Strange about Jeremy's window. Why should this still rattle? Someone should go up tomorrow and see that it was wedged. She could of course go up tonight. It was only along a dark corridor and up a single flight of stairs in a house of which she had been the mistress for thirty years. She couldn't possibly be scared of ghosts here. She would go into the back kitchen, open the second drawer on the left, and find a collection of various-sized wooden wedges kept precisely for this purpose. Then in the next drawer was a small hammer, and armed with these she could take the candle she was carrying and go into Jeremy's room. Of course when she got there she might find Jeremy, his face pressed against the window, his tunic plastered with Flanders mud, waiting to get in. Her back hair prickled. What a silly lootal she was! Sitting here all alone half a-tremble because a window rattled and a door creaked. She wondered if the dead felt the cold. Twice Ross had suggested to her that they might travel to Brussels to see her son's grave; each time she had not taken it up. At first it was all too fresh and raw, now it was a fear of all that killing grief coming upon her again. Upon them both. Out of sight was out of mind. Partly anyway. She knew a stone had been erected. That was enough. But supposing Jeremy was upset by her neglect. Supposing a week ago, on All Hallows' Eve, he had struggled out of his grave wrappings and begun the long walk back. It would have taken him all of six days. Meggy Dawes had said once that at All-Hallows'
Eve the white spines of dead men wriggled out from their graves and tried to return home. Perhaps he had found a horse as dead as himself. He would leave behind him the smell of decay. Would he himself smell or would all the flesh have rotted off the bone? Something tapped on the window of the parlour. She leaped up, a slipper off, chair rocking, port glass rolling but not breaking, falling on the rug. Heart thumping, she grabbed a poker, went to the window, pulled back the curtain. The dark garden, a few last leaves waving in the light breeze. No plant had been allowed to overgrow so that it would be big enough to tap the window. She could not have imagined the tap. Or could she? The light from the room flooded out into the garden. Henry's small wheelbarrow was upside down with his spade on top of it. A few emaciated hollyhock spikes leaned about drunkenly. They should have been cut off. Nothing else stirred. But the night sky reflected a vivid, startling yellow from over the hill where the Bengal lights had begun. The clock said a quarter before eight. They had been impatient to start. Well and good. The display would surely last until half-past nine. She let the curtain fall. She was well enough now. She kicked off her other slipper and pulled on her boots, laced them up, put a scarf over her head and tied it in a bow under her chin. Her cloak was in the hall. She blew out the three candles in the candelabra, retained the single lighted candle on its stick. Don't hurry. What are you hurrying for? Back to put up the fireguard. Moses was out and would have to stay out until they returned. In any case there were plenty of sheltered spots in the rear of the house, among the farm sheds.
As she went out into the hall, pulling the parlour door to behind her, there was a tap on the front door. This could not be imagination. Who would want something at this time of night? All the back doors were unlocked, as was this one. One did not have thieves about in these country districts. She held the candle high, lifted the latch and opened the door. It was Paul Kellow.
Printed instructions had been included with the Bengal lights and most of the fireworks. Will Nanfan had picked as his helpers those miners who could read, and they had rehearsed it once, so it became quite a well-ordered display. Ben and Esther Carter had been included, rather against Ben's natural inclination, but Essie had persuaded him. In succession the night was lit up by brilliantly dazzling displays of indigo, scarlet, yellow, green, white, purple and azure. The villagers had seen nothing like it before, and while the fire licked its lips after consuming the straw filled Guy, these brilliancies caused gasps of awe and appreciation.
Most of the gentry had already turned up, Geoffrey Charles and Amadora, with Philip Prideaux and the Enyses. Presently Geoffrey Charles came over to Ross. After commenting on and receiving the explanation for Demelza's absence, he said: 'Have you seen Valentine this week?'
'No.'
'He appears to have seized his small son, who has been in his mother's keeping for the last six months.'
'I'm damned.'
Geoffrey Charles said: 'That's official, I believe. Polly Stevens has been called in to look after the child. I don't know exactly where Selina has been living. Do you?'
'At a place called Rayle Farm near Tehidy. You mean he has the baby at Place? Presumably he did not take his son without her permission . . .'
'Stole the child from under their noses. So I've been told.'
'Confound the fellow,' Ross said. 'You can rely on him only to do one thing - the unexpected. That's no home for a little boy. Everybody drunk, light women infesting the place, that great ape rampaging.'
'I saw David Lake last week, and he was complaining that life there had become comparatively dull of late. No one would ever expect Valentine to mend his ways, but apparently the place has been cleaned up somewhat. Maybe Valentine has had this in mind and is aiming for a degree of respectability to justify his having Georgie back. I find him quite unfathomable, you know.'
Ross watched a Roman candle send up its coloured stars.
'What will the legal position be?'
'I have no idea.'
'You should have, after all the time you spend at Lincoln's Inn.'
Geoffrey Charles smiled. 'Afraid we deal in wider matters such as international law. It's a fault of the system. No doubt the local judges' clerk would be better informed than I am. I suppose Ross waited.
