Framed in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho

were in the county at the moment, enough to consider murdering for. Fishing-boats were being decommissioned whilst foreign ships trawled British waters and the Government as well as the EU thumbed its nose, South Crofty, the last working tin mine, was on the verge of shutting down unless something truly drastic happened and the towns and villages that had reliedupon both industries were fast losing their identity as the once proud miners and fishermen became no more than statistics in the unemployment figures. Jack ground his teeth. And the beef crisis was causing farmers to tear their hair out. Their three main industries were being wiped out and Cornwall, his birthright, was being sanitised for the sake of the emmets who littered the place with their fast food containers and ignored the signs telling them not to feed the gulls and who preferred the tourist attractions and visitor centres to the unspeakable beauty all around them. He was angry, with himself as well as the world, because he was powerless to change the way things were going, angry also with the people who brought to Cornwall or expected to find here all that they had come to escape. One bloody great theme park, that’s what we’ll be, he thought. Youngsters were moving away because the average wage would have been laughed at elsewhere. Yes, he decided, an original Stanhope Forbes was definitely worth killing for.
    ‘Jack?’
    ‘I’m sorry, Rose, I was thinking.’ The scowl left his face because of the concern showing in hers. ‘Well, not thinking exactly, more like conducting a mental diatribe against the human race.’
    ‘Me included?’
    ‘No, Rose, never you. I’ll have to go. I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble with the meal. What was it anyway?’
    ‘Monkfish with fennel.’
    He groaned. ‘Just my luck. I’ll make it up to you.’
    ‘No need.’ Just get to the bottom of this, Jack, she thought as she bolted the kitchen door behind him.
    ‘Shall I come back later?’ he called through the partly open window.
    Rose looked down. ‘No, not tonight.’
    She might as well eat, and eat a proper meal. As she slid the monk into the pan she tried to see if she could be wrong, if there had been anything different about Dorothy on her last few visits. There hadn’t, not unless she counted that business with the envelope. ‘Oh, no!’ The fish slice clattered to the floor. All that fussing around with the envelope – had that been a pantomimeshe was meant to remember? The last time she had been to see her, Dorothy had slipped something into an A5 envelope, written ostentatiously on the front, sealed it and tossed it into a kitchen drawer in a rather dramatic manner. Surely it wasn’t a suicide note? There’s only one way to find out, she decided. But it was too late that night.
     
    Fred Meecham’s sister, Marigold, outlived Dorothy Pengelly by only a couple of days. Naturally it was Doreen Clarke who rang Rose the following morning to tell her. ‘I know you never met her, but you know Fred and I thought you might want to write a note or something. The shop’s shut, he’s put a sign on the door. It’ll be a double blow for him. First Dorothy, now this. It’s awful, isn’t it, both of them going in a week?’
    Going. Typical Doreen, Rose thought. If there was a euphemism available Doreen would use it. Rose had met Fred Meecham on several occasions when he had stopped at Dorothy’s place to deliver a case of dog food or a box of heavy groceries, and once or twice she had been into his shop. With her painter’s eye, in the way she did with all interesting faces, Rose had committed the details of his to her mind. He had a shock of red hair which seemed to have a life of its own. With his washed-out blue irises and pallid complexion he was far from attractive but his lean body and sensual mouth made him seem so. His Cornish accent was not pronounced and bespoke his Truro origins. Dorothy had told Rose about the sister,