Plotted in Cornwall (15 page)

However, Louisa arrived promptly at nine twenty-five. Unlike her sister she came to the front of the house, shaking rain from her coat as Rose tugged at the swollen door. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ Louisa said as she followed Rose into the sitting-room.

‘Coffee?’ she asked, thinking she was
seeing a fair amount of the whole family recently.

‘If it’s no trouble.’

Prepared in advance, the pot was full. Rose laid out some biscuits and carried the tray across the hallway. Louisa, like everyone who came to the house, stood in the window admiring the view. ‘I miss it,’ she said, turning to Rose. ‘I didn’t realise how much a part of me it was. Still, I love the new house and I don’t regret moving. It’s so unbelievably peaceful.’

Rose said nothing. She would allow a few minutes of small talk then ask why she was really there.

‘I’ll get to the point, Rose. I feel I owe you an explanation regarding the portrait. Miranda had gone, we didn’t know where. We both love her, Wendy and I, we love her very much. I had no idea she’d come home as she did, no idea why she left, really, other than what she said in her note. She obviously wasn’t as happy at home as I’d always believed. We wanted it done for her, we were going to leave it to her, something to remember us by. When she came home it no longer seemed important, not when she was there in the flesh. It might sound odd to you, in fact, I’m sure it does, but that’s the truth.’

Partly, Rose thought, but not all of it. She leaned over to pour the coffee and handed a cup to Louisa. ‘Why not finish it anyway?’

‘Maybe, maybe sometime in the future. Things have changed, you see.’

‘I want you to know I didn’t deliberately become involved with your family. As I told you before, it was pure coincidence that I met Joel and, consequently, his parents. And Miranda came to me, I didn’t seek her out.’

‘I know that, she told me. What did she want to speak to you about?’

‘About Joel.’

‘Not about her father?’

‘No, not initially. That subject only came up on Saturday. She was worried, she still can’t understand why he left.’

‘No, but Miranda didn’t know him as I did. They rubbed along together, but Frank loved her more than she did him. She would never allow herself to get to know him properly. For all his faults he had a good side. He was an exciting man to be with, he always made you feel alive. He took risks.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe he took one too many.’

The past tense, Rose thought. Was it relevant or simply a figure of speech because she hadn’t seen him for such a long
time? ‘What sort of risks?’

‘Financial ones. Sometimes they paid off, latterly they didn’t. The police seem to think something may have happened to him.’

‘Do you?’

‘I don’t know what to think, Rose. Perhaps he was in deeper than I thought and he killed himself.’ She shook her head. ‘No. I just can’t see Frank doing that, he wasn’t the type.’

There was no type, as Louisa put it. Many families believed suicide was out of the question when people they knew had taken their own lives. It was a possibility. But if so, why were the women so unprepared to be honest? Why hadn’t anyone made a fuss at the time?

‘And now, all this, with the police.’ Louisa pulled a tissue from her handbag and wiped her eyes. The bag was open on the floor. A stamped envelope caught Rose’s eye. ‘If only he’d written, or left a note. You probably think I was callous not going to the police at the time, but there hasn’t been a day when I’ve not hoped to hear something. I’ve always loved that man, I still do.’

‘What would’ve happened if he had come back and found Wendy living with you?’

‘I’d have asked her to leave. Frank would
never have put up with that.’

Rose poured more coffee. Nothing the woman said rang true. Why allow her sister to move in so quickly when she may have had to ask her to leave again? It was hardly fair on Wendy who, she assumed, was unaware of what her fate would have been.

Louisa accepted her refilled cup. ‘Thank you. What I can’t understand is why the police are interested now. They didn’t bother when Roger initially contacted them, any more than they did about Miranda.’

Whom you didn’t report missing either, Rose thought. I wonder why that was, when you claim she was a much-beloved daughter. ‘Louisa, we seem to be covering old ground here. Was there anything in particular you wanted to tell or ask me?’

‘Now that I’m here, I don’t know. I just had a feeling you could help me, put my mind at rest somehow. I think Miranda believed that, too.’

And in a way I did. We broke into the lock-up and found Frank Jordan’s holdall. ‘What did Wendy think of Frank?’

Louisa looked up, startled by the question. ‘Oh, they got on reasonably well. Frank always considered her to be a bit stuffy. She considered him to be – well, larger than life,
I suppose. She felt he didn’t treat me well, but she knew nothing of our marriage. Frank may have lived the life of a playboy, if that term is still in use, but he always came back to me. I always believed it was me he loved.’

