Angel with Two Faces

Chapter Seventeen

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?’

Motley shrugged, but he knew that his nervousness must be obvious to the two men looking at him. How much did his nephew know? he wondered. He suspected that his curate had put two and two together, but surely he hadn’t had a chance to tell Penrose? ‘I’d advise you to ask Shoebridge,’ he said defiantly, ‘but of course you can’t.’

‘No, but it seems fairly obvious to me that Nathaniel was making a point about certain excesses of the clergy. The question is – was he talking generally or specifically?’ Motley watched as Penrose walked casually over to the window and looked back along the coastal path in the direction of the Loe. ‘Perhaps I should ask Beth Jacks if she can throw any light on what Nathaniel meant. Of course, if I did that, her husband would want to know what I was talking about. I can only imagine how he’d take the news of his wife’s infidelity, even if it was for the greater good of the Church. He strikes me as a man who values exclusivity.’

The specific threat of Kestrel Jacks’s violence formed a very small part of the humiliation which suddenly faced Jasper Motley, and he took a gamble. ‘There’s no proof…’

‘Now Nathaniel’s dead, you mean?’ Penrose jumped in quickly. ‘I’m afraid these are my conclusions, not his. Beth Jacks doesn’t work for you – well, not in any official capacity. So why would she be walking away from your church, counting money?’

‘Why the hell do you think?’ Motley shouted angrily, clutching at the only straw he could think of. ‘She’s been stealing from the vestry. I’ve had my suspicions for some time, but I’ve never been able to prove it.’

‘So today, while she was in the church right under your nose, you just stood calmly at the door and watched her walk away with the collection?’

Somehow, Penrose’s anger only served to emphasise his authority, while Jasper felt increasingly diminished by his own fury. His heart was racing and he tried hard to concentrate on what he was saying, but he could not clear his head of the fuzziness which had started to cloud his thoughts. ‘You’re surely not going to take her word against mine, are you?’

‘Careful, Reverend – you’re showing your true colours. Would you really stand there and accuse that woman – who has more wretchedness in her life already than you could ever imagine – of something she hasn’t done just to save your own miserable skin? Hasn’t she lowered herself enough for you? My mother was right,’ he added, referring overtly at last to the personal resentment which had run as a subtext to their whole conversation. ‘There isn’t a word to describe the extent of your hypocrisy. No man should wrong his brother – isn’t that what you preach? And yet you can hurt your sister as often as you like.’

The shock of how much Penrose knew left him speechless for a second, but then his rage and his guilt got the better of him. ‘She asked for it,’ he said. ‘Your mother was no better than a common whore, and nothing she said to you about her perfect marriage to your father can change the fact that I had her first.’ Too late, he realised that his nephew had been speaking generally and his words did not, in fact, reveal any knowledge of the sin to which he, Jasper, had inadvertently confessed. He tried to retract what he had said, but he could not get the words out properly and anyway, he had gone too far. Before he knew it, Penrose was across the room and Motley felt strong hands at his throat. As he gasped for breath, he was dimly aware that the constable was telling Penrose to stop and pulling him away. His wife entered the room, too quickly to have come from upstairs, and he realised that she must have been standing outside the door all the time. Her smile was the last thing he noticed before everything went black.

Harry took the strip of cloth from around his neck and soaked it in a small pool of water which the obliging rain had created in the hollow of a sycamore tree. Gently, he removed one of his socks, wincing with pain as the rough wool, matted with blood, clung stubbornly to his foot in the places where the skin was broken. Days of wearing boots which were too small for him had taken their toll, and it would need more than water to repair the damage, but he did what he could. His whole body felt broken, exhausted. Last night, he had been so tired that he literally had had to drag his feet along the ground. The nails in his boots made sparks against the granite, reminding him of the hours he used to spend watching his father shoe the horses. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the steam rising from the metal as it cooled and now, with the boot in his hand, the smell of leather did its best to take him somewhere he could not afford to go. He bent down and put it roughly back on, using the pain to blot out an image of the past which was as unwelcome as it was unreal.

