Buried in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  By eight thirty everyone Rose had expected had arrived, including Doreen and Cyril Clarke. Doreen was even more matronly in a tight-fitting brocade dress. ‘Leave it, do,’ she said to Cyril as he fidgeted with his tie. ‘I like a man to look smart,’ she added. Despite her views on ‘they people’ Doreen made it her business to speak to everyone from St Ives. Knowing she would be grilling them about their backgrounds and who they were related to caused Rose some amusement. She would be interested in Doreen’s opinion of them. That she would eventually hear it was certain.

  Barry had turned up with a case of champagne which he suggested they put in the freezer half an hour before midnight as it would not all fit in the fridge. Rose was taken aback. He was thoughtful and kind but not renowned for such generous gestures. ‘I thought it was time I spent something of what I earned,’ he told her, kissing her cheek.

  Drinks were flowing and Rose had turned up the music. When she turned around her mouth dropped open. Standing in the sitting-room doorway, a drink in his hand, was Nick Pascoe.

  ‘I can see you weren’t expecting me,’ he said with a smile.

  He looks awful, Rose thought, as if he’s already served a prison sentence. It was also the first time she’d seen him dressed so smartly. He had not made the effort for Maddy’s do and Rose was unsure what to make of it. Over well-cut trousers he wore a cream silk shirt and a black velvet jacket as if by way of telepathy they’d chosen matching outfits. ‘They let you go? Well, obviously they did.’

  ‘It was a mistake. In retrospect I don’t blame them, there were things I should have said from the beginning.’

  ‘What made them think it was you?’ Rose blushed. Even at her own party, the first she had hosted for many years, she still could not help interrogating a guest.

  ‘There was blood in my car. Jenny’s blood. And to make it worse it was on the back seat. It was useless trying to explain that she’d stepped on some glass when we were out one day. She never did wear shoes if she could help it. Anyway, it was a bad cut. I put her in the back of the car and told her to keep her foot up then I drove her to Treliske hospital. It required several stitches. I’d forgotten about it until now.’

  Rose realised that such an injury would have shown up during the post-mortem. However, the police would not have let Nick go for that reason alone. Rose had gone over all the possibilities then turned them on their heads. None of her friends came out well in her analysis but she still doubted their guilt. Could it be that Alec Manders, who had had no compunction about smashing his way into her house and becoming violent, had killed one or both women? But what possible reason could he have for harming his own daughter? ‘Well, I’m really pleased you’re here, Nick.’

  ‘Are you, Rose?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was glad, but not in the way he might have imagined. He was extremely good-looking and quite sexy with that question still lingering in his eyes, but she saw all this objectively now. She was glad but only because she had not wanted one of her friends to be guilty and, more selfishly, she had not wanted to be wrong. ‘I’d better circulate. And so had you. Just look at all the curious faces.’ Rose moved away before he had a chance to say anything more.

  As Rose crossed the hall on her way to the kitchen to pour more drinks she saw Stella, who was on her way up to the bathroom. Her face was flushed. Rose hoped she had not drunk too much. Several minutes later, when the food was uncovered and people had been told to help themselves, there was still no sign of Stella.

  Rose went upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Stella? Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Open the door. Please?’

  Seconds later Stella did so. ‘Are you ill?’ Rose was shocked at the misery in her face. It was covered in red and white blotches and there were smudges of mascara under her eyes. ‘Come with me,’ she said, leading her to her bedroom. ‘Is it Daniel? Have you had a row?’

  ‘No.’ Stella’s voice was low. She sat on the edge of the bed and laced her hands. The knuckles were white. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She sat beside her. If Stella needed to talk she would not do so with Rose looming over her judgementally.

  ‘I can’t understand what comes over me at times. Oh, Rose, why can’t I be happy like you?’

  Rose did not answer. There was none to give. Happy? Yes, with David she had been. Then had come the cancer which had destroyed them both in different ways. Since that time she had made the best of life and had come to accept that peace was the most that she could hope for. Happy? No. But there were still moments of pleasure and times of laughter. ‘Was it you, Stella? Those screams at the mine?’

