Angel with Two Faces

Chapter Eleven

It was Rowena Cade who met Archie at the top of the steps with two storm lanterns. She peered past him down to the backstage path and the look of horror on her face told him that she could see the broken fence, but he was grateful that she also seemed to sense the importance of remaining calm; it was going to be virtually impossible to control such a large crowd, and the main thing was to avoid alarming them for as long as possible to allow him to take charge of the situation. The cast on stage were looking at each other in bewilderment, and other actors drifted out gradually from the dressing area or various hiding places behind the rocks where they had been awaiting their next cue. As they each removed their cowls and became individuals again, Penrose realised the futility of searching for Nathaniel’s assailant: the Minack’s layout was such that he or she could easily have taken the steps around the auditorium and left the theatre without being seen by anyone, or, in the confusion of the comings and goings on stage, it would even have been possible for someone to blend into a group of identically dressed actors without drawing particular attention. The hooded figure he had seen could be standing just a few feet away or could be long gone; either way, the priority now was to locate Nathaniel.

There was a murmur of conversation among the audience, and some people had got to their feet to try to see what was happening. Penrose held up his hand for silence and asked everyone to stay where they were for the time being, and there was a note of authority in his voice that made them reluctant to question his instructions – all except William, who strode anxiously over to see if he could help. Penrose took him and Miss Cade to one side and spoke quickly and firmly. ‘Nathaniel’s gone over into the zawn,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘How much time do we have before the tide comes in?’

‘Not long,’ she replied. ‘An hour or two before full tide, but the water will already be high up the rocks.’

‘Then we can’t wait for help. I need ropes and as much light as you can find. Will you sort that out for me, and bring everything down by the side steps? And the police need to be called immediately – make sure to tell them I need full back-up, with forensics and a photographer.’

She nodded and hurried off up the slope towards Minack House. ‘You’re not going down there, surely, Archie?’ William asked.

‘I don’t have a choice. If he’s fallen all the way down, we’re already too late. Let’s just hope he’s on one of the rocks higher up – we won’t know until we can get some light down there.’

‘Do you think he’s still alive, then?’

Archie remembered how he had felt earlier when he looked down into the zawn. Even the highest level of rocks was sixty or seventy feet down, and only a miracle would save a man’s life after such a fall. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ he said, ‘but we can’t let his body be washed out to sea if there’s anything we can do to stop it.’

William looked down into the blackness, his face full of sorrow. ‘Then at least let me get some of the men here to help. It would be madness to go down alone.’

The last thing Archie felt like doing was entrusting his safety to a man in a brown habit, but William was right – he did need someone to anchor the rope, and his uncle would not be strong enough on his own. ‘All right – fetch Jago. Make sure he comes on his own, though – the last thing we want is a crowd tramping all over the cliff, and come back as quickly as you can.’

Left alone for a moment, Archie took one of the storm lanterns and went along the path to the recess, but whoever had been waiting there had left no trace of his or her existence behind. When he got back to the steps, Rowena Cade and the man called Billy were already on their way down, laden with ropes, torches, climbing gloves and a heavy tarpaulin which could be used as a stretcher if necessary. ‘I don’t want to tell you your job, Inspector,’ she said as she set everything down on the floor in front of him, ‘but I have been down there a few times myself, and the best route is over that grass slope on the right, then down the rope on to the first level of rock. From there, if you’re careful, you can climb all the way round the zawn. Do you want me to lead the way?’

He refused the offer, but was grateful for the advice. Removing the silk habit which covered his more conventional clothes, he selected the sturdiest-looking rope and waited impatiently for William to return. When he appeared at the top of the steps, Archie was horrified to see that he was accompanied not by Jago but by Kestrel Jacks and a young man he didn’t recognise. ‘Jago’s nowhere to be found, I’m afraid,’ William called, ‘but luckily I bumped into Jacks coming down from the auditorium. And this is Angus Trew. He’s a constable over in Penzance, and he happened to be in the audience. He’s been keeping the peace out there – everyone’s getting a bit restless.’

‘Just wondered if there was anything else I could do to help, Sir,’ the policeman said.

