Snapped in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

Nor do I these days, Rose thought, looking down at the worn jeans. ‘What’s she like? The first time I met her she gave me the creeps.’

  ‘What? Doreen? She’s all right. She resents outsiders, that’s all, and to her you’ll always be one.’

  ‘But she worked for the Miltons and they’ve only just moved here.’

  ‘That’s different. There’s money involved. She’s had to keep Cyril for years now since the mine closed down. Rose? You’re not thinking she killed her, are you?’

  Rose shrugged. ‘Well, I didn’t, nor did Barry. Why not her?’

  ‘When I said crazy, I meant it. You’re not thinking of acting detective, are you? Anyway, I don’t see any signs of liquid refreshment. What’s up with you, woman?’

  Rose looked at her depleted wine rack. There was enough for tonight.

  Laura was studying the few lines in a national newspaper which were all Gabrielle’s death seemed to warrant. Once it would have made headlines. There were times when Rose envied Laura, with three grown-up children and two grandchildren; at others she was glad she had not had any. She was better able to enjoy the years she had with David alone.

  ‘What is it?’ Laura glanced up and caught Rose smiling.

  ‘I was thinking of you as a grandmother. It doesn’t seem possible.’

  ‘Come on, we’re supposed to be deciding where we’re going at the weekend.’ Trevor would be at sea, Laura and Rose would have a night out.

  ‘There’s a film – God, who’s that?’ Rose frowned. The front door again. Had Dennis Milton decided to pay another visit?

  Standing on the bottom of the three steps, and thus appearing the same height as Rose, was Inspector Pearce. ‘I wondered when you’d turn up,’ she said, realising she sounded rude but not caring. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Well, well,’ Laura said from her chair at the kitchen table. ‘They’ve put you in charge, have they?’

  Rose looked from one to the other. Was there anyone Laura didn’t know?

  ‘Another of your school chums?’

  ‘No. But his sister was. How are you, Jack?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Surviving. I was just leaving.’

  ‘But …’ Rose did not have time to complete what she was about to say because Laura had swung her handbag off the back of the chair and waved from the other side of the kitchen door.

  Rose took a seat but did not invite her guest to do the same.

  ‘These photographs,’ Jack Pearce said without preamble, ‘the ones you claim you delivered to Mrs Milton –’

  ‘I did deliver them,’ she interrupted. ‘I left them in the small room opposite the lounge.’

  ‘We can’t find them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re not in the house.’

  ‘They must be.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t take them with you? You might’ve forgotten, you were a bit upset at the time.’

  Was he being facetious? ‘I did not.’

  ‘Perhaps you left them in the taxi.’

  ‘Look, I know the driver who collected us. I know them all at Stone’s Taxis. If I’d done so they would have let me know. And I’m not in the habit of lying, especially to the police.’ Rose bit her lip. The man had riled her to the point where she was talking nonsense. The second half of her sentence negated the first.

  ‘Is that so?’ DI Pearce’s smile was mocking.

  ‘Someone else must’ve moved them. Mr Milton probably. He wouldn’t want a reminder of a Christmas he’s not going to be spending with his wife.’

  ‘We’ve checked.’

  ‘Well, perhaps your men didn’t search hard enough.’

  The remark was ignored. ‘Now you’ve had a chance to think about it, is there anyone you know who would wish to harm Mrs Milton?’

  ‘I told you at the time, I didn’t know her. I spoke to her on the telephone on two occasions and met her once on a business footing. At the party there wasn’t much chance to speak to her, she was busy making sure everyone was all right.’ But not herself, Rose added silently. ‘Is that it? I have got things to do, you know.’

  ‘Hint taken, Mrs Trevelyan. I can see you’re very busy.’ He dropped his eyes so they rested momentarily on the newspaper spread out on the table and the almost empty bottle of wine.

  Rose felt herself blush and opened the kitchen door in a dismissive gesture.

  Still annoyed and wondering why she should be, she was not fully aware of what she was saying when the telephone rang. She replaced the receiver, amazed to find she had accepted an invitation for dinner with Dennis Milton.

