Buried in Cornwall (16 page)

‘Please, don’t go. I thought we were getting on so well.’

‘I must. I have things to do.’ She picked up her raincoat, put it on then grabbed her handbag decisively. ‘Thanks again for the lunch.’

‘Rose?’

‘Bye, Nick.’ She tried to smile but her face felt stiff.

Hurrying down the road she knew she was lucky it was still early, not much after three. There would be a choice of a train or a bus. No one stood at any of the stops she passed so she continued down into the main part of St Ives and up the hill towards the Malakof where the buses waited and which was adjacent to the railway station. The track was single-line, and the same train chugged back and forth. In the distance she saw it snake around the edge of the bay towards her. At least something was in her favour. She walked down the slope to the car-park and across it to the platform.

When the train arrived she got on and sat down, pressing her hot face against the window. It misted with her breath. Only a couple of other passengers joined her and soon they were rattling over the track. In less than twenty minutes she was back in Penzance.

They had walked a fair distance that morning but Rose needed air. She started making her way along by the harbour and on to the Promenade then decided to detour, to walk up into the town centre and see Barry. She longed for the honest
solidity of him but recognised that she was using him. On the other hand, over the years he had tried to convince her that that was what friends were for, they were the people to whom you turned when you needed a sympathetic ear. Rose needed one then.

Barry was delighted to see her although he expressed concern for her appearance. ‘You look a bit peaky, woman,’ he said.

Rose smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m fine. Anyway, I decided, as it’s Saturday, I’m going to let you buy me a drink.’

‘How very kind of you.’ Barry thumbed his glasses back into place. There were red indentations on either side of his nose.

Rose waited the forty-odd minutes until he closed the shop and cashed up the till. Outside he locked the door, pushed it to check it was safe, then, after half a dozen paces, turned back to check again. Rose shook her head. He always did it and had once driven from her place in the middle of the evening to double-check because he couldn’t remember having turned the key in the Chubb lock beneath the Yale.

Together they walked up to the London Inn in Causewayhead. Ensconced in the back bar, Rose downed a glass of wine quickly. Her face
burned. It was dark outside but some shops were still open. Through the frosted glass window they saw shapes walking past. ‘I think I’m beginning to feel quite festive,’ Rose said.

Barry studied her face. ‘I don’t think festive’s the right word, Rosie. Do you want me to get you a taxi?’

‘No.’ Suddenly she was serious. ‘I don’t want to go home just yet.’ Never in all the years she had lived in the house had she felt that way. It held nothing but happy memories.

Barry stroked her cheek. It was an avuncular gesture. ‘What is it, Rose?’

‘For one thing I’m a suspect. I had to go back and answer the same questions all over again. Jack thinks I killed Jenny and that other woman.’

‘He thinks no such thing, and you know it. That’s not what’s really bothering you.’

‘No. You’re right. I don’t know what’s got into me. And it hurts to know my friends are under suspicion. I feel I ought to be able to tell if any one of them killed Jenny.’

‘Why should you when the police can’t?’

‘I know. It’s illogical. And there’s Nick.’

‘Ah. Yes. Nick.’ Barry studied the contents of his glass and uncharitably wished he was the guilty party.

‘It’s over, you see. Well, not that much was going on anyway. I won’t be seeing him again.’

Barry’s spontaneous boyish grin left Rose in no doubt how he felt about that piece of news. ‘Can I get you another drink?’ She stood with her own glass in her hand.

Barry noticed the blue dress, the one she had bought to wear out to dinner in London with him. With her flushed face she looked lovely. ‘One more then you’re going home. Order a taxi while you’re at the bar.’

The taxi turned up promptly twenty minutes later. Arriving home she heard the telephone ringing as she unlocked the kitchen door and reached it seconds before the answering machine cut in.

‘It’s me. Nick. I’ve tried several times but I didn’t want to leave a message. I behaved disgracefully today. I hope you can forgive me. About Jenny, it was—’

‘Please, Nick. I don’t want to hear any more about Jenny.’

‘Can I see you tomorrow?’

‘No.’

‘But you’ll still come to Stella’s?’

‘There’s no reason for me not to.’ I can be as evasive as you, she thought.

