Bella Poldark

by Winston Graham

  Demelza’s occasional attacks of migraine had become much less frequent as her reproductive cycle ceased, but on the morning of the fifth she woke hardly able to get her head off the pillow. It improved by dinnertime, but as darkness fell she decided not to go to the bonfire. The thought of standing about in the chill breeze while men fumbled with flint and tinder or waved torches defiantly to the happy sound of joking and laughter, did not appeal to her as much as it normally would. But being Demelza, who always hated to miss anything more cheerful than a funeral, she said she might walk up a little later. The bonfire was due to be lit at six and the fireworks would begin at seven. Until then she would flick over the pages of the Spectator, which Dwight faithfully delivered after he had read it – or even a fashion magazine which Clowance had left behind. Ross was expected to be there to put a torch to the bonfire, but deputed Bella to do it instead, and he said he would companion Demelza until seven, when she might be persuaded to turn out – or not, as the weather promised.

  After the downpour last night, which had lasted until midnight, the day had been fine, with only a rare flurry of rain, and even a few rags of sky appearing in faded blue among the grey clouds that for the most part hid it.

  That other Poldark – Geoffrey Charles – would be expected at the bonfire; as would the Enys family, minus Caroline. She said: ‘They know I love them dearly – why else should I allow my husband to risk his health moving among their dirt and feverish infections – but I can do no good to or for them by standing about watching their squibs.’

  Daisy Kellow was not well enough to come out, and Paul had gone to St Ives to bring his parents back. Demelza felt that if she was recovered sufficiently to go to the fire herself she might call in at Fernmore on her way. Edward and Clowance had spent part of their last day with Daisy and Paul, but Demelza had not been for more than three weeks – for reasons that she was disinclined to face.

  Most of the servants at Nampara had gone to see the lighting of the bonfire, and just before seven Ross left. Demelza was very comfortable, toasting her feet before the fire. She said: ‘I’ll come in an hour.’

  ‘If you are not there by eight-thirty,’ Ross said, ‘I will come back for you.’

  ‘No. Don’t bother. I can find it, you know.’

  ‘Just follow the lights,’ said Ross. ‘But I’ll come for you just the same.’

  Left to herself, Demelza poured a second glass of port and settled into Drake’s rocking chair. Port neither cured nor made worse the light-headedness that followed her migraine, but it was comforting to have it at her elbow, and she adored the taste. It was so pleasant to have the house entirely to oneself. Although usually a gregarious person, she found her privacy so rare that she valued it. Now that Ross was more or less permanently at home, she had almost forgotten the empty periods of her life when she had ached for the sight of him – a long hollow ache that the presence of nobody else, not even her children, could assuage.

  With a poker she rearranged the coal on the fire, hitting one piece until it split and burst into a new flame. Good sea coal, recently arrived from Wales. One result of keeping open two moderately successful mines was that one could have the pick when it was delivered at Basset’s Cove or in Truro River.

  She must have dozed off for a few minutes because she woke still staring into the fire. She looked at the clock by the door. It still wanted five minutes until half-past seven, so Ross had been gone only fifteen minutes.

  In a wide range of thoughts before she dozed off her mind had gone fleetingly to Paul and Daisy Kellow and Philip Prideaux. She was very uneasy about Paul. Another woman had died: was it coincidence that Paul had been visiting his parents in St Ives at that time? Was she justified in breathing her suspicions, even breathing them, to Ross on the strength of one of her famous – or infamous – forefeelings and the smell of a cigar? She was a little afraid of Paul; there was something unnatural about him, and something unhealthy about his preoccupation with her. It was not precisely sexual. It was not merely because she was Jeremy’s mother. But the two were facts somehow related to the way he looked at her – detached, as if he hardly knew her or she him, yet deeply engaged. His eyes seemed to say that they understood each other’s secrets. Two or three times he had wanted to involve her in some personal confession; always she had put him off, not wanting at all to hear what he had to say, sensing that it was to Jeremy’s detriment, wanting to hurt her, wanting to penetrate to something in her motherhood, something in her femininity. It was an uneasy situation. She had been relieved when he married and went away. But now he had come back, more or less permanently it seemed, leaving his wife alone to fight her losing battle with tuberculosis, instead looking after his sister, who was herself fighting the same battle.

