Angel with Two Faces

Chapter Two

Josephine Tey sat on a pile of suitcases and waited for her lift, perfectly happy to bask in the sun and do nothing. The broad promenade by Penzance station offered glorious views along many miles of coastline, and she gazed contentedly across at the hills which stretched westwards towards Land’s End, then back across the broad sweep of Mount’s Bay to the Lizard. Even on a Sunday, the traffic of boxes filled with flowers moved relentlessly from the boats to the railway station, connecting the flower gardens of the Scilly Isles with the markets of England’s capital in time for the start of a new week, and turning Penzance into a suburb of Covent Garden. The atmosphere was welcoming and relaxed, and she felt instantly at home. If this was what life in Cornwall was like, she could easily get used to it.

She was sorry not to have travelled down by car with Archie as intended, but his enforced change of plan had left her no time to alter her own arrangements and, in any case, she had no wish to hover in the wings of a stranger’s funeral – first visits to other people’s houses were difficult enough, no matter how close the friendships. So she had kept her luncheon appointment with her London publisher, stayed overnight at her club in Cavendish Square and caught the 10.30 Limited from Paddington, feeling for once like a proper holidaymaker. The sound of Land’s End had a distant, far-away feel which appealed to her fascination for foreign travel, and she had thoroughly enjoyed the journey: it was no hardship to look out over a constantly changing landscape at one of the most beautiful times of year, and the occasional flash of a naval uniform in the corridors had been a pleasant distraction. All in all, she was thoroughly satisfied with the Cornish Riviera Express; it was hardly surprising that the county was no longer a remote, unapproachable land but a Londoner’s playground – and a popular one, too, if the number of smart couples and robust families on board her train was anything to go by.

Ronnie made her presence felt as soon as she came into view, hooting irreverently all the way along the street before bringing the Austin to an inch-perfect halt in front of Josephine. She jumped out and rushed round to the passenger side, and Josephine noticed some bewildered onlookers trying to reconcile the black of her funeral clothes with the joyful expression on her face. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t had time to change,’ Ronnie said as she hugged her friend, ‘but I was under strict instructions from my dear cousin not to keep you waiting.’

‘You don’t need to apologise for wearing mourning, only for looking gorgeous in it.’ Josephine ran her eyes admiringly over Ronnie’s outfit. ‘You and Lettice ought to start a new sideline in widows’ weeds. I can see the advertisements now – “Grief with Grace”. It might even make your fortune.’

‘You look pretty damned good yourself for someone who’s just got off at the end of the line,’ Ronnie said, throwing the cases into the back of the car. ‘Most people start to wilt at Exeter.’

‘Oh, I don’t know – there’s a certain attraction in getting as far away as you can.’ Josephine smiled. ‘I think it might suit me.’

Ronnie raised an eyebrow, knowing how impatient Josephine was with her home town, which simultaneously claimed her as a famous daughter and resented her success. ‘Has Inverness been as welcoming as usual, then?’

‘A little too welcoming if you must know. Every time the papers review one of my plays or even mention my name, I find myself running furtively from the shops to the bus stop, desperately trying to dodge another stream of invitations. If the various societies and committees had their way, I’d be too busy embracing my clan ever to write another word.’ She gave an exaggerated shudder as Ronnie slipped the car into gear and moved off. ‘Actually, I made the mistake of accepting one last month,’ she continued. ‘My old school was putting on an adaptation of Richard of Bordeaux in honour of – I quote – “the most illustrious foot to step out of Inverness for two hundred years” – and they asked me to introduce it. I telephoned to find out if they wanted the rest of me or just the foot and, if the latter, was it left or right, and ended up agreeing out of sheer devilment.’

They reached a junction, and Ronnie tried to pull herself together. ‘Wait a minute while I concentrate on this bit,’ she said. ‘If I don’t go the right way here, we’ll end up in Newlyn and I don’t see what either of us has done to deserve that.’

Josephine smiled, amused by a sudden image of her glamorous, city-minded friend against a backdrop of steam trawlers and fishermen. ‘That’s the trouble with you West End types – you can’t face a fish until it’s on the grill at the Savoy. You should be ashamed to call yourself Cornish.’

‘Oh, it’s not the fish I object to, it’s the artists. It used to be a charming little place. Now you can’t move for easels clogging up the street and people in smocks trying to capture the “Newlyn style”, whatever that is. It’s a proper little industry – two hundred canvases shipped up to Burlington House every year, and you should see what’s left here for the tourists. No, give me a mackerel any day – they might stink, but at least they serve a purpose.’

