Angel With Two Faces (29 page)

Loveday was looking out of one of the upstairs windows. Her face brightened as soon as she saw Josephine and she waved, then beckoned her inside. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable about letting herself into another woman’s home, Josephine put her head round the door and called a tentative greeting. ‘Loveday? Is it all right if I come up?’

‘Of course it is.’ The voice was too close to have come from the bedroom, and a few seconds later its owner appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a white cotton nightgown with her long blonde hair tied back in a single plait, and looking even younger than her fourteen years. She was paler than usual, but Josephine was glad to see that there were no other signs of illness. ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ Loveday said, smiling broadly. ‘I’m so bored of lying in bed, but Morwenna says I’ve got to stay there.’

‘Quite right, too. Your sister told me I could come and keep you company for a bit,’ she added, keen for Loveday to know she wasn’t doing anything wrong. ‘Personally, I can’t think of anything more idyllic than lying in bed all day and doing nothing, so think of it as a treat and make the most of it while you can.’

Loveday protested good-naturedly, but led the way back to her room. The stairs, which went up from the ill-fated kitchen, came out on to a long, dark landing, and Josephine could not decide whether the claustrophobic feeling it gave her was due to the physical structure of the cottage or to her knowledge of what had gone on there; probably the latter, she thought, because the house itself was surprisingly spacious inside. Three doors led off the landing, and Loveday headed for the one at the very end, giving Josephine a perfect opportunity to glance into the other rooms on the way. The first was obviously Morwenna’s and was notable only for being slightly untidier than the rest of the house, but the second – stripped completely bare, even down to the curtains at the windows – stopped her in her tracks. Of course grief affected people differently, but this utter eradication of Harry from the sisters’ lives only strengthened her belief that he was guilty of something more terrible than his parents’ murder – more terrible in Morwenna’s eyes, at least. An image flashed into her mind of Harry and Morwenna by the boathouse on that last morning; it was not something that she could ever have seen – she didn’t even know what Harry looked like – but it held the intensity of a memory, and she wondered again about his death. How or why was beyond her, but – having glimpsed this emphatic denial of a life – she had no doubt that Morwenna would certainly have been capable of her brother’s murder.

‘In here,’ Loveday called impatiently. Her room was small
but cheerful, with ceilings which sloped almost to the ground and shiny black floorboards, covered in rugs worn so thin that the animals embroidered lovingly on to them were barely recognisable. On the mat nearest the bed, a horse peeped out from a hot-water bottle which had been cast aside onto the floor. The bedclothes themselves were entirely white, giving a pure, almost virginal quality to the room which was straight out of the stories of romance and adventure that filled the shelf above the bed. Clearly, Loveday’s tastes inclined towards the heroic: Malory, Kipling and Rider Haggard rubbed shoulders with Ouida and Stevenson, and Josephine was pleased to see dog-eared editions of Conan Doyle and
Trent’s Last Case
– her own offering might pale in comparison, but at least Loveday found the genre entertaining. Apart from the book jackets, the only other colour in the room came from a bowl of bluebells which stood with a water jug on the white bamboo table by the bed, the delicacy of their lavender flowers belied by the strong, green scent which filled the room.

Loveday patted the bed, and Josephine sat down. ‘Here – I’ve brought you something to read,’ she said, handing over Archie’s copy of
The Man in the Queue. Kif
, she had decided, was a little too bleak in its outlook for an impressionable fourteen-year-old; there would be plenty of time for Loveday to find out that the world was rarely a fair place. The girl took the book eagerly, but her face fell as she looked at the jacket. ‘Is something wrong?’ Josephine asked, concerned by Loveday’s obvious disappointment.

‘No, no – of course not,’ she said, smiling bravely. ‘I just hoped it might be one of yours, that’s all.’ Realising that she must sound ungrateful, she added: ‘I’m sure Gordon Daviot’s very good, though.’

Josephine laughed. ‘That’s one of
my
secrets – except it’s not much of a secret any more. It
is
mine – I just had it published under a different name.’ She opened the book and showed Loveday the title page, where there was an inscription to Archie, signed in her own name. ‘There – that proves it.’

