Killed in Cornwall (2 page)

‘There you are, Mrs Trevelyan.’ The girl held a mirror behind Rose’s head. She glanced at the image reflected in the mirrored wall in front of her and nodded. Good, she didn’t look any different. ‘Thank you.’ She handed the girl a tip, wrote out a cheque and left.

The sky had brightened further. There was no longer any dampness in the air and the warmth of the sun could be felt once more. St Michael’s Mount was visible again, starkly rising out of a cobalt sea, the castle, the home of Lord St Leven, seemingly balanced atop an almost triangular rock. Rose stood looking at the view, drawn, as always, by the indescribable colours which had brought so many artists to the area over the years. It was the narrowness of the peninsula, surrounded by water, which caused the quirks of light, the startling clearness of the air, the shades of blues and greens which seemed impossibly unreal unless you were there to witness them for yourself.

She retraced her steps, her calf muscles working hard as she walked back up Market Jew Street. Crossing the road she turned left, passing the Acorn theatre which was housed in an old chapel, before she turned left again and bypassed the sub-tropical gardens where succulent plants with enormous flowers towered over her. She continued on through the narrow lanes lined with pretty cottages or Georgian houses until she came to the library. She handed over her books, chose four more, then made her way down Morrab Road to the Promenade.

A group of boys skate-boarded along its wide surface and used the steps of the shelters to attempt manoeuvres none of them were able to complete. Their wheels clattered in her wake. There were several dog walkers, a few elderly couples taking a stroll and a smattering of tourists enjoying a holiday before the schools broke up and accommodation would be hard to come by. Many local working women would be shopping or doing their housework on Saturday afternoon. How lucky I am, Rose thought, I can work whenever I want.

Ahead was Newlyn harbour. The masts and upright beams of fishing-boats loomed above the harbour walls like teepees stripped of their hide. Behind them the houses sloped up in tiers. She reached the end of the Promenade, descended the steps to the beach then joined the narrow path which would take her to Newlyn. To her left was the brilliant blue sea; to her right Bolitho Gardens where the fronds of the palm trees tapped in the gentle breeze. With the sun shining overhead she might have been in France or Spain.

Rounding the corner by the Newlyn Art Gallery, she thought about what Doreen had told her and the repercussions Phyllis’s death would have for Nathan. Rose was not sure whether the
house was rented or privately owned, neither was she sure what Nathan did for a living. Probably nothing, she realised. Someone had had to be at home on a full time basis to look after Phyllis.

Her books and shopping were becoming heavy. Rose would be glad to be home. She had given herself the day off – after a hectic week she deserved it. On Monday her paintings would go to the framers where she would negotiate a price, then she would scout around for
postcard
scenes. It was also time to plan her next watercolours. They would become part of Barry’s stock next year as this season’s cards had already been printed at his works in Camborne.

Halfway up the hill she stopped for a rest. Placing her bags on the ground she leant on the railings and looked down over Newlyn Harbour. Below, stretched in a short line on some rubber tyres strung together and floating in the water, half a dozen cormorants stretched their wings like Las Vegas showgirls in feathered costumes. The afternoon stretched ahead of her, as did the evening. Laura Penfold, married to a fisherman and Rose’s best friend, had declined an invitation to supper because Trevor had landed that morning and they were going out for a meal. Lazy, idle solitude, Rose decided. Food and wine
and a book. A treat. She picked up the bags and continued walking.

By the time she reached the top of the drive her fingers were red where the handles of the plastic bags had dug into them. With relief she unlocked the kitchen door at the side of the house and stepped inside. She plugged in the kettle, unpacked the shopping and hung some washing on the line strung between a tree and the shed. She had put it in the machine before she went out that morning. Nothing smelt nicer than cotton sheets which had dried outside in the salty sea air.

She made a mug of tea, picked up an apple and one of the library books she had chosen that morning then went outside to sit on the wrought-iron garden bench.

An hour later she was half dozing in the increasing heat of the sun when the telephone disturbed her. Rose went to answer it.

‘I thought I’d ring before I forgot. My memory’s like a sieve these days.’

Doreen, of course. Face to face or over the phone she still began without preamble. Even when leaving a message on the answering-machine no introduction was given. ‘I’ve got Dave Fox’s number. The gardener. It’s a mobile.’

Rose jotted it down. ‘Thanks, Doreen. I’ll ring
him straight away. Did you thank Cyril for the roses?’

‘I did. He said …’

‘Sorry, I can’t hear you.’ One of the helicopters which serviced the Isles of Scilly was flying overhead. Rose could actually see the pilot.

‘Must go. Cyril’s waving to me through the window. Why he can’t come in to speak to me, I don’t know. Bye, Rose.’

