Buried in Cornwall (7 page)

‘May we come in?’

‘Yes.’ Rose stood back and held the door open, shutting it quickly as rain gusted in. She switched on the fluorescent light to dispel the gloom, knowing that this was no social visit.

‘Just a few questions,’ Jack said in a voice more official than she had heard before.

‘Please, do sit down.’

Jack pulled out a chair and introduced the younger man as Detective Sergeant Green. It was he who took notes whilst Jack asked the questions. ‘Three days ago you rang the emergency services regarding what you thought was a scream coming from near or inside the old mine shaft.’

Rose waited. If this was another game to humiliate her further she would threaten to make an official complaint. She was certainly not about to mention the second occasion.

‘What made you think there might be someone there?’

‘Look, Jack, I’ve better things to do with my time than play games with you. I admit, I was wrong. I thought I heard a scream, later it was proved that I couldn’t have done.’ Sergeant Green’s eyebrows shot up at her use of his first name.

Jack did not fail to notice Rose blushing. ‘That’s not what I meant. Have you any reason to believe anyone uses the place for whatever activities they think fit? You know, drugs, orgies, painting, like yourself? Witchcraft?’

Rose laughed. ‘None at all. That place is always deserted.’

‘Thank you. Just one more thing. When did you last see Jennifer Manders?’

‘Two nights ago. I was at the opening of Stella Jackson’s latest exhibition. Jenny was there as well.’

‘Not since?’

‘No.’ So Nick had been more than a little concerned if it had reached the stage of police involvement.

‘And you wouldn’t have any idea where she might be staying?’

‘Jack, I hardly know her. I’ve met her less than a dozen times, mostly at Stella’s, once with her father. We haven’t reached the stage of exchanging confidences.’

It was Jack’s turn to raise a sardonic eyebrow as if he found this unlikely. His next words confirmed her suspicion. ‘I’d say that was unusual, wouldn’t you? People do seem to have a tendency to confide in you.’

‘I don’t know where she is,’ Rose replied firmly. ‘Nor do I have any idea why she’s disappeared.’

It was a mistake. She knew that as soon as she had uttered the words.

‘I didn’t say she’s disappeared.’

‘Then why are you asking these questions? Her friends in St Ives will be far more use to you than I could be.’ Damn him, she thought, feeling his dark eyes on her face: he probably believed she knew more than she did and was holding something back. The fact that this was true made her uncomfortable.

‘If you do hear anything you’ll let us know, won’t you?’ It was an order rather than a polite request.

‘Her father,’ Rose added, recalling the firm, interesting features of Alec Manders. ‘Have you tried him? She might be staying there.’

Jack didn’t answer. Instead he stood, nodded to his silent companion and made his way to the door. ‘Sorry to have troubled you, Mrs Trevelyan.’

Rose closed the door behind him. The formality hurt and it shouldn’t have done. The agreement was that they remained friends but Jack didn’t seem to want it that way. She peered into the fridge trying to decide what she fancied to eat. Jenny Manders had only been missing for a few hours short of two days. Rose thought it odd that so much was being made of her disappearance. So soon, anyway. She shrugged. There were probably factors she
knew nothing about and there was no way she was going to allow Jack to involve her. ‘But I think I’m already involved.’ She spoke aloud as a terrible thought crossed her mind. Could it possibly have been Jenny whose screams she had heard? No. Jenny had been at Stella’s after that first occasion. She shook her head. The painting was finished, there was no need to go there ever again.

Jack Pearce was thoughtful during the drive back towards Camborne. It had been a deliberate policy to take someone with him because whenever he encountered Rose he was unsure how he would react. Her rejection still hurt. And, he admitted, he had made the visit in an official capacity although someone of lower rank would normally have done so.

Rose was not inclined to panic. After his initial anger he had realised that some good reason must have prompted her to make that call. Now Jennifer Manders was missing – and Rose knew the girl. He was sure there was more to it than a lovers’ tiff or whatever they called it these days.
Jenny may be hiding out, sulking, or she could have taken off, alone or with another man, but from what they had learnt it was unlikely that she would have left the area.

Madeleine Duke, Stella Jackson, her husband Daniel Wright, and the girl’s father and his wife had all been questioned; all had expressed the opinion that she would not have strayed far. If it wasn’t for the suspicions that were aroused every time Rose came into the equation he doubted if he would have paid much attention to Nick Pascoe’s telephone call despite the fact that the man had sounded genuinely worried.

The three with whom she shared the squat had been unhelpful. They resented the police and, not knowing Jenny well, neither knew nor cared what might have become of her. All they were prepared to say was that they hadn’t seen her for a couple of days. It might be worth paying Pascoe a personal visit, he thought. ‘Take the St Ives turn-off,’ he told DS Green who was driving.

According to Pascoe, Jennifer Manders had been after a reconciliation but he wasn’t having it and had sent her away. But had he sent her somewhere permanently? Now who’s being fanciful? he asked himself. Had he done so,
Pascoe would hardly have drawn attention to the fact.

