The Dying of the Light

by Robert Richardson

  “To a statue of Agnes Thorpe carved by Martha Shaw,” Tess corrected. “That’s not quite the same thing.”

  “But if she just wanted to be close to something Martha made, there are almost certainly things of hers in the cottage. Why come out here at this time of night?” Tess frowned disapprovingly, but said nothing as he lit another cigarette. “I’ve been looking into that little mystery again as well. Helen took me to see the old village bobby this afternoon and he’s never really believed that Agnes died.”

  “Then what does he think happened?”

  “He doesn’t know, but even after all these years he’s still not satisfied about it and …” Maltravers, who had been watching the rear view mirror, reached for the ignition key. “This looks like Ruth.” Seconds later an old Ford Escort went past and Maltravers pulled out.

  “Don’t get too close,” Tess warned him.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think she’ll recognise us anyway.”

  As they reached the top of the Fern Hill road, they saw the Escort’s brake lights flare as the car stopped. Maltravers killed his headlights and they watched Ruth Harvey go through the gate of the cottage. As they drove past, a light appeared behind the front room window.

  “At least she’s home safe again for the time being,” Maltravers said as they cruised down the hill and into Porthennis.

  “What are you going to do next?”

  “Think.” Maltravers hauled the steering wheel from right to left and right again as he negotiated the narrow street zig-zagging down to the harbour, houses pressing in on either side. “I’ve believed Mortimer right from the start and Ruth confirmed it tonight without meaning to. Martha Shaw was murdered, but there’s not enough to go to the police with yet. Somewhere in this ragbag of bits and pieces we’ve picked up, there have to be some answers.”

  He braked as a cat scuttled in front of him and vanished into the shadows of an alleyway. He peered after it. “Was that black?”

  “All cats are grey in the dark,” Tess quoted. “But it could have been. That’s lucky.”

  “Not everywhere,” he corrected. “In America — and in some parts of Britain as well — it’s bad luck. Wonder what they believe in Cornwall?”

  Mortimer Lacey was having a late drink with Helen. When Maltravers and Tess had completed the story of meeting Ruth, he stared at the floor, tips of elegant fingers tapping lightly together.

  “What do you think?” Maltravers asked. “Any idea why she was there?”

  “No,” Lacey replied. “Ruth’s always been the quiet one and I haven’t met her more than a handful of times. What I can’t understand — and this is common sense, not mysticism — is if she thinks Martha was murdered, why hasn’t she gone to the police?”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t know who did it,” Helen pointed out.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Lacey. “If she thinks someone did it, she must also know why, or at least suspect something. All she has to do is reveal a possible motive and let the police take it from there. But as far as we know, she’s going along with the accident theory. At least in public.”

  “Might it help if you met her again?” Maltravers suggested. “You might pick something up.”

  “Possibly,” Lacey acknowledged. “But Ruth’s obviously keeping a lot of things secret and I’ve already told you that I can’t see everything hidden inside someone’s head. If I could, I’d be making a fortune as an interrogation consultant with MI6. I’ll try and casually run into her, but I’m not offering any guarantees.”

  He smiled at Maltravers. “I have many limitations. I’m afraid l can’t produce answers like rabbits out of a hat.”

  “Pity,” Maltravers commented. “We could do with a bit of magic.”

  “You’re doing all right,” Lacey assured him. “There’s a lot bubbling to the surface at the moment and I think you’ll sort it out eventually.”

  “Your faith touches me. Like the man said, we have a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. But what is underneath all the layers?”

  “A murder,” said Lacey. “At least we’re all certain of that now, aren’t we?”

  After Lacey had left and Helen and Tess had gone to bed, Maltravers sat at the dining table with his notebook. Apart from his conversation with Trevithick, he had written nothing down, but a short-term capacity for almost total recall — invaluable in his reporting career — enabled him to go back over everything that had happened and record it, remembered conversations and comments, fragmentary information and impressions. When he had finished, he sipped his gin and tonic as he read his notes back, then picked up The Porthennis School and its Art and read parts of it again. Hazily, vague connections began to suggest something, but would not coagulate. He went to bed, mind crowded by personalities of disturbing failed artists, passions and old secrets unknown and impenetrable.

  Shortly after dawn, Tess half awoke as a seagull screeched on the roof. She rolled over, instinctively reaching for Maltravers, but the bed was empty. Drowsily she patted the sheet then blinked her eyes open before turning towards the low window beneath the sloping ceiling. The curtains were partly open and he was sitting in the tiny window seat looking towards the still and quiet morning harbour. Outside, the air was a shimmering veil of shining milk white and incredibly pale lemon. Light from the rising sun was made richer as it gleamed on orange curtains. For a few moments she watched him, but he seemed totally unaware she had woken up.

  “What’s your story, morning glory?”

  “Mmm?” Absorbed in thought, he sounded surprised to find he was not alone. “Sorry, did I disturb you?”

  “No, but that damned gull did. How long have you been awake?”

  “About an hour.”

  He turned to the window again and Tess sat up, now looking at him in concern. “What’s the matter?”

