Angel with Two Faces

Chapter Seven

‘How he expects these poor people to fight Satan on an empty stomach, I’ll never know,’ said Lettice, tossing the book aside in disgust. ‘Apparently, eating weakens your resistance to the devil. If that’s true, I welcome him with open arms at least four times a day. I hope your book’s going to be a little more believable, darling.’

Josephine looked at the cover and was amused to see that Lettice was reading the new Dennis Wheatley. ‘I didn’t have you down as a follower of the occult,’ she said, leaning back and closing her eyes again. The May sun was a shadow of its August self, but it was glorious to feel the promise of summer on her face.

‘I’m not usually,’ Lettice admitted, ‘but I found this in the Snipe’s room and, after what Pa said last night about Morveth and her conjuring trick, I thought I ought to give it a try. I’d hate to think I was missing something on my own doorstep and I thought Dennis might tell me what to look out for. I’m not impressed so far, but I’ll keep going until we get to the Devil’s Mass.’

‘Where exactly did all that business with Harry happen?’ Josephine asked, sitting up and looking back towards the lake.

‘The body or the accident?’

‘Both.’

Lettice refilled their glasses with lemonade. ‘Well, you can’t see the place where the body came in from here – it’s just round that bend. But this is where he went in.’ She pointed to the nearest shore of the Loe, where it bordered the beach. ‘It looks harmless enough, but it shelves so steeply that you’re soon out of your depth.’

‘And the horse? Where did he swim to?’

‘Right across to the far bank. You see the track that runs back across the fields, just before the trees start on that side?’ Josephine nodded. ‘That’s where Shilling came out. He was in a shocking state – absolutely terrified.’

Josephine looked across Loe Bar, a short band of sand and shingle – no more than a few hundred feet wide – which separated the lake from the sea. It was an extraordinary experience to be able to take in these very different stretches of water in a single view. She was at once enchanted by the unique, detached beauty of the place and fascinated by its violent past; hundreds of people must have died at sea along this stretch of coast, their bodies buried without ceremony where they came ashore, and their souls scorned by the church which stood at the head of the Bar, its stones looking smugly out towards the unmarked graves from the safety of their own sanctified earth.

The beach now was a very different spot from the one she’d been in a few hours ago – the one which was deserted except for what she thought was the body of a young girl. The cricket match – Loe House versus the rest of the estate – was due to get underway shortly, and people had been arriving for the last half-hour or so, dressed in varying shades of white, warming up as if they meant business and seemingly undeterred by the erratic nature of the pitch. The sound of a motorbike drifted across from the track, and shortly afterwards she saw Archie walk leisurely across the sand to where William was gathering his team together. Nearby, the Snipe was spreading crisp, clean linen over a couple of trestle tables and organising her band of cricket wives, who obeyed her instructions with a military deference. Obviously they would have to do without the smell of freshly cut grass and the tap of boot studs on a wooden pavilion floor, but everything else she expected from an English cricket match was in place. The only note that jarred slightly was walking across the sand towards her: Ronnie’s exquisite wide-brimmed straw hat would have been more in keeping at Henley or Ascot.

‘Those tables have come down here from the wake with indecent haste,’ Ronnie said, looking over her sunglasses. ‘I hope they’ve scrubbed them well.’

Josephine laughed. ‘They don’t actually use them for the body, so I think you’ll be all right.’

‘You didn’t see some of the people at the funeral,’ Ronnie retorted.

Lettice glanced across to where the Snipe was unwrapping plate after plate of sandwiches and cakes. ‘I think I’ll risk it,’ she said, and got up from her deckchair. ‘Looks like Pa’s won the toss, so I’d better go and pad up. Wish me luck.’

‘I didn’t know she was playing,’ Josephine said, impressed, as Lettice walked away.

Ronnie sat down in the vacant deckchair. ‘They don’t call her the Slogger for nothing, you know.’

‘She must be solid if she’s opening.’

‘Oh God, don’t tell me you actually understand the bloody game,’ Ronnie groaned. ‘I was sure I’d have an ally in someone from the land of brown heath and shaggy wood.’

‘And I thought cricket would be right up your street. There’s something very elegant about all those men in white.’

‘Nonsense, dear. Cricket whites have exactly the same effect on a man’s looks as alcohol has on his mood – they just emphasise what’s there already, for better or worse.’

As Archie walked over to say hello, Josephine decided that it was certainly the former in his case, but Ronnie seemed unimpressed by her cousin. ‘I have to say, your daywear has been a little monochrome so far this visit,’ she said to him. ‘Perhaps tomorrow you might be tempted to strike out into a daring shade of grey?’

