by Nicola Upson
Bella nodded. ‘Although there’s more than one way to suffocate someone.’
The man whom Marta had pointed out to Josephine as Hitchcock’s cinematographer hadn’t said a word since they arrived, but there was something in the way he stood up now which expressed his disgust with the evening as eloquently as any speech could have done. His movement distracted the director from whatever he had been about to say to Bella. ‘Are you leaving us already, Mr Spence?’
‘I’ve had enough of this, Hitch. I need some fresh air and I’m not in the mood for games.’
‘I’m not sure I can allow you to leave without telling me what I want to know, Jack.’
‘I’m not sure you can stop me.’
The two men stared defiantly at each other, and Josephine got the impression that their conversation was not simply about the evening. In the end, Spence sat down again, but it was far from an act of submission. ‘All right. I’ll tell you what frightens me. Gallipoli in 1915. They sent me out there to take photographs. Before the war, I’d never seen a dead body. I knew that was about to change, but I never knew how bad it would be.’ He looked at Hitchcock. ‘People will tell you that reality is never as bad as your imagination, but they’re wrong. The first thing we saw when we got off the boat was a big tent, like one of those marquees you get at a village fete. We went over to open it. I don’t know what we thought we were going to find, and the smell as we began to unlace the sides should have told us something, but none of us was prepared for a pile of dead Englishmen, hundreds of corpses lying on top of each other, their eyes wide open, starting to rot.’
Hitchcock pushed the decanter across to him but Spence ignored it. ‘We started to bury them, but there were so many. You don’t think about that, do you? Having to find somewhere for the dead. You cling on to decency and dignity for a bit, but it soon defeats you. We pushed them into the trenches, but it was impossible to keep them all covered. We lived with the dead. Their arms and legs taunted us, sticking out of the earth like they’d just rolled over in bed. The soil was soft and springy underfoot because of the bodies, like autumn in the woods, when you know you’re walking on decay.’ He paused, and changed his mind about the drink. As he poured brandy, Josephine looked at Archie, but he had bowed his head‚ and she wondered what fugitive images had found their way back to him thanks to Spence’s words. ‘So we buried them, but they kept coming, more each day. And we found ways to deal with it. If a hand came out of the soil, we’d shake it as we went past. It wasn’t disrespect, it was a way to cope. We all did it. Then one day I grabbed a hand and it held on. We’d buried him alive, for Christ’s sake. We were so tired and so used to death that we could no longer tell the difference.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I scrambled in the dirt as if I were insane, scraping it off his face until I heard him moan and saw his eyelids flicker. When I was sure I’d found him in time, I started to cry with relief. I began to haul him out, but that wasn’t what he wanted; he wanted me to finish it there and then. He clutched at my clothes, pleading with me to kill him. I didn’t have a rifle with me‚ and I couldn’t leave him on his own, so I put my hands round his throat and choked him, and this time I made sure. And do you know what? He looked grateful.’
There was a sudden division in the room between those who were too young to understand the war‚ and who were shocked by Spence’s story, and those for whom his words were an extreme version of a familiar sadness. ‘What you did was very brave and very merciful,’ Hitchcock said quietly.
‘Perhaps, but I wonder how many weren’t so lucky? He can’t have been the only poor bastard we buried alive. You didn’t serve in the war, did you, Hitch?’
‘No. I was excused on medical grounds.’
‘He enlisted in the volunteer corps of the Royal Engineers,’ Alma added protectively.
Spence held up his hand. ‘I’m not questioning your courage or your loyalty. I’m only saying that when you talk about fear, when you show death on screen, it’s just a game – like the one you’re playing now.’
‘Would you be happier if we did it for real?’ Franks asked.
Spence ignored him. ‘But I’ll go along with it, and those are my answers: I’m afraid of dying, and I’m afraid of killing. I have nightmares about both.’ He stood up and looked at Franks. ‘And I’m not joking.’
This time, he left the room without any opposition. ‘Well, who’s still to go?’ Bella asked, unnerving Josephine by looking directly at her.
‘We’re just observers,’ Archie said diplomatically. ‘And it’s time we were going.’