  “I think I’ve come up with something,” he replied. Caught by the tone of his voice, Tess waited, but he did not speak again.

  “Hey, come on.” She took hold of his hand encouragingly. “Tell momma.”

  Maltravers gave the faintest possible laugh and there was no humour in it. “I don’t think momma’s going to like it. I certainly don’t.”

  “What is it?” His mood was beginning to worry her.

  “All murders are unforgivable, but this one could be particularly nasty.” For a few moments he watched scavenging gulls swoop and settle on the harbour sand, cries faint but clear in the morning silence. “You shouldn’t kill someone just because you disagree with them.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a theory that grotesquely fits the facts. Now I’m going to have to try and prove it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Everything had to seem normal. Radio 4 voices filled the kitchen, even though their chatter and laughter was monstrously irrelevant. Ruth tackled the Guardian crossword as usual and the challenge of the clues at least occupied her mind as she forced herself to eat toast and lime marmalade. When Charlton arrived she wanted nothing to suggest that things were any different; he was more likely to be careless if he did not suspect anything. As she was finishing the second slice of toast, she heard footsteps outside and glanced at the clock. Why was he early? He should not be here for another …

  “Only me.” The back door opened and Dorothy Lowe stepped in, a wicker basket covered with a linen tea cloth hooked over one arm. Wearing a blue denim dress belted at the waist, she resembled a plump, elderly district nurse. “Anything left in that pot?”

  “What?” Her mind conditioned to face Charlton, Ruth was confused for a moment. “Oh, yes … You know where the cups are.”

  Dorothy put the basket on the table and went to a wooden rack on the wall, taking down a mug.

  “I’ve been cooking.” She helped herself to milk and an alarming amount of sugar before picking up the teapot and starting to pour. “Had a bit of steak and kidney to spare, so I made you a pie. There’s some scones in there as well. The
y’ll keep in your freezer.”

  She sat down and rested her elbows on the table as she drank. “Know you’re perfectly capable of looking after yourself, of course, but it’s silly not to accept help at a time like this.”

  “Thank you.”

  For a few moments neither of them spoke again, but Dorothy watched Ruth’s pinched face closely over the edge of the mug. She looked much older, like a fine Victorian china doll, glaze cracked and gone dull.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “I’ve not slept very well, but it could be worse.”

  “Should get something from the doctor.”

  “He gave me some pills. They help me sleep, but I have nightmares.” Ruth took a handkerchief from the pocket of her flowered dress, holding it in readiness for the tears she could feel beginning to sting. “I keep seeing … you know. How I found her.”

  Dorothy reached across the table and took her hand. “I know. It must be dreadful. But at least she didn’t suffer.”

  “The police told me it would have been instant.” Ruth pulled her hand away and looked down uncertainly. “Dorothy, I know you think that I’m not as clever as the rest of you — I’m not — and that I can be silly —”

  “Ruth, don’t say that,” she interrupted.

  “No, it’s true. It’s always been like that. I only became part of the Porthennis School because of Martha.” She smiled regretfully. “She never said it, but even she thought my poetry was dreadful and she was quite right. But you know how much we loved each other.”

  Dorothy took another mouthful of tea, eyes remaining fixed on the liquid in the mug as she lowered it again. “You’re still one of us. You always will be. Nothing can change that.”

  “Look at me Dorothy.” Ruth’s voice was unexpectedly firm and her eyes had become piercing as the other woman faced her again. “Martha’s dead and nothing can bring her back. But I have to know something.”

  “Know? Know what?”

  “If somebody killed her.” The statement was made perfectly naturally, its implicit “of course” unnecessary.

  “Oh, Ruth!” Dorothy stood up. “Now stop this nonsense at once.”

  “But is it nonsense?”

  “Of course it is. You know the police are satisfied it was an accident.”

  “But their saying it doesn’t make it true does it?”

  The radio was still on, and the silence after Ruth’s question was ludicrously filled by a man talking about East Anglian dialects and superstitions.

  “But it is true.” Dorothy sounded over-patient and slightly patronising. “You’re upset, Ruth. You’re not thinking straight. It’s quite understandable.”

  “I’m not as upset as I was,” Ruth corrected. “And I think the reason is that I’m becoming angry.”

  Dorothy sat down and took her hand again, this time holding it so firmly that she could not let go. Her voice became insistent.

  “Ruth, this is unforgivable. You know what you’re saying, don’t you? Martha’s death was a terrible accident and nothing more. You must believe that.”

  “Yes I must, mustn’t I?” she said bitterly. “Shut up, Ruth.”

  “I don’t mean it that way! You must accept that it’s true. Nobody killed her. Why should anyone want to?”

  “Oh, Dorothy,” Ruth sounded reproachful. “Let’s not pretend you don’t know that.”

  “Well I don’t.”

  “Now I know you’re lying,” Ruth said simply. “What else are you lying about?”

  “I’m not lying about anything! You’re not well, Ruth. You’re upset. You’re …” Dorothy stopped as the little hand was jerked out of her own with sudden strength.

  “Mad?” Ruth challenged. “Go on, you might as well say it. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  “No, but …” Dorothy gestured helplessly, “but irrational. You’re imagining things. Just let it go.”

