I tried to be meticulous and systematic, descending slowly and by a winding route in case Oliver had discarded the knapsack on the way down. Once at the gravelly patch of shore where Vivien and I had crouched beside his body, I extended the search as far round the perimeter of the lake on either side as I could reach, narrowly avoiding falling in on several occasions.
There was no sign of the knapsack. Oliver could have hidden it, of course. There were plenty of loose rocks available to conceal it. Or he could have loaded some of those rocks into the knapsack, thrown it into the lake and watched it sink. But even by Oliver’s standards such behaviour, after going to all the bother of having me take pictures of him at Goss Moor, seemed senseless. So, where was it?
I decided to check the jetty area before giving up, although how Oliver might have found his way over there I couldn’t imagine. I heaved my way back up to the lane and walked along to the turn-off.
To my surprise, a taxi was parked at the start of the track. The driver was smoking a cigarette and studying racing form in his newspaper so intently that he jumped when I greeted him.
‘Mornin’,’ he said gruffly, but then smiled genially. ‘Headin’ for the lake?’
‘Yes.’
‘Watch your step. Some young feller drowned there yesterday.’
‘Really?’
‘’Fraid so. Could be why I’m here. Got the meter running on an old gent from the Carlyon Bay. You’ll find him down by the jetty. Well, I hope you will. Lessen he’s in with fishes an’ all.’
Francis Wren, hatted and lightly overcoated as if for a fickle early spring rather than high summer, was leaning on the rail by the jetty, puffing at a pungent cigar and gazing out thoughtfully across the lake. He gave no sign of hearing me approach.
‘Mr Wren?’
He turned round slowly and looked at me. ‘Why, it’s young Jonathan.’
‘Yes, sir. Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ At his instigation, we shook hands. ‘Well, well, this is an unexpected meeting. Even though … we both have cause to be here.’
‘I’m terribly sorry about what happened to Oliver, Mr Wren.’
‘Of course. Understood. Damnably upsetting for you as well as the family. I’ve been knocked sideways by the news, I don’t mind admitting. Like father, like son. Dreadful. Just dreadful.’
‘It wasn’t necessarily suicide.’
‘Kind of you to say so, but from what Harriet’s told me – I’ve had to rely entirely on my sister for information, of course – there’s not much room for doubt, now is there?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘You wouldn’t be out here looking for Oliver’s knapsack, would you?’
‘Ah. You know about that.’
‘Harriet’s a thorough informant. The parallels with his father’s missing briefcase are … eerie, I must say. Perhaps deliberately so. The workings of that boy’s mind are hard to fathom.’
‘Yes. They are. And, yes, I have been looking for the knapsack.’
‘But I see you’re empty-handed. I can’t say I’m surprised. I don’t think it’s here to be found, Jonathan.’ Francis cast a glance back across the lake. ‘Oliver’s sent us a message. But we don’t seem to be able to read it.’
‘This was the first pit Wren’s worked?’
‘That it was. It’s strange to see it now, so green, so … tranquil, when I remember it as a vast white hole in the ground, with men looking no bigger than ants from here, hewing away at the bottom with picks and shovels. It was still operating when I left the company, though it was on its last legs by then.’ He was lost for a moment in a reverie of remembrance, then he looked at me sharply. ‘Now, what’s all this about Gordon Strake?’
‘Oliver said Strake was following him. And he was. I saw that for myself.’
‘You’re sure it was Strake?’
‘Well, that’s who Oliver said it was. A man was certainly following him.’
Francis frowned. ‘Baffling. Quite baffling.’
‘Mr Lashley told me … Strake was an old comrade of yours.’
‘He served under me in Italy. “Old comrade” is stretching it. He’s a Plymouth man. Came down here after the war looking for work. I took him on as a favour to someone who’d seen a lot of hard action. I gather Greville sacked him last year.’
‘Apparently so.’
‘Well, no doubt the police will find out what he’s been up to.’
‘As his old CO, you might be able to get more out of him than the police.’