‘Just a second, Chief Inspector,’ Hitchcock said, and his emphasis on the rank drew one or two surprised glances from his guests. ‘Won’t you stay until the game is over? I think Bella may be about to deliver the sort of exit line we all love her for.’
The actress didn’t disappoint him. She stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette and walked to the door. ‘I’ve always thought that there can be nothing worse than to know the manner of your own death,’ she said, choosing her words with impeccable timing. ‘And now I know that to be true.’
10
‘What the fuck was that all about?’ Ronnie asked when they were safely back in the restaurant. ‘Next time, remind me to stick with Marta. She’s got more sense than the rest of us put together.’
‘I wonder what Bella Hutton meant?’ Lettice asked.
‘Perhaps she’s ill,’ Lydia suggested. ‘Although if that’s a typical Hollywood evening, anything terminal would be a blessed relief.’
‘Have you gone off the idea, then?’
Lydia looked at Josephine‚ and a guilty smile flickered across her lips. ‘Let’s just say I’ll scuttle back to my dressing room at the Adelphi with a new-found humility. More drinks, everybody?’
Ronnie and Lettice followed her enthusiastically to the bar‚ and Josephine lingered behind with Archie to watch the band, whose first set was just drawing to a close with a subtle rendering of an Ivor Novello song. ‘Isn’t that the waitress who was on duty this afternoon?’ Josephine asked, pointing to the singer.
Archie looked more closely. ‘Yes, I think so. Amazing what lipstick and a posh frock can do for a girl.’
‘Posh-ish,’ Josephine corrected him ungraciously. ‘And not so much of the girl. She won’t see twenty again.’ She ignored a look which had the word forty in it, and was forced to admit‚ ‘Actually, she’s very good.’
‘Why do you say that so grudgingly?’ Archie asked, laughing.
‘Oh, you can just tell she’s a little madam. I was watching her earlier, when she was serving tea to the table next to ours. It’s all in the colour of her eyes: exactly the same as the girl who works in the shop for my father. I’ve never known that shade of blue to mean anything but trouble.’
The waitress-turned-singer took her applause and left the small stage. She made her way across the dance floor to where Hitchcock and Alma were talking, and lingered by the director, waiting for a chance to introduce herself. Without looking at her, he held out his empty glass so that she had no choice but to take it. Mortified, the girl flushed and left the room‚ and Archie noticed some of the waiting staff snigger. ‘Nothing like being brought down to earth with a bump, is there? Do you want another drink?’
‘Only if you’re having one.’ She glanced round the room. Mercifully, there was no one she recognised; except for Alma and the director himself, Hitchcock’s party seemed to have other plans.
‘Why don’t you go and find her?’
She looked embarrassed. ‘Am I that transparent?’
‘I’m afraid so, but probably only to me. I’m going to get changed and have that drink with Bridget. If we leave together now, they’ll think we’re going for a walk.’
‘Are you offering me an alibi, Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes, but only if you’ll do the same. I can live without any more words of wisdom from Ronnie.’ He looked across to where the Motleys and Lydia were already deep in conversation with anothe
r couple. ‘I don’t think we’re going to be greatly missed. Is there anybody those three don’t know?’
‘I doubt it. Not in a place like this.’ They went over to make their excuses and were just leaving when Lydia caught Josephine’s arm. ‘Do me a favour while you’re out, darling. Pop in on Marta and make sure she’s all right.’
PART FOUR
Murder!
25–26 July 1936, Portmeirion
1
There were many paths to the dog cemetery, but Bella chose the route that rose up from behind the old stable block, simply because it was the one she knew best. While Grace lived here, these woods had been more like a jungle – wild and impenetrable, so much so that the way had had to be cleared by woodcutters before the hearse could pass through to collect her body. Even now, the land had an untamed and untameable quality about it: the maze of narrow pathways which ran back and forth across it were not man-made, it was said, but had been cut by a lone stag which appeared on the peninsula shortly after Grace’s death. Bella had no idea if it were true or not, but the paths remained long after the stag had moved on, and the tale was one of the kinder myths that had been spun around her sister’s isolation. It saddened her to hear Grace scorned by strangers: her privacy, her desire to honour the animals she had loved, her refusal to allow any living thing, beast or plant, to be destroyed on her land – these were codes that seemed oddly out of kilter to a generation that accepted cruelty and waste as natural and inevitable, although Bella could not help feeling that the eccentricity lay not with her sister but with the world.
