The Secrets of Winter

by Nicola Upson

  ‘Why on earth would anyone choose to live out their days shut up in a place like that?’ Marta asked, echoing Josephine’s thoughts. ‘How can that possibly be holy? Selfish, I call it.’

  ‘That’s if he did choose to be there. We’ve no way of knowing now if he was down there because of fair means or foul. And if it was his choice, what was he running away from? I suppose people have all sorts of reasons for retreating from the world.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She looked doubtfully again at the mysterious door. ‘I don’t mind going down there to have a look with you, but don’t ask me to go anywhere near that chair they were talking about last night. If you want a sightseeing trip of that, you’re on your own. You can boss me around for the next fifty years and I won’t say a word.’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’

  Marta smiled, and Josephine took advantage of the pause in proceedings to look in detail at the works of art around the altar. The reredos was disappointingly ordinary, but there were three striking alabaster plaques of biblical scenes, and the stained glass here was every bit as distinctive as the panels she had so admired in Chevy Chase the night before. One window in particular caught her attention: a vivid image of the Virgin and child, with St Michael’s Mount in the background and a dog at her feet; Josephine had no doubt that the spaniel was a family pet of the time, and the scene seemed to capture perfectly the way in which the sacred and domestic lives of the island had run hand in hand over the centuries. The walls in this part of the church were devoted to the memory of various St Aubyn family members, and Josephine couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like for Hilaria to sit regularly amongst such tangible reminders of how quickly time passed.

  The buzz of expectant chatter built steadily as the congregation waited for the service to begin, although the family pews were still looking woefully depleted. Hilaria was busy welcoming people at the door, with Fielding hovering just behind her, and Josephine wondered if anyone had bothered to tell him that Marlene wasn’t expected. Barbara Penhaligon finally put in an appearance, looking a little hungover, and sat down next to them with a brief nod. There was still no sign of the Lancasters. At precisely a minute to nine, the staff who were on duty that day filed into the church and sat in the row of seats that had been left vacant for them, while Hilaria took her place at the front, glancing nervously at her watch.

  A door opened at the back of the church and all eyes turned towards it, but the new arrival would have looked completely out of place in the pulpit. Marlene was dressed in a Marcel Rochas trouser suit, broad at the shoulders and made of the designer’s signature grey flannel, a look which somehow managed to be both defiant and uniquely feminine. She walked down the aisle as if she had known the church all her life and took a seat next to Hilaria, much to Barbara Penhaligon’s annoyance. The two adversaries glared at each other across the choir, and Josephine hid a smile. ‘My God, that woman knows how to make an entrance,’ Marta whispered admiringly. ‘She’s upstaged the Virgin bloody Mary.’

  She was right: a collective jaw had dropped amongst the congregation, and although they stopped short of applauding, there would be a few bruised ribs in the morning from the vigorous nudges that passed down the rows. The organ music stopped and there was another expectant hush as everyone looked again to the back of the church, waiting for Richard Hartley to make his entrance, but it began again almost immediately, this time with something a little more strident. Archie caught Hilaria’s eye, and Josephine saw her give him a puzzled shrug.

  Suddenly she heard a scream outside, coming from the south terrace and growing in hysteria. It was so surreal that for a moment she doubted herself, but one glance at Archie’s face was enough to confirm that she hadn’t imagined it. ‘Keep an eye on Marlene,’ he said as he left his seat and headed out of the church, followed quickly by Hilaria, and Josephine wondered if their reaction was connected to the tensions over dinner; it was as if they had been waiting for trouble, and now it had arrived to confirm their worst fears. Not everyone had heard the scream above the music, but the conversation gradually subsided as the urgency of Hilaria’s departure sunk in, and when it came again, there was no mistaking it. Marlene looked across at them and stood up, clearly determined to follow the more curious members of the congregation outside, and Josephine and Marta joined her.

  They hurried round the former lady chapel to the other side of the church, where Mrs Pendean was standing near the door to the smoking room with a man whom Josephine assumed to be her husband. It was obviously she who had screamed, because she was sobbing uncontrollably, and neither Archie nor Hilaria seemed to be having much success in calming her down or making sense of her distress. It was left to her husband to explain, which he did with a simple gesture towards the tower. Josephine looked up and saw, to her horror, the motionless figure of a man in the left-hand corner, slumped precariously on the stone seat with his legs hanging over the edge. It was unmistakably the Reverend Richard Hartley.

  Her stomach lurched as she saw in her mind’s eye the sheer drop from such a height, and she felt for Marta’s hand. There was a stunned silence as everyone tried to comprehend what they were looking at, and next to her, Josephine heard the quiet despair in Hilaria’s voice as she said softly: ‘Please God, no.’ The obvious futility of her words seemed to act as a catalyst for the horror to take hold, and Mrs Pendean’s anguish spread quickly through the assembled onlookers, threatening to spiral out of control. Archie responded immediately, singling out the butler who had been one of the first members of staff to follow Hilaria from the church. ‘Stop anyone else from coming round to this side of the terrace,’ he said urgently, ‘and get everyone back into the church. Tell them to stay in their seats and wait there until I’ve been up to the tower to see what’s happened – and under no circumstances is anyone to follow me.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Archie turned to Hilaria, but she pre-empted what he was going to say. ‘The telephones aren’t working, so we can’t call for help. The wires have been down since last night. We’re completely cut off.’

