Betrayed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Etta Chynoweth knew that Sarah spent too much time with her friends Amy and Roz. She did not like or trust them and she suspected they made her daughter deceitful. She blushed with shame at her hypocrisy. Was she being any less deceitful? However, on some pretext she had rung Amy’s mother that evening and was relieved to hear that Sarah was where she had said she would be, spending the night at their house.

  The guests had gone to bed quite early. The combination of sunshine, sea air and long walks ensured they slept well. Many of them were unused to being out of doors all day. At eleven Etta went up. Joe had gone to meet Sue and did not know what time he would be home. It was nice of Rose to have included him in her invitation. Joe would certainly go, even if Sarah didn’t.

  Etta locked the front door but left the back one unbolted so Joe could let himself in with his Yale key. Tired herself, she did not hear anything until her alarm went off at six thirty. Etta hated rushing. She liked to shower and make the bed before going down to prepare the breakfasts which she served from eight until nine.

  That morning the house was unnaturally quiet. But Sarah was out and Joe, up in the attic, would be sleeping soundly if he had had a late night.

  The early morning routine complete, Etta wished her guests a pleasant day as they set off to various destinations, one lot to St Ives, the other further afield to walk part of the South-West Way.

  ‘Damn,’ she swore. The doorbell had rung just as she sat down with a mug of tea.

  Immediately she saw the dark shapes through the ridged glass of the front door Etta knew it meant trouble. She ought to have tried harder to discourage Sarah from seeing Amy and Roz. It was too late now. She knew she must have been right, her daughter was somehow involved with drugs. She might be excluded from school, the future she was working so hard towards ruined.

  ‘Mrs Chynoweth?’ the female WPC asked gently. Etta nodded. ‘May we come in? I’m afraid there’s bad news.’

  Weak-kneed, she led them into the front room where her legs gave way completely. She sat on the edge of the settee with her hands resting loosely in her lap. She was numb: ashamed of her daughter, disgusted with herself for not having done anything about it.

  When the male police officer coughed and told her that they were very sorry but there had been an accident, a fatal one, she took the news calmly, unable to accept that it was Joe who was dead. Even when they informed her of the probable cause of death she remained silent. The only words which ran through her head continuously were ‘Not Joe, not my Joe.’ How little she had known her son if this was the case. Her grief was so intense it paralysed her mind as well as her body. ‘A man walking his dog found him early this morning.’

  Etta seemed not to hear. ‘Where’s Sue?’ she asked. ‘Susan Veal, his girlfriend? They were together last night.’ But were they? There were so many doubts now. But he had been smiling when he left her last night, smiling at the thought of seeing Sue. Etta had not even known that he had not returned, that his bed had not been slept in. What kind of a mother would they believe her to be?

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Chynoweth, we’ll send someone to see her. There’ll have to be a post-mortem.’ The WPC coughed nervously before continuing. ‘I think it’s only fair to warn you that your son was in possession of heroin. We believe that he slipped.’ She did not add that there were scuff marks and broken branches where Joe Chynoweth had desperately tried to save himself from falling.

  ‘Where did it happen?’ Etta was not sure why it mattered, but it was something to cling on to, to keep her temporarily sane.

  ‘Between Newlyn and Mousehole, near where the quarry used to be.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why was he there? Sue lives in Penzance. Joe said they were going out for a meal. Has anyone told her?’

  They made a note of Sue’s address and promised that the news would be broken to her before she heard it via the media. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own, Mrs Chynoweth?’

  ‘Yes. My daughter will be home soon and I’ve got guests staying. I won’t be alone.’ But she would have liked to have been. More than anything she wanted to sit by herself and grieve. But no tears came, she was filled with a deadness which weighed her down. For the moment there was the problem of telling Sarah: despite her flippant attitude towards him, she had loved her half-brother deeply.

  The police had already gone when Sarah arrived back from Amy’s house. It was left to Etta to break the news.

