by Nicola Upson
‘Isn’t it magnificent? I’ve only seen it once before, but I’ve never forgotten it.’ That had been on an early summer’s day, when the Mount seemed more like a fairytale castle, glistening and insubstantial in the sunlight; today, it had a completely different atmosphere, dark and brooding under a bruised sky, with a handful of buildings clustered round its foot. The tide was out, leaving the causeway clear to cross, but a choppy sea licked at the rocks around the island and white horses flecked the surface as far as they could see. As they watched, a shaft of sunlight broke through the purple underbelly of cloud, changing the character of the day yet again, and Josephine couldn’t help but feel that the scene in front of them would easily upstage any film set that Marlene had stepped onto.
The train came to a halt and a guard announced their destination. Marazion was a tiny station, consisting of nothing more than a modest station house sandwiched between the sea and a stretch of marshland, a small goods yard and a row of stationary railway carriages – apparently used as accommodation – with curtains drawn across their windows. At the far end of the platform, crates piled high with fruit and vegetables were being loaded onto the back of a horse-drawn cart, changing places with several braces of pheasant that were destined for the train. There was a smart black car parked next to the cart, and Josephine noticed that it carried a coat of arms. ‘That must be our transport,’ she said, raising her voice above the starlings that swirled over the reed beds, their cries woven into a long, rambling song.
‘I’m rather relieved it’s not a boat,’ Marta admitted, looking round for a porter. ‘Do you think she’s here yet?’
‘Who?’
‘Marlene, of course.’
‘I’ve no idea, but I hope you’re not going to spend all weekend in a state of high alert. You’re making me nervous.’ It amused Josephine that Marta – who rarely gave a damn what anyone thought – could occasionally fall victim to the same bouts of shyness that dogged her on a daily basis. ‘I doubt she’ll be travelling in a horse and cart, though, so we’re probably safe to go over.’
The car was unattended, although a man in a chauffeur’s uniform seemed to be giving instructions to the station master, presumably making arrangements for the guests arriving later. A young couple stood next to the car, and as she and Marta walked over to join them, Josephine noticed how nervous they both seemed: the man was tapping his hand repeatedly against his thigh and looking anxiously at the car, as if it might somehow move off without him, and the woman at his side – slightly taller than her husband, and attractive in a pale, delicate sort of way – was tying and retying her scarf in the reflection of the rear window. ‘The Lancasters, do you think?’ she said to Marta.
‘Must be. He certainly doesn’t look like a vicar or a colonel.’
The couple brightened as they approached, apparently relieved to have company. ‘Christmas at the Mount?’ the man asked, and then, when they nodded, offered his hand. ‘Gerald Lancaster, and this is my wife, Rachel.’
Mrs Lancaster smiled, and shook hands a little too vigorously. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ she said.
Josephine and Marta introduced themselves, and Josephine was about to ask how far they’d come when Lancaster interrupted her. ‘Thirty-nine across!’ he said, looking at her triumphantly. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Thirty-nine across in today’s Times crossword.’ He poked the newspaper that Marta had tucked under her arm. ‘It was a crime and detection special. You must have seen it?’ Josephine nodded, still confused by the turn in the conversation. They had resorted to the puzzle during a long wait in Exeter, but Marta didn’t read much crime fiction and there were too many clues about Dorothy L. Sayers for Josephine’s liking, so they hadn’t got as far as looking for a pen. ‘“Her victim had to wait his turn, nine and three”,’ Lancaster continued. ‘That’s obviously a reference to your first novel, The Man in the Queue, so you must be the answer.’
‘Gerry knows everything there is to know about detective fiction,’ his wife added, and it was hard to tell if her tone was nervous or simply weary. ‘He has all your books.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Josephine said, smiling as her heart sank. ‘I hope you enjoyed them.’
‘I did, very much, but there’s something I must ask you about A Shilling for Candles. Do you really think that Inspector Grant would have allowed Tisdall to give him the slip like that? I mean, he seems a perfectly competent policeman in most other respects, but that was a classic schoolboy error, and I wondered why you showed him up like that?’
