Caught In the Light

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Yes. I was.’

  ‘And five years later you’ve been visited by the compelling desire to get to know her.’

  ‘You sound as if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘It’s just that it seems rather late in the day for your conscience to be pricked.’ She eyed me deliberatively before adding, ‘But what exactly do you want to know about her?’

  ‘Anything you can tell me.’

  ‘Well, as I told you on the phone, she was somebody I had a great deal of respect for, both personally and professionally. That makes her very rare in my experience, believe me. My knowledge of her was confined to work, of course. We didn’t meet socially. But, being her assistant, I observed her at close quarters for several years. One gets to know someone pretty well in such circumstances.’

  ‘How would you describe her?’

  ‘Honourable. Devoid of malice. Even to the extent of pretending she hadn’t heard office gossip, let alone participating in it. She was capable of extreme kindness. Her solicitude while I was easing myself back into work after a serious illness was quite touching. At other times, with other people, she could seem aloof, even insensitive. But that was only because of her dedication to the job in hand. She had remarkable powers of concentration.’

  ‘What exactly was the job in hand?’

  ‘Valuing and acquiring collectable photographs for auction. Mostly the rare and/or antique variety. Her knowledge of photographic history was second to none. Mr Noakes is a journeyman by comparison, though competent enough in his way. But Isobel had, well, let’s call it an eye. A sense for photographic art, if you understand me.’

  ‘Yes. I think I do.’

  ‘She was a considerable connoisseur in her own right, actually.’

  ‘Really? Whose work did she like?’

  ‘Early Victorian female photographers. The earlier the better. Julia Margaret Cameron, obviously. But others less well known: Lucy Bridgeman, Augusta Crofton, Fanny Jocelyn …’

  ‘Marian Esguard?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ But she’d heard. I knew that by the startled look on her face.

  ‘Wasn’t there a famous pioneer photographer called Marian Esguard?’

  ‘No. I don’t believe there was.’ She frowned. ‘I’ve certainly never heard of her. When was she active?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Very early on, I think. But, forgive me, your reaction … I could have sworn the name meant something to you.’

  ‘It did, yes.’ She softened. ‘I’d never thought it might have a photographic context, though, considering I’d be bound to have come across at least a reference to her by now if she’d produced any significant work. But I never have. Not once, that I can recall. And I’m not the forgetful type, I can assure you.’

  ‘So you’d remember where you heard of her before?’

  ‘Oh yes. She was mentioned to me at, well, at Isobel’s funeral.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘One of the other mourners. A friend of Isobel’s. Not a colleague, I mean. Nor a relative, so far as I could gather. She didn’t actually specify how they knew each other. Perhaps from school or university. I’d have said she was a little older than Isobel, though, so—’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Well, it was the strangest thing. We went back to Isobel’s house in Clapham after the funeral. It wasn’t a large party. A dozen or so, all told. It was a rather stilted affair, standing in Isobel’s drawing room, which I’d never been in before, with her mother and father pressing cakes and sandwiches on us that I for one had no stomach for, surrounded by Isobel’s collection of early Victorian photographs on the walls. There was a particularly fine blown-up print of a Cameron portrait over the fireplace. Mrs Duckworth, 1867. It’s quite famous, actually. I was admiring it when this friend of Isobel’s, as I took her to be, approached me, puffing a slim cigar, of all things, and—’ She broke off, noticing my reaction to the description. ‘You know her?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Go on. You were going to tell me what she said.’

  ‘Yes. So I was. Well, she asked me how I knew Isobel and I explained. I must have asked her the same question, but something else cropped up before she could answer. Or she avoided the issue. I can’t remember which. At all events, she got me chatting about what a wonderful person Isobel was to work for, then suddenly asked, “Did she ever talk to you about Marian Esguard?” Just like that. When I said no, she asked if I was sure. When I said I was, she changed the subject, then pretty niftily moved away to talk to someone else. All in all, rather odd behaviour. That’s why it’s stuck in my mind. But as for Marian Esguard being a notable early photographer, well, I’m afraid you’re wrong there.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Why, yes. If she had been, Isobel would most certainly have been interested in her, and I’d have heard of her as a result.’

