Fear in the Sunlight (3 page)

Jack Spence looked down onto the sea-washed terrace below – the old quayside, where ships used to be built – and noticed that the elegant, stuccoed building seemed to share its guests’ delight in the weather. The hotel gleamed in the afternoon sun, its white walls intensifying the heat, but all he saw was the house as it had been when he first visited, long before it was extended and opened to the public, before the name Portmeirion had even been invented: a dilapidated Victorian mansion, overshadowed by the cliff at its back. Behind him was the old walled garden, now fashioned into a small village green, with houses clustered around a tennis court and freshwater swimming pool. Only one of them had been here originally – the gardener’s old cottage, neat and tidy these days, its roof and lattice windows trimmed with a bright turquoise blue which emphasised the whiteness of the stone; it was pretty, certainly, but somehow less substantial than the run-down, neglected property he had known, and its perfection faded as he looked at it, no match for the picture in his head. He opened the case at his feet, which was packed, as always, with the tools of his trade: trick glass, filters, fine gauzes with different holes burnt into them by cigarettes – artistic effects designed to distort reality, to make life more interesting. Ironic, really, that none of these optical devices was ever as convincing as his own memory.

Idly, he loaded new film into the camera, enjoying for once the chance to work at his leisure, without a director breathing down his neck. He had no idea what Hitch was up to in staging this elaborate weekend, but he didn’t much care; it wouldn’t be the first time that the director had demanded his complicity in a practical joke on his colleagues‚ and, whilst he didn’t share Hitch’s childish sense of humour, it was a small price to pay for working with a consummate technician. He was the only director Spence knew who never had to look through the lens to know exactly what the cameraman was seeing, a man whose visual imagination was second to none, and who was never afraid to experiment. In the years they had worked together, Spence had never known Hitchcock to raise his voice or show any sign of anger – if, indeed, he ever felt it; the director had other, more subtle, ways of manipulating people, but that was his business. Power was seductive, and Spence could understand its attraction; he could see for himself how uncomfortable some people felt in front of the camera, how easy it was to make them insecure and desperate to please. Looking around at such a peaceful, privileged retreat, he wondered who the victims would be this time.

Archie took a detour to his room to fetch Josephine’s birthday present, then headed downstairs to order the drinks. Like most corners of Portmeirion, the hotel bar was nothing if not unusual: tucked off the main hall and known as the Cockpit, the room was constructed entirely of timber from an old warship and decorated appropriately. Nautical charts, lanterns and ropes hung from the walls and ceiling; highly polished barrels served as tables; and time at the bar was called with a magnificent ship’s bell. The only jarring note was a dartboard to the right of the service hatch, which received a disapproving glance from the colourfully painted figurehead who dominated the room. The space reminded Archie of many a local pub in his native Cornwall, but it had a thoroughness which was typical of its creator: Clough was rarely satisfied with providing a flavour of something, and, were it not for the room’s reassuring stability, it would have been easy for him to believe he was on board the ship itself.

The Cockpit was always popular, and even now some guests preferred its character to the luxury of a summer’s day. Archie waited to be served, then ordered a pint of beer and another jug of lemonade.

‘Can’t help feeling we should all be drinking rum.’ A pleasant-faced young man sitting at the bar gestured to his surroundings. ‘This place is extraordinary.’

Archie smiled, remembering how magical he had found Portmeirion when it was new to him. ‘Is this your first visit?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I came to Wales all the time as a kid – my parents were in variety, and they did a summer season in Rhyl every year – but none of this was here then.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure the stuff they put on would have fitted in very well. I’ve only been here a few hours, but it doesn’t seem to be a banjo and boater sort of crowd.’

‘I know what you mean. I’ve been a few times and I’ve yet to see a chorus girl.’

‘You can’t have everything, I suppose.’

Archie laughed. ‘No. A film party is more than enough to deal with.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He lifted his glass. ‘That’s why I’m skulking down here – Dutch courage. I’ve got to meet Alfred Hitchcock later and I’m dreading it. You know what it’s like when you need to make an impression – you talk nonsense every time you open your mouth and trip over the carpet on your way out of the door. Thinking about it, my parents would have been proud of me.’ He held out his hand. ‘Daniel Lascelles.’

‘Nice to meet you. Are you an actor?’

Lascelles grinned. ‘Yes, although obviously not a household name.’

There was no hint of resentment in the remark, just a gentle self-mockery which Archie warmed to instantly. ‘You mustn’t use me to gauge your fame,’ he said. ‘In my line of work, we don’t get to the cinema very often. Are the Hitchcocks here yet?’

‘I think so. The barman wouldn’t tell me, but one of the other guests saw them checking in this morning. They’re staying in that cottage on the edge of the cliff, and we’re all summoned to dinner at eight.’

