by Nicola Upson
He gave the rest of the room a cursory search to make sure that he hadn’t missed anything that might tell him more about Alex Fielding or her killer, but there was nothing. As far as he could see, there were no cameras or photographic equipment of any kind in either of the rooms he had checked so far, and the third door led only to a bathroom, stark and impersonal like the rest of the flat. He went back to the room he had started in, wondering who slept in the army bed. It was reasonable to assume that Fielding’s killer had taken her camera and was, in all probability, now using it as part of his deception on St Michael’s Mount – but was it someone she knew, perhaps even someone she had lived with? Hopeful of offering Penrose answers as well as more questions, Fallowfield scoured the flat for anything that might provide a clue to the impostor’s identity or Fielding’s death, but every new idea – from the yard to the bathroom cabinet – drew a blank.
He was on his way back to the car to radio for help when he remembered the suitcase on the bed. On the off chance that Fielding was taking something more interesting than smart clothes to Cornwall, he stepped carefully around her body to examine the packing, but the only other items in the main compartment were two pairs of shoes and a wash bag. He had more luck in the side flap, where he found a notepad and a sheaf of photographs. The pad contained ideas for the assignment at the Mount, together with scribbled notes about the island and even more information on Marlene Dietrich – background research which proved little more than Fielding’s diligence. The photographs, too, seemed to be of the film star – nothing remarkable, just shots of her leaving a hotel or arriving at a social engagement, usually with a handsome escort on her arm, and Fallowfield flicked quickly through them, assuming that they were the photos which Fielding herself had taken for The Times. He stopped abruptly when he arrived at the last few images, astonished to see himself in one of them; he was leaving an inquest with Penrose, and he remembered the photograph appearing in The Times a few weeks ago, part of the newspaper’s coverage of a recent murder, where a man had killed his wife and three children in Kensington. Quickly, he laid the other pictures out on the bed, wondering why Fielding had been so interested in this particular case, but it soon became obvious that the connection between the photos wasn’t the case at all, but the man investigating it. Every one of the dozen photographs featured Detective Chief Inspector Archie Penrose as its main subject – at a murder scene or a trial or a police station – and some of them went back years.
There was no time to speculate on what any of this might mean. Aware that Penrose was waiting for news, with time stacked against him, Fallowfield hurried to the police box at the end of the street to telephone for help.
10
‘Who do you think did it?’ Marta asked, pouring them each an early sherry in the welcome peace of her room. ‘My money was on one of the other guests at first, when we thought it was just the vicar, but after what Archie told us about the woman from the museum, I’m inclined to suspect someone closer to home.’
It sounded like they were discussing the plot of a crime novel, Josephine thought, struck by the peculiar situation in which they found themselves: the momentous sequence of events that had taken place since they got to Cornwall was as shocking as anything she had ever experienced, and yet – because the people who had died were strangers, and they were struck by sadness and injustice rather than grief – it was impossible not to speculate. ‘I can’t make my mind up, but I do know we should have told Archie about yesterday. I was so worried about him that I didn’t think to say anything, but we could have discovered Emily Soper’s body if the housekeeper hadn’t come between you and your enthusiasm for tin mining.’ She frowned, staring at the fire. ‘I know it’s ridiculous, but Mrs Pendean was very keen for us to stay out of that museum. She said it was closed because of family commitments, and that’s obviously not the case. Archie said Mrs Soper was spending Christmas alone.’
‘Didn’t you say she was nearly in tears in your room? Perhaps that’s connected.’
‘I thought it was to do with her daughter, because she’d just mentioned her, but that could have been a coincidence.’
‘What about the vicar, though? Could he have seen something incriminating?’
‘So she forced him up the tower and slit his throat?’ Josephine shook her head. ‘It’s ridiculous that we’re even having this conversation.’
Marta drained her sherry. ‘I’m not sure I can face a cold table. Perhaps we should just go to bed and hope it’s all been a terrible dream.’
Josephine knew exactly how she felt. As a child, she had always dreaded the end of Christmas Day, clinging like Cinderella to every last bit of magic, as if that could somehow delay the stroke of midnight; now, she couldn’t wait for the day to be over.
There was a knock at the door, and Marta got up to see who it was. ‘Do you mind if I join you for a moment?’ Hilaria asked.
‘Of course not. Come in.’
‘Is there any news from Archie?’ Josephine asked.
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’ Hilaria looked at the photograph albums that he had brought from the museum. ‘Have you been through those?’
‘With a fine-tooth comb, but we haven’t found anything.’ The albums had been meticulous in their recording of every significant moment in the Mount’s recent history – royal visits, family weddings, losses during the war – but they had given up no secrets relating to Richard Hartley or his death. ‘We know a lot more about the island,’ Marta added, ‘but that’s all.’
‘How is Mrs Pendean?’ Josephine asked. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for her.’
