The Dead Woman Who Lived

by Endellion Palmer

  She was right.

  “Did you know about the loose catch on the window in the library?” asked Alistair, his heart sinking as she nodded.

  “I was the one who told Mr Creed about it,” she answered. “I was cleaning the windows a couple of weeks ago and realised that it had worked loose.”

  “No one bothered about it?” he asked.

  “There was a sliver of wood that we pushed in, to keep it from rattling,” she said. “But we don’t get much trouble round here. The doors aren’t locked until last thing at night, same as the rest of the town.”

  She paused a little regretfully. Until yesterday she would have welcomed a little trouble, but this sort was proving to be more unpleasant than she had anticipated.

  “It’s funny, that inspector was asking me about that too,” she continued. “Asked me if I’d told anyone outside the house! Who on earth does he think I’d tell?”

  Alistair looked at her. “He thinks that you may have helped someone?” he asked. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But he made a point of asking if I knew anyone here before I got the job. He kept asking me. I told him I didn’t.”

  Alistair changed the subject. “Do you know Simon Cundy at all, Florence?”

  Florence nodded, indifferent. “Mr Jamie’s friend?” she answered. “I see him about. When Mr Jamie is home, they spend a lot of time together. Strange man, he is. Kind, but there’s something not right with him.”

  Thinking of Simon and his strange life, Alistair had to agree with her evaluation.

  ***

  Inspector Willett had been busier than Joe Vercoe had given him credit for. He had indeed returned to the house that morning, missing Alistair by minutes. He was shown in by Ada, who rather rudely left him standing by the octagonal table in the hall while she went to look for her mistress. Juliana found him there as she came back downstairs, ready to take Hobbs out for a long walk. She craved fresh air and the smell of the sea. She had slept well, taking comfort from the warmth of Adrien beside her, and the security of his arms around her.

  “Good morning, Inspector Willett,” she greeted him coldly.

  He turned at the sound of her voice. He had been inspecting a photograph on the wall. He gave a nod in her direction, his mouth quirking in what she thought was supposed to be a smile.

  “Mrs Creed,” he replied. “Good morning to you.”

  “Can I help you? I don’t suppose you have brought back Florence, have you?”

  He shook his head, his eyes quick and hard.

  “The autopsy was done last thing yesterday. Strychnine poisoning. She stays where she is for the moment. Now, I’ve had a good read of Vercoe’s notes, his talks with you all, and I spoke to you all at length yesterday, but there were a couple of other matters I wanted to see to myself. Your maid has gone to find your husband.”

  “Unfortunately, you have missed him. He has gone to Penzance. He should be back by luncheon.”

  She did not look at him as she said this, unwilling to see that slight sneer that seemed to linger on his face.

  “Indeed? Mr Carr, then?”

  “He is out, too. I don’t know where he has gone.”

  She ventured nothing else. Before the policeman had a chance to respond, there was a knock on the front door.

  “Excuse me, Inspector,” she said thankfully, and opened it to find Simon standing on the doorstep. His face lit up when he saw her.

  “Juliana, I came to see how you were,” he asked, the smile slipping as he remembered why he was there. He looked at her anxiously. “I wanted to come by yesterday, but Uncle Bob said to give you all some time. How is Jamie?”

  “Come in, Simon,” she replied. “He’s not a good way. I’m sure he’d love some company.”

  She ushered Simon in. She had taken Jamie and Damaris some breakfast, but neither had shown much sign of hunger. They had both drunk several cups of the hot tea she had poured them, but not together, instead sitting apart in their own rooms and neither saying much. Juliana was glad to see Simon; she hoped that he might be able to help his friend find some comfort.

  “I have to deal with Inspector Willett at the moment, so just go up. And, Simon, try to get him to eat something, please?” she asked.

  Simon pressed his cold fingers quickly to her hand, then nodded shyly in the inspector’s direction before running up the stairs, taking them two at a time and then turning down the right-hand corridor towards the stairs to the second floor. His footsteps receded quickly. Willett watched him, then turned back to Juliana.

  “And who might that be?” he asked.