‘Good. Until then.’

‘Nick, I’d rather you didn’t ring me any more. I don’t need complications in my life at the moment. Goodbye.’ Rose replaced the receiver before he had a chance to argue.

In the morning Rose sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee and nibbling at a piece of toast. It was 23rd December, the day of Stella’s party. The coffee tasted strange and it hurt to swallow. By mid-morning her head was thumping and she felt sore all over. Her limbs felt heavy and it was an effort to stand as she dialled Stella’s number to make her apologies. She was in no state to attend a party. Having swallowed two aspirins and filled a jug with fruit juice, Rose took herself to bed with a hot water bottle. For most of that day and long into the night she sweated out a dose of flu, not caring whether Nick thought it was an excuse to avoid him.

Too weak to do more than sit and read she spent a miserable Christmas Eve. Laura rang and offered to come over and cheer her up but Rose said she preferred to be on her own and the last thing Laura needed was to catch her germs when her whole family was there.

Luckily the bug was short-lived and she awoke
on Christmas morning feeling better. After a leisurely breakfast, accompanied by a giant crossword she had saved for the occasion, she made a couple of telephone calls. Barry was delighted with his penholder and Laura with her ear-rings. ‘It sounds like pandemonium,’ Rose commented. In the background she could hear laughter and male voices and the high-pitched ones of excited children.

‘It is. Must go, someone’s calling me. Thanks, Rose. Happy Christmas,’ Laura said.

At midday she uncorked a bottle of champagne and, an hour later, ate a lunch of smoked salmon and a ready-cooked chicken with salad. It was the sort of simple meal she most enjoyed and involved little effort or washing-up. She finished with ground coffee and a couple of the handmade chocolates Barry had given her. Having guessed what was in the inexpertly wrapped box, she had already opened it. The rest of her presents she saved until after lunch.

From her mother was a beautiful tan shawl threaded with gold, and the usual cheque from her father who was never sure what, to buy his adult daughter. Her parents had always sent separate gifts.

‘I don’t believe it.’ Rose shook her head. Laura had given her ear-rings almost identical to
the ones she had bought for Laura; made of silver filigree with an amber stone, they were the work of a local craftsman. Still, their tastes had always been similar.

With one of her new novels and the last glass of champagne, Rose settled down on the settee. There had been no hardship in spending the day alone. In fact, she had thoroughly enjoyed it.

Maddy Duke spent Boxing Day morning in the few feet which served as her kitchen. She gave a brief thought to the police who would be working over the holidays and realised how other people’s tragedies took second place at such times of the year. With her preparations well advanced and the afternoon to look forward to, it was as if Jenny Manders had never been.

When everything was ready she put on the green velvet dress she had found in a charity shop. It had a lace collar like a child’s party frock but it suited her. She untied her hair and brushed it until it crackled with static then stepped into her lace-up ankle boots and waited nervously for her guests to arrive.

They all seemed to come at the same time but it pleased her to see them mingling and chatting amicably, all suspicions temporarily put on hold.

‘I’m glad you could make it,’ Maddy said to Rose, kissing her cheek. Her eyes glowed with gratitude. Rose Trevelyan had enabled her to express all that she had bottled up for so long. ‘This is Peter Dawson,’ she added with a touch of pride.

‘I admire your work,’ Rose said, which was true, although she preferred representational art over abstract.

‘Thank you. From what I hear you’re no slouch yourself.’ Rose had not known what to expect, but certainly not this sophisticated, urbane man in his mid to late fifties. ‘I have to admit I don’t know your work,’ he added.

You will, Rose thought, but did not say, hoping that Maddy’s interest in Peter would divert her away from Nick who, she suspected, was not the stable person Maddy required.

‘Jenny loved parties,’ Maddy said, blushing because she wished she hadn’t. Now was not the time to bring up her name.

Rose looked up and happened to see Nick across the room engaged in conversation with Stella. He nodded in her direction, his face grim, then, making one last comment, left Stella and approached her. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘Yes, thanks. It was one of those twenty-four hour things.’

‘I didn’t see you there, Rose. You look lovely.’ Stella had joined them.

