by Nicola Upson
‘I’m beginning to think you care about this as much as I do.’
She smiled. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Loveday,’ she admitted. ‘That conversation we had really affected me, and I can see why Nathaniel was troubled by what she told him. It’s so obvious that she’s caught up in a relationship which she simply doesn’t understand. There’s something intense and dark about it – about the family in general.’
‘Who was Morveth talking about?’ he asked.
It was the question she had been dreading, and she knew one secret would have to be sacrificed to answer it. ‘I promised the Snipe I wouldn’t tell you this,’ she said, trying to convince herself that it was a sin of omission rather than a lie, ‘but in light of what’s happened, you ought to know because it shows he can be violent. When I went down to the kitchen the other night, the Snipe was with Beth Jacks, bathing her face. She’d been beaten up by her husband, and I gather it happens regularly.’
‘You’ve found out a lot in forty-eight hours,’ he said, impressed.
‘You don’t have to be here long to realise that the men think they run things, while the women unite and get on with their lives in their own way.’
Archie nodded. ‘That’s true, and I don’t know why I’m shocked about Jacks – he’s a brute at the best of times – but I am. I’m beginning to feel more out of touch with my own home than ever.’
Josephine looked at him with concern. ‘This is going to be hard for you, isn’t it? Should you have agreed to take it on?’
‘I’m involved whether I like it or not,’ he said. ‘It sounds stupid, but, if nothing else, I feel as though I owe it to my parents. They loved this place – it was so much a part of who they were, and if the heart of it has to be torn apart, then it should at least be done by someone who cares. Protecting it – if I can protect it at all from whatever’s going on here – feels like doing something for them.’ The tenderness in his voice when he spoke of his parents made Josephine all the more convinced that now was not the time to make him any more vulnerable to his emotions. ‘I suppose all I’m saying is that it’s personal,’ he added, ‘and I don’t know yet if that’s a good thing or a bad. But either way, it’s time I made a move.’ He got up, looking a little embarrassed, and walked over to the dresser, where she had left the volume of Tennyson. ‘Brushing up on your Arthurian legends?’ he asked, picking it up.
‘I thought I’d better. I’m embarrassingly vague on anything between Shakespeare and Kipling, and I’m ashamed to say that Tennyson has passed me by completely.’ She watched as he turned the pages, and couldn’t help feeling that he needed the peace and quiet of the Lodge rather more than she did at the moment. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay here instead of at the house?’ she asked. ‘It must be chaos over there and we can easily swap. Or you could offer me police protection,’ she added as he started to protest. ‘I wouldn’t mind some company with what’s going on at the moment.’
‘That is utter rubbish, Josephine, and you know it,’ he said, laughing. ‘You’re perfectly happy on your own – irritatingly so, in fact.’
‘Okay, I admit I’ve made more convincing excuses – but it’s not as if there isn’t plenty of room for us both.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘And think of how much it would give the girls to talk about. Seriously, though – I really do think you’d be better off here at the moment. You need familiarity and time to think, and – much as I love them – you won’t get that with Lettice and Ronnie breathing down your neck for every detail of the case.’
‘What about your work?’
‘Now you’re talking rubbish. If it’s anything like your cases in London, you won’t be here enough to disturb me. In fact, it’s probably the only way I’ll get to see you at all.’
‘All right – as long as you’re sure your reputation can stand it?’ She nodded. ‘I really must go,’ he said again. ‘I think I’ll start with Morwenna – it can only get easier after that. I’ll see you later, then.’
‘Yes, but there is one condition,’ she said as she walked him to his car. ‘I get to tell Ronnie that we’re moving in together.’
Chapter Thirteen
Penrose knocked at the door of Loe Cottage and waited, but there was no answer. Just as he was raising his hand to try again, he heard footsteps inside and the heavy curtain which had been drawn across the entrance was pulled roughly back. Even through the glass, Archie could see that Morwenna looked exhausted; there was no colour in her face, and the dark rings around her eyes which had shocked him at the funeral were even more pronounced now. He had expected her to be surprised to see him but, if she was, she showed no sign of it. ‘Archie,’ she said, with a trace of impatience, ‘I thought it was only a matter of time before you’d show up. I hear the play didn’t exactly go off as planned.’
