by Nicola Upson
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Thank you. I’ll go and speak to Josephine and Marta now.’ ‘Archie?’ He turned back to her from the door. ‘Please be careful.’
In the dining room, the restlessness that Hilaria had mentioned was palpable, and he had to fend off several demands to know what was happening and what he intended to do about it before he could shepherd Josephine and Marta into the library for a private conversation. ‘You can’t seriously be considering that!’ Josephine said angrily, when he had brought them up to date and told them about the causeway crossing. ‘What the hell is the point of getting yourself killed?’
Penrose looked to Marta for solidarity, but she managed to make it perfectly clear that she agreed with Josephine without uttering a word. ‘Those men wouldn’t have agreed to accompany me if it was dangerous,’ he said tersely, knowing there was no time to argue reasonably. ‘Anyway, it’s your safety I’m here to talk about, not mine. Make sure you stay together while I’m gone, and look through these for me. If there’s something relating to Richard Hartley – or anything else of interest, for that matter – tell me when I get back.’
‘If you get back.’
‘When, and promise me you’ll do as I ask.’
Knowing she was beaten, Josephine agreed. ‘Can we take these to one of the bedrooms?’ Marta asked. ‘I know it’s a tasteless thing to admit, but I’m sick to death of all the nervous energy in that room.’
‘Yes, but lock the door. I’ll see you later.’
He went back to Chevy Chase to issue one final round of instructions, but was delayed by Marlene at the door. ‘Can I speak to you before you go?’ she asked. Penrose doubted that the star had ever been asked if what she was about to say was important, but she took it with good grace. ‘Yes, I think so.’ She glanced meaningfully at Barbara Penhaligon. ‘Could we go somewhere private?’
Intrigued, he led her through to the smoking room and closed the adjoining door. ‘What is it?’ he asked, wondering if she had remembered something else about her conversation with Hartley.
‘The photographer from The Times isn’t who he says he is.’
‘What?’ Penrose stared at her, utterly unprepared for what she had just said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Mr Fielding – he is a fraud. Didn’t you notice yesterday, when we arrived? He had no idea what photographs he wanted to take, and he was so clumsy with the camera …’
‘But that was nerves, surely? You’re a little out of his league, and I’m not surprised he was intimidated. I was, too, the first time I met you.’
‘Were you? You did not show it.’ She smiled, but it soon faded. ‘Please take what I am saying seriously. How did he behave when you asked him to take your photographs?’
‘He was competent, I suppose, but …’
‘Competent? But he is supposed to be one of their best men. Believe me, Archie, I have met thousands of photographers in my lifetime, and he is not the man that The Times would send on an assignment as important as this one.’ He thought about what she had said, remembering how awkwardly Fielding had behaved on the tower, and how reluctant he had been to go in the first place; again, Penrose had put that down to nerves and the horrific circumstances of the task, but perhaps there was more to it. ‘I gave him a test just now,’ Marlene admitted, ‘because I thought you would ask me for something more than instinct.’
‘What sort of test?’
‘There is a photograph in Wednesday’s newspaper that has his name on it, but he knows nothing about it. It was taken at dusk, and I talked to him about the magic hour and the technicalities of the light, but I could tell he was out of his depth. He did not correct me when I talked about the shutter speed, and he had obviously never heard of the magic hour. You know about it?’ Penrose shook his head. ‘It’s that moment at twilight, before the sky goes completely black, but the phrase is misleading because it’s never an hour, just a few minutes. The man who took that photograph understands that with every fibre of his being. The man in there’ – she gestured towards the dining room – ‘does not.’
‘Does he know you tricked him?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Let’s keep it that way for now, and don’t mention this to anyone else. I’d rather not alert him to our suspicions until I’ve had a chance to check him out with the newspaper. But you’re sure?’
Marlene nodded. ‘It doesn’t make him your murderer, I know, and there might be a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps The Times had to send someone else at the last minute and didn’t want to admit that he was a junior, or perhaps the wrong name is on the photograph. But if Alex Fielding took that picture, then this man is most certainly not Alex Fielding.’
