Plotted in Cornwall (9 page)

Rose stared at the space where he had stood and knew she had lost something important. She knew, too, that it was entirely her own fault.

Almost in defiance she poured the rest of the wine. Food would have to wait, she had no appetite now. Forget him, she told herself, forget the man even exists. But she could still smell his aftershave.

Later, she poached a couple of eggs, ate only one of them then washed up and went to bed where sleep came more easily than she had imagined it would.

Although Friday dawned sunny and mild Rose stayed close to the house. She cleaned and ironed and planned her next set of watercolours for Barry Rowe. It was another discipline, one she didn’t want to lose.

At four forty just as darkness began to descend over the bay she pulled on a thick jacket against the easterly wind and walked down to Newlyn. Because of the suitable tides and weather there were few fishing-boats in the harbour although several masts
stood out against the skyline. The tower of St Mary’s church in Penzance was outlined blackly against the purple clouds, a landmark almost as prominent as that of St Michael’s Mount. Beyond it fields stretched upwards into the distance.

She shopped in the Co-op, which stayed open until 11 p.m. Picking up a few basic things she needed, she decided to have a drink. Her own company had begun to pall. She needed to be amongst people, to talk to the fishermen or their women about subjects unrelated to missing people or Detective Inspector Jack Pearce.

Music flowed from the Swordfish bar next to the Co-op. About to walk in, she heard someone calling her name.

‘Fancy a drink?’

Standing outside the Star Inn, no more than a few yards away was Trevor Penrose, Laura’s husband. ‘Yes. I do. Where’s Laura?’

He pushed open the door for her. ‘We’ve had a row.’ He grinned. In contrast to his wife he was short and stocky. His brown hair curled over his collar and a tiny gold cross dangled from one ear.

‘Another one?’ Rose smiled back. Her friends’ marriage had always been tempestuous yet they seemed to thrive on it.

‘It’ll blow over by the time I get back, or she’ll have gone to bed. You know how it is.’

‘I certainly do,’ Rose said as he ordered their drinks.

They remained at the bar where they both felt more comfortable. The wooden boards of the floor were practical. The pub stood opposite the fish market and the men came in in their overalls and boots or the gear they had worn to sea. Both she and Trevor knew all the customers and they spoke to several of them.

‘What did you mean, about us rowing?’ Trevor asked when the people they were talking to had moved away

‘Not you. Me.’ Rose found herself telling him about Jack. Trevor was a taciturn man. He said nothing until she had finished.

‘Laura told me,’ he said. ‘Do you care?’

‘A bit.’ A lot, actually she added silently. A lot more than I thought I would. ‘But what I resent is his attitude, the way he still tries to dictate to me.’

Trevor grinned more widely and took a long swig of beer. ‘Somebody has to try much good it’ll ever do them. You’re as pig-headed as Laura. One more drink then I’m off. She’ll have cooled down by now. I’ll give her a ring to say I’ll bring back a Chinese,
that should do the trick. You’re two of a kind, you know. You and Jack. Neither of you knows what you really want. And he’s right, about keeping out of other people’s business. No good ever comes of getting involved. You, of all people, should know that.’

Rose watched him walk to the phone. For Trevor that was an extremely long speech. She bought their second drink while he was speaking to Laura and considered what he had said. He was right, she didn’t know what she wanted. Not Jack full time, but not him with another woman either. Selfish bitch, she thought.

Twenty minutes later they parted outside the pub. Trevor turned left for the Chinese take-away and home while Rose made her way along the Strand past The Fradgen and on up the hill, her carrier bag swinging. There was a cargo ship in the bay and a trawler heading for the harbour. She crossed the road to watch it come in through the narrows. Its engine chugged, the sound carrying clearly across the water in the stillness of the early evening. Above, stars glittered and promised a cold night. The quarter moon lay on its side like a pale fingernail clipping. From her high vantage
point she could see the whole huge sweep of the bay from Newlyn harbour to the blur in the distance which was the Lizard Point. Along the coastline the clustered lights of the villages twinkled. The huge satellite discs of Goonhilly were now invisible as were the white pointed sails of the wind farm.