  ‘I suppose so. Tell me, who else was at the funeral?’

  ‘Oh, two or three other people from Sotheby’s. Several neighbours. Various relatives: an aunt and uncle, a cousin. Assorted friends.’

  ‘Any … male friends?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘She lived alone?’

  ‘As far as I ever knew. That was my … impression. Not that there mightn’t have been … occasional admirers … but Isobel wasn’t in the habit of volunteering details of her private life.’

  ‘Ever heard of Conrad Nyman?’

  She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Debonair business type. Robert Redford looks. Cartloads of charm.’

  ‘I’ve never met him.’

  ‘If he wasn’t at the funeral, maybe he phoned Isobel from time to time.’

  ‘No. Definitely not. What makes you think otherwise?’ She was growing suspicious now and I could hardly blame her. ‘Am I to assume, Mr Jarrett, that there really is more at stake here than your unquiet conscience?’

  ‘I think you’ve assumed that all along, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She cocked her eyebrows frankly at me. ‘I have. I’ve also assumed you aren’t going to tell me what it is.’

  ‘Who else could I ask about Isobel?’

  ‘Members of her family, I suppose.’

  ‘And where would I find them?’

  ‘Her parents were shopkeepers in Chichester. They kept a tobacconist’s business. Five years ago, at any rate. They could have retired since, of course. Or died. Like Isobel.’

  ‘Yes. So they could. Any idea of the name and address of the shop?’

  ‘None. But there’s something I can tell you. Something I ought to tell you. Mr and Mrs Courtney were good people, good, gentle people who loved their daughter very much. That was my abiding impression of them. They weren’t bitter about what had happened to her, just very, very sad. I asked Mr Courtney how he felt about the driver of the car. About you, that is. He said he didn’t blame you – accidents happen. But he also said you should have attended the funeral. Or written to them at the very least. He thought he had a right to expect that much of you. I thought so, too.’

  ‘Yes.’ I tried not to flinch as I looked at her. ‘And you were both right.’

  I was in Chichester by four o’clock. All the way down, the accusation in Mary Whiting’s voice had lingered in my thoughts. I should have attended the funeral. Or at least written to Isobel Courtney’s parents. It was true. So I should. But my solicitor had advised me to say as little as possible to her family for fear of implying I was in any way at fault. I’d told myself that hearing from me would only upset them further. Besides, I’d still had the police breathing down my neck at the time, as well as a hurt and angry wife. I hadn’t been short of excuses. Some of them had even been genuine. But they were all played out now.

  Chichester itself, bustling with shoppers in the afternoon sunshine, seemed edged with mystery, strung with invisible threads that I brushed through at every step. Isobel Courtney had grown up in the city. Just like Marian Esguard. Whose past was whose
? I wondered. Whose story came first?

  I parked where Eris had claimed to, at the Festival Theatre, and walked down North Street towards the centre. At the first newsagent I came to, I asked if they knew of a specialist tobacconist in the city and was recommended to try the Pipe Rack in South Street.

  ‘I think I’ve heard of it,’ I said. ‘Is it run by the Courtneys?’

  ‘Well, just Sam Courtney now. Doris died a couple of years ago. Sam’s been on his own since. I think he only keeps the place going for the company. Sad, really.’

  And sad it surely was. The window display was more like a faded museum exhibit, sun-bleached posters recalling long-forgotten tobacco advertising mottoes – ‘Trust Gold Leaf to taste good’ and the like. The shop itself looked as though it had been closed down months ago and was awaiting a refit, pending which the vestigial stock of pipes, tobacco and smoking accessories had been left to gather dust.

  But the sign on the door insisted it was open for business and, a minute or so after the bell had tinkled into silence behind me, a small, round, white-haired old man in a threadbare cardigan, frayed shirt and rumpled trousers wheezed out from the rear, cleared his throat with evident difficulty, peered at me through jam-jar-bottom glasses and asked if he could help.