‘And what about the Lord Lieutenant’s daughter?’ Penrose asked.
‘What about her?’
‘You gave her a very pointed look before we left the room. I thought you were going to tell me something about her.’
‘Ah, that was just to put Mr Fielding off the scent – and anyway, I do not like the woman. If she worries, that is a bonus.’
Penrose shook his head in admiration. ‘You’ve missed your vocation, you know. Hollywood’s loss would be the country’s gain.’
It was meant as a light-hearted compliment, but she took him at his word. ‘When the war comes, there will be plenty for me to do, no doubt. Now, can I ask you a question? Why did you ask me about Christmas decorations?’
‘A snowman exactly like the one on your tree was found with Richard’s body.’
‘And you thought it was mine?’
‘It crossed my mind that it might be. I haven’t forgotten those letters you showed me, and now it seems we have an impostor amongst the guests. He could be here for any number of reasons, but it’s not inconceivable that he’s conned his way here to get to you.’
‘But how would he do that? How would he even know I was here? It wasn’t made public until yesterday.’
‘Nothing is ever completely confidential. People here had been told you were coming, and I dare say there were a few quiet rumours circulating at The Times. Your luggage was sent on ahead, so people at Claridge’s knew where you were spending Christmas, and they have access to your hotel room. Any number of railway porters could have seen the luggage between Paddington and Marazion,’ he added, thinking of Gerald Lancaster. ‘And of course we have our German friends, who seem to be everywhere at once and always a step ahead of us.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘You really believe that Richard’s death had something to do with me?’
‘No, in my heart I don’t. But I’m not ruling anything out, and even if it doesn’t, there’s still the possibility of someone here with an entirely different agenda. Just be careful, and whatever you do, never be on your own with this man who’s calling himself Fielding. Stay with Hilaria, or some of her more senior staff.’ He thought for a moment, then added: ‘Actually, even that’s not safe enough. I need to get him off the Mount.’ They went back into the dining room, and Penrose addressed Barbara Penhaligon. ‘I’d like a word with you as soon as I get back,’ he said, unable to think of a better sleight of hand than the one that Marlene had created already. ‘I need some information on the man you came over here with.’ He turned to Alex Fielding, who was staring into the fire. ‘You wanted to speak to your editor?’ Fielding nodded. ‘Then come with me now to the mainland and telephone from there. We’re a man short on the rope, so you’ll be doing me a favour.’
Fielding’s eagerness to oblige was convincing, and Penrose wondered if that suggested he was genuine or had simply seen an opportunity to get off the island; either way, he was pleased to be removing a potential threat from the castle. He requested more waterproof clothing, then took Fielding down to the Change House, where Trannack and Mathews were waiting. The level of water across the causeway was noticeably lower now, and Penrose waited impatiently while someone called Jim tethered the four men tightly together, then diligently checked each knot. Eventually, he was h
appy with his work, and the line – Penrose and Fielding in the middle, flanked by the two islanders – moved steadily down the shingled slope to the sea.
The receding tide swept over his feet, slashing and nipping at his legs like an angry dog, and he caught his breath as a burst of spray hit his face. There were no words to describe how cold it was, and above the howl of the wind he heard Fielding cry out as the shock of the icy water hit him. Trannack paused when they were nearly up to their waists, allowing the less experienced men to get a sense of the rhythm and power of the waves. At first, Penrose was relieved that the surge wasn’t stronger, but he underestimated how tiring it would be to push on relentlessly against such steady pressure, and long before they were halfway across, the water began to feel almost unbearably heavy against his body. Strands of seaweed wrapped themselves around his legs, throwing him off balance, and he was grateful for the sturdy bulk of the man next to him; without it, he might have been tempted to turn back. The islanders seemed prepared for the weak links in the chain and took turns to offer shouts of warning or encouragement, and in spite of his reservations about Fielding, Penrose could not help but be impressed by his courage. He set his sights firmly on the snowy hills that framed Marazion, and gradually their dogged solidarity paid off as the markers were reached one by one: the cross that stood at the midpoint of the causeway; the dark bulk of Chapel Rock; and finally the mainland itself, gloriously solid beneath his feet.
