‘But it could have been some tramp.’
‘No, there was a comb that Miss Kellow recognized. And other things.’
‘Then why did she not tell the coroner at the inquest?’
‘She thought it would not make any difference to what had happened.’
Demelza scraped the cooling wax off the mantelshelf. ‘And does it?’
‘It raises many questions. Did Miss Kellow know of the other girl being there while she was there? I asked her, and she said she had no idea. I asked her if she was a special friend of Agneta, and she replied that she was not.’
‘Did you see Daisy’s mother and father?’
‘No. She said her father was in Redruth and that her mother was not well enough to receive visitors.’
‘Her brother and sister-in-law were at the party with her.’
‘They have gone home. But I will see Mr Paul Kellow later on. I have met him several times and this will give me an excuse to call.’
There was a pause.
‘I think that is Ross now. But he has gone through to the kitchens.’
Philip got up. ‘Then I will leave you. This has been a courtesy call, Lady Poldark. Pray give your husband my warm respects.’
Demelza said: ‘I wish you well in your quest, Captain – er, Philip. We shall all breathe easier if this mystery is solved . . . It still puzzles me a small matter that you are personally going to so much trouble.’
Philip Prideaux smiled more warmly. ‘I do it willingly. Like you, with a number of women probably at risk, I shall breathe easier if the murderer is caught.’
It was not until after he had left that she wondered why she had not mentioned the smell of the cigar.
Ben walked Essie home from his cottage to the gates of Trenwith. The wind was bringing up broken masses of cloud, with the moon behind them in the high January sky. So fast were the clouds moving that the moon might just have been thrown across the sky. Where there were clumps of trees they looked like cloud shadows on the moor. They had skirted Grambler beside the gorse bushes, prickly and stark, stunted hawthorn trees and waving brambles among the skeletal old mine buildings long fallen to waste. Few used this desolate way, and it was a narrow track with only just room to walk abreast without touching. Never quite touching. They had both been brought up in a rough country world where life, under a thin veneer of Wesleyanism, was plain, hard and crude. Sex was as often as not a hearty rough and tumble in the dark, a subject for tittered innuendoes and loud guffaws. Hardly anyone had time or patience for that pretty word romance or for anything that amounted to courtship.
Yet Ben Carter at thirty-one and Esther Carne at nineteen had remained separate from the crowd. Ben because of his long enduring preoccupation with Clowance. Esther, perhaps because she was a little like Rosina Hoblyn had once been, born with an awareness that she was a little too good for the village lads and not good enough for any man with minor claims to gentility.
He had met her at the gates at three; they had walked along the cliffs behind Trenwith while the light lasted and then gone back to his cottage and taken tea with his mother, who had been commanded by Ben to be present. Later he had taken Esther into the back room and explained how his new-built organ worked, and then played pieces of church music and dance music for about half an hour. Jinny had stayed until they left.
Little of anything which might be called flirtatious conversation had passed between them – because of Jinny’s presence and because Essie could hardly take the lead. Ben just did not know how; but they had exchanged glances, looks, occasional smiles.
Jinny by this time was stout and grey and in her sixties, still fresh-complexioned and comely, but with a tight set to her mouth which reflected a life of struggle and prideful resistance to misfortune. She had in fact, with an occasional and never-sought gift from Ross, prospered more than most: her little shop, which sold everything from candles to sweets, from cotton to paraffin, had kept the family above water when Whitehead lost his job and while Ben prospected vainly for tin in little sub-surface workings of his own. The great tragedy of Jinny’s life, which she had suffered when barely twenty, had been the death of Jim Carter, her first husband. She had never loved any man before or since, her later marriage to Scoble being one simply of liking and convenience. She had become a staunch Wesleyan before Sam turned up, and of later years, with Sam’s encouragement, she had played an active part in his church and his Witnessing to the Truth.
