Hitchcock sat on the terrace outside the Mirror Room and saw the reflected image of two police cars driving down the hill to the hotel. They pulled up outside‚ and, as he watched the uniformed men get out and disappear into reception, he felt the familiar constriction around his heart. For a moment, he was back in that cell again, thirty years older but still the same little boy, terrified of being thought bad, already irretrievably cast as the innocent man accused. He remembered the indiscretion that had got him there, the fury in his father’s eyes and the voice of the policeman as the cell door clanged shut behind him: ‘This is what we do to naughty boys.’ He would have that on his gravestone.
Turning away, he caught sight of his own reflection in the glass – his body rigid with fear, palms sweating, eyes staring ahead – and the mirror seemed to act as his conscience. He had no idea why the police were here, but their presence unnerved him more than ever, coming so soon after Alma’s disapproval of the night before. What if he
had
gone too far? What would she do? Her absence seemed to underline his anxiety.
He had always felt the need to prove himself to his wife and had never, in his heart, believed himself to be worthy of her; one day, she would see that for herself‚ and the idea that he might lose her terrified him. It was the only thing that he would never be able to share with her. For all his talk, he knew that the greatest fears were the ones you never admitted to, in case the very act of speaking them aloud made them come true.
Marta lit her third cigarette with the dying embers of the second. There was a noise from further along the path‚ and, for all her bravado, she felt a sudden sting of fear. She pulled the dog closer and considered moving down onto the sands‚ but she had left it too late to hide; the footsteps were almost upon her. When Archie emerged from the trees with a uniformed policeman, she could have cried with relief. ‘Is Josephine all right?’ she asked anxiously.
‘She’s fine. I’ve left her back at the hotel with Bridget. It wasn’t easy to stop her coming with me, but I promised I’d keep you safe.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her with concern. ‘It’s never right that it has to be anybody, but I’m so sorry it was you.’
Marta shrugged unconvincingly. ‘It’s made me realise that for someone who’s been to prison as an accessory to murder, I’m embarrassingly ill acquainted with the subject.’
It was a feeble attempt at humour‚ but Archie smiled anyway, more at the expression on the other policeman’s face than at the joke itself. ‘I’m afraid we’re all going to be more familiar with it after last night. A second body’s just been found in the woods. Bella Hutton.’
Marta looked at him in disbelief. ‘What on earth’s going on, Archie? Does Josephine know?’
‘Yes.’
‘She met Bella last night. They talked. Did she tell you?’
‘I didn’t really give her the chance. I came straight here when she told me you were on your own.’ He glanced over to the stone hut where the girl’s body lay, and scowled. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Constable Powell? You can’t go in there.’
The policeman moved away from the entrance, apparently unruffled by the reprimand. ‘It’s the Erley girl, sir,’ he said. ‘Just like I thought.’
There was a note of satisfaction in his voice which Marta found despicable; judging by the expression on Archie’s face, she wasn’t the only one. ‘Does she have a first name?’
‘Branwen. I could have told you she’d come to no good.’
‘And would you mind telling me how you arrived at such an enlightening prediction?’ Archie asked, making no effort to hide his irritation.
‘She’s a chip off the old block, sir, just like her mother. She couldn’t keep herself out of trouble either.’
Marta opened her mouth to speak‚ but Archie got there first. ‘Let’s get this straight, Constable. What has happened to Branwen Erley wasn’t determined by her genes. Rape and murder are not part of any inheritance I’ve ever come across. Neither has she brought this on herself, no matter who she was or what she’s done. The fault for this lies entirely with the culprit, not with the victim. Do I make myself clear?’
‘As crystal, sir.’
‘Good. Because if you ever say anything like that in my hearing again, I’ll have you off the force faster than you’ve moved in your life.’
Marta watched Archie’s face as he looked at Branwen Erley’s body. She had expected his to be a purely professional view, devoid of any emotion, but she was wrong. He must have been called to so many scenes like this, but a day-to-day familiarity with violence did not seem to have hardened him to the individual tragedy of this death. As he looked at the body, taking in every detail, his face held a genuine sadness for the victim‚ and she liked him all the more for it.
