by Nicola Upson
‘What about you and Harry? Did you stop?’
‘Of course we didn’t. It just made us more secretive, and more contemptuous of them. We laughed at how impotent they seemed – when of course it was Harry and me who couldn’t control what we were doing. They knew we were carrying on as before, and it didn’t take them long to realise that nothing would stop us except physical separation. I was sent to the Union until they could arrange something more permanent, and that’s why he started the fire – they were going to send him away. My father had a sister who’d married up country, and they asked her if he could go and live there.’ She paused and looked around the kitchen, as if trying to imagine what that night had been like. ‘Harry told me he started the fire here, with the letter our aunt wrote to say yes.’
‘But why wipe out everyone, himself and Loveday included?’ Archie was trying to keep his voice as dispassionate as possible, but it was hard to disguise his anger at the recollection of how William had risked his own life to save Harry and Loveday, and how guilty his uncle had felt for failing to rescue the whole family. ‘Everyone except you, that is.’
‘Yes, that must have looked suspicious. I suppose it crossed your policeman’s mind that I might have started it for some reason?’
‘Yes, or that you knew he was going to do it.’
‘No, I had no idea, and it wasn’t a calculated thing on his part – please believe that. He was in absolute despair – it was a kind of madness, I suppose. I’m not trying to excuse what he did, but he was eighteen and utterly lost. Our relationship was the core of who we were, and the only reality we knew. Without it, there was nothing, and you’re absolutely right to say he wanted to wipe everything out; he didn’t care because the rest of the world simply didn’t exist for him any more. What we had wasn’t just one relationship that existed alongside others – it was the relationship, something that belonged to the past and the future. Nothing could be allowed to stand in the way of it.’
Archie said nothing, but he thought about what it must have been like in that household before the fire. Love amongst members of a family often turned to hate but rarely to indifference, and he could only begin to imagine the trauma involved when the temptation to possess each other sexually became too much.
‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ Morwenna said, misreading his silence. ‘I’m not sure we did.’
‘It sounds to me like you have a fairly good understanding.’
She smiled. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to think about it.’
‘Did anyone outside the family know?’
‘Morveth – they asked her to look after Loveday for a few days to get her out of the house when things were at their worst. And I think my father must have told Jago – they were good friends, and he always went to him for advice.’
‘Do you think Loveday had any sense of what was going on?’
‘No, she was far too young to understand.’
She wasn’t too young now, though, Archie thought, and there was no way that all the complexities of Harry’s love for Morwenna would have died with his parents. ‘Loveday said you’d argued a lot with Harry recently, and that you even had to lock yourself in your room to keep him away.’
‘She told you that?’
He hesitated. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Ah – she told your friend, then. How useful for you to have a spy in residence.’ Archie started to deny that it was like that, but of course – in effect – it was. ‘You might as well hear it from me, I suppose,’ Morwenna continued. ‘Strangely, no one seemed to suspect that the fire was anything other than an accident, but that left Morveth with a dilemma – if Harry was sent away, who would support Loveday and me? You know how it is – breaking a family up is the last resort and the Union gates are always open, so Morveth allowed him to stay on the condition that we behaved ourselves.’
The flippancy of her words would have annoyed Archie if he didn’t know her well enough to see through it. ‘And you managed to convince her that you could?’
‘We did better than that – we did stop, at least the physical side of our relationship. It went against everything in my heart and you’ve no idea how badly I craved that sort of affection, but it was the only thing to do. We had a responsibility to Loveday, and sometimes I’ve hated her for it.’
‘And Harry accepted that?’
‘Yes, because it was only supposed to be temporary. I let him think that we’d begin again when she was grown up, and I suppose it was easier to tell myself that as well. We started pulling together for us, for some sort of mythical happy ending. It’s funny – everyone admired Harry for taking the disappointment of missing out on his new life so well. As far as most of them were concerned, he’d given up his future to do his duty, when in reality he didn’t have a future that wasn’t here with me.’
‘But you obviously knew in your heart that things would never work out for you.’
‘I didn’t love him any less, but things were different after the fire and after what he’d done – different for both of us, I think. We kidded ourselves that we could simply emerge from behind our secret one day and live a normal life, but our relationship was never going to be a permanent sanctuary. You can’t be responsible for a death and not be affected by it. The beauty of our love was that it was exclusive – there was no one else in the world but Harry and me. Suddenly that changed. There was Loveday to worry about, and the spectre of my parents hanging over us, and all the guilt that we’d kept at bay for so long was with me all the time. When Loveday was older, he started to talk about us again, and tried to pick up where we left off. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted – locking my door was as much about keeping myself back as keeping him out – but I couldn’t do it. It was tainted, somehow, and I think that deep down he knew that.’
‘How did he react?’
‘Badly. He drank, he gambled, he took his frustration out on everyone. And he… well, he looked elsewhere.’
‘That must have hurt.’
‘Yes, but it was my choice. I could have brought him back to me at any time, but I didn’t.’
‘Who did he turn to?’
