The Dying of the Light

by Robert Richardson

  “I never touched her!” Charlton protested.

  “We’ve only got your word for that,” Maltravers replied coldly. “But I might add a few bits and pieces to my evidence. I’m good at telling stories.”

  He turned away indifferently, putting the clock back into place. Now everything depended on Charlton being so confused and afraid that he would not suspect Maltravers was lying. And when it came to Charlton being jailed for blackmail and his treatment in prison, he wasn’t. In the pecking order of convicts, sex offenders lay at the bottom of the pile, despised by other prisoners and persecuted whenever possible.

  “I’ve not actually done anything,” Charlton said hesitantly. “I’ve never got any money out of her. And I’ve never hurt her. She’ll tell you that. I’ll … I’ll back off.”

  Maltravers did not look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that … for fuck’s sake give me a break! I’ll make it up to her, I’ll look after her. There’ll be no more —”

  Maltravers whirled round. “If you even so much as walk up Fern Hill again, I’ll make sure you’re inside before your feet touch the ground! You stay well away from Ruth Harvey. You’ve done enough bloody damage.”

  “What the hell do you want me to do then?” Charlton protested. “Or are you just going to turn me in? Whatever it is she’s frightened about, it’s going to come out if you do.”

  Maltravers paused then nodded. “All right, you’ve got a point. It doesn’t matter that much, but Ruth’s been through enough lately. Let me think a moment.”

  Charlton watched anxiously as Maltravers went silent. Cornered by threats with enough truth in them to carry weight, he would now accept almost any alternative to escape a blackmail charge. Maltravers was calculating the terms he could impose; they had to be severe enough to suggest he was totally serious, but not impossible.

  “All right,” he said finally. “I don’t approve of letting criminals off, but I expect it’s the lesser of two evils. I won’t tell the police, and you get the hell out of Porthennis.”

  “What do you mean? Move?”

  “I’m not talking about a world cruise. Clean this place up a bit and you’ll get a decent price for it. Then find yourself somewhere … let’s say at least three hundred miles away. Property’s cheaper in the North. And don’t come back here for your holidays.”

  “I don’t want to leave here.”

  “Try that line on the judge when he sends you down for five years or whatever it is,” Maltravers smiled cynically. “Appeal to his better nature.”

  Charlton glared at him for a moment. “Can I trust you to keep quiet?”

  “As long as you do as you’re told,” Maltravers assured him. “I’ll give you six months top weight to sort it out. I’ll check with the people I know here and if you aren’t celebrating the New Year far enough away for my peace of mind, I’ll drop you right in it. Got it?”

  “Bastard.” The insult was muttered so softly that Maltravers ignored it. “All right, but if you screw me up I’ll shoot my mouth off about everything I’ve picked up. I mean that.”

  It was a pitiful last flash of aggression, but Maltravers had won every round and was prepared to grant Charlton the empty satisfaction of childish defiance at the end.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got better things to do than bother with scum like you. Keep your nose clean and move and I won’t give you any grief. Remember that I know people here who’ll tell me if you step out of line.”

  He crossed the room to leave, Charlton watching him cautiously.

  “I saw you pick that car up by the harbour yesterday afternoon,” he added as he opened the door. “Very impressive, but as you see I don’t scare easily. Don’t get any stupid ideas about waiting for me down dark alleys, because I’ve seen off better than you.”

  He slammed the door again as he left. Once he was out of sight round a comer, he closed his eyes and gave a long shuddering sigh of relief. His best chance in a physical encounter with Charlton would be the fact that he could run faster. The dwarf had been a one-man audience to a spurious hard man performance Tess would have applauded; thankfully, he appeared to have fallen for it.

  Now all he had to do was find a way of protecting Ruth Harvey from other dangers before trying to identify a murderer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The first thing we have to do is convince Ruth that Martha died accidentally. Right?”