It took every ounce of the willpower he had, not to give in to his tiredness and simply lie down – right here, on the floor of the woods where he and Morwenna had made love for the first time. It was autumn then, and the bluebells which now stretched out in front of him lay hidden and forgotten under the death of summer. He had kissed her once – the usual reward for whatever game they were playing – but this time she turned her face towards him at the last minute, making sure that he found her lips. As she held his shirt and pulled him tentatively down with her on to the leaves, he realised that what he felt for her – what he had always felt for Morwenna – was love. Eager, nervous, disbelieving that this could ever be his, he explored her body, noticing how the leaves tangled in her hair seemed to reflect the shades of red and gold which he had always loved. In the distance, someone had lit a bonfire and, for Harry, the pungent, melancholy smell of wood smoke would always mean Morwenna and home. Later, as they grew up, he felt like that child of twelve whenever they were together. He remembered the peace of those first moments alone with her – here, before the noise of life continued – and wondered if he would ever know it again. It was the only thing left which could make sense of all that had happened.

Harry looked through the trees towards Loe Cottage, his shelter and his prison. As he watched, trying to reconcile pasts which refused to belong to the same person, he saw Morwenna come out from the kitchen with a basket of laundry, her face ghostly in the strengthening sunlight, her weariness mirroring his own. For a moment, Harry had to turn away. His greatest fear had always been of looking back over his shoulder to find that she was happy without him, but seeing her like this – with all the life beaten out of her because of what she believed he had done – was much worse. He wanted to go to her, but he knew he couldn’t – not in daylight, when someone might see him. Being anywhere near the cottage was dangerous now, even though he knew the Loe estate and its secrets better than anyone. Still, Harry took the risk because he no longer trusted himself to be away from Morwenna. He was losing himself, and she was his only hope. Without her, it was too easy to believe in his own death.

Penrose watched the ambulance pull away from Bar Lodge and gather as much speed as the narrow track would allow. Wearily, he leaned against the boot of his car. The stroke had been a serious one, and the ambulance men – while polite and efficient – had refused to commit themselves to Jasper Motley’s chances of surviving it. In spite of their assurances that the attack had not been brought on by his questioning, Penrose could not help but feel a certain amount of guilt – professional rather than personal – for having given it every possible assistance.

A noise from the back seat drew his attention, and he opened the rear door to give Treg the opportunity for some exercise. The dog licked his hand gratefully and found plenty to amuse himself with along the hedgerow, and the two of them waited for Trew to finish talking to Edwina Motley. She had refused the offer of a lift to the hospital, preferring instead to wait at home for news of her husband, and Penrose guessed that his fate was of little concern to her, other than materially. He had never liked what little he knew of his uncle’s wife, and had no intention of allowing the afternoon’s events to make him feel guilty for that, but he had to admit to a grudging respect for the way that she refused to manufacture a grief for appearance’s sake.

As for his own behaviour, he could only imagine what might have happened if Trew had not stepped in. It had all taken place so quickly, and yet he seemed to have experienced a lifetime of emotions in those few seconds – incredulity, disgust, loneliness and – least forgivably of all, perhaps – a selfish foolishness that he had never discovered the family secret for himself. He thought back to how he remembered his mother – or rather how he thought he remembered her – and no longer trusted what he saw; it was almost as if the unease he felt at Harry’s funeral had been some sort of premonition that the foundations of his own life were about to shift unalterably. How easily the images you relied upon most could fall apart, he thought, although he was honest enough to recognise that the sense of betrayal which should have been for his mother was in fact for himself. Try as he might, he could not connect his outrage to her suffering; instead, he was shocked to realise that he blamed her – not for the violation itself, but for dying before he understood, before he had a chance to help.

Trew came over to the car, and Penrose was grateful to him for his businesslike attitude: if he felt either pity or concern for his superior’s mental health, he was sensible enough not to show it. ‘I’ll have to go and tell William about his brother,’ Penrose said. ‘He’ll probably want to go to the hospital, or at least see Edwina. And I need to talk to him,’ he added, more to himself than to Trew. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s six o’clock now. I’ll run you into Helston, and you can get a car back to Penzance from there.’