He was shivering and soaked to the skin, his throat raw from the effort of shouting above the elements, but just for a moment the sheer relief of the achievement made Penrose forget the circumstances that had driven them to attempt it in the first place. A curious welcoming party waiting outside the Godolphin Hotel served as a sober reminder. ‘Looks like we’ve caused a bit of a stir, arriving like this,’ Trannack said, as his frozen hands wrestled with the knots in the rope. ‘You see that lad coming towards us?’ Penrose nodded, watching the young man break off from the group and make his way across the beach. ‘That’s Jonathan Soper, Emily’s boy.’
‘But I thought he was in Plymouth?’
Trannack shrugged. ‘Obviously not. Looks worried, doesn’t he?’
Penrose shook off the ropes and headed up the shingle, rehearsing news that he had not anticipated having to deliver. The boy’s unexpected arrival left him with a dilemma; he didn’t want to make the reality of Mrs Soper’s death public yet, but neither did it seem right to lie to her son. He was still deciding what to do when the young man took the initiative. ‘Is it Lord St Levan?’
‘Lord St Levan?’
‘Yes. We noticed the flag was at half-mast this morning, then we saw you coming over and knew it must be serious, so we thought …’
‘No, it’s not Lord St Levan. He isn’t even at home for Christmas. We lowered the flag for one of the guests.’
‘Oh, thank God!’ Soper looked mortified. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that disrespectfully, but my mum …’
‘Emily Soper?’ Penrose clarified, too bothered by the unfounded relief on the young man’s face to let him go any further.
‘How did you know that?’
He looked frightened again, and Penrose could hardly bear to confirm his worst fears. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Archie Penrose, Mr Soper. I’m so very sorry to tell you that there have been two recent deaths on the Mount. Your mother’s body was found earlier this morning, although I believe that she died some time yesterday.’
‘No!’ Soper bellowed the word, a raw, despairing act of denial, and he looked so angry that Penrose thought for a moment that he was going to lash out.
A young woman hurried over to join them and took Soper’s hand. ‘Johnny, what is it? What on earth’s wrong?’
He shook her off, but still she took the brunt of his grief. ‘I knew something was wrong. I should never have listened to you. We might have been able to save her if I’d gone over last night like I wanted to.’
‘But you couldn’t get across.’
‘How do you know? You’re not from round here. We could have tried harder.’
‘The young lady’s right, Mr Soper,’ Penrose added gently. ‘You arrived late last night?’ He nodded. ‘Then there was nothing you could have done. We’ve had to wait until now to come across and get some help.’
‘We were going to surprise her, weren’t we, Vi?’ He took her hand, all hostility now forgotten. ‘She wasn’t expecting us, but we wanted her to be the first to know.’
‘We’ve just got engaged, you see,’ Violet explained. ‘Johnny wanted to tell his mum.’
‘I wish I’d written now,’ Jonathan said. ‘At least then she’d have known we were on our way. She could have looked forward to it. It was her first Christmas on her own. She probably thought we didn’t care.’
‘Don’t be daft, Johnny. Of course she knew you cared about her. Why else would you have half drowned yourself last night?’
‘What do you mean?’ Penrose asked.
‘Johnny couldn’t sleep last night, so he went out to try and find a way across. I’ve spent most of today drying his clothes.’ She squeezed his hand lovingly. ‘So don’t beat yourself up about not trying hard enough, love. Your mum couldn’t have had a better son – she always said so herself.’
Mathews put his hand on Johnny Soper’s shoulder and Penrose was relieved to have someone there who knew the family. ‘Come inside, lad, and let’s get a drink down you.’ He looked at Penrose. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is.’
They headed towards the hotel, but Soper turned back. ‘How did she die?’ he asked.