  Maltravers looked round the room enquiringly. Since Tess had returned from the Botallack an hour earlier, the four of them had discussed how they should handle the situation. Nobody had suggested going to the police; the tacit agreement that they would not was absolute and unquestioned.

  “But how do we do it?” Tess asked.

  “Mortimer could probably persuade her,” Maltravers said, turning to him. “But you already knew I was going to say that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Lacey agreed absently. His ink-coloured eyes looked very far away. “I can tell Ruth things about herself that will surprise her very much indeed. I think she’ll believe me.”

  “Perhaps I can help there as well,” added Helen. “I know her better than you.”

  “We’ll go and see her together.”

  “Good.” Maltravers stretched out his arm and picked up Helen’s gin decanter. “Then she can start letting it go and perhaps find some peace of mind. After that we clamp the lid on this can of worms very tightly.”

  Tonic water fizzed as he dropped ice into his drink and swirled it reflectively in the glass.

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he said. “You two go and see Ruth first thing, but then we’ve got to get the rest of them together and show them we know the truth. That’s going to scare them rigid. We then offer to keep quiet about it on the strict understanding that they leave Ruth alone. But how do we get them together?”

  “Tomorrow evening’s no problem,” Helen told him. “Edith is holding a private viewing and sale at her studio. They’ll all be there. They always support each other on occasions like that.”

  “What about Ruth?”

  “She usually goes, but I can’t see her turning up this time. Perhaps we can keep her away in any case.”

  “Leave that with me,” Lacey put in.

  “All right,” said Maltravers. “What time does the viewing end?”

  “Nine o’clock. Then they’ll probably go to the Steamer.”

  “Well they’ll certainly need a drink by the time I’ve finished with them. I’ll turn up for the last half hour or so which will look innocent enough at first.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Helen told him. “In various ways they’re friends of mine and I’m not having them think I couldn’t face this.”

  “Of course. And I want you there as well, Mortimer. You’ll know the moment anyone starts lying.”

  “But which one?” Lacey wondered.

  “You’ve no ideas?”

  “No. It could be any of them.”

  “And meanwhile I’ll be exchanging Noel Coward bons mots at the Botallack,” Tess said. “I don’t think my mind will be on my job.”

  “I’ll tell you everything when I pick you up,” Maltravers promised. Including, he thought to himself, what I can’t tell you tonight.

  *

  Waiting for Lacey and Helen to return from seeing Ruth the following morning, Tess and Maltravers went down on to Porthennis beach again. The tide was out and they walked nearly a mile along the coast, scrambling over rocks until they reached a promontory from which they could see across to Cat’s Head cove in the distance. High on the headland beyond it, the top of the Botallack’s stage was just visible in a shimmer of heat haze. Tess sat down and Maltravers knelt on a patch of sand in front of her, focusing his camera.

  “Move to your left a bit,” he said. “I want Cat’s Head in as well.”

  “Hardly your average holiday snap,” Tess remarked as she shuffled to one side. “It’s macabre.”

  “Ain’t that
the truth?” There was a click as he pressed the trigger then he lowered the camera, winding on the film as he continued looking at the scene he had just recorded. “I’m just praying that Mortimer can pull it off with Ruth. She’s got to believe the accident story.”

  “But who did murder Martha?” Tess asked. “We know so much, but can we ever really find that out?”

  Maltravers closed the camera case and sat next to her. “That’s why I want Mortimer there this evening. He’ll know.”

  “But you might not be able to prove it.”

  “Does it matter?” He picked up a flat stone and sent it skimming across the flat, placid sea. It bounced across the water leaving a wake of shining circling ripples before dropping out of sight with a tiny splash. “What’s important now is not that Martha died, but that Ruth lives.”

  When they returned to the cottage, Helen and Lacey had returned and were waiting for them.

  “He’s done it,” Helen assured Maltravers. “It was unbelievable what he told her. There were things that even Martha didn’t know.”

  “I thought it best to go over the top,” Lacey added. “By the time I’d finished, she’d have believed me if I’d said Martha committed suicide.”