She had no objection to the thought of her eldest son marrying, indeed it was high time – long past time, some thought – the only tiny fly in the ointment being that this thin blonde girl was chief nurse to the Poldark baby, and almost acting as a companion to the Papist Major Geoffrey Charles had married. To many people in the county Catholicism was a serious menace, something still to be fought and feared like a dread complaint. And even though by some strange mischance the British had for long been fighting on behalf of the Spaniards in Spain, the less one had to do with such folk the better. In their eyes the Pope was close to the Devil, the Scarlet Woman, long allied to Napoleon; and before him to King Philip of Spain. Many brave men – including Jeremy Poldark – had laid down their lives to save their country from the Papists. It was therefore very unsuitable and dangerous for one of them to have married a Poldark and be living in their midst. If – only if – Ben were to marry this Carne girl, he would be well to do it quickly and withdraw her from the evil influence which at present threatened her.
Ben, his mother knew, though a nominal Wesleyan, was not as committed as he should be, and might not feel as strongly as Jinny. It was clearly a sign of his intentions, a sign of his recognition of the proprieties, that he should have invited her to be at his cottage for Esther’s first visit. The girl, like all decent girls of her age, was as yet unformed, seemed a little lacking in character – it was quite hard to imagine what her middle-aged son saw in her – but that would all change with maturity. Jinny’s chief – only real – concern was that she should be encouraged to join the Community and to develop without improper or impure thoughts of incense, of confession, of black-robed priests. (It had been rumoured that such a priest had called at Trenwith and been admitted to the house.)
Before they separated Ben, as if conscious of the importance of this first meeting, said: ‘How d’ye like my mother?’
She looked up at him quickly. ‘She seem nice. But tis more a question, isn’t it, as for how she like me.’
‘Mebbe. Mebbe. But twould be good to see you and her gettin’ along.’
The path as they approached the gates of Trenwith joined the wider way running downhill towards Pally’s Shop. There was a clatter of hooves, and four riders came out of Trenwith, two men and two women. They were talking and laughing, voices raised to make themselves heard above the stamping, prancing feet of their horses.
It was Valentine Warleggan and David Lake. The two women were strangers, and they looked too gaudily dressed for a winter’s evening.
‘Who’s there?’ called Valentine, seeing the dark clad couple standing together.
After a moment, ‘Ben Carter, Esther Carne,’ came the reply.
‘What’s your business here?’
‘Miss Carne live here. I am taking of her ’ome.’
A wisp of cloud moved away from the moon.
‘Oh, aye,’ said David Lake. ‘You are the pretty little blonde thing. I saw you at the party.’
‘Hey, hey!’ said one of the girls, and laughed loudly. ‘You keep your hands to yourself, me old lad. Don’t you see they’re courting?’
‘Oh, it’s Ben,’ said Valentine. ‘The Ben. Are you courting, Ben?’
‘Good evening to you, Mr Warleggan,’ said Ben coolly, and took Essie by the arm to lead her past them.
‘It’s a cold night for courting out of doors,’ said Lake with a fat laugh. ‘And Cornish hedges are draughty. I’ve tried ’em!’
‘I have no doubt,’ said Valentine, ‘that he has been showing her his organ
.’
There were wild squeals of laughter at this from the women as the quartet moved on.
Essie walked with Ben holding his arm. At the last gibe Ben’s grasp on Essie’s arm had tightened painfully, but she would not wince or complain. It was the first time this evening he had actually touched her.
He walked her up to the side door. ‘Take no notice of such attle,’ he said. ‘Folk like that needs their mouths washed out.’
‘I take no notice,’ she said.
He released her arm.
She said: ‘D’ye know Katie Thomas?’
‘Who?’
‘Katie Thomas. Married to Music Thomas.’
‘Yes, I know Katie. She’s my sister.’
She drew in a breath. ‘Sorry, Ben. I’m sorry. I’m new to these parts.’