‘Even more of a reason for reporting him missing, I would’ve thought.’ Rose was thinking aloud but she heard Louisa’s slight gasp.

‘I think I’d better go now. I just hope all this blows over quickly. I’ve got Miranda back, I daren’t dream that Frank might return. If he did we might all have a chance of being happy again.’ She picked up her bag.

Rose handed her her coat which she had draped over a chair near the fire. She’s told me nothing, she thought as she showed her out. I have no idea why she came here. Unless it was to find out how much I know. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘I hope you have a good Christmas.’

‘Thank you. You, too.’

Rose closed the door and stood in the hall for several minutes. Louisa Jordan had gone out of her way to convince Rose that her marriage had been happy. But why unless she really had killed him? I’ll think about it
later. I’ll prepare the evening meal and then I’ll think about the reason she might have had that letter in her bag. ‘If only he’d written’ Louisa had said. Well, maybe he had.

Louisa was driving too fast. Easing her foot off the accelerator, she rotated her neck to relieve the tension. It had been a mistake to visit the Trevelyan woman. She had hoped to learn what Miranda and Joel had said to her, to learn of their suspicions, for she was sure they existed. But she had probably only aroused Rose’s curiosity further.

The future she dreamed of lay ahead of her but her plans had been put on hold until after Christmas. Louisa wanted to meet Michael to discover if he and Miranda had a chance of making a go of it. She also wanted to see if her daughter had any plans to take up her university place. It wasn’t too late, Louisa had already made inquiries. She sighed. And there was Wendy to contend with. There would be a scene, it was only to
be expected. In retrospect she realised that loneliness was the reason she had agreed to Wendy’s suggestion that she join her at the house. Loneliness, and a fear that she might have been deceived. The arrangement had worked although Louisa became uncomfortable with it after the first few months.

Miranda had returned the previous evening with no excuses as to why she hadn’t telephoned to let them know she’d be late. She had been subdued until Louisa had reassured her that she knew where she had been and what had taken place. ‘The police spoke to us too,’ she had said. ‘A man named Inspector Pearce. It was concerning your father’s boat.’

‘We met him. Joel and I,’ Miranda had responded. Louisa had noticed the slight hesitation before mentioning her cousin’s name. ‘He’s a friend of Rose’s.’

He would be, Louisa thought as she turned into the lane which led to the house. It was still muddy and shallow puddles filled the ruts. The dirty water splashed the sides of the car as she drove through them. But the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. She would take a walk, get Miranda to go with her and hopefully persuade Wendy to stay at home. She had hardly left them
alone for a second. With a look of determination on her face she entered the house. Rose Trevelyan was not the only one with a stubborn streak.

Rose’s parents arrived just before four o’clock. It was not dark but it soon would be, although the shortest day had passed. Half-way through their journey the rain had cleared. They had followed the setting sun westwards, the sky altering colour dramatically. From a pale blue with banks of cloud it was suddenly lit with orange fingers which turned the clouds pink and then purple with the first signs of dusk. Now, as they stood in Rose’s drive, the purple was deepening and lights began to come on throughout the village below them.

Evelyn and Arthur Forbes were delighted to see their daughter, their only child. They were a small family and Rose would be the last in the line. They each hugged her in turn. ‘You look tired, Rose,’ Evelyn said as they stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. ‘I hope you haven’t been overdoing things on our behalf. We told you we’d settle for a quiet Christmas.’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Rose smiled. She was weary. There had been the buffet and the
Christmas dinner to organise coupled with her concern over Miranda and her peculiar family. Curiosity could be quite tiring. And Jack. Mostly it was Jack, of course. ‘Heavens, what on earth’s in there?’

Arthur was placing a large cardboard box on the table. His battered trilby was at an angle on his head. Rose wondered once more whether he would be able to bear to part with it.

‘Presents, and one or two other goodies. You have a rummage while we go and unpack.’ He picked up the small bag which contained their things.

Rose put the kettle on then lifted out several perfectly wrapped packages with her name on. She could not guess at their contents. There was another small one for Laura and one for Barry. How thoughtful they are, Rose was thinking. Tonight she and her mother would decorate the small fir tree she had bought to stand in the bay of the window. It was a family tradition that it was left until the 23
^rd
although, since David’s death, Rose had rarely bothered with a tree. The presents would go under it.