Francis smiled faintly, as if entertained and tempted by the idea of taking a personal hand in the investigation. ‘Interesting suggestion, young man. I’ll certainly consider it. Now, I think I must be getting back. Luisa will be wondering where I’ve got to. Would you like a lift into town?’
I declined his offer, explaining that I wanted to continue searching for the knapsack, although in truth I no longer seriously expected to find it. I watched him potter away along the track towards his waiting taxi and found myself wondering just what his connection with Strake signified.
Only after he’d vanished from sight did I remember the takeover of Wren’s by Cornish China Clays. I should have asked Francis how he felt about the demise of the family firm. It was strange how unimportant that now seemed. Oliver’s death had overshadowed everything else. As perhaps he’d meant it to.
A fruitless hour of delving in gorse bushes and picking my way around the treacherous shore of the lake had passed when I abandoned the search and headed back to St Austell. I arrived tired, thirsty and dispirited. It was nearly one o’clock and I wondered if I’d find Pete Newlove in the General Wolfe. His uncomplicated slant on the world of Walter Wren & Co. suddenly seemed like the tonic I needed, along with the several pints he’d be happy to join me in.
First, though, I stopped at a call-box and rang Wren’s. I got through to Joan Winkworth, who was lunching at her desk. Lashley was in a meeting at CCC (no surprise there) but had left word I was to come and see him at six o’clock. I asked her to tell him I’d be there.
It was a short step to the General Wolfe, where, disappointingly, Pete was nowhere to be seen. I retired to a corner with my beer, lit a cigarette and pondered the futility of my morning’s efforts. The person I most wanted to talk to about what had happened was Vivien, but I’d more or less agreed to leave her be for a while, although part of me was beginning to suspect Lashley had manoeuvred me into that agreement for reasons of his own. There was always the chance, if I rang Nanstrassoe House, that Vivien would be the one who answered. Somehow, though, I didn’t reckon it was a very good chance.
‘Mind if I join you?’
The question caught me unawares. Looking up, I was astonished to see Gordon Strake standing over me, though not much over, thanks to the shortness of his stature.
He was a small, ferrety sort of fellow, with a narrow, sallow-skinned face and dark, greasy hair. He looked an unhealthy fifty or so, his cheap brown suit and stained tie doing nothing to improve his appearance. He had a roll-up wedged at the corner of his mouth and was holding a half-finished glass of stout.
‘They said I might find you here,’ he said, sitting down next to me without waiting for my response. ‘You’re Jonathan Kellaway, aren’t you?’
‘And you’re Gordon Strake.’
‘That I am.’ He took a gulp of stout and set the glass on the table. There was a stale smell to him, detectable even through the beer and cigarette fumes. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you, sonny.’
‘Who’s “they”?’ I asked, determined not to let him gain the upper hand. He probably thought it would be easy to intimidate me.
‘What?’
‘The “they” who said you might find me here.’
He gave me a sneering frown. ‘Don’t get clever with me, sonny. I’ve had the Old Bill on my back this morning thanks to you.’
‘Good.’
His frown deepened. ‘What did you say?’
‘I’m gla
d they’ve been to see you. Did you tell them who paid you to follow Oliver Foster?’
‘Who paid me?’ The frown became a bemused smile. ‘Come off it, sonny. You knew what he was up to. Which is more than I did. I wouldn’t have got mixed up in this if I’d had any inkling how it was going to end. That friend of yours was cracked, if you want my opinion. He must have been, to do what he did.’
‘Who paid you?’ I pressed.
‘You trying to tell me you don’t know?’
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘Pull the other one.’
‘I’ve got no idea who you’re working for.’
‘Was working for, you mean.’
‘OK. Was. What difference—’ I was silenced by the sudden realization of what Strake’s insistence on the past tense might signify.
‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘You mean …’
‘Oliver Foster hired me, sonny, scheming little head case that he was. Paid me twenty quid for that bloody pantomime on Wednesday. Easy money, I thought. Not so sure about that now.’