  Juliana was surprised, then realised that he would not know the inhabitants of Sancreed and its environs as well as Joe Vercoe did.

  “That’s Simon Cundy. Dr Cundy’s nephew,” she explained.

  “Odd-looking fellow,” he remarked, looking back up the stairs in the direction Simon had disappeared.

  Simon had not looked at his best, she had to admit. He must have run down from the hut without much care as to his clothes and hair, worried about Jamie and how he was coping. His clothes had been crumpled, his boots dusty, and his hands bore evidence that he had lit a fire recently.

  “Well, he had some troubles after the War,” she replied cautiously.

  “And he’s around here a lot, then?” Willett had noted that Simon had needed no directions; he had obviously known where to go.

  “He is a friend of ours, all of us. He is welcome here at any time,” Juliana replied, more than a touch coldly.

  She did not like the speculative look in Willett’s eyes. She suspected that he wanted this whole mystery wrapped up as soon as possible and was not certain that he would be overscrupulous about keeping the peace while he did so. She wanted Florence back, but she did not want Simon dragged into the investigation instead.

  “What did you need, Inspector?” she asked, forcing a polite tone into her voice. Like Alistair, she recognised the need to avoid antagonizing him.

  “I should like to see where you keep your overcoats, please.”

  Juliana was surprised, but he merely looked at her blandly, and without another word she took him along the corridor and showed him the alcove where their outdoor clothing hung. He looked at it all carefully, measuring out the distance from there to the side door, checking where each of the doors led to. He went from the alcove to the library, where he checked the window and the loose catch. Then he thanked her baldly and left. She heard the roar of his car engine as he overstepped the clutch, and stared after him, worried.

  ***

  Alistair had finished chatting to Florence when Joe popped his head around the door and motioned to the front of the building. Alistair nipped swiftly through to the front office. He was standing talking to Joe when the inspector came in.

  “Mr Carr. Up bright and early, I see. Mrs Creed told me you were out. I’ve been up at the house.”

  “I just came by to bring Florence some toilet articles,” replied Alistair politely. “I was just about to leave.”

  Willett’s heavy eyebrows drew together. Alistair got the impression that Willett knew exactly what he was doing there, but had decided not to bother himself about it. He wondered again about the inspector. He seemed very sure of himself.

  “Did you? Well, that was kind of you. I hope the girl was appreciative.”

  He sniffed, the noise saying as much about Florence’s intransigence as the look of displeasure on the man’s face, and Alistair nearly smiled, amused that the inspector’s interviews with the little maid were not going the way the instigator had planned.

  Willett nodded, then walked purposefully back to the cell, and they could hear his voice rumble as he began to talk to Florence. Joe promised to keep a keen eye on her, and Alistair went back to his car feeling a little more light-hearted at the sergeant’s care.

  Instead of going back to Trevennen, he turned the car to the right side of the harbour and took the road marked for Blackwater. He passed the side road that
led to Hendra, then drove straight on until he saw the old sign pointing up the hill. Torewaith Farm, the letters painted black in old script, still visible despite years of sun and wind.

  He drove carefully up the winding track, hoping he would meet no one else, or nothing else, on his way. The other day there had been two large goats enjoying some fresh herbage and unwilling to move out of the way until they had eaten their fill. But today he was lucky, and the way remained clear. At the end was the farmhouse and yard. The house sat, neat and square, along one side of a paved yard. Barns and a small dairy formed the other sides, with a fence and gate to keep livestock either in or out.

  Alistair was greeted by two small lambs, who kicked and jumped about him as he made his way again over the courtyard. Although the farm was old, it was as clean and tidy as a working farm could be. Windows were polished clear, boards neatly nailed, and the cobbles swept clean. It had been whitewashed in the last year, and the sturdy black of the downpipes stood out clear against the walls. Outside the dairy, scrubbing brushes and clothes had been scalded and set on a wide stone shelf to air in the sun, as had a couple of scrubbed metal churns.

