The Dying of the Light

by Robert Richardson

  “And if they don’t?”

  Scott was pouring another drink. “No concern of mine. I didn’t kill her.”

  “You’d lie through your rotten teeth if you did.” Dorothy spoke with increasing urgency. “Just think will you? Think of what she could say.”

  “Ruth won’t say anything,” Scott began to walk towards the door. “If she does, she’ll be up to her neck in it as well. Nothing’s going to bring Martha back, which is the only thing she wants. Just give her time and she’ll get over it.”

  Dorothy remained in the room as he left. He was quite right. She hadn’t thought of it that way, but Ruth daren’t go to the police. She was annoyed with herself for not realising that, and Edith had not grasped it either. For the first time in years, she felt affection for the man she had once loved. She walked through to the kitchen where he was helplessly tackling what appeared to be about a month’s washing up.

  “Let me do that.”

  He looked surprised, but said nothing as she pushed him to one side.

  “Just pile them up,” he told her. “They’ll dry themselves.”

  He sat and watched her for a few minutes. “Long time since you’ve done this sort of thing for me.”

  “Don’t get used to it, but I’m quite grateful to you at the moment. You’ve actually come up with some common sense for once. About Ruth.”

  “It’s obvious,” he grunted. “She was bound to start thinking that way about Martha dying, but she can’t really believe it. And even if she does, what’s she going to do about it?”

  Dorothy felt a twinge in her fingers as she scrubbed something hard, brown and undefinable stuck to a plate. Bloody arthritis. “Probably nothing, but we can’t just leave it alone and hope it’ll go away. We’ll have to present a united front.”

  “We’re good at that. We always …”

  Dorothy turned round as the uncompleted sentence hung in the air. Scott was frowning at her dumpy figure bent over the sink, his eyes reflecting a pursuit of memory.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” He stood up and crossed to the kitchen window. “Just something that occurred to me. Nothing important.”

  Dorothy recognised a tone she had heard countless times; barriers had come down and nobody would be able to breach them. There were secret parts of Belvedere Scott, jealously guarded and untouchable. Once it had concerned her, but it didn’t matter any more.

  She finished the dishes and even made an effort to tidy the rest of the wreck of the kitchen before leaving. Alone again, Scott went back to his studio and contemplated the empty canvas before unlocking it from the easel. It had been a mad impulse, a self-delusion that he could miraculously pick up the past and he was over it now. But what he could not escape was the awareness that had come unbidden while he was talking to Dorothy, the cold realisation that Ruth might not be hysterical.

  *

  Maltravers saw Nick Charlton for the first time that afternoon. He was sitting on the harbour wall, passing the time until he went to Cat’s Head cove, when he heard metal crunch and glass splinter behind him. A BMW travelling too fast through Porthennis — more than ten miles an hour — had met another car on a blind bend, their bumpers locking together. There was the usual exchange of hostilities while traffic built up in both directions before the drivers agreed to move and exchange the necessary formalities. As one cautiously reversed there was a wrench of tearing metal and the BMW driver shouted that he was doing more damage. Further consultation — by now watched by a small crowd — followed and efforts were made to untangle the vehicles, but one bumper was obviously jammed solid beneath the other. As a cacophony of impatient horns echoed in the narrow streets, Maltravers’s casual observations heightened as a very small figure appeared out of the group of onlookers. He spoke to both drivers then one went back to his car as the dwarf squeezed himself in the narrow gap between the vehicles and grasped the front bumper of the BMW. As his barrel body tensed, the effort was almost tangible as the vehicle inched upwards. Charlton only held it up for a few seconds as the other car backed away and was clearly relieved to let it drop, but it had been a staggering display of strength.

  As the temporary blockage was cleared and traffic began to move again, Maltravers watched Charlton carefully, accepting the thanks of both drivers before walking away down an alleyway. Nastiness added to muscle power like that was a disturbing combination. He would not have needed to push that rock on top of Martha Shaw; he could have done it by just blowing.