‘Right, Powell, I’d like you to stay here with Miss Erley’s body until forensics arrive,’ he said when he had seen enough. ‘Don’t go any closer than you are now‚ and, should anyone else pass by here, I don’t want them straying from the path. Take their names and send them straight to the hotel. We can’t have people wandering around these woods at the moment.’ Powell gave a grudging assent, and Marta suspected that his resentment had less to do with being ordered around than with being ordered around in front of a woman. ‘But first you can tell me what you know about Miss Erley and her family. And I’ll have it without the personal commentary this time.’
‘They lived over in Porthmadog,’ he said. ‘Gareth Erley – that’s her father – was a quarryman at the slate caverns in Llechwedd. Decent sort of bloke, but he had a lot to put up with from his missus. That’s the price you pay for marrying a looker, I suppose. He never quite knew who was as cosy with his wife as he was, if you know what I mean.’
‘And where are Branwen’s parents now?’
‘Her dad died a few years back. I don’t know where Rhiannon ended up. She left him when the kid was little more than a baby. Did well for herself, you might say. Ran off with the lord of the manor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Draycotts had the money round here. They really thought they were something, looking at each other across the water in their grand houses, having nothing to do with the likes of us.’ He saw Archie’s face and got to the point. ‘Henry Draycott lived across the estuary, one of the big places off the Harlech road. He liked the girls from the town, and marrying one of them didn’t stop him keeping up with the others. Rhiannon Erley must have worked a real number on him because he ended up taking her abroad. Neither of them ever came back here. Can’t say I blame them: her old man would have killed them both.’ Archie resisted the temptation to interrupt his story by asking, in that case, what his definition of ‘decent’ was. ‘I don’t expect Gwyneth Draycott was too happy about it, either,’ Powell added. ‘She was pregnant when they left‚ and Rhiannon was her closest friend.’
‘So Branwen was brought up by her father?’
‘By her gran, really. His mother. She still lives over in Porthmadog.’
‘And she would be Branwen’s next of kin.’
‘I suppose so, unless you can find Rhiannon. Branwen wasn’t very close to her gran, I don’t think. As far as I know, she’d been working here pretty much from when it opened. I suppose she thought it was glamorous, but I wouldn’t let
my
daughter anywhere near the place. All them queers and arty types.’ Powell gave a shudder. He looked at Archie and added slyly‚ ‘I don’t think you mentioned why you were here, sir?’
‘Do you know if Miss Erley had a boyfriend?’
‘Always, sir. No one specific.’
He left the implication hanging in the air. ‘And what about Mrs Draycott? What did she do after her husband left her?’
‘She shut the house up and came over here with the child for a few years.’ Archie looked at him questioningly. ‘Her sister-in-law rented the house – that’s what I meant about them looking at each other across the water. Then when Grace Draycott died and they turned it into a hotel, Gwyneth moved back home. She still lives there.’ Archie glanced at the house across the water and saw it properly for the first time, even though he had been staring at the same view all weekend. ‘She’s not all there, though, by all accounts. Half her family died in the loony bin up the road. I don’t blame her husband for wanting to get away. Her kid was probably better off out of it, too.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘The poor little sod was killed by one of the Gypsies who used to come here for the summer.’
‘You were on that case?’
Powell nodded. ‘We never found the body.’
‘So how do you know what happened?’
‘It stands to reason, doesn’t it?’
Archie stifled his automatic response and asked‚ ‘Did you get a confession?’
‘We didn’t get the chance. The gyppo died in a fire before we could ask him.’
As tempting as it was to give Powell a few thoughts on his style of policing, Archie resisted; he needed to get back to the hotel. ‘Thank you,’ he said, signalling to Marta that he was ready to go. ‘You’ve been very informative.’
‘And as for Bella Hutton,’ Powell began, but Archie held up his hand.
‘That’s enough for now. I’m very grateful for your local knowledge, but I think there’ll be enough gossip and speculation about Bella Hutton without any encouragement from us.’
