Chapter Fifteen
The three paintings were unpacked, leaning side by side against the sandstone fireplace. Agatha, Kurt and Quentin all stood in what had been the studio of Ince Hall, gazing at them. The works showed soldiers; ordinary men, Agatha saw, not the glory of the officer class but tin-hatted youths, angular against the grey and ochre backgrounds. She saw the soft muddied wash sliced sharp with rifle butts, the curl of barbed wire, the polished buttons of a uniform against a twisted corpse.
The room was chilled, despite the Saturday morning brightness outside.
Yesterday, Finch had declared his love for Nora Collyer. Yesterday, Finch had declared himself a soldier. Yesterday, he had been driven away by the police to the Camborne cells, awaiting trial.
The hotel had been frozen in shock, silent in absorbing the truths of the ending of the life of Mr. Frederick Collyer.
Now it was a bright Saturday morning, and Agatha had been brought back to Ince Hall by Kurt and Quentin. Quentin had fetched them from the hotel. The three of them had sat silent in the Buick, no longer the tight, fearful silence of the last few days, but now a gentle, reflective calm, the sea a stretch of blue at their side along the coast, until they’d turned off and the car had crunched up the drive and come to a halt by the still-grand front steps.
Now the two men stood, gazing at the paintings. Kurt was still, his gaze fixed on the images. Quentin was by the window, half-leaning on the rotting frame.
Kurt shifted, breathed out. ‘Theodore,’ he said. ‘What a painter the man was. What an artist.’ He turned away from the paintings to face Quentin. ‘You landed all these?’ he said.
‘Thursday night,’ Quentin said.
‘With Tyndall?’
Quentin nodded. ‘I wanted to tell you,’ Quentin said. ‘I was so longing for you to be part of it all.’
Kurt stared at the old parquet of the floor, tapping at a leaf with the toe of his shoe.
‘You were so far away,’ Quentin said. ‘And with images like this … I didn’t want to add to what was already in your mind.’
Kurt raised his eyes, turned towards Agatha. ‘I’d be even further away if it wasn’t for this lady here.’
Agatha smiled, shook her head.
‘I was lost,’ Kurt went on. ‘Lost. All I could remember is looking down at that man on the tennis court, seeing the blood, hearing the rattle of his breath. And then in my hand, the pistol, just grasped between my fingers, as if it all belonged to someone else … And then, yesterday, with the police there, telling me that all the facts showed that I was the only person who could have shot him…’ His words faded to silence.
Quentin approached the fireplace. He touched the frame of one of the paintings. ‘Facts,’ he said. ‘They only get us so far.’
Both men studied the images again. Then Kurt turned to Quentin. ‘Theo,’ he said. He drew a finger along one of the paintings. ‘To think he came home after all.’
‘Robin was dubious,’ Quentin said. ‘He said, what if it was Theo’s wish that his work should belong to the comrades. But I said, what about this place? What about this beautiful house? At least until we sort out Theo’s house, at least let’s celebrate his work.’
‘What did he say, Tyndall?’ Kurt leaned against the peeling wallpaper.
‘He came round in the end. Then it was a matter of persuading Lillian to go against her husband’s wishes. Her argument, too, was that Theodore would have wanted the Soviets to have them, and that therefore Ernest would have supported him, and she didn’t want to go against her husband’s views after his death.’ Quentin strolled across the room, flicked at the cobwebs on the mantelpiece. ‘And of course, Robin’s position is somewhat delicate. Frau Adler is poised between her husband and her lover in these things.’
‘But she listened to you.’ Kurt rested his hand briefly on Quentin’s arm.
Quentin looked at him. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I suppose she did. I think, in the end, they could both see I was right.’
‘What will happen to this house?’
Quentin surveyed the space around him. ‘We’re fighting to allow it to be kept in trust. As you know, he left no will. There’s a cousin, a much older woman, she lives in Guildford, married to a solicitor. But they don’t really want the bother. I think if we can set up the trust and keep Theo’s family name, I think they’ll be content with that in the end. And then this place can be restored, and looked after.’
