by Nicola Upson
‘It’s a long time ago now,’ he began hesitantly, ‘but it feels like yesterday and some things just can’t be forgotten, no matter how hard you try. These years I’ve had with Christopher – they’ve given me the greatest happiness of my life, but it’s been at someone else’s expense and that’s not right.’
Penrose knew how devastated Jago had been when his wife died giving birth to Christopher, and it was only natural that the joy of the child they had both longed for should be tinged with guilt. ‘Sarah wouldn’t want you to feel like that, though,’ he said gently, hiding his disappointment that Jago’s confession had such an innocent explanation. ‘You’ve brought him up well and it’s nobody’s fault that you’ve had to do it on your own. It’s certainly not something that anyone could say you needed to be punished for.’
‘What?’ Jago looked at him, confused. ‘No, no, you don’t understand,’ he said, nervously brushing some crumbs from the table as he tried to find the words to explain. ‘It’s not Sarah I feel guilty about, although God knows I should. It’s someone else. You see, she didn’t die giving birth to Christopher.’
It was Penrose’s turn to look bewildered. ‘Then how did she die?’
‘In childbirth, but not with Christopher. Christopher’s not our son. Our child – a little girl, she was – died at the same time. There was nothing Morveth could do for either of them.’
‘Then where did Christopher come from?’ Penrose asked, but he knew the answer as soon as he had asked the question. ‘He’s Joseph Caplin’s son, isn’t he? The child he gave up after his daughter died.’ Jago’s head was in his hands and the nod was barely perceptible. ‘What happened, Jago?’ he asked quietly.
‘We always knew it was risky – Sarah’s pregnancy, I mean. It was late for her to have her first, but we’d wanted a child for so long that we ignored all the advice and kept trying for one. When we found out she was expecting, it was like a miracle. I’ve never seen anyone as happy as she was during those first few months, and the longer she carried the baby safely, the more confident we were that it would all be fine. Stupid of us, of course, because it wasn’t. Sarah was so brave, but it was torture to her. Hour after hour that labour went on, and all for nothing. The baby was dead when she was born, and Sarah died a little while after her. Thank God she was too weak to know much about it. Morveth told her she could hold her daughter when she was a bit stronger, so at least she never knew that pain as well.’
‘And this was around the time that Joseph Caplin decided he couldn’t cope with his own baby?’
‘Yes. He’d taken the child to the Union just a day or two before. Morveth knew about it. She thought she was helping, I know that – she meant well.’
‘So it was her idea?’
‘At first, but I went along with it – don’t think she forced me into anything. I didn’t know what I was doing with Sarah and the baby gone, and she took care of it all. She did the last for both of them, then brought me in to sit with them while she went out for a bit. She told me not to leave the house or talk to anyone until she came back.’
‘And she brought you a son.’
‘Yes. Beautiful little thing, he was – barely a month old and already abandoned twice by his own parents. I was terrified at first, but Morveth talked me round and persuaded me that I was his best chance of a decent start in life.’ He looked at Penrose for the first time since making his confession. ‘I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t need much persuading. Loneliness drives you to things you wouldn’t normally consider.’
‘What happened to your little girl?’
‘I’m an undertaker,’ Jago said. ‘Do you really need to ask? My God, how could I do that to Sarah? I loved her, but I shut her soul in with the dead and took the living for my own – and denied that poor baby a decent Christian burial.’
‘Did Joseph suspect what had happened?’
‘No. He started drinking badly around then, and anyway, I kept the child to myself for a while. Morveth told everyone that I needed to be left alone with my grief for a bit – which was true, but that’s not why she said it. We didn’t want people putting two and two together, you see, and Morveth helped me at first, took care of everything I couldn’t do for the child. And then, as the months went by, it seemed that Christopher grew bonnier while his father – his real father, I mean – grew more wretched. I’ve watched him slowly destroy himself these last few years, while I’ve gained from his grief like a bloody parasite.’
‘He gave the child up, though. You didn’t force him into anything.’
‘No, but he regretted it. I remember him coming to me once, when the boy was about five. He told me he’d always thought that a man on his own shouldn’t be bringing up children, but if he could have seen me with Christopher earlier, he might not have been so hasty about giving up his own son. Can you imagine how that made me feel? So don’t try and tell me I don’t deserve some kind of punishment.’
‘But punishment from whom, Jago? If Joseph had found out the truth, surely he wouldn’t hurt his own son just to get back at you?’ Jago just shook his head, as if he had lost the ability to make sense of anything. ‘Did anyone else know about this?’ Penrose asked. ‘Apart from Morveth, I mean.’
‘Some of the people at the Union knew, of course, but they turned a blind eye – partly out of loyalty to Morveth and partly because they could be sure that the boy would have a good home with me. Nobody from around here knew, at least not at first. Then a couple of months back, Nathaniel started doing some pastoral care at the Union.’
‘Did he find out what had happened?’ asked Penrose, relieved at last to find some sort of link between Nathaniel and Christopher.
‘I’m not sure. Morveth told me not to worry, but I could see she was afraid. You’d be a fool to trust people to keep their mouths shut for ever, and it would only take a loose word from someone for the whole thing to come out.’
