She saw Alistair’s face and her eyes narrowed as she realised that he was for the first time unsure of what to do and say. She took a step towards him and grabbed at his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. She could barely get the words out.
“What has happened?”
Alistair was not expecting the wail of pain that she emitted when he told her about Simon, but the sound was like that of a trapped animal, and it rang through the house again and again. Adrien appeared upstairs as the sound echoed. He ran along the hall and leapt down the stairs to catch her up as she dropped to the floor. He crouched on the lowest stair with her, cradling her as she cried until she gagged.
“I can’t believe it! Why would he do such a thing?” Adrien asked in horror, once Alistair had apprised him of the situation.
“I don’t know. Willett thinks that he was responsible for everything—Juliana, Fancy, Jamie. He says that he lost his nerve and killed himself because he knew he was about to be found out.”
Juliana shook her head.
“I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t. Not Simon,” she said through her tears.
Adrien looked sick as he handed her his handkerchief and she wiped at her face, her eyes swollen and her skin shiny where the tears had poured down.
“What do you think, Alistair?” he asked softly.
“It looks like it must have been so,” he replied. “There was a note. I believe it was his handwriting. I’m sorry, Juliana. I didn’t believe it before, but this looks damned convincing.”
Juliana pulled herself upright. She ignored this last statement, refusing to waste breath where she knew it would not count, concentrating instead on what she knew had to be done.
“We have to tell Jamie. How are we going to do that?” she asked, gulping back her tears.
Adrien groaned. The three of them looked at each other, then slowly walked upstairs together.
Jamie lay on his bed, looking resigned as Damaris dabbed more arnica on his bruised face. She yawned widely as she did so. She had fashioned a rough sling from a bandage, and his right wrist was in it. The last time Alistair had seen him, the previous evening, he had looked much better, with some colour back in his cheeks and his eyes brighter. Now he was pale again, the bruising clear around his face and ear, and his face was creased with pain. There was a cut above his left eye, swollen and still showing a line of dried blood.
“What was that dreadful noise?” he asked, wincing. He pushed his sister away groggily. “Oh, do stop, Didi. If you prod me again I shall scream!”
Damaris turned round, looked wan and tired. “Don’t be a beast, Jamie. It’s not my fault you decided to go wandering about on your own. And don’t be so rough, I’ve an awful headache.”
“Oh, Jamie…” began Juliana, but she couldn’t go on, and turned away, beginning to weep again.
Adrien held her to him, tucking her up within his arms, and turned back to the bed, where the occupant had hauled himself up now, his pains forgotten. Damaris looked up, arnica bottle in mid-air, her eyes wide.
Adrien cleared his throat.
“Simon is dead, Jamie. He killed himself this morning. Alistair found him.”
Jamie listened, frozen, his eyes darting from one to the other, before finally landing on Juliana. He took in the swollen eyes and recognized the source of the animal scream he had heard. That was what seemed to convince him. His shoulders sagged as he recognised what he had been told, but said nothing, just stared into space. Damaris tried to reach for him, but he pushed her away. He seemed to be having trouble simply breathing. Finally he turned away.
“Get out. All of you,” he finished, so quietly they could barely hear the words. But his meaning was plain. Alistair turned at the door and saw Jamie slump down, his sobs deadened by his pillow, his shoulders shaking.
“Damaris, give him a short while, and then go in to him,” said Adrien as they stood outside the door. “Don’t leave him alone, no matter what he said. I’m worried about what the shock will do to him.”
Damaris tried to wipe her own tears away, but they were followed by more and she gave up.
“I can’t believe it,” she sobbed. “I don’t believe it!”
“I’m sorry, Didi,” said Alistair gently. “I saw him myself. They’ve taken his body to the station.”
“Do Daphne and Bob know?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Bob was there too. He has gone to break the news at home.”
***
Back at the station, Joe and Alistair sat together in the front office and drank some tea together without talking.
Daniel Sinclair arrived twenty minutes later with the mortuary van, looking unhappy. The heavy atmosphere had clearly made itself felt, as today he simply nodded all round and then went back to where Simon’s body lay. Willett had asked him for a quick check of the body before he took it back to Mawnaccan and the official autopsy.
Joe had just poured them another cup when the door behind them opened to show Daniel, still drying his hands. He gave them all a nod and accepted a mug from Joe, a large stoneware pint pot that looked enormous in his hand. He drank deeply from it and produced a pipe from his pocket.
They turned to him expectantly, joined by Willett, who was unnaturally silent to Alistair’s eyes. Daniel looked sadly at them.
“No mystery there. Death caused by extreme blood loss, via approximately six lateral cuts to his lower arms. No hesitation wounds. He meant it, all right. Bruising to the knuckles on his left hand, very recent. Some other light bruising to his arms. Looks like he hit something, perhaps the side of the hut—there were paint flakes on his skin. Some kind of fall, perhaps? No signs of a struggle otherwise. Not moved from the scene. He died where he was found. I’ll send off for toxicology reports, but my guess is they’ll find nothing.”
“Time of death?”
Daniel frowned.
