Angel With Two Faces (21 page)

‘Penrose – good to meet you at last, but I wish it had been under happier circumstances. Terrible thing to happen. Rowena tells me you’ve had everything under control, though. Thank God you were here.’

Right at this moment, Penrose could hardly agree but he didn’t argue. Instead, he took the chief constable tactfully to one side and explained again what he had seen from the stage. ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt that it’s murder, Sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll obviously give your investigating officer a full statement as soon as he’s ready,’ he added diplomatically, knowing that county forces were loath to call in Scotland Yard, even when a major crime occurred in their area. ‘And it goes without saying that if there’s any help London can give, you only need to ask.’

‘What do you mean?’ Stephens asked. ‘You’ll take it on, surely? I can call the Yard and clear it with them tonight. Who’s your superior officer?’

‘Superintendent Goodman, Sir, but don’t you want your own force to investigate?’

‘The best man’s a local one, you mean? Well, there’s something to be said for that, I suppose, but you
are
local, Penrose, and I’ve heard excellent things about you. What’s more, you’re the only witness and it’s not often the police have the advantage of seeing the crime as well as investigating it. We’re not too arrogant to accept help, particularly when it’s the best we can
get, and I’d be happy to think that my boys can learn from you. There’ll be no arguments from anybody, believe me, and all the resources you’ll need will be yours. You will do it?’

Penrose hesitated, knowing that he was effectively being asked to tear apart some of the lives he cared about most, and resenting the reduction of the process to an exercise in model policing. ‘There might be a conflict of interest, Sir,’ he said. ‘It involves my uncle’s estate, after all.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve proved yourself to be above all that. If that’s your only objection, we’ll have the body taken to Minack House in the first instance and I’ll notify the coroner.’ Penrose nodded his agreement, realising that he really had no choice.

Wednesday was the first morning since her arrival that Josephine had not awoken to sunlight on the lake, but more than the weather had changed overnight. When William telephoned early to make sure she was all right, he was understandably in sombre mood and even his daughters were uncharacteristically lethargic about their plans for the day. Josephine refused the half-hearted offer of a run into Penzance for some shopping and settled down at the desk in the sitting room’s large bay window, full of good intentions to do something about the woeful lack of progress she had made with her book – but it was not to be: the bland, grey cloud which hung motionless over the water – mocking any celebrations promised by the half-decorated boat – seemed to recognise the futility of a glorious morning after such a senseless waste of life the night before, and she felt much the same. Every sentence she wrote was contrived and artificial, and her mind refused to engage with William Potticary’s progress along an imaginary cliff-top; instead, she kept mulling over her conversation with Morveth and the uncomfortable knowledge with which it had left her. She had no idea what, if anything, to say to Archie, but at least while he was busy with Nathaniel’s death she would have plenty of time to think about it.

She looked around the room, knowing that it was much as it had been when Archie’s parents were at the Lodge and
intrigued to see what it might tell her about them. Like William’s library, it was spacious and comfortable, and had clearly been designed for living in rather than effect. A warm Brussels carpet ran the length of the floor, rich in reds and blues, but otherwise the space was divided in character: the area in which she was sitting had two tall windows, one looking out over the lake and the other along a private road that led to Helston, and its pale-green walls and drapes gave it a light, airy feel and an affinity to summer; the half which contained the fireplace was lined with dark oak bookshelves, possibly made from the wood on the estate, and would make a cosy retreat on a winter’s afternoon. She walked over to look at the books, smiling as she noticed that both the fireside chairs and the footstool had been frayed at the edges by Motley Penrose. The shelves held an eclectic selection of fiction and non-fiction, and there was a predominance of volumes on natural history, botany and gardening. Someone was fond of the Victorians, and there was a complete set of Trollope which must, she thought, have belonged to Archie’s father – she couldn’t see Lizzie Penrose having a taste for chronicles of clerical life. All the books were fine editions, but that had not stopped them being read and loved, none more so than a collection of battered children’s books which sat next to a shelf of novels and plays that Archie had added in adult life. She recognised his tastes and was amused to see that her own books – particularly
The Man in the Queue
– looked a little out of place alongside Waugh, Forster and Bowen, but were just as dog-eared; at least she hadn’t had to suffer the indignity of finding them pristine and unread.

Her eye fell on a volume of Tennyson’s poetry and she took it down, remembering the empty blanket and the book that
Morwenna and Loveday had left behind last night. Where had they gone? she wondered, turning to ‘The Passing of Arthur’ and looking for the reference which Archie had mentioned. Before she could read much, she heard a car draw up outside and went back to the window. Archie got out, looking tired and worried, and Josephine found it hard to believe that he even owned cricket whites, let alone had worn them just the day before yesterday.