‘No matter. She’s married to that half-wit, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, Music? He’s kind, Ben. And – and Katie is kind.’
‘So what of it?’
‘You d’know she works for young Mr Warleggan. They both do. She was telling me that the house is near full of strangers – like those two women on they horses. She say – Katie say tis like unto a bawdy house, folk coming and going, and laughing, and drinkin’ and gambling. Katie says they’ve put a table in the big drawing room, and this table has a sort of wheel lying flat on the top and the wheel turns and folk gamble on where a little white ball d’fall.’
‘I b’lieve Valentine was cursed at his birth,’ muttered Ben. ‘He causes trouble wherever he go.’
‘He cann’t cause trouble for we,’ said Essie.
Daring, she stretched across and kissed him on the cheek.
He put his hand to his face. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘. . . Why not?’
‘Twould lead to things.’
‘Bad things?’
He stirred restlessly. ‘Not bad, Essie. No, not bad. D’ye know I want to marry you?’
‘You haven’t said so. You haven’t asked me—’
‘Well, will ye?’
After taking a breath she said: ‘Yes, Ben. I would dearly like to.’
He took her hand. ‘Essie, I ’ave strong feelings. I want everything proper and above board. A proper wedding in a church. You in white. I want it to be how I’ve always wanted it to be. Not snatched at. Not hole in corner. Not like those men jested ’bout. And if I kissed you, fondled you now, mebbe I should not be able to stop.’
She put her hand on his. ‘Why don’t ye try, Ben? I’m strong. I’ll tell you when to stop.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Who was that?’ Harriet asked as she came in to the hall, to be greeted by her two elderly dogs.
George looked at his muddy wife with disapproval. ‘Your friend, Captain Prideaux.’
‘I thought it looked like the cut of his jib, but it was too dark to be sure. Did he want me?’
‘He did not ask for you. He sent his respects.’
Harriet was bent examining Castor’s floppy ear. After a minute she said: ‘We picked up a good scent but lost it by the Carnon Stream . . .’
Relations between George and his wife had not been of the warmest since the Trenwith party, though it had not come to an outright quarrel. Harriet, George had long ago concluded, was quite a difficult person to quarrel with. Unless he stormed and shouted about the house she really did not take much notice of him. Sarcasms were not taken up, coldness was ignored. When after the party George had asked her if she had deliberately attempted to insult him by making the greatest of a fuss over Ross Poldark, Harriet had just said: ‘No, I thought nothing of it. Why should I? It was a party.’ ‘It does not even occur to you that that man has been my greatest enemy throughout my entire life? It was a plain affront to me to act as you did.’ She had flicked Bargrave with her whip and replied: ‘’Fraid I just take people as I find ’em. Hope this damned rain will hold off.’
Bringing Harriet to battle was the problem. She always seemed to be doing something else at the time, even if it was only brushing her hair. Whatever it was it claimed the larger part of her attention.
The other deterrent to making a major quarrel of the folly at the party was that George was uneasily conscious he cared more not to break up their marriage than she did. If she left him, of course she would lose most of the trappings supplied by his wealth; but he would lose the prestige of being married to a duke’s sister. She was not Lady Warleggan, she was Lady Harriet Warleggan, which made all the difference. It put him among the aristocracy of England.
So for weeks he had been cold and often sarcastic, and she, if she even noticed, had taken care to ignore it.
‘Why did Philip leave so early? Did you not ask him to supper?’
‘I think he will return.’
She looked up enquiringly, then concentrated on Castor’s ear.
‘He asked permission,’ said George, ‘to speak to Polmesk.’
‘Who? Polmesk? You mean our butler?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Now your friend has gone off to see Polmesk’s brother at Angorrick Farm.’
At last her attention was engaged. ‘You cannot mean it.’
‘Ask him when he returns. I think your war hero is turning into a busybody. Not many months ago he called into my bank and wasted my time prating about the dirty condition of the Truro streets. Now apparently we have another scent to pursue.’