  ‘Mr Courtney?’

  ‘Yes. Do I know you?’ He squinted at me. ‘I do, don’t I? I’m afraid my memory’s not what it was.’

  ‘I’m Ian Jarrett.’ I offered him my hand. ‘The driver of the car that killed Isobel.’

  He looked at me blankly for several seconds, then my words seemed to register. ‘Of course. Yes, I remember you from the inquest. The driver of the car. Jarrett, did you say?’

  ‘Yes. I should have contacted you at the time to say how extremely sorry I was. I know it’s late in the day, but will you … accept my condolences?’

  I was still holding my hand out. Abstractedly, he shook it, then pulled out a stool from beneath the counter and sank down onto it. He was breathing rapidly and shallowly, the wheeze threatening at any moment to turn into a convulsing cough. ‘Your condolences. Yes, of course. You’ve, er, come a long way?’

  ‘From London.’

  ‘And after such a long time, too. Ian Jarrett. Yes, that was the name. Kind of you to call.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t come before. While Doris was alive. She might have appreciated it.’

  ‘I am sorry. About all of it. Especially the accident, of course. I wish to God it hadn’t happened.’

  ‘I wish that, too.’ He looked down. ‘Still, good of you to make the effort. Thank you.’

  ‘Mind if I … ask you a few questions about your daughter?’

  ‘Mind? No. Got nothing else but memories to live on. You may as well jog a few. If you want to. Can’t see what you’ll gain by it, though.’

  ‘Was Isobel born in Chichester?’

  ‘Oh yes. Right upstairs.’ He nodded towards the ceiling. ‘We thought she’d be the first of two or three, Doris and me. But …’ He shook his head. ‘Isobel turned out to be our only child. It’s a grievous thing to outlive your own child, Mr Jarrett. Not natural. Not in the order of things.’

  ‘And she grew up in the city?’

  ‘Yes. Till she went away to university. She was a bright girl, our Isobel. Clever as they come. That’s how she did so well for herself. Had a good job with Sotheby’s. A very good job.’

  ‘As a photographic expert, I believe.’

  ‘That’s right. She loved photography, even as a little girl. She took over my old Brownie box camera when she was about ten and built up whole albums of pictures. We bought her a smart new camera one Christmas, but she went on using the Brownie. Then she got into developing the pictures herself. Set up a club at her school and used their darkroom. It’s a funny thing, really. Hundreds of pictures there must be upstairs, taken by her. But hardly any of her.’

  ‘Occupational hazard.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Never mind. Tell me, do you know East Pallant?’

  ‘It’s just round the corner.’

  ‘What about number eight? It’s a legal practice.’

  ‘Not with you.’

  ‘What I mean is did Isobel … take an unusual interest in a particular house in East Pallant?’

  ‘No. Why should she have? She took lots of pictures round Chichester. Liked Georgian architecture. East Pallant’s the place for that if anywhere is. But … number eight? I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

  ‘She never married, did she?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I just wondered if she was … planning to.’

  ‘Not that Doris and I knew of. We didn’t see as much of her as we’d have liked, though. She was always … busy. Well, that’s London for you. If there was a man …’ He shrugged. ‘We didn’t hear from him afterwards. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Did she ever mention the name Conrad Nyman?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Conrad Nyman.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘What about Daphne Sanger?’

  ‘Her neither.’

  ‘I gather she attended the funeral. A friend of Isobel’s presumably. A cigar-smoker. Slim. Ash blonde. Glasses.’

  ‘I don’t remember her.’

  ‘Really? A colleague of Isobel’s at Sotheby’s said she met her there.’

  ‘Maybe she did. But I don’t remember. It was an upsetting time.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …’ I sighed and glanced round at the shabby remnants of the Courtney family business, aware how little right I had to badger this sad old man with his hoarded memories of the camera-crazy girl that had grown into the photograph-haunted woman. ‘Isobel’s colleague said she had a fine collection of early Victorian photographs. What happened to them?’