‘We can’t all be Ivor Novello,’ Archie said good-naturedly, lightly throwing a cricket ball into her lap and helping himself to a cigarette from the case which Ronnie had brought with her.

‘Isn’t it time you got started?’ she asked, lighting it for him. ‘You take all day about it as it is.’

‘We can’t start yet – we’ve only got one umpire and the other team’s a man short. Jago and Christopher haven’t turned up.’

‘Good, then I’ve got time to see the Snipe about some drinks. Come and get me if I’m not back in time for the beginning.’

‘For a non-believer, you seem very keen not to miss anything,’ Josephine said.

‘I’ve got no choice, dear – I’m supposed to be scoring. But you can help me as you’re such an expert.’ She strolled off, and Archie sat down on the sand to put his pads on.

‘Are you in at number three?’

‘Four, but it’s best to be prepared. Our number two’s very unpredictable and Lettice will either stay there all day or be caught behind in the first over.’

‘Is that gamekeeper here?’ Josephine asked.

‘Jacks? Yes, he’s their wicket-keeper.’ He pointed to a tall, broad-chested man with curly black hair and a moustache. ‘Why?’

‘I always like to put a face to a gun.’ She watched Jacks practising with one of his team-mates. He was younger than she had expected, and had an effortless strength about him. She could only imagine what it must be like to be on the receiving end of a blow from one of those fists, and she wondered again what she should do about the secret she had unwittingly walked in on.

‘Here’s our missing umpire,’ Archie said, as a white-haired man hurried down the slope, holding his hand up in apology. ‘Looks like he’s on his own, though.’

They heard William call across the sand to the late arrival. ‘Where’s Christopher?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ the other man shouted back impatiently. ‘He hasn’t slept in his bed, and there’s no sign of him this morning. I would have been here earlier, but I’m having to do everything without him and I’ve only just got back from the Union.’

‘Don’t worry – you’re here now.’

‘I won’t be able to stay for the whole match, though,’ Jago called, struggling into a white coat. ‘Mrs Trevelyan’s not got long and I can’t stand round here all day. Her grandson’s coming to fetch me when I’m needed.’

‘Christopher’s his son?’ Josephine asked as the umpire walked out to the middle of the rough and ready pitch.

‘Yes. He was the one I told you about who nearly dropped the coffin.’

‘He was in the churchyard late last night, near Harry’s grave.’

Archie looked at her in surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Loveday told me.’ As Lettice walked out to the crease – or the closest approximation that the Bar could manage – she told Archie what had happened earlier that morning. ‘I was just glad to see she was all right,’ she said, looking around for Ronnie. There was no sign of her, so Josephine picked up the scorebook. ‘It worried me to think of her wandering round late at night so soon after her brother’s death.’

‘Yes, although it’s not unusual for Loveday to be on her own,’ Archie said, and Josephine wondered if he realised quite how alone the girl felt. ‘I saw Morwenna on the way here, and she said she’d got back all right.’

‘What was their relationship like? Harry and Morwenna, I mean.’

Archie considered for a moment. ‘They were always close as children,’ he said, ‘in that exclusive way that twins often are. It was a very carefree sort of thing, as far as I can remember, even as they grew up. Neither of them was particularly responsible – but then I was that bit older, and the next generation did seem carefree coming out of the war. It was hard for people my age not to resent that, I suppose. It all changed when their parents died, though. They had to grow up suddenly and pull together, so it was a different kind of relationship – but still close.’

There was a triumphant cry from the pitch, and several of the fielding side ran up to the bowler to slap him on the back. The batsman’s middle stump lay dejectedly on its side, and he walked away from the wicket looking furious with himself. ‘Would it surprise you if it was different behind closed doors?’ Josephine asked as another man walked out to the middle to join Lettice. She told Archie what Loveday had said about the arguments between the twins. ‘I wondered what would make Morwenna lock herself in her room,’ she said, ‘and the only thing I could think of was that she was afraid of him. If that’s true, you’ve got another candidate for wanting him dead.’

‘You think Morwenna had something to do with Harry’s accident? That’s ridiculous.’

‘Is it?’ she asked, slightly irritated by the dismissal. ‘Loveday says Morwenna lied about being at home when he went into the water, and sending you off on a suicide trail is a marvellous smokescreen.’

‘You didn’t see her,’ Archie insisted. ‘She’s devastated. The idea that Harry committed suicide is tearing her apart. You’re way off there.’