  White-faced, Sarah stared at her mother. ‘You’re lying, I know you’re lying. Joe isn’t dead. He can’t be.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah.’ Etta reached out and stroked her head. It was that gesture which told Sarah it was the truth. She started to scream, her hands over her ears. Etta did not know whether this was to shut out the reality or the sound of her own hysterical voice.

  Somehow they had to pass the time until their guests came back to change for the evening. Etta did not provide an evening meal. She would have to explain to four comparative strangers that her son had died and that it was impossible for them to continue their holiday with her. Naturally, she would refund all of their money and ring around to find alternative accommodation for them.

  She and Sarah sat side by side, holding hands but rarely speaking. It was Sarah who made the tea that neither of them bothered to drink. After this evening there would be no one in the house except herself and her daughter. The next guests were not due to arrive for another eight days, the day following the end of what should have been her present guests’ two-week holiday. It was time enough in which to cancel those bookings.

  It was hot outside. The scent of the flowers in the tubs at the back wafted in through the kitchen door. They smelt sickly and made Etta nauseous. ‘Sarah, I need to talk to you. There’s just us now and I have to know, did you have any idea Joe was taking drugs?’ Sarah shook her head and mumbled something unintelligible. ‘Please talk to me. I have to know. Was he unhappy or worried about anything?’

  ‘No. Don’t ask me all these questions, I can’t bear it,’ Sarah sobbed. ‘He was my brother and he’s dead. He’d never take drugs, he hated them. What does it matter any more? What does anything matter any more?’

  In a way she’s right, Etta thought. Nothing would bring him back. ‘It’s all right, love. I didn’t mean to upset you. Shall I make us some coffee?’ The idea of food sickened her but she supposed she would eventually have to eat if only to encourage Sarah to do so. As she cut bread for a sandwich she wondered if her daughter would be questioned and, if so, how she would stand up to it. Etta swayed dizzily.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘It’s all right, love. I’m all right.’ But she wasn’t. The room kept spinning wildly. The knife slipped and nicked her finger. Only when a drop of blood welled up and formed a perfect oval did her tears follow suit as they rolled down her face. Etta rested her hands on the table-top and cried as though she would never stop.

  ‘Now, what shall we do until this evening?’ Rose said as she placed hot toast in front of her parents.

  ‘What would you normally be doing?’ Arthur asked, planting a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Working. Either painting or sketching or planning.’

  ‘Then I’ll take your mother out somewhere and we’ll meet you later.’

  ‘Good God, what for? You asked what I’d normally be doing. This is different, I want to enjoy every minute of your company. And I’m entitled to a holiday as well, you know.’

  Arthur Forbes grinned widely. ‘I’d hoped you’d say that. But your mother primed me. She knows how dedicated you are and insisted that we didn’t interfere with your time.’

  ‘Then she doesn’t know me that well because it’s all too easy to distract me.’ Other people’s problems especially distracted her, she realised, such as whatever it was that was troubling Sarah.

  Arthur decided he would dead-head the roses whilst the women washed up.

  ‘That’s just so typical of your father. If I asked him to do that he’d have something
more important to do. He’s only volunteered in case he was asked to dry up.’

  But he redeemed himself by offering to take them over to Carbis Bay. There they spent the day doing all the things that tourists did. They lay on towels on the powdery white sand which was hot enough to burn the soles of their feet. When Evelyn’s shoulders began to turn pink they packed up and went to buy ice-creams which they ate sitting on the car-park wall. Then they sipped cold beer on the terrace of the hotel which sat proudly overlooking the sea before they returned to Newlyn.

  ‘That was a lovely day,’ Evelyn said as they were getting out of the car. ‘I love the smell of the sun on my skin.’

  Rose smiled because so did she, although there was no way in which to describe that salty, fleshy warm aroma. ‘Who wants the bathroom first?’ she asked, glancing at her watch. They had arrived back far later than she had anticipated.

  ‘You do. You’re the star tonight,’ her mother insisted. ‘Take as long as you want. We can be ready in a moment.’