‘Thank you.’ She had hoped she would not be over-dressed in a velvet skirt and a slinky blouse. Next to Stella, of course, no one would appear to be so. Today the ensemble was a black satin trouser suit enlivened by a chain belt which dipped over her narrow hips and lots of chunky costume jewellery.

‘No wonder you got ill, with all that’s been going on. You were probably run down. And the police. Are they leaving you alone now?’

‘Yes. Why should they be doing otherwise?’

‘Honestly, Rose, it stands to reason. You were the one who led them to that unfortunate girl. Ah, excuse me, I must have a word with someone.’

Rose watched her walk across the room to a couple she did not know. Too late Stella had seen her mistake and knew that Rose had seen it too. ‘Nick, was it you who mentioned my idiotic panicking at the mine to Stella?’ Rose had not doubted that everyone would know eventually but a thought had crossed her mind and she was interested to know exactly when Stella had heard.

‘No. There was no reason to. Why?’

‘I just wondered.’

Maddy had been watching this interaction
with interest. Unable to paint herself, she still had a genuine interest in art and all its forms. And since that embarrassing encounter with Nick and what had followed with Rose, she had begun to see the man she thought she had been in love with in a different light. ‘I hear you’ve finished the engine house. I’d love to see it.’

‘Then you must come over one day.’

‘Really? Thanks.’

Peter Dawson had not moved away. He was fascinated by the two women, who seemed to share some secret understanding.

‘I wonder what it’d look like if you painted it again?’ Maddy continued.

Rose frowned her lack of comprehension.

‘I mean now. After what’s happened. Would it affect your view of the place? I suppose what I’m trying to say is how much of what an artist sees is what’s really there and how much depends on other stimuli?’

It was an interesting point. ‘I think moods can affect the way you work. A scene might well come out differently if you painted it twice; once in a happy frame of mind and again when depressed. It would reflect more in the colours than anything else, I think.’ How would that landscape look, Rose wondered, knowing what I know now?
‘It’s a good idea, Maddy. I just might try it again, although obviously from a different perspective. Perhaps even tomorrow.’ Fully aware of the people who were listening and those who were not, she thought this might be one way to find out what was going on. But it was a good idea. Painted from the opposite side and with the hills in the background instead of the engine house outlined against the sky, it would be completely different. Jack’s words unheeded, Rose did not stop to think that she might be putting herself in danger, that if someone who thought she knew too much was in the room then she would have given them the perfect opportunity to remove her from the scene.

The party was beginning to break up when Rose’s taxi arrived at five. The food had been eaten and enough drink consumed and conversations were beginning to flag. Only the few, like Rose, who had spent a quiet Christmas Day had the stamina to continue. But Rose had had enough socialising and was ready to leave. She thanked Maddy and said her goodbyes.

Climbing into the front seat of the taxi, the better to gossip with the driver, she realised she had been a coward. She had intended to treat Nick normally but all she had done was to avoid him.

Having met the famous, or possibly infamous, Peter Dawson, Rose mentioned this to the driver, who was impressed. ‘I thought he was virtually a hermit,’ he commented.

‘Reclusive, certainly, but he does come out and show his face now and again. In fact, he’s coming to my New Year’s Eve party.’

‘We are moving up in the world. I take it you’re going straight home?’

‘Yes. Didn’t I say?’

‘No. And I’m not a mind reader. Here, did you know the girl who was killed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. I’m sorry, Rose.’

After that there was no more conversation until they reached the bottom of her drive. Rose wished he hadn’t mentioned Jenny.

The house was warm and welcoming and pleasantly quiet after the noise of the party. The light on the answering machine glowed steadily. There were no messages.

Rose kicked off her high-heeled shoes and switched on the television. An hour of viewing which required no thought would be welcome. She sat, her legs tucked beneath her, in the corner of the settee, her eyes on the screen. Later, she was unable to recall the programme that was on. All
she could think about was Jenny and her friends.

Aware that Stella and Daniel, Nick, Maddy and Peter Dawson had all heard her say she intended going out to the mine again, she was not sure if she actually had the nerve to do so. And, more to the point, did she have the nerve to go back to St Ives and ask the questions that were worrying away at the back of her mind?