  “That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

  There was another silence, then Dorothy sharply pulled the cloth off the basket, took out the pie and plate of scones, and slammed them down on the table.

  “I’m not going to waste my time trying to talk sense to you in this mood,” she snapped. “Are you coming tonight? For the anniversary.”

  “Oh, yes.” Cadences in Ruth’s voice took the reply far beyond a simple confirmation. “I’ll certainly be there.”

  Dorothy glared at her furiously, then turned, crossed the kitchen in three swift strides and pulled the back door open to leave. Charlton was standing on the step outside, raised hand clenched into a clumsy fist.

  “Morning, Dorothy. I was just about to knock.”

  *

  Appalled by what Maltravers was suggesting, Tess had wanted to discuss it with Helen and Mortimer, but he had told her to say nothing.

  “It will only condition the way they approach it from now on,” he had said. “They’ll instinctively look for things to support it and might miss something that explodes it. And that’s something I’d like to happen if possible.”

  As Helen was preparing to leave for work, he casually asked a question. “Do you still have that Chambers dictionary I bought you once?”

  “Yes. Not one of the most romantic presents I received from a boyfriend.”

  “But probably the most useful,” he commented. “Your spelling was atrocious. And at least you still have it, which is more than can be said for all the flowers and chocolates the others turned up with.”

  “It’s in the bookcase in my bedroom. Bottom shelf I think. See you this evening.”

  As she left, Maltravers went upstairs then came down holding a thick red volume, pausing on the bottom step to read the inscription he had forgotten he had written inside the front cover. It was a simple code leading to a series of definitions which spelled out a very bawdy message.

  “What are you grinning at?” Tess asked.

  “Never mind. It’s private.” He flicked to the back of the dictionary and ran a finger down one of the columns. “Well, well, well. I never knew that.”

  “Never knew what?”

  “See for yourself.” Tess looked where he was pointing. “Only a little piece, but it fits the pattern doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it’s a bit thin,” Tess argued. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Proof, I’m afraid, may have to be at a premium. I may never get further than educated guesswork.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I may have to face somebody with it.”

  “Who?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be guessing.”

  “So how do you find out?”

  “This evening could be … illuminating.”

  “What’s happening this evening?”

  “The Agnes Thorpe memorial meeting.”

  Tess no longer needed to ask how the unexplained disappearance of Agnes Thorpe could be connected with the murder of Martha Shaw.

  *

  Long fingers of roots creaked as Charlton pulled at what was left of the wisteria; planted by the cottage wall years before, it went far and deep into the earth. Sinews and blood-choked veins strained on his forearms and stubby fingers gripped with the unbreakable strength of a bulldog. Slowly the soil began to give, then there was the sound of brutal tearing and stretched roots snapped and were wrenched out like a stubborn tooth. For a moment he stood gasping, sweat dripping from soaked eyebrows; there were not many men of any height who could have done it.

  He wiped his forearm across his face, crumbs of soil mixing with dripping perspiration to form sticky smears of dirt. He needed a drink. It was surely time to be offered coffee, but he wanted something longer and colder. Perhaps Ruth had remembered to buy some beer. He walked from the front of the cottage towards the back kitchen door, outside which he had stopped and stood for those vital few minutes that morning when he had heard raised voices. Every unguarded word had been audible through the open window and every one had told him again that the
re was something unexplained and capable of frightening. Infuriatingly, not enough had been revealed, but if he had wanted further proof that he was on to something, now he had it. And now he knew something else. Ruth Harvey believed that Martha Shaw had not died accidentally; that had to be handled very carefully.

  “Hello?” he called. “Ruth? Are you in?”

  He waited on the step, the considerate gardener who did not want to tread dirt into the house. The kitchen was empty, but Ruth’s open handbag was on the table and the radio was still playing. So she had not gone out, but could be upstairs. He called again, but there was still no response. Cautiously he went inside.

  In the hall Ruth stood very still. It was such a clumsy little trap, but worth trying. Her ears strained, then she heard the faint rustle of paper. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen doorway, forcing herself to speak normally as she entered.

  “I’m sorry, Nick, I was upstairs. Were you … ?”

  He looked like a guilty schoolboy, grimy fingers still holding the paper he had taken out of the open envelope she had deliberately left there, an estimate from a plumber to repair the bathroom cistern. But he looked like a very nasty schoolboy.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Searching your handbag.”

  The admission was blunt and almost indifferent. Caught without any possible excuses, Charlton had instantly decided he had nothing to lose by the truth. His mask of helpfulness had been wiped away to reveal something repulsive and menacing.

  “What are you looking for? Money?”

  “No. I think we’d better have a talk.”

  Ruth dragged courage out of herself. “The only thing I have to say to you is get out of here at once. And please don’t come back.”

  He ignored her, dropped the paper on the table and closed the back door. Then he climbed on to a chair and pointed to the one opposite.

  “I’m not leaving. Sit down.”

  “No, I will not!” Ruth injected another burst of simulated anger into her voice to hide her fear. “If you don’t —”