Martin raised his face. He looked haggard. ‘He came back,’ he said.
‘Who did? Who came back?’
‘The bugger I saw in the pub.’
Jobber’s eyes narrowed. What had Martin been saying to this stranger? ‘Have you told the police, son?’ Jobber, too, had been questioned and was aware that things might not be as straightforward as everyone had initially believed.
‘No.’ Martin got to his feet. His nostrils were pinched and he was white around the mouth. ‘Won’t bring ’er back, will ’un?’
‘No. Nothing’s going to do that. Why don’t us go on down to the house. There’s something I want to ask you.’ He thought Martin looked in need of a strong mug of tea.
Together they negotiated the irregular route back down. The dogs greeted them both in a friendly way and Jobber put the kettle on. They drank the tea black. ‘Are you coping?’ Jobber nodded towards the animals.
‘They’re no trouble. I take ’em out twice a day and feed the cats.’
Jobber leant forward. ‘Martin, do you think I could have Star? I’d look after her proper, like, you can rest assured of that. I’ll even pay you for ’un, if you’ve a mind.’
Martin stared at the greyhound. There was no room for her in his van and if she went to the farm she’d have company. ‘All right. I don’t want no money, though.’
They sipped their tea in silence. Both were men of few words. ‘I should stay here, at the house. He’ll come back again else.’
‘Who is this man you keep on about? If you think he’s trouble you’ve got to tell the police.’ Jobber’s hands shook. If Martin was right he had no need to feel any guilt. He had cried in the belief that he might have driven Dorothy to her death, unaware that he had not been as persistent as he thought, that a lot of it had been in his head.
‘No. I’ll tell Mrs Trevelyan. ’Er’ll know what to do.’
Jobber nodded. Rose Trevelyan was a sensible woman and had been more than a good friend to Dorothy. Good-looking with it, too, he thought. He nodded again and ran a hand around his badly shaved chin. Although he had had few dealings with the police he had an inborn prejudice against them. ‘We could telephone her now.’
‘You do it.’
Jobber glanced at his watch. It was getting on for seven o’clock. Mrs Trevelyan would probably be at home. He found the number in the book beside the telephone and felt a sharp pain in his chest seeing Dorothy’s large, rounded writing. He began speaking before he realised he was talking to a recorded message. ‘Damn things,’ he said, feeling stupid and self-conscious. Clearing his throat he stood straighter as if Rose’s disembodied voice was able to see him. He said that Martin had something important to tell her and asked if she was free to come to Dorothy’s house at ten the next morning. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely at the end of the message. ‘There, all done. That just leaves the problem of Star.’
They loaded half of the tins of dog food and her blanket and basket into the back of the van, then finally Star herself. Martin patted her fondly and watched as Jobber turned around and drove to the end of the lane.
Star whined and fretted and rested her front paws on the back of Jobber’s seat where he had left the dividing window open. He spoke to her soothingly and quietly. Star would settle down in a day or two. Jobber had had many dogs in his life and knew their ways well.
Fred Meecham sat with his head in his hands, his red hair sticking up untidily. The vicar had shown no surprise that his sister’s surname was different from his own, it was known that she had been through a bad marriage. Marigold Heath was the name on her death certificate. No one had yet asked to see this certificate. The woman who had issued it at the register office had needed nothing other than the form from the hospital doctor who had pronounced her to be dead.
Her headstone would be simple, bearing only her name and her dates and his own contribution, ‘always loved’. Fred did not know what to do about her other relatives, or even if they were alive. Time was running out and many things were preying on his mind. Both Marigold and Dorothy would have known what to do but they were no longer in a position to help him.
