The Dying of the Light

by Robert Richardson

“I bring you naught for your comfort.”

  “Quotes I don’t need,” Maltravers told him. “Particularly any that go on about the sky growing darker and the sea rising higher. Anyway, Helen was just about to take me to see George Trevithick who may be able to come up with more details about Agnes’s disappearance.”

  “Good thinking,” Lacey said approvingly. “Give him my love … better make that best wishes. I don’t want him getting any wrong ideas. Once a copper, always a copper.”

  *

  George Trevithick was Cornish Peninsular Man. During their conversation, Maltravers realised that he had never travelled further east than Exeter, a rare excursion into another county, apart from one trip to London to receive an MBE for faithful policing of the tiny corner of England that had been his family’s home since before the Domesday Book. A widower, he lived alone, but two of his sons were still within a few minutes’ walk; the third had moved to some terra incognita called Welwyn Garden City, a place as remote and unknown to his father as Tibet. Age had rusted his joints with arthritis and stroked the drooping moustache with chalk. He had long memories, roots running miles deep, a circle of friends being slowly diminished by death, his television set and a ragged, amiable mongrel comfortably into his second canine century. Trevithick welcomed company, particularly any which gave him the opportunity to talk about the past.

  “Agnes Thorpe?” he repeated after Helen had explained. Their cover story was that Maltravers was thinking about writing a newspaper article on the mystery. “Never did get to the bottom of that.”

  “But there was an inquest,” Maltravers pointed out.

  “Only because Superintendent Hawkins and Harry Tomkins, the old coroner, wanted to keep things tidy. Both dead now of course. When we couldn’t find her body and that note turned up, they were satisfied.”

  “But were you?”

  Trevithick pulled a face, then stood up and went to an oak dresser in one corner of the room. He opened a drawer and Maltravers could just see that it contained a collection of dark red notebooks, neatly arranged and obviously old. He took one out and glanced inside the cover.

  “Here we are. Beat reports from January to October 1951. I’ve kept them all.” He sat down again and turned several pages, then handed the book to Maltravers. “Read that. Everything I can tell you is in there.”

  Its foundations laid by a village schoolma’am, fading script swept across the lined pages in firm, classic loops, the letters leaning slightly forwards. George Trevithick had been a conscientious and meticulous policeman, noting everything that happened in his career in plain but comprehensive narrative. The account of Agnes Thorpe’s disappearance covered twelve pages, each entry dated and frequently timed, until the final comment: “Inquest held at Penzance coroner’s court, September 3, 1951. Verdict: suicide.”

  “You say …” Maltravers turned back several pages, “that after she hadn’t been washed up along the coast here, the search moved to the far side of Mounts Bay. That’s quite a distance isn’t it?”

  “Call it four miles in a straight line east to west,” Trevithick replied. “But Agnes was a strong swimmer. She could have made that.”

  “Do you think she actually did?”

  “I’m going no further than saying she could have done,” he repeated. “But there were others who thought the same. Old Dolly Pentreath — long before your time, Helen — was convinced of it.”

  “Why?” asked Maltravers.

  “Because she met Agnes on the afternoon of the day she vanished and swore that she was perfectly normal.”

  “She didn’t seem upset about anything?”

  “No.” Trevithick paused and Maltravers sensed the old policeman’s anticipation of revealing something with a little drama. “But she was coming out of her bank in Penzance. When we checked later, they told us she’d drawn out a hundred and fifty pounds in cash.”

  “Enough to run away with?” Maltravers suggested.

  “You could live on that sort of money for a long time in those days. And we never found hide nor hair of it.”

  “But her death was still presumed and the inquest went ahead?”

  Trevithick sniffed disparagingly. “A few people senior to me decided there was enough evidence for it. Particularly with that note.”

  “Can you remember what it said? Even roughly?”