‘All right, all right – I’m only telling you what I thought.’

‘Anyway, you can’t necessarily trust what Loveday says,’ Archie continued, less abruptly but still a little defensive.

‘So everybody says, but she seemed to talk a lot of sense to me.’ They both applauded as Lettice executed a surprisingly elegant square cut for four from the last ball of the over, and Josephine decided to change the subject. ‘Anyway, discovering Loveday has given me an idea,’ she said while the fielders were swapping ends. ‘I’ve got a body on the beach, so I suppose that’s a start. I’ll worry about who she is tomorrow.’ The bowler charged in, seemingly spurred on by his team-mate’s success, and there was a dull thud as the ball hit the new batsman’s pads. ‘That looked pretty plumb to me – I think you’re in.’ Her verdict was confirmed by Jago’s raised finger, and Archie got up. ‘Good luck,’ she said, and he smiled, the tension between them disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived.

As he walked out to the wicket, Archie had to admit to himself that his reaction to Josephine’s hypothesis had surprised him as much as it had her; he was usually more objective. He chose middle and off, and made his mark on the sand.

‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable, Penrose,’ Jacks said behind him. ‘You won’t be there long.’ There was a chuckle from the slips, offered in a good competitive spirit and without a hint of the malice that lay behind the wicket-keeper’s remark. Well, thought Archie, if he wanted a fight he could have one. The first two balls were short, and he brushed them easily away towards cover for a couple of runs apiece. Comfortably back in his own crease, he smiled at Jacks. ‘It’s a shame Harry’s not here today,’ he said, aware that few things would needle Jacks more than the thought of his old enemy. ‘He was always the star of your team.’

‘We’ve started well enough,’ Jacks said. ‘We don’t need him.’

The next delivery veered wildly to the leg side. Jacks dived to his left, but the ball went wide of his gloves and sped to the makeshift boundary for four byes. ‘Are you sure about that?’ Archie asked as the wicket-keeper picked himself up and scowled. Someone went chasing after the ball, and the estate captain drew back the two slips to create a more defensive field. ‘I gather you saw the accident?’ Archie said, taking advantage of the fact that everyone else was now out of earshot. Jacks ignored him, but Archie had no intention of giving up that easily. ‘I bet your heart leapt,’ he goaded, ‘and I don’t suppose you tried too hard to save Harry.’

‘He was past saving, so don’t start coming the policeman round here. No one in his right mind would go into the Loe, and I’m certainly not playing the hero for that little shit.’

The ball was returned to the bowler, who, as Archie had suspected he would, tried to make up for the loose delivery by concentrating on a good-length ball. He played a defensive stroke, straight back down the pitch. ‘You must have thought all your dreams had come true at once with Harry out the way. It couldn’t have worked out better if you’d forced him in there yourself.’

‘It wasn’t me doing the forcing that morning. You need to look elsewhere for that.’

‘You mean there was someone else there?’ Archie could have kicked himself for the eagerness in his voice, but he managed to stop short of asking if it was Morwenna. He’d have to sound less desperate for information if he wanted to get anything else out of Jacks, who was clearly enjoying having the upper hand for a while.

‘There might have been,’ the wicket-keeper said, and crouched down ready for the next delivery.

Archie played the next ball effortlessly off his pads, edging it down to long leg, and was furious when Lettice pushed for a third run which took him away from the strike and from Jacks. Stranded at the other end, he opened his mouth to tell Jago about Christopher, but the umpire told him to be quiet before he could utter a word. ‘It’s cricket, Archie, not the bar at the Commercial. There’s been enough chat from you down the other end.’

Never mind: this was the last ball of the over, and Jacks would be back with him as long as Lettice didn’t try too hard to keep the strike. The bowler ran in purposefully, but Slogger had her eye in by now and hit the ball easily away on the off side. It went straight to the man at extra cover and there was no real hope of a single, but Lettice had a habit of being undone by her own optimism and never learned from past mistakes. ‘No!’ Archie shouted, but she was on her way down the pitch and he had no choice but to run as well. He had started far too late to stand any chance at all: the ball was already coming in from the fielder and, although he dived recklessly for the crease, his bat held out in front of him, he was unlucky with the quality of the throw. Jacks swept the bails off easily, and Archie found himself face down in the dirt.