Pleased to see that being on home territory seemed to have little effect on Ronnie’s outspokenness, Josephine let her concentrate on the roads and took the opportunity to get a better sense of Penzance. They passed along a residential street lined with unelaborate stone houses, the ordinariness of which was compensated for by unexpectedly luxuriant displays in the gardens. Rhododendrons and fuchsias flourished in corners and doorways, and more exotic planting was evident in spiky green leaves which peeped out from the terraced rear courtyards. ‘All this reminds me of the continent,’ she said to Ronnie, surprised at how very un-English everything seemed.

‘It’s practically Cannes, dear – well, compared to where you’re going to be staying it is. I should warn you – there’s plenty of peace and beauty on the Loe estate, but not much night-life.’

‘I don’t want to disappoint you, but it’s the peace I’m here for. I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything much lately, and I really must get down to some work. I’m hoping that a few long walks and a bit of sea air will do the trick.’

‘Lettice said you’re doing another crime novel.’

‘That’s the plan. Having to give evidence in a murder trial rather dampened my enthusiasm for real-life drama, so I thought I’d go back to pure fiction for a bit.’ The words were lightly said, but she knew that Ronnie would not be fooled. Last year, during the run of Josephine’s most successful play, Richard of Bordeaux, the violent death of a young fan had affected Josephine deeply, and all that had happened subsequently still haunted her. There had been moments during the last few months when, had it not been for her friendship with Archie and his cousins, she might have given in completely to the feelings of guilt and sorrow which had hounded her since Elspeth’s murder. The trial, and the necessity of having to confront people for whom she felt such strong and differing emotions, had been one of the worst experiences of her whole life; at the end of it, the person responsible for so much grief had been brought to justice, but she had been surprised to discover how little consolation that gave her and that, in turn, led her to question everything she thought she believed in. It was unlike her not to be able to find refuge from sadness in her work, but theatre – for the moment at least – was too closely connected with a sense of loss for her to find any joy or purpose in it.

‘My heart’s just not in it right now,’ she admitted, more seriously this time, ‘and there’s no point in doing anything if you’re going to be lacklustre about it. The publishers have been baying for another shocker ever since The Man in the Queue, and with Queen of Scots not being quite the success that everyone hoped for, it seemed a good time to give in to them.’

‘Well, you know Lettice and I are helping out with the local drama group this week and amateur theatricals always bring out a murderous streak in us, so just ask if you’re stuck for a plot line.’ They were on the open road by now, although Ronnie was still driving so slowly that Josephine half-wondered if there was something wrong with the car; caution behind the wheel was something she would have expected more from Lettice than her sister. ‘I do hope you’re going to come out and support the Winwaloe Players on Tuesday night.’ She laughed as she saw the expression on Josephine’s face. ‘They’re giving their Jackdaw of Rheims.’

‘Isn’t that a poem?’

‘Not by the time they’ve finished with it. Actually, they’re really rather good, and the theatre alone is worth the trip.’

‘So I hear. Archie said it was right on the edge of a cliff and absolutely breathtaking. Whose idea was that?’

‘A woman called Rowena Cade. She’s barking mad, of course – well, you have to be to carve a theatre out of a rock, don’t you – but in the best possible way. She started it about three years ago, and we got roped into helping with the costumes for the show that our lot put on there. We’ve done it ever since – it’s really rather magical as long as the weather holds.’ Ronnie reached behind her and took a flask and a bag of shortbread from the back seat.

‘Do I detect the Snipe at work?’ Josephine asked. Having often stayed with the Motleys in St Martin’s Lane, she was familiar with their formidable cook, who had travelled with the sisters when they made the permanent move from Cornwall to London just after the war, and who also kept house for Archie. Much to everyone’s surprise, the change had suited Dora Snipe and she took instantly to city life, returning only for the occasional holiday and to ensure that standards had not dropped in her absence.

‘You certainly do. She’s taken control of her old kitchen with a vengeance, and she found time in between the wake bakes to make you these.’

‘Good God, does she do funerals as well?’

‘Oh yes. In fact, it’s a bit of a family business. The undertaker – Jago – is her brother-in-law.’

Josephine took out a biscuit and ate it thoughtfully. ‘What did happen to her husband, by the way? I don’t think I ever knew.’

‘No one does. She came to us thirty-odd years ago, and she was on her own by then. She never talks about her marriage, and the only thing anyone seems to know is that it ended when it was still very new.’

‘But she was widowed?’

Ronnie shrugged. ‘Would you be brave enough to pry? The one thing I can say with any certainty is that she’ll have got a good deal on the burial if he did die.’

Intrigued, Josephine poured some tea from the flask, grateful now for Ronnie’s sedate pace. ‘How’s Archie?’ she asked. ‘I can think of better starts to a holiday than carrying a coffin.’