He dare not come in, Rose thought, not if he’s got muddy boots. The cleanliness of Doreen’s kitchen floor was a matter of great pride. It was odd, she was equally as houseproud of her own bungalow as of the large properties she cleaned. It was beyond Rose to whom housework was something to be endured as infrequently as possible.

She picked up the phone again and dialled Dave Fox’s number. It was a long time before he answered. Having given her name Rose explained what she wanted doing. ‘Do you have the necessary equipment? I’ve only got basic tools.’

He said that he did and that he could come on Tuesday if that was convenient. ‘I charge by the hour, by the way.’ He named the price.

‘That’s fine, and Tuesday suits me.’

‘I’ll be there between nine and nine-thirty.’

‘Do you know how to get here?’

‘I’ll find it.’

Rose went back to the garden. Dozens of small, white-sailed yachts had appeared. Some sort of race was in progress. A rowing-boat with an outboard motor chugged past, a lone man on board standing at the tiller. The engine spluttered and black fumes belched from the stern before it resumed its steady course across the bay towards Mousehole. Overhead seagulls swooped. Rose was oblivious to their noisy calls which were part of coastal living. She was wondering what sort of man Dave Fox was. He was well-spoken with the faintest hint of an accent she couldn’t place. A newcomer? If so he had managed to impress Doreen Clarke. Rose had often been told that her curiosity went even deeper than the innate need to know possessed by the Cornish.

Well, I’ll find out on Tuesday, she realised as she picked up her book and began to read.

By the fourth chapter she found she was thinking of Nathan Brown rather than the plot in which another son was motherless. It was always assumed that women were the carers, the ones who devoted their lives to a parent or spouse, but Rose was aware that many men also did so, men like Nathan, who had a gentleness about him, a
gentleness hidden beneath a gruff exterior. Rose had never been able to decide whether this was due to a natural reserve, whether he had been cowed by an overbearing mother or whether, simply, like Trevor Penfold, he did not believe in wasting words. She hoped his future would be a happy one once he had done his grieving.

‘I don’t like to bother you on a Sunday, Rose, but you didn’t get back to me and I need to know when I can collect the oils.’

‘Oh, Geoff, I’m sorry. I completely forgot. I’m taking them to the framer first thing tomorrow and he promised they’d be ready by Wednesday morning. Can you pick them up from there?’ Rose stood in the bay window. The brilliant sunrise, reflected in pink streaks across the water, had been no indication of the weather to come. The sky was now a pearly grey.

‘Yes. No trouble. We’re all set to go. I’ll drive straight up to Bristol once I’ve got them. Why don’t I drive you up as well?’

‘The opening night isn’t until Friday.’

‘I’m fully aware of that, Rose, dear. I thought we could make a bit of a holiday out of it. You know, take in the theatre, go to the zoo.’

Nice try, she thought. ‘Thanks for the offer, Geoff, but I’m up to my eyes this week.’ Geoff Carter had been good for her career and she liked him, but no more than that; she enjoyed his company and appreciated the opportunities he had provided for her. He had taken her out to dinner a couple of times but on the first occasion, talking about his past and the times he had been unfaithful to his wife before she had divorced him, he had made it clear what sort of man he was. Good looking, yes: tall and lean, greying hair worn longish over the collar of his checked shirts; laughing eyes and a quirky, come-to-bed smile, but not the material for a relationship that was destined to endure for very long. He had apparently lived up to that smile and was not ashamed to admit it. Tempted, but only briefly, Rose was glad she had acted upon instinct and walked away. Had she become one of his conquests she would undoubtedly have lost his friendship, possibly his patronage and almost certainly the use of his studio annexe.

Geoff would transport her paintings in his
van which, with its wooden slats fixed against the panels in the back, was especially equipped to carry such work, whether oils with their heavy frames or watercolours and pastels fronted with glass. She knew they would arrive at their destination safely.

Rose was ironing, the radio tuned to a classical music station when Laura’s thin body flitted past the kitchen window and appeared in the open doorway. The threatened rain had not fallen and the air was humid. ‘Any chance of a coffee? Trevor’s made of tougher stuff than me, he’s gone down to do something to the engine of the boat before he takes himself off to the pub. Me, well, I’m feeling a bit fragile.’

Rose stood the iron on its end and laughed. ‘I can see you’re hungover, dear. I don’t know what it feels like from inside but from here it’s not a pretty sight.’

‘Oh, some friend you are. I came here for sympathy and understanding, not a lecture from a hypocrite.’

‘Stick the filter machine on, I’ve nearly finished.’ There were only two pillowcases left in the basket. Rose shook her head. Laura; mother of three boys and a grandmother several times over. With her near black corkscrew curls trailing
down her back, her skinny legs in harlequin patterned leggings topped by a long pink T-shirt, it seemed hard to believe she was fifty. And she was always so full of life, or, maybe, nervous energy.

Rose had met Laura within a month of coming to Cornwall. They had both been twenty-one then but now it felt as though they had known one another since birth.