Jack Pearce was not in the best of moods, which irritated him as much as anyone else. The whole thing was shambolic but he couldn’t blame the officers who had been the first at the scene. Dorothy Pengelly had been an old lady who had died accidentally or deliberately from an overdose. The police surgeon had seen it almost immediately and this had been confirmed by the pathologist. There had been no need for the murder team. He still wasn’t as convinced as Rose that it was anything else and any evidence, if it was evidence, had been destroyed. The paracetamol bottle had disappeared and any container in which the drug had been administered would have been washed up. They could still fingerprint the place but what would that show? Martin and Rose had keys, old prints were likely to have been disturbed or smudged and they only had Rose’s say-so on who might have been in the house.
Was there a will? Was money the motive? If there has been a crime, Jack reminded himself. If Dorothy was intestate both sons would inherit equally, if there was a will it might be a different matter but murdering her would not alter its contents. If one or other son stood to gain little he would want her alive in order to have a chance of persuading her to change it. But the reverse was also true. Supposing Dorothy had left everything to one son but had been about to change her own mind? And where was the painting? One of her children must have it. He shook his head in exasperation. Here, too, was information based only on Rose’s opinion. Jack warned himself to be careful. He must not let his professional judgement be clouded because he trusted the instincts of Rose Trevelyan.
Interviewing the family had been a waste of time. No one had a decent alibi but why should they have if they were innocent? Peter and Gwen claimed to have been together watching television all evening and had gone to bed around eleven. With two small children this was more than likely true. Martin said he had been alone, in his van. Either he was totally honest or he knew they would not be able to prove otherwise.
Jobber Hicks and Fred Meecham, apparently Dorothy’s only other friends, had also been questioned. Meecham’s sister had just died and he was understandably too upset to be of much help. Jobber, Jack knew from Rose, was Dorothy’s ardent admirer and he could see no reason why he should wish her dead.
I’m wasting my time, he thought as the day drew to a close. The old lady decided she had had enough of life. It’s as simple as that.
Three times during the evening he dialled Rose’s number only to get the answering machine. He could have left a message but what he really wanted was to speak to her in person. Strange that she should be avoiding him, unless she knew something she didn’t want him to know just yet. That wouldn’t surprise him at all. But he was unaware that Rose was spending the evening in the company of Barry Rowe, the man whom he considered to be his rival.
Fred Meecham was trying desperately hard to get on with the everyday running of his shop. It was a delivery day and, at least for the morning, the added work helped take his mind off Marigold. He checked the forms against what he had ordered then unpacked the goods and re-stacked the shelves although this was usually the job of one of his part-time assistants. Beneath his red hair his face was whiter than usual. He realised that these were still early days, that at some unspecified point in the future he would come to terms with it all and live normally again. For now his grief and anger were eating away at him.
When customers spoke he answered them as best he could, aware of the glances which passed between them and the assistant behind me counter.
Life had dealt him two harsh blows where women were concerned, first the departure of his wife with the young sales rep and now Marigold. On top of this his son was an ingrate, unappreciative of the sacrifices Fred had made for him. He had not seen him for years now and Fred was not sorry.
He had always stuck to the rules, done things by the book, and it had got him nowhere. During those first ye
ars with his ex-wife he had borne with stoicism the endless rows and her avarice, never resorting to violence or taking consolation elsewhere. She had repaid him by moving out and leaving their son behind. That son, too, had gone.
Abandoned now for the third time Fred went through the motions. He collected up the empty cardboard boxes and took them out to the back where he would later burn them. He needed some air and to spend a few minutes away from the shop. Pounding away in his head was the idea that he had deserved all he had got, but there had only been two aberrations in his life. One had given him immeasurable pleasure, the second nothing but a fleeting minute’s joy followed by a hopeless rage.
He returned to the shop, picked up a price gun and began marking tins of corned beef.
Biting her lip, Rose tried unsuccessfully to arrange her hair in a neat roll at the back of her head. She claimed she kept it shoulder-length because there was so much more she could do with it, something about which Laura teased her. ‘You’ve either got it loose or in a pony-tail,’ she said. But Laura wasn’t there to admire her effort when she finally got it right.