  He knocked on the farmhouse door. As before, there was no answer, so he took a slow walk around the buildings. There was an outhouse and lavatory at the back door, and across a narrow path was a chicken house, as neat and trim as the farmhouse itself. Beside it was a small, thin woman with an empty bowl under one arm, a few scraps of grain stuck along the rim, and another of eggs in the other. She looked surprised to see him there.

  “Mrs Black?” he asked.

  She nodded. The rough hand on the bowl clutched at the smooth china.

  “I’m Alistair Carr. I am staying at Trevennen with the Creeds.”

  She slumped suddenly. “I know why you’re here, Mr Carr,” she said. “Come in, please.”

  She pushed open the door and made her way inside, followed by the lambs, who rushed over to the range and settled in the warmth. Mrs Black put her bowls down on the drying board with a thump.

  “Cup of tea, Mr Carr?”

  Alistair did not particularly want tea, but he knew that the provision of a beverage and the communal drinking would ease the situation, so he accepted a cup. Mabyn Black drained hers in one go.

  “It’s about my Gwenna, then?”

  She had a soft voice, sweet and delicate like a girl. In the midst of a red, weather-beaten face, her eyes were still very fine, large and intensely blue. He remembered that Jamie had said that Gwenna had the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

  “Did Sergeant Vercoe come to see you?” he asked. What this woman must have gone through was enough for anyone; he did not want to be the first to confirm what she must have feared.

  She nodded, refilling her cup before looking at him directly. “He did,” she replied. “He’s a good lad, Joe. He said… he said that the body that was found, the one they buried as Mrs Creed, might be my Gwenna.”

  “They can’t be completely sure,” he said, conscious of her intent gaze upon him. “Not after all this time. But I think that it was Gwenna.”

  The eyes darkened for a moment with pain, then filled with tears. They ran unimpeded down her face for a moment, until the sound of them dropping into her cup brought her back. She scrubbed at her face with the cuff of her jacket, oblivious to her companion. Alistair gave her his own handkerchief and sat back until she had composed herself.

  “How can that be?” she whispered. “How could that… how could she be in the sea when we got letters? They were in her handwriting!”

  “I do not know, Mrs Black,” said Alistair. “I think that someone else must have sent them.”

  She stared at him in confusion. “Why would someone do that?”

  Alistair did not want to go down that road, especially not with the girl’s mother. He had his own ideas about the letters, and instead changed the subject.

  “Is your husband around? I don’t want to come in here and upset you, and then leave you alone.”

  She smiled at him and shook her head.

  “I’m used to being on my own,” she replied. “Especially in the spring. Jago is out. He won’t be back until late. And he wouldn’t talk to you even if he was here. He’s that cut up about it all.”

  She looked thoughtful.

  “He blamed her, you see, for running off,” she continued. “You know, Mr Carr, what is worrying me most is that I can’t decide whether I’d prefer it if she really had run off, even to live in sin. Because I would know that she was still breathing. Not buried without even her name.”

  “Reverend Saxby wants to come and see you, I know,” Alistair said. “To discuss the grave.”

  “He is welcome any time, you tell him,” she said, sniffing violently. “I heard how kind he was, not even knowing that it was my daughter. I suppose we need to think about a gravestone now. Perhaps he can help me with that.”

  She finished her cup but held it in her lap as she rocked slowly back and forth. Finally she straightened up and leaned across towards him.

  “Do you know how she died?” she asked, her voice hoarse with emotion.

  “We think she was strangled,” he replied, as gently as he could.

  Mabyn took a sharp breath and held it, her face contorted as if she was holding in a scream. Finally she looked up and released the air slowly through her teeth. The noise was sibilant in the peace of the kitchen.

  “Do you think she suffered much?” she asked after a time.

  Alistair shook his head. Compared to some deaths, it would not have taken long. “I doubt it,” he replied. “It would have been quick.”

  He looked over at her.

  “Joe gave me a list of the things she took with her. I won’t bother you with it, he was very clear, but I have a question. Did she take a toothbrush?”

  Mabyn looked surprised.

  “No, she left that. It was here by the sink where it always was. Odd, really. She was very particular about her teeth. No stoppings, nice white they were. She never went to bed without brushing them.”