  Stella still had not lifted her head. Now her lower lip was white as she bit it. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘But why? Do you dislike me that much?’

  ‘No. No, of course I don’t. I just … I just couldn’t bear it, watching you go through something I achieved years ago. I wanted it all back; the first hint of success, the first exhibition, the first large cheque and the knowledge that the future was ahead of me. Once you’re successful you lose all that. You just end up treading water to stay where you are.’

  ‘But that’s not true, Stella, each painting is a new challenge.’

  ‘It sounds so feeble now,’ Stella continued, ignoring Rose’s comment, ‘but I just couldn’t cope with the competition. It’s hard enough with Daniel.’

  ‘Is that how you see it?’

  ‘He’s always been more talented than me, yet he’s far more relaxed about it.’

  Poor Stella, Rose thought. With so many self-imposed obstacles life must be extremely difficult.

  ‘I’m back on medication again but it doesn’t seem to be working this time.’

  Certain things fell into place. Stella’s nervous habits and the occasional lapses where her expression was vacant and she lost concentration were not due to artistic temperament but to a genuine psychiatric disorder, the cause of her mild paranoia. ‘But had I not returned to the mine, what would you have achieved? I’d have painted elsewhere, Stella, you wouldn’t have stopped me—’ But how far would she have taken it? Rose wondered with a shudder of fear.

  ‘That painting was so good. I knew it immediately you showed it to me even though it wasn’t finished then. I thought if I could stop you this time you might lose heart.’

  She really is sick, Rose realised, and she probably ought not to be drinking on top of medication but perhaps the combination had prompted the admission. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘I got the idea from Maddy. I knew she used tapes to practise accents. I recorded my own screams, right at the end of a blank tape, then I waited until I saw your car and set it going knowing there was at least forty minutes of silence until you heard the screams. I’ve lived here all my life, I knew exactly where to hide. Oh, Rose, what have I done?’

  Rose handed her some tissues from the box on her dressing-table.

  ‘I had no idea you’d ring for help, really I didn’t.’

  ‘But why do it again?’

  ‘Nick told me you’d said you’d made a fool of yourself. I was certain you wouldn’t call out the emergency services a second time.’

  Oh, Nick, you lied to me more than once, Rose thought. He had denied telling Stella. ‘Stella, tell me, did you leave the gallery that night after the preview?’ She was unbalanced enough to have done anything, including killing Jenny. Being jealous of Rose’s work was one thing, but being jealous of another woman in her husband’s bed was another. When Stella did not answer Rose knew it was so. They had all, in their various ways, lied. She felt sick with disgust and near to tears herself. But what did any of it matter? She had done her duty by telling Jack all she knew – or, at least, most of it – and this evening was supposed to be a celebration. For a second she wished she could simply ask all of her guests, bar Barry Rowe, to leave. In Stella’s case she did not have to.

  ‘We’ll go now, Rose. I think it’s for the best
. Will you tell the police?’

  ‘I don’t know, Stella, I honestly don’t know.’ And then Rose saw that not only had Stella lied about several things but she was also about the same age as the unknown female. Perhaps the whole story of wanting to damage Rose’s career was a further fabrication. Had she been too trusting? Did Stella prefer to admit to a spiteful trick rather than more serious reasons for not wanting anyone in the vicinity of the mine? Rose hated the whole business.

  Somehow she got through the rest of the evening. At least her guests were enjoying themselves. Laura’s son had Barbara Phillips in fits of laughter and Nick Pascoe was dancing with Doreen Clarke who held herself stiffly, keeping a good three inches between her body and Nick’s. Rose was tempted to go upstairs and get a camera. Laura, Maddy and Barry were in deep conversation in a corner and Peter Dawson, chatting to Mike Phillips, surveyed the room with an amused smile and winked at Rose as she carried out some paper plates. Daniel had made excuses for their early departure. No one, looking at Stella, could have doubted she felt unwell.