It was not so much her hair which bothered her at that moment but herself. She was sometimes gregarious and other people’s lives and personalities fascinated her but, like Martin Pengelly, she required stretches of isolation. This was one of the reasons she had not been able to make a commitment to Jack and she recognised it as a fault. She had known she would not mourn for ever and had enough insight to see that she had used Jack as the first stage in her recovery. Laura had it both ways. Trevor, at home to enjoy and fuss over, then periods of a week or ten days when he was at sea. And now, when she needed some breathing space, she would not allow herself any because she was worried sick about Martin. Yet her feelings were ambiguous. One minute she wanted to protect him, the next to put as much distance between them as possible. She was, as Barry would have pointed out, becoming too involved. Martin worried her in various ways but Jobber would be there too.
It had rained overnight and the road was still damp. The clouds, a curving canopy of grey, domed over the sea. The salvage tug which came and went was once more anchored in the bay after refuelling in Falmouth. It pitched and tossed on white-capped waves.
The Mini was buffeted as she picked up speed on the main road and the canvas cover of a high-sided lorry flapped noisily as it passed her going in the opposite direction. Knowing flocks of gulls drifted inland and took refuge in the fields.
The blank windows of Dorothy’s house reflected the car as she drew up in front of it. Jobber’s old van was already there, parked on the grass to allow her room.
He appeared at the side of the building as she stepped out into the blustery morning. ‘We’ve made the tea,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘I’m glad you could make it, Mrs Trevelyan. Martin’s in a bit of a state.’
She followed him around to the back door, neither of them wishing to presume to use the front one. The wind whipped at her clothes as they turned the corner.
Martin was sitting at the kitchen table. He seemed to have shrunk further and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Despite his spartan living conditions he kept himself clean and tidy. He wore jeans and shirt and a V-necked jumper and his durable boots. His brown hair was neatly combed. ‘Where’s Star?’ Rose asked, surprised to see that the space her basket usually occupied was empty.
‘I’ve taken her. She’s a bit restless, but she’ll soon get used to the place. I didn’t bring ’un this morning, though, it’d only confuse her.’
It was Jobber who poured Rose’s treacle-coloured tea, adding milk which he had brought from the farm. She waited, wondering which one of them would be the first to speak. Martin’s eyes were dull, his expression flat as he stared at the mug in front of him. ‘Martin? Was there something you wanted to tell me?’ she asked, half expecting another admission.
He finally looked up but remained silent. Jobber nudged him. ‘Go on, tell her, tell Mrs Trevelyan.’
‘They’re back. The two men I told you about. One of them was hanging around outside the house. He didn’t know I was about. I told ’un, I said if I ever caught him here again I’d kill him.’ Some colour had returned to his face. ‘I nearly hit him.’ He picked up his mug and drank deeply.
‘Who are these men?’ Rose looked at Jobber who raised his shoulders to show he knew no more than she did.
‘I met them down Hayle. In the pub. We had some drinks.’ Martin’s face darkened further as he recalled just how many drinks and how he had been foolish enough to let one of the men pay for some of them. ‘We got talking. I said … I said Mum had some nice stuff an’ he told me he went round buying off people.’ He stopped, ashamed that the drinks had made him boastful. ‘If I hadn’t said that, they wouldn’t have killed her.’ He bowed his head and Rose finally understood what had been troubling him.
‘Do you think they were con men, Martin? Do you think they came here and frightened your mother?’
‘Yeah. Something like that, I suppose.’
‘Mrs Trevelyan?’ Jobber had seen the look of horror on Rose’s face. She was thinking about the Stanhope Forbes and what men like that might do to get hold of one. Realising his incomprehension she explained to Jobber about the painting.
‘Dorothy owned one?’
