Angel with Two Faces jt-2

by Nicola Upson

  There was a sharp crack, and Jago swore loudly as the wood snapped in his hands. ‘Christ, I haven’t done that since I was twenty,’ he said angrily, looking at the saw as if he could blame it for his carelessness.

  Penrose waited while Jago selected another piece of wood, and heard the squeak of the vice as it was clamped viciously in place on the bench. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked.

  ‘You can help by finding my son, not standing round here like a bloody apprentice,’ Jago growled, then softened a little. ‘If you really want to make yourself useful, you can check that pitch isn’t about to boil over. We don’t need a fire on top of everything else.’

  The outburst surprised Penrose, who had not realised that Jago was anything other than irritated by his son’s sudden disappearance. He walked down to the far end of the workshop, past the nearly completed coffin that Jim was making such a good job of, and another two which were half made, presumably for sudden emergencies. The pitch crock – a large iron bucket with a spout and handle – stood right at the back on a primus burner, and was filled with a dark bubbling liquid, the consistency of toffee, which was used to line the coffins. The effect of the whole thing would not have been out of place in Macbeth. The heat coming off the stove was no doubt welcome in the winter months, but Penrose found it oppressive in May and was pleased to turn the flame down slightly. He noticed a couple of refectory benches and a group of wooden bowls over in a corner. ‘Are those for the play?’ he asked, nodding towards the items, whose period feel was out of place next to the more timeless objects that usually came out of the workshop.

  ‘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,’ Pe
nrose 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.’

  Chapter Eight

  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.