Nick was upstairs in the room he used to store his work, sorting through frames for a forthcoming show in which he was to be one of half a dozen exhibitors. He was still deciding on the last two of the ten canvases he was expected to display when he heard the crash of the knocker.

‘You’d better come in,’ he said, frowning, when he learnt who his visitor was. DS Green had been asked to wait in the car.

Jack wiped his feet on the coarse doormat and stepped straight into the living area of the low-ceilinged dwelling. Its small windows and the proximity of other similar properties rendered it dark even on a sunny day. Now, on a wet winter’s evening, it was positively gloomy despite the two table lamps. The room was chilly but not damp. Pascoe was a hardy man; the sash window was open six inches. Ahead was a wooden staircase, beside it an open door leading to the kitchen. To Jack’s right was the back of the settee with its sagging springs and against the wall by the window stood a table and four chairs. On it were the remains of a single meal. There were no shelves. Pascoe’s books and cassettes were stacked on the floor beside the player. Neither
was there a television set, possibly because there was no room for one, or maybe it was kept in the bedroom.

Jack had surveyed the room in seconds, and now turned his attention to the man. His mouth tightened. He could understand why Rose was attracted to him. Not only was he an artist but he possessed rugged good looks and he had a way of moving which suggested that he was totally comfortable in the world.

Standing with his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, Nick asked if there was any news.

‘No. None.’ Fighting for objectivity in the face of the man who had replaced him, Jack asked him to go over the night in question again. It would be all too easy to apportion blame here and thus effectively remove the opposition. But blame for what?

‘Certainly.’ Nick hooked out a chair with the toe of his suede boot and sat down. Jack chose the settee when it was indicated that he should do the same, then regretted it as he sank low into the cushions. ‘Jenny turned up at Stella’s exhibition. She was there before me. I wasn’t certain if I could attend.’

‘She was invited?’

‘Jenny? Yes, definitely. She was there for the
drinks upstairs before the official opening. I didn’t see much of her in the gallery, there were too many other people there, but we managed a few words. I left before she did and came straight home. About forty-five minutes later, possibly more, she knocked on the door and I let her in. I was on the phone at the time to Rose Trevelyan.’

Jack flinched. He could have hit the man but he listened carefully as Pascoe went over the events of that evening.

‘That’s it. It’s exactly as I said before on the phone. Oh, then Maddy rang. Madeleine Duke.’

‘For any specific reason?’

‘Out of concern for Jenny. She knows Jenny can be a bit highly strung, if that phrase is still in fashion. She also wanted to invite me to supper the next night.’

Jack nodded. The man was certainly in demand and he wondered if Rose knew. But he would not lower himself to ask if he had accepted the invitation. ‘And yesterday morning?’

‘Yesterday morning I began to worry about what Maddy had said. Jenny’s impetuous, the sort of girl who is capable of doing something stupid to draw attention to herself, but I didn’t know where she was staying. I asked around and when her three – what shall we say, room-mates?
– said they hadn’t seen her either I decided I ought to call the police.’

‘You went out of your way to find her?’

‘Naturally. I wouldn’t waste your time if I thought I could locate her myself.’ Nick had felt the right thing to do was to report Jenny missing but he had not expected any action to be taken. Now he asked himself why an inspector was involved. It worried him.

‘And who did you ask?’

‘Everyone who was at the exhibition. The people I know, that is.’

‘Including Mrs Trevelyan?’ He couldn’t help it even though he knew the answer.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Nick’s frown deepened but did not detract from his good looks. ‘Just in case she’d seen Jenny.’

‘Mrs Trevelyan lives in Newlyn. What made you think she might have done?’

‘Nothing made me think so, Inspector. It was just that she was there and, well, Jenny knew that we’d been seeing each other.’

‘But your affair with Jennifer Manders was over. Why should it concern her who you’re seeing now?’

‘Look, I don’t really know. I’ve already explained she wanted to come back here to live. If she was jealous, I thought she might have gone to Rose’s to cause a scene. Really, I’m not a mind reader, it was only a guess.’

He has a temper, Jack thought, as Nick got up and strode around the room, sweeping back his hair impatiently as he did so. And what had caused Pascoe to think Jenny had been to see Rose? He sighed, knowing there was little more he could do. But as he stood he thought it worth a try to ask, ‘Did Mrs Trevelyan tell you she called us recently? She—’

‘When she was out at the old engine house? Yes.’

‘Was anyone aware she’d be there that day?’

‘How on earth should I know?’ Nick stopped pacing. He picked up a paintbrush and slapped the bristles against the palm of his hand. ‘Actually, now I think about it, quite a lot of people. It was Stella who suggested it as a starting place. There was a crowd of us there one night when the subject came up.’

‘By which you mean?’

‘Rose has gone back to working in oils, and not before time if what I’ve seen of her work’s anything to go by. Stella thought it’d be a test
for her. So many artists have painted just that type of scenery but if Rose could do it, and do it well, or better, it would prove that she wasn’t run-of-the-mill. Stella thought it would give her the confidence to carry on.’

‘I’ll need the names of the guests that night, if you don’t mind.’