There were cheers from the crowd and the estate team circled round the jubilant fielder – all but Jacks, who bent down low and spoke quietly to Archie. ‘You might want to ask young Christopher Snipe what he was doing out by the lake that morning,’ he said. ‘He’s got a throwing arm almost as good as Roland here, and he put it to good use that day.’ His face was so close that Archie could see the spittle at the corners of his mouth, but his pride – or what was left of it – kept him from moving away. ‘Christopher doesn’t know it, but I saw him waiting for Harry in the bushes with a rock in his hand. I suppose I could have stopped him, but I don’t like to interfere in other people’s business. It’s live and let live down here, except in Harry’s case of course, so I let him throw the rock at Harry’s horse and I watched as it bolted.’ He stood and looked down at Archie. ‘If you must know, I was cheering all the way, but I’d like to see you arrest me for that.’

Archie got up and looked at Jago, but he was talking to the other umpire. Jacks, too, had gone off to celebrate with his team-mates, so he walked back to where Josephine was sitting, thinking about what he had heard. Eager to share it with her, he cut short her commiserations on his run-out.

‘Do you believe him?’ she asked when he had finished.

‘I don’t know. It might explain why Christopher’s suddenly gone missing. Perhaps he did know he was seen after all, and thought it was only a matter of time before Jacks mentioned it. I have to say, it sounds more likely to me than Morwenna taking revenge on a violent brother.’

Anything would sound preferable to that, Josephine thought, but she said nothing. A small boy suddenly appeared from the direction of the church, and ran over to where William was sitting with his increasingly dejected batting side. She and Archie watched as he listened to the boy, then exchanged places with Jago, who hurried back off towards the village. ‘I suppose that means curtains for Mrs Trevelyan,’ Archie said drily. ‘It’s reassuring to know that not even cricket can stand in the way of a good send-off.’

‘Didn’t you tell me that Jacks was in love with Morwenna?’ Josephine asked thoughtfully.

‘Obsessed by her would be more like it, but what’s that got to do with anything?’ She just looked at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not suggesting that he’d make up something like that to protect her? Surely it’s much more likely that Christopher has panicked and run off?’

‘Wouldn’t he have done that a lot sooner if he was going to?’ Josephine knew she was playing devil’s advocate, but Archie’s stubborn resistance only made her more determined to argue her case.

‘Maybe.’ He thought about it. ‘If it is true, though, I wonder why he’d do it? What could Christopher have against Harry?’

Reluctant as she was to give up her theory, Josephine came clean with Archie and told him what Loveday had said about the fight and Christopher’s resentment of it. To his credit, he managed not to look smug. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll give Jago a bit of time, then I’ll see if he can shed any light on what these secrets might be.’

*

The cricket match was well underway when Jasper Motley made his way slowly down the narrow path which led from the rectory to St Winwaloe’s, but he had no desire to take any part in it. If his brother wanted to convince himself that he was running a peaceful estate where everyone lived in perfect harmony with one another, then so be it, but it would take more than a game of cricket and a handful of festive days to make the pretence a reality: it was human nature to hurt and dominate, and that was as true here, in a place of beauty, as it was in the bleakest of city slums. A pretty backdrop was nothing more than that – and he had his own charade to maintain before he concerned himself with William’s fantasies.

It was another warm day, and the sweat was already running down his back by the time he had walked the short distance to the churchyard. He stopped just inside the gate, running his finger round the inside of his collar and regretting the excesses of his lunch, and looked out over the yew hedge to the stretch of sand below. There was, he feared, more to the discomfort he felt than indigestion: it was pointless to pretend that what he had overheard in the church that morning had not unsettled him, but the important thing was to keep calm and decide what to do about it. He heard Loveday’s singsong voice again in his head, and turned instinctively to look at the pile of fresh earth that marked her brother’s grave. The girl was a halfwit; you only had to look at her behaviour yesterday to realise that, and, if he had his way, she’d be taken straight to the Union now that Harry was dead – along with that cold bitch of a sister, who seemed completely unable to control her. William would never countenance such a thing, though; apart from anything else, it would be tantamount to an admission of failure on his part. But something would have to be done now that Loveday had started to spout her nonsense to strangers – someone might take her seriously. As it was, he was sure that the dark-haired woman had caught him listening from the vestry; he wondered who she was and what she was doing on the estate.

