Killed in Cornwall Read Online Free PDF Page B

God, Lucy, whatever’s happened?’
    Lucy Chandler fell over the doorstep and lay still on the floor.

CHAPTER THREE
    Rose turned into the narrow street and parked, hoping that no other car would require access for a few minutes. She opened the boot where the oils, carefully wrapped in sacking, were stacked between wads of newspaper. A rough wooden door to her left opened and a man in faded brown overalls came out to help her unload. Little sun penetrated the back street building but it was brightly lit within by fluorescent tubes suspended from the ceiling. Benches and tables held an assortment of sharp tools and samples of frames in the form of corners of wood and plastic in various colours.
    ‘No problem,’ the framer told her when shehad stressed the importance of the paintings being ready by Wednesday. He liked Rose Trevelyan and found her unassuming, unlike some of the artists with whom he came into contact. No pretensions, no boastfulness because she happened to possess talent and certainly not a ‘luvvie’ like one or two he could mention. He stuck a pencil behind his ear and walked with her to the door.
    ‘Geoff Carter’s collecting them. About lunchtime, he said,’ she added as she hurried out and around to the driver’s side of the car because another vehicle had pulled up behind it, waiting for her to move.
    Thank you, she said silently to whatever forces governed the weather. Warmth seeped into her body as she negotiated the small labyrinth of lanes until she reached the main road and the roundabout where she turned left and headed towards Land’s End. Behind her was the reinforced bag which contained her camera equipment. After months of preparing for the exhibition, photography would make a nice change.
    She was going to tour the villages and take some preliminary shots for next season’s postcards: Sennen Cove, Porthcurno, Logan Rock and Lamorna on one trip, Porthleven,Poldhu Point, Kynance Cove and the Lizard on another. Sometimes she went further afield because although tourists tended to want pictures of the area in which they were staying they also bought views of places they had been to visit. So Falmouth, Helford and its river, Gweek and Rosemullion Head and the old fishing village of Coverack were other popular scenes.
    If the weather held, which was never a certainty, she might even get some shots Barry could use right away. The light and colours which drew artists to Cornwall might come across as unrealistic in a painting but it was said that the camera never lied. Rose laughed. It didn’t used to, now it could. Technology could turn a photograph into anything you wanted it to be.
    She arrived at Sennen under a clear azure sky. The various blues and greens of the sea which depended on its depth were of such brightness and purity it almost hurt her eyes to look at them. Purple patches denoted rocks below the surface. It was as if dyes had been added to enhance the natural beauty of the coastline. It was hot now, hot enough to deserve the acknowledgement that the climate was sub-tropical, allowing the palms and yuccas to flourish, to grow to great heights and flower every summer. And there were fleshy,black succulents and pink flowered echiums which reached towards the sun like giant phallic symbols. These things draw the tourists as well as the artists, Rose thought as she got out her camera bag, reminding herself the purpose of her visit was work, not day-dreaming. The summertime pictures she took would sell. You never saw postcards depicting a fishing village or beach half obscured by mist or rain with the granite cottages, sea and sky merging into one dour, grey landscape, nor did you see the obsolete mining communities with their closed shops and signs of poverty. Visitors turned a blind eye to such things even if they did visit a mine that had been turned into a museum. Cyril Clarke had been invited to the opening of the one from which he had been made redundant. ‘Bloody theme park