‘No one you know,’ she said quickly, and he detected the first lie of their conversation but was reluctant to press her. Was it Nathaniel, he wondered? Had the curate – out of loyalty or out of shame – only told him half the truth?
‘Did Nathaniel ever find out that you and Harry were lovers?’ he asked.
‘No, although he may have guessed in time, I suppose. But, as you said, he wasn’t the type to cover up what he knew and I’m sure he would have tackled us about it if he’d known.’
‘How did Harry feel when Nathaniel confronted him about the fire?’
‘Betrayed. Things had been strained between them for some time, and Harry could never work out why. He said he kept going out of his way to be friendly towards Nathaniel, but all it did was drive him further away. He finally understood what had gone wrong between them when Nathaniel came to see him about the fire, but that only made things worse. Harry thought true friendship was strong enough to withstand anything – you were loyal to him or you weren’t, you loved him or you didn’t. He wasn’t unlike Loveday in that respect. It sounds simplistic to you, I suppose, but he expected Nathaniel to be on his side, to know that he’d have had his reasons and to trust him; the fact that he didn’t was unforgivable, but by that time he was mixing in very different company anyway.’
‘The argument you had with Harry on the night before he died – was that about renewing your relationship or Nathaniel’s knowledge of the fire?’
‘Both, I suppose. They were interlinked by then, and there were always new variations on that old theme.’ Morwenna closed her eyes briefly, as though wanting to shut out the image of that final night. ‘We had a terrible row, and I accused him – amongst other things – of never having truly loved me. I said it in the heat of the moment, but if I’d sat down and thought for hours I couldn’t have come up with anything
that would have hurt him more. He hit me – just a slap, nothing more, and I deserved it, but it horrified him to realise that he could do such a thing. Anything other than tenderness was alien to him as far as I was concerned. Then he stormed out, and I heard him take Shilling from the stable.’
‘And that was the last time you saw him?’
She hesitated. ‘No. I saw him once more, not long before he died.’
‘Where?’
‘At the boathouse by the Lodge.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I couldn’t take it any more, Archie,’ she said, unable to hold back the tears any longer. ‘The pain of living with Harry and not being with him, of bringing up Loveday in some sick parody of a happy family. And he’d changed towards me – he’d look at me sometimes as if the hopelessness of it all was my fault, as if I’d wantonly destroyed our happiness. You have no idea how claustrophobic I felt in this house. We couldn’t get away from each other. And with everything that Nathaniel had said, it could only be a matter of time before it all came out. I just needed peace – peace for me, without having to bear the responsibility of Loveday and Harry’s feelings, and there was only one way I could think of to make it all go away.’
‘You were going to take your own life?’
‘Yes. I left the house shortly after he did, just to get away from these four walls, and I didn’t even stop to think about Loveday. I walked by the lake for a long time. You know what it’s like at night – there’s nothing as quiet, nothing as close to oblivion as that water when it’s still. I made my way to the boathouse, knowing that there was no one at the Lodge to see me, and I decided to take the boat out to the middle and put an end to the misery – for all of us. I sat on the landing stage for a long time, watching it get light, thinking about what a mess everything had become and how our parents had died for nothing, and trying not to think about what would happen to Harry when he knew what I’d done.’
‘But he found you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘How was he?’
‘He looked terrible. He’d been drinking again and fighting, and his face was cut and bruised, but he was different, somehow – calmer, resigned. I think he guessed immediately what I was going to do, although he didn’t say so; he just talked to me – gently, like the old Harry, convincing me to live. He said nothing could ever take away what we had, but he realised that he had to get away from the estate and everything that had happened. We walked back here together, and he told me he would always love me, no matter where he went. I had no idea what he meant to do, and I didn’t have the strength to argue with him any more. I thought he was going away, just like he was supposed to all those years ago. I didn’t know the selfish bastard was going to ride his horse into the lake.’ She broke down completely now, and Archie got up and went round to the other side of the table, unable to do anything but hold her. ‘How could he let me down like that? He forced me to go on without any hope of him, looking after Loveday in this living hell. Sometimes, when I think of how he’s betrayed me, the hatred sticks in my throat and I can hardly breathe. It should have been him who had to live, but he fooled me, and I’ll never forgive him for that.’
If Morwenna really blamed Nathaniel for Harry’s suicide – and Archie was now convinced that it was suicide – she would have had a powerful motive to kill him, and her grief might easily have driven her to it, but he couldn’t help feeling that he was no nearer to understanding Nathaniel’s murder and Christopher’s disappearance than he had been two hours ago. All the things that had confused him about Morwenna’s behaviour in the past, however, were suddenly explained: her defiance and lack of trust, her reluctance to make friends with other women on the estate, even the ease of their own relationship; he had, he realised now, filled the gap that her love for her real brother had left vacant.
After a while, she pulled away from him, in control once more. She started to tidy away the things on the table, and gave an ironic smile when she got to the Tennyson. ‘At least we’re in good company – Arthur’s sister was his downfall, wasn’t she?’
‘Is that how you see yourself – as Harry’s downfall?’