  She walked him to the door.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he prepared to leave. “For reopening old wounds.”

  Mabyn looked at him, her blue eyes very clear now.

  “Despite what I said earlier, Mr Carr, I’m glad to know,” she said finally. “Now I can grieve. I hope eventually Jago can forgive himself for doubting her. It hurts now. But it will ease. It always does.”

  She finished stoutly, echoing Alistair’s own words to Jamie earlier that week, then turned and looked out towards the sea, up over the newly ploughed fields. Somewhere close there were sheep; he could hear them baaing at each other, the high bleat of lambs as they played.

  “How is everyone doing up at the House?” she asked. “With Mrs Evans’ dying, it must be difficult.”

  “Her children are not doing well,” Alistair replied.

  “Jamie was always too soft for his own good,” said Mabyn. She noticed the surprise on Alistair’s face. “Hendra’s not that far as the crow flies,” she said. “Him and Simon came up here right often. Those three were close as could be. Gwenna cried herself sick when they went off to France.”

  “Did they see much of each other later, after the War?”

  Mabyn Black shrugged. “Gwenna was working at the Hall by then, so not as much. But she used to come over on her day off and go and sit with Jamie, to help Miss Damaris out. I did worry a bit. I knew Gwenna fancied herself in love with Jamie, and she could be very persuasive, little madam.”

  Her mouth pursed here as she remembered her daughter’s behaviour, then she broke into a sad smile.

  “But Jamie was a gentleman, all right. Simon, too, poor boy, although he was jealous sometimes.”

  “Jealous?” Alistair asked, surprised.

  “Gwenna liked to be the centre of attention. I think Simon felt left out. She liked him, but not the way she did Jamie.” She gave another smile, rueful this time. “The two boys always treated her
like she was a lady. Jago didn’t like it. He said she had ideas above her station as it was, and those two treating her like an equal made her even worse.”

  “Was she courting before she disappeared? A local boy, or someone from Hayle?”

  “I couldn’t say. She was odd that last visit. I knew she was up to something, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Then she and Jago had that fight. Alike as two peas in a pod, they were, although they refused to see it. I kept expecting her back, but she never came. Seems like now we know why.”

  Alistair thought to make one more check. “The body that we think was Gwenna,” he said. “There was an old wrist injury, the left. It looked as if she had fractured a bone but it hadn’t been set properly.”

  Mabyn sighed. “Then it’s definitely her. She fell out of a tree when she was thirteen or so. She hurt herself, her wrist and her chest, but she didn’t say anything to me. I had told her not to go out. Jago was in hospital with pleurisy and I was fair bedizened trying to keep everything running. By the time I found out what had happened it was too late.”

  “And you really have no ideas at all about whom she might have wanted to run off with?”

  She shook her head. “None. And believe me, if anyone else round here had known anything about Gwenna, I’d have found out about it. They wouldn’t have been able to hold back.”

  She held out a hand and clutched the door frame, as if suddenly exhausted. Her blue eyes were damp as she looked at Alistair.

  “There was a lot of talk, when she first went, but no one ever had anything definite. Reverend Saxby, he was right angry about it. Preached a sermon about the evils of loose words and how we should be thinking the best of each other, not the worst. After that, they stopped gossiping. I shall like to see him. I know I can talk with him. I know I can trust him.”

  Alistair left with the word “trust” ringing in his ears. Had Gwenna Black trusted the wrong person? Who had come back here to take her things, and write letters to pretend she was still alive?

  Chapter 26

  Alistair took his leave of Mabyn Black with a promise to let William Saxby know that he was welcome to visit the farm and its grieving inhabitants, and drove back to Trevennen. The Clevedons had been invited up for luncheon, and Geoffrey was there, having insisted on being wheeled up. Between them all they managed to keep a gentle conversation going, and the meal passed without incident. Jamie and Damaris ate only a little, but the effort put a little colour into their cheeks, and the wine that Adrien insisted upon pouring helped to relax the tension that everyone was feeling.