‘Then good luck – and watch that carpet.’ Archie picked up the drinks and took them outside. ‘I think I’ve found your Robert Tisdall,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Early twenties, charming, good-looking in that naive, English kind of way, and just the right amount of haplessness. Does the name Daniel Lascelles mean anything to you?’

‘Yes, he was in
Evergreen
with Jessie Matthews,’ Josephine said. ‘Younger than Robert Donat, but his cheekbones aren’t a patch on Derrick de Marney’s.’ She thought about the character in her book – an innocent man, accused of murder and on the run from the police. ‘Yes, I suppose he would be good. Now we need a young female lead for Erica and a dashing Inspector Grant. Unless you’d like to play yourself? Grant is a thinly disguised version of you, after all.’

Archie didn’t dignify the remark with a response, but handed her the envelope he’d brought down from his room. ‘You’d better open this before everyone else arrives.’

Josephine looked at him curiously. ‘You’ve already given me a card.’

‘It’s not a card.’

She slit the paper open and shook the contents out onto her lap. ‘Tickets for the races,’ she said, delighted. ‘How fabulous! I haven’t been to Newmarket for years. But these are owners’ passes, Archie. Whose guest am I?’

‘No one’s.’ He grinned, and handed her a second envelope which had been concealed under the drinks tray. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

Bewildered, Josephine took out a photograph, scarcely daring to believe what he was telling her. The picture had been cut from a sale catalogue but she didn’t need to read the description to be convinced of the animal’s beauty. ‘You can’t have bought me a racehorse, Archie,’ she said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice in case she had misunderstood the gift.

It was a very poor effort at restraint, and Archie laughed. ‘Actually, it’s half a racehorse,’ he admitted. ‘He’s called Timber, and you’re sharing him with a trainer friend of mine.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ She got up to hug him. ‘Except thank you. How on earth did you manage it?’

‘By chance, really. You remember that case I was involved with a few years back in Newmarket?’

‘Yes, although you never told me much about it.’

‘They weren’t the sort of details I’d want to share with you. Someone had a grudge against one of the stables there and did some truly vile things, but we got to the bottom of it and the owner was so grateful that he kept in touch.’ Archie smiled. ‘In fact, he sent me some remarkably good tips over the years – not that I did anything about them. That wouldn’t have been right.’

‘No, of course not,’ Josephine said cynically.

‘He died recently – he must have been well into his seventies when I first met him. His trainer’s taking over the stables but on a much smaller scale, so some of the horses had to be sold off. I went up to see him and he offered to sell me a half-share in this chap because he was particularly keen to hang on to him.’ Archie looked embarrassed. ‘Don’t ask me if he’s any good or not. I don’t know the first thing about racehorses, but it might be fun for you to find out. The picture doesn’t do him justice,’ he added as she stared at him in disbelief, ‘but he’s a wonderful colour – dark chestnut, with three white socks and white markings on his face. I fell in love with him when I saw him.’

‘For God’s sake, Archie,’ she said, waving the photograph under his nose. ‘A yearling colt by Cold Steel out of Crafty Alice, and you don’t know whether he can run or not?’

‘Is that good, then?’

‘Good? It’s equine royalty. When can we go and see him?’

‘Whenever you like. I’ll take you over there to meet Bart – that’s your fellow owner – and you two can talk pedigrees while I find a decent pub.’

‘You won’t be so blasé about it when Timber starts to make you your money back. It’s a decent bookmaker you should be looking for.’

‘Don’t worry – I know one or two of those.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’

‘Pleased isn’t the word. Really, Archie – you have no idea. I’m so touched that you even thought of it. It’s a wonderful present.’

Archie looked back towards the village, his attention caught by the silky purr of an expensive engine. ‘An Alvis,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’ They watched as the car – sleek, low built and kingfisher-blue – drove rather more quickly than was sensible down the hill to the hotel and stopped outside reception.

‘Oh,’ Josephine said, acknowledging a sense of anticlimax as the driver got out. ‘I was expecting something rather more glamorous.’ The owner of the car was a middle-aged man, tall but carrying too much weight around the waist and wearing a crumpled linen suit that made no attempt to hide the fact. ‘Just shows how wrong you can be, doesn’t it?’ She looked closer as the driver removed his hat. ‘Isn’t that Leyton Turnbull?’

The man seemed vaguely familiar to Archie, but he would never have been able to summon up a name. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but I’ll bow to your encyclopedic knowledge of matinee idols.’

‘Fallen idols,’ Josephine corrected him. ‘He’s never had much success since sound came in – the lisp was such a handicap. I’m surprised he can still afford a car like that.’

‘He must be back in favour if the Hitchcocks have invited him for the weekend.’

‘Just my luck,’ Josephine said despondently. ‘He’s probably in line for Alan Grant.
Is
there a police rank that doesn’t have an “s” in it?’ She sighed. ‘Have you actually seen the Hitchcocks yet?’

