by Nicola Upson
‘Did you jilt him?’
Reluctant to start a conversation about the war and what it had meant to her, Josephine smiled. ‘No. In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that he jilted me.’
Loveday looked petulant. ‘I’ve jilted Christopher,’ she said.
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because he’s ignoring me. He hasn’t spoken to me since Sunday.’
‘Does he know he’s in your bad books?’
‘Of course not. I haven’t had a chance to tell him.’
Had she not realised the seriousness of Christopher’s disappearance, Josephine would have been amused by Loveday’s indignation: a girl was never too young to resent being denied the chance to air her grievances first. ‘So you haven’t heard from him at all?’
‘No, not a thing.’
‘And he didn’t say anything to you about having to go away? To see some friends, perhaps?’ Loveday shook her head. ‘Not even as a secret? You don’t have to tell me the details if you do know where he is – I’ll just be impressed you found out.’
‘No,’ said Loveday sulkily, and Josephine could tell from her frown that she was speaking the truth. ‘I was hoping to see him at the theatre, but I had to go. I don’t suppose you saw him?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She decided against worrying Loveday by telling her that Christopher had not shown his face at the Minack – or anywhere else, for that matter. ‘I didn’t even see much of you. You left in such a hurry – are you feeling better now?’
‘Much better, thank you – not that Christopher cares. He made such a fuss of me at first when I didn’t feel well, and I thought he was sure to come and see me today, but he hasn’t as much as sent a message.’
Josephine was confused. ‘I thought you hadn’t seen him?’
Loveday looked at her as if she were a little stupid. ‘I haven’t.’
‘But if he was concerned last night when you felt ill…’
‘No, not last night. When I was first ill, I said – that was weeks ago.’
Surprised, Josephine said: ‘Loveday, how did you feel back then, when Christopher was so worried about you?’
‘Horrible,’ she said, shuddering. ‘I was sick all the time – just like I was once when I ate some berries I found in the woods, except this went on for longer.’
‘And last night? Were you sick then?’
‘No, that’s stopped now, thank goodness. Morveth gave me something to make it go away. Last night was just the curse, but it hurt more than usual. Morwenna said it was so bad because I hadn’t had one for a while. I suppose that makes sense, but I’m glad it’s better today.’
Josephine was torn between relief that Loveday remained blissfully ignorant of her obvious miscarriage, and horror at this latest example of the way in which the girl was so easily manipulated by those around her. ‘It sounds as though Morveth looked after you well,’ she said. ‘What did she give you?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but it smelt funny. Morwenna was angry with her for making me drink it yesterday when I wanted to go to the play, but Morveth said something about it having to be right with the moon, and if she waited another month it would be too late.’
Reminding herself that this was 1935, Josephine said: ‘And Christopher knew you were being sick?’
‘Yes. He was really nice to me about it, but I could tell he was worried.’
I bet he was, Josephine thought. She could imagine how Jago Snipe would have reacted to the news that his son had got Loveday pregnant. Running away – if that was indeed what he had done – must have seemed by far the lesser of two evils. ‘Did anyone else know you were ill?’ she asked.
‘No. Morwenna said we should keep it to ourselves, and I was to stay at home as much as possible until I felt better. That’s why she got so angry whenever I ran off – but it’s so boring, being stuck in the house all the time.’
‘What about Harry? Did he know you weren’t well before he had his accident?’ If Harry had found out that Christopher was taking advantage of his little sister, that would explain the animosity between them.
Loveday considered the question for a moment. ‘No – he would have done something to make me feel better,’ she said. ‘He always knew how to cheer me up.’
It was the first time that Josephine had heard Loveday use the past tense with regard to her brother. At least she seemed to be coming to terms with that tragedy, although the news of Nathaniel’s death – and possibly Christopher’s – could surely not be kept from her for much longer, and she was bound to be deeply upset when she heard. ‘I know he’s made you cross – I would be, too – but you and Christopher are very good friends, aren’t you?’ she said gently. Loveday nodded, and she looked so sad that Josephine was tempted to try to explain the situation to her: was allowing her to believe that Christopher had betrayed her affections really any kinder than being honest with her about the danger in which he might have found himself? In the end, she decided against it; she could only guess at what had really happened to the boy, and telling Loveday something which she subsequently discovered to be a lie would only make her as insensitive as everyone else. Instead, with the unpleasant taste of treachery in her mouth, she did as Archie had asked. ‘Did Harry ever have a special friend, like you have Christopher? One person with whom he was particularly close?’