The man gave an insolent smile and shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, sir. Glad to have been of help.’
The news of Bella Hutton’s death refused to feel like anything other than a sick joke to Josephine as she sat on the top lawn with Bridget, trying to make sense of the past hour. At Archie’s request, the guests had been asked to return to their rooms or wait in one of the hotel’s public areas until the murder sites had been secured‚ and, as more police began to arrive from the surrounding towns, she noticed how the character of Portmeirion changed instantly: the glimpse of a dark-blue uniform at the foot of a pathway or the door of a building turned its secret beauty into something more sinister and threatening, taking its toll on guests and staff alike. No one had been told any details yet, but the carefree, live-and-let-live attitude of the morning had gone, and everywhere Josephine looked people were suddenly watchful, suspicious, afraid. Only Lydia and the Motleys seemed oblivious to the change in atmosphere: she had made several attempts to beckon them in from the water, but they were too far out now to recognise the urgency in her greeting‚ and in the end she had given up.
‘What’s the worst thing Archie’s ever forgiven you for?’ Bridget asked. The question came from nowhere, and Josephine looked at her in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, that was too personal. I wasn’t trying to pry into your life, just to find out if Archie is still as understanding in his old age as he was when I knew him. He was always so kind.’
‘He still is.’ Josephine took a sip of coffee‚ and its temperature reminded her that she had never wanted the drink in the first place. ‘I don’t know that I can really answer your question,’ she said, pushing the cup away. ‘The worst thing I’ve ever
done
to Archie is to fall in love with someone else, but you’d have to ask him if he’s forgiven me or not.’ She could see from Bridget’s expression that her response had satisfied one of the questions that remained unspoken between them. ‘And it’s not really the sort of thing I’m very good at discussing with him. Not in so many words, anyway.’
‘But you’re still friends.’
‘For want of a better word, yes.’ Of all the qualities Josephine had expected to find in Bridget, uncertainty wasn’t one of them‚ and it intrigued her. ‘What are you worried about?’ she asked more gently. ‘Forgiveness is a very big word.’
Bridget smiled. ‘And don’t I know it?’ She sighed, and reached down to check on the injured Jack Russell who lay quietly in the shade under her chair, diligently licking his paw. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start with that one, Josephine, even if I could trust you not to tell Archie. And you would tell him, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course I would. Unless I was absolutely sure you’d do it yourself.’ She watched as Alma came out onto the terrace and looked round for her husband. It was obvious from their body language that they had no idea what was going on‚ and, ironically, the suspense seemed to be something that Hitchcock found difficult to bear. Alma put a reassuring hand on his arm as they went back into the hotel, and Josephine wondered if she should seek them out and have a discreet word, but Archie’s instructions had been very clear‚ and he wouldn’t thank her for interfering. In the end, her dilemma was solved for her: Archie and Marta came round the bend of the coastal path, and only then, when they were tempered with relief, did Josephine allow herself to acknowledge her worst fears. She stood to go and meet them, but was stopped by the strange combination of concern and longing in Bridget’s eyes as she watched Archie. ‘You obviously want to see him again,’ she said.
‘Yes, very much.’
‘Then I don’t think you have a choice. Whatever it is will destroy you if you keep it from him. It’s started already.’
‘You make it sound very simple.’
‘Meddling in someone else’s life always is. That’s why so many people do it.’ She smiled, and nodded towards Marta and Archie. ‘For what it’s worth, the odds are in your favour. It’s a long story, but ask Marta how understanding Archie can be. I think you’ll be pleased.’
James Wyllie met Penrose at reception and took him discreetly to one side. ‘The local force have sent as many men as they can,’ he said, ‘but the officer in charge will be another half an hour at least. An Inspector Roberts, apparently. He’s coming from Colwyn Bay.’
‘You don’t know him?’
‘No. I can’t say we have much call for the police here as a rule.’