  *

  Patrick Dawson’s face was as hard and impassive as the coal he had long ago hacked out of the rocks in dark, cramped tunnels below Lancashire. His body had been permanently hardened by the experience, but he had got out before the choking black dust had been able to lay the foundations of death in his lungs. Now he was weathered like oak, his only concession to the decline of age a pair of National Health spectacles unchanged for more than twenty years, a strip of grubby sticking plaster holding one arm together. He listened to Edith Hallam-West with the indifference of a man living on a mountain top being told that floods threatened the valley. His mind was more occupied with painful twinges of gout in his left foot.

  “I’ve been over all this with Edward,” he said as she finished. “Ruth came to see me first. Is she now saying who she thinks did it?”

  “No. I don’t know which of us she suspects. Perhaps all of us.”

  “Let her get on with it then.”

  “Is that all you can say?”

  “That’s all there is to say. If Ruth’s got it into her head that Martha was murdered, I’m not wasting my breath trying to tell her otherwise.”

  “But she might say it to other people,” Edith argued.

  “Deal with that when it happens.”

  “That could be too late. We’ve got to do something now.”

  “Like what?”

  The soft, suggestive question hovered in the air, almost as tangible as the haze of slowly swirling blue-grey fumes from his chain-smoked cigarettes. Edith was repelled by the icy, enquiring indifference in his eyes; he looked mockingly amused at her reaction.

  “Not that,” she whispered.

  “Have you got any other suggestions?”

  “There has to be one.”

  “Let me know if you come up with it. You know your way out.”

  As Edith left in despair, Dawson returned to his work. He had long ago decided that there were only two sorts of things people worried about; those outside their control and those within. If it was outside your control, there was nothing you could do and worrying was pointless; if it was within your control, you did whatever was necessary, however difficult, distasteful or even dangerous, until you reached the point where it went out of your control. Then you were back to square one. He could do nothing about Ruth’s suspicions over Martha’s death, so he simply dismissed them from his mind; if the situation arose where he would be able to act, he would do so. In the meantime he was not going to worry. Life was too short.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Placid high-tide evening sea licked and rippled over Cat’s Head cove as Maltravers stood on the wide ledge of flat stone at the foot of the coombe leading down from the coastal path, shallow waves softly slapping below his feet. It was possible to go right or left, but either route meant climbing over ranges of smooth, jumbled boulders and did not reach any further down the beach. Younger people might try it, but the survivors of the Porthennis School were not likely to venture further than where he was standing. Ferns nearly as high as his head partly overhung the rock and he carefully pushed them aside before taking a long stride into green denseness; fans of fronds rustled and closed behind him, leaving no sign they had been disturbed. He sat down and was visible only to hawking seagulls lazily looping in the sky above him. It was just after six o’clock, which meant he had about an hour to wait; placing a notebook in readiness on the ground beside him, he took a paperback copy of A Fatal Inversion from his pocket and beg
an to read.

  Dorothy and Ruth were the last to arrive by the gate at the top of Fern Hill, the others waiting impatiently near their cars as they walked up from Martha’s — now Ruth’s — cottage. Scott heaved himself from his seat on a stile as they joined the group.

  “Let’s get it over with,” he growled. Nobody else spoke.

  Led by Edward Cunningham, the crocodile of three old men and three old women, friendships and passions rusted into indifferent familiarity, went through the gate. Their moods varied. Cunningham and Dawson were asking themselves why they still bothered; the event had become a parody of itself, patronised by later generations as quaint and amusingly sentimental. Edith Hallam-West held on to it for reasons of pride, fierce loyalty and memories of past promises; Agnes Thorpe was not the most important death in her mind as she made her way between hedgerows overlooking peaceful sea. Dorothy Lowe and Scott, walking arm in arm where the path was wide enough, discovered that their mutual detestation of each other and dismissive contempt of the occasion was now replaced by fierce recollections. Ruth Harvey, quiet ghost of Martha Shaw by her side, wept inwardly and outwardly.