‘Sounds like you’ve already been doing the most important thing, Constable,’ Penrose said. ‘Thank you for that.’ He thought for a second: there was little to be gained from keeping the audience here, and the process of recovering Nathaniel’s body would be a whole lot easier and more dignified without a crowd of people watching. ‘Perhaps you and Miss Cade could clear the auditorium for me. Explain as briefly as you can that there’s been an accident, and take names and addresses as people leave just in case we need to contact them later. Try to keep everyone as calm as you can. Gather the cast together in one place – the stage is probably best – and keep them there until I come and find you. We’ll need to speak to everyone who was involved in the play before they leave tonight.’ He was impressed to see that the significance of his instructions was not lost on Trew, but the constable did not waste time by asking questions. ‘I know you can’t be everywhere at once,’ Penrose added, ‘but I don’t want anyone down on the backstage path so all the steps will have to be watched. William will introduce you to my cousins and a friend of mine who are in the audience – they’ll help out if necessary.’

Trew turned to go, but William caught his arm. ‘Just one thing, Archie,’ he said. ‘Nathaniel’s parents – they’re in the audience, and obviously they’re worried. I haven’t said anything to them yet, but they need to be told something before Angus makes his announcement.’

Damn, thought Penrose – of course they were here; it should have been a proud evening for their son, and he reproached himself bitterly for not thinking of them before. ‘Will you take them to one side and break the news to them first?’ he asked William, desperately sorry that they had already had to wait so long. ‘Tell them we’re doing everything we can to find Nathaniel, but try not to give them false hope. I’ll come and talk to them as soon as I know how things are.’

He was less grateful to William for his choice of climbing companion, but there was no time to argue, nor to read anything into Jago’s absence. He handed a torch to Jacks, trying to ignore his smirk, and took the more powerful light for himself. ‘Where would you like to go over, Inspector?’ the gamekeeper asked insolently. Penrose said nothing, but led the way along the outcrop of rock to the point which Rowena Cade had identified as the safest from which to start his descent. About fifteen feet of rough grass and gorse stretched out before him, sloping down sharply and culminating in nothingness. He walked as far as he could and looked to his left, using the position of the balustrade to calculate where Nathaniel had gone over the edge; from this angle, he was able to see the rocks immediately below the backstage path and, with the help of the moonlight, could just make out a dark shape on a flat piece of stone six feet or so above the encroaching tide.

Jacks joined him, although the silent presence by his side was anything but a comfort. The gamekeeper tied the rope firmly round his waist, smiling again as Penrose checked the knots, and threw the other end over the side of the cliff. He stood at a safe distance from the edge, looking defiant, and Penrose hesitated, wondering if he should, after all, ask for more help. There was no question that Jacks had the strength to act as anchor – if he chose to, but William’s casual words were significant; where had the gamekeeper been if he was coming down from the auditorium? If he had pushed the curate over, then made his escape up the side steps to rejoin the play from the other direction, how easy it would be now to untie those knots and make it look like another terrible accident. Fleetingly, Penrose questioned the wisdom of his decision to keep the truth of Nathaniel’s fall to himself until someone in authority from the local police arrived; if anything happened to him, no one would ever know that the curate’s death was murder. Standing now on lower ground, he felt the sea against his face and, as fine a mist as it was, it weighed heavily on his conscience. There was no option but to trust Jacks: he had not yet allowed himself to analyse his own reaction to Nathaniel’s sudden death, but the young man’s confusion and vulnerability had moved him deeply during their conversation, and he felt an obligation to ensure that his body, at least, had the refuge which his mind had been unable to find.

Giving Jacks only the briefest of glances, Penrose tucked the torch into his belt, grasped the rope firmly and eased himself backwards over the edge of the cliff. It took all the self-discipline he had to put his misgivings about Jacks to one side and take his time over the descent; the temptation to hurry was almost irresistible, but he lowered himself down methodically, hand over hand, and – although he would not have won any marks for elegance – he soon reached the layer of rock that Rowena Cade had described. From there, he took the safest-looking route back into the heart of the gully, noting with relief that it would be at least another twenty minutes before the tide was far enough in to affect the level he was on.