‘You know about Nathaniel’s death?’
‘Yes. Morveth came over early this morning. She had to bring some things back that I left at the Minack, and she told me then. I suppose you’re here to find out why I left in such a hurry.’
‘Amongst other things, yes. Can I come in?’
‘All right, but you’ll have to be quiet. Loveday’s not well, and I don’t want her disturbed.’
She stood aside to let him through into the kitchen. ‘Sit down. I’ll make some tea.’ He took a seat, and looked with interest at the picnic rug and familiar copy of Tennyson’s poetry which had been left on the table – presumably the items which Morveth had returned during her early-morning visit. Inside, the cottage showed no sign of the neglect which had puzzled him in the garden on Sunday: the blue slate slabs of the kitchen floor had been swept clean and the furniture was scrubbed and tidy; all that was left of the wake was a pair of empty whisky bottles on the floor in the corner.
‘I’m sorry to hear about Loveday,’ he said, conscious of how formal and strained his words sounded. His relationship with Morwenna had always been relaxed and straightforward; even their brief exchange at the funeral – although dominated by her anxieties – had felt natural and warm, but today he was uncomfortable around her, knowing that he was about to stretch the limits of their friendship. ‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘Stomach cramps,’ she said, bringing the pot over to the table. ‘Girls’ problems, in other words. They came on suddenly last night and she was in agony. I had to get her home, and Jago had been obliging enough to leave his keys in the ignition, so I borrowed his van.’
At least that was one search which could be called off, he thought. ‘Where’s the van now?’
‘Morveth took it back with my apologies,’ she said, and pushed a cup across the table towards him. ‘So you can arrest me for theft, if you like, but not for murder. There have been times recently when I could happily have killed Nathaniel, but I didn’t.’
He was inclined to believe her, but had no intention of leaving the matter there. ‘So how do you feel about the fact that someone else has?’
‘It’s another thing that will hurt Loveday when she comes to understand it properly, and I’m sorry about that, but I’ve used up all my grief lately. I don’t have any left for Nathaniel, as callous as that might sound. He has a community to mourn him, and a God to save him. He doesn’t need me.’
Archie realised that he was going to get very little out of Morwenna if she continued in this mood. He had years of experience in breaking down the barriers that people put up against his questioning, but he sensed that this was different: Morwenna wasn’t being evasive; she was simply past caring, about herself or anyone else, and it was almost impossible to get someone in that state of mind to co-operate. There seemed little point in being anything other than direct with her. ‘It seems to me that Nathaniel knew a lot about this estate,’ he said, ‘and he wasn’t particularly wise about who he shared his information with. Was he right to think that Harry deliberately started the fire that killed your parents?’
She looked at him, and he was ashamed of the satisfaction he took from having managed to s
urprise her. ‘How should I know?’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘I wasn’t here.’
‘No, but you’ve had eight years to think about it. Surely you don’t expect me to believe you didn’t confront Harry after what Nathaniel said to you, even if that was the first time you suspected anything other than an accident?’ Her defiance was irritating him, and he saw no reason to hide his impatience. ‘Harry’s dead, Morwenna – I can’t hurt him, and neither can you. But other people are going to get hurt if someone doesn’t start telling the truth. This estate will be torn apart by lies and secrets, and I’m not just talking about reputations and loyalties. Nathaniel was murdered. Right now, while we’re sitting here drinking tea, his parents are at the mortuary viewing a body that has been smashed to pieces. His God didn’t save him, and neither will He save the next person who opens their mouth at the wrong time. And there will be more killings, I promise you, because none of you are as careful as you should be with your secrets and your threats – it might be you, it might be me, it might even be Loveday, but someone else will die if I don’t get some help.’