  “How was she when you left?” Maltravers asked.

  “Tearful,” Helen replied. “But I think it was relief as much as anything. She never wanted to believe Martha had been murdered, but it wouldn’t go away. We told her you’d spoken to Nick Charlton and that she needn’t worry about that any more either. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Let’s hope for the best then.” Maltravers felt unexpectedly tired as he flopped down on the chaise-longue. “Now we wait until tonight.”

  Lazy with sunshine, the day dragged by. Tess started learning her lines for a new play at Watford Palace, Maltravers forced himself, without much success, to concentrate on finishing another chapter of his second novel, Helen pottered in her studio. Lacey spent most of the time sitting with Tobias on his lap, gazing out of the window. Occasionally the cat growled restlessly in sleep. The population of Porthennis changed again as more holidaymakers arrived to replace those going home. Gleeful children swam and paddled in the sea, mothers explored unfamiliar kitchens of rented cottages, fathers carried in luggage, a honeymoon couple had their first married row, then made it up in bed.

  In Penzance, Nick Charlton sat in the still centre of the spinning roundabout, imagining what he would like to do to Maltravers but afraid of trying it and bitterly accepting he had no choice but to leave Cornwall. Ruth Harvey clutched the comfort of what Lacey had told her with the total acceptance of a child being assured there really were fairies. She picked up a framed photograph of Martha Shaw and pressed her lips against the glass, grief and rage softened by what she did not know were kindly lies.

  *

  In the evening, Maltravers drove Tess to the Botallack, then returned to collect Helen and Lacey. They hardly spoke as they fortified themselves with a drink then walked through the village to Edith Hallam-West’s studio. The private showing had attracted a reasonable number of tourists and red stickers were on several paintings, indicating they had been sold. The rest of the Porthennis School chatted to the customers, all politeness, subtly persuading them to buy works by their friend. Edith seemed to be everywhere, now discussing birds with some woman, now smiling at Helen, now writing out a receipt. Lacey’s eyes casually wandered over all of them, and Maltravers noticed them harden occasionally as though he had become aware of hidden things. By ten to nine, only one couple remained, obviously hoping for a final free glass of wine. When it was not forthcoming, they left and Edith shut the door.

  “More than eight hundred pounds,” she announced. “That’s the best yet. Thank you.”

  She turned to Helen, Maltravers and Lacey. “Officially we’re closed, but you can help us finish the wine.”

  “Count me out.” Cunningham started towards the door. “I want a pint. I’ll see you in the Steamer.”

  Maltravers stepped in front of him. “Hang on a few minutes. I want to talk to you. All of you.”

  “You’ve done enough talking,” Cunningham told him sharply. “I’m not going to listen to another bloody lecture on trade unions.”

  “Then how about a lecture on murder?”

  Maltravers spoke loudly enough for them all to hear and the sense of relaxation that had followed the end of the viewing snapped into tension. Lacey had positioned himself by one wall from where he could see everybody and Helen leaned with her back against the door on to the street. For a moment, Cunningham looked as though he would push his way past Maltravers, but Edith took his arm and stopped him.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “Don’t pretend not to know. It’s too late for that now.” Satisfied that Cunningham was not going to try and force his way out, Maltravers looked round at the others. Scott was still in the chair he had occupied since they arrived, the ageing, crumbling idol awaiting gestures of respectful attendance. Dorothy Lowe was holding a handful of Edith’s catalogues which she had been collecting from around the room. Dawson stood by the bay window, rolling yet another cigarette. As Maltravers caught the eyes of each of them, they looked away uncertainly.

  “First of all, I’ve got some good news for you,” he said. “Ruth now accepts that Martha Shaw’s death was an accident. You’ve got Mortimer to thank for that. Never mind how he did it, it’s been done, so you can all stop worrying about it.”

  “Martha’s death was an accident.”

  Maltravers glanced at Edith. “Was it? Ruth didn’t think so, did she?”