It’s Saturday tomorrow, she thought. And I know what I’m going to do. And Jack Pearce can do the other thing. And then she remembered. That other car at the farm-house. It wasn’t new and it was small and there had been a teddy bear in a fisherman’s jersey dangling from the rear mirror. Not a man’s car, then. Miranda, it had to be Miranda’s car, and her return had to be more than a coincidence. But what did any of it have to do with the portrait? Rose decided to find out.

Louisa Jordan could not believe her daughter had come home. Every time she looked at her or heard her voice she was filled with joy. What a shock it had been when she had opened the door at eight thirty on Thursday morning and discovered Miranda standing there. Hearing the knock she had assumed Rose Trevelyan had turned
up early for some reason.

For several seconds neither of the women had spoken. There seemed too much to say. ‘Oh, Mum.’ It was Miranda who broke the silence. It was all she had said, but the pleading note in her voice had been enough. Louisa had embraced her, holding her tightly, aware of the tears running down both their faces.

Wendy had appeared and was equally startled but there had been a coldness between aunt and niece, inexplicable to Louisa who knew Wendy adored Miranda.

Over breakfast Louisa had demanded no explanations and none had been given. That her daughter was home was enough for the moment. Unless Miranda had changed, and she certainly had physically, an explanation would come, she knew her well enough for that. Two days had passed but no questions had been asked on either side. Wendy continued to treat Miranda coolly and was repaid in kind.

‘I was working in an insurance office,’ Miranda had volunteered on Friday evening. ‘I gave a month’s notice but I didn’t work it all out. I just couldn’t wait one more day.’ Unable to sleep she had got up and packed and driven down during the lonely
early hours of the morning. She had sat outside in the car, waiting until a reasonable time before knocking. ‘It was quite a job finding you. Is it all right if I stay for a while?’

‘You know you can stay for as long as you like,’ Louisa had reassured her. There had been no opportunity for the discussion she wanted to have with her daughter because Wendy always seemed to be hovering in the background. But it could wait. There was a lot they had to tell each other.

‘She’s exhausted,’ Wendy said on Saturday morning. ‘And, I believe, worried. You can tell by her face. Let her sleep, we’ll do the shopping as usual. We can leave her a note.’

Miranda didn’t wake until ten. Still unsure of her unfamiliar surroundings she couldn’t immediately think where she was or what had woken her. The door, she realised, someone’s knocking at the door. She stepped into her mules, pulled on her dressing-gown and knotted the belt as she went downstairs. The house was surprisingly warm despite the lack of facilities, but the fires had been lit and the Cornish range gave out a lot of heat. And, of course, it was milder than it had been in London. Overhead was a blue sky across which floated a
few wisps of cloud. There were no buildings here to obscure her view of it.

But on the doorstep stood a petite woman with shoulder-length wavy auburn hair in which a few strands of grey were visible. She wore a smart tan coat, unbuttoned, showing a brown cord skirt and cream sweater beneath it. Under her arm was a large oblong package tied up in strong wrapping-paper.

‘Is Louisa in, or Wendy?’ Rose asked, showing as little surprise as possible, but aware this lovely girl could only be, as she had guessed, Joel’s cousin, Miranda. The family resemblance was strong.

‘No, I don’t think so. The house is very quiet. You must think I’m stupid, but I’ve only just woken up.’

Rose took in the mass of fair curls and the dark circles beneath the eyes of the attractive girl. She was no longer in any doubt. As she looked more closely the resemblance to Louisa was unmistakable. ‘May I come in for a moment? I’ve brought this for … Louisa.’ She had almost said ‘your mother’ before remembering Louisa had claimed to be childless. No, Rose thought, she said there wasn’t anyone else, which was a different matter if they were estranged.

‘Forgive me. Of course. I’m dying for a coffee, would you like one?’

‘Love one. Thank you.’ Rose followed her to the kitchen.

‘I’m Miranda, by the way.’ She shook the kettle which was simmering on top of the range to ensure it was full and filled the old-fashioned glass percolator, then she reached for the sheet of paper on the table. ‘Ah, they’ve left me a note. My mother and aunt are out but they don’t say what time they’ll be back, only that they’ve gone to St Austell to shop.’

Rose nodded. She was safe enough for a while, unless they’d left at the crack of dawn. Miranda had volunteered her name and relationship to the two sisters, what else might Rose learn? For one thing the daughter was less formal than the mother. The coffee was still excellent but was served in two stoneware mugs and drunk at the kitchen table. ‘I’m Rose Trevelyan. I was commissioned to paint a portrait of Louisa and Wendy only they’ve changed their minds. As they’ve offered to pay me in full I felt they should at least have the canvas with the work I’d started. They own it by rights.’