The path to the south porch took Motley past his own family plot, and he paused briefly by the grave where his sister, Elizabeth, was buried with her husband; next to them, a simple stone stood over the final resting place of William’s young wife. Both graves were, as always, marked with flowers, and the understated bluebells – the flower of constancy, he remembered bitterly – opened the door to that familiar twinning of jealousy and spite which accompanied any reminder of his childhood. His earliest memories were of exclusion and resentment: despite being born between his brother and sister, he had never been able to insert himself into their affections or, failing that, to undermine the bond they had with each other. His parents had always been scrupulously egalitarian in their love, but that simply made Jasper despise them for being too dishonest to admit that he was cared for less than the others, and, in any case, no amount of fairness could compensate for the injustice of being born in second place. As he grew up, he learned to reward himself with petty retaliations – usually against his sister – to show how little he needed their approval or any wholehearted acceptance into the precious family ring. If he could not be part of something, it seemed reasonable to him to sully or destroy it – and, before he knew it, that childish logic had become the private religion upon which Jasper built his adult existence.

He turned away from his buried resentments and went back inside the church, where he sat down heavily in the vestry. The slightest exertion left him short of breath these days, and years of immoderate behaviour were finally catching up with him. Is that what it had come to, he wondered, looking around at the tricks of his godly trade. Would a little breathlessness and a modest annuity be all that he had to show for his life? He laughed to himself as he remembered the look on his parents’ face when he had announced his intention to go into the Church; they knew as well as he did that he had no calling for it, but he stuck to his decision, realising that it would offer him certain privileges and comforts which it would have been harder to come by any other way. It was a position of power, although he never fooled himself that his teachings could influence anyone: the vast majority of local people went to chapel rather than church, and it wasn’t difficult to please a minority who were already convinced of their status. At first, he tried to fake a sincere piety but he soon realised that the effort was more than his flock required; they were creatures of habit, as undemanding in their worship as he was lethargic in his preaching, and he felt no connection with his community. He knew that and so did they, and it would have been hard to say who cared about it less. In the early days, the Church had at least afforded him certain sensual pleasures: the music and intoxicating smell of incense; the chink of coins on a collection plate; the placing of a communion wafer on an eager young woman’s tongue. Now, any sensual pleasures he took were as worn and as dirty as the ageing altar cloth.

Which brought him back to the problem of Loveday Pinching and his curate. He had always despised Nathaniel for his faith and his obvious popularity but, after what he had heard earlier, his hatred intensified as any emotion does when mixed suddenly with fear. Determined not to panic, he tried to judge what he could get away with – personally and professionally. His wife would turn a blind eye to most things as long as her standard of living was not affected, and family ties would no doubt outweigh any rumours of pilfering and hypocrisy as far as William was concerned, but the slightest whiff of a more serious scandal would leave his brother no choice but to act, even if it was not a criminal matter, and that was something he absolutely refused to risk. How much did the curate really know, he wondered, and what could be done to ensure that it could never be used against him? He could combat the threat of shame with shame, of course: satisfying his needs in secret was second nature to him after all these years, but no man – if he was honest – was any different, and he had heard Nathaniel asking his God for forgiveness at the altar one day when he thought he was alone – but forgiveness for what? He had no idea what sin Nathaniel was guilty of, let alone any proof, and he doubted that it was serious enough to serve his purpose. As he looked around the vestry, trying not to give in to the anxiety that gnawed away at him, his eye fell on a brown monk’s habit which hung next to Nathaniel’s surplice and altar robes. He knew it was only the costume for a play, but its insistence on chastity spoke to him as accusingly as if the curate had been present to deliver the reprimand in person, and anxiety turned quickly to anger. Why, after all this time, should he be made to feel guilty by a weak and ignorant boy? And why here, in his own church, where even God had never been able to touch his conscience?

Jago Snipe’s workshop was in the village, in a narrow lane which ran between the backs of two rows of houses and rose sharply at the far end. The workshop was on the left-hand side of the street, just where the hill was at its steepest, and Penrose – feeling the climb in his calf muscles – sympathised with those who had to carry anything other than themselves up the slope. The two-storey building was set back slightly from the road, and the sound of sawing came from the ground floor, making it clear where Jago was to be found. Penrose walked across the yard towards a set of double doors, whose paintwork – which was chipped and rather shabby – claimed the colour of brick but not the endurance. The right-hand door was open, and a solid chain and padlock hung redundant from its handle. Penrose could see Jago inside, bent low over a piece of wood and dressed in a pair of bib-and-brace overalls, pulled hurriedly on over the shirt he had worn for the cricket match. The undertaker was intent on his work, and only looked up when Penrose knocked.

‘Archie,’ he said, sounding surprised and a little suspicious. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wanted to talk to you about Christopher, but we can make it another time if you’re too busy.’