Josephine was saved from having to justify the premise that most of her plot had been built around by the return of the chauffeur, who gave his name as Trannack and apologised for keeping them waiting. ‘Your luggage will follow on,’ he said, ‘so if you’re ready, I’ll take you across to the Mount. Is this your first time on the island?’
Marta and Josephine nodded, but Lancaster shook his head. ‘I came here as a child. We used to holiday in Cornwall with my grandmother.’
His wife looked at him curiously, as if his childhood memories were new to her. ‘Are we the first to arrive?’ Marta asked casually, not quite brazen enough to enquire specifically about Marlene.
‘No, the Reverend Hartley and his wife came over this morning, and Mr Fielding has been with us since yesterday. Everyone else is arriving later this afternoon.’ So Archie was still on the road, Josephine thought, and would no doubt be taking his time; there was little point in travelling with a Hollywood star unless you planned to make an entrance. ‘It’s just as well you’re staying for a couple of days,’ Trannack added. ‘There’s rough weather coming in later, and you won’t get on or off the island until it’s passed.’
‘Even at low tide?’ Mrs Lancaster asked, looking anxiously across to the cobbled pathway, which seemed so safe and inviting.
The chauffeur smiled, apparently accustomed to her scepticism. ‘It changes quicker than you’d think. You get a southerly gale and a swell building, and the causeway’s covered for days at a time.’ He went into a detailed explanation of neap tides, wind direction and the cycle of the moon, which Josephine tried in vain to follow. ‘In an emergency, three or four of us might get across at low tide if we roped ourselves together, but thankfully we don’t have many emergencies on the island.’
‘Well, if we’re here for the duration, it doesn’t bother me,’ Lancaster said. ‘It just gives us all a chance to get to know each other better.’
He beamed round at them, and Josephine could already see by the look on Marta’s face that she was unlikely to change her mind about people called Gerald. Trannack opened the rear door and Lancaster stood aside to let the three women get into the back seat, but his wife hesitated. ‘Can we walk across the causeway?’ she asked, looking appealingly at her husband, and Josephine got the impression that she was trying to delay her arrival at the house for as long as possible. ‘Some air might be nice after the journey.’
The chauffeur hesitated, wrong-footed by the request, but Lancaster saved him the trouble of replying. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. How long do you think that would take? Get in.’
She did as she was told, and Marta glanced at Josephine, who rolled her eyes. She hated the way that Lancaster had so publicly dismissed his wife’s suggestion, even if it was impractical: Marazion Station was set apart from the town, where the causeway began, and to access the Mount on foot would first have involved a lengthy walk across the sand and pebble beach, which stretched for miles in front of them. The car took them out into a narrow country lane, parallel with the railway track, and they travelled back the way they had come until they reached Marazion. Josephine looked with interest at the little market town, which seemed to be organised around one winding street with houses straggling up the hill on the left-hand side. Its ancient buildings and curiously named alleyways intrigued her, suggesting a rich past independent of its connections to the Mount, and she hoped for a chanc
e to explore it more thoroughly before they left Cornwall.
Trannack turned right and drove down onto the beach, heading towards an impressive mass of rock which marked the beginning of the causeway. ‘That’s Chapel Rock,’ he said, slipping effortlessly into the role of guide. ‘The pilgrims used to wait there for the tide to go out, but they pulled the chapel down during the Civil War.’
‘Which side were you on?’
‘The right one, of course,’ he replied, without missing a beat, then added: ‘We held out for the King as long as we could. The Prince of Wales stayed at the Mount on his way out of the country. There’s a little room off the south terrace where they hid him – you’ll see it later on, no doubt. Mind you, the current Lord’s ancestor was for Parliament, but we don’t hold a grudge down here.’
He smiled at her in the rear-view mirror, and Josephine remembered how welcome she had felt the last time she was in Cornwall, staying with Archie’s family. ‘Do you live on the island?’ she asked, already fascinated by its history.