‘There’s no need, Sir. I’ll take the path by the lake and get to Helston that way. Treg could do with a walk, and I’d like to have a look along that side of the water, remind myself what we’re dealing with before the search.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely, Sir. It won’t take me long, and it’s a pleasant enough evening now. You’ve got things to do.’ He called Treg, who – with uncharacteristic disobedience – just looked back at him from the south porch of the church and refused to move. ‘What’s got into him?’ He called again, a stricter note in his voice this time, and Treg reluctantly did as he was told. ‘I’ll make sure that everything’s in place our end for first light tomorrow,’ he said, when the dog was by his side again. ‘We’ll get the boys started here, then they can make their way through the woodland on this side while your uncle’s men work along the other bank. Will he still be able to oversee that after what’s happened?’

‘Yes, I’m sure he will but I’ll telephone you at the station later,’ Penrose said. ‘It’s going to be a long job, so the sooner we can get started, the better.’ The constable nodded and set off at a brisk pace, his dog at his heels. ‘And Trew?’ Penrose called after him.

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Thank you for what you did this afternoon.’

‘There’s really no need, Sir.’

‘Yes there is. I’m sorry you were put in that position.’

‘It’s forgotten, Sir, honestly.’

By Trew, perhaps, thought Penrose as he got back into his car, but certainly not by him.

Josephine called in at the stables on her way back from Loe Cottage, and spent a peaceful half-hour talking to Violet and getting to know one or two of the other horses. While she was there, one of the stable lads – not the man she had met on Monday night, but someone just as affable and respectful of the animals in his care – came to fetch Shilling from his stall for some exercise. She watched as he led the grey out into the yard and saddled him carefully, talking gently to the horse all the time. There was a nervousness in Shilling’s eye as the man eased himself smoothly on to his back, a look which suggested that arrogance had been made to doubt itself for the first time, but the creature seemed soothed by his rider’s calm confidence and, by the time they reached the parkland in front of Loe House, where tree trunks had been carefully positioned to form a series of jumps, man and horse seemed to have reached an understanding, albeit a fragile one.

‘Getting better, isn’t he?’ She turned, pleased to see William, and the two of them watched in admiration as Shilling effortlessly managed each jump that was asked of him. ‘I only wish I could be sure that patience and good care would have the same effect on everyone Harry left behind,’ he said. ‘It was kind of you to spend some time with Loveday, though. It obviously made her day.’

‘You’ve seen her?’ Josephine asked, relieved. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that Morveth would harm the girl; nevertheless, it was good to hear that her visit had not simply brought Loveday more trouble.

‘Yes. I called in on the way back from seeing Nathaniel’s parents. Actually, she was a breath of fresh air – I hadn’t realised how much I needed to see someone smile. And I don’t want to put any pressure on you, but you’re going to have to write a lot faster to keep that young reader happy.’

Josephine laughed. ‘She’s started it, then?’

‘Oh, she’s nearly halfway through. It would seem that you are capable of a real shocker after all. She made me promise to tell you who she suspects, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten what she said.’

‘Don’t worry. She can tell me herself – I’ll call again tomorrow.’

‘She’d like that.’

‘Did you see Morwenna?’

‘Yes.’ He looked grave again, and Josephine realised that Ronnie was right to be worried about her father – the sadness on the estate was taking its toll on him as much as anyone. ‘It’s like talking to someone who’s only half there. Any mention of the future, and she just retreats further into herself.’

‘What will happen to them?’

‘I ought to be able to answer that, but it’s not a simple question. Financially, I’m happy to take responsibility for them until they get back on their feet – no matter how long it takes.’

‘It’s more than that, though, isn’t it? They need a reason to look forward.’

‘Exactly. And maybe I’m doing the wrong thing by taking care of all the practical worries for them – perhaps they’d find a focus more quickly if they were forced to fend for themselves, but I’m afraid cruel to be kind doesn’t sit easily with me. There must be something which will make them happy, and I’d rather let them find it in a gentler way if I can.’ He looked at her, a little embarrassed. ‘Does that sound absurdly naive?’

‘No, not at all. But it does sound like a long-term occupation.’

‘It’s easier with Loveday, I admit – partly because she’s still so young, and partly because she’s interested in everything. She adores the horses, you know – she’s very like her father and her brother in that way – and I want to encourage Morwenna to let her help out a bit round the estate when she’s better. She never had the patience to stick with school, although she’s bright and Morveth did what she could – but Loveday’s an independent spirit, and just the sort that this place needs.’