Martin was watching them both. He had no idea why they were making such a fuss over one of Dorothy’s pictures. It had hung on the wall ever since he could remember and, as far as he knew, no one had commented on it, least of all his mother. And if it was worth so much money, why hang it in the bedroom where only she could see it? Martin had known about the bits of china but he had been unaware that paintings could be expensive. Of course, Mrs Trevelyan would know because she was clever in that way.
‘But there’s a reproduction hanging in its place now,’ Rose concluded. There was no reason why Jobber should have known, Dorothy was not a boastful woman.
‘I knew she had some valuable paintings, but she never mentioned no names. Did you tell the police, Mrs Trevelyan?’
‘Yes. I had to. Martin hadn’t realised because he never went in that room.’
‘Don’t matter now, boy, we’ve got to tell the police.’
‘I already did, the first time. I told ’un I thought I’d spoke out of turn because they were strangers.’
Rose frowned. She did not know they had been to see Martin at all. But she saw why he was upset. He believed himself responsible for bringing the men to the house in the first place, if that was what had happened. It was all conjecture, of course – they may not have been near the place and if they had, they may have left Dorothy in perfect health. She was beginning to wonder if she had made a terrible mistake only because she didn’t want to believe it of Dorothy. But Rose still couldn’t help asking, ‘Did you tell these men where the house was?’
His blush answered the question. Rose met Jobber’s eyes and each knew what the other was thinking. ‘And you saw one of them again. When was that?’
‘Yesterday. That’s when I threatened ’im.’
It was puzzling. If someone had cheated Dorothy and, in the process, felt the need to silence her, it was unlikely that they would return. ‘Martin, when did they come? The first time, I mean?’
‘I don’t know. I never saw them then.’
‘Look, we have to be very careful. If you didn’t see them, yesterday might’ve been the first visit. The man would have no reason to know that …’ She stopped. There was no point in making things harder for Martin.
‘Could be. Could be that he came back for more of what wasn’t ’is.’
Martin had a point. ‘Would you know them again, boy?’
‘Course I would.’ He gave Jobber a strange look. He wasn’t daft. But he did not realise that Jobber had had an idea.
‘He says they’re not local, so if they’re not from round here and he met them in the pub and now they seem to be back again, well, you can see how the land might lie.’
Rose thought she was foll
owing what Jobber was getting at. ‘You think they might be staying at the same place in which case we could find them?’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking, Mrs Trevelyan.’ He sucked his unlit pipe.
‘Oh, Jobber, please call me Rose.’
‘An’ as pretty as one too, to my eyes.’
Rose was more flattered than she would have been had another male offered her the banal compliment. Jobber did not waste words on things he did not mean. ‘Thank you. Look, why don’t we meet later, say about six, and see if Martin can point them out to us.’ Rose swallowed the guilt she felt knowing that she ought to have told Jack about the men even if they had been a figment of Martin’s imagination. I will, she promised, later this evening.
They arranged to meet at Jobber’s farm. Rose would collect the two of them there as the van only had the two seats in the front.
‘And that’ll give Martin a chance to take a look at Star. Here, why don’t you come a bit earlier, boy, and have a bite of supper with me?’
Martin said he would and Rose was touched by the older man’s concern. ‘What’s going to happen to George?’
‘Well, now, I’ve had an idea or two about that, too,’ Jobber replied but refused to expand upon it. The Jack Russell growled as if he was aware he was under discussion but since Dorothy’s death and now the disappearance of Star some of his aggression had left him. The dog was the most unlovable pet Rose had come across but the cats were even worse. They were almost feral and hissed and spat if anyone but Dorothy went near them.
No further words were exchanged as they each went their separate ways. Rose wondered when she would hear from Jack and how much she would tell him if he rang before she left home again that evening.
Several hardy souls were battling their way across the Promenade, heading into the wind on the raised pavement opposite the Mount’s Bay Inn. Their lightweight jackets billowed around them. If the wind was coming from the west there was a chance of more rain but she would be home long before it started.
Framed in Cornwall Page 11