‘Yes, in the village. My family’s been there since the seventeen hundreds, but that’s not unusual. Most of us go back a few generations, usually doing the jobs our fathers did. There’s not as many of us as there used to be, mind, and even fewer since the war, so you have to be able to turn your hand to most things now.’
The car took the causeway slowly, its tyres bumping over the cobbles as they left the mainland behind. On either side, flocks of oyster catchers searched for food along the shoreline, plunging their bills deeply into sand left bare by the fallen tide, and the smell of seaweed was rich and pungent. Up ahead, the path’s halfway point was marked by a square stone embedded with a cross, another reminder of the island’s holy origins; the image was already stark, silhouetted against an increasingly angry sky, but a carrion crow perched on the upright post gave the scene a still more ominous appearance. ‘Not exactly robins and festive cheer so far, is it?’ Marta whispered. ‘I hope they’ve lit the fires.’
Rachel Lancaster took a handkerchief from her bag to wipe some condensation from the window, and as the sleeve of her coat fell back, Josephine noticed a faint bruise on her arm. She would have thought nothing of it had it not been for the brusque exchange she had just witnessed, but now she wondered if the careful arranging of the scarf was down to something more disturbing than nerves. ‘Have you come far?’ she asked, conscious that the couple hadn’t spoken a word since getting into the car.
‘From London,’ Rachel said. ‘We live in Somers Town, near Gerald’s work, but we came down yesterday and broke the journey overnight. It’s our wedding anniversary today. This trip is Gerald’s present to me.’
‘You were married on Christmas Eve?’ Marta said. ‘That was brave, with so much to organise already at this time of year.’
‘I suppose it was, but neither of us has particularly happy memories of Christmas from when we were children, so we thought we’d make up for it, didn’t we, Gerry?’ She leaned forward to squeeze her husband’s shoulder and he nodded, but his eyes remained fixed firmly on the Mount. ‘And it’s not as if we have big families to juggle, so most of the time we can just please ourselves.’
The silhouette of the castle grew more defined as they neared the end of the causeway. It had obviously been built to accommodate its unique position, rising steeply from dramatic areas of exposed rock, and its features sharpened gradually into a blend of the sacred, the military and the domestic: fortress walls, softening at intervals into more picturesque turrets, parapets and terraces, with a church rising up from the centre, its tower marking the highest point of the island. It was a strange mixture to find in such close proximity, and yet there was a harmony about it, Josephine thought, a simple honesty about the relationship between God and war over the centuries.
The causeway joined the island to the left of its compact harbour, and the car drew up by the first cluster of buildings. Modest, traditional stone cottages rubbed shoulders with a solid Victorian lodge and a handsome white house in the Regency style. A museum and gift shop stood on one corner, opposite the lych-gate to a tiny cemetery. To the right, a wider, cobbled road ran past an attractive row of cottages that fronted the harbour, their lamps already lit against the early gloom. The village seemed self-contained and detached from the castle’s grandeur, Josephine thought, but she guessed that the lives of each set of inhabitants must be closely connected.
‘Have we missed Twelfth Night?’ Marta asked ironically, pointing to an area of lawn where two men with ropes were laying a huge Christmas tree on its side.
‘They’re taking it down before the storm does it for them,’ Trannack said. ‘If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll call in at the Change House and get someone from the castle to come down and meet you. I won’t be long, but feel free to stretch your legs and look round if you’d like to.’
‘Can’t you just drive us straight up there?’ Lancaster asked impatiently.
‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that, sir. Cars don’t go much further than this.’
Lancaster glanced doubtfully at the steep ascent to the summit. ‘So what about our luggage?’
‘Ah, there’s a service tram that runs up to the castle, so no need to worry about that. Your cases will be taken to your rooms as soon as they get here.’
‘But we’ve got to walk?’
‘There is another option, sir. The pilgrims used to crawl up on their knees, but we don’t insist on that nowadays.’