‘You must be used to patching this estate together by now,’ Josephine said, as they walked down the drive which divided the parkland from some marshy reed beds and the lake. ‘Doesn’t it ever get you down? The responsibility, I mean – for the people, as well as the land. Don’t you ever hanker after an easy life?’

He smiled. ‘Is there such a thing? Look,’ he said, pointing across to the farmland which lay beyond the water. ‘You can trace the history of our landscape for hundreds of years just in this one view – all those winding lanes and tracks between the farms, cut by the passage of people and animals through the centuries. Can you see how some of the layouts differ from others?’ Josephine nodded, noticing that groups of oddly shaped fields with sinuous boundaries were interspersed here and there with more regular patches of land. ‘There are different ways to manage somewhere like this,’ William continued. ‘Sometimes a new broom sweeps clean because it’s easier than taking the time to repair what was there before. But that doesn’t work with people.’

‘I suppose the war was the ultimate broom,’ Josephine said as they turned and walked back towards the house. ‘It must have changed a way of life that had been undisturbed for years.’

‘Yes, although I think those old ways were winding down, and perhaps a lot of the changes would have happened anyway. And not everything changed for the worse – the war did, at least, bring us together a little. Hating the next village always used to be a point of principle down here.’

‘Co-operation isn’t a Cornish trait any more than it’s a Scottish one, then?’

‘No. I suppose in that respect we’re quite similar.’

‘Much more so than I’d realised – the clan spirit is very much alive and kicking here. In some ways, I suppose I find that easier to understand than Archie and the girls do, even though they’re born to it. Where I grew up – where I live – everyone knows everyone unless they arrived the night before, and sometimes even then.’

‘And you’re afraid to flirt with anyone in case he’s your fiancé’s cousin?’

Josephine laughed. ‘Well, it’s not quite that bad, but nearly.’

‘So a Cornish life might suit you?’

She hesitated, unsure of what was meant by the question and feeling suddenly cornered, the way she always did when a conversation became too personal. ‘I’ve got responsibilities at home,’ she said, a little more abruptly than she intended, ‘and it might feel similar, but there’s a long way in between.’

‘Yes, of course – you have your father to think about. The girls told me.’

Aware that she had been too defensive, Josephine tried to soften her explanation. ‘I used to think about it a lot,’ she said. ‘What it would be like to set up home somewhere different, and where I’d go if I did. I remember walking along the Moray Firth one day – all right,’ she laughed as she saw him raise a sceptical eyebrow, ‘I know it’s not exactly the other side of the world but I thought I’d start gradually. Anyway, I was walking along, wondering where to build the hypothetical cottage, and I realised I was fooling myself. Two minutes from a cinema and three minutes from a railway station is my idea of perfection.’

He held up his hands in defeat. ‘All right – who am I to argue with perfection?’ and then, more seriously, ‘I’m glad it suits you, though.’

‘How well do you know Morveth?’ Josephine asked when they had been silent for a minute or two.

He looked at her curiously, intrigued by the sudden change of topic but too polite to say so. ‘I’ve known her all my life, but it was Lizzie – Archie’s mother – who was really close to her. You should ask Archie about Morveth – she was very good to him when his parents died.’

Josephine had every intention of discussing Morveth with Archie, but she said nothing. ‘The other day – at dinner on the first night I was here – you were going to say something to Archie about Morveth and his mother, but you changed your mind.’ She wasn’t going to tell William what Morveth had revealed to her, but she was keen to find out if he really did have no idea. ‘I was intrigued by what that might have been.’

‘You don’t miss anything, do you?’ William said, impressed.

‘Oh, believe me – I do, and the wrong end of the stick is absolutely covered in my fingerprints, but I did notice that.’

‘Well, it’s not really a secret – just something that Archie might find difficult to understand. You know the talents we were talking about with Morveth – the clothes, the healing…’ The convenient miscarriages, Josephine added silently, but only nodded. ‘Well, Lizzie had those powers, too. She and Morveth – they believed in the same things. I thought at first that she was doing it to spite our dear pious brother, but it ran deeper than that. Like I said, there’s no great darkness in it – even Wesley believed in the power of an acorn to heal a broken bone – but Archie has a very analytical mind, and his life revolves around evidence. That’s a difficult combination, particularly since the war. The idea that death is just one stage in a continual cycle of renewal – which is what Morveth believes – is very difficult to accept for people who have seen that sort of suffering – and rightly so, I think.’