  She had hoped when his parents went away to stay in St Ives that this might herald a move for the entire family.

  Nampara was exceptionally quiet. She wondered if there were a single soul left in it except herself. Even old Jack Cobbledick had hobbled out on his two sticks, and they had hoisted him onto a donkey for a ride up the combe. The only sound in the house was the rattle of an upstairs window, in Jeremy’s room, and the creak, creak, creak of a door. Which one? She ought to know every sound, but this one she could not identify. Fortunately for the fireworks, the wind had taken off and only a gentle breeze was pushing against that window in Jeremy’s room. When Ross left there were even a few smeary stars in the sky.

  She should be moving. She stretched her legs towards the fire, luxuriating like a cat in the warmth.

  Philip Prideaux had been on her mind of late too. He had only once been to Nampara since Clowance made her choice. Ross had seen him, she knew, and, according to Ross, he was taking his disappointment pretty well. For the last few days he had been staying with Geoffrey Charles and Amadora at Trenwith. She must get them over for supper before he left.

  She specially wanted to see him privately in order to impress on him, if that were possible, that Clowance’s choice had been entirely her own, without her parents attempting to influence it any way whatever. Ross said he had emphasized this when they met and Philip said he understood. That might be all right so far as Ross was concerned, but Philip might still harbour suspicions about Clowance’s mother. Women, most women it had to be said, had an eye to the main chance where their daughters were concerned. In marrying the brother of a marquess Clowance was taking an enormous step up in the world.

  The fact that Demelza, herself sprung from nothing, should not try to influence her daughter would be hard to believe. She hoped to make it clear to Philip, when she had the chance, that at an early age she had caught from Ross the doctrine of egalitarianism and had consistently put it into practice in her attitude even towards her own children.

  Strange about Jeremy’s window. Why should this still rattle? Someone should go up tomorrow and see that it was wedged. She could of course go up tonight. It was only along a dark corridor and up a single flight of stairs in a house of which she had been the mistress for thirty years. She couldn’t possibly be scared of ghosts here. She would go into the back kitchen, open the second drawer on the left, and find a collection of various-sized wooden wedges kept precisely for this purpose. Then in the next drawer was a small hammer, and armed with these she could take the candle she was carrying and go into Jeremy’s room. Of course when she got there she might find Jeremy, his face pressed against the window, his tunic plastered with Flanders mud, waiting to get in.

  Her back hair prickled. What a silly lootal she was! Sitting here all alone half a-tremble because a window rattled and a door creaked.

  She wondered if the dead felt the cold. Twice Ross had suggested to her that they might travel to Brussels to see her son’s grave; each time she had not taken it up. At first it was all too fresh and raw, now it was a fear of all that killing grief coming upon her again. Upon them both. Out of sight was out of mind. Partly anyway. She knew a stone had been erected. That was enough. But supposing Jeremy was upset
by her neglect. Supposing a week ago, on All-Hallows’ Eve, he had struggled out of his grave wrappings and begun the long walk back. It would have taken him all of six days. Meggy Dawes had said once that at All-Hallows’ Eve the white spines of dead men wriggled out from their graves and tried to return home. Perhaps he had found a horse as dead as himself. He would leave behind him the smell of decay. Would he himself smell or would all the flesh have rotted off the bone?

  Something tapped on the window of the parlour.

  She leaped up, a slipper off, chair rocking, port glass rolling but not breaking, falling on the rug. Heart thumping, she grabbed a poker, went to the window, pulled back the curtain.

