Read Online Buried in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janie Bolitho
Tags: Suspense
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body and face few possessed.
When she woke the violence of the wind had not abated although it had veered to the west and, with it, brought squally rain. The sky had hardly lightened by the time she had showered and dressed and by nine thirty it was obvious that the weather was set for the day. The view Rose so loved was obscured. The Mount, shrouded in rain, might not have existed. To cheer the place up she lit the fire, which smoked infuriatingly for half an hour before finally catching properly.There was no reason for her to leave the house. The fridge was well stocked and she could put the final touches to the painting in the attic where she had splashed out on an overhead light fitting which produced the next best thing to daylight.
Against her better judgement Rose still took the odd photographic commission, which Laura had told her was a sop to her insecurity.
‘I don’t want to lose my touch,’ Rose had argued.
‘What you mean is you’re afraid you’ll fail and you’ll need something to fall back on.’
Is she right? Rose wondered as she carried a mug of coffee upstairs to develop the one roll of film that was outstanding. Twice she was interrupted, once by Stella who had now heard that Jenny had gone into hiding, although this was not the main reason for the call. She was ringing to ask if Rose would come to a party they were having on 23rd December. ‘It’s the only effort we make,’ Stella added. ‘All our friends come in one go. After that we lock ourselves in and ignore Christmas. I suppose if we’d had children it might’ve been different. Do come.’
‘I’d love to. Thanks.’ Rose scribbled herself a reminder note then, without time to think aboutwhat she was saying, said, ‘In which case I hope you’ll come to me on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I’ll check with Daniel but I’m sure the answer’ll be yes. Goodness, we haven’t done that for donkey’s years.’
And neither have I, Rose thought, wondering what she had let herself in for. A party? Not since the early years of her marriage had she thrown one. It was an exciting thought.
‘Did you do any work on your painting yesterday? I managed to get out for an hour or so and make the most of the weather.’
‘Yes.’ Rose waited but Stella made no further comment. For the first time she wondered how genuine her friend’s interest was.
On her way back upstairs she realised that there wasn’t much time. If she was seriously going to throw a party she must organise the invitations quickly before people made other arrangements, if they hadn’t done so already.
The second call was from Barry to inform her that they had sold out of the wildflower notelets and he wanted her permission to do a reprint. Rose said yes, knowing that he need not have asked, she always agreed, but that he often found excuses to talk to her. When she mentioned the party, Barry stuttered hisacceptance. He was as amazed as Rose had been at the idea.
Leaving the film to dry prior to making prints, Rose stared at the almost complete oil. It disturbed her because of its associations and if it wasn’t so good she might have destroyed it. But it is good, she thought, very good. Ought I to tell someone, even if it does make me look ridiculous? she asked herself as she began mixing colours which would put the final touches to the painting.
It was early evening and she was cleaning her brushes when she thought she heard a noise downstairs. Standing still, she listened. From two flights up she could not always be sure if it was the wind or a knock on the kitchen door. She wiped her paint-stained hands on a rag and went to see. Leaning against the jamb, soaking wet, was Inspector Jack Pearce. Rose bit her lip. What now? Why did he keep having to bother her? Seconds later she saw that he wasn’t alone.
‘May we come in?’
‘Yes.’ Rose stood back and held the door open, shutting it quickly as rain gusted in. She switched on the fluorescent light to dispel the
When she woke the violence of the wind had not abated although it had veered to the west and, with it, brought squally rain. The sky had hardly lightened by the time she had showered and dressed and by nine thirty it was obvious that the weather was set for the day. The view Rose so loved was obscured. The Mount, shrouded in rain, might not have existed. To cheer the place up she lit the fire, which smoked infuriatingly for half an hour before finally catching properly.There was no reason for her to leave the house. The fridge was well stocked and she could put the final touches to the painting in the attic where she had splashed out on an overhead light fitting which produced the next best thing to daylight.
Against her better judgement Rose still took the odd photographic commission, which Laura had told her was a sop to her insecurity.
‘I don’t want to lose my touch,’ Rose had argued.
‘What you mean is you’re afraid you’ll fail and you’ll need something to fall back on.’
Is she right? Rose wondered as she carried a mug of coffee upstairs to develop the one roll of film that was outstanding. Twice she was interrupted, once by Stella who had now heard that Jenny had gone into hiding, although this was not the main reason for the call. She was ringing to ask if Rose would come to a party they were having on 23rd December. ‘It’s the only effort we make,’ Stella added. ‘All our friends come in one go. After that we lock ourselves in and ignore Christmas. I suppose if we’d had children it might’ve been different. Do come.’
‘I’d love to. Thanks.’ Rose scribbled herself a reminder note then, without time to think aboutwhat she was saying, said, ‘In which case I hope you’ll come to me on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I’ll check with Daniel but I’m sure the answer’ll be yes. Goodness, we haven’t done that for donkey’s years.’
And neither have I, Rose thought, wondering what she had let herself in for. A party? Not since the early years of her marriage had she thrown one. It was an exciting thought.
‘Did you do any work on your painting yesterday? I managed to get out for an hour or so and make the most of the weather.’
‘Yes.’ Rose waited but Stella made no further comment. For the first time she wondered how genuine her friend’s interest was.
On her way back upstairs she realised that there wasn’t much time. If she was seriously going to throw a party she must organise the invitations quickly before people made other arrangements, if they hadn’t done so already.
The second call was from Barry to inform her that they had sold out of the wildflower notelets and he wanted her permission to do a reprint. Rose said yes, knowing that he need not have asked, she always agreed, but that he often found excuses to talk to her. When she mentioned the party, Barry stuttered hisacceptance. He was as amazed as Rose had been at the idea.
Leaving the film to dry prior to making prints, Rose stared at the almost complete oil. It disturbed her because of its associations and if it wasn’t so good she might have destroyed it. But it is good, she thought, very good. Ought I to tell someone, even if it does make me look ridiculous? she asked herself as she began mixing colours which would put the final touches to the painting.
It was early evening and she was cleaning her brushes when she thought she heard a noise downstairs. Standing still, she listened. From two flights up she could not always be sure if it was the wind or a knock on the kitchen door. She wiped her paint-stained hands on a rag and went to see. Leaning against the jamb, soaking wet, was Inspector Jack Pearce. Rose bit her lip. What now? Why did he keep having to bother her? Seconds later she saw that he wasn’t alone.
‘May we come in?’
‘Yes.’ Rose stood back and held the door open, shutting it quickly as rain gusted in. She switched on the fluorescent light to dispel the
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