  ‘My God!’ Arthur said when Rose reappeared half an hour later. ‘This surely isn’t my daughter? You look wonderful.’

  Rose giggled. Knowing what he meant, she was not offended. The outfit she was wearing she had bought on the day Geoff Carter told her that he was willing to show her work. She had worn it only once before, on that same night when she had taken Barry Rowe out to dinner to celebrate. She had promised herself not to wear it again until the evening of the exhibition itself. It was by far the most expensive outfit in her wardrobe. Over a shimmering calf-length cream dress she wore a cream lace jacket. Her shoes were satin with ankle straps and she carried a matching handbag. She joined her parents in the kitchen where the radio was playing but being ignored.

  ‘You look stunning,’ Evelyn said, stroking Rose’s hair which hung damply round her shoulders but had already started to dry.

  ‘Who’ll want to look at your paintings when they can look at you?’ Arthur said wistfully.

  ‘Honestly, Dad. You do exaggerate at times. But thank you. Shh. Listen a minute.’ Something the newscaster was saying caught her attention.

  ‘The body of a man was found this morning above the shoreline between Newlyn and Mousehole. The police have not yet issued a statement but it is believed that he fell to his death,’ the voice continued.

  ‘Oh, no. How awful,’ Evelyn said. ‘And it’s so close to us.’

  Rose nodded. ‘It happens more often than you’d believe. Tourists don’t understand the dangers of coastal walks.’ But it seemed odd. Parts of the road were fenced and it had not been raining to make the narrow paths slippery. And it wasn’t like a cliff walk, far from it. She decided not to think about it because this was her night. There would be further details in the press in the morning.

  At seven they climbed into the taxi Rose had booked and made their way to the gallery in Penzance. Geoff Carter and his assistant were already there and welcomed them with glasses of wine. The door was open but there was no draught to alleviate the stuffiness of the hot summer evening.

  Geoff’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Rose Trevelyan had been hiding her talents in more than one direction. But he did not comment upon her appearance. ‘What do you think?’ he said as he took her arm and led her around.

  ‘I can’t believe it, Geoff. They look so much better now they’re hung.’

  ‘They always do. And good framing goes a long way and that’s down to you.’

  Unsure if he was being patronising, Rose was still aware that his expertise in knowing which paintings to place adjacent to one another made all the difference.

  Her father was standing back from one of them stroking his chin thoughtfully. He beckoned to his wife. ‘Well, Evelyn? What about it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, definitely. We’ll have it.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Rose gasped, horrified. ‘I didn’t invite you here just so you’d buy one. I’ll paint you one for free, you know that.’

  Geoff watched with amusement. He didn’t know quite what to make of Rose, although he recognised that she could paint. ‘It might be a good investment,’ he suggested.

  ‘You’re bound to say that. You’re on commission,’ Rose retorted.

  He laughed loudly whilst her parents glanced at one another in consternation.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was shocked, that’s all,’ Rose apologised.

  ‘Mr Carter, we’d be very grateful if you’d put one of your red stickers on this one.’

  Rose now stared at her father. He had always claimed to know absolutely nothing about art, but he obviously knew a little because that was the way it was done. A red circle would be stuck on a picture which had been sold but it would remain on the wall until after the exhibition had closed. Before she could protest further, people began to arrive. Barry Rowe was the first. He had on a grey suit which had seen better days and his tie was slightly askew. On his face was the permanently harassed expression which was no indication of how he actually felt.

  ‘Rosie, I’m so proud of you,’ he said as he kissed her cheek. ‘And it’s a pleasure to see you both again,’ he added, addressing her parents. Geoff’s young female assistant handed him a glass of wine. She had been introduced as Cassandra. Behind Barry came Trevor and Laura, both of them smiling, determined that Rose should not miss David too badly.