The comment was sober rather than defensive, and Penrose understood what a black day this must be for Wyllie, both personally and professionally: the stain of murder would have serious consequences for Portmeirion, particularly if the killer turned out to be connected with the village, and the manager had been here for several years now, freeing Clough from day-to-day concerns and coming to love the place almost as much as its creator. Wyllie seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how hell is always so much worse if it’s once been heaven.
Is
the other body Branwen?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’
‘I’m so sorry. She was only in her twenties, and yet she must have been here longer than anyone.’ He paused, then asked reluctantly‚ ‘Does it suggest that whoever did this is more likely to be one of us?’
‘It’s far too early to say. Did Miss Erley live in?’
‘Yes. There are some staff rooms at the back of the hotel. She had one of those.’
‘Would you make sure it’s locked?’
‘Of course. I’ve secured Miss Hutton’s suite as you requested.’
‘Good. I’ll need to examine both, but I want to talk to everyone first. It’s not fair to keep them in the dark any longer.’
Wyllie gave a knowing smile. ‘I think Mr Hitchcock would agree with you there. They’re all waiting for you in the Mirror Room, but I can’t say they went very gracefully.’
‘I can imagine. I assume you’re all right with my handling this for now until Roberts arrives?’
‘Of course.’ He turned to go‚ but Wyllie called him back. ‘I’ll have to tell Clough,’ he said. ‘He’ll be devastated, but he’d never forgive me if he heard it from someone else.’
‘Fine. Telephone him now but . . .’
‘Ask him to keep it to himself. Don’t worry,’ he said, smiling at Penrose with a hint of his usual charm. ‘Discretion is one thing we
do
know about here.’
As he walked into the Mirror Room, Penrose couldn’t help feeling that his life had been wound back twelve hours; Hitchcock’s guests had, for the most part, chosen the seats that they had occupied the night before, an instinctive attempt to find order amid chaos. To save time, he had asked Josephine to join them so that she could share her conversation with Bella Hutton; Marta had very sensibly elected to stay outside with Bridget and wait for Lydia and his cousins to return to dry land. The only person who hadn’t yet arrived was Leyton Turnbull. Penrose didn’t blame him for showing a reluctance to come back into the company that had so recently torn him to shreds, but he hoped that there wasn’t a more sinister explanation for his absence. ‘Where is Leyton Turnbull?’ he asked, turning to Hitchcock.
‘We haven’t seen him this morning. I imagine he’s nursing his hangover.’ The director looked anxiously at David Franks‚ and Penrose guessed that a silent instruction had passed between them.
Franks stood up, confirming his suspicions. ‘I’ll go and find him for you. He’s probably still in his room.’
Penrose had no intention of allowing the director to slip into his usual role. ‘No, it’s fine. Please sit down. If he’s not here by the time we’ve finished talking, I’ll go and look for him myself.’ The tone of his voice left no one in any doubt as to who was in charge. Franks did as he was told, glancing apologetically at Hitchcock.
‘Is this about Bella?’ Everyone, including her husband, stared at Alma Reville. ‘It’s just that she’s the only other person who isn’t here‚ and you don’t seem surprised by that, Chief Inspector.’
With a grudging respect for her intelligence, Penrose nodded. ‘There have been two murders overnight in Portmeirion, and I’m afraid that Miss Hutton is one of the victims. Her body was found in the woods this morning.’
David Franks stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re lying. You must be.’ Penrose was used to news of a violent death being met with such ardent denial, but he had not expected that reaction from anyone here‚ and he looked at Franks’s devastated face in surprise. ‘Is this another one of your gags?’ Franks shouted at Hitchcock. ‘Something you’ve dreamt up to keep us on our toes this weekend? Because if it is, you’ve gone too far.’
‘Of course it’s not a joke, David.’ Alma tried to console Franks but he pushed her away. ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you, Hitch?’
Penrose was interested to see that it was more a question than a statement, but he gave Alma the backing of which her husband seemed incapable. ‘Miss Reville is right. I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.’
‘What happened?’