  Trevithick paused, then quoted without further hesitation. “’I have taken my life because I have contracted cancer and have only been given six months to live. The doctor has warned me that the end will be painful and I do not choose to face that or inflict the distress of it on those I love. It is my wish that they will continue the activities of the Botallack Theatre and the other plans we have made, as a permanent memorial to one who loved Cornwall.’ Might have got the odd bit wrong, but that was it more or less. I’ve got a copy somewhere if you want to see it.”

  “No, your memory’s good enough for me.” Maltravers completed his final shorthand outlines, then read it back quickly. “Where was it found and who was it addressed to?”

  “It came through the post to Dorothy Lowe the day after Agnes vanished. Posted in Penzance.”

  “Where she’d been seen that afternoon,” Maltravers commented. “Why Dorothy Lowe?”

  “Nobody knows, but she was secretary of the Botallack Theatre Trust, or whatever they called themselves in those days.”

  “I didn’t know it came in the post,” said Helen. “I thought it had just turned up at her home.”

  “Two other things,” added Maltravers. “Did she write a letter to her fiancéand was there a will?”

  “Jenkins said she didn’t and was very cut up about it,” Trevithick replied. “But her solicitor produced the will. Basically, everything was left to the trust. The others confirmed that all their wills said the same thing.”

  Maltravers frowned as he looked back over what he had written. “I take it the police were satisfied that the note was genuine?”

  “In her handwriting and on her notepaper.”

  “And despite all that, you and others here in Porthennis still didn’t believe it?”

  Trevithick absently stroked the head of the half-asleep dog sitting by his chair. The animal’s wagging tail slapped softly on the floor in the silence.

  “We thought there could be another answer,” he said finally. “But we didn’t know what it might be and had nothing to prove anything. She was certainly never seen again, alive or dead.”

  He accepted a cigarette, leaning forward in his chair as Maltravers reached across and held out his lighter.

  “George, if it had been up to you, what would you have done?”

  The old policeman expelled a slow stream of smoke. “I’d have waited a damned sight longer before I held that inquest. In fact, the file could still be open on it today.”

  “But surely she would have died by now?”

  “Possibly, but possibly not. She’d be getting on, but no more than a few others I could name in this village. Like me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Imperceptibly, the silent room slid into gloom, lemon evening light fading down through amber and monochrome twilight and dying in soft grey shadows. Ruth Harvey’s mood darkened with it as the possible, chilling reason behind Nick Charlton searching the cottage began to obsess her. At first it had been inexplicable, but then she had begun to piece together random incidents and apparently casual remarks and an explanation began to emerge that first shocked then persuaded and horrified her. He had been so very clever, hiding his intentions behind a façade of helpfulness and sympathy, as he plotted, invidiously creeping towards the truth he had somehow glimpsed. Searching the cottage would not have helped him, unless there had been something hidden there that Martha had never told her about, which she could not believe. But what would he do next? There were other places, perhaps containing things Ruth did not know, other people who might be tricked into fatal indiscretions.

  Suddenly she became conscious of the gathered
darkness. She stood up and turned on the standard lamp by the window. The shade was reflected in the glass as she stared into the night at polished ebony sea. It was nearly half past ten, and the last light of the day had been smothered by a cover of cloud. She had to think what to do. Martha would have known, but Martha was now only a great hollow emptiness in her life, an emptiness caused by whoever had killed her. Had it been Nick? Or had it been … ? Her mind reeled with possibilities. If she could only talk to Martha. No, not talk, that was impossible, but communicate somehow. At the end Martha had believed there was life beyond death and perhaps … the image of Agnes Thorpe’s statue formed in Ruth’s mind. She shuddered but accepted its summons. A few minutes later, she drove up Fern Hill and took the road to the Botallack.