  “She’s hysterical,” Edith said dismissively. “I don’t know what she’s been saying to you, but I’d advise you to ignore it.”

  “No,” Maltravers corrected. “You want me to ignore it.”

  Cunningham’s simmering resentment suddenly exploded. “For Christ’s sake, I’m not listening to this! If you want to poke your nose into Martha’s death, there’s nothing I can do about it, but leave me out.”

  “It’s not Martha’s death I want to talk about.” Maltravers stared at Cunningham until the artist turned away, then he looked slowly at the rest of them. “I want to know which one of you actually murdered Agnes Thorpe.”

  In the stunned silence, none of them noticed Lacey’s burning eyes flash across all their faces; then he gave the faintest nod.

  “For no particular reason, my first guess was Belvedere,” Maltravers continued. “But then I remembered that you’d been a Commando, Patrick, and a quick death with your bare hands would have been best. I don’t imagine she felt anything.” Dawson showed no reaction as he dropped his lighter back into his pocket. A stream of smoke rose from the cigarette in the centre of thin lips. He did not look at Maltravers.

  “It doesn’t matter, of course, because all of you had agreed it had to be done,” Maltravers added. “You were each as guilty as the killer. Agnes had the money to finance your dream of Porthennis as a cultural centre for the people. True Leninist Communism in Cornwall. But suddenly she was going to marry Robert Jenkins, a typical capitalist, the sort of man who’d be destroyed in the world revolution you were certain was coming. That was all that mattered. After she disappeared, the suicide note turned up, allegedly in her handwriting. But Edith is a calligrapher as well as a painter and there would have been no particular reasons for the police to call in experts.”

  “Do we have to listen to this nonsense?” Edith demanded.

  “Nobody goes through that door until I’ve finished,” Maltravers replied levelly. “I’ll begin with you Edith, because you were the one who started me thinking when Tess and I met you at Seal Bay.”

  She looked defensive. “I didn’t tell you anything.”

  Maltravers picked up a straight wooden chair and turned it round, sitting with his arms leaning on the back.

  “You told me a great deal,” he contradicted. “You met your husband at Cambridge in the 1930s and went to the Black Se
a for your honeymoon. Later I learned you both paid several visits to Russia before the war. And some of the KGB’s best spies were recruited at Cambridge in that period. And the Germans — the Fascists — killed your husband and children in the blitz.”

  He looked at her. “Was your husband recruited by the Russians, Edith? Were you?” Bitterness flared in her face, but she did not reply.

  “Well, you’d never tell would you?” Maltravers shrugged. “You also told me some things about Patrick which I enlarged later. Born in the slums of Salford, father died in the pits, a member of the International Brigade fighting Franco in Spain with Edward. Hardly the life of a true blue Tory.”

  He shifted in the chair to face Scott and Dorothy Lowe. “Meanwhile, you were both in the French Resistance and Dorothy was raped by the Nazis. Even the ones who died were the same. I’ve not seen the originals of Frank Morgan’s Belsen paintings, but his soul is in those canvases. And so’s all his hatred. It’s very understandable that the experience made him a Communist. And he was the one who brought Jonathan Bright here after they met as members of some society called the Fourth International. It doesn’t take much to work out that that was probably dedicated to producing the successor to the Third International which the Russians dissolved in 1943.

  “The weakest links were Martha and Ruth, because neither had suffered the way the rest of you did. But Martha was under Morgan’s spell and Ruth was in love with Martha. They’d have gone along with you, in the same way Agnes did when she wanted your help in making her own dream of a theatre come true. But then she betrayed your dream. She wanted to take her money out of the communal pot and add it to the wealth Robert Jenkins had accumulated on the backs of his workers.”

  His gaze moved over them all. “My God, you were true believers. And you’ve kept your faith. Marx would have been proud of you.”

  It was Edith who finally broke the uneasy atmosphere that settled on the room as Maltravers finished.