  He swore under his breath. ‘All right. I’ll go and see what we’re dealing with. Will you take care of Mrs Hartley?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Hilaria’s voice was calm, but Josephine noticed how much she had aged in the time it had taken her to cross from one terrace to the other. ‘What shall I tell her?’ she asked. ‘Is there any chance that he’s not …’ She tailed off, unable to bring herself to say the word.

  ‘Tell her that her husband has been hurt and say that we fear the worst. There’s no point in giving her false hope. She’s vulnerable enough, and we don’t want to confuse her more than she is already by keeping anything from her.’ Once again, as she always was whenever she saw Archie at work, Josephine was struck by his sensitivity, even in the most stressful of situations, and she saw that Marlene had noticed it, too; the actress was looking at her escort with something rather more than respect. ‘I need someone trustworthy to go down to the Change House and see what the situation is with the tides and the telephone,’ he said, oblivious to the appreciation. ‘We’re going to need help of some sort from the mainland, and the sooner the better. Who do you recommend?’

  ‘Tom Pendean,’ Hilaria said without hesitation. ‘He’s the best boatman we have and he’ll know what’s possible, but I’m not sure he’ll want to leave his wife when she’s had such a shock.’

  ‘I will take care of her,’ Marlene said. Hilaria looked doubtful, but it was a decision rather than an offer, and the actress was already on her way over to the housekeeper.

  Without wasting any more time, Archie followed her and gave his instructions. ‘I also need to be sure that no one leaves the island,’ he told Pendean. ‘Should the causeway and the harbour become accessible again, nobody is to use them without my permission, in or out. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are there any other access points to the Mount that I don’t know about?’


  ‘You can bring a boat in and out via Cromwell’s Passage, over on the west side, but it wouldn’t be safe in this weather.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Pendean nodded and Archie sent him on his way, then walked briskly back across the terrace, stopping abruptly when he noticed Fielding at the edge of the group. ‘Put that bloody camera down,’ he shouted, briefly losing his composure. ‘If I find out that you’ve taken so much as a single photograph in the last few minutes, I’ll have you out of your job before you even get back to the mainland. Is that understood?’

  Fielding nodded and did as he was asked, as Archie headed for the church. ‘We keep a flashlight just inside the door to the tower,’ Hilaria called after him. ‘You’ll need it up there. It’s not an easy climb.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They followed him back inside, and Josephine watched him make his way over to an arched door halfway down the nave, wondering what cruelty and sadness awaited him at the top of the tower. Hilaria went through to the organ loft, and a few seconds later the music stopped. It was hard to imagine the sorrow behind the scenes, but the sudden silence seemed an appropriate mark of respect for the moment when Angela Hartley was receiving the worst possible news about the person she loved. Josephine hoped that for once her mind’s fragility might serve her kindly, protecting her from the enormity of the grief that lay ahead.

  2

  Penrose found the flashlight where Hilaria had said it would be, and was instantly glad of it when the door closed behind him, plunging him into darkness. As soon as he switched it on, he noticed another torch on the floor and bent down for a closer look. The bulb was broken, as if someone had dropped it down the stairs, and he wondered if it was evidence or merely a coincidence. Already he felt claustrophobic, more so than at any time since the living suffocation of the trenches, but he tried to put the sensation from his mind. The space seemed impossibly small for someone his size, and he realised that the last time he had tried to climb these stairs, he had been a boy of twelve or thirteen. The exhilarating sense of danger he had experienced back then was very different from the deathly apprehension of today, and suddenly all such childish games felt a lifetime away.

  He climbed steadily upwards, trying not to breathe in the cloying damp that seemed to cling instantly to his clothes. His mind was racing over what could possibly have led to the dreadful discovery that he was about to make, and – in his panic – he wanted to go faster than was physically possible. He cursed his own clumsiness as he slipped on one of the steps, frustrated by the sharp spiralling of the narrow staircase, and wished heartily that he’d thought to take his overcoat off before starting the ascent; the bulky winter clothes were welcome, but they impeded his progress in the confined space and he paused to remove his scarf and coat before going any further, his fingers fumbling with the buttons in the cold. He shivered as he took his gloves out of his pocket and left the coat on one of the window ledges, but at least he could move more freely now. He pressed on, already dreading the journey back down, and although he tried hard not to pre-empt what could have happened, he was in no doubt of the fear and dread that Richard Hartley must have felt if he had been forced up here against his will. It would be hard to imagine a more inhospitable place to die.

  He flashed his torch over the steps and walls as he went, but a cursory glance revealed nothing of any help to him. There would be plenty of time later for a closer inspection; what mattered now was to establish exactly what the situation was at the top of the tower. Already he had seen enough to know that there was very little chance of finding the vicar alive – depending on how long he had been there, the cold alone would have been sufficient to kill him – but it was amazing how forcefully despair and outrage could keep an unrealistic hope alive. At last he was nearing the top, and a change in the light as he made the final turn told him that the door at the head of the staircase had been left open, even before he felt the icy blast of air on his face. He slowed his pace, wary of the snow that had blown into the tower and made the steps even more perilous than they usually were. Bracing himself against the cold and the inevitable sadness, Penrose put the flashlight down on the top step and pulled himself out through the doorway.