  *

  Before leaving George Trevithick, Maltravers had asked him to point out on a map where Agnes Thorpe’s body should have been washed ashore. It was a quarter-mile stretch of coastline, starting on the opposite side of the Botallack headland from Cat’s Head cove, jagged with tiny inlets too small to have even been named. Trevithick assured him that every one had been searched, but Maltravers set off early to collect Tess after the evening performance and walked along the edge of the cliffs to see for himself where it should have happened. Looking down at huge granite rocks stained saffron with lichen and washed with smoke-grey sea, he turned over what he had managed to discover, frustrated as they stubbornly refused to yield their secrets, if secrets they had. There were clear connections between Agnes Thorpe and Martha Shaw when both had been alive; now one was certainly dead and the other … ? A coroner’s verdict could not kill her, nor an old policeman’s suspicions make her live. And only Maltravers’s own irrational instincts linked them both. Idly he kicked a stone and watched it tumble down before bouncing off the face of a rock and dropping into the water with a splash he could see but not hear.

  An hour later, he was still as helpless as he removed the tape of Barbirolli conducting Elgar and replaced it with the Gerry Mulligan quartet. The tenor saxophone playing the ‘Morning of Carnival’ theme from Black Orpheus drifted across the empty Botallack car park and into the whispering night as another car drove in and stopped near Agnes Thorpe’s statue. Little more than a silhouette in the darkness, someone got out and he was peering across the distance between them, trying to make out what the figure was doing, when the passenger door opened and Tess joined him.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “Over there.” He nodded in the direction without looking at her as he turned off the music. “By the statue. Just standing there.”

  Tess squinted. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. They’ve only just arrived. Come on, I want to know what’s going on.”

  Their footsteps crunched on a crisp foam of cinders, but Ruth Harvey remained motionless as they approached, head bowed and hands clasped, then jumped and looked startled as they reached her. Pallid moonlight gleamed between rags of tearing cloud and glistened on quicksilver streaks of tears.

  “It’s all right,” Maltravers said gently. “We don’t want to disturb you, but we just saw you here and wondered … Are you Ruth Harvey?”

  “How do you know?” The question was guarded, even afraid.

  “I didn’t, but …” He glanced at the statue. “Martha carved that didn’t she? Is that why you came?”

  “Who are you?” Now the question was timid.

  “We’re friends of Helen Finch. I think you know her. I’m Augustus Maltravers and this is my girlfriend Tess Davy, who’s playing here at the Botallack. I’ve just come to collect her.” He hesitated. “We know what’s happened of course, it must have been terrible for you. We’re very sorry.”

  A sob choked in Ruth Harvey’s throat before her voice emerged in a strained whisper. “Please … it’s very kind of you, but please leave me alone. I’ll be all right.”

  Tess looked at her sadly. “You must have loved her very much.”

  Ruth Harvey’s eyes became empty, as though she was gazing inward at a lifetime of memories in a great sweep of recollection. Pressed tightly together, thin lips trembled.

  “Yes,” she replied and there was unutterable sense of loss in the single word. “She was everything I had.”

  Tess felt the swarm of Ruth Harvey’s feelings reach them. It was as though the agony of every tragedy she had appeared in was concentrated on this elderly and vulnerable woman, helplessly crushing her.

  “It will get better.” Maltravers’s assurance was totally inadequate, but he had to say something. Ruth Harvey turned to the statue again.

  “No, it will never get better,” she said softly. “Not until I am dead myself.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t say that,” Tess urged her. “You mustn’t think it. Friends of mine have died, people I loved very dearly. It’s awful and the pain never completely goes away, but it does become bearable.”

  “I’d like to believe that, but you see …” She shook her head violently. “No, there are things I can’t talk about.”

  “Of course you can’t,” Maltravers said sympathetically. “We all have secret memories of people who were special to us.”

  “Secret memories.” The phrase was repeated thoughtfully. “But not always happy secrets. Sometimes they’re wicked.”

  Appalled by the word, Tess instantly interpreted it in only one way. “No! You mustn’t say that! It wasn’t wicked. You and Martha loved each other. I know people must have said it was wrong, that’s how they thought when you were young. But it wasn’t!”