‘And you? Where do you stand between brother and sister?’

‘Oh, I believe in whatever gets you through – as long as it doesn’t harm anyone else.’

Burdened with yet another secret from Archie, Josephine looked at her watch and saw that it was later than she thought. ‘I’d better go and change for dinner,’ she said. ‘Ronnie and Lettice will be waiting.’

‘There’s really no need,’ William said. ‘You look lovely as you are, and standing on ceremony for the sake of it seems rather futile after the last few days. Wouldn’t an extra cocktail before dinner do you more good than a change of shoes?’

She had to agree that it would, and they went inside. Ronnie and Lettice were already in the library, and Josephine was not surprised to see that they had found time for drinks and perfect footwear. Reminding herself that it was their job to look good, and that fashion was anathema to a decent plot, she sank into one of the comfortable chairs by the fire and watched the creation of the perfect Martini.

‘Good day?’ Ronnie asked, pouring her triumph into a glass.

‘No,’ said Josephine, ‘most definitely not one of my best.’ She accepted the drink that was offered and was surprised to realise how much she needed it.

‘Is the book going badly, darling?’ Lettice lit a cigarette for each of them and passed Josephine’s over to her.

‘It would be an exaggeration at this point to say that it was going at all,’ Josephine replied tartly. ‘I’ve managed eighteen hundred words, seventeen hundred of which will almost certainly be thrown away tomorrow, and Grant’s had to up sticks and move along the coast. I can hardly set a shocker here after everything that’s happened – it wouldn’t be right. All that, and I’ve had to put up with a wigging from Morwenna Pinching into the bargain.’

‘Really? What on earth for?’

‘Oh, just something that Archie wanted me to talk to Loveday about.’

‘Is there anything you’d like to share with us?’ Lettice asked hopefully.

‘No, I’d better not. Let’s just say that I’m sorely tempted to tell Archie what he can do with his investigation and his Cornish holidays.’ Was this the moment? she asked herself as she sipped her drink, and decided that it probably was. ‘Anyway, I certainly wish I’d never asked him to move in with me,’ she said casually, and was pleased to see that she had chosen well. Lettice choked on her olive, and Ronnie’s astonishment made its way slowly out from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. William, to his credit, simply smiled.

‘Archie’s moving into the Lodge?’ Lettice asked, when her sister had finished hitting her on the back.

‘Yes – didn’t he mention it?’ Josephine asked nonchalantly. ‘I asked him to tell you.’

‘And you’re not moving out?’

‘Of course not. Don’t be so provincial.’

‘Then none of us will be safe in our beds except you,’ Ronnie said, a wicked glint in her eye.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, bewildered.

‘Well, with his mind on other things, I doubt that Inspector Penrose could run a fuck in a brothel, let alone a murder investigation,’ she explained.

Josephine glanced – provincially – at William, but he seemed unperturbed by his younger daughter’s choice turn of phrase. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, beginning to feel that the joke had backfired somewhat. ‘You know he always puts his work first. I only wish I could say the same.’

‘Well, I think it’s lovely,’ Lettice said, beaming. ‘I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire.’

‘Which brings us full circle to the Pinchings,’ Ronnie quipped, and this time she did get a frown from her father. ‘Is that why Morwenna’s been stamping her foot? Because she caught Archie smuggling his pyjamas past the boathouse?’

Josephine handed Ronnie an empty glass to give her something else to think about. ‘By the way – I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she said to Lettice. ‘Do you know anything about the Fowey woman? She’s causing quite a stir up in town.’

The clumsy change of subject was greeted by a loud scoff from the cocktail cabinet but Lettice – starved of gossip for at least a week – took the bait, as Josephine had known she would. ‘Daphne, you mean?’ she asked eagerly. ‘What’s she been up to? We’ve never met her, but if she takes after Gerald du Maurier, I’m not surprised there’s talk.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing like that,’ Josephine said, conscious that she was about to be a disappointment. ‘It’s just that I had lunch with Victor Gollancz before I came down here – you know he pinched her from Heinemann last year, just after he started publishing – and he’s very excited about the new novel. Full of smugglers and adventure, apparently.’

‘Sounds like any night at the Ship Inn,’ William said.