‘She was stabbed in the dog cemetery,’ Penrose said, thinking how little justice his words actually did to the actress’s fate. Even so, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Astrid Lake shudder. ‘We’ll know more when the forensics team has had a chance to examine the scene.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.’
‘Try and stop me.’ Franks turned away and began to walk out of the room‚ but Spence was too quick for him. ‘Let me go, damn you,’ he yelled, struggling to get past.
‘Not until you’ve calmed down.’ Penrose noticed how gently Spence held Franks until his anger began to subside. When he sensed it was safe to do so, he relaxed his grip and squeezed Franks’s shoulder affectionately. ‘The Inspector’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘You can’t do any good by going up there now. Bella wouldn’t want you to see her like that. You know what she was like.’
‘What was your relationship with Bella Hutton?’ Penrose asked.
Franks sat down and made an effort to pull himself together. ‘She was my mother’s sister,’ he said. ‘My mother died when I was eight; my father followed her six years later. Bella and Max took me to live with them in America. They got me a job on a film set – between them, they knew just about everybody in Hollywood, so it wasn’t hard – and they kept me out of trouble. I was a very angry young man after my father’s death, and they showed me how to channel that into something more creative than I might otherwise have chosen. When their marriage broke up, I came back here with Bella‚ and she vouched for me with the studios until I could prove myself all over again in England.’
The details of Franks’s family connections to Bella Hutton seemed to be news to everyone except the Hitchcocks and Jack Spence. Penrose noticed that Josephine, in particular, was looking at him curiously‚ and he wondered why. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If I’d known you were so close I’d have handled things rather differently.’
Franks shrugged. ‘How were you to know? Anyway,’ he admitted, ‘we hadn’t been as close recently. I may as well tell you that before someone else does.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Bella was used to guiding my career‚ and she found it hard to accept that I wanted to make my own decisions, even if they turned out to be the wrong ones. I wanted to stand on my own two feet.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I suppose I’ll have plenty of time to do that now.’
Astrid Lake spoke up for the first time. ‘You said two murders. Who else is dead?’
‘One of the hotel’s waiting staff,’ Penrose said. ‘Her name was Branwen Erley. She was the young woman singing with the band last night, and her body was found at the lookout point on the headland this morning.’
The actress looked across at Daniel Lascelles but he refused to meet her eye. ‘Was she stabbed as well?’
‘No.’
She waited for him to expand and, when he didn’t, asked angrily‚ ‘So what does that mean? Is there more than one killer, or is he just versatile?’
‘It’s far too early for me to speculate like that. When both bodies have been thoroughly examined, we’ll have more evidence to go on. In the meantime . . .’
Hitchcock interrupted him, unable to control his temper any longer. ‘Then shouldn’t you be out there gathering that evidence, Chief Inspector, rather than wasting time in here pretending you’re Hercule bloody Poirot in the final chapter?’ He glanced accusingly at Josephine as he delivered the insult, and Penrose found it hard to decide whether her affronted expression was on his behalf or if she simply resented the association. ‘I don’t see what a maniac on the loose in those woods has to do with any of us.’
‘What makes you assume it was a maniac?’
‘What makes you assume it wasn’t?’ It was a reasonable retort, but Penrose wasn’t prepared to admit as much. ‘Surely someone had a grudge against this waitress? Bella probably saw something she shouldn’t have and was killed because of that?’
Anything to deflect attention from your fun and games this weekend, Penrose thought. ‘I can assure you, sir, you’re not getting any special treatment.’ It was an ambivalent phrase, and he scarcely cared whether Hitchcock took it as a warning or a comfort. ‘All the staff and guests will be questioned in due course‚ and I appreciate your theory, but as Miss Erley was almost certainly strangled with the lead from Bella Hutton’s dog, and as her clothing suggests that she was alive later‚ when the night grew cold, it seems logical to me to assume that Miss Hutton was killed first.’ It had the desired effect: Hitchcock’s bluster collapsed like a house of cards‚ and he sat down meekly next to his wife.
‘I think they knew each other, Archie. Bella Hutton and Branwen Erley, I mean.’