‘No. He had me and Morwenna.’
‘Of course he did, but I mean someone different.’ The irony was not lost on her as she added, ‘Someone outside the family.’
This seemed to be a new idea to Loveday. She thought about it, but eventually shook her head. ‘Definitely not. I would have known.’
‘Even if he didn’t want to tell you?’
‘Oh yes. Sometimes I used to follow him, you see, just for fun.’
‘And he didn’t meet anyone, or go anywhere in particular? With Nathaniel, for example?’
‘Into the village, usually. And he did meet people, but not someone to be alone with, not like…’ She left the sentence unfinished and looked down at the sheets, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, Nathaniel wouldn’t be like Christopher, would he?’
Josephine was saved the embarrassment of further explanation by the sound of someone opening the back door. Morwenna had returned sooner than expected, perhaps having had second thoughts about leaving her sister alone to talk to a stranger, and her time with Loveday was clearly about to be curtailed. Footsteps stopped halfway up the stairs, as though Morwenna were trying to listen to their conversation, and Josephine said brightly to Loveday: ‘Would you like me to read you the first chapter before I have to go?’
Loveday nodded enthusiastically, and handed her the book. She had barely got halfway through the first paragraph before she was interrupted, but the voice was not Morwenna’s.
‘I’m sure you mean well, Miss Tey, but I think Loveday needs some rest now.’ She turned to see Morveth Wearne standing in the doorway, her face resolute and brooking no argument. ‘Perhaps you could come back another day.’
It occurred to Josephine that the same offer might have been made to a condemned man with more hope of its being allowed to come true, but she resisted the temptation to jump up as though she were one of Morveth’s pupils. ‘Oh, we’ve been taking it easy, haven’t we?’ she said casually, glancing conspiratorially at Loveday. ‘And it’s good to know that your patient is so much better than she has been of late.’
This last comment could hardly have been more blatant, but Morveth did not even flinch. ‘Then let’s make sure it stays that way,’ she said, opening the door slightly. It was a subtle gesture, but somehow harder to disobey than an outright order to leave.
‘I’ll come and see you again,’ she promised Loveday defiantly. ‘Enjoy the book, and don’t be too careful with it. When you’re better, I’ll let you read some of the new one.’ She bent down to kiss the girl’s forehead, and whispered in her ear so that Morveth could not hear what she was saying. ‘You never know, I might find a role for you in it. But that’
s our secret.’
Loveday beamed at her and she left the room, glad that Morveth at least refrained from seeing her off the premises like a poacher discovered trespassing on estate land. As she closed the door behind her and walked down the path, Josephine could feel the eyes burning into the back of her head. She resisted the temptation to turn around.
Chapter Seventeen
Beth Jacks got up from where she had been kneeling on the cold stone floor of the church, and turned away while Jasper Motley tidied his clothes. Such modesty was hardly necessary, he thought, as he watched her wipe her hand quickly across her mouth, but at least she was getting better at masking her revulsion. If anyone had a right to be disgusted, it was he: her face was rarely without the marks of her husband’s fist these days, and that purple stain of shame made it almost impossible for him to take any satisfaction in their sex – if what they did now was even worthy of the name. He had long since abandoned any attempt to force himself on her as he would have liked to; her compliance made no allowance for the sense of power which had first awakened, then guided, his sexuality, and she ought to be grateful that he was willing to continue the arrangement at all.