  “What?” For a moment Ruth Harvey appeared confused, then understood and contradicted her. “Of course that wasn’t wicked. It can’t be wicked to love someone.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “I mean that …” The little woman stopped herself savagely. “No, I mustn’t! Go away. Please.”

  “You mustn’t what?” Maltravers pressed gently. “It’s important isn’t it? Perhaps we can help if you’ll tell us.”

  “Help?” She looked at him in bewilderment. “Nobody can help. Not now. It’s too late.”

  He stepped forward and took her arm as she began to sob. “Ruth, this is a dreadful question, but I have to ask it. Do you think that somebody killed Martha?”

  She wrenched herself away, staring at him in terror.

  “What do you know?” The cry of her question filled the night. “I don’t know anything, but … ”

  “Was it you?” Ruth Harvey backed away. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course it wasn’t. I never even met Martha. I’d not heard of her until …”

  She suddenly leapt at him, frail hands hysterically beating his chest. He wrapped his arms around her tightly.

  “Stop it!’ he said firmly. “It’s all right. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Come on.”

  She struggled helplessly, then her head fell against him and she began to cry, shuddering with emotion as he hugged her like a child. Tess put her hand on the old woman’s trembling shoulder.

  “We didn’t hurt Martha,” she said gently. “But do you know who did?”

  They waited as wracking sobs slowly subsided into nervous shivering, then Maltravers felt her slacken in his grip.

  “I’m sorry.” The agonised croaking voice was desperate and pleading. “I’m being very stupid.”

  Maltravers let his arms fall as Ruth pulled herself together. She sniffed loudly and pressed the back of her hand against her nose.

  “I’m just very upset and you saying what you did made me …” She looked up at him, eyes asking forgiveness. “You get silly ideas when you get old. Of course nobody killed Martha. Why on earth should they?”

  “I’m very sorry I upset you,” he replied carefully. “I’m the one who should be apologising.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” For a moment, her eyes went back to the statue. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

  Abruptly she turned and walked towards her car. Tess made a movement as if to follow, but Maltrave
rs caught her hand and silently shook his head as he led her away.

  “She’s terrified about something,” he murmured. “If we press it in the state she’s in, all we’ll do is upset her even more.”

  He opened his own car door. “Get in. I’m going to stop along the lane and wait until she leaves. We’ll follow her and make sure she gets home safely.”

  He pulled into a passing place within two hundred yards of the theatre and turned off engine and lights. It was very quiet. Far below, cloud-free moon turned patches of sea into hammered pewter as it splashed about the crouching black form of Cat’s Head rock.

  “You do realise that she could throw herself off the cliffs while we’re waiting here, don’t you?” Tess said.

  “It’s a risk.” Maltravers blew cigarette smoke out of the window. “But if she really is suicidal, she’s going to do it anyway. Nobody can watch her night and day.”

  “What do you think? About what she said.”

  “She’s lying. At least at the end she was covering up by pretending she was being hysterical. She believes Martha was murdered and must have different reasons than Mortimer for thinking it.”

  The cigarette end spun like a glow-worm in the darkness as he flicked it on to the road. “And what was it that was wicked? That’s a heavy word for a little lady.”

  “She’s very distressed,” Tess said. “Don’t pounce on everything she says and start analysing it. She just lost the woman she loved.”

  “Point taken, but Helen and I stumbled across a few other things today,” he replied. “Any suggestion to other members of the School that Martha’s death wasn’t an accident touches very raw nerves.”

  Tess remained silent for a few moments after he had finished telling her about Scott and Edith’s reactions.

  “But you’ve really got no more than impressions,” she said finally. “There’s nothing positive.”

  “I know that,” he acknowledged. “But the impression is that they know something and want to keep it covered up.”

  “And does Ruth know something as well?”

  “She accused me of murdering Martha, which …” Maltravers thought for a moment. “Which suggests she may not actually know, but suspects. And where does she come tonight? To Agnes Thorpe.”