‘Bearing up, if you’ll excuse the pun. Lettice and I always dread any big occasion taking place while we’re at home – weddings, funerals, christenings, they’re all the same. Everyone’s got such a history, you see – they’ve lived and worked together on that estate for generations, and that makes for very strong alliances, and even stronger grudges. It’s like being part of some sort of brotherhood, I suppose – if you imagined something midway between Camelot and Dennis Wheatley, you’d have it about right.’ They both laughed. ‘Most of the time, it’s all perfectly normal. The estate’s big enough for everyone to have his role, and there’s something rather fine about the way they all work together to keep it going. But when we’re gathered together under one roof, it all gets a bit tense and incestuous.’

‘Not unlike the theatre, then,’ Josephine said wryly. ‘It must be home from home for you.’

‘I’d never thought of it like that, but now you mention it, there are some similarities. I have to say, though, it was a very strange do today, even by our standards. The young lad, Christopher – the Snipe’s nephew, in fact – he nearly dropped the coffin; the curate bungled the eulogy; and, to cap it all, when we came out of the church desperate to get the man safely in the ground, his little sister had tarted the grave up to look like a florist’s showpiece. We rounded the corner and there she was – grinning over six feet of bluebells. All very Lady of Shalott. I could have died, but I’m eternally grateful to you for saving me from the wake. It can only have got worse.’

Josephine pictured the scene with a shudder. She had a hatred of funerals, and in particular of flowers on graves. ‘If anything happens to me, I don’t want a petal in sight,’ she said. ‘But are you seriously telling me that someone let a child decorate the inside of a grave?’

‘Loveday’s not exactly a child. I suppose she’s about fourteen, but she’s always been precocious and her outlook on the world can be a little – well, fanciful. To be honest with you,’ Ronnie added confidingly, ‘I don’t think she’s quite right in the head, but nobody would ever say that. They just accept her for what she is. The parents are both dead, but there’s another sister – Harry’s twin – and the three of them were devoted to each other. I dread to think how this has affected them.’

‘What happened to Harry, anyway? Archie said there was an accident, but he didn’t have time to tell me much.’

‘Well, Harry’s always been one of those daredevil types, but this time his luck ran out. The stupid boy rode his horse into the lake and drowned.’

‘What happened to the horse?’ ‘He swam safely to the other bank. Trust you to think of that first.’

‘Well, I’ve always thought the phrase “daredevil type” was another way of saying “irresponsible bastard”,’ Josephine said tartly, ‘so my sympathies are firmly with the horse. Don’t you think it’s a little selfish to get yourself killed like that?’

‘I know what you mean, but don’t say it out loud when we get there – you’ll be lynched. Everyone loved Harry, and they certainly won’t have a word spoken against him now he’s dead.’

‘Let’s ask the older sister in three months’ time shall we?’ retorted Josephine scornfully. ‘I don’t think I could ever forgive someone who left me so unnecessarily, no matter how much I loved them – and I’m financially independent. From what you say, she’s got a tough time ahead.’

‘Pa will look after her – he always has. And Jago – he and his wife were good friends with the parents, and he’ll do what he can for Morwenna.’ They turned off the main road and followed a narrow lane which ran closer to the sea. Ferns of every description lined the roadside, and the hedgerows were filled with campion and bluebells – as beautiful in their natural setting as they had been sinister a few moments before. ‘Pa won’t tell you this himself, but he saved Loveday’s life when she was a little girl,’ Ronnie explained. ‘There was a fire at their cottage one night a few years back – a spark must have caught in the thatch and it went up like a beacon. Pa saw it across the park and got there as soon as he could with a couple of men from the stables. He found Loveday crouching by the stairs while another man dragged Harry unconscious from his room, but it was too late for the parents – they both died in their beds.’

‘Good God – that’s awful.’

‘I know. It makes you wonder what the family did in a former life, doesn’t it?’

‘Where was the other sister?’

‘Morwenna? She was away from home, thank God. She’d started to work at the Union over in Helston by then. It’s a sort of poorhouse-cum-refuge, and she was on a night shift. As you can imagine, she’s had her share of shocks in life, and she’s still a way off thirty. So you’re right, I suppose – Harry’s recklessness was selfish.’

‘Things could have been so much worse if it hadn’t been for your father, though.’

‘Yes, although he always shakes it off. He didn’t even tell Lettice and me that he was the one who’d saved them – we found out from the Snipe, who found out from her brother-in-law. He’s always taken his responsibilities to that estate and everyone on it very personally – although I think diving into burning buildings is carrying things too far. He won’t be told, though. He’s paid for Harry’s funeral, of course, and he’ll find a way to ensure that Loveday and Morwenna are all right without making them feel like charity cases.’

‘It must be a nightmare overseeing something that size,’ said Josephine, thinking of all the once grand estates that she read about which had fallen on hard times in recent years, ‘especially since the war. And I can’t imagine anything worse than having all those livelihoods dependent upon you.’