As he approached the flat rock where Nathaniel lay, he realised that – in spite of his sober words to William – he had been subconsciously nurturing the hope that the fall might not have been fatal, and that Nathaniel might have been one of the miraculous few who escaped unscathed from the severest of accidents. The unnatural arrangement of his body made the idea laughable even before the light from the torch reached his face. The curate lay on his back, and his shattered corpse seemed to reflect the emotional fragility which had marked his last few weeks of life. The folds of his costume hid his legs, but his arms were twisted at an impossible angle to his body, like a doll which had fallen foul of a particularly spiteful child, and Penrose could only imagine the extent of his internal injuries. His blond hair was matted with blood, thick and viscous and dark; blood also pooled out from beneath his skull, soaking into the grey lining of his hood and following the contours of the rock, running down towards the sea as if to beat the tide at its own game. Nathaniel’s face was tilted slightly away from Penrose but his eyes stared up at the cliff, still fixed on the horror that had brought him to this, looking upwards not to heaven but to hell. The prayer book which he always kept with him lay a little to the right of his body, next to one of the lanterns which the killer had kicked over; it had obviously been dislodged from his pocket by the impact of the fall, and Penrose found its distance poignant: even the curate’s most trusted solace had abandoned him in the end. In fact, standing alone with the body, so close to the elemental power of the sea, Penrose found it hard not to resort to an age-old language of good and evil, to look for the imprint of the devil himself in Nathaniel’s eyes.

There was no doubt that death had been instant, but how long must those final seconds have seemed when he realised that his fate was unavoidable? Had he used them to contemplate his killer, or to find some sort of peace from the anguish which had dogged him since Harry’s death? Penrose mocked his own wishful thinking. He had seen Nathaniel’s face and there was no way that his last emotion had been anything other than terror, a continuation of the living hell that he had spoken of. Why? What had he done except fall in love with the wrong person, and battle with his own ideas of right and wrong? Penrose knew that the sorrow he felt at Nathaniel’s death was due in part to the pain and confusion which any investigation would create amongst those who loved him. Secrets were spilled by any sudden fatality: a letter or diary, left out in the morning because someone took it for granted that they would return later to keep it safe, could lay a life open to a thousand different stories, and murder was by far the harshest interpreter. He hoped desperately that the darker parts of Nathaniel’s heart could be kept from his parents, but he knew that was unrealistic; if he were in charge of this investigation, he would feel obliged to discuss Nathaniel’s feelings for Harry and his parents would be left mourning a stranger, at a loss to know who their son really was and with no opportunity to find out. Nathaniel had experienced that sense of betrayal when Harry died; now, the people whom he had been so anxious to protect were about to find out exactly how that felt.

Josephine slipped the Lanchester into gear, removed the handbrake and allowed the car to roll gently down the slope towards the cliff edge. More light was needed in the stage area, and those with cars had been asked to bring them as close to the scene as possible, with their headlamps turned full on; William was understandably busy with Nathaniel’s parents, and she had been glad of something to do, however small, to take her mind off the fact that Archie was still out on the cliff-side, alone with Kestrel Jacks. She left the engine running, made sure the car was safe and went back down to see if there was any news.

The audience had gone now, efficiently ushered from the auditorium by Rowena Cade and a young man whom Josephine guessed was an off-duty policeman. Everyone else had gathered together on the stage, as if solidarity could somehow soften the tragedy of the evening’s events, and she noticed that Lettice and Ronnie were doing their best to offer some sort of solace with hot tea and brandy, brought down on vast silver trays from Minack House. Most people were still in their costumes and there was a surreal quality to the scene, but nothing would surprise her any more tonight; like everyone, she had been utterly bewildered by the sudden change of mood signalled first by Archie’s distraction, and then by his obvious alarm; when news of an accident filtered back to the audience, the incident – coming so soon after the tension of Jasper Motley’s exit and the drama of Nathaniel’s leap into thin air – seemed to bear as little relation to the real world as the tale of a devilish jackdaw and a stolen ring.

It took a lot to subdue Ronnie and Lettice, but they met her at the bottom of the steps looking as shocked and bewildered as everyone. ‘Any news?’ Josephine asked, and Lettice shook her head.