‘A portrait?’ Miranda laughed. It made her look younger. She shook the mane of hair in
disbelief. ‘It seems so very out of character. Neither of them is vain.’

There were so many things Rose wanted to ask, about her father, for instance, and where the girl had been, but it was impossible. She was supposed to be a stranger. And anything she said would probably be reported back to Louisa.

‘You’re obviously an artist, then. I didn’t know they mixed in such circles.’

‘I teach art, too. In Penzance. But I live in Newlyn.’ She had seen her opportunity and would not waste it.

‘Penzance?’ Miranda’s face creased with painful memories.

‘You know it?’

‘I used to live there. We all did.’

‘Do you still have any relatives there?’ Louisa had denied their existence, would Miranda do so too?

‘None that we keep in touch with.’

‘Don’t you miss them?’

Miranda shook her head. ‘I’ll get some more coffee.’ She stood and tightened the belt of her dressing-gown but Rose had seen the glisten of tears. When she sat down she was composed again.

Miranda decided that she could get to like Rose Trevelyan, she seemed such an easy
person to talk to. ‘I do miss them,’ she admitted, ‘but there are reasons why I don’t keep in touch. There was some family scandal and my father disappeared. My mother thought it best to sever all ties. I made a new start, but it didn’t really work out, I was never happy in London.’

‘And now you’re back?’

‘Yes, now I’m back.’

‘The reason I asked about relatives is this. Your face was so familiar to me. One of my students drew someone that if it wasn’t you, must be related. His name’s Joel Penhaligon.’

Miranda pressed her fingers to her mouth. Her other hand, holding the mug, trembled and concentric circles formed on the top of the coffee. ‘Joel’s my cousin. How is he?’

‘He’s fine. He’s going to be an artist. I met his parents, too, they’re nice people.’

‘I know.’

‘Miranda?’

They both turned at once. They had not heard the car or the well-oiled front door opening because they were at the back of the house. In the doorway stood Wendy. There were several bags in her hands. Her face was expressionless. ‘We didn’t expect to see you again, Mrs Trevelyan.’

Rose noted the new formality. ‘I brought this.’ She indicated the package propped against a cupboard door. ‘I was coming this way anyway and as you’ve been more than generous with payment I felt you ought to have it.’

‘There was really no need, but thank you anyway. I see Miranda has played the hostess.’

Miranda, not my niece. Maybe Wendy hoped Rose was none the wiser. Louisa appeared behind her, her brow creased in a frown. The undercurrents were almost palpable. Rose stood and picked up her handbag; she knew she would gain no more by staying and the older women’s body language made it clear they wanted her to leave. ‘My account’s in an envelope in the parcel,’ she said. ‘Goodbye. And thanks for the coffee, Miranda.’

‘Any time.’

I doubt that, Rose thought, although there had been a wistful expression on the girl’s face, as though she would have liked to talk for longer about her Penzance relatives. She had not wanted to lose contact, that was obvious, so why had she done so?

Rose signalled and pulled out into the main road. Miranda knows my name and
where I live, if she wants to talk to me she can find the number in the phone book. And I strongly suspect she will contact me, she thought as she negotiated a gap in the traffic to overtake a lorry. I think she’s desperate to talk to someone. But what a coincidence. Someone advertises for the father and the daughter turns up. Coincidence, or are the two events connected? And should I tell Roger Penhaligon? He’d be relieved to know that Miranda was safe, as would Joel. She need not mention the girl’s whereabouts; if they guessed it, the information would not have come from her. On the other hand it might be better to say nothing, to just let the matter drop. It was a family affair and none of her business. She had the drive home in which to think about it carefully. How different the scenery appeared in comparison with that first visit. Beneath the blue sky the various hues of brown were apparent and the greens and yellows stood out clearly against the granite boulders. No longer was the scenery a uniform grey, shrouded in rain. Rose turned on the radio and sang as she drove. Miranda was back, the puzzle might yet be solved. However, the matter was taken out of her hands when Roger Penhaligon telephoned
later that day. He almost begged her for information, questioning her at length. Unless she lied there was no other option but to tell him what she knew.