‘Yes, it was, but she’s remarkably resilient. I’ve just been down to see her, and she’s insisting on coming back to work to keep busy, even though there’s very little for her to do. This isn’t quite the house party we were planning.’ Hilaria smiled sadly, then added: ‘She’s a strong woman, and she knows her own mind. That hasn’t always made for the easiest of working relationships, I have to admit, but I can’t fault her loyalty.’
‘And she has a daughter?’ Josephine said.
‘Jenna, yes. She left us earlier this year, so it’s the Pendeans’ first Christmas without her. That can’t be easy.’
‘Do you mean she died?’
‘What? Oh no, that wasn’t a euphemism. Jenna took holy orders.’
‘She’s a nun?’ Josephine had to hide a smile at the unabashed horror in Marta’s question.
‘A novice, yes. She takes her final vows in a couple of months.’
‘Then she might as well be dead as far as her mother’s concerned,’ Marta said. ‘I’m not surprised Mrs Pendean’s upset.’
‘Upset?’
Josephine repeated their conversation from the night before, and Hilaria sighed. ‘Yes, she’s still grieving, I suppose – that is the only word for it. It’s put a great strain on them both, but on her in particular. She and Jenna were always so close.’
‘It’s not the sort of loss you expect to have to deal with, is it?’
‘No. It’s a great source of pride for the island, of course, a link back to our past, but at what personal cost?’ She paused for a moment, and Josephine wondered what she was going to say. ‘The convent asked me for a letter of testimony,’ she admitted. ‘It’s standard procedure, apparently, to ask people about the candidate’s life, but it put me in an impossible position.’
‘Because she wasn’t suitable?’
‘No, precisely the opposite. It felt like a betrayal either way – the girl’s wishes, weighed against the mother’s love. I was having that very conversation with poor Richard only last night.’
Josephine was quiet for a moment, struck by the intense, everyday sadnesses that were simultaneously hidden and aggravated by Christmas, borne stoically behind closed doors. ‘Did Mrs Pendean know Emily Soper well?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, they’ve been friends for most of their lives. She was telling me just now how guilty she felt about her death, when—’
‘Guilty?’
‘Yes. She was punishing herself for not checking on Emily as soon as she realised that she wasn’t at the morning service. She wouldn’t have missed that for the world. I told her it would have made no difference by then, but she wouldn’t have it.’
‘Did you tell her that Mrs Soper was missing from church?’
Hilaria looked surprised by the question. ‘No, I didn’t mention it. She brought it up, so she must have noticed herself.’
‘But she couldn’t have done,’ Josephine insisted. ‘The Pendeans arrived late, if you remember, and they never got to the church. Mrs Pendean was so upset by what she saw on the tower that she went straight back to the castle. She wouldn’t have had a chance to look at the congregation, so how could she possibly know that Emily Soper wasn’t there?’
11
Penrose put the telephone down, shocked by the brutality of the news from London, even though he had feared the worst. Had Alex Fielding been murdered simply to pave the way for someone with a very different agenda to take her place, he wondered, or was there more to it? The details of the photographs that Fallowfield had found in her suitcase bewildered and troubled him. Thinking back, he vaguely remembered a woman among the crowd of regular journalists who covered the city’s high-profile crimes, but he hadn’t known her name or even which newspaper she represented, and she had certainly never spoken to him. If that had been Alex Fielding, he was at a loss to know why she had found him so interesting.
He glanced at his watch, assessing how long he might have to wait for the back-up from Penzance; he would rather not make an arrest until they arrived, but neither did he want to waste time. Looking through to the bar, he studied the suspect now firmly in the frame for at least one murder, and was annoyed by his own reluctance to believe it – annoyed because the feeling had nothing to do with evidence or logic, but with the simple fact that he had come to like the man who called himself Fielding. There was no doubting the deception, though, and something as audacious as this could surely only have been achieved by someone familiar with the photographer, or at least with her lifestyle; the impostor had been convincing enough to fool most of them, and if Marlene had been less knowledgeable about photography, he would probably still be getting away with it.
Dick Robertson’s line was engaged, but he got through to the editor at the second attempt. ‘Mr Robertson? It’s DCI Archie Penrose. One of my colleagues should have been in touch with you …’
‘Yes, just now. I’m still trying to take it in. Have you got the bastard who did it?’
‘That’s why I’m phoning. I was hoping you might be able to help me identify the man who’s been passing himself off as one of your photographers.’
There was a silence at the other end, as Robertson considered the implications of what Penrose had said, and the instinct for self-preservation kicked in. ‘You think he’s connected to this paper?’ he asked guardedly. ‘Unless you’re sure, Penrose, I’d be very careful—’
‘I’m not saying that the newspaper is in any way culpable for Miss Fielding’s death, but it’s reasonable to assume that the man who has taken her place knew her routines and her schedule for this weekend. He obviously knew where she lived, and he was convincing enough for his deception to go undetected, at least at first.’
‘Go on, then. What does he look like?’
‘He’s about thirty, with sandy brown hair, worn quite long, and a beard. Six foot, or thereabouts, and a London accent. Are there any reporters or photographers who fit that description?’
He heard the relief in Robertson’s voice. ‘No, sorry. There’s no one like that on my staff.’