‘No, but I know they’re staying at the Watch House.’ He pointed to a small, single-storey building with a pantiled roof, perched on the cliff top just to the right of the Bell Tower. Two columns on the seaward side of the cottage cleverly transformed an otherwise undistinguished building into an attractive loggia, rather like an old Greek monastery – an impression that was enhanced by the series of steep walled steps and stone resting places that linked it to the terraces below. ‘You’ll know about it when they want to make their presence felt. He makes quite an entrance.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Once or twice. The first time must have been about ten years ago when he was making
The Lodger
.’

‘Did he want your professional advice on killers with a grudge against blondes?’

Archie laughed. ‘No, nothing like that. He came to the Yard to get permission to haul a body out of the Thames, but I’m afraid I had to refuse it.’ Josephine looked confused, so he explained. ‘He was desperate to do a shot of London at night, something you wouldn’t normally see, and he came up with the idea of dragging one of the victims out of the river against the backdrop of Charing Cross Bridge. He pestered us to let him do it – pulled every string he had and practically went to the Home Secretary. In the end, someone much higher than I was at the time let it be known that although the official answer was no, he wouldn’t be stopped if he tried it.’

‘I bet you were thrilled about that.’

‘For a bit, yes, but I had the last laugh.’

Josephine looked curious. ‘Go on.’

‘The crew turned up with all the equipment: two huge vans stuck in the middle of Westminster Bridge, and God knows how many lights and cameras. They were there for hours, holding up the traffic, stopping and starting every time a tram went past, until eventually Hitchcock was satisfied that he’d got the effect he wanted.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘The cameraman forgot to check the equipment. When they looked through the rushes, the scene simply wasn’t there.’

‘Is that
really
true, or just a showbiz legend?’ Josephine asked. ‘Not that it matters – it’s too good a story.’

‘It’s gossip, obviously, but that shot certainly isn’t in the finished film. I went to see it to make sure.’

‘You’d better watch yourself this weekend, then. Hitchcock probably thinks you sabotaged the whole venture.’

‘Oh, he doesn’t remember me,’ Archie said. ‘He came back a couple of years later to do some research for
Blackmail
and he didn’t mention it. But don’t be too intimidated when you finally meet him. He might be a genius, but he’s not infallible.’

‘Come to think of it, Marta always says he’d be lost without his wife,’ Josephine said. ‘I didn’t know this‚ but Alma Reville was senior to him when they first met. He was an errand boy at the studios, and she was already a cutter and producer’s assistant. He didn’t speak to her until two years later, when he had a better job than she did.’

‘How very modern of him,’ Archie said.

‘I don’t think it was like that. I get the impression that he needed to earn Alma’s respect before approaching her. Their marriage is a real partnership, apparently. She’s the one person he always listens to.’

‘Have you seen much of Marta lately?’

Josephine glanced at him, but the casualness of the question seemed genuine. Her relationship with Marta Fox – which she still refused to categorise, even for her own peace of mind – was the only part of her life that her friendship with Archie seemed unable to cope with. Or perhaps that was unfair: perhaps she had simply never given it the chance. Only once, just after Marta had unexpectedly come back into her life, had Josephine even tried to raise the subject with Archie, and he had reacted angrily; now, she sensed that he had begun to come to terms with his own feelings for her, but still she shied away from discussing it – and only partly to protect him. ‘We’ve had dinner a few times in London, usually after one of Lydia’s opening nights. And I went to Tagley for a weekend party in the spring, but it was a nightmare. Never again.’ Much against her better judgement, she had been persuaded to stay with Marta and Lydia at the cottage they owned in Essex, but being an observer of their day-to-day life together had done nothing to ease her guilt at undermining their relationship, or to soften her own loneliness.

‘How is she getting on with Lydia?’

‘Fine, I think. To be honest, I haven’t really asked. We haven’t had the chance to talk properly.’

‘Why not? I can’t believe you couldn’t have engineered a way of seeing her without Lydia, so what are you afraid of?’ She said nothing, and he looked at her with concern. ‘I’m not trying to force you to talk to me about this, Josephine, but wouldn’t it help? You and Marta obviously care about each other, but you’re not free to be with her and she’s with someone else – that can’t be easy.’

‘Of course it isn’t, but it’s not fair of me to expect you to . . .’ She was interrupted by the sound of another car coming down the hill. It came to an abrupt stop outside the hotel, dangerously close to the Victorian balustrade, and they watched as Ronnie peeled herself away from the passenger seat and struggled out of the car, recovering sufficiently to deliver a healthy kick to one of the front tyres. Josephine glanced at Archie. ‘Not the most enjoyable of journeys, by the look of it.’

‘No, but impeccably timed as usual.’ He looked at her suspiciously. ‘I’m beginning to think you pay them to turn up on cue.’