His remark came with a charm that cancelled out its insolence, and Josephine hid a smile as Trannack walked off to make his call, heading for the building nearest the causeway which presumably functioned as a reception point for the island. The cart laden with provisions and luggage was making swift progress across from the mainland and the driver touched his cap as he passed, then continued along the harbour, stopping outside a single-storey granite shed to unload. Elsewhere, vast amounts of logs and coal were being hauled off boats, and there was a strong sense of the islanders stocking up and hunkering down against the weather, rather like an old-style military siege. Rising to the challenge, the first flakes of white began to fall – hardly the blizzard that Trannack had forecast, but enough to soften the Mount’s predominant greys and hint at how enchantingly the island might be transformed if the snow had a chance to settle.
The silence in the car grew more awkward as they waited, and Josephine was casting round for something harmless to say when Rachel Lancaster beat her to it. ‘I don’t want to stay here,’ she announced from nowhere, and Marta and Josephine looked at her in surprise. ‘Gerry, please – let’s leave now, while we still can. This was a mistake.’
Lancaster turned round, and Josephine felt his wife flinch in the seat next to her. He must have caught her expression because he seemed to check himself, responding more kindly than he had intended. ‘You’re just tired, darling. It’s been a long day,’ he said, but there was a cajoling note in his voice which was almost as unpleasant as his temper. ‘You’ll feel better once we’ve settled in.’ Rachel stared out of the window, refusing to meet his eye, and he looked at Josephine instead. ‘Perhaps you could give us a moment in private?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Marta got out and Josephine followed, glad to feel the air on her face after the stuffiness of the car.
‘Well, that wasn’t very comfortable, was it?’ Marta said as they walked over to the quayside, putting a discreet distance between themselves and the argument. ‘I hope we’re not seated next to those two at dinner – if they’re staying for dinner, that is.’
‘The very thought of it fills me with horror,’ Josephine admitted. ‘I think I might come down with something infectious and have a tray in my room.’ She glanced back to the car, where the Lancasters seemed to be in animated conversation. ‘Did you see the bruise on her arm? I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but …’
‘Bastard. If I see him lay a finger on her …’
‘Sssh, it will only make things worse if they
know we’re talking about them.’ She looked over to the Change House, hoping that Trannack would soon be back to dilute the tension, but the only person on that side of the harbour was a solitary figure, dressed in black, who had just come out of the cemetery; for no apparent reason, the man turned at the head of the causeway and stared back in their direction, looking at the car for a long time before moving on. He strode out towards the mainland with his head bowed against the stiff Atlantic breeze – exposed and vulnerable, and yet somehow threatening. Unsettled by the image, Josephine shivered.
‘Let’s have a look at that museum,’ Marta suggested. ‘We’ll catch our deaths if we just stand here.’
There was no light coming from inside the building, although the sign on the door said it was open. The window display featured various local curiosities – cannon balls fired during the Civil War, a spider crab with four claws – and a handwritten notice promised many more inside. ‘At least we’ll be out of the cold,’ Marta said, ‘and I’ve always wanted to know more about tin mining.’
She pushed at the door and a bell rang as it opened, but a voice from behind distracted her. ‘Excuse me! Hello!’
A woman was hurrying down one of the paths from the castle, waving frantically to get their attention, and Josephine smiled at Marta. ‘Looks like your education will have to wait. This must be our welcoming party.’
Sure enough, the woman introduced herself as Nora Pendean, the castle’s housekeeper. ‘Welcome to St Michael’s Mount,’ she said when Josephine and Marta had given their names, ‘and a very happy Christmas to you both.’ She paused to get her breath back, and Josephine wondered if her agitation was down to the general workload of a house party or the arrival of one guest in particular. ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable with us,’ she continued, ‘and please don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything you need – anything at all. I’ll take you up to the castle now and show you to your rooms, and Miss St Aubyn would be delighted if you would join her for drinks in the library at six. All our guests should have arrived by then. In the meantime, we’ll bring you some tea.’