‘It is difficult,’ Ronnie admitted. ‘God knows how many people live and work on the estate, and I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen when Pa’s gone. I can’t see that Lettice and I have inherited sufficient stoicism and dedication to carry on what he does, and Archie certainly wouldn’t want it. Touch wood, though, he’s got more energy than people half his age, and he works twice as hard.’

‘And that you have inherited from him. I’m looking forward to meeting your father – I want to see what else I can trace back to him.’

‘I think you’ll find there’s quite a bit of him in each of us. And a lot of my mother, too, of course. We’ve been lucky with both of them.’

Not for the first time, Josephine reflected on the degree to which life had blessed the Motley sisters with exactly the right balance of comfort, eccentricity and tragedy for them to flourish in the theatrical world they had chosen to make their living from. She knew that their mother, Veronique, had died when they were still young, grief-stricken by the death of her eldest child, Teddy, who had gone down with his ship before the war was six months old, but she had often heard them speak of her and knew how much they had been influenced by her creativity and flouting of convention. She remembered Lettice once telling her that their mother had brought them up to believe they could do anything, and it was that which had given them the confidence to take on the unwritten laws of the West End, and change them for the better. ‘Has your father never been tempted to marry again?’ she asked.

‘Good grief, no,’ Ronnie said. ‘He’s not been short of admirers, but I honestly think he’s still too in love with my mother even to notice when someone’s setting her cap at him.’ She smiled sadly. ‘It’s a refreshing change from all the bravado people come out with about getting back in the saddle and moving on with your life. Lettice and I do worry about him, but there’s something rather noble about a grief that lasts for life, isn’t there?’ Josephine nodded, and wondered what it would take to make her want to share her life so wholeheartedly with someone. ‘Anyway, Pa’s other woman is the Loe estate,’ Ronnie continued, ‘and she’s very demanding.’

The road they were on had parted from the sea, and they drove down into a small village, skirting a pretty, sheltered inner harbour before climbing again into open countryside. ‘How does Archie fit into life down here?’ Josephine asked. ‘He’s always been a bit vague about it whenever I’ve asked him.’

‘To be entirely honest, I’m not sure he knows himself how he fits in,’ Ronnie replied, ‘or if he does at all. You know that the Loe estate used to be in his father’s family, don’t you?’

Josephine shook her head, intrigued. ‘I thought his only connection with it was by marriage, through his mother.’

‘No, he only missed being Lord of the Manor by two or three generations. Our great-great-grandfathers were best friends out in the Indies together. The Penroses had the land and the Motleys had the money, so they came to a very sensible arrangement: Penrose transferred the estate and all responsibility for the upkeep of it to his friend, in exchange for a house and living on the estate in perpetuity. Everyone got what they wanted and the estate’s future was secured. It’s all worked out very nicely, even down to a uniting of the clans when Archie’s mother – Pa’s younger sister – married a Penrose.’ Josephine was quiet for a moment, trying to get the family tree straight in her mind while Ronnie went on. ‘So, in answer to your question, Archie fits in rather uncomfortably – he’s not the boss, but he’s not one of the workers either. And of course a Cambridge education and a job at the Yard haven’t helped bridge the gap. The law down here is very much a subjective thing, and something to be worked out privately.’

As the lane bent sharply round to the left, Ronnie took a right turn through some wooden gates, on to a private road shrouded in rhododendrons and variegated laurels. ‘Here we are, although I hope you’re not expecting the grand country house,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it’s a rather haphazard affair, and the Penroses were very shrewd to get rid of it; the estate just eats money, and it’s the house that’s suffered – things get patched and mended in order of urgency, and the Forth Bridge doesn’t come into it. There’s always some sort of panic on. Don’t worry, though,’ she added reassuringly, ‘it is beautiful, and you’ll get the peace you need. Archie’s moved back in with us for a bit so that you can have the Lodge – it’ll be quieter for you to work in, and you can come up to the chaos whenever you feel like a bit of light relief.’

Josephine was about to thank her but, as they rounded another bend and emerged from the trees, the first glimpse of Loe Pool stopped her short. She had lived all her life just a few miles from Loch Ness and the magic of light on water held no novelty for her, but the Loe had a stillness and beauty all of its own. The combination of ornamental parkland in the foreground and a patchwork of fields to the rear gave the scene in front of her an intimate domesticity which could not have been more different from the ostentatious drama of the Monadhliath mountains, but which was no less magnificent. And at the centre of it all, flanked by rich, green woodland, was the lake itself – quiet, smoky-black at the edges where the sun could not reach, and drawing each disparate corner of the landscape effortlessly into one perfect whole.

Delighted, she turned to Ronnie and was moved to see that her cynical, world-weary friend had not become immune to its charms.

‘Come on, I’ll drop you at the Lodge for a wash and brushup,’ Ronnie said. ‘Wander over for dinner when you’re ready.’