‘But …’
‘Why? Good question. Reckoned you might be able to tell me. Thought you were in on it. Looks like I was wrong. In which case … we’ve got nothing to say to each other, have we? Bloody Wrens. I wish they’d leave me alone. If you see any of them, don’t give them my condolences, will you?’
With that he was out of his chair and away across the pub. He finished his stout in one long swallow and plonked the glass down on the end of the bar without breaking his stride. A moment later, he was gone.
Leaving me to contemplate the ring his glass had left on the tabletop in front of me – a ring like a frozen ripple, radiating from nothing.
NINE
BY THE CLOSE of a miserable afternoon I’d concluded that Strake was right, damn him. Madness of some kind had driven Oliver to end his life in mysterious circumstances of his own orchestration. Francis Wren believed he’d sent us a message we weren’t equipped to understand. I was beginning to believe he’d sent us a message he didn’t want us to understand. And what that meant for Vivien I preferred not to imagine.
I arrived at Wren’s as instructed, promptly at six. I was immediately puzzled by the emptiness of the car park. Lashley’s Jag wasn’t there, which tended to imply he wasn’t there either.
The rest of the staff had all gone. That was no surprise on a sunny Friday afternoon. The only people on the premises turned out to be the cleaners, Ethel and Mavis. Ethel reported that Lashley had left no more than ten minutes previously. She had no idea where he’d been going, of course. ‘But he was in a tearing hurry, I can tell you that.’
I considered phoning Nanstrassoe House, then decided it was time I grasped the nettle and called there in person. I hurried off.
There was no sign of the Jag at Nanstrassoe either. But the garage was big enough to accommodate several cars. I glanced up at the first-floor windows of the house as I approached, half expecting to see Vivien watching me from one of them.
She wasn’t, of course. But to my surprise someone else was. Adam Lashley, who must have been standing on a chair to reach the windowsill, was peering down at me, frowning as concentratedly as only a small child can.
I raised my hand and waved to him, smiling as I did so. To which he responded by sticking his tongue out and ducking down out of sight.
The door was answered by Maria, who seemed bewildered to see me and undecided whether to invite me in. ‘Zere is … a lot trouble,’ she said.
Then Harriet Wren appeared in the hall behind her. ‘It’s Jonathan, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’ As I stepped through the doorway, she went on: ‘See what Adam’s up to, would you, Maria? I heard a loud thump just now.’
Maria hurried off up the stairs, leaving me to follow Harriet into the drawing-room. She closed the double doors carefully behind us.
‘Is something wrong?’ I asked. ‘I had an appointment at the office with Mr Lashley. He wasn’t there.’
‘He was called away, Jonathan,’ she said, gazing at me studiously through her round silver-framed glasses.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Vivien … took an overdose of sleeping pills.’
‘What?’
‘She’s at the hospital. Muriel’s with her. I expect Greville is as well by now.’
‘Are you saying …’
‘No, no. Muriel found her in good time. She’s going to be fine, I’m sure. Physically, that is. As for her mental state …’
‘Why would she do such a thing?’
‘She’s spent her entire adolescence trying to protect Oliver. His death has been a dreadful blow for all of us. But for Vivien …’
‘I must go and see how she is,’ I said, turning towards the door.
‘Before you do …’
I looked back at her. ‘What is it?’
‘You won’t get a very good reception, Jonathan. Muriel thinks you’re partly to blame for what’s happened.’
‘Perhaps I am.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I’m going anyway.’
‘So I see.’ She smiled, approvingly, it seemed to me. ‘Good luck.’
I had no doubt Harriet’s warning was amply justified, but it was actually a relief to trust my own instincts rather than other people’s. I had to see Vivien, now more than ever. Her mother’s opinion of me was simply irrelevant.
Vivien’s was the only occupied bed in a small side-ward. My first thought was how pale she was. I hadn’t been prepared for that. It reminded me of Oliver, when we’d pulled him from the lake.