‘My dear George, this is not April Fool’s Day.’ Her attention was straying to Castor again. ‘I think Henderson should look at him. I don’t think there is any sign of canker, but . . .’
‘I was not suggesting that Captain Prideaux was in need of a veterinary surgeon. Though, come to think of it, a horse pill might set him to rights.’
She looked up again and gave a low chuckle. ‘It’s agreeable when you show a sense of humour, George. You should do it more often. When we have disentangled Castor’s ear from Philip’s curiosity, could you explain to me what it is all about?’
‘It seems,’ said George after a moment, ‘that Captain Prideaux has taken it upon himself to enquire more closely into the sudden death of Mary Polmesk, who, as you will recall, worked for us about a year and a half ago, indeed was walking home from here when she was attacked. I fail to see what business it is of young Prideaux’s to take any interest in the matter. Busybody, busybody, is what I say. Apparently he is even trying to connect, or trying to find if there are any similarities between, the Polmesk girl’s murder and the death of Agneta Treneglos last October!’
Harriet did not snort with disgust, as George had half expected.
She said: ‘Do you know how I think Agneta died?’
‘I have no idea. Nor have you.’
‘Hm. It occurred to me when I was on the north coast at Trenwith. Agneta was making a great nuisance of herself. She had become intensely inconvenient to Valentine – and possibly others, we do not know—’
‘Are you pretending to think—’
‘I’m not pretending anything. But if I were Valentine and Agneta had become impossible in her demands on me, I might pay some out-of-work miner to dispose of her and meanwhile sail across to Ireland so that no one could accuse me of doing it. Had that occurred to you?’
George brooded for a few moments.
‘Anything can be imagined by a fanciful imaginative mind. You could well build a case against Prideaux himself.’
‘Come, come—’
‘Well, why is he going to all this trouble? Where was he when Agneta was killed? He ranges far and wide. We know where he was when the Polmesk girl was murdered. He was here, in the house, enjoying our – your – generous hospitality. I know little of the criminal mind, the deranged mind, but it is common knowledge that a murderer is wont to return to his old haunts. He is, we know, still convalescent from his breakdown after Waterloo. His mind could well be sufficiently deranged for him to have developed a grudge against women . . .’
‘My dear George, what an ingenious
theory! Developing that, he might even have been conducting a shabby little affair with Mary Polmesk and found her presence inconvenient! After all, it was his first visit to us, and he had been with us all of four days. And so now, now, you think he is revisiting the scene of his crime?’
‘You may well scoff,’ said George. ‘I am merely putting forward the theory to show how many theories can exist and each of them as likely to be as true and as untrue as another. I tell you, nobody knows – nobody will ever know.’
Harriet stood up. ‘I’ll send Treglown for Henderson. One cannot be too sure. Where is Ursula, by the way?’
‘At her piano lesson. Mercifully we cannot hear it from here.’
‘She is not musical. Why do you persist?’
‘Because it is one of the attributes of a young lady’s education. Or supposed to be.’
‘I am not musical,’ said Harriet reflectively. ‘I lost nothing for being unable to perform.’
‘You married that oaf, Carter.’
‘A childish folly. Music, I assure you, did not come into it! Lust was the motivating force. That and the fact that I thought him richer than he was.’
‘I’m sure you laboured under the second delusion also when you married me.’
‘Not at all. You are very rich, George. And none of it inherited. That is an asset, not a social disadvantage. Men who inherit large estates seldom turn them to advantage. Often as not, it dribbles through their fingers. You have the habit of making money, and you continue in that habit.’
‘Yes,’ said George. ‘I make the money and you spend it!’
‘Precisely. Could there be a better arrangement?’
George sneered to hide a slight sense of gratification.
‘I’m told the younger Poldark girl is affianced to that moustached fellow she was with at the party.’
It was the first time he had overtly mentioned the party to Harriet since the journey home.
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