‘Won’t Mr Penrose mind you lending me his book?’

‘Of course not,’ said Josephine, who had no qualms whatsoever about raiding Archie’s library, particularly today. As far as she was concerned, he could curl up with his bloody Tennyson and leave her alone to polish her mirror. She smiled sweetly at Loveday. ‘He’d be pleased to know you were enjoying it.’

‘I’ll keep it safe for him,’ Loveday promised, tracing the lettering on the jacket thoughtfully with her finger. ‘Why wouldn’t you want people to know you’ve written a book?’ she asked. ‘I think it’s a wonderful thing. If it were me, I’d have my name as big as possible on the front.’

‘Not if you lived in Inverness, you wouldn’t,’ Josephine said, smiling.

‘Why? Aren’t the people very nice?’

‘It’s not that. It’s just that as a family we’ve always preferred to keep ourselves to ourselves, and that’s not necessarily the best way to make yourself popular in a small town. Everyone already thought I was a little odd because I refused to take part in the endless round of going out to tea, and I didn’t want to make it worse for myself by being seen to do anything as queer as writing a book. It was stupid of me, really, but I thought I could keep the two things entirely separate.’

‘But they found out?’

‘Yes. The play I wrote was a bit of a hit, and that scuppered me completely. And you’re right – calling myself Gordon Daviot wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. It seemed a nice
tribute at the time, but it gets me some very strange looks and I dread to think what they’ll be saying about me in fifty years’ time.’

‘Who was it a tribute to?’

‘Someone I used to know. It was a long time ago now – I was only a few years older than you. Daviot is a small village a few miles from where I live now – about the same distance as Penzance is from here. I used to go on holiday there every summer with my parents, and that’s where I met him.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Oh, he’s not around any more.’

‘Did you jilt him?’

Reluctant to start a conversation about the war and what it had meant to her, Josephine smiled. ‘No. In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that he jilted me.’

Loveday looked petulant. ‘I’ve jilted Christopher,’ she said.

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Because he’s ignoring me. He hasn’t spoken to me since Sunday.’

‘Does he know he’s in your bad books?’

‘Of course not. I haven’t had a chance to tell him.’

Had she not realised the seriousness of Christopher’s disappearance, Josephine would have been amused by Loveday’s indignation: a girl was never too young to resent being denied the chance to air her grievances first. ‘So you haven’t heard from him at all?’

‘No, not a thing.’

‘And he didn’t say anything to you about having to go away? To see some friends, perhaps?’ Loveday shook her head. ‘Not even as a secret? You don’t have to tell me the details if you
do
know where he is – I’ll just be impressed you found out.’

‘No,’ said Loveday sulkily, and Josephine could tell from her frown that she was speaking the truth. ‘I was hoping to see him at the theatre, but I had to go. I don’t suppose you saw him?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ She decided against worrying Loveday by telling her that Christopher had not shown his face at the Minack – or anywhere else, for that matter. ‘I didn’t even see much of you. You left in such a hurry – are you feeling better now?’

‘Much better, thank you – not that Christopher cares. He made such a fuss of me at first when I didn’t feel well, and I thought he was sure to come and see me today, but he hasn’t as much as sent a message.’

Josephine was confused. ‘I thought you hadn’t seen him?’

Loveday looked at her as if she were a little stupid. ‘I haven’t.’

‘But if he was concerned last night when you felt ill…’

‘No, not last night. When I was
first
ill, I said – that was weeks ago.’

Surprised, Josephine said: ‘Loveday, how did you feel back then, when Christopher was so worried about you?’

‘Horrible,’ she said, shuddering. ‘I was sick all the time – just like I was once when I ate some berries I found in the woods, except this went on for longer.’

‘And last night? Were you sick then?’

‘No, that’s stopped now, thank goodness. Morveth gave me something to make it go away. Last night was just the curse, but it hurt more than usual. Morwenna said it was so bad because I hadn’t had one for a while. I suppose that makes sense, but I’m glad it’s better today.’

Josephine was torn between relief that Loveday remained blissfully ignorant of her obvious miscarriage, and horror at
this latest example of the way in which the girl was so easily manipulated by those around her. ‘It sounds as though Morveth looked after you well,’ she said. ‘What did she give you?’