  A stiff breeze rattled the fronds of the palm tree which grew close to the shed. Rose liked the sound they made. It was one of those brilliant September days but colder outside than it appeared. The bank holiday had passed unnoticed for Rose who had missed the Fish Festival, preferring not to have to answer the many questions she would be inundated with by all the people she would see there who knew her.

  Whitecaps formed on the tops of the shallow waves as the sea rolled in to Wherrytown Beach. When the tide was higher spray would soak the Promenade and the people foolish enough to think they could time the waves. Sennen, she thought. It would be perfect today. She could paint the sea as it broke over the rocks. She filled a flask with coffee and was just about to leave when the telephone rang again. ‘What now?’ she said as she went to answer it.

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan?’

  ‘Yes?’ She did not recognise the voice.

  ‘It’s Mrs Clarke. Doreen Clarke. From the Milton place. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.’

  ‘Well, I … Yes, of course. What is it?’

  ‘Not over the phone. Could I see you? If you’re not busy, that is,’ she added hastily.

  Rose was not exactly busy but she was beginning to feel her life wasn’t her own. She was used to solitude and enjoyed it, and she could not imagine that Doreen Clarke had anything to say to her; it was more likely prurient curiosity as to what Rose had discovered on Saturday night. Rather than let her become a nuisance she decided to get it out of the way. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at the Miltons’ but I’m leaving in half an hour.’

  It was early for her to be finishing whatever she did up there. ‘Do you have a car?’

  ‘No. Cyril drops me off. I can get myself over to Penzance easy enough.’

  ‘It’s all right. Can you get into Hayle?’

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any bother.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ Rose named a tea-shop and cursed herself. She had never been good at saying no but at least she had prevented Doreen from coming to the house.

  She loaded what she thought she might need into the car, remembering the flask, then set off.

  Doreen Clarke was there before her. But she didn’t have as far to come, Rose thought irritably as she entered the café. After the cool wind it was warm inside and smelt of coffee and bread and pasties. On the table was a pot of tea. Rose ordered a coffee.

  Doreen concentrated on the contents of her teacup until the waitress returned.

  ‘How can I help you, Mrs Clarke?’

  Rose waited, watching various expressions cross the woman’s face. Her body language suggested she was ill at ease, embarrassed even, but whether that was because she was taking up Rose’s time or because of what she had to say, Rose had yet to find out. Doreen fiddled with a teaspoon then dropped it. It clattered against her saucer. Colour spread from her crepey neck into her face.

  ‘Mrs Clarke?’

  ‘I don’t think I should be here. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.’

  Wonderful, Rose thought. A whole morning wasted. ‘Well, I am here.’ She managed to keep the exasperation out of her voice. Did she need a job, was that it?

  ‘If I tell you, you won’t say it came from me, will you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Until she knew, Rose couldn’t answer.

  ‘It’s probably no more than stupid gossip.’ She too
k a deep breath and pulled her short, plump body upright in the chair, tucking her straight, grey hair behind her ears. ‘Eileen Penrose is a very jealous woman. I’ve known her for years and it’s not just me that realises it. How her husband puts up with her is beyond me.’ She lowered her voice as the café began to fill up. Two women with children in pushchairs sat behind them, the children making too much noise for them to be overheard. ‘She follows him.’

  ‘What?’ Rose could not imagine someone doing that.

  ‘She does. Jim did some work for Mrs Milton.’

  ‘Jim?’

  ‘Eileen’s husband. He was up there twice. Eileen helps out now and again, but I saw her, you see, about ten days ago it was. I thought you might’ve seen her too.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You was there, taking the snaps.’

  Rose did not explain that what she did was a little more complicated than taking snaps. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I didn’t see her.’ But maybe she had captured her on film. And in which case, what was she doing there?

  ‘She didn’t see me,’ Doreen continued. ‘But you see, she’d overheard me telling someone in the village that Mrs Milton was having a visitor that afternoon. I think she thought it might be her Jim and she wanted to catch him out. The visitor was you, of course.’