Penrose’s dilemma returned and he chose a middle path. ‘We found your mother at the bottom of the stairs. She died from a head injury.’ It was the truth, but not the whole truth, and he felt a pang of conscience as Emily Soper’s son accepted it and turned away.
‘What a tragic fucking coincidence that is,’ Fielding said. ‘Poor bloke. Christmas will never be anything but misery for him now.’
There was no trace of anything but sincerity in the words, but Penrose decided to test him. ‘If it’s a coincidence,’ he said, waiting for the reaction.
His meaning took a second or two to sink in, but when it came, the surprise seemed genuine. ‘You mean she was murdered as well?’ Fielding asked. ‘It isn’t just Hartley you’re after someone for?’
The barely suppressed enthusiasm for the idea was exactly what Penrose would have expected from a journalist; if Fielding was an impostor, he was a good one. ‘Keep that to yourself for now. Let’s go and find the landlord and get those calls made.’
The warmth of the hotel was almost as welcome as the prospect of contact with the outside world. A convivial Christmas lunch was obviously drawing to a close in the dining room, and as they waited in reception, a room full of revellers wearing coloured paper hats stared in bemusement at the new arrivals and their wet, dishevelled clothes. Penrose introduced himself and asked to use the telephone, and the hotelier pushed it across the desk, mercifully too busy to engage in much conversation. ‘Isn’t there somewhere more private?’
‘There is, but not with a telephone,’ the man said in a beggars-can’t-be-choosers sort of way, and Penrose considered himself told.
‘Go and wait in the bar,’ he said to Fielding. ‘I might be some time, so get yourself a drink on me. It’s the least I can do after this morning. Make it a large one.’
Fielding took his whisky to an empty table – near the islanders but not with them – and Penrose positioned himself carefully to keep an eye on the bar while making his calls. As luck would have it, there was far too much rowdiness for him to be overheard as he asked to be put through to Scotland Yard, and then to his detective sergeant, Bill Fallowfield, who had drawn the short straw of Christmas Day duties. ‘Happy Christmas, sir,’ Bill said, when he finally came to the telephone. ‘We didn’t expect to hear from you today. Fed up of hobnobbing with film stars, are you?’
‘No,
Bill, I’m fed up of trying to guess how two people have died.’ Fallowfield was one of Penrose’s closest friends, as well as his most reliable colleague, and usually he found the sergeant’s relentless good nature a welcome contrast to his own, more cynical, personality; today, he had no patience for anything but the task at hand. There was a silence at the other end of the telephone, and he took advantage of it to bring Fallowfield succinctly up to date.
‘Are Miss Tey and her friend all right?’ Bill asked as soon as Penrose had finished.
‘Yes, they’re fine, but I can’t be sure that the violence will stop here because I’ve absolutely no idea if there’s a connection between the two victims, or why anybody would want to kill either of them. There’s so much I need, Bill, and I haven’t been able to access any of it from the Mount. We’ve even had to wade across the sea to use the bloody telephone.’
‘Fire away, sir. I’ll get straight onto it.’
‘First of all, get hold of someone from The Times, preferably the editor, and ask him to confirm that he sent a photographer called Alex Fielding on this assignment. Get a full description of Fielding – there’s a chance that the man here isn’t who he says he is.’ He watched Fielding down his drink and get up to order another, wondering if he had unwittingly asked a suspect to photograph his own crime scene. ‘Find out anything you can on Gerald Lancaster and his wife Rachel. If he’s telling the truth, Lancaster works for London, Midland and Scottish Railways, so check him out there and see if he’s got any previous convictions for theft or violence. Hartley was the vicar at St Clement’s in Notting Dale …’
‘Nice part of town,’ Bill muttered sarcastically.
‘He was there for a few years after the war. Get the file out on the Naylor murders. It’s probably a needle in a haystack, but if there’s anything that might help us track down the surviving children, I want to know about it.’
He gave his sergeant the details and waited while he noted them down.
‘What about the dead woman?’ Fallowfield asked.
‘Emily Soper, an islander all her life. I think the answer to her death must lie closer to home, but obviously let me know if her name comes up in connection with anything else.’