Penrose looked at Josephine. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘They were talking on the terrace yesterday afternoon. I don’t know what they were saying, but it didn’t look like a waitress and guest conversation. The girl seemed upset. Then Bella said something to her‚ and she smiled.’
‘Do you know anything about that?’ Penrose asked Franks.
He shook his head. ‘No, but Bella was always a generous tipper. A lot of staff smiled when she was around.’
Penrose turned to Hitchcock. ‘Did you invite Bella Hutton to join you here for the weekend?’
‘No,’ the director said, clearing his throat and looking round for some water. ‘We were friends. I’ve known her for about ten years, but I didn’t realise she was going to be here until yesterday.’
‘And when was the last time you saw her?’
He looked frightened to death by the continued questioning‚ and Alma answered firmly for both of them. ‘At coffee last night. Neither of us set eyes on Bella again after she left this room. We went back to the Watch House at around ten thirty,’ she added, offering Penrose the alibi he hadn’t yet asked for. ‘And we were there until breakfast this morning.’
‘Did anyone else see her after she left here?’ Everyone looked at each other but nobody spoke. ‘What about her parting remark? She said that her greatest fear was to know the manner of her own death; that’s a very peculiar thing to say hours before you’re murdered. Can anyone explain what she meant by that?’
‘I think I can.’ All eyes in the room turned to Josephine again. ‘Bella had cancer. She told me she only had a few weeks to live, but that’s plenty of time when all that’s ahead of you is pain and misery. I imagine that’s what she meant. It must have been terrifying for her.’
‘It was,’ Franks agreed. ‘She kept her illness very private, though. She didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her.’
‘But you knew about it?’
‘She told me most things. At least I thought she did, but perhaps your friend will prove me wrong.’
He looked at Josephine, almost challenging her to do so. ‘I doubt that,’ Josephine said. ‘It was a very brief conversation. But she’d obviously been weighing up her life, which is probably what we’d all do in her position. I caught her at a time when she needed to talk but I’m sure she wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been a stranger.’ She glanced apologetically at David Franks. ‘You don’t burden someone you love with your own fears, do you? But an outsider is different.’
Penrose knew Josephine well enough to understand that she would not have been untouched by her meeting with Bella, no matter how much of a stranger she was. ‘Tell me what she talked about,’ he said gently. ‘Everything you can remember, no matter how insignificant it seemed at the time.’
She hesitated, and he knew that she was reluctant to discuss it in front of an audience, but he wanted to see how the others reacted to what she had to say. ‘She talked about her early career and meeting her husband. From what she said, it was obvious that she still loved him; it seemed to me that he’d hurt her very badly, though.’
‘She didn’t like the way he ran his business,’ Franks explained. ‘For someone who had spent so long at the top of her industry, Bella could be very naive about the deals that were done and the way money was made. She thought he exploited people‚ and I suppose he did, but Max could never understand why that made a difference to her or to their marriage. He loved her every bit as much as she loved him. I remember being caught in the middle when it started to go wrong. God, those two could fight.’
‘And he’s still in America?’
‘I don’t think he was prowling the woods last night, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I mean he’ll need to be informed of her death,’ Penrose said evenly, although the thought had crossed his mind.
‘Oh‚ I see. Yes, he’s still in LA. Sorry.’
‘What else did Bella tell you?’ Penrose asked, turning back to Josephine.
‘She talked a lot about her family and what had happened to them after she moved away from here.’
‘Here? You mean Portmeirion?’ He listened as Josephine explained, furious with himself for dismissing what Constable Powell had been about to say just because the man irritated him. ‘Her older sister created the dog cemetery, and her younger sister died in childbirth.’ She paused and looked at David Franks. ‘That was your mother?’ He nodded. ‘So it was your father . . .’
‘Who was murdered by a pack of dogs, metaphorically speaking? Yes, it was.’ He didn’t give Penrose the chance to ask for an explanation, but described the circumstances of his father’s death with a calm matter-of-factness which was undermined by the anger in his eyes.