  Rose tried to visualise the sort of woman Eileen Penrose must be. Suddenly she realised who Doreen meant. ‘Is that the lady who was serving the drinks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Now she understood. Eileen Penrose had been missing around the time Gabrielle had met her death. ‘Did you tell this to the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘You don’t understand what it’s like. She’d never forgive me. Nor would anyone else.’

  But Rose did understand. She had lived there long enough to know what a tight-knit community it was, how everyone knew everyone else’s business. Doreen Clarke’s position would not have been enviable had she mentioned her suspicions. But Rose also saw the advantages. If you weren’t seen for a day or so someone would make sure you were all right. ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘Because you live far enough away. And you were there. And I thought, you being a local celebrity and all, they’d take more notice of you.’

  Rose smothered a smile. A local celebrity. So Doreen Clarke already knew or had made inquiries as to who she was. But she did not see how she could bring herself to say all this to Inspector Pearce, although it now seemed likely that it was Eileen Penrose she had captured in that final photograph.

  ‘I can leave it to you then?’ Suddenly businesslike, Doreen stood up and fastened her short jacket. She picked up her own bill and took it to the cash desk, leaving Rose trying to decide what she ought to do. Gabrielle Milton’s murder, now she was over the initial shock, was beginning to intrigue her.

  Dennis Milton was not sure of his motives for asking Rose Trevelyan to dinner but at least it was a way of getting through another night. Paul remained uncommunicative. Dennis had taken Rose’s advice and tried to get him to talk, admitting his own faults. Paul had ignored his efforts.

  The house seemed larger than ever yet there was no peace. Two men were upstairs now, going through things belonging to Gabrielle that they had not taken away with them. The invasion of her privacy was sickening. Even her handbag was not sacrosanct. Were there, he wondered, secrets she had hidden from him? It was ridiculous feeling the way he did when he had been seeing Maggie, but he was unable to bear the thought that Gabrielle might have met someone else. It could, of course, explain who had killed her. The front door had been left open on the night of the party. It would have been easy for someone to enter the house and wait. If whoever it was was seen – no, Dennis realised that if it was someone local other guests would have known him. Unless it was someone Gabrielle had met in London, in which case everyone would assume it was one of his friends.

  He held his head between his hands in despair. It was not his job to find the murderer.

  Rose finally made it to Sennen but she was not in the mood to work. Instead she watched the sea. Long, rolling waves gathered momentum and crashed in plumes of white spray over jagged rocks, beyond which water and sky were an identical blue where they met on the horizon. The sight calmed her, made her forget Gabrielle’s broken body. The sounds calmed her further: the hiss as the sea sucked at sand the texture of castor sugar, the thud as it hit the rocks. Overhead, gulls screamed like raucous schoolgirls and a black-backed, larger and noisier than the others, made its presence known from the top of the cliff. The wind, coming off the sea, flung her hair wildly round her head and minute grains of sand into her face. Rose breathed deeply, enjoying the salty tang, and felt cleansed. For a few short minutes there was only the present. Then she remembered she was having dinner with Dennis Milton.

  She walked back to where she had parked the car, arms folded across her chest, aware that she was chilled. In the driver’s seat she poured coffee from the flask, a perfect circle of mist forming on the windscreen from steam from the cup resting on the dashboard. Why, she thought, did Dennis seek her company? Did he suspect she had seen more than she really had, or was he simply lonely?

  Rose finished the coffee, tucked her hair, sticky with spray, behind her ears and drove home.

  Doreen Clarke had, without consulting Dennis, rearranged her working day. Instead of starting at nine and finishing at one, she was up at the house at eight to cook breakfast and clean, then she went home until it was time to prepare an evening meal. The hours were roughly the same so she did not bother Dennis with discussions about financial alterations. Her motives were not entirely altruistic. She felt sorry for the Miltons and was upset herself but she was looking to her own future. If she made herself indispensable Dennis would want to keep her on. She could take care of the place whilst he was in London, an easy enough task, leaving her time to find other employment as well. She had been surprised when he told her he was expecting Mrs Trevelyan for dinner but had not expressed it. Rose, she was sure, would not mention their earlier conversation.

