by Nicola Upson
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 pulle
d 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 cal
l 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.’