Jago glanced over at another man who was busy polishing the lid of a coffin towards the rear of the workshop. ‘Take a break, Jim,’ he said, ‘You’re making a first-class job of that, and we’ve got a bit of time yet.’ Jim looked curiously at Penrose, but gladly exchanged his cloth for a packet of tobacco and nodded as he went out into the yard. Jago beckoned Penrose inside. ‘Whatever it is you’ve got to say, you’ll have to do it while I’m working. Mrs Trevelyan won’t bury herself.’

‘That’s fine,’ Penrose said. ‘I won’t keep you long.’ He stepped into the narrow, low-ceilinged workshop and looked around. The building was out of the sun and very little daylight made it over the threshold, so a row of hurricane lamps provided the light to work by. Two benches, each about four feet wide, ran end to end, punctuated by heavy wooden vices and decked with large piles of shavings. There was a stack of oak by the door, and a larger pile of elm – more suitable for most people’s pockets, Penrose guessed. The wood, which probably came from the Loe estate, was laid flat with strips in between to allow the air to circulate and season the timber, and the smell of it filled the room, reminding Penrose of a walk through the woods after rain. Several different groups of tools were displayed here and there, sharp and immaculately kept, and Archie was touched to see a set which looked much newer than the rest. He could imagine the pride with which Jago had handed them over to his son, looking forward to the years of working together and, eventually, to the time when he could let the business go altogether, confident that it was in safe hands – the hands that he had trained himself.

He watched as Jago resumed sawing through the elm, carefully judging how far he could go to ensure that the wood could be safely bent to form the coffin sides, and opened the conversation as casually as he could. ‘No sign of Christopher yet, then?’

There was a sharp crack, and Jago swore loudly as the wood snapped in his hands. ‘Christ, I haven’t done that since I was twenty,’ he said angrily, looking at the saw as if he could blame it for his carelessness.

Penrose waited while Jago selected another piece of wood, and heard the squeak of the vice as it was clamped viciously in place on the bench. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked.

‘You can help by finding my son, not standing round here like a bloody apprentice,’ Jago growled, then softened a little. ‘If you really want to make yourself useful, you can check that pitch isn’t about to boil over. We don’t need a fire on top of everything else.’

The outburst surprised Penrose, who had not realised that Jago was anything other than irritated by his son’s sudden disappearance. He walked down to the far end of the workshop, past the nearly completed coffin that Jim was making such a good job of, and another two which were half made, presumably for sudden emergencies. The pitch crock – a large iron bucket with a spout and handle – stood right at the back on a primus burner, and was filled with a dark bubbling liquid, the consistency of toffee, which was used to line the coffins. The effect of the whole thing would not have been out of place in Macbeth. The heat coming off the stove was no doubt welcome in the winter months, but Penrose found it oppressive in May and was pleased to turn the flame down slightly. He noticed a couple of refectory benches and a group of wooden bowls over in a corner. ‘Are those for the play?’ he asked, nodding towards the items, whose period feel was out of place next to the more timeless objects that usually came out of the workshop.

‘Yes, Christopher made them,’ Jago said. ‘We’re doing the scenery together tomorrow night – at least, we were supposed to be before he went missing.’ Archie was about to say something but Jago held up his hand to stop him. He put his ear close to the wood, listening for the slightest crick, but this time the line was cut to his satisfaction. ‘It’s quite a job, getting anything into that theatre, and not something for one person to do on his own.’

‘You’re close, aren’t you? You work well together.’

‘You have to in this job. No point in being at odds with someone. There’s a lot of sadness, and you need to keep each other going – otherwise you’re no good to the people who really need support. Those who’ve just lost someone, I mean.’

Penrose came over to where Jago was working and stopped by a table piled high with cardboard boxes marked INGLE-PARSONS OF BIRMINGHAM. The top box was open, and he could see that it contained sets of coffin linings – stretches of ruched white silk, skilfully made and elaborately decorated, some with purple rosettes and others with white. If you could forget what they were used for, they were actually quite beautiful, but he had had enough of coffins lately and turned his back on them. ‘Why are you so concerned?’ he asked. ‘Christopher hasn’t even been gone for twenty-four hours yet, and he’s sixteen. Lots of boys his age stay out all night occasionally.’

‘Not Christopher. He wouldn’t do that without telling me and, even if he did, he’d turn up for work the next morning. This is not the sort of job where you can come and go as you like, and he’s got a sense of responsibility.’

In spite of his weariness with funerals, Penrose found himself fascinated by the speed with which Jago worked. It was second nature to the undertaker after all these years, but the level of craftsmanship was extraordinary, and Penrose had to remind himself that he was here for a reason. ‘Does your concern have anything to do with Harry’s death?’

