The Secrets of Winter

by Nicola Upson

  ‘Very well. What about Miss Dietrich?’

  ‘She must stay with the rest of the guests, whether she likes it or not. I don’t want her wandering round the castle on her own until we have a better idea of what’s going on. I’m sure she’ll understand.’

  ‘Do you think Richard’s death has anything to do with her being here?’

  ‘I can’t see any connections at the moment, but I’m not ruling anything out. Did the Lancasters turn up for the service?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen either of them yet this morning.’

  ‘Then ask Lee to send someone to their room and fetch them. If they’re not there, I want to be told immediately. Do you have a doctor on the island?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. We have a midwife, who does basic nursing, but if you were thinking of a death certificate, that will have to wait.’

  ‘All right. Is there any news on the boats or the phones?’

  ‘Yes. Pendean called up on the house telephone – that line’s still working, thank God – but there’s no chance of a crossing, at least until later today. It might be possible for three or four men to walk across at the next low tide if they rope themselves together, but they’d be taking a risk.’

  ‘When is the next low tide?’

  ‘Around two o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘All right, but I’ll take your man’s advice on that. We’ve got enough tragedy here already, without adding to it by recklessness.’

  ‘Haven’t we just?’ She looked at him, then put her head in her hands. ‘Oh Archie, how on earth can this have happened? Poor Richard – he was such a good man. Who on earth could have wanted to do this? It’s all down to me, isn’t it? If I’ve invited this evil onto the island, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  Penrose put his hand on her shoulder and spoke gently. ‘Go and give Lee his instructions,’ he said, knowing that staying busy was the only thing that would keep her sane. ‘Then come back and tell me everything you know about your guests.’

  She gave a scornful laugh. ‘Well, that won’t take long. Inviting a load of strangers into the house! How could I have been so stupid? It was asking for trouble. How on earth am I going to tell my father what’s happened? He’ll be devastated.’

  ‘Go to Lee,’ he repeated, ‘and tell Josephine and Marta that I’ll come and see them as soon as I can. Tell them to stay together.’

  The implications of his warning weren’t lost on Hilaria, who looked more horrified than ever. ‘What about the villagers? Can they go home?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. The castle is my priority for now.’

  She left him alone, but was back in no time at all. ‘Right,’ she said, with a new sense of purpose, ‘what would you like to know?’

  ‘Let’s start with who might have had access to the church last night?’

  ‘Anyone. It’s always left open over Christmas.’

  Penrose’s heart sank. ‘You mean anyone can go up there whenever they feel like it? They don’t have to get a key?’

  His alarm made his tone more judgemental than he had intended, and Hilaria reacted sharply. ‘Yes, Archie – that’s precisely the point. It’s a place of worship, not a high-security prison that you have to be checked in and out of. It’s been like that for years – centuries – and I’m not about to stop my staff or my guests enjoying a moment of prayer and contemplation on the off chance that one of them is murdered on St Michael’s Chair. It’s not a hazard that we’ve ever had to consider before, so don’t be so damned ridiculous.’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry.’ Penrose forced himself to control his temper, while mentally calculating the number of people – staff and guests – who would now have to be questioned. ‘But the castle is locked?’ he asked tentatively, fearing that he was going to have to add the fifty or so villagers to his inquiries.

  ‘Yes, of course. Lee locks the east and west doors at half past eleven every night.’

  ‘Does anyone in the village have keys?’

  ‘Mrs Pendean, as housekeeper, holds a set, and another is kept in a safe at the estate office on the mainland, just in case of emergencies.’

  ‘When did you last see Richard Hartley?’

  ‘At about eleven o’clock, when the party broke up. He and Angela have adjoining rooms on the same landing as Josephine and the Lancasters. I walked part of the way with them on the way back to my own room, and said goodnight at the head of the staircase. The last thing I said to him was how pleased I was that he was taking the service in the morning, and how much I was looking forward to it. He said he hoped he would do it justice after all this time.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  Hilaria shrugged. ‘I didn’t really give it any thought. I suppose he just meant that it was many years since he’d preached here. I know it meant a lot to him to be asked again.’

  ‘And why did you ask him?’

  ‘Quite simply because our usual chaplain was unavailable and Richard was coming for Christmas anyway. He and Angela responded immediately when I first mooted the idea of raising money for the refugee fund. They’ve been involved in children’s charities for as long as I’ve known them. I’ve always assumed it was because they didn’t have any of their own, but perhaps I’m reading too much into it. They made a very generous donation.’

  ‘And he didn’t have connections with anyone else here, staff or guest?’

  ‘Staff? Archie, you surely don’t think that a member of my staff would do something like this? They love this place, every single one of them, and I can’t believe that any of them would defile the church like that.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that they would, but according to his wife, Richard Hartley went off to meet someone, quite possibly his killer, and I’m trying to establish who it might have been. He lived here in Cornwall …’

  ‘And he lived in London for twenty-odd years. Most of the guests are from London – Mr Fielding, the Lancasters, you and your friends. If he had an acquaintance here, it could just as easily be someone he met up country.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with you. It was something you said earlier, though, about inviting a load of strangers into the house …’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, most of them aren’t strangers, are they? Not really. The Hartleys, Barbara Penhaligon, me – and I think we can rule out Josephine, Marta and Marlene. So the only people you really don’t know are the Lancasters and Alex Fielding.’