She took a seat at the vestry table, while he lifted the lid on the panelled oak coffer and removed a black bag. It was an elaborate piece of furniture to store so little that was of value, but he tried not to dwell on its emptiness as he put the money on the table in front of her. He saw an expression of disappointment cross her face as she picked the coins up, one by one – he had not been as generous as usual, but she had more sense than to complain. Instead, she pushed the Bible hesitantly towards him and waited. Impatiently, he chose a passage at random and began to read, keen to get this part of the business over and done with. He had laughed the first time she asked him to do it, scornful of the idea that the humiliating sin of which she was guilty could somehow be absolved by the person who had demanded it, but she had shown a rare moment of strength by insisting on a reading from the scriptures every time, and he obliged her because it cost him nothing. The understanding they shared had, of course, been his idea, and she had looked at him in horror when he first suggested it, but it had not taken her long to come round to the idea. Years of ill-treatment from her husband had dulled her self-respect but sharpened a streak of pragmatism which saw the sense in being paid for her shame, and it was not his place to strip her of the illusion that money would eventually buy her freedom. He had seen men like Jacks before and understood what drove them; there were no lengths to which the gamekeeper would not go to keep what was his, whether he valued it or not.
When the reading was over, he stood at the door in the north porch and watched Beth Jacks walk away through the gravestones, leaving the churchyard by the lych gate and heading back into the estate. The rain had stopped now, and the air felt young and fresh again – cleansed, he would have said, if he were the type to seek regeneration. Looking across at the rectory opposite, he noticed that there was a dark car parked by the hedge; as he watched, his nephew got out from the driver’s side and gazed intently after Beth Jacks, then back at the church. Absentmindedly, Motley rubbed his temple, where a headache had been building all day. He had expected a visit from the police since this morning, when his wife had returned from the village full of the news of Nathaniel Shoebridge’s death. The curate’s obvious antagonism towards him was bound to require some sort of explanation now, but never for a moment had he considered that the police might arrive in the shape of Archie Penrose, and he was suddenly uneasy: he feared Penrose’s intelligence and his integrity – they were so like his mother’s. He had never got to know his nephew – Lizzie made sure of that – and none of the family were regular churchgoers, so he had not even watched Archie grow up from a distance, but he was aware that an unspoken bitterness existed between them which stretched back to the war. Then, like many other preachers in hundreds of pulpits around the country, Jasper Motley had considered it his duty to encourage the young men of his parish to fight for their country, and he had done so with a dedication and a passion which did not usually characterise his sermons. On one such occasion – a harvest festival, he thought it was, right at the beginning of the war – the Penroses made a rare appearance in the family pew, more out of solidarity for William than anything else. He remembered the expression of sadness and scepticism on Archie’s face when the preaching turned to the glories of war, and it had seemed so out of place in someone so young; two years later, having witnessed the horror for himself, his nephew returned to the church, on sick leave after an incident in which his closest friend had been killed. By then, the congregation had dwindled considerably and Archie sat alone in the front pew, directly in line with the gothic Victorian lectern, staring up at his uncle with hatred and blame in his eyes, as if the fighting were somehow his fault. Nothing had been said, but there was such an intensity in the moment that Jasper Motley had, ever since, harboured a secret fear that Penrose would eventually find something for which he could make his uncle pay, no matter how many years it took.
If he had had any doubt that the visit was official, it would have been dispelled when a uniformed police constable got out of the passenger seat. Motley met them halfway up the path, reluctant to talk in the vestry in case the sordid nature of his encounter with Beth Jacks remained somehow tangible there. Penrose came straight to the point, refusing to acknowledge any family connection between them. ‘We need to talk to you about Nathaniel’s death,’ he said, with the easy politeness of a man talking to a stranger. ‘I presume you’ve heard what happened?’
Motley nodded. ‘I’d left the theatre by then, as I’m sure you know, but my wife told me this morning. Everyone was talking about it in the village, she said, and I telephoned William to get the details. He said it wasn’t an accident.’
‘We’re treating it as murder, so I’d like to know more about the incident between you and Nathaniel just before he died.’ He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. ‘To eliminate you from our inquiries, as they say.’
‘You’d better come up to the house,’ Motley said, realising that he was not going to be able to get this over with as quickly as he would have liked. Penrose looked again at the church and, for a second, Motley thought he was going to argue, but he nodded his agreement and stood aside to let his uncle lead the way. ‘You can’t bring that thing in with you, though,’ the vicar added. ‘Edwina hates dogs.’
