Plotted in Cornwall (10 page)

‘You’ve seen her?’ Roger was astonished.

‘Yes. Will you tell Joel?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m not sure what I should do. It all seems such a mess. He hasn’t really been the same since she left, he’s lost some of his confidence somehow. Perhaps that’s why he came to you for help. Anyway, I’ll think about it. What I don’t want is to upset Joel further. But thanks, anyway. It’s a great relief to know nothing’s happened to her. Did she tell you where she’d been?’

‘Working in London.’

‘Not with Frank then.’

‘No.’

‘Ah, well, maybe he’ll reappear suddenly as well.’

Rose doubted it. But she had, against her better judgement, told Roger what he wanted to know and now, surely the rest was up to him.

Two weeks had passed in which Rose had been busy. The Zennor painting was finished and hanging in Geoff Carter’s light and airy gallery. The price sticker he had attached to it showed a figure higher than Rose had anticipated asking. ‘You’re getting better all the time. Rose,’ he had told her. ‘Don’t sell yourself short.’ But she was disappointed she had not been able to complete the double portrait. It had offered a real challenge, one she hoped would be repeated in the future.

There were now only two weeks until Christmas. Since David’s death seven years ago any celebrations had always been kept low key. She had stayed with her parents the first year but thereafter, at Rose’s insistence, they had gone abroad or on a cruise as had been their habit since their early retirement from farming. Although she received numerous offers from friends she preferred to spend the time in relative solitude. But not this year. Her parents were arriving on
the twenty-third and on Christmas Eve she was holding a party. On Christmas Day morning they were going to Laura and Trevor for drinks then home for a late lunch. Barry Rowe would be there to make up the foursome. It would be far more hectic than usual.

Rose sat in the bay of the window tapping a biro against her teeth. She had spent an hour planning the menu and was now wondering whether she had the nerve to invite Jack and Anna for the evening and why she wanted them to be there. To show there were no hard feelings or to meet her rival? she asked herself. More than likely it was a bit of both. She picked up the phone and rang Jack at work. It was the first time she had spoken to him since he had walked out that evening but, typically, he seemed to have forgotten their argument.

‘If you’re sure you don’t mind, then we’ll be glad to come,’ he answered agreeably.

‘Oughtn’t you to ask Anna first?’

‘We hadn’t made any plans and her daughter’s still in Australia.’

This was the first Rose had heard of a family. Presumably Anna was divorced, or maybe a single parent. The deed done, her conscience was clear.

Her last class before the break was tomorrow. Now that they knew Miranda was safe Roger may well have made further inquiries of his own. She hoped there would be a chance to speak to Joel in case there was any news. She glanced at her guest list again. There would be quite a crowd to fit in but they would spread themselves between the sitting-room and kitchen and they all knew each other. ‘I’ll start shopping tomorrow,’ she said. The deep freeze was now half empty, there would be room for the things she intended to bake.

There were a few bits of paperwork to see to and some files of old negatives to go through. This took until lunchtime when she pulled on her waxed jacket, locked the house and started to walk along the coastline to the popular fishing village of Mousehole. It was another fine day and mild for the time of year. The sea, which could broil and rage in a storm, was flat and calm. Its azure surface sparkled and made Rose squint as she leaned against the newly erected wooden fence looking across the bay. She needed ideas for her next canvas. If possible, she did not want to repeat what she, or other artists, had produced before. But the villages running down to the sea,
the sandy bays and the barren landscape dotted with disused tin-mines were what people seemed to want. St Michael’s Mount itself had been done to death. The Zennor painting had been an inspiration half land, half sea, she needed another idea like that. Morrab Gardens, maybe? In December, without the council-planted flowerbeds, it reverted to its more natural state with only sub-tropical palms and plants. It was worth a try.

She walked on, enjoying the feel of the sun on her head. When she reached the little fishing village she spotted Geoff Carter sitting on one of the seats on the harbour wall watching the boats bobbing on the water.

‘Rose,’ he said, standing to greet her. ‘I thought you’d be out working somewhere on a day like this.’

‘I am. I’m thinking.’

‘Great, because I may have some good news for you soon.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’ll have to wait, it isn’t certain yet.’