‘Very nice,’ she said to herself as she removed bottles of port and brandy and one of lovage. There was also a ripe Stilton and
a large box of chocolates. Rose began to feel in more of a festive mood. Every year it seemed harder to get into the spirit of Christmas. For no reason at all a particular scene came into her head, one she was sure she had noticed recently. ‘Yes, that’s it. Bodmin Moor.’

‘Pardon?’ Her father stood in the doorway scratching his head where his hatband had left a mark.

‘My next masterpiece. I’ve just decided where to set it.’

‘Ah.’ And there would be a very good reason for that. Arthur wondered what relevance Bodmin Moor had to her present life. He was sure he would find out even if he had to ask Jack Pearce.

Rose was making them tea when her mother joined them. She had changed her clothes and brushed her hair. Yes, it was a good idea. The moor wasn’t all bleak. There were areas where trees grew and wild flowers bloomed in the spring. Maybe she would find a farmhouse, not Louisa’s, and use it as the focal point. Maybe she could find one where, from a distance, it was framed by the branches of trees with wilder scenery, maybe an outcrop of rocks, as the backdrop. If I can bear the cold I could start
in the New Year when there might be snow on the higher ground. What contrasts of colour I could capture if I was blessed by a bright blue winter sky, she thought as she placed the sugar bowl on the tray.

Evelyn and Arthur followed their daughter into the sitting-room where she had lit a fire. As Rose bent to pour the tea her father thought anew how much his daughter resembled his wife even though Evelyn’s hair had lost much of its vibrant colour and was threaded liberally with grey which she made no attempt to conceal. It fell just below her ears and was held back with a velvet band, a style she had not altered for years. It suited her and somehow managed not to appear dated. Arthur hid a smile as he wondered how the two women viewed him.

Without meaning to, Rose began to explain about the two sisters and Joel and his family ‘His parents are away at the moment otherwise I’d have got them more involved and got myself out of it all.’

Highly unlikely, Arthur thought, but did not say. He caught his wife’s eye and winked. Jack’ll sort her out, he thought. But it was Evelyn who brought up his name. ‘And what does Jack have to say about all this?’

‘Ah, yes. Jack. I think you ought to know that he’s found himself a woman. Her name’s Anna. I haven’t met her yet, but he’s bringing her along tomorrow.’

Evelyn bit her lip. She was extremely disappointed. Jack had seemed ideal for Rose, the perfect counterfoil to her temperament. But Rose was stubborn and it was no use interfering. And if she was heartbroken she was hiding it well. Evelyn looked at her over the rim of her teacup. Rose’s hand shook only a little as she replaced her cup on its saucer. So that’s how the land lies. She is upset but she refuses to admit it. It was time to change the subject. ‘Shall we have a walk before dinner?’

‘That’s a very good idea. I haven’t been out of the house all day.’ It already seemed as if Louisa’s early morning visit had taken place in a different era. ‘Unless you want any more tea, why don’t we set off now?’

‘No, we’re fine. Would you get my coat, please, Arthur?’

He hoisted himself out of his chair. He would have been content to sit there and read the
Cornishman
, the local weekly paper, while the two women caught up on gossip. But he had been in the car for many hours, the walk would do him good.

When they were ready Rose locked up and they left the house. ‘Which way?’ she asked as they made their way down the drive.

‘Towards Mousehole, I think,’ Evelyn decided. ‘We can have a pre-dinner drink at the … my word, look at all the traffic.’ A steady stream of cars was headed towards Mousehole and quite a lot were travelling in the opposite direction towards Newlyn.

‘How stupid of me,’ Rose said. ‘I’ve been so busy, I’d forgotten. We’ll walk there by all means, but we’ll never get served. It’s Tom Bowcock’s night.’

‘Of course it is.’ Evelyn knew the story well. Each year on 23
^rd
December the Ship Inn provided enormous star-gazey pies in remembrance of Tom who, many years before, had braved the raging seas in order to catch fish to save the village from starvation and had succeeded. ‘And the lights, as well.’

‘Well, we always like to look at them if we’re here at Christmas,’ Arthur added, although that had only been on a couple of occasions. Coachloads came from far and wide to see them. Some were set high in the hills, others lined the harbour walls, some floated on the water when the tide was in and sat on the sand when it wasn’t.

They set off along the narrow footpath, sometimes walking in single file, but not often since the new cycle path had been built. There were other people on foot. Parking was always difficult, tonight it would probably be impossible.