Once the water began to gurgle through the coffee grounds, Laura sat down. ‘For someone who claims to hate housework, you’re very particular about your whites.’

‘Ironing, I don’t mind.’ Polyester and mixed fibres might be easier to care for but it was a luxury to sleep between pure white Egyptian cotton sheets.

‘What’s new? Tell me the latest gossip, distract me from the effects of over-indulgence.’

Rose slid her hand inside a pillowcase in order to iron the flap. ‘Geoff Carter asked me to go up to Bristol with him on Wednesday.’

Laura raised a dark eyebrow. ‘I see. And what did he have in mind, I wonder, when the opening night isn’t until Friday? Don’t answer, it’s pretty obvious. Are you going?’

‘Of course not.’ Rose unplugged the iron
and stood it on the worktop, then she folded the ironing-board and placed it in what once had been the larder, a small room at the back of the kitchen. Now it housed the deep freeze, her painting equipment and an assortment of boots and coats. Instead of food, the marble shelves held bits and pieces that might one day be useful again.

She got out milk and sugar and poured the filtered coffee into two red mugs decorated with yellow tulips and green leaves. Six of them hung from hooks beneath open shelves upon which local pottery glazed in primary colours was arranged. ‘Oh, and I’ve got a gardener coming on Tuesday.’

‘Really? A touch of the Lady Chatterley? Be careful, my girl, there are far too many men in your life already.’ Laura sipped the coffee, black today, with three sugars. ‘Speaking of which, how are things between you and Jack at the moment?’

Jack. Detective Inspector Jack Pearce. A thorn in her side or a source of pleasure? She could never decide which. ‘So many questions. God, even a hangover can’t stop you.’ But she considered the question. ‘Normal, I would say. For us.’ It was an on and off relationship which, despite Jack’s insistence that he wanted more, seemed to suit
them both. Yet it had hurt Rose terribly when he had told her he was seeing someone else. It hadn’t lasted long, but long enough for Rose to realise that she didn’t want to lose him altogether.

‘You’re so well suited, you know. You like the same things and think the same way.’ She sighed. ‘The trouble is you’re both so damn obstinate.’

Laura was right but Jack refused to understand that what he called her nosiness arose out of genuine concern for people. Rose knew that Laura only wanted to see her settled again but she was afraid that after David, anyone else would be second best. ‘He’d cramp my style.’

‘Someone ought to. Still, you do seem to be one of those people others like to confide in. So what’s the work situation?’ When the three boys were younger Laura had been a full time housewife and now they had grown up and had children of their own she was enjoying her freedom. With Trevor’s hours being so unpredictable she did not want to get a job because she would hardly ever see him when he landed. Despite never having had any sort of career of her own she was extremely proud of Rose’s achievements.

‘It’s going to be a busy summer.’ Rose explained the projects she had lined up.

‘And I’ve got the family coming in August.
They seemed to have arranged their visits like a relay team, and without consulting me.’

Rose nodded. ‘That’s the only drawback of living here, everyone wants to come and stay.’

Laura squinted shortsightedly at the luminous digits on Rose’s cooker. ‘Trevor’ll be in the pub by now. Why don’t you walk down with me and have a drink. You deserve it after all that ironing.’

‘Okay, I think I will. I’ll get a jacket.’ No forecaster could predict with any accuracy the weather in West Cornwall. It could, and did, change in seconds. Penzance might be shrouded in fog whilst St Ives was basking in sunshine, and it still looked as though it might rain.

Rose locked the door and they walked side by side down the hill to the harbour. The tide was out. Trawlers and beamers were moored alongside the quays and the lifeboat, with its distinguishable orange and blue colours, sat waiting for the next emergency. Rose often wondered how Laura could bear it knowing that Trevor was out there in mountainous seas in order to earn a living that was likely to be taken away from him by ludicrous legislation or even by drowning.

Laura pushed open the door of the Star. There was no sign of Trevor ‘He’s next door,’ another fisherman told her.

Trevor was standing at the bar of the Swordfish with a drink in front of him. It was a long, narrow room with an unpolished wooden floor, a place where fishermen could drink without worrying about their boots on a carpet or fish scales on the furniture. The jukebox was playing, clearly audible even over the loud conversations. ‘Hello, Rose, what would you like?’

‘Dry white, please.’

He ordered the larger measure and a double gin and tonic for himself and his wife. Rose grinned. Trevor had been at sea for ten days, he was now making up for lost time. Along the bar in bowls were garlic-stuffed olives, cheese, peanuts and onions. A Sunday lunchtime tradition. Later, the landlord would produce sausages and quarters of roast potatoes.

Laura and Rose did most of the talking. Trevor was a taciturn man, speaking only when he had something worth saying. He was dressed in jeans and boots and a fisherman’s shirt, as were many other customers. His wavy brown hair was shoulder-length and a tiny gold cross dangled from one ear. Except for Saturday nights, and not always then, no one dressed up.