Kurt went over to the paintings. He stood, stooped, breathless, in front of them. ‘Theo,’ he murmured. ‘If only we could have saved you.’
Quentin was at his side.
‘I loved him,’ Kurt said.
‘We both loved him,’ Quentin said.
‘I needed to bury him …’ Kurt’s words hung in the air. He turned to Quentin. ‘You say there’s a grave now …?’
Quentin nodded. ‘We’ll visit, Kurt. We’ll pay our respects.’
Kurt reached out and touched one of the paintings. He traced the lines of the soldier’s face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll do that. No more running away.’
‘You had your reasons,’ Quentin said. His gaze went once more to the soldier in the painting, the detail of the fingers twisted round the rifle. ‘It’s the problem with the fighting of battles,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to know when to stop.’
Kurt met his eyes, threw him a small smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But perhaps now … perhaps now the battle is over.’ He turned to Agatha. ‘I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. We both do.’
‘I just did what I could,’ Agatha said.
‘Camouflage,’ he said. ‘You were absolutely right. The butler camouflaged his own actions too – another layer of concealment.’
‘He’s not a butler,’ Agatha said.
Kurt laughed, and Quentin laughed too, and the space around them seemed to breathe. ‘We should get back,’ Kurt said. ‘Everyone’s packing their bags to leave. You too, Mrs. Christie.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m on the morning train to London first thing tomorrow.’
They made their way towards the hall. ‘Your husband will be delighted, I imagine,’ Kurt said. ‘All set to run along the platform at Paddington station to take you in his arms. Just like in your story.’
Agatha smiled, but her mind snagged against the thought of the telegram received that morning from her husband. ‘Will try to meet train stop work busy stop if not at station get taxi stop.’
She stood by the little carving of the Virgin Mary in the alcove. ‘It was this,’ she said, her finger stroking the edge of the figure. ‘Motherhood. I was here alone, and I stared at this, and I realized it reminded me of something, but I couldn’t think what. And then I remembered, the painting above Finch’s desk, the idealized image of motherhood, and I thought about the way Mr. Finch looked at Mrs. Collyer, and the last bit of the story fell into place. And that’s when I saw that it was all so much more simple than anyone had realized.’
At her side, Kurt was gazing at the statue, and murmuring. She heard the words, repeated. ‘… pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death …’
Quentin was standing close to him.
‘… Holy Mary Mother of God …’ Kurt’s voice was a low whisper.
‘Kurt,’ Quentin said.
‘Theodore …’ Kurt’s eyes were dark with feeling, as he looked at Quentin.
‘Kurt – it’s over. The only person who needs to forgive you, is you.’
Kurt touched the clasped hands of the Virgin.
‘Theo is at peace,’ Quentin said. ‘And his work lives on.’
Both men turned towards the fireplace, to the gap on the wall where the Antigone painting had once hung.
Kurt grasped Quentin’s hand, and smiled.
They left the shadows of the hallway. Quentin pushed open the creaking door and all three came out into the summer sunshine. They walked down the steps to the Buick, climbed in, Quentin driving once more. The roof was down, a
nd they shouted to make themselves heard above the wind, laughing as the sea air battered at their faces.
Quentin pulled up at the drive of the hotel. Kurt jumped out, held the door open for Agatha with an elaborate bow, smiling, touching his imaginary cap, then climbed back in next to Quentin, who revved away towards the car park.
Agatha’s feet scrunched along the gravel as she approached the front door.
Nora was sitting on the wall, a book on her lap, her legs swinging against the smooth sandstone of the steps, the cascades of rhododendrons echoed in her bright silk dress, the ribbon of her straw hat.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she smiled. She patted the wall, and Agatha joined her there.
‘Do you know,’ Nora smiled, closed her novel, ‘I went to visit him, this morning. Mr. Finch. He’s in the police cells at Camborne. That nice Sergeant drove me over. Only just got back.’ She shifted her legs on the wall. ‘You see, all night I was thinking about him. Didn’t sleep a wink. It is such an extraordinary thing to happen, that someone might think that about me, and about my husband, and that they might do something like that, something so very, very wrong … terribly wrong. I didn’t know what to think. So I thought, I must go and see him.’