‘I’m sorry not to have spoken to you properly last night,’ he said as she met him at the back door, ‘but there was no chance of getting away.’

‘Don’t be silly. I knew I wouldn’t see you as soon as William told us what had happened.’

‘I don’t know what I’d have done without him last night,’ Archie said, giving her a hug. ‘He was wonderful with Nathaniel’s parents.’

‘Yes – he’s going over to see them again today.’

‘That’s good.’

‘What a dreadful way to lose a son.’ She looked at the suit and the frown, and gave Archie a resigned smile. ‘You’ve obviously accepted the case. Maybe we should have gone for that weekend in Brighton after all?’

‘It’s certainly not the holiday I had planned,’ he agreed. ‘A nightcap with the chief constable doesn’t have quite the same appeal, somehow.’

‘I bet his single malt isn’t a patch on mine, either. It’s a bit early for that now, but I could manage bacon and eggs. Have you time?’

Archie looked at his watch. ‘Just about. I’ve got to call the Yard, but I can do that from here. After last night, it’s vital that we find out what’s happened to Christopher Snipe and
Bill can help with that up there – he’s got all the resources at his fingertips.’ He left Josephine in the kitchen and went through to the hall to let his sergeant know what was happening. As he was waiting to be put through, he had time to notice things he occasionally took for granted, and found a comfort in their familiarity which he did not often experience. He had always admired the painting that hung over the stairs, an oil by Stanhope Forbes which his father had bought for his mother shortly before the war. The picture showed a team of horses pulling a quarry cart through the Cornish landscape, and he loved it as much for the slash in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas as for the quality of the brushwork. It was one of several works of art damaged by suffragettes in order to draw attention to their cause, and had met with a particularly militant umbrella while on display at the Royal Academy. The tear, and the spirit which it represented, was what made his father buy it in the first place, and his mother had resolutely refused to have the canvas repaired. Archie remembered how united they had always seemed. He was trying not to think too deeply about the consequences of this investigation on his relationship with the estate but – amid the doubts and suspicions that now surrounded some of his oldest friends – he knew that he desperately needed to find something in his past of which he could be confident, and the uncomplicated strength of his parents’ marriage took on a new resonance.

‘Can’t let you out of my sight for a minute, Sir, can I?’ Bill Fallowfield’s voice cut in on his thoughts, as cheerful and reassuring as ever. ‘I did try to tell you that theatre in the open air was a daft idea, but you wouldn’t listen.’

Archie laughed. ‘News travels fast, Sergeant – have you
also heard that I’m forfeiting my holiday as penance for not listening to you?’

‘They did mention something of the sort. A bit selfish of you, Sir, if you don’t mind me saying. A fortnight with Inspector Rogers in charge is more than enough for anyone, so I’d appreciate it if you could get everything cleared up down there as soon as possible – for my sake, if nothing else.’

‘I’ll do my best, Bill, but I could do with a bit of help. We’ve got a missing person down here – could be in the frame for the killing, could be a victim himself, or could simply have disappeared up country to get away from a bit of trouble. Could you put a note in the
Gazette
for me and see if anything turns up?’

‘Must be something in the air down there,’ Fallowfield said after Penrose had given him the details. ‘That’s the third disappearance we’ve had word of in a month – a lighthouse keeper from Penzance, a clerk in Cornwall on holiday and now an undertaker’s son. Are you sure you don’t want me to throw a few things in a bag and come down to sort them out for you? I’d go a long way for a sniff of the sea and some of Mrs Snipe’s cooking.’

‘You’d be very welcome,’ Archie said, wondering if Bill knew how much he meant it, ‘but I’d better give the local boys a chance.’ His sergeant made a noise that indicated quite clearly what he thought of the Cornish force, but he dutifully read back the details that were to go into the police newspaper. They talked for a bit about various cases that were ongoing, then Archie rang off and went back to the kitchen, where a cup of strong, black coffee was waiting for him.

‘You look like you need that,’ said Josephine. ‘Scrambled or fried?’

‘Is that a question about my breakfast or a comment on my state of mind?’ he asked drily. ‘I don’t mind – which do you do best?’

‘Scrambled. You won’t taste better outside of Scotland.’

‘Then scrambled it is. Bill sends his regards, by the way, and asks what chapter you’re on.’

She grimaced as she broke the eggs into a bowl. ‘I suppose that’s the only advantage of your holiday going up in smoke – think of it as doing some sort of service to crime fiction. It’s a drastic way of forcing me to work, though. Have you had
any
sleep?’

‘Yes, but only a bit – perhaps that’s why this all seems so surreal.’ He sipped his coffee appreciatively. ‘You know, I can hardly believe that Nathaniel’s dead. One minute, we’re sitting on the rocks in the sun talking about Harry, and the next he’s falling over the cliff dressed as a jackdaw. And God knows what happened in between.’