‘I don’t know exactly, but it smelt funny. Morwenna was angry with her for making me drink it yesterday when I wanted to go to the play, but Morveth said something about it having to be right with the moon, and if she waited another month it would be too late.’

Reminding herself that this was 1935, Josephine said: ‘And Christopher knew you were being sick?’

‘Yes. He was really nice to me about it, but I could tell he was worried.’

I bet he was, Josephine thought. She could imagine how Jago Snipe would have reacted to the news that his son had got Loveday pregnant. Running away – if that was indeed what he had done – must have seemed by far the lesser of two evils. ‘Did anyone else know you were ill?’ she asked.

‘No. Morwenna said we should keep it to ourselves, and I was to stay at home as much as possible until I felt better. That’s why she got so angry whenever I ran off – but it’s so boring, being stuck in the house all the time.’

‘What about Harry? Did he know you weren’t well before he had his accident?’ If Harry had found out that Christopher was taking advantage of his little sister, that would explain the animosity between them.

Loveday considered the question for a moment. ‘No – he would have done something to make me feel better,’ she said. ‘He always knew how to cheer me up.’

It was the first time that Josephine had heard Loveday use the past tense with regard to her brother. At least she seemed to
be coming to terms with that tragedy, although the news of Nathaniel’s death – and possibly Christopher’s – could surely not be kept from her for much longer, and she was bound to be deeply upset when she heard. ‘I know he’s made you cross – I would be, too – but you and Christopher are very good friends, aren’t you?’ she said gently. Loveday nodded, and she looked so sad that Josephine was tempted to try to explain the situation to her: was allowing her to believe that Christopher had betrayed her affections really any kinder than being honest with her about the danger in which he might have found himself? In the end, she decided against it; she could only guess at what had really happened to the boy, and telling Loveday something which she subsequently discovered to be a lie would only make her as insensitive as everyone else. Instead, with the unpleasant taste of treachery in her mouth, she did as Archie had asked. ‘Did Harry ever have a special friend, like you have Christopher? One person with whom he was particularly close?’

‘No. He had me and Morwenna.’

‘Of course he did, but I mean someone different.’ The irony was not lost on her as she added, ‘Someone outside the family.’

This seemed to be a new idea to Loveday. She thought about it, but eventually shook her head. ‘Definitely not. I would have known.’

‘Even if he didn’t want to tell you?’

‘Oh yes. Sometimes I used to follow him, you see, just for fun.’

‘And he didn’t meet anyone, or go anywhere in particular? With Nathaniel, for example?’

‘Into the village, usually. And he did meet people, but not
someone to be alone with, not like…’ She left the sentence unfinished and looked down at the sheets, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, Nathaniel wouldn’t be like Christopher, would he?’

Josephine was saved the embarrassment of further explanation by the sound of someone opening the back door. Morwenna had returned sooner than expected, perhaps having had second thoughts about leaving her sister alone to talk to a stranger, and her time with Loveday was clearly about to be curtailed. Footsteps stopped halfway up the stairs, as though Morwenna were trying to listen to their conversation, and Josephine said brightly to Loveday: ‘Would you like me to read you the first chapter before I have to go?’

Loveday nodded enthusiastically, and handed her the book. She had barely got halfway through the first paragraph before she was interrupted, but the voice was not Morwenna’s.

‘I’m sure you mean well, Miss Tey, but I think Loveday needs some rest now.’ She turned to see Morveth Wearne standing in the doorway, her face resolute and brooking no argument. ‘Perhaps you could come back another day.’

It occurred to Josephine that the same offer might have been made to a condemned man with more hope of its being allowed to come true, but she resisted the temptation to jump up as though she were one of Morveth’s pupils. ‘Oh, we’ve been taking it easy, haven’t we?’ she said casually, glancing conspiratorially at Loveday. ‘And it’s good to know that your patient is so much better than she has been of late.’

This last comment could hardly have been more blatant, but Morveth did not even flinch. ‘Then let’s make sure it stays that way,’ she said, opening the door slightly. It was a subtle gesture, but somehow harder to disobey than an outright order to leave.