Agatha rested her feet against the steps.
‘I felt I should say something,’ Mrs. Collyer continued. ‘The man says he loves me, after all. So, I told him, that perhaps I might wait for him. Do you know what he said? He said, it was enough for him that I should be loved. He told me to go back to my life, to find happiness. He said, you’re not to tie yourself up to another man’s unhappiness, not again. He said he always knew that I would be a contented wife and a blissful mother, that was the word he used, “blissful” – and now it was time it should come true. Isn’t that marvellous?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘It is odd how well he seems to know me. It’s as if he knows me far better than Frederick ever did. But the sad thing is, that even if I had met Mr. Finch, when I was free, and young …’ She shook her pretty curls. ‘Oh dear, it sounds such a terrible thing to say. But the thing is, Mrs. Christie, Mr. Finch isn’t someone I could ever have loved. Sweet as he is. There’s something so soldierly about him. I don’t mean that unkindly, but … some of these men, you just feel that somehow they’re still fighting a war. You feel they’d be happier still in their barracks, still in uniform. As if it’s shaped them, somehow.’
Agatha nodded. A sudden image of Archie, in his squadron-leader colours, proud, stiff-backed. And silent.
Nora swung her legs against the wall. ‘Well, it is quite extraordinary. The sort of thing you read about in newspapers, isn’t it, those little snippets when you think, don’t other people have strange lives.’
‘What will you do now?’
Nora smiled her sweet smile. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t. My brother Peter is coming to drive me home, he’s on his way. I told him all about it, I spoke to him on the Camborne telephone, the nice Sergeant arranged it for me. And Peter said he’d tell his friend James, and now it turns out they’re both motoring down to collect me. They’ll be here soon. That’s why I thought I’d sit out here and wait for them, although if they take any longer I’ll be wanting some lunch. And look, here comes Mr. Farrar and his friend from the big house.’ She laughed, gaily, as Kurt and Quentin strolled round to the front door, inviting the ladies to join them for lunch, ‘Sea trout, apparently,’ Kurt laughed, ‘freshly caught …’
But Nora insisted on staying on the wall just for a bit longer, ‘This lovely sunshine is so health-giving …’
Agatha left her there, and followed Kurt and Quentin into the hotel.
*
Lunch had the atmosphere of a family meal. The Scottish ladies were louder, Blanche laughed gaily, Tyndall and Frau Adler sat together as if playing host. But there was a gap where Mr. Finch should have been, as if a major bit of clockwork was missing, so that somehow the salad seemed limp, the fish arrived after a long delay, the cutlery was chaotically placed. Oliver too, was subdued, waiting on tables. As he passed Frau Adler she put a maternal arm around him, murmured a few words, and he seemed to brighten.
At dessert, Tyndall approached Agatha’s table. He reached out and grasped her hand. ‘Don’t suppose we’ll meet again.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Wanted to say thank you.’
‘Really, I did nothing …’
‘No, no –’ he shook his head – ‘seeing beyond the surface,’ he said. ‘That’s what you did. Saved the day. For all of us.’ He glanced across at Lillian, who flashed a warm smile. ‘And here’s Mrs. Collyer coming to say goodbye,’ he went on. ‘Her brother is taking care of her. Good thing too, I say.’
Nora was smiling as she crossed the dining room, with two young men behind her. One had the same soft blonde hair, the same pale eyes – ‘Peter, come and meet Mrs. Christie, oh, do come and say hello, and you James, Mrs. Christie, this is James Wilkinson …’
James had a warm dark smile, behind bookish spectacles. Hands were shaken, acknowledgements made.
‘I am thrilled to meet you, Mrs. Christie,’ James said. ‘Had I thought of it, I’d have brought one of your wonderful books for you to personally inscribe.’
There was teasing, laughter, promises that she’d send him her next one, ‘another masterwork, I don’t doubt,’ he’d said. Then the trio had tripped away, all set for luggage to be loaded, shawls to be fastened, hats to be pinned, ready for the long drive home.