  ‘Anything in particular you’d like to eat?’ Doreen inquired.

  ‘No.’ Dennis did not seem to care and most of what she cooked he left.

  ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’ Doreen whispered to Rose when she let her in at seven thirty.

  ‘Of course not.’ And before she could ask if she had spoken to the police yet, Rose opened the door to the lounge.

  ‘I’m glad you could come,’ Dennis said, stretching out a hand. It was cold and dry compared to Rose’s. ‘You remember Paul?’

  ‘Yes. Hello.’

  Paul nodded but did not speak. He seemed uncomfortable, for which Rose did not blame him. She should have refused the invitation. Surely tongues would wag when it was known that Dennis had entertained a single woman to dinner only a few days after his wife’s death. And it would be known, she was quite sure. Doreen would not be able to keep it to herself. At least Paul was present too.

  Dennis poured drinks and between them they managed to fill the half-hour until Doreen said the meal was ready with small talk relating mostly to art and Rose’s business. ‘Dennis,’ Rose said, ‘I brought some proofs up the other night. Do you know what happened to them?’ It was not a tactful question but the police seemed suspicious of her and Dennis had looked at them with his wife.

  ‘No. We chose what we wanted. I assumed you’d taken them with you. The police were asking me about them too.’

  They went into the dining-room. Rose let the subject drop.

  The house was quiet. Rose had seen the mobile unit outside and wondered if there were actually any men upstairs. Surely by now they would have searched every inch of the place for whatever it was they hoped to find.

  The meal was plain but it was hot. Rose’s appetite was blunted as she watched her male companions push their food around their plates.

  ‘I’m off now,’ Doreen said after she had served the main cour
se. ‘There’s cheese if you’re still hungry.’ Rose did not blame her for going to no further trouble. Her efforts would have been wasted.

  ‘Have you made any wedding plans yet?’ she asked Paul to try to involve him in the conversation.

  ‘We hadn’t, but I spoke to Anna yesterday and we decided there’s no point in waiting any longer.’

  ‘Waiting?’ It was an odd choice of words. She studied Paul. Straight-nosed, thin-lipped, with soft greyish-blue eyes which did not reflect whatever he might be feeling. His skin was waxen and his hands shook. He was difficult to age but assuming Dennis and Gabrielle were in their early fifties he was probably between twenty-five and thirty.

  ‘Having seen you can never tell what’s around the next corner, we thought we might as well go ahead.’

  Paul seemed unable to refer to his mother or her death but at least he was making an effort to talk.

  ‘Where will you live?’

  ‘In London. Our work’s there and it wouldn’t suit us down here. It’s too quiet.’

  From that statement Rose thought Gabrielle might have left the house to her son rather than her husband.

  ‘As long as Anna’s happy, that’s all I care about.’ For a second there was a flicker of enthusiasm in Paul’s manner. It did not last.

  ‘And you, Dennis? Have you made any plans?’ Rose was bored with treading around the subject. She had been asked here yet neither man seemed to have noticed she had actually arrived. Perhaps, she thought, Dennis, having been unable to speak to Paul himself, hoped she would break the ice. In which case Gabrielle’s name could no longer be ignored. ‘I know it’s early days yet, but what will you do with Gabrielle’s house?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He smiled wanly. ‘I’m still coming to terms with her not being here. There are problems with my company at the moment, it may be that I’ll decide to live here.’

  ‘But you …’ Paul stopped. There was a tinge of colour across his sharp cheekbones.

  His father misunderstood him. ‘I wouldn’t miss London. I’ve had my share of the rat-race. If I could get fixed up with something, a lower salary wouldn’t bother me. If not,’ he wiped his mouth with his serviette, ‘well, I’d have to sell and find something smaller. Something like your house, Rose.’