Penrose could imagine the fear that Morveth must unwittingly have put into the undertaker’s head. He remembered the way in which Jago had brushed Caplin away from him backstage at the Minack on Tuesday night; he had thought at the time it was because Caplin’s drunkenness disgusted him, but he knew now that it must have felt like retribution staring him in the face. There were many ways to break a man, and Penrose guessed that Jago and Caplin were not as far apart emotionally at the moment as they seemed from the outside. It was easy to believe that desperation would be enough to make Jago panic and do something drastic, but that didn’t explain Christopher’s absence. Unless, of course, the boy had found out the truth and been angry or confused enough to run away. In that case, Jago would understandably feel bitter towards the person who had brought it about. ‘Did Christopher suspect he wasn’t your son?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Yes. I would have known. We didn’t have secrets from each other.’
He realised the ridiculousness of the statement as soon as it was out, but Penrose let it pass. ‘You must have been worried that he’d find out, though?’
‘What are you getting at, Archie?’ Jago asked suspiciously.
Penrose spoke softly, but his words were frank and unmistakeable. ‘Did you kill Nathaniel, Jago?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
Penrose said nothing, knowing from experience that such a flat denial was often followed by an expansion of detail which exposed the lie. It was an old trick, but – unlike most people – Jago felt no need to fill in the silence, so Penrose went on. ‘Where were you when he went over the cliff? I know you weren’t on the stage because you were seen coming back into the auditorium shortly afterwards. Did you push Nathaniel over, then leave by one of the hidden paths?’
‘No! Archie, for Christ’s sake – what are you thinking?’ He stood up from the table and went to walk away, then thought better of it and looked straight at Penrose. ‘Look, I know I’ve done wrong, but I could never, ever take a man’s life – not for anything. I’v
e seen too much, and I know how easily people leave this world. You can’t do my job without respecting life – you have to believe that.’
On the whole, Penrose did believe it but he had no intention of backing off until he’d learned everything he could. ‘Then where were you when Nathaniel died?’
Jago sighed and sat down again. ‘It’ll sound like I’m losing my mind, and maybe I am. I keep thinking I see him – Christopher, I mean. Since he disappeared, I’ve hardly had a moment’s peace. He’s everywhere and nowhere. I made a fool of myself at the fair the other night – there was a lad walking away from one of the stalls, same sort of age as Christopher and looked exactly like him in the dark. Stared at me as though I was mad when I ran after him. Then last night, at the theatre, I thought I saw him at the back of the auditorium, but when I got there, it was just my imagination playing tricks again. I went out to look round the cars, though, just in case, and that’s when I noticed my van was missing. Then I saw people starting to leave and went back to find out what was happening. By that time, Nathaniel was dead.’
It was a typical reaction from a parent whose child had gone missing, but Penrose couldn’t help wondering if it really was Jago’s imagination or if Christopher had in fact been there for reasons of his own. Just suppose that Nathaniel had said something to him in private, unbeknown to Jago; it was difficult to guess what Christopher’s reaction would have been, but the undertaker had painted a picture of a lonely boy, whose most important relationship was with his father. What might he be capable of if he was in shock and feared that that bond was about to be taken away from him? He could have faked his own disappearance, then come to the Minack in secret to get rid of the problem once and for all. He was young and strong, and certainly fit enough to have got away from the scene without being caught. ‘Christopher was supposed to help you at the Minack, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. He was going to give me a hand with the scenery.’
‘Was he in the play as well?’
‘No, he didn’t want to be.’
‘So he didn’t have a costume?’
Jago looked bewildered by the question. ‘No, he didn’t need one.’
But he was in the churchyard the last time he was seen, Penrose thought, and the vestry – where Nathaniel’s costume had been kept – was never locked.
‘You don’t think he had anything to do with Nathaniel’s death, do you?’ Jago’s horror was obvious, but Penrose could not tell if it was because he believed Christopher to be capable or incapable of such a thing. ‘It’s because of what Jacks told you about that business with Harry, isn’t it?’ the undertaker continued. ‘That’s why you think he could do something like that. It’s completely different, though, Archie. You said it yourself – that was a childish tantrum gone wrong. This is cold-blooded murder, and Christopher couldn’t do that any more than I could.’
‘Was there any animosity between Christopher and Nathaniel? Any obvious change in their relationship?’
‘No. They didn’t see a lot of each other and, after what Morveth told me, I kept Christopher away from him as much as possible.’
Morveth again, Penrose thought. It was odd that she seemed to be in control of everything, and he had no doubt now that she had removed Caplin from that post under the recess for reasons other than safety. Nathaniel was naive and desperately wanted to do the right thing by his parishioners; Morveth would not have risked leaving him on his own with Caplin if she thought he knew the truth about Christopher’s parentage and was tempted to reveal it. He remembered how she had interrupted his own conversation with Nathaniel, and how she and Jago had seemed so wary of him at Harry’s wake. Until this visit, he would have believed Morveth incapable of anything but kindness and wisdom, but he also knew how strong she was; if Nathaniel had made one discovery too many, she might act quickly to save the families she loved from harm, and it was just about feasible that she could have committed the murder and melted back into the performance. After all, the crime relied more on surprise than on strength, and Nathaniel would certainly not have expected her to turn against him. But where did that leave Christopher? It was time they paid Morveth a visit, Penrose thought; he and Trew would head into the village as soon as they’d finished with his uncle Jasper. He had heard all he needed to from Jago for the time being.