The bar filled up. After a second drink Rose said she was leaving.

‘We’re not,’ Laura said as she smiled at Trevor.

So much for her hangover, Rose thought. But Laura was right, I did deserve a break. She made her way back up the hill knowing she would do nothing other than read a few more chapters of her library book.

Settled in her chair by the window, Rose remembered Phyllis Brown’s funeral and her promise to Doreen. If it turned out to be on Friday or Saturday she wouldn’t be able to go. She picked up her book. Until Doreen rang that dilemma couldn’t be faced.

Dave Fox was washing the soil from his hands in the small sink in the kitchen area. He didn’t usually work on Sundays but because of the good growing weather he was behind. Intermittent rain and sunshine had come to the aid of nature, and people needed their lawns cut and their hedges trimmed. Come October, when growth slowed, the work would drop off and he would do odd jobs or decorating instead. It was a life he had come to love; no mortgage, no ties, fresh air and freedom. No social security hand-outs either. He was an independent man, a man who had given up much to become so.

The caravan was on a piece of wasteland
near St Erth. The land belonged to a farmer who had no use for it because it was not suitable for cultivation or livestock. Dave assumed he was holding on to it until he could sell it at a good profit. Meanwhile, in return for a nominal rent, the farmer had connected him up to the electricity supply. The caravan contained all the modern conveniences and was very comfortable.

Beside it was parked a medium sized van, mud-splattered but in good working condition. Inside it were stored his tools. He picked up a towel and dried his hands as the caravan door swung open. ‘Hi,’ he said, smiling.

‘Hi, yourself.’ Eva had been walking. Her face was flushed and her long, almost black hair seemed alive because the humidity had fluffed it out around her face and thickened the natural curl.

It had taken Dave a week or so to become used to sharing his home but now he wondered how he could have believed himself happy before Eva’s arrival. He liked to think he had rescued her.

She was twenty-five, almost ten years younger than him, and beautiful, with gypsy-like looks which she chose to accentuate with hooped earrings and long, diaphanous skirts. He was not
sure if she was aware of the effect she had upon men.

‘Shall we eat?’ he asked. Preparing her food gave him pleasure and she needed looking after.

‘Yes. I’m starving.’ She sat on the seat inside the small table with her back to the window which framed her head and shoulders and watched as he dished up the food he had prepared earlier that morning and had left to cook very slowly in the oven. His movements were neat, economical and suited to the compactness of the kitchen where all he required was within easy reach. The meals he cooked were simple but healthy; mainly meat or fish in the form of stews and casseroles with vegetables. There wasn’t the room for complicated preparations. Eva followed his example. If she made a salad she would use the hedgerow leaves Dave had told her were safe to eat, along with more conventional ingredients. She had learnt that nasturtium seeds soaked in pickling vinegar were almost as good as capers, which were expensive. But although the wild ones outside the caravan were in full flower, the seeds had not yet ripened.

‘I’ve picked up another job,’ he told her, handing her a plate of lamb stew and locally grown spinach. ‘I forgot to tell you yesterday. A
Mrs Trevelyan. She lives in Newlyn and Doreen told me she’s an artist.’ Dave sat down. Yes, he had forgotten to tell Eva because when he returned yesterday evening she had taken his mind off everything.

‘Oh?’ Eva speared a cube of tender lamb.

‘Some clearance work and a lawn that needs seeing to, nothing permanent. I’m going there on Tuesday. It probably won’t take more than a couple of visits.’

‘Is she famous? I’ve never heard of her.’

Dave frowned, considering the question. ‘No idea.’ He paused. ‘Have you thought any more about getting a job?’ She had talked of it and although he could afford to keep her he didn’t want her to become bored. St Erth station was an easy walk. From there she could catch a train in either direction, to Penzance or eastwards to Camborne and Redruth or even Truro. The branch line to St Ives also ran from there. And there were buses.

‘I’ll make some enquiries tomorrow, I really will.’ The past few weeks had been a sort of holiday. Having Dave look after her had been like balm to her damaged ego and body. It was time to repay his kindness.

Dave nodded. She had gone with him to jobs
on several occasions but the novelty of that, or the alternative of being alone all day, would soon wear off.

Their plates were empty. Dave lay on a bunk, his hands clasped behind his head. A combination of fresh air and physical work was tiring, but in a satisfying way, and he had never been more healthy. The fresh air and walking seemed to be having the same effect upon Eva.

Eva washed the dishes then sat beside him and slipped a hand beneath his white T-shirt. Dave closed his eyes and thought of nothing but the touch of her fingers on his warm skin. Chance had brought her to him, he prayed it would not take her away. She was the sort of woman he had dreamt of in his more conventional days.