‘What about past employees? Anyone who might hold a grudge against Miss Fielding?’ A police car drew up outside and the landlord glared at Penrose as two men in uniform joined him by the reception desk, adding very little to the festive atmosphere, or to the hotel’s reputation for a warm welcome.
‘Not that I can think of,’ Robertson was saying. ‘The only person who looks anything like …’ He tailed off, and when he spoke again, his tone was anything but dismissive. ‘Christ, he was in the office with us – of course he was. But why would he …’
‘Who was in the office?’ Penrose demanded impatiently.
‘Jack Naylor. But he’s just the cleaner, for God’s sake, he couldn’t possibly have anything to do with—’
Penrose put the phone down without waiting to hear what Jack Naylor could or couldn’t do. ‘I’ll need your dining room,’ he said to the landlord, and signalled to the two policemen to follow him. ‘Jack Naylor?’ he called across the bar. Naylor realised his mistake as soon as he turned round, but the response had been instinctive and it was too late now to go back on it. He looked up, and it was the expression rather than the face itself that Penrose found so familiar. The muddle of fear, grief and curiosity was the same now in the man as it had been in the eyes of the boy staring back at him from the coal bunker, eighteen years ago to the day – and he looked so vulnerable that, for the briefest of seconds, Penrose was there again in that snow-covered yard, chilled to the core and feeling the raw, helpless despair that he had back then. In spite of the circumstances, his overwhelming emotion was sadness. ‘You are Jack Naylor?’ he said quietly, and the man nodded. ‘Then, Mr Naylor, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Alexandra Fielding, Richard Hartley and Emily Soper.’
Naylor stood up, and Penrose was relieved that he made no attempt to argue. ‘Where do you want to do this?’ he asked.
‘Please come with me.’
Everything had happened so suddenly that it took the other people round the table a moment to catch up, and Penrose and Naylor were on their way out of the bar by the time Johnny Soper launched himself across the room. ‘You bastard! What did you do to my mother? I’ll fucking kill you.’
The policemen pulled him away while Naylor just stood there taking the blows, then watched as Trannack tried to calm Soper down. Penrose waited to see if his prisoner would deny responsibility for the third charge against him, which seemed so different from the others, but he didn’t. ‘It’s terrible to feel that kind of rage,’ he said instead. ‘It eats you up inside, and then you’re lost.’
Penrose heard the emotion in his voice, and realised that this was the first time in his career that he had wanted to be wrong. They went through to the restaurant, leaving one of the policemen in the bar to keep an eye on things there. The room had been emptied but not cleared, and still smelt strongly of roast turkey and alcohol, and Penrose tried in vain to remember a more inappropriate setting for an interview. He chose a table that couldn’t be seen from reception, and swept the spent crackers and discarded novelties onto the floor. ‘Sit down, Mr Naylor.’
‘What happened to “Jack”? You were friendlier last time we met.’
‘Last time we met, you hadn’t killed anyone.’ Naylor gave him a sad, faintly pitying look, as if he had failed to understand some fundamental truth, and Penrose remembered the conversation in the library the night before, when Richard Hartley – in Naylor’s hearing – had raised the possibility that there was more to the horror in the slums than had ever been revealed; suddenly he wondered if he had been wrong to dismiss the rumours so readily.
He took the snowman decoration out of his pocket and slid it across the table. ‘You kept this all those years.’
Naylor nodded, satisfied. ‘I wondered if you’d recognise it.’
‘That was taking a risk, wasn’t it? Leaving something I’d recognise with the body.’
‘Only if you assume I wanted to get away with it.’ He shook his head to emphasise the words. ‘No, this all started at Christmas, and it’s right that it should end there.’
‘But it doesn’t end, does it?’ Penrose said, angered by Naylor’s arrogance in deciding the course of the story. ‘Not for the people left behind. You should understand that better than anyone. It doesn’t end for Angela Hartley or for Johnny Soper, just because you say it d
oes. It doesn’t end for Alex Fielding’s family or her colleagues at The Times. She was a young woman with a bright future ahead of her. Who knows what she might have achieved? What gives you the right to decide who lives and who dies?’
Naylor smiled, but there was no malice in it. ‘So you don’t know everything,’ he said, ‘but you’re still taking her side, just like everyone else did. They all favoured her, even then – the vicar and his wife, the newspapers, the authorities. She was the little girl, the clever one, the angel.’
‘You mean Alex Fielding …’
‘Was my sister, yes. Alice, as you knew her, although she never acknowledged that when she grew up.’ He accepted a cigarette from the packet that Penrose passed across the table. ‘Alex was my sister, and she looked out for me – putting me up in her living room, getting me a run-of-the-mill job in the place where she shone, sweeping me the crumbs off her table. But that was all right.’ He obviously sensed Penrose’s scepticism, because he added: ‘Really, it was. It was all right because I loved her and she loved me. Even what happened eighteen years ago was bearable because we faced it together. She never forgot your kindness, you know. Neither of us did, but she worshipped you.’