'I suppose . . . well, I suppose in law the father's claim is paramount - that is unless he, the father, has been legally deprived of custody for some obvious malpractice and the wife and grandfather have been granted it instead. As far as I know there has been no such case. You and old George indeed have clubbed together to save Valentine from bankruptcy and maybe prison, so his character is not irredeemable.'
'Who told you that?'
'It is the common gossip of the local inns.'
'Since when have you frequented the local inns?'
The sparkling white of a Catherine wheel showed up Geoffrey Charles's uneven teeth when he smiled.
'I have friends, Ross. I have friends.'
They were in the parlour. The scene had not changed since Demelza had left it three minutes ago. The piece of coal she had split still smoked and flickered behind the firescreen. Clowance's fashion magazine lay open on the table. One of the two snuffed candles in the candelabra still sent up a faint wisp of smoke. The single candle burned, the one in her hand in the candlestick when she opened the door, now it was on the table. They sat opposite each other at the table. He was wearing a black suit with a white scarf tied like a cravat. His face was expressionless, his eyes malignantly curious. He was wearing built-up shoes.
'That's better,' he said. 'Just a cosy, friendly chat.'
'I was just - going to the bonfire,' she said again.
'Can you get pleasure out of that?'
'Out of what?'
'Watching fireworks.'
'Yes.'
'I can't. You see ... I don't believe it. I don't believe it is happening.'
'Oh, it is.'
'Demelza. You know I have wanted to talk to you for quite a long time. I think you suspect me of something that you are afraid to speak. Isn't that so?'
'Ross will be back soon. He is coming back for me.' 'I saw him up there laughing with his friends. He does not care for you the way I care for you.'
'Paul, you are being very silly.'
'The way I intend to care for you, that is.'
'I think that is his step now!'
'No, it is not. Sit down. He is up at the bonfire chatting and laughing with his friends. What do you think of me, Jeremy's mother? Do you suspect me of killing all those women in the county over the last two years? You could not be more wrong. When you heard that my father and mother had taken a holiday in St Ives, did you believe it? Or did you think they were both lying in the cellar, beginning to stink, where I had killed them? Well, you are wrong, Jeremy's mother. I brought them home safe and well this afternoon. They are both much happier for the change.'
Demelza again stirred in her chair, but he instantly moved to stop her if she thought of making for the door.
'You think I kill women? Quite the contrary. I watch them die, but that is another thing. I watch them die of tuberculosis. First Doris. Then Violet. Then Mary - or she soon will -- then Daisy, though she will cling on as long as she can. I know who the murderer really is. Don't you?'
She glanced at the clock. Three minutes before eight.
'It is Philip Prideaux. You should guess that! He had a first breakdown in the West Indies, where he murdered a woman. He has been in the vicinity every time a woman has had her throat slit in Cornwall. He was staying at Cardew when the maid there was killed as she was walking home. And he was close by when every one of the others died. Tall, thin, long black coat, pretending to help the justices.'
'It was a man killed by Philip in the West Indies.'
'Ah, that's what he tells you. Don't believe it. He is an intruder. Why should you suspect me when I have lived here all my life?'
The clock had moved three minutes. Paul said: 'Let me tell you about Jeremy. He organized this robbery on the stagecoach from Plymouth to Truro. No wonder he was a success in the Army. Did you know I dressed up as a woman? To wear their clothes disgusted me even then. And it was all for a woman that it began. He was crazy for Cuby Trevanion. All for a woman . . . Yet when we got away with it he made no use of the money except to buy himself a commission in the Army. Stephen bought his boat business and married Clowance. I used my money better, I used it to bolster my father's coaching business, and to buy a few whores . . .' He raised his head, listening.
'That is Moses, wanting to get in.'
'Moses?'
'Our cat.'
'I don't like cats. If I let him in I should slit his throat.'
All her blood was frozen. She wanted to be sick. Paul said: 'Even cats are preferable to women. Women are abominable.'
'Whores may be.'
"What?'
You may think some whores are unpleasant.'
'Those I had I could have killed, yes. I could have ripped them open. But I did not have a proper knife. I tried once with a pair of scissors, but it didn't work.' He took a long thin knife from under his cloak, slid off the sheath and laid it on the table. 'This is more the sort of thing.'
Demelza stared at it and swallowed.
'So far, Paul, you have told me of the things you hate. Tell me of the things you love.''The things I love? Ah, you want to be knowing, don't you. Don't you. Well, you'll know soon enough. One of the things I love is to make a woman scream, and then to stop her screaming. I assure you it is fascinating. There will be such a change in your face when I do what I intend to do to you. At first your face will be contorted with pain, but as you open your mouth for your second scream your lungs will collapse, and soon your face will go all grey and drawn like an old woman and your hair will drag. And as I open you up the greatest moment will be over.'
'Paul--'
'Hush.' He glanced at the clock. 'What time is Jeremy's father coming back?'
'Eight o'clock.'