The route she had chosen also had the advantage of being the most direct‚ and, with the light dwindling and rain threatening, she was anxious to spend as little time in the woods as possible. Chaplin ran ahead of her, excited by the novelty of an evening walk, and Bella was glad of his company. A sharp right-hand bend in the path led her away from the village and deeper into thick woodland, and she realised that the open spaces around the hotel had fooled her into underestimating how dark it would be among the trees. In a matter of seconds, the lamplight from the Piazza and the comforting silhouette of Portmeirion’s skyline vanished as completely as if they had never existed. But daylight was no good for what she needed to do, and she couldn’t risk being interrupted. Resisting the temptation to turn back, she fumbled in her bag for the torch she had brought with her and shone its beam determinedly onto the path ahead.
She longed for the release of the storm. The air was heavy and suffocating, closing in on her as she walked, and already her dress clung uncomfortably to her body. It was a relief when she reached a crossroads and the trees cleared, allowing the sky back in for a few precious moments. The cemetery lay a short distance ahead. She moved forward, but a rabbit shot out of the bushes, startling her, and Chaplin gave chase before she could stop him. She called the dog back but he ignored her, and Bella had to change direction to find him. A dark silhouette rose up ahead of her‚ and she stared at it in horror. For some reason, she had taken it for granted that the cottage was long gone, razed to the ground when the land was sold, but its shell was still there, a reminder of past obligations unfulfilled. She had turned away from so much of her family’s grief and a sense of justice had never burned strongly inside her unless it was personal; now her home had pulled her back, and she was shocked by how strongly she felt an emotional bond with the people she had left behind and a physical connection to the earth which held them – a physical connection made more intense by the knowledge of her own mortality.
Unsettled, she clipped Chaplin’s lead onto his collar and dragged him sharply away from the ruins, then retraced her footsteps to the crossroads. The luxury of the clearing was short-lived: when nature reasserted itself, the shadow of the trees was worse than ever‚ and, in the darkness, the woodland’s age and lush profusion seemed menacing and other-worldly. The path narrowed again, forcing its way through old firs and rhododendron bushes, then climbing steeply as if daring Bella to reach her destination. She could only have been walking for ten minutes or so, but it felt much longer; the illness that she had refused to acknowledge was making itself known now with alarming regularity‚ and she paused to get her breath, leaning against a tree for support. Chaplin seemed to sense her anxiety; he stared into the blackness of the undergrowth, ears pricked, tail taut and quivering, straining at his lead to go back the way they had come. Gently, she pulled him on, but they had not gone far before she stopped again and looked back over her shoulder. Had she heard footsteps? She coiled the leather round her hand a couple of times, instinctively wanting the dog closer, and listened carefully, but the woods were silent and she blamed her imagination.
As soon as she moved on, she heard them again‚ and this time they sounded very close, mirroring her movements, stopping and starting when she did. She longed to switch off her torch, knowing that it placed her firmly in the sights of whoever was behind her, but she needed the light to find her way, even if it made her vulnerable. Willing herself to stay calm, she quickened her pace‚ but the noise quickened too‚ and, just as she was about to sink to the ground in despair, something in its rhythm told her how stupid she was being. The path was dry and hard from a long summer, and all she could hear was the echo of her own footsteps. It wasn’t surprising that her mind was playing tricks, aided and abetted by the gloom of the woods and the knowledge of what she had come here to find. She walked on more confidently, but – now that it had been awakened – the instinct to fear could not be entirely dispelled. Ridiculously, because it was something she never did, she began to hum quietly to herself.