Rose studied the tall, lean man with his swept-back hair which grew over his collar. He looked the part of a gallery owner in cord trousers, a checked shirt and body-warmer. 
He had taken her out to dinner a couple of times. She liked him a lot, but only as a friend and adviser. He had admitted his relationships with women were disastrous, as had his marriage been. ‘What’re you doing here, anyway?’

‘I’m meeting an artist for a drink then I’m going to her place to take a look at her work. I’ve heard it’s good. Do you want to join us? She’s new to the area, she might be in need of a female friend.’

‘No, not today, Geoff. I’ve got too much to do. Thanks all the same.’

‘Okay. I’ll be in touch.’

Rose wandered around the narrow lanes for a while then made her way home. She had no idea what the possible good news might be but Geoff would never tell anyone anything until he was certain it would happen. And who was this new painter? So many artists moved to the area because of the unique light, but also because of its history of artists. The work of the Newlyn School, formed in the 1880s, was becoming even more popular since
The
Seine
Boat
painted by its founder, Stanhope Forbes, had sold at auction for over a million pounds the previous year.

Rose spent the rest of the afternoon in the
attic sorting through her photography file and thinking about her next piece of work.

Sitting at the kitchen table the following morning, a coffee at hand, she amended her shopping list. Satisfied, she was about to drive out to one of the supermarkets on the edge of Penzance when the front doorbell rang. Even the postman used the side door so this had to be a stranger.

Having given up expecting a phone call she was astonished to see Miranda nervously peering up at her from the lower step. ‘Mrs Trevelyan, I’m sorry to turn up unannounced but could you spare me a few minutes?’

‘Of course I can. Come in. I’m in the kitchen. Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Have a seat.’ Miranda was hovering in the doorway and seemed to be regretting her impulse to come. There was still plenty of coffee in the filter jug, all Rose had to do was to pour it. ‘Is this about Joel?’ she asked when they were both seated, milk and sugar on the table.

‘Yes. In a way.’

‘Now you’re back can’t you telephone him, or go and see Petra?’ Miranda was in Newlyn, there was nothing to stop her
calling on her relatives who lived only a mile and a half away.

‘I’m too embarrassed to. Oh, it’s all such a mess and I can’t talk to Mum, even less so to Wendy.’

‘Miranda, I don’t know why you’ve come to me, other than I can see you have a need to talk. Look, would it be easier for you if I told you what I know about your family and then we can take it from there?’

‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’ She picked up her mug and sipped the hot coffee which she drank black and sugarless like Rose. She watched her hostess as she listened. There was something soothing and calm about her, something which made it seem as if everything would turn out all right. As on the first occasion she had met her, Rose was dressed in the colours of autumn; her hair, a shade lighter than copper beech, accentuated the effect. She was very attractive but in a more natural way than her mother, Louisa.

Rose summed up her knowledge briefly. ‘Your father disappeared just at the time you were all moving. As did you, giving up your university place. Your aunt moved in with your mother and all contact was broken with the Penhaligons even though your
uncle was so concerned about you he contacted the police.’

‘Did he?’ Miranda was genuinely surprised. Her brown eyes widened and colour came into her face. ‘You know more than I do, in that case. What trouble I’ve caused.’

Rose assessed her. ‘No, I don’t think that’s the case, I think you must’ve had good reason to do what you did. Did your mother know where you were?’

‘No. I left a note saying I wasn’t ready for university, that I didn’t want to live on Bodmin Moor and I thought the time was right for me to start a new life.’

‘No other explanation?’

‘I didn’t think she needed one.’

‘Wasn’t that a bit cruel? Roger told me you were close to her.’

‘Not under the circumstances.’

And what circumstances were those? Rose wondered. Did the girl know what had happened to her father and want no part in it?

‘I was afraid.’ Miranda spoke without prompting. Her head was bowed, her face hidden beneath her hair.

‘Afraid of what?’

‘Of too many questions being asked. I don’t know what Dad did, only that there
was some sort of scandal which was hushed up. No one would discuss it with me. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I knew what he was like as a man, everyone did. He was greedy and there were other women. Aunt Wendy said no female was safe from him but she tends to exaggerate where Dad is concerned. I don’t think she’s ever liked him, not good enough for her sister, that sort of thing. And I’m pretty sure he was in debt. No, I know he was.’

‘What did he do for a living?’