'You said eight-thirty before. I suppose you are trying to keep me talking.' He frowned, smoothed back his sleek black hair. 'Well, I don't mind. I did not specially want to kill Jeremy's father, but he will be so surprised to see what I have done to Jeremy's mother that it will be a way to catch him unawares
The fireworks were at their peak. Having first refused to take any part in it, Ben was now enjoying the evening. Essie was at his side when he set off a rocket, and she jumped and gasped when it whooshed out of its bottle. Ross came across to them with a box of Roman candles.
'All well, Essie?'
'Lovely, thank ee, sur.'
Ross said: 'Could I leave you to set these off, Ben? It's time I went to pick up my wife, else she'll miss it all.'
'Is she not well?' Essie asked.
'Only a headache.' He handed the box to Ben, and turned to go. Then he saw a newcomer, someone who had just arrived within the periphery of the lights. Valentine. He was alone. Ross decided to speak with him, and changed his tack. Then he saw Betsy Maria Martin. 'Betsy.'
'Sur?'
'Could you walk down and fetch your mistress. She should be ready by now.'
'Er - yes, sur.' The maid turned to go. Then Ross saw the disappointment in her face. This was a firework display such as she had never seen before and probably never would again. She couldn't bear to miss it.
'Betsy.'
'Ais, sur?'
'Don't bother. I'll fetch Lady Poldark myself.' A word with Valentine, and then he'd go.
Demelza's migraine had just returned. Paul said: 'You want to keep me talking. Well, that is what I came for, to talk to you.'
'I... I asked what there was in your life that you - really liked.'
'Liked? Liked? LIKED? How can I like anything when I cannot feel anything! Everything that happens around me I see through a screen. If I used this knife to strip the clothes off you, if I stripped you naked - Jeremy's mother naked! - I should not feel anything - no lust, no embarrassment, no excitement. But when I cut your throat and see your blood spurting onto the carpet, then I shall have all the sensation there is in the world! You've no idea, Demelza. It is an engrossing excitement. Do you know what an orgasm is? Well, I shall have an orgasm.'
He smiled at her. 'This - it is like an addiction. It is such a dominance. The first time it happened - the time with the scissors - I was quite shocked, shaken. Rather afraid, very surprised - and it only happened because she tried to rob me while I was asleep. That was in a house in Plymouth Dock. But later I came to look back on it and think of it with the sort of pleasure life has never held for me before. And I began to think that all women are whores. After all, if the occasion arose, I might do it again. I asked myself might I? Then I did. And I did. And I did.'
'I am your friend and neighbour,' Demelza said.
'No, you're Jeremy's mother. But still pretty enough to kill. To destroy. All women are built to be whores, are they not? Their naked shapes are full of disease. My sisters, my wife, my mother. If one cannot remove some of them from the earth, what is the purpose of having been born?'
It was a quarter after eight. Demelza said: 'Paul why are you telling me this? You could not escape from a murder like you propose . . . Why do you not just go away and forget all you have told me? If I were to tell anyone, you could deny that you had said anything. There is no other person here to have heard it and to confirm what you say . . . But if you will go away I can promise to say naught of what you have told me ... In fact I can't believe what you have told me. It is too - too unreal. And don't forget you told me it was Philip Prideaux.'
She had said the wrong thing. 'Oh, but it is true. Everything I have told you is true. As you will be discovering for yourself in a few minutes now--'
'But why tell me--'
'Because life is so dull if one's achievements are kept secret. I want people to know about me. I am tired of pretending it is someone else--'
'But you tried - at the beginning you tried to put the blame on Philip Prideaux . . . Why should you do that if you want it for yourself--?'
'I was trying the idea out on you. I could see you didn't believe it. I could see that I couldn't escape. So it is giving me real pleasure in explaining to the victim what is going to happen to her and why I am taking pleasure in inflicting pain. Pain is the one reality. Everything else is unreal and tiresome and not worth enduring. You may say I am inflicting the pain, not suffering it. But that is just as good. It is all part of the one experience that I can believe in and relish--'
He stopped, listened. A light scratching.
'That cat?'
'He is not outside the front door now. He is ... is outside the door of this room. Did you leave the front door open?'
Paul picked up the knife. 'If you scream I'll soon stop it.'
He went to the door and lifted the latch. Moses shot in. Paul stabbed at him, but the cat, with a feline sense of self preservation, swerved his body at the last moment and howled as he reached the fire. Outside the hall was dark. The only light in the parlour was from the fire and the one candle Demelza had been holding and had put unsteadily back on the table. Knife poised, Paul kicked the door wide and peered out. The front door was ajar. A cloaked figure stood by the stairs. The knife glinted as Paul took a step into the hall. Then the other figure rushed at him. Demelza clutched the table for support, her back straight. She was on the point of fainting. The noise in the black hall was tremendous. Furniture falling, hatstand clattering, curtains ripping, two men shouting at each other between grunts and gasps and the conflict of heavy bodies. She felt she must do something, if no more than take up the candle and carry it to the door. But she had not the strength, and if that fell or was pushed from her hands the darkness would be complete. Yet someone was fighting Paul. Someone was risking his life. If Paul killed him then he would return to kill her. But it had not looked like Ross or anyone she knew. But suppose it was Ross. She had to see. She moved an inch from the table and swayed. She clutched back at it for stability.