  ‘I see what you mean, and even Mr Fielding hasn’t chosen to be here. He was sent by his editor in exchange for positive coverage and a hefty donation.’

  ‘What about the woman who didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Mrs Carmichael?’ Hilaria paused. ‘She gave an up-country address, but as far as we know she’s at the Godolphin Hotel, so I think we can rule her out.’

  ‘So what do you know about the Lancasters?’

  ‘Very little, I’m afraid, other than what we all noticed last night – she’s very much under his thumb, and he’s a rather unpleasant bully. The only thing I can add is that they sent a donation of five hundred pounds, but as I told you yesterday, the cheque wasn’t honoured. Mr Lancaster assures me that it was just an oversight which will be rectified as soon as they get home, but I don’t hold out much hope of ever seeing the money.’

  ‘So you think they took advantage of the fundraising to cheat their way into a luxury weekend?’

  ‘Something like that, yes. Come to think of it, though, Mrs Lancaster and Angela were getting on extremely well at dinner. They seemed very comfortable in each other’s company, but I suspect that was because Angela is so gentle. I rather got the impression that Mrs Lancaster isn’t used to kindness, at least not from her husband.’ She paused, and gave a heavy sigh. ‘I couldn’t possibly say this to anyone else, but it would be so much easier if all this did turn out to have something to do with Miss Dietrich’s admirers. Another crime to lay at Hitler’s door …’

  He smiled. ‘Sadly, I don’t th
ink so. That’s all about intimidation so that Marlene knows they’re keeping track of her. There’s no subtlety involved. If there were a Nazi on the island, I think we’d know about it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you need any of my staff to help with things?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I’m going back up to the tower now with Fielding to get the scene photographed, then I’ll speak to the guests, followed by the staff. We just have to hope that the tides will be kind to us, so you could offer up a few prayers in that direction if you like. I desperately need some assistance from the mainland, even if it’s only by telephone.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll be with Angela if you need me.’

  Fielding was waiting outside the vestry, pacing up and down to keep himself warm. He looked pale and anxious, and Penrose regretted not having been more specific about why he was needed. ‘Thank you for waiting,’ he said.

  Fielding smiled. ‘I didn’t think I had a choice. What’s happened?’

  ‘The Reverend Hartley has been killed, and I need a record of the crime scene. Until the weather improves, you’re the only expert I’ve got. Come with me.’

  The photographer stared at him. ‘I’m not going up there,’ he said, his voice full of trepidation.

  ‘Yes, you are. And you don’t have a choice about that. Come on.’

  He headed for the tower, but still Fielding hung back. ‘Listen, Mr Penrose, I do society balls, film stars and famous pets. I don’t do crime scenes. I’ll lend you the camera if you like, but you’ll have to take your own pictures.’

  Penrose held the door open and stared at his reluctant expert. ‘A man has died, and there’s precious little that any of us can do except make sure that he has some justice,’ he said. ‘Please do as I ask.’ He led the way, and this time Fielding followed. The ascent wasn’t any more comfortable with company, and he wished that he didn’t have to put the young man through such an ordeal, but professional photographs would be much more reliable than his own, even if the subject matter was alien to the photographer. Out in the open, Fielding looked everywhere but at the body, and Penrose patiently gave him his instructions, watching as he set his camera, the intense cold and shocking strangeness of the situation conspiring to make him clumsy. Eventually, he was confident that the outline of the scene had been captured on film, and he moved in to take a closer look at the body.

  The wound was every bit as vicious as he had anticipated, a cut so deep that it had partially severed the windpipe. Penrose would have taken comfort from the fact that Richard Hartley had died instantly were it not for the torment and fear that must have preceded the injury. Standing where he was now, he could see that a garland of holly lay in the vicar’s lap, its prickles snagged in the wool of his clothes, and a series of barely perceptible cuts on his scalp showed that it had fallen from his head. A crown of thorns, Penrose thought, wondering what it signified; sacrifice, perhaps, or simply a mockery of the vicar’s faith. Hartley’s hands were clasped together in front of him, and Penrose could just make out something clenched in them. ‘Take some close-ups,’ he said to Fielding, pointing each time to the area he wanted photographed. When he was satisfied that every angle had been covered, he leaned forward to get a better look, gently prising the vicar’s hands apart and removing the item.

  ‘What is it?’ Fielding asked, his earlier hesitation now replaced by curiosity, but Penrose didn’t answer. He stared down at the old-fashioned decoration, a cotton-wool snowman exactly like the one that had hung on Marlene’s Christmas tree, except that this one was stained with blood. Now he realised what it had reminded him of, that niggling moment of recognition that he hadn’t quite been able to place. The sight of Richard Hartley with his throat slit – just like the children they had been discussing only the night before – took him back to that house in the slums as if it were yesterday, to that scruffy tree, so pathetic in the truest sense of the word, and to the deep, inconsolable sadness that always resurfaced at this time of year in his work, even if it belonged to a different crime and a different family, to a different human tragedy but one which was nonetheless connected on some fundamental level with those that came before it.