“Somewhere around six this morning, I think. I’ll be more sure when I’ve got him back to the morgue. And he had undoubtedly been drinking.”
“He was drunk? That early?”
Willett looked interested, but Daniel Sinclair shook his head.
“No, I shouldn’t say drunk. I shouldn’t think he had taken more than a glass or two, but there at that time in the morning there wouldn’t be much else in his stomach so it would have hit harder. Bolstering himself, perhaps.”
Nothing more was said, but Inspector Willett followed Daniel Sinclair from the building, a satisfied smile on his lips. Joe had brought the note down from the caravan, and while he prepared to take himself off to the tiny cupboard in the back office that he used for occasional film development, Alistair lifted the paper again and wandered over to the door to get better light. The sun was overhead now, moving over towards the western wall of the harbour. It was still hot, the air warm and dry as he reread the words, the sunlight illuminating the page at an odd angle. He gazed at it with fatigued eyes, then brought the paper closer to his face and stared at it.
“Vercoe! Can you spare me a moment, please?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
Joe got carefully to his feet, pulling his brace into place before standing up, then ambled over.
“Sir?”
“Look at this again, will you?”
Joe looked at the paper, read the simple message, then shrugged and turned back to Alistair. What he saw on the other man’s face gave him cause to look again. He angled the paper at the same angle as he had seen Alistair looking at it, just catching the light.
“That weren’t a comma!” he said in surprise. “That were a full stop originally.”
Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. It was not simply his imagination, desperate to find something to prove that Simon’s death was not a suicide, although in its own way that created graver problems.
“What does it mean?” asked Joe, confused.
“Maybe nothing,” said Alistair. “Perhaps Simon changed it himself. But that alteration changes the whole context. It could
have been any kind of letter, although it still seems odd. But ‘I’m sorry, Jamie,’ as it is, suggests that he was apologising to Jamie for something, most probably the recent attacks. What if it simply read, ‘I’m sorry. Jamie…’ and then broke off? As if he was interrupted while writing.”
“There were ink smudges on his hand,” said Joe. “As if he’d been writing. I noticed when I was covering him up.”
He swallowed suddenly, at the memory of that bloodless face under the blanket.
“A lot more ink than you would expect from three words,” said Alistair slowly.
Joe looked at him, confused.
“It could be easily done,” said Alistair. “A little more ink, a simple smudge, and suddenly Simon’s death is much more likely to be considered a straightforward suicide. And with that, the case is closed. A mentally unstable young man, never recovered from his accident during the War, becomes unhinged and attacks a number of people before killing himself. It’s happened before. Most people wouldn’t bat an eyelid over that verdict.”
He put the letter back on the desk, into the file.
“I think someone took advantage of what he was writing to make that one tiny change and throw the blame onto him.”
Joe Vercoe was aghast. “Surely not! That’s taking coincidence a bit far, Mr Carr. That Simon kills himself and then right then the murderer comes by and…”
Then he saw the look on Alistair’s face and realised what he meant by it.
“He was killed, to stop him talking. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” Joe looked slightly sick. “I can’t believe that,” he said. “I won’t believe it. He must have wrote it and changed it himself.”
It had been a long day, and a distressing one for him. He wanted nothing more than the whole thing to be done and wrapped up so he could go home to his wife and try to forget.
Alistair sighed deeply. He understood how the other man felt. His own head ached from the strain, and he longed for rest. Perhaps he was looking into things too deeply. He knew that he did not want Simon to have been behind the poisonings, but he realised that perhaps he was probing too much. It was much more likely that things were exactly as they appeared, that Simon had realised he would be found out and had killed himself. So why did was an alarm still ringing in his head?
They talked a while longer, then Alistair drove back up to Trevennen, where he sat for a long time in his room, thinking and making notes, getting gloomier and gloomier all the time. Adrien and Juliana appeared for dinner, having spent the afternoon trying to help Damaris cope with Jamie, and they were joined by the Clevedon girls, who were keen to help out in any way they could. While they all took coffee afterwards in the library, Alistair asked Juliana for a word in private[8]. They went into the study, and shortly afterwards the household were appalled to hear raised voices. More than one coffee cup was overturned in shock.
Eventually the door slammed open and Juliana stalked out, enraged. She was followed by Alistair, who for once had lost his temper and was red-faced.
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she yelled. “If I want your opinion I’ll damned well ask for it. This is my house, Alistair. You are a guest here. Don’t forget it!”
“You’re being ridiculous, Juliana. Think of what you are saying. We were trying to protect you. Don’t be a fool!”
Ada scurried away towards the kitchen, her eyes popping from her head; the two in the hall did not even notice her. Ada met Sylvia by the scullery door, and as the shouting continued, the older woman swiftly steered the maid through the door to the kitchen. Juliana’s voice rose in the air, and Alistair’s normally calm tones had exploded. No one in the house could escape their angry words. Shouted in any other room, the noise would be contained, but in the hallway their shouts seemed to echo.
“That poor man is dead, and you talk to me of it all being over! I don’t believe it.”
Juliana picked up a book and threw it at Alistair, who moved to take her arms and control her. She backed away from him and eyed him suspiciously.