  The dark garden, a few last leaves waving in the light breeze. No plant had been allowed to overgrow so that it would be big enough to tap the window. She could not have imagined the tap. Or could she?

  The light from the room flooded out into the garden. Henry’s small wheelbarrow was upside down with his spade on top of it. A few emaciated hollyhock spikes leaned about drunkenly. They should have been cut off. Nothing else stirred. But the night sky reflected a vivid, startling yellow from over the hill where the Bengal lights had begun.

  The clock said a quarter before eight. They had been impatient to start. Well and good. The display would surely last until half-past nine.

  She let the curtain fall. She was well enough now. She kicked off her other slipper and pulled on her boots, laced them up, put a scarf over her head and tied it in a bow under her chin. Her cloak was in the hall. She blew out the three candles in the candelabra, retained the single lighted candle on its stick.

  Don’t hurry. What are you hurrying for? Back to put up the fireguard. Moses was out and would have to stay out until they returned. In any case there were plenty of sheltered spots in the rear of the house, among the farm sheds.

  As she went out into the hall, pulling the parlour door to behind her, there was a tap on the front door.

  This could not be imagination. Who would want something at this time of night? All the back doors were unlocked, as was this one. One did not have thieves about in these country districts.

  She held the candle high, lifted the latch and opened the door. It was Paul Kellow.

  Chapter Three

  Printed instructions had been included with the Bengal lights and most of the fireworks. Will Nanfan had picked as his helpers those miners who could read, and they had rehearsed it once, so it became quite a well-ordered display. Ben and Esther Carter had been included, rather against Ben’s natural inclination, but Essie had persuaded him. In succession the night was lit up by brilliantly dazzling displays of indigo, scarlet, yellow, green, white, purple and azure. The villagers had seen nothing like it before, and while the fire licked its lips after consuming the straw-filled Guy, these brilliancies caused gasps of awe and appreciation.

  Most of the gentry had already turned up, Geoffrey Charles and Amadora, with Philip Prideaux and the Enyses. Presently Geoffrey Charles came over to Ross. After commenting on and receiving the explanation for Demelza’s absence, he said: ‘Have you seen Valentine this week?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He appears to have seized his small son, who has been in his mother’s keeping for the last six months.’

  ‘I’m damned.’

  Geoffrey Charles said: ‘That’s official, I believe. Polly Stevens has been called in to look after the child. I don’t know exactly where Selina has been living. Do you?’

  ‘At a place called Rayle Farm near Tehidy. You mean he has the baby at Place? Presumably he did not take his son without her permission . . .’

  ‘Stole the child from under their noses. So I’ve been told.’

  ‘Confound the fellow,’ Ross said. ‘You can rely on him only to do one thing – the unexpected. That’s no home for a little boy. Everybody drunk, light women infesting the place, that great ape rampaging.’

  ‘I saw David Lake last week, and he was complaining that life there had become comparatively dull of late. No one would ever expect Valentine to mend his ways, but apparently the place has been cleaned up somewhat. Maybe Valentine has had this in mind and is aiming for a degree of respectability to justify his having Georgie back. I find him quite unfathomable, you know.’

  Ross watched a Roman candle send up its coloured stars.

  ‘What will the legal position be?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You should have, after all the time you spend at Lincoln’s Inn.’

  Geoffrey Charles smiled. ‘Afraid we deal in wider matters such as international law. It’s a fault of the system. No doubt the local judges’ clerk would be better informed than I am. I suppose . . .’

  Ross waited.

  ‘I suppose . . . well, I suppose in law the father’s claim is paramount – that is unless he, the father, has been legally deprived of custody for some obvious malpractice and the wife and grandfather have been granted it instead. As far as I know there has been no such case. You and old George indeed have clubbed together to save Valentine from bankruptcy and maybe prison, so his character is not irredeemable.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘It is the common gossip of the local inns.’

  ‘Since when have you frequented the local inns?’