She was lying propped up on several pillows, with a drip attached to one arm. Muriel Lashley was sitting beside the bed, holding her daughter’s hand and talking in an undertone. Greville Lashley was standing next to her, staring into space, with a faintly pained expression on his face.
Vivien was in fact the first to see me. There was something abject in her soulful, wide-eyed gaze. She shook her head, as if to tell me I shouldn’t have come – I really shouldn’t.
Muriel noticed me an instant later. ‘What’s he doing here?’ I heard her say. And Lashley swung into action.
‘Let’s step outside for a moment, Jonathan,’ he said, striding forward to meet me and extending an ushering arm around my shoulder. ‘There are one or two things I need to explain.’
‘I’d really like to talk to Vivien,’ I protested as he virtually propelled me along the corridor.
‘I fully understand, but she’s not up to it yet. They’ve washed out her stomach and she’s feeling very weak. We need to take things gently. The doctor’s told us she mustn’t be put under any stress.’
‘I’m not going to put her under stress.’
‘Not intentionally, of course. But it’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid.’
By now we were passing through the reception area and heading for the exit. ‘Mr Lashley,’ I protested, ‘I just want to—’
‘I know, I know. But it’s going to have to wait.’
Then we were out in the clear evening air. Lashley released me and instantly produced his cigarette case.
‘Smoke?’
‘All right,’ I said warily. ‘Thanks.’
The short ritual of cigarette lighting felt as if it was also a declaration of his confidence in me. This was how men of the world behaved: a restrained conferral over expensive Virginia tobacco, while the womenfolk indulged their frailties indoors.
‘How is she?’ I ventured.
‘Not too hot. I’d no idea she was so distraught she might try to kill herself. It’s beginning to look like an hereditary weakness, isn’t it? I can’t imagine how Muriel would cope if she’d succeeded. It simply doesn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, as I’m sure you can imagine, my wife is very worried about Vivien, as well as grieving for Oliver.’
‘Of course. But—’
‘Listen to me, Jonathan. Vivien’s welfare has to be our prime conc
ern. They’ll discharge her tomorrow – there’s nothing physically wrong with her now they’ve flushed the pills out of her – and we’ll take her home. But she’s in a very fragile state. That’s clear. I’m sure she’ll want to see you at some point. Probably not for a few days, though. Until we’ve got her over the worst of her reaction to Oliver’s death and are satisfied there isn’t likely to be any repetition of this … suicidal impulse … I must ask you to be patient.’
It was difficult to frame an objection to his request without sounding selfish. He must have known I was bound to agree to whatever was in Vivien’s best interests. ‘I don’t want to do anything that would upset her.’
‘Of course you don’t.’ He squeezed my shoulder. ‘We’re all on the same side in this. That’s fully understood.’
‘So …’
‘We’ll be in touch. Or Vivien will. Just give her a little time. They say it’s the best healer.’
‘I should tell you that I couldn’t find the knapsack. I searched high and low. Nothing.’
‘Thanks for trying, anyway. I’m not altogether surprised. Information I received from the police this afternoon suggests Oliver was playing some kind of elaborate game with all of us. It appears he paid Strake to follow him.’
‘I know. Strake told me.’
‘You confronted the fellow, then?’
‘Not exactly. I—’
‘You’re a spirited and determined young man, Jonathan. Resourceful and resilient. I like that. So, don’t think I take any pleasure in what I’m about to say. The fact is that I have to terminate your employment at Wren’s. With immediate effect.’
I was taken aback. Nothing had prepared me for this. ‘But … why?’
‘Muriel insists. She blames you for helping Oliver carry out his suicide plan. Officially it may be concluded that he drowned accidentally. But we know better, don’t we? We also know you couldn’t have anticipated what he was intending to do. My wife doesn’t see it that way, though. She regards it as intolerable that you should remain a Wren’s employee. And in the circumstances I don’t feel inclined to argue with her about it.’
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