Jago stopped working for the first time and looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh come on, Jago. We’ve always been friends, haven’t we? When my mother died so quickly after my father, it was you who got me through it – you and William and Morveth. You made it clear that I was part of this place even though my parents were gone, but you didn’t exactly give me a warm welcome yesterday, did you? You treated me like a stranger, and that was because I was asking questions about Harry.’

‘I didn’t want to upset Morwenna,’ Jago said. ‘She’s had enough to put up with, and Harry’s death is best forgotten.’ He turned back to the wood and took a pencil and rule out of his top pocket, then made a carefully measured mark on each side of the coffin.

‘You of all people should know the dead aren’t so easily left alone,’ Penrose said. ‘Give Morwenna a bit more credit than that.’ He watched as Jago drilled into the marks on the wood, and tried another approach. ‘I had a word with Kestrel Jacks at the cricket match.’

‘So I noticed. Since when have you two been best friends?’

Ignoring the remark, Penrose said: ‘He says he saw Christopher out by the lake on the morning that Harry died.’ Jago swept the shavings into his hand and put them on the pile. He took a small brown-paper parcel from a box behind him and unwrapped a brass handle ready to test the hole for size, but he said nothing. ‘In fact,’ Penrose continued, ‘Jacks said that Christopher threw something at Shilling to frighten him, and that made the horse bolt.’

Jago looked up, and his shock was obviously genuine. ‘Are you saying Christopher killed Harry?’ he asked.

‘I’m not saying anything. I’m just trying to piece together what really happened – for Morwenna’s sake, more than anything. She thinks Harry killed himself.’ He expected another look of surprise, but Jago merely nodded. ‘You knew that?’

‘Morveth said as much.’ The undertaker was silent for a moment, and Penrose gave him time to think. ‘He was desperate to tell me something at the funeral, you know – well, you were there. But I was cross with him about that slip at the altar, and it had been such a bloody awful day, so I just sent him away. If only I’d listened.’

If only indeed, thought Penrose. Apart from anything else, Christopher might have been able to tell them if anyone else was around that morning. ‘Was that the last time you saw him?’ he asked gently, and Jago nodded again. ‘Is it likely that Christopher could have done something like that?’

‘Yes,’ the undertaker said at last. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Why?’

Jago took a piece of sandpaper and began to smooth down blemishes that were invisible to Penrose, but the undertaker was nothing if not a perfectionist. ‘It’s because of Loveday.’

‘Loveday?’ Penrose asked, then remembered Jago’s sensitivity to his innocent remark the day before.

‘Yes. She was always hanging around here, and we thought nothing of it at first.’ Thinking nothing of a fourteen-year-old hanging round coffins seemed a strange reaction to Penrose, but he reminded himself that the reaction to death down here was very different from up country. ‘Then Christopher started getting keen on her, and there was obviously more to it than friendship. One day, I caught them in here alone and I had to lay the law down to him myself, tell him that it wasn’t right what he was doing – not with that girl, anyway. Harry found out about it, too, and I doubt that his words of warning will have been as gentle as mine were. I don’t know what he said to the boy, but Christopher hated him after that.’

‘Why did you object so strongly to Christopher seeing Loveday?’

‘She’s far too young, and anyway, she’s been… well, she’s damaged. You know that as well as I do. Boys of his age – they’re easily tempted, and I didn’t want him to take advantage of her and land himself in a mess.’

‘Loveday says she saw Christopher in the churchyard last night,’ Penrose said.

‘In the churchyard? What the devil would he be doing in the churchyard? Did she take him there?’

‘No, he didn’t see her apparently, but she said he was near Harry’s grave.’

‘And then what?’

‘I don’t know. She came home because she thought she was going to get into trouble with Morwenna for staying out late.’

Jago rubbed his hands over his eyes. ‘Christ, this is even worse than I thought. Anything could have happened to him.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Penrose said. ‘I don’t think for a minute that Christopher ever intended to kill Harry, but if he was feeling guilty, and if he’d plucked up the courage to tell you but didn’t have the chance, it would be understandable if he simply decided to take the easy way out and run off rather than face people. He’ll probably come back of his own accord but, if not, there are ways of finding him and reassuring him. He’s not facing the gallows, for God’s sake – it sounds like a childish act of spite, and anyone would take that into account.’

‘He’s not a child, though, is he? Not in the law’s eyes. And what if he hasn’t run off? What if someone knows what he did and blames him for Harry’s death? They might have hurt him.’

