Angel With Two Faces (13 page)

‘Yes, Christopher made them,’ Jago said. ‘We’re doing the scenery together tomorrow night – at least, we were supposed to be before he went missing.’ Archie was about to say something but Jago held up his hand to stop him. He put his ear close to the wood, listening for the slightest crick, but this time the line was cut to his satisfaction. ‘It’s quite a job, getting anything into that theatre, and not something for one person to do on his own.’

‘You’re close, aren’t you? You work well together.’

‘You have to in this job. No point in being at odds with someone. There’s a lot of sadness, and you need to keep each
other going – otherwise you’re no good to the people who really need support. Those who’ve just lost someone, I mean.’

Penrose came over to where Jago was working and stopped by a table piled high with cardboard boxes marked
INGLE
-
PARSONS OF BIRMINGHAM
. The top box was open, and he could see that it contained sets of coffin linings – stretches of ruched white silk, skilfully made and elaborately decorated, some with purple rosettes and others with white. If you could forget what they were used for, they were actually quite beautiful, but he had had enough of coffins lately and turned his back on them. ‘Why are you so concerned?’ he asked. ‘Christopher hasn’t even been gone for twenty-four hours yet, and he’s sixteen. Lots of boys his age stay out all night occasionally.’

‘Not Christopher. He wouldn’t do that without telling me and, even if he did, he’d turn up for work the next morning. This is not the sort of job where you can come and go as you like, and he’s got a sense of responsibility.’

In spite of his weariness with funerals, Penrose found himself fascinated by the speed with which Jago worked. It was second nature to the undertaker after all these years, but the level of craftsmanship was extraordinary, and Penrose had to remind himself that he was here for a reason. ‘Does your concern have anything to do with Harry’s death?’

Jago stopped working for the first time and looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh come on, Jago. We’ve always been friends, haven’t we? When my mother died so quickly after my father, it was you who got me through it – you and William and Morveth. You made it clear that I was part of this place even though my parents were gone, but you didn’t exactly give me a warm
welcome yesterday, did you? You treated me like a stranger, and that was because I was asking questions about Harry.’

‘I didn’t want to upset Morwenna,’ Jago said. ‘She’s had enough to put up with, and Harry’s death is best forgotten.’ He turned back to the wood and took a pencil and rule out of his top pocket, then made a carefully measured mark on each side of the coffin.

‘You of all people should know the dead aren’t so easily left alone,’ Penrose said. ‘Give Morwenna a bit more credit than that.’ He watched as Jago drilled into the marks on the wood, and tried another approach. ‘I had a word with Kestrel Jacks at the cricket match.’

‘So I noticed. Since when have you two been best friends?’

Ignoring the remark, Penrose said: ‘He says he saw Christopher out by the lake on the morning that Harry died.’ Jago swept the shavings into his hand and put them on the pile. He took a small brown-paper parcel from a box behind him and unwrapped a brass handle ready to test the hole for size, but he said nothing. ‘In fact,’ Penrose continued, ‘Jacks said that Christopher threw something at Shilling to frighten him, and that made the horse bolt.’

Jago looked up, and his shock was obviously genuine. ‘Are you saying Christopher killed Harry?’ he asked.

‘I’m not saying anything. I’m just trying to piece together what really happened – for Morwenna’s sake, more than anything. She thinks Harry killed himself.’ He expected another look of surprise, but Jago merely nodded. ‘You knew that?’

‘Morveth said as much.’ The undertaker was silent for a moment, and Penrose gave him time to think. ‘He was desperate to tell me something at the funeral, you know – well, you
were there. But I was cross with him about that slip at the altar, and it had been such a bloody awful day, so I just sent him away. If only I’d listened.’

If only indeed, thought Penrose. Apart from anything else, Christopher might have been able to tell them if anyone else was around that morning. ‘Was that the last time you saw him?’ he asked gently, and Jago nodded again. ‘Is it likely that Christopher could have done something like that?’

‘Yes,’ the undertaker said at last. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Why?’

Jago took a piece of sandpaper and began to smooth down blemishes that were invisible to Penrose, but the undertaker was nothing if not a perfectionist. ‘It’s because of Loveday.’

‘Loveday?’ Penrose asked, then remembered Jago’s sensitivity to his innocent remark the day before.