  Before long Rose was surrounded by her family and friends. The noise built up and she passed between small groups either in conversation or admiring her work. Her face was flushed with pleasure, she could hardly believe it was all happening. Feeling hot, she went to wash her hands in the small kitchen. When she returned to the gallery there were even more people there, including Jack Pearce who seemed to avoid catching her eye. Tall, dark and swarthy, he was, Rose realised, by far the best-looking man in the room. What she felt for him was difficult to define. He still made her skin tingle when he came near her and she enjoyed his company but she had learned that attraction was not the same thing as love. Geoff Carter was watching their interaction with an enigmatic smirk. Rose ignored him and turned to speak to Jack. ‘I’m glad you could make it,’ she said.

  ‘I told you I’d be here. I really had no idea you were this good, Rose.’ He studied her face. She was happy, far too happy to have heard that the body found on the rocks was that of Joe Chynoweth. The name may not have been broadcast, but word spread rapidly in West Penwith. He would not spoil her evening by telling her: she would find out soon enough.

  ‘Thank you,’ she answered with a wry smile. ‘Now let me introduce you to my parents.’ She realised by the way her mother eyed him up and down that she was surprised that her daughter had turned away such a good thing. ‘And this is Geoff.’ He had joined them, curious to know who the man was who obviously meant something to Rose.

  Jack shook his hand. Geoff Carter was an inch shorter than he was, and not in the least bohemian as some of Rose’s St Ives acquaintances were. His brown hair was conventionally styled and his clothes were well cut. Even on such a warm evening he wore a lightweight jacket over his shirt and trousers. Jack was aware that men had different views from women when it came to looks but he put Geoff in the top half of the type who would appeal to the opposite sex. So this was the man Rose had talked of with such enthusiasm. He hoped it was only because he was exhibiting her paintings.

  ‘Hi.’ A new voice interrupted them.

  ‘Hello, Maddy.’ Jack grinned. This was more his idea of an artist, although, in fact, Maddy was a potter. She also produced simple wooden artifacts and fancy needlework. These goods she sold from her small shop in St Ives. Not boots tonight, he noticed, but open sandals. Her drop-waisted lavender dress almost reached her ankles and was laced down the front. Her wild hair was held in a bunch at one side of her head. The variety of Rose’s friends amazed him but said an awful lot about Rose herself.

  He began to enjoy himself, relaxing for once, because he was not usually much of a socialiser. Rose was chatting to Maddy. Her smil
e broadened as she hugged her friend but he had no idea why. It must be good news. Hopefully it would help counteract the bad. He went to speak to Trevor and Laura, with whom he had been at school. Everyone present might have listened to or watched the local news, but Jack seemed to be the only one in the room who knew the identity of the dead man, a man who was known and liked by most of them. It surprised him. But how soon would it be before Rose realised that none of the Chynoweths had turned up?

  ‘Oh, Maddy, that’s wonderful news, it’s really made my day,’ Rose said when Maddy had imparted her news in full. Maddy, through circumstances not of her own making, had been forced to have adopted the illegitimate child she had had as a young girl. It had warped her view of life and made her miserable. Now, after eighteen years, the thing that she had hoped and waited for had happened. The daughter she had always thought of as Annie, but who was in fact called Julie, had made contact via the adoption agency and wanted to meet her natural mother.

  ‘She asked if we can meet on neutral ground,’ Maddy explained. ‘I can’t blame her, she’s no idea what to expect. The letter only came yesterday but I knew your parents were arriving so I didn’t ring right away. Anyway, you must circulate. I’ll amuse Barry.’

  Everyone was in conversation. Jack was with Trevor and Laura but he looked uncomfortable. Of course, she thought, they found a body. Even if the death was, as the news suggested, accidental, there would still be police involvement. Rose scanned the room, looking for Etta. She asked several people if they’d seen her, but each one answered in the negative. ‘I’ll ring her. Maybe she’s forgotten the time,’ she said to Laura.

  ‘Don’t.’ Jack grabbed her arm. His expression was grim. ‘Leave it for tonight, Rose.’ He was aware that Trevor, Laura and Rose were staring at him, that they wanted an explanation, but he could not give them one, not yet.