  He paused before going any further, keen to take in the scene and wary of disturbing anything when the snow made it all so fragile. The corner of the tower which held the chair was directly in front of him, and he could see immediately that Richard Hartley was beyond any help. The vicar’s body faced the open sea, his head slumped forward onto his chest – stiff and lifeless, like a deposed king who refused to leave his throne. The body was held in place by a length of rope, tied at the back of the chair, and although Penrose was at the wrong angle to see the actual wound, there was enough blood on the vicar’s clothes and the ground beneath the chair to suggest that his throat had been cut. The infinite patterns of crimson on white were shockingly vivid, and Penrose was struck by the peculiar beauty of blood upon snow.

  There was a profound stillness about the scene which belied its lonely horror. The covering of snow in the narrow channel leading to the chair was scuffed and kicked, whether from a struggle or in a deliberate attempt to obscure any definite footprints it was impossible to say; either way, the marks would be of no help to him. He moved a little closer, still keeping clear of the area immediately around the body, and looked down at the dead man, noticing the raw, red discolouration on his knuckles where his skin had been exposed to the cold. His eyes were glazed and passive in death, and – perhaps the strangest detail of all – he was barefoot; the cuts and bruises on his feet suggested that he had been made to climb the tower steps without his shoes and socks. Hartley had obviously been killed after the blizzards stopped, but it seemed to Penrose that he had been on the chair for several hours, and he thought about what the vicar’s wife had said just now, on the terrace; who was the person he had gone off to see, and just how long ago had that been? It would take an expert to confirm the time of death more accurately; the snow had done its quiet work, affecting the temperature of the body, and there was little point in speculating. In any case, there were questions that interested him far more than when the death had taken place: how had the vicar been persuaded to make that fatal climb out onto the chair, he wondered, and – once he was there – why had the murderer chosen to cut his throat rather than simply pushing him to his death? And then there was the biggest question of all: as far as Penrose could tell, Richard Hartley had been a kind and decent man, so who had hated him enough to contrive this spiteful, dramatic death?

  He had been too absorbed in his thoughts to acknowledge how cold he was, but as he stepped back from the body and stood by the parapet, his limbs were stiff and painful, and he tried desperately to rub the life back into his arms. Down below, he saw Hilaria come round from the church and out onto the terrace, staring anxiously up at him; he knew that she was relying on him to know exactly what to do, to take this bewildering act of violence and somehow make sense of it for her, but rarely had he felt more helpless. Cut off from the mainland and with no means of communication open to him, he had no help or support, none of the forensic expertise that was always at his beck and call, and no way of accessing any of the official records that might have made his task a little easier. He realised for the first time how much he took the teamwork of an investigation for granted. Most of all, he missed the professional camaraderie of his colleagues. The isolation – physical and emotional – was new to him, and he was painfully aware that it also carried a far greater significance: Richard Hartley’s killer – whoever he or she might be – must still be on the island, and at the moment he couldn’t decide whether to treat that as a comfort or a threat.

  Reluctantly, he made his way down, nursing a gnawing if irrational guilt at leaving the vicar alone at the scene of his death; the cold and indignity had lost their power to hurt, but it seemed wrong to abandon him, and there was still the question of how long he could decently leave the body in situ while wait
ing for the island to become accessible again. Hilaria must have seen him leave the roof because she was waiting anxiously for him at the foot of the stairs and showed him into the vestry. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s been killed – sometime late last night or in the early hours of the morning.’ He gave her the details as sparingly as he could, knowing that she had a right to the information but reluctant to make things any worse for her if he could help it; she would already be feeling responsible. ‘Where is Mrs Hartley?’

  ‘In the drawing room. Josephine and Marta are with her. She’s finding it hard to believe, and I can’t tell if it’s the shock or a more fundamental inability to understand what’s happened.’ She spoke as always with a quiet authority, but Penrose could see how devastated she was. ‘Perhaps it will sink in when we confirm the worst. Can I tell her myself?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll need to speak to her, but she’s welcome to go back to her room first as long as someone goes with her.’

  ‘I’ll take her and stay with her. At least it will feel like I’m doing something useful.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. There are things I have to check with you before I talk to anyone else.’

  ‘Yes, of course there are. I wasn’t thinking. This has all come as such a shock.’ She took a deep breath, steadying her emotions. ‘Everyone out there is looking to us for direction. What do we have to do first?’

  ‘Will you tell Lee to send the staff back to their duties and take the guests to wait in the dining room until I can come and speak to them? All except Alex Fielding – I’ve got a job for him, so ask him to wait behind. As I said, Mrs Hartley is welcome to go back to her room or stay where she is, whichever she prefers. I’m sure Josephine and Marta will be happy to stay with her until you and I have finished here.’