‘Oh, look, Arthur.’ Evelyn had stopped to look at the bay. It was a clear night and the moon was nearly three-quarters full. Its reflection shimmered in the sea. Below, to the left, the Newlyn Christmas lights could be seen. Ahead, the bulk of St Michael’s Mount protruded starkly from the bay and was dimly outlined against the coastline behind it. It was a magical sight. ‘It’s always so beautiful, no matter when you look at it,’ Evelyn commented.

‘I know.’ Rose was keenly aware that she would never be able to live happily anywhere else. They continued on their way in silence.

It was a clear but not cold night, not even chilly enough for Evelyn to have brought her gloves, and, as they walked, they became warmer still. Within twenty-five minutes they had reached their destination. Rose could have made it in less time but her parents, although both still highly active, had slowed down a little.

People were milling around the harbour walls of the quaint village and many of the small craft shops were open. Flashbulbs popped and video cameras whirred. Noise and laughter spilled out of the Ship and customers stood drinking on the narrow road because there were no pavements. ‘It’s busier than on a summer’s day,’ Arthur commented as he stepped out of the way of a group of people. Evelyn didn’t hear him; she was watching a couple of cars trying to manoeuvre their way around the hairpin bend between pedestrians. How the local buses coped was beyond her. She had seen them reverse up and back and swing around the corner for their return trip to Penzance without mishap.

‘If you fancy a drink we could try the Coastguards,’ Rose suggested. They had passed it before their descent into the village. It was a large pub with a view of the bay and St Clement’s Island from the recently added conservatory. It would be very busy from the overspill but they’d have more chance of finding a space at the bar and getting served.

They made their way back up the hill via tiny alleyways lined with picturesque cottages outside which were pots of plants,
some still in bloom. As lovely as it was Rose had no desire to live in Mousehole. She disliked crowds and too many outsiders had now moved in. Newlyn was a proper working village where the fishermen still fished and the fish market operated.

Once inside the pub Arthur managed to squeeze to the bar where he ordered their drinks. Rose waved to some people she knew but there was no chance of speaking to them, not without shoving through the crowd. ‘If you want another we’ll have it in the Star,’ Rose said. ‘There’s a bus in ten minutes, it’ll drop us right outside if we ask the driver.’

‘Suits me,’ Arthur said as he swallowed the last of his pint.

The bus passed them on its way down to the village as they waited to cross the road. Minutes later it reappeared and they got on, along with several other people. Cars lined one side of the road way beyond the boundary of Mousehole and more people were walking towards the lights. Newlyn would be empty by comparison.

‘Whatever’s that?’ Evelyn asked, pointing out of the window of the bus. A brightly painted, strange-looking vessel had moored in the bay.

Rose peered across in front of her mother. ‘It’s a lightship,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘It won’t be much of a Christmas for the crew.’ But yours will be one of the best, she decided, Jack or no Jack.

The bus trundled down past Rose’s house and on towards Newlyn. Once they reached the Strand Rose stood and spoke to the driver who obliged by pulling in directly outside the Star. Inside it was quieter than usual but there were several locals who were known to Rose and who recognised her parents. They chatted to some of them. Rose glanced at her watch. It was almost seven. It was time to go, there was the tree to see to, the meal to cook and tomorrow would be busier still. She half regretted having organised the party with Christmas Day to follow. A couple of the fishermen shook hands with Arthur and Evelyn as they left.

They took it slowly back up the hill. Arthur watched television while Rose and Evelyn decorated the tree. It didn’t take long, it was only three feet tall. Rose then cooked their meal. Evelyn’s offer to help was refused. ‘It’s all ready, it won’t take me long, but you can lay the table if you like.’

‘Rose, about Jack.’ Evelyn stood with a
handful of cutlery. The walk had brought colour to her naturally pale complexion. In checked wool trousers, a thick cream shirt and a matching knitted jacket she looked elegant and younger than her years.

‘What about him?’ Rose prodded the vegetables. The plates were already warming in the bottom of the oven. She didn’t want to turn around.

‘Do you miss him?’

The monkfish was cut into strips. Rose put it into the olive oil and butter she had heated and quickly forked it over until it was opaque on all sides. She turned up the heat and added a good dash of Pernod which sizzled as it hit the pan. Its liquorice aroma filled the room. ‘Yes, I do, actually,’ she replied, keeping her back towards her mother.

‘But you asked him to come tomorrow?’

‘I couldn’t not. It would have seemed churlish.’

Or shown him how much you minded, Evelyn thought. ‘And you say you don’t know this Anna?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry, love, if you’d rather not talk about it.’