*
Later Agatha went to her room to pack. The afternoon weather had remained settled. From her balcony she could see the rhododendrons basking in the afternoon sun, a blaze of colour against the neat green lawns.
On her desk lay her notebooks. She turned the pages, thinking about the Captain and his love for Martha Hobbes. She imagined herself, next day, alighting from the train, looking around her for Archie. Would she glimpse him, through the crowds and steam? Or would he see her first, and stride along the platform towards her?
She picked up her pen.
The old grey sundial was waiting in the rose garden. She looked at her handwriting on the page.
Or perhaps not the sundial. Perhaps the Captain and Martha could have their final declaration of love in a busy railway terminus, amidst the noise and smoke, a heart-warming reunion just when all seemed lost, and he can declare his love for her in all the hustle and bustle …
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I will go home.
She imagined stepping down from the train compartment. She imagined her husband’s arms around her, their murmured words of delight at being once more together.
She remembered his telegram.
“Work busy. Stop. If not at station get taxi. Stop.”
She stared at the page. Then she closed her notebook shut. She put down her pen, picked up her hat, left the hotel.
*
The sea was dazzling emerald, the coastal track golden with gorse, with swooping skylark song.
The shipwreck was deserted, lifeless.
She descended the track towards it.
She was aware of the clomp of feet on its tilted, half-rotten deck, of boots on the broken steps. Bosun Walker came into view.
‘Hulloah,’ he said. ‘A last visit?’
She nodded.
‘All of you leaving us now,’ he said. ‘Now the mystery is over.’ He gave the hull an affectionate pat. ‘Even though this mystery here is only just beginning.’
‘It is?’
‘Oh yes.’ He leaned towards her, his gruff voice almost a whisper. ‘We found something, at last. Well, the lads did. I wasn’t here. Last night, they were out on the wall, drinking, as they do, and they heard singing. The moon was up, and they saw someone on the ship here. So, they came over, thought it was one of the village girls playing tricks – they could see her below decks, just there in the hold. Johnny Beasley, he was telling me, she had a floating white dress, though one of the other lads said it wasn’t white and it wasn’t floating, and one of them said she was barefoot, and then one of the
others said, no, clogs she was wearing, he heard their knock against the steps … anyways, they chased her into the hold – and she’d gone. Vanished, they said. But they could still hear the singing, a sweet still voice mourning for her sailor man. And then that went too. But where she’d been, there was something. An ornamental casket, like a large jewellery box, just sitting there. We’d looked and looked, we’d stripped everything away, as you know. The lads were spooked, to be honest. They picked it up, carried it to shore. They were scared, not that they’d tell me, but they wouldn’t open it. They waited for me, this morning. So we all opened it. And look.’
He led her round to the side of the wreck. A makeshift table had been set up, and on it stood a dark, weathered wooden box. Agatha could see its rusted clasp, the remnants of ornamental carving.
He bent to open it. ‘And look what was inside.’
With great care, he lifted out what appeared to be a shoe. A delicate, ladies shoe.
‘Leather,’ he said. ‘It can survive quite well, in some conditions.’
The shoe was golden yellow, punched with lace holes. It had a tapered toe and a small heel.
‘Italian,’ Ted Walker said. ‘You can just make out the writing inside.’
Agatha looked at the shoe, then at him. ‘The ghost story,’ she said. ‘Young Tilly waiting for her sailor.’
He gave a reluctant smile. ‘That’s what the lads were saying, this morning. The shoes brought back from Italy by the sailor-boy.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I said – a whole new story just starting here.’
‘I wonder what happened to the other shoe,’ Agatha said.
‘There you are.’ Bosun Walker smiled at her. ‘You’re the story-teller. You can start from there.’ He placed the shoe carefully back into the casket.
She smiled. ‘I may have enough of my own stories,’ she said.
They turned away from the ship, away from the lapping waves.
‘What will happen to it all?’ Agatha asked.
‘The museum in Camborne is keen on the shoe,’ he said. ‘Word’s got out – we’ve already had those press-men down,’ he said.
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