  The sparkling white of a Catherine wheel showed up Geoffrey Charles’s uneven teeth when he smiled.

  ‘I have friends, Ross. I have friends.’

  They were in the parlour. The scene had not changed since Demelza had left it three minutes ago. The piece of coal she had split still smoked and flickered behind the firescreen. Clowance’s fashion magazine lay open on the table. One of the two snuffed candles in the candelabra still sent up a faint wisp of smoke. The single candle burned, the one in her hand in the candlestick when she opened the door, now it was on the table.

  They sat opposite each other at the table. He was wearing a black suit with a white scarf tied like a cravat. His face was expressionless, his eyes malignantly curious. He was wearing built-up shoes.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Just a cosy, friendly chat.’

  ‘I was just – going to the bonfire,’ she said again.

  ‘Can you get pleasure out of that?’

  ‘Out of what?’

  ‘Watching fireworks.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t. You see . . . I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it is happening.’

  ‘Oh, it is.’

  ‘Demelza. You know I have wanted to talk to you for quite a long time. I think you suspect me of something that you are afraid to speak. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Ross will be back soon. He is coming back for me.’

  ‘I saw him up there laughing with his friends. He does not care for you the way I care for you.’

  ‘Paul, you are being very silly.’

  ‘The way I intend to care for you, that is.’

  ‘I think that is his step now!’

  ‘No, it is not. Sit down. He is up at the bonfire chatting and laughing with his friends. What do you think of me, Jeremy’s mother? Do you suspect me of killing all those women in the county over the last two years? You could not be more wrong. When you heard that my father and mother had taken a holiday in St Ives, did you believe it? Or did you think they were both lying in the cellar, beginning to stink, where I had killed them? Well, you are wrong, Jeremy’s mother. I brought them home safe and well this afternoon. They are both much happier for the change.’

  Demelza again stirred in her chair, but he instantly moved to stop her if she thought of making for the door.

  ‘You think I kill women? Quite the contrary. I watch them die, but that is another thing. I watch them die of tuberculosis. First Doris. Then Violet. Then Mary – or she soon will – then Daisy, though she will cling on as long as she can. I know who the murderer really is. Don’t you?’

  She glanced at the clock. Three minutes before eight.

  ‘It is Philip Prideaux. You should guess
that! He had a first breakdown in the West Indies, where he murdered a woman. He has been in the vicinity every time a woman has had her throat slit in Cornwall. He was staying at Cardew when the maid there was killed as she was walking home. And he was close by when every one of the others died. Tall, thin, long black coat, pretending to help the justices.’

  ‘It was a man killed by Philip in the West Indies.’

  ‘Ah, that’s what he tells you. Don’t believe it. He is an intruder. Why should you suspect me when I have lived here all my life?’

  The clock had moved three minutes.

  Paul said: ‘Let me tell you about Jeremy. He organized this robbery on the stagecoach from Plymouth to Truro. No wonder he was a success in the Army. Did you know I dressed up as a woman? To wear their clothes disgusted me even then. And it was all for a woman that it began. He was crazy for Cuby Trevanion. All for a woman . . . Yet when we got away with it he made no use of the money except to buy himself a commission in the Army. Stephen bought his boat business and married Clowance. I used my money better, I used it to bolster my father’s coaching business, and to buy a few whores . . .’ He raised his head, listening.

  ‘That is Moses, wanting to get in.’

  ‘Moses?’

  ‘Our cat.’

  ‘I don’t like cats. If I let him in I should slit his throat.’

  All her blood was frozen. She wanted to be sick. Paul said: ‘Even cats are preferable to women. Women are abominable.’

  ‘Whores may be.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You may think some whores are unpleasant.’

  ‘Those I had I could have killed, yes. I could have ripped them open. But I did not have a proper knife. I tried once with a pair of scissors, but it didn’t work.’ He took a long thin knife from under his cloak, slid off the sheath and laid it on the table. ‘This is more the sort of thing.’