Apparently unoffended, the constable smiled good-naturedly and left the terrier in the car. As Motley opened the door to Bar Lodge, he heard his wife coming down the stairs. She stopped on the first landing, deciding against whatever she had been about to say as soon as she saw that he was not alone; for a moment, she looked curiously at the small group in the hallway, then turned and went back upstairs without a word, but not before he noticed satisfaction in her eyes. It would amuse her to stand by while he lost everything; more than ever, he was determined not to let it happen.
He led the policemen through to the drawing room and stood by the fireplace, determined to maintain some sort of authority in his own home, even though his legs ached and he desperately needed to sit down. Penrose looked around with interest, and Motley realised that this was unfamiliar territory to his nephew, who had never set foot in the house before. His manner was relaxed and unhurried, and he glanced leisurely around the room before speaking, taking in the French-style walnut settee and the fine mahogany longcase clock, and noting, no doubt, the discrepancy between the luxury of the vicar’s domestic space and the neglected professional arena which was supposed to be his first concern. ‘Some of my men will be conducting a search of the churchyard and the church itself,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m sure they can rely on your co-operation.’
‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ Motley asked, genuinely surprised. ‘Surely it can have no bearing on Shoebridge’s death?’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Penrose said, and Motley detected the first note of irritation in an otherwise faultless perfo
rmance. ‘Christopher Snipe is missing, but he was last seen in the graveyard on Sunday night. Did you notice him there? Or anybody else?’
‘No. Sunday was a busy day, and I was tired. We had an early supper after Pinching’s funeral, and I went to bed. I certainly wasn’t in the mood to wander round the churchyard in the dark.’
‘I’m not suggesting you were, but there’s a perfectly good view of at least half of it from here. You might have noticed something from the window.’
Motley shook his head. ‘I was asleep from eight o’clock, or just after. Edwina will confirm that.’
‘Nathaniel kept his original costume for the play in the vestry, ready to bring to the Minack for me to wear on Tuesday night, but it was already missing when he went to fetch it. When was the last time you noticed it there? It was one of the brown habits.’
‘I remember seeing it on Monday afternoon.’
‘What time?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Well, I went to the church after lunch and stayed there for a couple of hours. The cricket match was just finishing when I left, and the costume was still there then. Listen, I hope your men are going to be careful,’ he added, still thrown by the idea of a search. ‘Make sure they show some respect – there are people at rest there.’ He knew how hollow his concern for the souls of his dead parishioners must sound after all these years. Penrose laughed – a sarcastic, dismissive gesture which reminded Motley so much of his sister that he had to turn away for a second to keep his composure. He remembered how often Lizzie had laughed at him like that when they were children. She and William were always caught up in their rituals and their private jokes, and for years the only acknowledgement he ever received from them was rejection – until he realised that there was a way to make Lizzie notice him, late at night, when she was alone in her room with no one else to turn to. The first time he crept along that long corridor at Loe House, he had only intended to frighten her. Her room was in darkness, but she was sleeping so soundly that he was able to walk softly over to the bed without any risk of discovery. He listened to her slow, regular breathing for a moment, then put his hand roughly over her mouth, meaning to give her the shock of her life and bring this smug, untroubled rest to an abrupt end. She awoke in fear, which turned to anger when she saw who it was, but he was older and stronger and her small body was no match for his; he felt her struggle beneath him, and the excitement which he experienced for the first time in that moment was fleeting but so intense that he knew he could not leave it there. What surprised him most was how easy it had been to make his sister believe that his nightly visits were all her fault, to crush her vitality and independence under the weight of a secret shame. In the end, his pleasure was psychological as much as it was physical: isolating her from the rest of the family, making her fear her parents and even William, was a triumph, and he was amused to notice that she soon began to get herself into trouble deliberately, as if being punished for other sins would somehow assuage the deeper sense of guilt which festered inside her. Jasper knew it could not last for ever, but he had desperately needed someone to belong to him and, for a while, Lizzie did. Nothing else in his life had ever quite lived up to the potency of those three brief years.