‘That’s quite a speech, Archie,’ she said flippantly, but he could see that she was unsettled. ‘How do you know that the fire had anything to do with Nathaniel’s death?’
‘I don’t,’ he said frankly, ‘but I’ve got to start somewhere. Would you rather I went upstairs and got the truth from Loveday? I’m happy to do that, and I’m sure she’d give it to me.’
‘All right,’ she said, and then, more to herself, ‘what harm can it do now, anyway? Nathaniel was right – Harry did start the fire, and he did it deliberately. I didn’t know at the time, but he told me afterwards. Neither of us knew that Loveday had seen anything, but Nathaniel was only confirming what I knew already and thought I could leave in the past.’
‘Did Harry threaten to hurt you if you told anyone about it?’
‘He didn’t need to threaten me. I wouldn’t have betrayed him.’
‘Not even for killing your parents and – for all he knew – Loveday as well? It’s hardly betrayal. He must have forced you to keep quiet somehow.’ She stayed silent and, convinced now that Josephine was right, Archie searched for the best way to ask the question. ‘If he was violent towards you, it’s understandable that you should be too frightened to say anything. Anyone in your position would have done the same.’
‘What?’ She looked at him in confusion, then seemed to realise what he was getting at. To his astonishment, she started to laugh, but it was a hollow sound, close to hysteria, and it filled him with an unaccountable sadness. ‘You’ve got it so wrong, Archie,’ she said eventually. ‘Is that really how you see me? As another Beth Jacks? I loved Harry.’
‘Of course you did, he was your brother.’
‘Oh, what’s the use any more? It’s all falling apart. I didn’t love him as a brother, Archie. We were lovers, and we had been for years. That’s why I would never have said anything. My loyalty has always been to him, not to my parents, and it will always be to his memory, not to theirs.’
Suddenly it all fell into place – the secrecy, the shame, as Josephine had put it; that was the darkness at the heart of this family. How odd that she should be so close to the truth, and yet so far away. Archie could only imagine the strain of keeping such a secret, and the way in which it must have influenced all of Harry and Morwenna’s relationships – their every meeting with another person, in fact. The split between the mask and the reality must have been unbearable for Morwenna since Harry’s death; she must have longed for someone to listen without judgement – or was that simply his own arrogance speaking, his need to do something constructive when he really felt hopelessly inadequate to deal with the strength of Morwenna’s emotions? ‘When did it start?’ he asked gently.
‘In the way you mean, when we were twelve. Loveday had just been born, and she was the centre of attention, so you could say we made our own amusement.’
‘And in the way I don’t mean?’
She smiled, genuinely this time. ‘Years before, I suppose. Harry and I were always together – we had no choice. Everyone thought we made a perfect family, but we’d been two separate couples – mum and dad, Harry and me – for as long as I can remember. Our parents never treated us as individuals – it was always “the twins this” or “the twins that”. We were told to play together, put to bed together, punished and rewarded together. They rationalised it by saying they were determined never to have a favourite, but that’s not how it felt to us – it felt like we had no identity except as a pair. There was nothing intentional about it, no hostility – I don’t think they even realised they were doing it, and they’d probably have been horrified if they knew how isolated we felt emotionally. But they were always more interested in each other than in us, and there’s a limit to how long you can push and shove for attention.’
Her words reminded Archie of Josephine’s concerns for Loveday, and he wondered if Morwenna knew she was behaving in the very same way towards her little sister. ‘But they did pay more attention to Loveday,’ he said.
