Angel With Two Faces (30 page)

‘I’ll come and see you again,’ she promised Loveday defiantly. ‘Enjoy the book, and don’t be too careful with it. When you’re better, I’ll let you read some of the new one.’ She bent down to kiss the girl’s forehead, and whispered in her ear so that Morveth could not hear what she was saying. ‘You never know, I might find a role for you in it. But that’s
our
secret.’

Loveday beamed at her and she left the room, glad that Morveth at least refrained from seeing her off the premises like a poacher discovered trespassing on estate land. As she closed the door behind her and walked down the path, Josephine could feel the eyes burning into the back of her head. She resisted the temptation to turn around.

Beth Jacks got up from where she had been kneeling on the cold stone floor of the church, and turned away while Jasper Motley tidied his clothes. Such modesty was hardly necessary, he thought, as he watched her wipe her hand quickly across her mouth, but at least she was getting better at masking her revulsion. If anyone had a right to be disgusted, it was he: her face was rarely without the marks of her husband’s fist these days, and that purple stain of shame made it almost impossible for him to take any satisfaction in their sex – if what they did now was even worthy of the name. He had long since abandoned any attempt to force himself on her as he would have liked to; her compliance made no allowance for the sense of power which had first awakened, then guided, his sexuality, and she ought to be grateful that he was willing to continue the arrangement at all.

She took a seat at the vestry table, while he lifted the lid on the panelled oak coffer and removed a black bag. It was an elaborate piece of furniture to store so little that was of value, but he tried not to dwell on its emptiness as he put the money on the table in front of her. He saw an expression of disappointment cross her face as she picked the coins up, one by one – he had not been as generous as usual, but she had more sense than to complain. Instead, she pushed the Bible hesitantly towards him and waited. Impatiently, he chose a passage at
random and began to read, keen to get this part of the business over and done with. He had laughed the first time she asked him to do it, scornful of the idea that the humiliating sin of which she was guilty could somehow be absolved by the person who had demanded it, but she had shown a rare moment of strength by insisting on a reading from the scriptures every time, and he obliged her because it cost him nothing. The understanding they shared had, of course, been his idea, and she had looked at him in horror when he first suggested it, but it had not taken her long to come round to the idea. Years of ill-treatment from her husband had dulled her self-respect but sharpened a streak of pragmatism which saw the sense in being paid for her shame, and it was not his place to strip her of the illusion that money would eventually buy her freedom. He had seen men like Jacks before and understood what drove them; there were no lengths to which the gamekeeper would not go to keep what was his, whether he valued it or not.

When the reading was over, he stood at the door in the north porch and watched Beth Jacks walk away through the gravestones, leaving the churchyard by the lych gate and heading back into the estate. The rain had stopped now, and the air felt young and fresh again – cleansed, he would have said, if he were the type to seek regeneration. Looking across at the rectory opposite, he noticed that there was a dark car parked by the hedge; as he watched, his nephew got out from the driver’s side and gazed intently after Beth Jacks, then back at the church. Absentmindedly, Motley rubbed his temple, where a headache had been building all day. He had expected a visit from the police since this morning, when his wife had returned from the village full of the news of Nathaniel
Shoebridge’s death. The curate’s obvious antagonism towards him was bound to require some sort of explanation now, but never for a moment had he considered that the police might arrive in the shape of Archie Penrose, and he was suddenly uneasy: he feared Penrose’s intelligence and his integrity – they were so like his mother’s. He had never got to know his nephew – Lizzie made sure of that – and none of the family were regular churchgoers, so he had not even watched Archie grow up from a distance, but he was aware that an unspoken bitterness existed between them which stretched back to the war. Then, like many other preachers in hundreds of pulpits around the country, Jasper Motley had considered it his duty to encourage the young men of his parish to fight for their country, and he had done so with a dedication and a passion which did not usually characterise his sermons. On one such occasion – a harvest festival, he thought it was, right at the beginning of the war – the Penroses made a rare appearance in the family pew, more out of solidarity for William than anything else. He remembered the expression of sadness and scepticism on Archie’s face when the preaching turned to the glories of war, and it had seemed so out of place in someone so young; two years later, having witnessed the horror for himself, his nephew returned to the church, on sick leave after an incident in which his closest friend had been killed. By then, the congregation had dwindled considerably and Archie sat alone in the front pew, directly in line with the gothic Victorian lectern, staring up at his uncle with hatred and blame in his eyes, as if the fighting were somehow his fault. Nothing had been said, but there was such an intensity in the moment that Jasper Motley had, ever since, harboured a secret fear that Penrose would eventually find something for which
he could make his uncle pay, no matter how many years it took.