  At midnight Barry poured the champagne and they toasted the New Year. The party finally broke up at two. Rose could hardly go back on her offer that those wishing to stay the night could do so.

  Having settled Barbara and Mike Phillips in the spare bedroom and Peter Dawson on the settee with a sleeping bag and pillow, Rose stood in the kitchen surveying the detritus and wished Jack would get in touch soon. No one had heard what had happened to Alec Manders and there had been no further news bulletins regarding an arrest for either murder. But the more Rose thought about it the more confused she became. Nick had apparently been cleared but now Stella seemed a likely candidate. Yet deep down she had a feeling that it was Alec Manders who had put the woman down that shaft.

  The first to wake, Rose recalled that she was still playing the role of hostess to three of her guests. Originally Nick had been intending to stay. Last night he been polite and friendly but had left around one. He had paid a lot of attention to Maddy but, to Rose’s amazement, Maddy had treated his advances with a casual nonchalance even though she agreed to share the same taxi home. Surprisingly, considering he was supposed to be her guest, Maddy had been even more blasé about Peter Dawson staying the night.

  Washing and dressing quickly to leave the bathroom free for her guests, Rose went down to make coffee and light the grill. She had never possessed a toaster. Above, floorboards creaked as someone else went to the bathroom. Ten minutes later Barbara appeared, closely followed by Mike. ‘I hope you feel better than you look,’ Barbara commented unkindly to her husband, holding his jaw between finger and thumb the better to scrutinise him. ‘Ah, coffee. Wonderful.’ They sat at the table and all three turned when Peter appeared in the doorway. He wore only his shirt and a pair of underpants. Rose felt herself blush when her eyes dropped to his long muscular legs. He seemed quite unabashed at his half-dressed state.

  ‘I smelt the coffee,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. There was reddish stubble on his chin, interspersed with silvery grey which glinted beneath the overhead light.

  Rose handed them each a mug and placed the sugar bowl and milk on the table.

  ‘Is the grill on for warmth or are we to be offered sustenance?’

  Rose caught Barbara’s eye. Her friend was trying not to laugh. ‘Toast,’ Rose snapped. ‘I don’t have any bacon.’

  ‘Toast is fine.’

  He had not mentioned their broken date. After the incident with Alec Manders she had only just remembered to ring him in time to prevent him setting off to meet her that evening; she had offered no excuse because she had not wished to tell a lie, but neither could she face talking about her ordeal. Barry had come over for an hour but had soon realised Rose wanted to be alone. As if the thought of him had made him materialise, he walked past the kitchen window. This time both Rose and Barbara could not suppress their grins as Barry adjusted his glasses and glared pointedly at Peter’s bare legs. ‘I came for the champagne glasses,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t washed them yet.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Peter was on his feet and across the kitchen in three strides. ‘While you make some toast,’ he added over his shoulder in a proprietorial tone, unaware of the impression he was making. Barry’s scowl deepened.

  Within fifteen minutes the glasses were in the box in which they had come from the off-licence. Barry had borrowed them free of charge on the strength of the amount of his order. The toast had been eaten and Barbara and Mike said they were leaving.

  ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’ Barry asked Peter rather acidly.

  ‘No, thanks. You carry on. I’m in no hurry.’

  Rose turned away, unable to face Barry because she knew what must be going through his mind.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, Rose,’ he said then he, too, had gone.

  ‘I was sorry you changed your mind about dinner,’ Peter said, scooping toast crumbs towards him.

  ‘I didn’t change my mind. Unforeseen circumstances.’

  He stared hard. ‘Another man? Nick, maybe?’

  ‘Another man? Yes. You could say that.’ Rose sighed then sat down to give him a shortened version of that day’s events.

  Peter whistled through his teeth. ‘I have to admit, you can’t better that as a way of getting out of dinner with a man. Dare I ask if our date is still on?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go and make myself respectable then you can tell me when.’

  What have you done now? she wondered as she wiped the work surfaces, relieving them of sticky rings of alcohol and crumbs.

  ‘Thanks for the bed,’ Peter said when he returned fully dressed. ‘Here’s my number. Give me a ring when you fancy going out.’