‘Yes. They’d been trying for another child for years, and my mother had had several miscarriages by that time. When Loveday came along, all the focus was on her and it was as if they suddenly realised how to be parents. They talked to her all the time, and played with her so naturally and spontaneously. We’d have had to be saints not to resent all that individual care – and we certainly weren’t saints, either of us. We got so tired of hearing that Loveday was special, and we just retreated into each other even further. It was a dangerous age to do that, of course – we were curious about sex, and our parents weren’t about to take us to one side and explain everything, so we decided to find out for ourselves.’ She drank her tea, hardly seeming to notice that it was long cold. ‘Harry was my reference point for everything,’ she continued. ‘I don’t mean that he forced me to do anything – it was entirely mutual; I just mean that I depended on him, and he on me. One minute we were brother and sister, fighting and playing together, and the next, we’d crossed a line. It all seemed to start so naturally – we had this game where we’d throw stones into the lake or skim them across the sea, and compete for kisses. One thing just led to another.’ She looked down, embarrassed, and Archie waited for her to go on. ‘I think it was the safety of it all that we loved as much as anything,’ she said, and he sensed that she was desperate for him to understand. ‘It meant that we didn’t have to break out of our cocoon and establish our own identities with anybody else. We’d never had to do that, and I think it terrified both of us. There was an emotional security in what we had, and a safety valve against our feelings for everyone else – by loving each other, we avoided being angry with our parents and jealous of Loveday.’
With no brothers or sisters of his own, Archie had only ever experienced a sibling relationship second-hand, but it did not take much imagination to see that a brother and sister – who already knew each other so intimately – would share an intense private world if they ignored all the taboos.
‘I shouldn’t describe it in such negative terms,’ Morwenna said. ‘It was something precious and uniquely ours, and we both took a great deal of pleasure from it. It seemed so innocent, really. I remember thinking that it was just a childish thing, and one day I was sure to grow up and tire of it. I kept expecting the sheer joy of him to wear off, but it never did.’
‘Weren’t you afraid that someone would find out?’
‘Yes and no. We had no other supervision, really, and I suppose there was an element of rebellion in it. If they were going to treat us as one, then we might as well be one – physically and emotionally. We soon discovered that there’s a remarkable power in being able to deceive everyone.’
‘Even yourselves? You must have known how people would have viewed it if you were discovered.’
‘Yes, but we were each other’s moral guide – and the one great thing about it was the honesty. It’s so rare that you can show your truest self to someon
e, whether you love it or hate it. How many people have you allowed that close?’ He considered, and was ashamed to admit that there was no one. ‘It was our integrity to ourselves and to each other that mattered,’ she said, ‘not rules that someone else had laid down. Sometimes I think Harry felt guilty because of all the old sexual prejudices – he was the boy, and perhaps he’d taken advantage of me in some way and violated my trust, but it was never like that. I worshipped him. I would have done anything for him, and he for me.’
‘Hence the fire? Is that why he did it? Did your parents find out?’
‘Yes. It was a stupid way to get caught, really, but we thought we were invincible by then.’
‘That’s love for you.’
‘I suppose so. Dad always had to be out of the house early to see to the horses, and he’d take Harry with him to exercise them. Whenever he could, Harry would come back to the cottage after my mother had left for the Union. One day she came back early because she wasn’t well, and she caught us in my bed. It was as simple as that. I don’t know who was more shocked when she opened the door, her or us. She just stood there with her mouth open for what seemed like an age, and eventually Harry laughed. That did it, of course – it was a nervous reaction more than anything, but I’ll never forget the look of disgust on her face, or the things she called us. ‘
‘What did they do about it?’
‘Well, all hell broke loose – behind closed doors, of course. My father ignored me entirely as if he just wanted to gloss over my part in it all, but he beat Harry within an inch of his life. I suppose that was the only response he understood. I was so angry. I’ve never known a rage like the one I felt when I saw what he’d done to Harry – to his son, for God’s sake. After that, the shame set in and it was never mentioned again.’ She ran her fingers round the rim of her cup, apparently absorbed in her own thoughts. ‘How ridiculous that all seems now – we were never given a chance to talk about it or explain how we felt, and neither of them seemed to understand that there might have been a reason for it. Or perhaps they did, and just didn’t want to acknowledge that they’d had anything to do with it. Either way, they just closed down and tried to behave as if nothing had happened.’