With good timing, Trew cleared his throat tactfully from the door to the stairs and Penrose signalled for him to join them again. ‘I’d like you to give PC Trew a full description of what Christopher was wearing when he went missing,’ he said to Jago as he stood up to leave. ‘And a recent photograph if you’ve got one. It would be helpful if we could borrow a piece of Christopher’s clothing – something that he’s worn.’ He could tell from the look on the older man’s face that he didn’t need to explain why such an item was needed. ‘It’s still early,’ he added, ‘and we won’t give up hope of finding him alive until we have evidence to the contrary. I meant what I said – we’ll do everything we can.’ Jago nodded, but Penrose could see that he was on the point of giving up. He could hardly imagine a greater torment for the undertaker than the uncertainty of it all. His whole life had been dedicated to giving people some sort of finality in the midst of their grief – some sort of hope, even. The rituals of burial brought comfort if you were lucky enough to believe in them, and Jago had looked after a whole community – the living and the dead – for forty years or more. It seemed a very cruel twist of fate that he of all people should be denied that solace. ‘While you’re fetching those for us, do you mind if I have a look at your van?’ he asked gently. ‘I gather Morwenna borrowed it last night and Morveth returned it to you this morning.’
‘That’s right,’ Jago said. ‘Help yourself – you know where it is.’
He went through to the next room, and Penrose looked at Trew. ‘We’ll talk outside when you’ve got the description. Don’t forget…’
‘The boots, Sir,’ Trew said before he could finish, and smiled. ‘Don’t worry – I won’t.’
Penrose went out into the lane and opened the door on the passenger side of Jago’s Ford. There, on the seat, was a small trace of blood – very faint, but unmistakeable if you knew what you were looking for. The case had moved on, but he was still relieved to find something that bore out Morwenna’s account of Loveday’s troubles and their hurried departure from the Minack the night before. He looked carefully over the rest of the car but found nothing of any interest, and went back to his own vehicle to wait impatiently for Trew.
Chapter Sixteen
Josephine sat at the desk in the Lodge, wondering how best to approach the unenviable task with which Archie had left her. Even if she managed to see Loveday, she felt uneasy about probing the girl for information behind a mask of friendship; there was a Greeks-bearing-gifts quality to it which she felt sure that Morwenna would see straight through. Still, at least it gave her something to do. She had struggled her way through a brief first chapter, and the unfortunate blonde on the beach was now in the safe hands of the coastguard; with the police on their way, she felt happy to leave it there for now. She was long practised at recognising the sort of day when words were hard to come by, and she knew that staring at a blank sheet of paper would simply make things worse; it was better for her – and for those around her – if she walked away and did something else. If only by the law of averages, the work would be less bloody tomorrow.
Reprieved by her own arguments, she took off her glasses and stared out across the lake. Today, with the deterioration in the weather, the Loe was a different creature altogether, its surface rippled by the wind and its beauty much less at odds with the legends that surrounded it. The wildfowl which had previously bathed in sunlit open waters chose to carry out their business around the edges of the water, sheltered by reed beds or by the tangles of willow and alder which punctuated the bank at regular intervals. Observing them, Josephine was distracted by a movement near the boathouse. How long had Morwenna been there? She must have been too engross
ed in her work to notice her arrival, but she watched now as the figure stood alone and pensive in the place where she had unwittingly said a final goodbye to her brother. It began to rain softly – the sort of misty rain that feels so insignificant and soaks to the skin within seconds – but Morwenna did not turn to leave or make any attempt to find somewhere more sheltered, and Josephine saw her chance: it would seem far more natural to ask her about Loveday here than to turn up unannounced at their cottage and demand admittance. She edged a disgruntled Motley Penrose gently off her lap, collected a pair of umbrellas from the rack in the hallway and went outside, wondering what on earth she was going to say.
Morwenna must have heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel behind her but she did nothing to acknowledge Josephine’s approach, and Josephine hesitated slightly, caught between her promise to Archie and her natural reluctance to intrude upon someone’s solitude. She could, of course, take the coward’s way out; Morwenna showed no sign of hurrying back to Loe Cottage and Josephine might easily be able to see Loveday now without her ever knowing, but she did not want to risk getting the girl into trouble and she needed time to talk to her properly. It was tempting, but she rejected the underhand route and made her way down the grass bank to the water. ‘I’ve brought you this,’ she said, tentatively holding out the umbrella. ‘It looks set in for the day now.’ Morwenna ignored her, and even Josephine acknowledged that such a ridiculous comment wasn’t worthy of a response: what difference could a spot of rain possibly make to this woman’s landscape? She dispensed with the small talk, which was as alien to her as it was unwelcome to Morwenna, and tried again. ‘How’s Loveday? Archie said she wasn’t well.’