‘No, absolutely nothing. I don’t suppose we can hold out any hope that he’s still alive. What a dreadful, dreadful thing to happen. I can hardly believe it.’

‘Selfishly, it’s Pa I’m worried about,’ Ronnie said. ‘He was very fond of Nathaniel, and this will really hit him hard coming so soon after Harry’s death. I don’t know why we worried about Hephzibah – tonight makes her look like a lucky charm.’

Lettice was first to ask the obvious question. ‘I wonder what on earth went wrong?’ she said. ‘It can’t have been the jump from the balustrade because Archie didn’t panic straight away, so how could Nathaniel have fallen?’

‘You don’t suppose he threw himself off deliberately, do you?’ Josephine asked. As the sisters looked at her in astonishment, she realised how out of the blue the suggestion must have sounded when they were oblivious to the suspicions surrounding Harry’s death.

‘What makes you say that?’ Lettice asked, and Ronnie looked at her inquisitively.

‘Oh, I don’t know. It just seems strange that he should fall from the path when he managed the jump so easily. And you never know what’s in people’s minds, do you?’ she added rather weakly.

‘This crime business is going to your head,’ Lettice chided her. ‘You’re spending too much time with unlikely scenarios.’

Ronnie, however, was more persistent. ‘Do you know something we don’t?’ she asked.

‘Only that I won’t come to Lettice if I want a glowing review of my plots,’ Josephine said evasively. ‘Look – that constable’s coming over. I wonder if they’ve found him?’ But the only announcement was that the police were just a few minutes away now, and someone would be along to talk to everyone as soon as possible.

‘Oh, I thought that was some definite news,’ said Lettice, disappointed.

‘Even so, I find that young man’s presence very reassuring,’ said Ronnie with a flash of her old charm. She smiled at the constable as he passed, and he nodded and blushed.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Lettice. ‘He must be at least fifteen years younger than you.’

‘Perhaps, dear, but look after the nights and the years will take care of themselves. I might just go and see if he needs some sugar in his tea.’

Josephine watched her go. ‘You have to admire her spirit, I suppose,’ she said, ‘and he is very good-looking. He reminds me a bit of Archie when he first joined the police.’ She glanced across to the back of the stage, where the steps led down to the cliff. ‘I wish we could see how he’s getting on.’

‘He won’t do anything stupid,’ Lettice said, squeezing her hand. ‘I’m going to pass these last few drinks round and go back up for more. Come and fetch me if anything happens.’

‘All right, but let me give those out,’ Josephine said. ‘I can’t just sit here.’

She took the three glasses from Lettice’s tray and gave two of them to a couple standing near her, then carried the third over to the balustrade, where an elderly woman stood clutching a rug round her shoulders and looking anxiously out to sea. ‘This might warm you a little,’ Josephine said, holding out the drink.

The woman turned to her, and startled Josephine by putting the glass straight down on the stone ledge and taking her hand instead, clasping it affectionately as if they knew each other well. ‘You’re Archie’s friend from London, aren’t you?’ she said, and Josephine – who was getting used to being at a disadvantage whenever she met anyone for the first time in Cornwall – smiled and nodded. ‘I saw you with him backstage before the play. I’m Morveth Wearne.’

So this was the woman she had heard so much about. ‘I was looking forward to congratulating you tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry that something so wonderful has ended in tragedy.’

Morveth brushed over the compliment as if the play had never existed. ‘What happened exactly?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I know Nathaniel’s fallen, but has Archie said anything else to you?’

‘No, I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet, and he’s the only person who could have seen how it happened. No one else seems to know for sure what went on. William’s with Nathaniel’s parents, but it hardly seems possible that there’ll be anything other than the worst news for them.’

‘He was barely more than a boy,’ she said softly, more to herself than to Josephine. ‘I taught him, you know, him and all the other children on the estate – Harry and Morwenna, Simon Jacks, and Archie, of course.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I still can’t look at them without remembering what they were like as children, and they haven’t really changed, not any of them – not deep down, where it matters.’

‘What was Nathaniel like?’