Josephine smiled. ‘Well perhaps that’s where she’s done her research. Anyway, he’s so pleased he’s thinking of taking out full-page advertisements in the papers.’

‘Oh, how vulgar,’ Lettice said, in a tone that most people reserved for American divorcees.

‘There speaks a woman who’s never looked in disappointment at her royalty cheque.’

‘Yes, I know, but I really do think that…’

The rest of the sentence was lost in the slamming of the front door, and they heard the sound of quick, purposeful steps across the hallway. ‘Forgotten your toothbrush?’ Ronnie called but the joke died on her lips when she saw the expression on her cousin’s face. Without a word of greeting, Archie walked straight over to the drinks table and poured himself a large whisky, which he drank down in one. His glass refilled, he turned to face them.

‘Jasper’s had a stroke,’ he said, looking at his uncle. ‘It happened late this afternoon, while I was questioning him about Nathaniel’s murder.’

‘Good God,’ William said, ‘what a terrible thing to happen. How is he? Is he…?’

Josephine got up to go over to Archie but something in his face made her stay where she was. ‘I’m sorry to say that yes – he is still alive,’ he said bitterly. ‘But it was serious, so there’s every reason to hope that he may take a turn for the worse in the next few hours.’

‘I know he’s done some despicable things, Archie, but surely you don’t mean that.’

‘Oh, I mean it. And do you know why?’ he asked. ‘No? Well, I’ll tell you. Just before he collapsed, he admitted to raping my mother.’ Josephine glanced at William, who was staring at his nephew as though he were speaking a foreign language. Ronnie moved protectively over to her father’s side. ‘How could you let something like that happen?’ Archie continued. ‘And how long did she have to put up with it before someone did something about it?’ William’s silence seemed only to increase his anger. ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you that it might be something I should know about?’

‘Archie…’ Josephine began, but he cut her off.

‘Don’t, Josephine. I know this is nothing to do with you, and I’m sorry you have to be caught in the middle of it, but there are things that need to be said.’

‘William couldn’t tell you, Archie,’ she said, ignoring him, ‘because he didn’t know himself.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. They were all under the same roof – how could he not know?’ Suddenly, the significance of what she had said dawned on him and he turned to her, horrified. ‘You knew?’ he asked in disbelief.

She hesitated, unable to see a way of vindicating William without betraying her own unwilling collusion in something that had never concerned her. ‘I found out last night,’ she admitted. ‘Morveth told me when we were at the Minack. Your mother told her years ago, but no one else knew except your father.’

‘So that’s what all those questions were about this morning at breakfast?’

‘No – that was to do with…’ She tailed off, unable to continue without exposing another family lie, and unwilling to use Morwenna’s plight to defend herself. ‘You know what that was about,’ she said quietly, uncomfortably aware that all eyes in the room were now on her.

‘Yes. It was about you being as bad as the rest of them,’ he retorted sharply. ‘Worse, in fact, because this isn’t your secret to keep. You don’t belong here, and you have no loyalty to anyone on this estate except me. So why keep quiet? What sort of thrill did you get out of knowing more about my life than I do?’

‘Archie, it was never like that.’ She tried to explain, but he was in no mood to listen.

‘Or is it more serious than that? Are you still trying to punish me for Jack’s death?’

‘Don’t you dare accuse me of something like that,’ she said, her fury suddenly matching his. ‘And stop bringing Jack into our relationship – I thought we’d put that behind us. Anyway, while I was grieving for him, you were busy having your cosy little chats with Morwenna. Does the Lady of Shalott ring a bell?’

‘That’s hardly the same thing.’

‘No, it isn’t. I didn’t ask to be told about your mother and Jasper – Morveth told me out of the blue. From what I gather, though, you didn’t need much encouragement to talk about me behind my back.’

Archie started to answer back, but stopped himself. ‘I won’t compete with you for grievances,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to. You know in your heart that you should have told me. I could have taken it from you. Instead, I had to find out like this.’

He turned and left the room. She made a move to go after him, but William put his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Let him calm down first,’ he said. ‘If you go after him now, you’ll both end up saying things that are impossible to forget. But will you tell me what Morveth said? I need to understand, just like Archie does.’ Reluctantly, Josephine nodded, wondering yet again how far she should go with the truth.