Jim came back in, clearing his throat tactfully, but Jago was caught up in his own fears and seemed oblivious to anything else. Penrose moved sideways to allow the assistant to take one of the lining sets out of its box. He washed his hands at a small sink near the stove and then, back at his bench, carefully removed the protective tissue paper and unfolded the silk. There was a small pillow made of the same material, and he filled it with some of the wood shavings from the pile before arranging the rest of the silk inside the coffin, cleverly putting in nails to create a quilted look. There was something very moving about his unhurried attention to detail, Penrose thought, and the quiet satisfaction he took from the work. He remembered William telling him that Jago had once caught one of his assistants cutting back on the coffin materials for a tramp who was found dead on the beach, and had sacked him on the spot; the coffin would be lined even if there was no one to view the body, and he refused to work with anyone who differentiated between the dead. He was one of the most honourable men that Penrose had ever met – the sort of man it was a privilege to know – and he felt deeply for him now, at the same time as being infuriated by the fact that he was obviously holding something back.

He took Jago’s arm and moved him out into the yard, where the afternoon sunlight took them both by surprise. Looking away down the street, the undertaker said: ‘Please find him, Archie. I can’t lose him – not now, not after all these years.’

It was a strange way of phrasing it, Penrose thought, but he was touched by the request. Jago was cast in the role of prop by the whole community, and it did not come easily to him to ask for help. ‘I’m not official here, Jago,’ he said. ‘If it turns out that Christopher needs more than a bit of friendly advice, I’d be treading on toes to give it.’

‘But you know the estate, and the people know you – they’ll talk to you.’ He attempted a smile. ‘If you can get Jacks to open his mouth, you can do anything.’ Perhaps he’d opened his mouth a little too readily, Penrose thought, remembering what Josephine had suggested and regretting being so prickly with her about Morwenna; in his heart, he wouldn’t trust a word Jacks said. ‘You’re a fair man, Archie,’ Jago added. ‘If Christopher’s done something wrong, he’ll have to be punished, but he’s a good lad really. I just want to know he’s all right.’

Penrose gave in. ‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’ They turned back towards the workshop. ‘William told me you found Harry’s body when it came ashore,’ he added.

Instantly, the defences came up again. ‘What of it?’ Jago said, stopping by the doors.

‘Nothing in particular. I was just interested in what Morveth did out on the lake.’

‘It was probably a coincidence, but at least it gave the girls some comfort. It’s not knowing that breaks people.’

‘Was Christopher with you at the time?’

‘No, thank God. The body wasn’t a pretty sight after being in the water all that time.’

‘But surely he helped you afterwards?’

‘No, he didn’t, but there’s nothing to read into that. I don’t let him near any drowning.’

‘You weren’t protecting him for any other reason?’

‘Like what? I didn’t need any other reason. Do you think a sixteen-year-old should be exposed to that sort of misery? My father broke me into this business gently. He didn’t let me near a drowning until I was a man, and I fully intend to offer Christopher the same courtesy. Even so, I can still remember the first time I had to put a drowned man on a stretcher – the smell of it, the touch of his skin, or what was left of it.’

Penrose acknowledged to himself that it was the same in his own job. As a young detective constable, he’d been lucky enough to work for a boss who had carefully judged when he was ready to face the more unpleasant crime scenes, and the sergeant had managed to protect him without making him feel patronised or useless. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s all right. You and I both remember a time when kids had to grow up too quickly – you were one of them. But war’s one thing – let’s not destroy the innocence of a peacetime generation earlier than we have to. I know you think I’m over-reacting, but can’t a father be worried about his son? What if someone’s taken him to punish me?’

Penrose was taken aback. ‘Punish you? What have you done to make enemies?’

Jago seemed to have no answer to that, and was saved from having to find an explanation by the sound of footsteps coming up the lane. A boy of about ten appeared, panting hard and flushed pink by the sun. ‘Mum sent me to say you can come whenever you like, Mr Snipe,’ he said. ‘Miss Wearne’s finished now, and the parlour’s ready.’

‘All right, lad, well done. We won’t be much longer.’ He turned to go back inside, already removing his overalls. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said to Penrose, but Penrose was not so easily dismissed. ‘Look, Jago,’ he said, catching hold of his sleeve. ‘I will do my best to find Christopher, but you have to be straight with me. Is there anything else I should know about Harry’s death?’

Jago looked straight at Archie, but his eyes were unreadable. ‘There’s nothing else to know,’ he said firmly. ‘Please – just find my son.’