‘You said the conversation was interesting.’

‘It was. I’d never really talked to him before, although I’d heard lots of good things about him from William – and I can see why now.’

‘You liked him, then?’

‘Yes, very much. He seemed to take his role so seriously,’ he explained, echoing Morveth’s description of Nathaniel as a boy, ‘and his dedication to the estate and the people on it was extraordinary. He was honest, too – or at least that’s how he came across in the brief time we spent together.’ He got up from the table and cut the loaf of bread into thick slices. ‘Perhaps he just needed a stranger to talk to – there was certainly a lot on his mind. He admitted to being in love with Harry.’

Josephine stopped beating the eggs and looked at him. ‘A vicar in a small village? He certainly wasn’t after an easy life, was he? How terrible for him – having to keep all that anxiety and grief to himself. Is that what you were going to tell me last night?’

‘Not just that.’ He repeated what Nathaniel had told him about the fire at the Pinchings’ cottage.

‘So Harry set the fire, with his parents and little sister in the house asleep – or so he thought – and went back upstairs to die as well?’ Josephine was incredulous. ‘Poor Loveday, walking around with all that stuff in her head and no one to help her through it.’

‘And poor Nathaniel – having to carry it alone and reconcile it with his feelings for Harry.’

‘Do you think he
was
the only one who knew?’

‘I’ve no idea – that’s one of the things I’ve got to try to find out today. You can imagine how much I’m looking forward to running the scenario past Morwenna.’

‘She was away from home on the night of the fire, wasn’t she?’ Josephine said, remembering what Ronnie had told her on the journey from Penzance.

‘Yes – she was working at the poorhouse in Helston.’ He watched as she put a mountain of butter in a saucepan to melt. ‘Why? You’re not reading anything into that, are you?’

‘No, not really. It’s just that she doesn’t strike me as the philanthropic type.’

‘Based on the two minutes you’ve spent with her?’ he asked, but the sarcasm was tame, with no hint of the defensiveness that had touched their earlier conversations about Morwenna. ‘You may well be right, but it was a job, not an act of generosity. There aren’t that many career options here, you know.’

‘I suppose you’ve got to look at that as a serious motive for Nathaniel’s murder,’ Josephine continued thoughtfully. ‘Protecting Harry’s reputation, I mean.’

‘Yes, although I’m inclined now to think that Harry’s death was suspicious, too.’

‘Why more so than before?’

‘Well, if I hadn’t seen someone force Nathaniel over the edge, I’d have been convinced that he either slipped or – after the conversation I’d just had with him – threw himself off. The circumstances are different, but the deaths could be interpreted in the same way by an outsider – an accident seems the most obvious explanation, suicide’s a possibility, but murder seems unlikely. The sightlines are marginal on that stage – if I’d been standing a foot or two forward or to my right, I wouldn’t have seen a thing – in the same way that no one saw the actual moment that Harry went into the water. Apart from Christopher, perhaps – and he’s vanished.’

‘It’s very risky to rely on where you might choose to stand, though,’ Josephine argued, turning the bacon in the pan. ‘It’s either audacious or desperate, and it backfired completely. And surely there are easier ways of killing Harry and making it look like suicide than a riding accident? Horses are so unpredictable, and you say he was a good rider – it would be very hard to be sure of the outcome.’

‘All right, all right,’ he said, holding his hands up. ‘I admit that, as patterns go, it’s tenuous to say the least. I suppose I’m just trying to justify my instincts. Even though I know for a fact how many people have drowned in the Loe Pool – strong swimmers as well as idiots – I was surprised when I heard about Harry’s accident, and downright disbelieving when Morwenna mentioned suicide – and I haven’t changed my
mind on either count. Harry did seem to have upset a few people of late.’

‘But what Loveday said about the fire shows that he
was
capable of taking his own life.’

‘I know, and I’m probably being too blinkered, but I simply don’t believe it.’

‘It seems unlikely that the same person would kill Harry
and
kill to protect him, though.’

‘Exactly. That just doesn’t make sense. So either I’m wrong altogether about Harry’s death, or there are two murders and two murderers, or the fire and Harry’s reputation had nothing to do with Nathaniel’s killing.’

‘What if Nathaniel had something to do with Harry’s death? I’m assuming his love was unrequited?’

Archie nodded. ‘As far as I know, yes.’

‘Perhaps he just couldn’t take it any more. Maybe Harry tried to blackmail him or threatened to expose his homosexuality. It would be the end of Nathaniel’s life here if that happened, and the scandal would be terrible. That’s a powerful motive for murder, and if someone found out, perhaps they took it upon themselves to avenge Harry’s death. An eye for an eye, and all that.’