‘Clever, but shy and terribly earnest. He came from a loving family, but he seemed lost at times and desperate to find a place for himself in the world. He thought about that at a much earlier age than most of us do.’

‘And did he find it in the Church?’

‘He found it in the scriptures, which isn’t always the same thing. His faith was remarkable. It was the words he loved, and he knew his prayer book off by heart – in the truest sense of that phrase, though, not as an exercise in learning. He always found a way of making it mean something to people, no matter who they were or where they came from.’

‘That’s a rare talent to have.’

‘God-given, some might say. Perhaps it made him a little naive – there’s a limit to how much faith can help people at times, and he didn’t always see that. Sometimes he tried too hard when it would have been wiser to let go, but that’s hardly a crime.’ It was an interesting choice of words, Josephine thought, looking down into the blackness. There was a pinprick of light over to the right, stationary as though someone had put a torch down on the ground and left it there, but she could see no sign of Archie, and her unease was growing as time went on. She found Morveth’s presence faintly unsettling, too; it was as if their conversation had a number of layers and only the most superficial was obvious to her. ‘There’s something not right here,’ Morveth said eventually. ‘I can sense it.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Josephine.

‘Nathaniel seemed troubled of late. He wouldn’t talk about it, and I suppose it’s arrogant of me to think that I could have helped if he had. But I wish he’d come to me, and now it’s too late.’ She turned back to Josephine, and the anxiety in her eyes was infectious. ‘Whatever happened here tonight, I don’t believe it was an accident. It’s too much of a coincidence, coming so soon after Harry.’

It seemed to Josephine that the time to keep silent out of loyalty to Archie’s confidences was long gone, and this cloud of secrecy was beginning to irritate her. In any case, she had no doubt that Morveth would see right through any pretence that Archie had not discussed people on the estate with her. ‘Do you mean it was suicide or murder?’ she asked bluntly, and then, exasperated by Morveth’s reluctance to continue the conversation she had started: ‘Look, if you know something about Harry’s death or Nathaniel’s, you must tell Archie, even if it affects someone he cares for. Does it have something to do with Morwenna? Or Kestrel Jacks? Or your vicar?’

The older woman looked genuinely startled. ‘Why should it have anything to do with them?’

‘Well, Morwenna’s taken against Nathaniel for some reason, I doubt there’s a woman on the estate who doesn’t know what Beth Jacks goes through behind closed doors, and I can hardly believe that Jasper Motley is particularly well disposed to his curate after that little stunt with the coins. And that’s just what I know about after two days here.’

‘What are you talking about? What stunt?’

‘During the play – didn’t you see it?’

‘No. I had to go back to the bus for something.’

Morveth listened quietly while Josephine described the improvised scene which had taken place in her absence. ‘You’ve no idea what that man is capable of,’ she said at last.

‘The obvious inference is that he’s defrauding the Church of funds, but Loveday told me that much. She also said that Nathaniel had found out about something more serious. Perhaps that’s earned him more than he bargained for – more than a book off your shelf, at least.’

Morveth looked at Josephine with a growing respect. ‘You’ve met Loveday, then? What do you think of her?’

‘I like her very much. She says what she means, and so far she’s the only person I’ve met here who does anything of the sort.’

Her honesty seemed to defuse the tension and drew a reluctant smile from Morveth. ‘I don’t know a better way of finding out what someone’s really like than through their reaction to Loveday,’ she said. ‘Most dismiss her instantly; some feel sorry for her; only a handful are wise enough to listen to her.’ She held out her hand again, and Josephine sensed a fresh start between them. ‘I can see why Archie trusts you,’ Morveth continued, ‘and I’ll ask something from you, if I may. The past is dead and buried now. Don’t let Archie unsettle it if there’s anything you can do to stop him.’

Was Harry the past, Josephine wondered, or was Morveth speaking metaphorically? She didn’t seem the type to deal in clichés. ‘Archie’s a policeman,’ she said, more gently this time because the request had been a plea rather than a threat. ‘I can’t stop him doing his job if that’s what it comes to, and I wouldn’t try.’

‘He’s a policeman in London, yes, and a good one I’ve no doubt. Here, he’s vulnerable because he cares too much. He could so easily lose himself again, just like he did when his parents died – like he did when he came back from the war. You and I both know how close to despair he’s come in the past, and how distant he can be.’