Miranda stared at Rose, unsure why she had used the past tense. ‘He was a financial adviser, but he always seemed to have more money than the business could have provided. Joel once told me he owed money to Uncle Roger.’

Rose nodded. Here was another reason for someone wanting him out of the way. Or was it? A dead man could not repay his debts. But maybe he’d borrowed from the wrong sort of people. Don’t be fanciful, she told herself, echoing Barry’s words. ‘Have you any idea where your father went?’

‘None whatsoever.’

The answer was positive enough but the slight hesitation before it was given told Rose she was hiding something, if not lying.
‘Why are you really here, Miranda? What is it you want from me?’

‘I want to see Joel, I thought you might be able to help me.’

‘You want me to act as an intermediary?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case I’ll need to know more. You see, I can’t think of any reason why you can’t contact your own family yourself.’

‘As I said, they’ll ask too many questions.’

Rose was becoming exasperated. ‘About what?’

‘About my father and where I’ve been.’

‘The latter no longer seems to be a secret and the former, if what you’ve said is true, isn’t a problem either. If you don’t know where he went or why, you can’t tell them, can you?’

‘I don’t
know
where he went, but I’ve got a good idea.’

‘Miranda—’

She was on her feet so swiftly that she almost knocked over her chair. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Wait a minute. Sit down. Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?’

‘I can’t. I really can’t. Besides, you’d never believe me.’

‘Did you know that there was a piece in
the paper about your father? A firm of solicitors are trying to trace him.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Do you think they’ll find him, Miranda?’ She could hardly ask if she thought he’d been murdered.

‘I don’t know. Mrs Trevelyan, there’s one other thing. Why did my mother and aunt want their portraits painted?’

‘They didn’t say.’

Miranda nodded. ‘There’re all those other paintings, too, you must’ve seen them. If my father disappeared because he was in debt, how can they exist? Why didn’t he sell them?’

‘Perhaps they weren’t his to sell.’

‘But my mother—’ She stopped abruptly

‘Another coffee?’

‘No thanks. I really must be going. They’ll be wondering where I am. I told them I was going for a drive.’

So much deceit, Rose thought as she watched the girl walk down the drive towards the car which was parked in a lay-by on the opposite side of the road. ‘Miranda,’ she called. ‘Do you still want me to speak to Joel?’

Her hair flew about her shoulders as she spun around. ‘Would you?’ she asked,
smiling broadly. ‘Ask him if he’ll meet me tomorrow during his lunchtime. In our usual place. He’ll know.’

‘How can I get back to you?’

‘There’s no need. I’ll be there anyway. If he doesn’t turn up then I’ll know he doesn’t want to see me.’ Miranda waved and then she was gone.

Rose had a lot to think about as she made her way along the sea-front and out towards the supermarket. Here was a peculiar family with a lot to hide from one another. But now she was convinced that Louisa and Wendy had a reason to want Frank Jordan out of the way. Surely Miranda had hinted as much.

Joel said very little when Rose passed on Miranda’s message after the class that evening. As far as he knew, his father had not acted upon Rose’s information, had made no attempt to contact his niece. But listening to the students’ many good wishes for Christmas and the New Year, Rose watched Joel and saw how pleased he was. ‘Will you tell your parents about Miranda wanting to see you?’

‘Not if she doesn’t want me to.’

More secrets. Rose thought. Ought I to tell Jack that the girl’s safe? No, he had
admitted there was no case, that his hands were tied, and Roger, who had been worried, knew that his niece was back. That was the main thing. And Jack would accuse her of meddling, which of course she was by passing on Miranda’s message.

Having secured the building she turned the corner and walked down Chapel Street, past the Egyptian House and the Union Hotel where the death of Nelson had first been announced. Here were small shops, individual in design and the goods they sold, but all of historical interest. She was meeting Barry in the Admiral Benbow, a pub and restaurant which boasted an ancient smugglers’ tunnel which ran down to the sea. From there they were going for a curry. It would make a change from the seasonal menus most places were advertising.

The evening was balmy with a hint of a sea fret. Any frosts would come after Christmas, if they came at all. Rose was warm in her padded jacket. She unbuttoned it and tucked her hair behind her ears.

Barry was standing at the bar with two glasses in front of him. After so many years he knew Rose’s preferences. Red wine tonight, which she always drank with a curry;
she would not wish to mix her drinks beforehand.