interviewed.

Detective Inspector Pearce seemed to have no consideration for the shock Rose had received. His questions were direct and demanded answers. She had none to give. Barely able to
remember what she had done or even if she had screamed, she described the event as best she could.

‘Yes, I did touch her. I felt for a pulse. In her wrist,’ Rose added hastily. She could not have fumbled beneath the thick dark hair for the carotid artery and endured the stickiness of Gabrielle’s blood on her hands. She was, Rose realised, being treated as a suspect.

‘You were a close friend of Mrs Milton?’ Inspector Pearce studied the woman who sat opposite him. Mrs Trevelyan. And she wore a wedding ring. But there was no Mr Trevelyan on the guest list Doreen Clarke had provided.