  ‘Her solicitor dealt with all that. Cleared the house before it was sold. We couldn’t bear to have any of it here.’

  ‘No mementoes?’

  ‘We had mementoes enough.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. Did they include … I mean, I know you said there were hardly any, but … do you have a photograph of Isobel, Mr Courtney? I’ve never … actually seen her … If you know what I mean.’

  ‘There are photographs, yes. Doris had one framed … afterwards. You can see it … if you want.’

  ‘I’d like to. If I may.’

  ‘Go through to the back.’ He reached out and raised the flap to let me through the counter.

  A small sitting room lay beyond the doorway, crowded with oversized Fifties-style furniture. The air was frowsty, heavy with dust and cigarette smoke. The remains of a meal stood on a table near the window, adding stale soup to the mix of odours. But the past was stronger than all of them.

  I crossed to the mantelpiece above the gas fire. Framed photographs stood on either side of the clock in the centre. One was a wedding shot of Sam and Doris Courtney long ago, the other of a slim blond-haired woman in her mid to late twenties, standing in a walled pathway near the cathedral. A transept and part of its spire could be seen in the background. She was dressed casually and was smiling warmly at the camera, posing for her mother, perhaps, during a weekend down from London. Her hair was longer than I recalled. There was nothing as such for me to recognize. It was an unstudied insignificant snapshot. But it was how the Courtneys had chosen to remember their daughter. Young, cheerful and free of foreboding. Except that, to my eye, there was something, in the stiff edge to her smile and the faint wariness of her gaze, that implied she wasn’t the untroubled or uncomplicated girl her parents would have wished to believe. Even then.

  ‘You had a lovely daughter, Mr Courtney,’ I said, walking back into the shop. ‘I’m truly sorry. I wish … Well, you must know what I wish.’

  ‘But wishes aren’t wands, Mr Jarrett. You can’t wave them over your sorrows and make them go away.’

  ‘Why was Isobel in Barnet that night, by the way?’
<
br />   ‘Visiting a friend.’

  ‘Which friend was that?’

  He looked at me sharply, aware, it seemed, that he’d spoken without thinking. He was holding something back. That was clear. I’d suspected it all along. But he had a crucial advantage that meant I couldn’t press him to reveal what it was. He was the aged father of the woman I’d killed. He owed me nothing. Not even honesty. ‘I can’t remember,’ he mumbled at last.

  ‘Were they at the funeral?’

  ‘I … I’m not sure. I suppose so. My memory’s not as sharp as it used to be. I forget. Except the things I want to forget. They don’t go away.’ He stuck out his lower lip pugnaciously. ‘I try to think of Isobel as she is in that photograph, but my mind won’t always let me. Sometimes, too often, it puts a different picture in its place. The picture of what I saw on that slab in the mortuary when I went in to identify her. How she was after you’d …’

  He flapped his hand, at me or the memory, I couldn’t tell which, and caught a small tower of tobacco tins with one of his fingers. The tins toppled across the counter, several skidding off onto the floor, where they rolled and rattled slowly to rest.

  ‘I’d like to close up now,’ he said, breaking the silence that followed. ‘Would you mind leaving? I’m rather tired.’

  * * *

  Sam Courtney was tired. Maybe I was, too. Or maybe my confidence was ebbing. It was no more than a five-minute walk to East Pallant. Number eight stood at the end of an elegant parabola of Georgian houses. Like most of the others, it had been converted into offices, whose occupants were beginning to leave for home, strolling away in the mellow late afternoon sunlight, briefcases in hand, coats over arms. Everything was ordinary and orderly. Nothing was out of place.

  But if I raised my gaze to the rooftops and the sky and let my mind discard the sights and sounds of the present I could almost imagine that, with enough thought and concentration, enough desire to make it so, I could look down again and see Marian Esguard emerging from the door of her father’s house into the world she’d known. The same bricks and mortar, the same railings and paving stones. It wasn’t so very different, nor so very far away. She’d been here. Maybe, in some sense, she still was here.