Nick provided them and Jack left, more puzzled than when he had arrived. Had those screams had anything to do with Jenny’s disappearance even if she had been seen afterwards? There was one way of settling something which bothered him and he believed he could arrange it with very little outlay. He was owed a favour from several years back. One he decided it was time to call in. This was unofficial business. If nothing came of it he would not, like Rose, have made a public fool of himself.

Madeleine Duke’s past life was mostly unknown to her Cornish friends and this was part of the reason why she hadn’t been accepted with as much enthusiasm as she had expected. True, invitations came at regular intervals, such as the one to Stella’s exhibition, and there was never a shortage of visitors to her shop or the flat above it, but she still felt she was treated differently.
Already she was beginning to realise that her past, good or bad, didn’t matter here. What did matter was that she refused to talk about it. What she had failed to understand was that she would have been welcomed more warmly if the details of her life were common knowledge. The Cornish possessed a need to know but for no reason other than to satisfy their innate curiosity. Nothing would have been held against her.

Maddy had had a child, a daughter, and for this sin, because she had been unmarried, her parents had disowned her. She had realised too late that she was pregnant, and a termination was out of the question. The baby had been adopted. It was some years ago now but she still regretted it and the pain remained. How happy the child would have been in Cornwall if only she’d been allowed a chance to think things through. But it was too late now. An only child herself, she had been the centre of her parents’ world, only to be told how cruelly she had let them down in the end. Having Annie, as she secretly called the little girl, adopted had not healed the breach between them as she had believed it would. Her parents had refused to have anything more to do with her. Maddy had given away her child for nothing. She had moved down to Brighton and mixed with
a crowd her parents would have loathed until it dawned on her that they were losers like herself. From there she had moved from town to town along the south coast, never finding the sense of belonging that she was searching for. Finally she had come to Cornwall where, after two years of constant grind, cleaning and serving in cafes and pubs, she had saved enough to add to the small sum her grandmother, who had secretly sympathised with her, had left her and rented the tiny shop and the premises above it. In the little spare time she had had Maddy had worked at her crafts and, although initially her stock was sparse, she had continued to add to it, buying in when necessary.

Just over a year ago, after a particularly successful summer, she had spoken to her landlord and made him an offer to buy which had been accepted. Now she had a mortgage hanging over her head but instead of worrying her it gave her the sense of security which she had been lacking since the adoption of her baby when her life had been turned upside down. She lived frugally but was almost content. Only one thing really mattered: tracing her daughter. But that was not her prerogative, legally it must be the other way around. Maddy realised she was
nest-building in case of that happy eventuality.

Her need to belong was so desperate that even she realised it was unnatural. Other women, women like Rose Trevelyan, seemed quite content to go it alone and regarded being accepted as neither here nor there. Perhaps that was the secret, not to care too much. Rose Trevelyan was an outsider, too, although she had married a Cornishman and had lived in the area for over twenty-five years.

She had been rearranging the stock on the shelves during a quiet period when a policeman had arrived to question her about Jenny Manders. Maddy had been unusually withdrawn and barely spoke other than to confirm that she had seen Jenny when she went past in tears but had no idea where she might have gone. ‘If she was that upset she could’ve come here, she’d have seen the light on,’ she had added. ‘She knows me well enough for that.’ A customer looking for Christmas presents had come in and the policeman had gone.

Later that afternoon Stella, who had closed the gallery early, dropped in for a chat. There was still no news of Jenny. Maddy Duke did not know how she was supposed to react but she managed to keep her feelings hidden. She was
still smarting. from the disappointment at Nick’s refusal to share her mackerel.

The following morning, after a fitful sleep, Maddy stood behind the glass of the shop door and watched the teeming rain. Water ran over the cobbles and down towards the harbour. Some of the galleries were open. Last-minute Christmas shoppers huddled beneath umbrellas and stepped back, pressing against the buildings to avoid being splashed, when a car passed through the narrow lanes. She sighed. What’s done is done, she thought. It’s too late to change things now. She had not lied to the police, except by omission. Wanting Nick, she hoped he would show his gratitude in the way in which she desired once he learnt how she had protected him from what might have been a potentially awkward situation.

Rose stared out of the window. It was Sunday evening. ‘It’s still raining,’ she commented unnecessarily.

‘It was forecast,’ Laura said, getting up stiffly from the floor with a groan. ‘It’ll probably last through Christmas now.’

The two women looked at each other and smiled. Long wet spells were very much a part of their lives and the conversations that were
conducted in the local shops. The sharp, cold weather, if it came at all, never lasted and Christmas Day was almost always mild, if not warm.

They had been sharing a bottle of wine in Rose’s sitting-room and talking about the Newlyn lights which had recently been switched on. Then, on the night of 19th December, they would go off in memory of the crew of the lifeboat
Solomon Browne
who, in 1981, lost their lives in a desperate bid to save those of others.

The switching on of the lights was an event and crowds came to witness it, along with the fireworks, and to listen to the male voice choir, although it was to Mousehole the coach parties went to see the displays, some of which floated in the harbour or were fixed high up on the hills.

Unlike most places, Newlyn and Mousehole preferred to wait; their lights were lit mid-December during the Christmas season proper, not two months in advance.