‘Yes. She was always hanging around here, and we thought nothing of it at first.’ Thinking nothing of a fourteen-year-old hanging round coffins seemed a strange reaction to Penrose, but he reminded himself that the reaction to death down here was very different from up country. ‘Then Christopher started getting keen on her, and there was obviously more to it than friendship. One day, I caught them in here alone and I had to lay the law down to him myself, tell him that it wasn’t right what he was doing – not with that girl, anyway. Harry found out about it, too, and I doubt that his words of warning will have been as gentle as mine were. I don’t know what he said to the boy, but Christopher hated him after that.’

‘Why did you object so strongly to Christopher seeing Loveday?’

‘She’s far too young, and anyway, she’s been… well, she’s damaged. You know that as well as I do. Boys of his
age – they’re easily tempted, and I didn’t want him to take advantage of her and land himself in a mess.’

‘Loveday says she saw Christopher in the churchyard last night,’ Penrose said.

‘In the churchyard? What the devil would he be doing in the churchyard? Did she take him there?’

‘No, he didn’t see her apparently, but she said he was near Harry’s grave.’

‘And then what?’

‘I don’t know. She came home because she thought she was going to get into trouble with Morwenna for staying out late.’

Jago rubbed his hands over his eyes. ‘Christ, this is even worse than I thought. Anything could have happened to him.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Penrose said. ‘I don’t think for a minute that Christopher ever intended to kill Harry, but if he was feeling guilty, and if he’d plucked up the courage to tell you but didn’t have the chance, it would be understandable if he simply decided to take the easy way out and run off rather than face people. He’ll probably come back of his own accord but, if not, there are ways of finding him and reassuring him. He’s not facing the gallows, for God’s sake – it sounds like a childish act of spite, and anyone would take that into account.’

‘He’s not a child, though, is he? Not in the law’s eyes. And what if he hasn’t run off? What if someone knows what he did and blames him for Harry’s death? They might have hurt him.’

Jim came back in, clearing his throat tactfully, but Jago was caught up in his own fears and seemed oblivious to anything else. Penrose moved sideways to allow the assistant to take one of the lining sets out of its box. He washed his hands at a small sink near the stove and then, back at his bench, carefully removed the protective tissue paper and unfolded the silk.
There was a small pillow made of the same material, and he filled it with some of the wood shavings from the pile before arranging the rest of the silk inside the coffin, cleverly putting in nails to create a quilted look. There was something very moving about his unhurried attention to detail, Penrose thought, and the quiet satisfaction he took from the work. He remembered William telling him that Jago had once caught one of his assistants cutting back on the coffin materials for a tramp who was found dead on the beach, and had sacked him on the spot; the coffin would be lined even if there was no one to view the body, and he refused to work with anyone who differentiated between the dead. He was one of the most honourable men that Penrose had ever met – the sort of man it was a privilege to know – and he felt deeply for him now, at the same time as being infuriated by the fact that he was obviously holding something back.

He took Jago’s arm and moved him out into the yard, where the afternoon sunlight took them both by surprise. Looking away down the street, the undertaker said: ‘Please find him, Archie. I can’t lose him – not now, not after all these years.’

It was a strange way of phrasing it, Penrose thought, but he was touched by the request. Jago was cast in the role of prop by the whole community, and it did not come easily to him to ask for help. ‘I’m not official here, Jago,’ he said. ‘If it turns out that Christopher needs more than a bit of friendly advice, I’d be treading on toes to give it.’

‘But you know the estate, and the people know you – they’ll talk to you.’ He attempted a smile. ‘If you can get Jacks to open his mouth, you can do anything.’ Perhaps he’d opened his mouth a little too readily, Penrose thought, remembering what Josephine had suggested and regretting being so prickly with
her about Morwenna; in his heart, he wouldn’t trust a word Jacks said. ‘You’re a fair man, Archie,’ Jago added. ‘If Christopher’s done something wrong, he’ll have to be punished, but he’s a good lad really. I just want to know he’s all right.’

Penrose gave in. ‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’ They turned back towards the workshop. ‘William told me you found Harry’s body when it came ashore,’ he added.

Instantly, the defences came up again. ‘What of it?’ Jago said, stopping by the doors.

‘Nothing in particular. I was just interested in what Morveth did out on the lake.’

‘It was probably a coincidence, but at least it gave the girls some comfort. It’s not knowing that breaks people.’

‘Was Christopher with you at the time?’

‘No, thank God. The body wasn’t a pretty sight after being in the water all that time.’

‘But surely he helped you afterwards?’

‘No, he didn’t, but there’s nothing to read into that. I don’t let him near any drowning.’

‘You weren’t protecting him for any other reason?’