‘Of course it is. He killed himself because I wouldn’t do the one thing that could have made him want to live. You can be very persuasive, Archie, but even you couldn’t convince me that I’m not to blame for his death.’ In a story, this would no doubt have had some sort of heroic grandeur to it, but all Archie could see was a very human misery. He watched as Morwenna picked the book up and opened it. ‘You gave this to me after my parents died,’ she said. ‘Do you remember?’
He nodded. ‘It was meant to be a comfort, but perhaps it wasn’t the most appropriate present I’ve ever given.’
‘You know, all I could think of then was how envious I was of the way that you’d mourned your parents. I wished more than anything that I could have felt a grief as pure as that, as simple. I’m sure it didn’t feel simple to you,’ she said, as he opened his mouth to disagree, ‘but at least there were no secrets and nothing to hide.’ She flicked through pages which looked well read. ‘It’s turned out to be a very valuable present now. Harry died to me twice, you know – as a lover, and then as a brother. I thought I might feel a sense of freedom somehow, but I don’t. Perhaps if I read this often enough, I might believe in something, though. You never know.’
It would take more than Tennyson to comfort Morwenna, Archie thought. Death ended a life, but not a relationship, and grief was always worse when so much had been left unresolved. He doubted that there was anything cathartic about what Morwenna was feeling; all she had to define herself by now was her dead brother’s ghost. There was a noise from above and Morwenna looked up. ‘I must go and see how Loveday is,’ she said. ‘I suppose the things I said about her sounded terrible to you, didn’t they?’
‘Not terrible, no. It must be difficult to have to step into a parent’s shoes when it’s not your choice.’
She seemed grateful for his answer. ‘Difficult isn’t the word. But I am trying to do the best I can for her.’
‘And helping her deal with Harry’s death must be torture for you. I can see why you didn’t thank Nathaniel for confusing the issue.’
‘I have no idea how to cope with it,’ she admitted. ‘What do you tell a fourteen-year-old about death, let alone a death as complicated as this? And because I can’t bear to talk about it, it makes it all unreal to her, somehow – he’s just gone away, and she can’t understand why I’ve taken his photograph down.’
‘They got on well, from what I can remember.’
‘Yes, and more so as she got older. He showed her an exciting world of freedom while all I ever did was tell her what she couldn’t do. She’s lost that now, and I know she blames me in some way. She stays away from home whenever she can, and doesn’t ask much of me. I blamed Nathaniel for that, but it’s my fault, not his. I am sorry he’s dead, you know,’ she said as Archie stood up, ready to go. ‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘And you wouldn’t tell me if you did.’
‘Probably not,’ he admitted, ‘but – for what it’s worth – I will tell you to stay safe. When Loveday’s well again, try to keep an eye on her. No one should be wandering around at the moment, and steer clear of Kestrel Jacks.’
‘Why? Do you think he had something to do with it?’
‘There’s no reason to suspect him more than anyone else, but you know how he feels about you and, with Harry gone, he might try and do something about it.’
‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? He beats his wife up and we all turn a blind eye to it, but Harry and I loved each other and that’s the sin. Nothing makes sense – not to me, at least.’ Put like that, Archie thought, it was not surprising that she should feel so bitter. ‘Anyway, I doubt Jacks would want me if he knew Harry had got there first,’ she added, walking him to the door. ‘I’d be damaged goods as far as he was concerned. It’s almost worth
telling him just to see the look on his face.’
‘You’re not serious, are you?’ he asked, with an urgency in his voice. Her words reminded him of what Jago had said about Loveday, and suddenly he feared for Morwenna: there was a fragility about her which her defiance had never entirely masked, and he sensed in her now a lack of concern for her own welfare which bordered almost on self-loathing. It would smoulder in her, he knew, if she did not try to get over what had happened, but how on earth was she supposed to do that? ‘If you’re worried that I’ll make this public, then don’t be. You’ve told me in confidence, and it has nothing to do with the investigation as far as I can see.’
She surprised him by lifting a hand tenderly to his cheek. ‘It’s nice that you care, Archie,’ she said, ‘but how can it matter now if someone finds out? I don’t feel anything any more. What can hurt me?’
Chapter Fourteen
It had begun to rain softly by the time Penrose arrived back at the Minack and, as the mist drifted in from the sea, drawing the horizon ever closer like a magnet, he saw a very different side to the theatre’s character – a side which made Rowena Cade’s stoic determination to make a success of the venture even more remarkable. He had arranged to meet Angus Trew here to review the scene before proceeding with the investigation; last night, it had been virtually impossible to do anything except get Nathaniel’s body to safety and take the necessary photographs. This morning, while he had no great hopes that the Minack would give up any significant physical evidence, he wanted to fix the area firmly in his mind and make sure that every possibility was covered in the questioning which lay ahead. On the way over, he had called in at the police station in Penzance to see what the camera had managed to capture in its race against the tide, and the stark, black-and-white record of the curate’s terrible death helped to focus his mind. Penrose was aware that his attention had, until now, been spread too thin; he had to concentrate on Nathaniel, and stop letting the business with Harry and Morwenna distract him from a murder case. Their grief needed to be laid to rest, in his own mind at least.