If he had had any doubt that the visit was official, it would have been dispelled when a uniformed police constable got out of the passenger seat. Motley met them halfway up the path, reluctant to talk in the vestry in case the sordid nature of his encounter with Beth Jacks remained somehow tangible there. Penrose came straight to the point, refusing to acknowledge any family connection between them. ‘We need to talk to you about Nathaniel’s death,’ he said, with the easy politeness of a man talking to a stranger. ‘I presume you’ve heard what happened?’

Motley nodded. ‘I’d left the theatre by then, as I’m sure you know, but my wife told me this morning. Everyone was talking about it in the village, she said, and I telephoned William to get the details. He said it wasn’t an accident.’

‘We’re treating it as murder, so I’d like to know more about the incident between you and Nathaniel just before he died.’ He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. ‘To eliminate you from our inquiries, as they say.’

‘You’d better come up to the house,’ Motley said, realising that he was not going to be able to get this over with as quickly as he would have liked. Penrose looked again at the church and, for a second, Motley thought he was going to argue, but he nodded his agreement and stood aside to let his uncle lead the way. ‘You can’t bring that thing in with you, though,’ the vicar added. ‘Edwina hates dogs.’

Apparently unoffended, the constable smiled good-naturedly and left the terrier in the car. As Motley opened the door to Bar Lodge, he heard his wife coming down the stairs. She stopped on the first landing, deciding against whatever she
had been about to say as soon as she saw that he was not alone; for a moment, she looked curiously at the small group in the hallway, then turned and went back upstairs without a word, but not before he noticed satisfaction in her eyes. It would amuse her to stand by while he lost everything; more than ever, he was determined not to let it happen.

He led the policemen through to the drawing room and stood by the fireplace, determined to maintain some sort of authority in his own home, even though his legs ached and he desperately needed to sit down. Penrose looked around with interest, and Motley realised that this was unfamiliar territory to his nephew, who had never set foot in the house before. His manner was relaxed and unhurried, and he glanced leisurely around the room before speaking, taking in the French-style walnut settee and the fine mahogany longcase clock, and noting, no doubt, the discrepancy between the luxury of the vicar’s domestic space and the neglected professional arena which was supposed to be his first concern. ‘Some of my men will be conducting a search of the churchyard and the church itself,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m sure they can rely on your co-operation.’

‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ Motley asked, genuinely surprised. ‘Surely it can have no bearing on Shoebridge’s death?’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Penrose said, and Motley detected the first note of irritation in an otherwise faultless performance. ‘Christopher Snipe is missing, but he was last seen in the graveyard on Sunday night. Did you notice him there? Or anybody else?’

‘No. Sunday was a busy day, and I was tired. We had an early supper after Pinching’s funeral, and I went to bed. I certainly
wasn’t in the mood to wander round the churchyard in the dark.’

‘I’m not suggesting you were, but there’s a perfectly good view of at least half of it from here. You might have noticed something from the window.’

Motley shook his head. ‘I was asleep from eight o’clock, or just after. Edwina will confirm that.’

‘Nathaniel kept his original costume for the play in the vestry, ready to bring to the Minack for me to wear on Tuesday night, but it was already missing when he went to fetch it. When was the last time you noticed it there? It was one of the brown habits.’

‘I remember seeing it on Monday afternoon.’