‘Like what? I didn’t need any other reason. Do you think a sixteen-year-old should be exposed to that sort of misery? My father broke me into this business gently. He didn’t let me near a drowning until I was a man, and I fully intend to offer Christopher the same courtesy. Even so, I can still remember the first time I had to put a drowned man on a stretcher – the smell of it, the touch of his skin, or what was left of it.’

Penrose acknowledged to himself that it was the same in his own job. As a young detective constable, he’d been lucky enough to work for a boss who had carefully judged when he
was ready to face the more unpleasant crime scenes, and the sergeant had managed to protect him without making him feel patronised or useless. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s all right. You and I both remember a time when kids had to grow up too quickly – you were one of them. But war’s one thing – let’s not destroy the innocence of a peacetime generation earlier than we have to. I know you think I’m over-reacting, but can’t a father be worried about his son? What if someone’s taken him to punish me?’

Penrose was taken aback. ‘Punish you? What have you done to make enemies?’

Jago seemed to have no answer to that, and was saved from having to find an explanation by the sound of footsteps coming up the lane. A boy of about ten appeared, panting hard and flushed pink by the sun. ‘Mum sent me to say you can come whenever you like, Mr Snipe,’ he said. ‘Miss Wearne’s finished now, and the parlour’s ready.’

‘All right, lad, well done. We won’t be much longer.’ He turned to go back inside, already removing his overalls. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said to Penrose, but Penrose was not so easily dismissed. ‘Look, Jago,’ he said, catching hold of his sleeve. ‘I
will
do my best to find Christopher, but you have to be straight with me. Is there anything else I should know about Harry’s death?’

Jago looked straight at Archie, but his eyes were unreadable. ‘There’s nothing else to know,’ he said firmly. ‘Please – just find my son.’

The music drifted across the Bar as the fair got underway, replacing the deceptive serenity of the cricket match with a Celtic brand of merrymaking that seemed much less alien to the Cornish sand. It was not yet dark, but a bonfire had already been lit in the centre of the beach, and it threw its warmth and energy out to a growing band of dancers. They cheered as the musicians – a young trio of concertina, fiddle and tin whistle – struck up another round of jigs and reels, gathering speed as they went and seemingly oblivious to anything other than the next tune. Behind them, where the shingle met a rough stretch of grass, a row of colourful makeshift stalls had been set up with an almost magical efficiency, and stood facing the sea from a safe distance. Some of the vendors were peddling cheap and cheerful trinkets, but most offered food which was no less appealing to the eye: jars of sweets stood in rows of silver and scarlet and green, interspersed with slabs of toffee and long, pink sticks of peppermint rock; clean, white cloths were spread with tiny plates of limpets, mussels, shrimps and other tasty delicacies at a penny a time; and freshly baked breads, mixed with the distinctive deep yellow of saffron, threatened to spill out from their baskets as they were carried amongst the revellers. The whole beach buzzed with the excitement of a high-spirited crowd determined to make the most of a weekday holiday, and to forget about work the following morning.

Joseph Caplin drained the cider from his glass and watched Loveday as she moved through the fair. She stopped near the band, entranced by a marionette which kept time with the music, and her upturned face and long blonde hair reminded him – as it always did – of his own young daughter, or how she might have been had she lived beyond those four short years. Joseph had grown up determined to be different from the unhappy man his father had been, always so dissatisfied with the gruelling monotony of life on the farm, and capable of communicating only through work or through sex. Unlike his parents, he had married for love and, when his wife left him for another man just days after bearing their second child, he remembered the resentment which had constantly eaten away at his father and fought against it in his own life, even though he had much more to be bitter about. Forced to cope on his own with a young daughter and a baby, he had vowed still to be the father he had always wanted to be even if he could no longer be the husband, and he worked harder than ever, comforted by the fact that his days moved along familiar paths, worn as deep into the fabric of the community as the ruts in the tracks between the fields.