When she saw the old pheasant hide, she knew she was close to the cemetery‚ but she had forgotten quite how suddenly it appeared. Her torch picked out the wooden carving of a dog which stood at its entrance, as still and lifeless as the companions it guarded. Chaplin whimpered and stared at her reproachfully, sensing that this was a place of death, and Bella had a pang of guilt at having brought him here. ‘Don’t worry, honey,’ she said, crouching down to reassure him. ‘I wouldn’t do it to you.’ She looked around her and shivered. So much loss, so many friendships cut short – and now, so much guilt. The cemetery had always spoken to her of desolation, not comfort or solace. It was the last place in the world that she would ever want to leave someone she loved; better that they should burn in Hell than lie cold and alone in such unforgiving soil.
The rich scent of pine and the melancholy sound of birds roosting served only to darken Bella’s mood. Reluctantly, she hooked Chaplin’s lead around the wooden dog, sparing him from any more distress, and walked alone into the circle of graves. She moved slowly, avoiding the tangle of twigs and branches which crawled at head height through the air. The summer growth had become so densely entwined that very little rain could find its way between the leaves, and the groundcover was dry and brittle underfoot. A branch snapped as she stepped on it, holly scratched at her face, and, in her mind, Bella imagined bones breaking, felt fingers touching her skin. She shone her torch round to identify the grave she had been told about, the tangible proof of her brother’s guilty secret, but something in the cemetery’s defiant peace made her hesitate. After all these years, what good would it do anyone to discover the truth behind Rhiannon Erley’s disappearance? Then she saw the marker in front of her – a mound of rough stones, more like a cairn than a traditional memorial, and its poignancy gave Bella her answer. As she knelt down to examine its careful formation, the dank, fetid smell of earth rose up to greet her.
The second time she heard it, there was no mistaking the sound, no blaming her imagination. Footsteps circled the cemetery – slow and predatory, making no attempt at secrecy, and it was this very openness that frightened Bella most: it told her that any hope of escape was already lost to her. She stood up and swung her torch round defiantly, desperate to put a name to the evil that threatened her, but its beam was too weak to reach the edge of the burial place‚ and, without thinking, she threw it away from her in frustration. Deprived of any
definite form, the footsteps became more sinister than ever, crawling insidiously into her mind and fashioning horror after horror. Behind her, Chaplin growled, then began to bark furiously, but the barking stopped as suddenly as it had started. Fearful that her dog had been hurt, she went to retrieve the torch to look for him but, before she could pick it up, the light from the beam went out.
And then she felt it. A presence, unbearably close. The terror that had so far failed to overwhelm her did so now with a dreadful, all-consuming force. Blindly, she turned to run‚ but the panic disoriented her‚ and she had no idea how to find the path out of the cemetery. Something moved to her left‚ and she stumbled in the opposite direction, but it must have been a trick of the shadows because she realised immediately that she had in fact moved towards the danger. A hand reached out to her face. She ducked to avoid it‚ and the holly scratched her cheek again, deeper this time, its prickles sharper than she would ever have imagined possible. She tripped and fell, and her exhausted body longed to stay where it was and submit to the earth, but the primeval instinct for survival was still strong enough in her to force her to her feet. She wiped the damp, rotting soil from her skin, sickened by the smell of death that clung to her so stubbornly, refusing to be brushed away, and a sharp pain shot down her cheek as she rubbed it. Her hand came away wet with blood. Only when she saw the knife flash towards her face again did she realise that what she had believed to be a holly tree was something far more deadly.
With a scream, she broke free for the final time‚ but she had lost all control now and crashed against the nearest gravestone. On her knees, she began to crawl like an animal through the undergrowth, but all the time she was aware of someone walking behind her, taunting her with the possibility of escape whilst waiting for the moment to strike. At last, the game was up and hands grabbed her ankles and dragged her roughly back to the middle of the graveyard. Her face scraped along the ground, rubbing dirt and leaves and pine needles into the open wound. The agony was almost enough to make her faint, but her body refused her the oblivion she craved. Out of nowhere, she heard a mournful, pathetic whimpering; just for a moment, she allowed herself to hope that Chaplin was alive after all, but the noise was too close‚ and it did not take her long to realise that it came from her own throat.