  When they had begun the annual pilgrimage, they had been in their vigour, conquerable worlds of youth still attainable. Now they had passed through maturity into old age and, beyond the indignity of senility, lurked death. It was a pantomime preserved by perversity. Touching the shade of Agnes Thorpe recreated lost years of hope, ambition and resolution; for a few brief moments they could forget all the things that had not happened and feel again the drive of dreams before they had turned to bitter disillusions. For a few days their sadness would be overwhelming, then they would revert to their adopted roles, hiding personal scars behind carnival masks of eccentricity.

  Cunningham led them into the coombe and they cautiously descended, Scott’s stick gouging holes out of dry earth as he clumsily manoeuvred his overweight body. On the rock at the bottom, Dawson held out his hand to the others to help them over the last few feet and they stood in a line, panting from exertion as water quietly clopped beneath them.

  “Five minutes to go.”

  Maltravers checked his watch; seven o’clock appeared to be the significant time. As he waited, a centipede silently crawled between valleys and peaks of earth before disappearing into the undergrowth again. He doodled on the first page of his notebook, ears alert for someone to speak again. They had passed within only a couple of feet of him, but he had been unable to see them, only the grunting and gasping of their descent indicating their arrival.

  “Seven o’clock,” Cunningham said.

  Maltravers scribbled a shorthand outline. He recognised the voice and would also know Scott, Edith, Dorothy and Ruth. Dawson was the only one he had not met. There was silence again as the second hand of his watch completed a single revolution; he wondered if any of them had bowed their heads.

  “That’s it. And I’ll tell you here and now, it’s the last bloody time I come here.” Maltravers noted the northern vowel sounds and wrote Dawson’s name alongside the comment.

  Edith answered, dismissive and indifferent. “Patrick, you’ve been saying that for years, but still you always turn up. We all do. And we probably will until we can’t.”

  “And I’ve been asking myself why ever since we started.”

  “And how many times have we been over it?” Edith said impatiently. “Perhaps none of us can explain it now. Not even to ourselves. It’s just become part of the way we are. Apart from each other, we’ve only got memories left.”

  “I’ve not got anybody left.” The nervousness in Ruth’s tearful voice was cutting with bitterness. “Martha’s not here now.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Ruth.” Edith sounded uncomfortable. “Let’s have a minute’s silence for her as well. Come on, it’s the least we can do.”

  “You hypocrite!” Maltravers tensed as Ruth Harvey screamed the accusation. “I want to know who killed her! I want to know which one of you killed her. Which of you pushed the statue over?”

  Shorthand outlines raced as Maltravers scribbled, then there was another silence, much shorter than the one for Agnes Thorpe, but filled with a sense of tension that he could almost feel.

  “What are you talking about, Ruth?” Edith spoke as though explaining something to a frightened child. “It was an accident.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  “But it’s true,” Edith insisted. “Why should any of us want to kill Martha?”

  “Dorothy said she did. That night in the Steamer.”

  “Oh, Ruth! Dorothy didn’t mean it. Come here.”

  “Keep away from me!” There was a scuffle of feet, then Ruth’s voice spoke again from Maltravers’s left, on the start of the ascent up the coombe. “Dorothy said it and you were all there. You wanted her dead!”

  “No!” It was Dawson again, harsh and admonishing. “Leave it alone, Ruth. That never happened.”

  “Who are you lying for Patrick?” Ruth demanded. “Yourself? Was it you?”

  “I’ve not been near your cottage for weeks. I know you’re upset, Ruth, but it was an accident.”

  She ignored him. “Where were all of you that afternoon? Edith said she was going into Penzance, but what about the rest of you? Edward? Patrick? Dorothy? Even you, Belvedere.”

  “Ruth, stop it!” Dorothy spoke for the first time, her voice tight with agitation. “Stop it at once! You’re getting hysterical.”