William Motley had been good to him, and had found him some help with the children and the house. He remembered every inch of that cottage as it was in those days – back when he was proud of it, back when he still had a reason to care if the blue slate slabs on the kitchen floor were clean or the tiny windows in the rooms upstairs were so rotten with rain that they no longer fitted well enough to keep the draught out. He remembered how glorious the small parlour had looked in the days leading up to Christmas, warm from the glow of the fire, the sideboard already piled with dates and nuts and holly from
their own garden. He sold his father’s watch for the presents and went into Penzance for something more special than the shops in Helston could offer. When he returned, clutching his daughter’s new blue jumper to his chest, he remembered thinking that he wouldn’t have swapped places with anyone in the world. She had been so thrilled to find the parcel under the tree and had plagued him to let her open it early; eventually, three days before Christmas, he allowed her to unwrap it and it was hard to say who was more excited when she tried it on and strutted round the cottage in it. It would be filthy by Christmas morning, no doubt, but what did that matter compared to her joy now? That night, he was so tired that he dozed in front of the fire, his daughter on his lap. While he slept, she slipped from his arms and climbed onto a chair to admire herself again in the mirror over the fireplace. As she leaned forward towards the looking glass, a flame caught the bottom of her skirt, and he was awoken by her screams. Disoriented, and praying to be still asleep and the victim of a hideous nightmare, Joseph put the fire out, covering her small body with his own, but she was already too severely burned. She died in hospital two days later, and was buried before the new year. His wife had not come to the funeral.

The beach was more crowded now, and it seemed to him that the whole of the estate had come out to enjoy itself. He watched as couples and young families walked around the fair, relaxed and happy to be together, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow that he would never see either of his children in love and married. He had given his baby up after the accident, before they could come and force him to do it. He knew that he wasn’t capable of looking after a child, but didn’t want to give anyone else the satisfaction of making his decision
for him, so he walked to the Union the day after his daughter’s funeral and handed the baby over at the gate, trying not to notice the pity in the woman’s eyes. He went straight across the road to the nearest bar and drank as much as he could pay for, determined to prove to himself that he was unfit to be a father, and to resist the temptation to run back to those gates and say it had all been a mistake. It was a Friday, and the bar was packed with people by six o’clock. A group of young fishermen had been there, surrounded as usual by women. As he watched them, Joseph felt his father’s resentment coming back to him like an unwanted legacy. If his wife hadn’t left him, if there weren’t men like that in the world, handsome young men to whom words and charm came easily, his life would have followed that well-worn path, uneventful but content. He had hated them then, and he hated them still for turning him into the man he had never wanted to be.

Voices were raised in song around the bonfire now, rowdy but good-natured, and it reminded him of a different life. It was the same comfortable sound that accompanied his going to sleep on Friday and Saturday nights, when the men from the estate passed his house singing on their way home from a night out in Helston after a hard-working week. Some held the notes as steadily as they held their drink, others were worse for wear and broke the melody, but the voices and laughter sounded sweet in the road outside, mingling with his drowsiness and the warmth of his wife’s body next to him, with the security of four walls and the promise of a life to come. He closed his eyes, weakened by this persistent nostalgia for memories that were not truthfully his. When he opened them again, he saw Loveday looking at him curiously and her very presence seemed to taunt him. Fire had not been able to tear her family
apart. What made them so much stronger than him? He threw his glass down on to the sand and turned towards the coastal path that led to the village. He needed something stronger than cider. It was harder these days to forget.

The soft sea wind stirred the leaves of the ancient oaks and sycamores as Josephine and Archie wandered back through the woods to Loe House. ‘There’s something about a fair,’ she said, stopping to admire a pair of swans as they flew low over the evening lake. ‘All those miserable months I spent in Nottingham were worth it just for that one week when the Goose Fair arrived.’

Archie smiled at her. ‘I’m not sure we can compete with that, but I’m glad you had a good time.’

‘Don’t put yourself down – you’ve got the sea on your side.’ They rounded a bend in the track, and the Lodge came into view on the opposite side of the water, grey and solitary in the waking starlight. ‘And the company’s better, of course,’ she added, taking his arm, ‘even if it is a bit quiet. I hope you’re not still smarting over that run-out.’

‘Don’t even mention it,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Sometimes I wonder which side Lettice is on – she took nearly as many of our wickets as they did.’

‘Yes, but you can’t knock a hundred and three not out. And I don’t think the name “Slogger” really does her justice – there was a lot of finesse in some of those boundaries. Anyway, you certainly wouldn’t have won without her.’

‘No, you’re right, as much as I hate to admit it. But that’s not why I’m quiet. To be honest, I was just enjoying the peace – it’s been a strange couple of days, and I think I might have got caught up in things which are really none of my business.’ He
told her about his conversation with Jago, and the promise he had made to look into Christopher’s disappearance.

‘That doesn’t sound like much of a holiday to me.’

‘I know, but what can I do? They’re my friends.’

‘And you feel guilty for never being here, so you think this might make up for it.’

‘Something like that. Next time we want some time together by the sea, remind me to book a weekend in Brighton.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry, you’ve got your reputation to think of. What would the good people of Inverness say if they opened their
Tatler
over breakfast and saw you letting your hair down on the pier with Scotland Yard?’