  Rose nodded and took the business card he handed her then closed the door behind him, glad to be alone at last.

  It was another week before Rose saw Jack. He had decided to get away, to take some leave due to him and visit his sons. The younger boy was still living with his mother in Leeds where he was, Jack had once confided in Rose, turning into a perpetual student. The older son was in Sheffield, where he had gone into industry and lived with a woman three years his senior and equally a high-flier.

  The weather had turned colder and although the winter solstice was weeks ago, the days seemed shorter than ever. Rose was taking a mid-morning break, drinking coffee in the bay window as she often did. The sky was leaden and the light was strange. She was wondering if there was that rare possibility of snow when the telephone rang. She walked across the room to answer it. The last person she was expecting to hear from was Jack.

  ‘I’ve been away for a few days. How was the party?’

  ‘It went really well.’ She felt strangely tongue-tied.

  ‘Would I be interrupting anything if I came over?’

  ‘Don’t you have work to catch up on?’

  ‘No. I’m not due back until tomorrow.’

  Because she had nothing better to do, Rose agreed. Jack said he would be there in ten minutes.

  There was an awkwardness between them when she let him in and neither of them seemed to know what to say.

  ‘I’ve been to see the boys. They’re both well.’ Jack was fully aware of the tense atmosphere but was unsure why it existed.

  ‘I’m glad. Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks. Rose, this isn’t public knowledge until the lunchtime news but Alec Manders has finally confessed he killed Jenny.’

  ‘Oh, Jack. How could he?’ She was filled with sadness that Jenny’s own father had taken her life. ‘Had you guessed?’

  ‘No. Not exactly guessed, but I did wonder whether it was possible.’

  ‘Why?’

  Rose hooked her hair behind her ears in a businesslike manner which Jack knew meant she was going to put him right on a few things. But he was wrong. ‘Because I couldn’t really believe it was anyone I knew.’ She blushed with mortification. In fact she had decided Stella may have
done it. ‘Well, to be honest, I didn’t want to believe it. Did you really believe it was Nick?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose saw the spots of colour on Jack’s cheekbones and knew that he had his reasons, personal ones, for wanting the opposite from herself. ‘But I always had it in mind that it was possible that Alec had killed Renata all those years ago, that she hadn’t really gone away,’ Jack continued, hoping he was misinterpreting the smug expression on Rose’s face. If she’s worked it out, I’ll kill her, he thought. ‘I think I will have that coffee after all.’ Something stronger would have been preferable but it was too early in the day. Rose got up to pour it.

  ‘Thanks. We knew that Jenny confided in Maddy Duke and Maddy, the second time we questioned her, suggested that Alec might have been having a fling with a friend of Renata’s. This led us to think that he might have killed Renata either to be with this woman or on the spur of the moment during an argument over her, then put it around that she had left with another man. Everyone knew the situation, they wouldn’t have questioned his explanation. Anyway, as we know, nothing came of the affair between Manders and Josie Deveraux.’

  Rose turned away to hide a knowing grin but she was too late, Jack had spotted it. The look of astonishment on his face told her that he knew that she knew the name. But all she had had to do was ask one simple question to discover it.

  ‘Our theory is that with Renata dead and safely in the shaft Alec simply sent all the relevant paperwork to Josie, who posed as his wife for the purposes of the divorce. There’s no need for a court appearance in cases of mutual consent, especially after six years. A solicitor in London, where Josie had taken herself, would naturally assume the woman in possession of a marriage certificate, or a copy, and whatever other documents of Renata’s Alec thought fit to send her, was who she said she was.’

  ‘All right, but why would Josie Deveraux oblige?’ Rose wanted to know.

  ‘His wife was dead, Manders was free to marry again. But he couldn’t tell anyone she was dead, not if he’d killed her. With an apparently legal divorce taking place six years later it gives him a perfect alibi. How could Renata be dead when she’s agreed to divorce him? And now you’re going to say why, then, didn’t he marry Josie, and why did she help him in the first place, especially after all that time?’