  ‘What is it?’ Fielding asked again, and Penrose realised how strange his silence must seem.

  He held the decoration out in his hand. ‘Make sure you get every detail,’ he said, and waited quietly while Fielding did as he was told, appreciating a moment to think. It was the second time in two days and the first time in years that he had thought of those children, and he wondered what had happened to the brother and sister who survived the massacre. He had tried to keep in touch with the case, driven by an unprofessional but inevitable attachment to the orphans he had found in such distress, but once they were surrendered to the authorities they were lost to him – and of course they would have been given new names, as if that could wipe out their past. Would he recognise them now, he wondered? If one of them passed him in the street, would he even know?

  ‘Give me the camera,’ he said, when Fielding had finished his work.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because although I’m fairly sure you’re not stupid enough to give these photographs to your editor or sell them to the highest bidder, I’d rather remove the temptation completely.’ He smiled, taking the edge off his words. ‘Hand it over. I’ll make sure any photographs that are yours are sent back to The Times as soon as they’re developed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Penrose took the camera and rewound the film, then removed it and put it in his pocket. ‘Thank you, but you don’t have to call me sir – not unless you’re applying for a job.’

  Fielding shrugged. ‘A change of scene might do me good. We’ll have to see how the pictures turn out.’ He removed a hip flask from his pocket, and waved it at Penrose. ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink? I could do with one after this.’

  ‘Go ahead. You can join the others in the dining room now if you like, but I need you to give me your word that you won’t discuss this scene with anyone else here. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you want a drop of this before I go?’ He held the flask out and Penrose accepted, grateful for the warmth of the whisky. ‘Why do you think he died?’ Fielding asked, lingering at the door.

  If he could answer that, Christmas really would be a time for miracles, Penrose thought. ‘I honestly don’t know yet,’ he said, ‘but there’s someone here who does, and it’s only a matter of time before I find out who that is.’

  It was said as much in hope as in faith, but Fielding seemed reassured. He left Penrose on his own to take one last look at the scene before facing the practicalities of removing the body and starting his investigations, but the grim theatricality of the murder became more surreal and impenetrable under his scrutiny; there were no answers here, only endless questions. Once again, he felt that odd sense of betrayal at leaving the body behind, and before he headed down to the castle to begin his work, he reached up to the flagpole and tugged at the rope to pull the flag to half-mast. With luck, someone on the mainland would notice and at least be alerted to the fact that something was wrong – and if nothing else, it offered a small affirmation of compassion to contradict the degrading injustice of Hartley’s death.

  3

  Personally, Josephine thought it might have been better to take Angela Hartley somewhere further from the scene of her husband’s death than the drawing room, but the vicar’s widow scarcely seemed to notice her surroundings. She had had to be led gently but forcibly from the church; the initial shock, followed swiftly by the confirmation of her worst fears, had sapped all her energy, and now she sat next to Marta on a powder blue sofa – the sofa once used by Queen Victoria, Josephine recalled from the night before; how long ago that evening suddenly seemed. She looked with concern at Mrs Hartley, who was deathly pale. Her hands shook in her lap as she repeatedly wound and unwound the tippet, and its black silk now stru
ck a horribly prophetic note. She had yet to cry; a numbing fog seemed to have smothered her emotions, along with a sense of disbelief that Josephine shared. All the theatre of Christmas gave a heightened, surreal quality to the tragedy, and she felt as if she were observing things from a distance, unable to take part. The tea and brandy that one of the footmen had brought sat untouched on the table in front of them.

  Outside, she saw some of the islanders beginning to leave the church by the north door. They walked in twos and threes across the terrace, heads bowed in respect or against the cold, and Josephine knew that they had no choice but to use the walkway which ran immediately round the drawing room. She got up to pull the curtains across the windows, partly to give Angela Hartley some privacy, but mostly to prevent her from seeing the fuss that would no doubt ensue when the departing congregation reached the south terrace; the last thing she needed in her grief was to witness people pointing up at the spectacle on the tower. Josephine shivered as she crossed to the windows, although the fire was doing its best to placate the chill of the day. The drawing room was actually made up of two individual spaces, divided by the chimney breast, and the blue walls and ornate white plasterwork were utterly out of character with the rest of the castle. The contrast had been less stark the night before, when the room was filled with lamplight and shadows, but now it had a completely different feel – cool and elegant, certainly, but a little austere, like a Wedgwood vase amongst everyday earthenware. The beautiful Christmas tree, which had sparkled along with the warmth and laughter of Christmas Eve, now looked redundant and out of sorts in the corner.

  Angela Hartley misunderstood Josephine’s wistful glance in its direction. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her voice deceptively strong against the silence, ‘we shouldn’t be spoiling everyone’s Christmas like this when Hilaria has gone to such trouble. You ought to be enjoying yourselves, not shut up in here with me.’