  “That’s what you want to think, isn’t it? Poor little Ruth’s going mad.” She sobbed violently. “But I’m not. If one of you … Martha was all I had! She was … You’ll never understand. Any of you. God, I hate you!”

  “Ruth, you’re just throwing out accusations.” Cunningham sounded quiet and reasonable. “You’re jumping to conclusions because you’re upset.”

  “Don’t patronise me again, Edward. You’ve all been doing that for too many years. I was never really one of you. I know that.”

  “That’s not true,” Edith protested. “You’ve been here almost from the beginning. We’re … we’re your friends.”

  “No you’re not,” Ruth contradicted. “Martha was your friend. She was one of you. If it hadn’t been for her, you’d have had nothing to do with me. You’d like me dead as well now.”

  “If you’re going to think like that, there’s no point in —” Dorothy began.

  “How do you expect me to think?” Ruth interrupted.

  “There’s no point in trying to talk to you. We can tell you that Martha’s death was an accident until we’re blue in the face, but you’re never going to believe us.”

  “Dorothy’s right,” Cunningham said. “How can we prove we didn’t kill her?”

  “That’s not reasonable,” Edith added gently. “Is it Ruth? Now come on, we don’t want to talk about it here. Let’s all go and —”

  “Oh, no.” There was another sound of movement. “You’ve all worked it out haven’t you? How you’ll persuade me to forget it. Well I won’t. Just stay away from me! All of you.”

  There was the sound of ferns being thrust aside as stumbling footsteps faded up the coombe. Maltravers heard one of the remaining five sigh heavily.

  “Well that got us a long way, didn’t it?” Dawson sounded resigned. “She won’t listen to sweet bloody reason in this state.”

  “What else could we do?” Edith demanded. “She’s got an obsession about it.”

  “More than that,” Cunningham said quietly. “She could be right.”

  “Of course she’s not right,” Dorothy snapped.

  “Why not? Let’s be honest, none of us is shedding any tears over Martha.”

  “Do you mean you agree with her?”

  “I don’t think it’s impossible. Does anybody else?”

  For nearly half a minute Maltravers’s pen poised over the paper; now Ruth had left them, nobody instantly dismissed the suggestion as outrageous.

  “For what it’s worth, I was in the shop all that afternoo
n and young Susan was with me. Good witness a vicar’s daughter,” Cunningham said finally. “Anyone else want to produce an alibi?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Edith snapped. “We don’t need alibis.”

  “Yes we do,” he contradicted. “Because if we can all prove to Ruth that none of us could have done it, she’ll have to accept it was an accident. What about you Patrick?”

  “What time did it happen? About half past four wasn’t it? I was out in the van and nowhere near Fern Hill. It’s true, but I can’t prove that to Ruth or anybody else.”

  “Belvedere?” Cunningham asked.

  “I was asleep.” It was the first time Scott had spoken. “I always am in the afternoon. You all know that.”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing to say you didn’t get up is there?” Cunningham remarked. “And you, Dorothy?”

  “I was at home. Watching television.”

  “Right next door to Martha’s.” Cunningham sounded sourly resigned. “You say you went to Penzance, Edith, and the speed you drive means you could have come back at any time. Ruth could suspect any of us.”

  “For God’s sake, Edward —” Edith began.

  “For God’s sake, nothing!” Cunningham’s shout echoed across the cove. “It could have been you or Patrick or Dorothy or Belvedere.”

  “And you’re in the clear,” she said bitterly. “With witnesses.”

  “Only by chance and what use is it? If one of us did it and it comes out, all of us get dragged down as well.”

  “I’ll tell you this,” Dawson put in quietly. “If it was me, I’d tell you.”

  “That’s clever, Patrick,” Cunningham said, cynically appreciative. “But it could be a double bluff and I’m too old to fall for that. The fact is Ruth thinks Martha was murdered and four of us can’t prove we didn’t do it.”

  “So what do we do?” Dawson asked.

  “There’s damn all we can do. Except try to shut Ruth up.” This time the silence was longer than before.