Josephine was disconcerted by how much Morveth obviously knew about her shared past with Archie, but she, for her part, knew that his commitment to the truth was more than a professional obligation. ‘If you’re telling me that Archie is the last person to ask for help when he really needs it, then I couldn’t agree with you more, and I’ll always support him if he’ll let me – but I can’t ask him to turn his back on something that matters to him, particularly when I don’t even understand what it is I’m asking.’

‘Not even if there are things he’s better off not knowing?’

‘You see? That’s exactly what I mean. If you stopped talking in these ridiculous riddles for a moment, I might have a better idea of what I’m supposed to help you protect Archie from. What sort of things is he better off not knowing?’

Morveth turned to her, and it occurred to Josephine that she had rarely seen a face with more strength in it. ‘Archie’s mother, Lizzie, was my closest friend,’ the older woman said quietly. ‘In the days leading up to her wedding, I could see something was bothering her, and we took a boat out on the lake to talk. It took her a while to tell me, but she was worrying about whether or not to tell her new husband that her brother, Jasper, had taken advantage of her.’

‘The vicar?’ asked Josephine, shocked.

Morveth laughed bitterly. ‘Yes, the Reverend Motley. It began when she was ten and he was thirteen, and continued on and off for three years. By that time, getting pregnant frightened her more than he did, so she had the courage to defy him and lock her bedroom door at night so that he couldn’t come and go as he pleased.’

Her words echoed Loveday’s description of Morwenna’s behaviour with Harry, and Josephine was more convinced than ever that she had been right about the violence in their relationship, but it was Archie’s family which concerned her more at the moment. ‘Did William know?’ she asked.

‘No. She didn’t tell anyone while it was happening because Jasper had convinced her that it was her fault for leading him on, and that she would be the one to be punished if they were caught. And afterwards, when her parents had died and William inherited, she couldn’t tell him because she knew he’d force Jasper to leave and she was afraid of the scandal. Shame is a powerful emotion, isn’t it? Much more powerful than love or even jealousy. She told her husband, James, though, and her marriage was the stronger for it, but it was her worst fear that her son would find out. She never wanted him to think of his mother as frightened and ashamed, you see. It was obvious to everyone that she despised her brother, because she rarely set foot inside that church from the day he was ordained, and she left him a pinch of salt in her will. No one really knew why she hated him so much, though, except Archie’s father, and he was a good man – wise enough to see that loving Lizzie was much more important than punishing Jasper.’

‘Do you think that’s what Nathaniel knew?’

‘I doubt it. I don’t see how he could have found out. There are only two people left alive who do know; one of them certainly won’t want it talked about, and I’ve only ever told you. But that’s what I mean – it’s all very well to say truth must out, but it’s not always best; sometimes the braver thing is to keep silent. There’s a darkness in most households if you look hard enough; you just have to do the best you can with the knowledge you have.’

Josephine doubted that Morveth would trust her with any knowledge of the Pinching family, but she needed to ask the question. Before she could think of the best way to phrase it, however, there was a murmur of relief from the stage as the powerful headlights of two police cars and an ambulance appeared at the top of the slope. Morveth walked over to stand with Nathaniel’s parents while William greeted the officers, and the opportunity, for now, was gone.

Penrose waited with Nathaniel’s body while the police made their way across the rocks. The senior officer introduced himself and Penrose gave a succinct account of what had happened, then left the team to its work and retraced his footsteps wearily round to the outcrop, where a more secure method of access had now been put in place.

William and Rowena Cade were standing on the backstage path with a distinguished-looking man who was familiar to Penrose but whose name he did not know. ‘This is Chief Constable Stephens, Inspector,’ explained Miss Cade. ‘He’s always been a great friend to the Minack and to me, and I wanted him to know what had happened straight away.’ And to find out what it means for your theatre, Penrose added mentally, but he could not blame Rowena Cade for her concern; the Minack was her vision and, by all accounts she had created it virtually single-handed and spent a considerable amount of her own money on it. In her position, his priorities would have been exactly the same.

‘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.