‘I think they’d be sorely disappointed. It’s nowhere near as exotic as some of the things they imagine I get up to.’ They reached a fork in the road, and took the path that led past the stable block and through the walled gardens to Loe House. ‘So what
are
you going to do about Christopher?’ she asked.

‘Well, I can’t do much tomorrow because of this wretched play but, if he hasn’t shown up by Wednesday, I’ll have a word with the local station here and ask around a bit on the estate, then put a call in to Bill just in case he’s gone further afield. Apart from that, I don’t really see what I
can
do. You might have another word with Loveday for me, though – she’s the last person to have seen him as far as we know.’

‘Of course, but if you don’t mind, I’ll leave her sister to you.’

‘It’s a deal.’ The gentle, contented sound of a horse came from the stable block and Archie saw Josephine glance towards the door. ‘Go and have a look if you like,’ he said. ‘The world and his wife’s at the fair, and there’ll be nobody around at this time of night. You’ll love it – William’s as discerning about his
horses as he is about his cars, and I know you’re dying to see Shilling.’

‘All right. I won’t be long, though.’

‘Take your time. I’ll go and see what the Snipe’s got for supper.’

The stable block was built of handsome grey stone and took up three sides of a large courtyard, with the fourth open to the ornamental parkland beyond. Horseshoes hung over the arched door, and inside there was a soft light from four hurricane lamps which were nailed to a beam. It was a scene of extraordinary peace, and the only noise came from the horse nearest to her, who – wary of a stranger but interested nonetheless – offered a low-pitched nicker as she entered. She was on her way over to return the greeting when one of the estate workers emerged from a stall further down with a sack of oats in his hand.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, startled. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I didn’t think there was anybody here. I’m staying at the Lodge and I can never walk past a stable.’

The man grinned at her. ‘No reason why you should have to, Miss – they’re friendly enough, and you’re not interrupting. Come and say hello to them. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone either – most people are down at the fair.’

‘You weren’t tempted, then?’ she asked, walking over to the nearest box.

‘No, not this year,’ he said, and carried on measuring out the feed. ‘I usually go, but I’ve got to hold on to my money at the moment.’

‘Saving for anything special?’

Most of the blush was lost as he turned back to the stalls, but she could still see enough of his shyness to warm to him
instantly. ‘Yes, if she’ll have me. I want to take her somewhere nice, so I chose the short straw and let the other lads go off to the fair.’ He stroked the neck of the horse nearest to him. ‘It’s not that short, though, if you ask me – they’re a fine lot, these creatures.’

They were indeed, Josephine thought. She looked down the line at the horses; some of them were working animals and others very fine hunters, but they all shared the brightness and vitality that came only from good, knowledgeable care. Their names were over their boxes – Gilbert, Sorrel, Violet, Diamond and Boxer – and five very different faces looked back at her, curious and attentive, with ears which were seldom still.

‘They’re in grand condition,’ she said admiringly.

‘Oh yes – Mr Motley doesn’t stint on his horses.’ He watched as Josephine held her hand out to the dark-grey Percheron, making no attempt to pat or slap him but gently touching his mane, emulating the nibbling action of another horse’s mouth. ‘You know about horses, then?’ he asked, impressed.

‘A bit,’ she said, as Gilbert twisted his head round and returned the compliment so vigorously that she wondered if the sleeve of her coat would ever look the same again. She glanced round at the other horses and noticed a magnificent grey hunter at the far end of the stables, set slightly apart with no name above its stall. ‘Is that Shilling?’ she asked, and the man nodded. Josephine looked for a long time at the animal she had heard so much about, and couldn’t remember when she had last seen anything as beautiful.

‘He’s something else, isn’t he?’ he said, and there was a note of awe in his voice which she had heard before from people who spent their lives with horses. ‘Worth a bit more than his name implies. That used to be the standing joke.’ He walked
slowly over to the horse, but stopped when Shilling began to flare his nostrils nervously.

‘He must have been very disturbed by what happened,’ Josephine said.

‘Yes, he was, and I suppose he’s bound to be a bit suspicious of people after what he’s been through. He hates water, you know – even rain – so it’s not hard to imagine how he must have felt in that lake.’ He held his hand out to the horse, who continued to flick his tail from side to side. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that, my boy,’ he said softly, and turned back to Josephine. ‘I thought they were pushing their luck to use him for the funeral, but he seemed to get through it all right so he must be getting a bit of his old confidence back.’