“Keep away from me!” she said coldly.
“I saw it myself, Juliana. In his own handwriting. Joe and I talked it over. You have to accept what the police say happened.”
“Simon didn’t do this. It wasn’t him that pushed me. I know it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his face that I saw!”
Alistair tried to take her arm, but she shook him off and marched away.
“Just leave me alone, you poor fool!” she spat at him. “I need peace. I’m going out and you are not to follow me! You are all wrong!”
With that, she scooped up her coat and one of the outside lanterns that Ada had cleaned and refilled that day and slammed out of the door. Alistair stamped his foot in exasperation, then returned to the study, slamming the door behind him in response. The house fell silent, everyone within its walls holding their breath over what had just occurred.
Chapter 31
Juliana stalked from the house with her head reeling. What Alistair had told her had shocked her through and through. She felt in her mind that he would not have come to her like that if he had not been sure, but in her heart she still doubted him. The events of the past weeks—her own intended death years before—and the thought that Alistair was right about how they had come about had yet to find a root in her. She didn’t want to believe him. She was grieving for Simon; she did not want to believe what his death might really mean.
Believing him or not, shouting at Alistair had been less of a release than it ought to have been. That level of anger should have brought some kind of balm in its wake, but it had not. Her shoulders were tense to the point of pain, and her head felt as if it was being squeezed in a vice. Without thinking, she knew where she should be, and headed up to the cliffs. She sat on the bench and found a box of matches in her pocket to light the lantern. The wick flickered and then held, the light welcome, even though she knew every inch of the cliffs by heart. She sat still, trying to close down the jumble in her brain, when she heard footsteps behind her, approaching through the trees.
“Hello, Julie.”
He stepped forward into the circle of light from the lantern. Juliana turned in surprise, even knowing that she had been expecting him. She had not wanted to believe it, but one look at Jamie’s face would have told her. Whatever demons he had been battling in his head, they had passed.
Juliana’s throat constricted. She could barely get the words out. She had never wanted to be wrong more than she did now. Jamie walked around the bench until he was beside her. She jumped to her feet.
“Jamie? What are you doing here?”
He almost smiled, reaching over and tracing her face with his cold fingers. She trembled as he brushed his mouth across her own.
“What did Alistair say to you, Julie?” he asked softly. “Have you remembered yet? Do you remember me?”
She clenched her fists, clutching the lamp as she realised that Alistair had been correct. For a long moment, all she could think of was smashing the lamp into his face, hitting him until the blood flowed, for all he had done.
“How could you?” she asked bitterly. “I thought we were friends.”
Jamie held up a weary hand. “We were,” he said, frowning as if he was hearing what he was saying for the first time and not understanding it. “I did love you, really I did.”
“What changed, Jamie?” she said. “I thought—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted with a frown, holding onto the revers of her collar, stroking it with his thumb. “Don’t talk to me about love when I have to watch you light up every time Adrien comes into the room, Julie.”
He didn’t seem to see the shudder of distaste as she heard his pet name for her roll off a stranger’s tongue. Fear raced through her. He meant her harm, here, just as he had three years ago. And now he had nothing more to lose.
“There’s no love left now,” he continued. “I lost it when Mother drank the poison. When the light drained out of Simon’s eyes along with his blood
. It all went wrong. Even the dog died…”
His voice was quiet now, a monotonous jumble of words.
“I kept hoping. I wanted you so much, despite everything else…”
Juliana wanted to hit out at him, but she caught the words before they came out and attempted a conciliatory tone.
“I’m sorry, Jamie. You’re so dear to me…”
“Dear? Like Hobbs? Like a pet!”
He spat the words, his eyes flaming suddenly. She saw his fists clench and automatically stepped back, until her legs were against the wooden bench. He did not move after her, just looked at her, his face in agony.
“I would have given you anything, Juliana. Why couldn’t you see it?”
Even now, knowing what he had tried to do, she found his distress hard to watch.
“I did see it,” she answered. “But you were like a brother, Jamie. I trusted you. And you tried to kill me. It was you on the cliff with me, wearing Adrien’s coat.”
She stopped there and stared at him. He hadn’t moved. He was still standing, bent under a terrible weight, shoulders hunched under his mackintosh.
“Why?” she asked. “You were on the train, on your way to Plymouth? Why did you come back?”
Jamie was about to answer her when a stick cracked behind them. He stared back into the darkness, lassitude forgotten, body alert. As she tried to edge away further from the cliff edge, the lantern slipped from her fingers and it lay on the grass, tilting against the legs of the bench. Its beam cut between them and hit the thorny wall of furze. In the light she could see that the golden blossoms had begun to come out. In a couple of days, the air would fill with the soft almond scent when the sun warmed the cliff. Her stomach ached at the thought that she might not be there to see it. Suddenly it was all she wanted. To be able to stand in the same place in a week’s time and smell the sweet yellow flowers. Jamie took a step towards her.
“There was a letter,” he said simply. “I thought I’d put it in the pocket of my overcoat. But I was in such a rage with Mother that I took the wrong coat and stormed off. I only realised it when I was on the train. I got off at the cottages. I had to come back.”
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