‘What time?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Well, I went to the church after lunch and stayed there for a couple of hours. The cricket match was just finishing when I left, and the costume was still there then. Listen, I hope your men are going to be careful,’ he added, still thrown by the idea of a search. ‘Make sure they show some respect – there are people at rest there.’ He knew how hollow his concern for the souls of his dead parishioners must sound after all these years. Penrose laughed – a sarcastic, dismissive gesture which reminded Motley so much of his sister that he had to turn away for a second to keep his composure. He remembered how often Lizzie had laughed at him like that when they were children. She and William were always caught up in their rituals and their private jokes, and for years the only acknowledgement he ever received from them was rejection – until he realised that there was a way to make Lizzie notice him, late at night, when she was alone in her room with no one else to turn to. The first time he crept along that long corridor
at Loe House, he had only intended to frighten her. Her room was in darkness, but she was sleeping so soundly that he was able to walk softly over to the bed without any risk of discovery. He listened to her slow, regular breathing for a moment, then put his hand roughly over her mouth, meaning to give her the shock of her life and bring this smug, untroubled rest to an abrupt end. She awoke in fear, which turned to anger when she saw who it was, but he was older and stronger and her small body was no match for his; he felt her struggle beneath him, and the excitement which he experienced for the first time in that moment was fleeting but so intense that he knew he could not leave it there. What surprised him most was how easy it had been to make his sister believe that his nightly visits were all her fault, to crush her vitality and independence under the weight of a secret shame. In the end, his pleasure was psychological as much as it was physical: isolating her from the rest of the family, making her fear her parents and even William, was a triumph, and he was amused to notice that she soon began to get herself into trouble deliberately, as if being punished for other sins would somehow assuage the deeper sense of guilt which festered inside her. Jasper knew it could not last for ever, but he had desperately needed someone to belong to him and, for a while, Lizzie did. Nothing else in his life had ever quite lived up to the potency of those three brief years.

With a start, Motley realised that Penrose was waiting for him to speak, but he had been too caught up in his own thoughts to hear the question. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, pulling himself together and trying to look at his nephew as a policeman rather than a dangerous reincarnation of his past.

Impatiently, Penrose repeated himself. ‘I just wondered where you got your passion for theatre from?’

‘What? I don’t have a passion for theatre. I’ve left that to your side of the family.’

‘That’s what I thought. And yet you made sure of a front-row seat on Tuesday night.’

‘They’re the Winwaloe Players and I’m the vicar of St Winwaloe’s – what’s so suspicious about that? Aren’t I allowed to support my own community?’

Penrose smiled again. ‘There’s a first time for everything, I suppose,’ he said, and Motley felt a violence rise within him which, had he been ten years younger, he doubted he would have been able to control. Instead, he said nothing, but noticed with interest that even the constable seemed surprised by his superior’s approach. ‘You left the auditorium immediately after the incident with Nathaniel,’ the inspector continued. ‘Did you leave the theatre altogether?’

‘I went to my car, which was parked at the top of the hill, and waited there for my wife. She arrived about ten minutes later, and we drove straight home.’

‘You knew she’d come after you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did anyone see you while you were waiting?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And you didn’t meet anyone else by the cars? Jago Snipe or Morveth Wearne, for example?’

‘I saw Snipe as we were driving off. He was standing on the edge of the lawn to Minack House, bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to get his breath back. I’m not surprised – that place isn’t built for people our age. I doubt he saw us, but he must have heard the car. Morveth Wearne wasn’t there, though.’

‘Let’s go back to the moment when Nathaniel departed from
the script. Do you know why he did that, and what he was trying to suggest?’

‘I’ve no idea. He had a vivid imagination, and was prone to grand gestures. Theatricality suited him, particularly in the pulpit, but don’t expect me to be able to tell you what was going on in his head.’

‘He wouldn’t be the first person to accuse you of certain financial irregularities, though, would he?’

‘People talk in any small community. It’s a substitute for something meaningful in their otherwise futile lives. I don’t listen to gossip, and I would have thought that someone in your position would know better than to make accusations which have no substance.’

Penrose glanced around the room again, then continued. ‘It’s not so much the coins that interest me, though, as what Nathaniel chose to do with them. He poured them from a collection bag into your lap, and that struck me as a very sexual gesture. Would you agree?’