Jago,’ he said. ‘If it turns out that Christopher needs more than a bit of friendly advice, I’d be treading on toes to give it.’
‘But you know the estate, and the people know you – they’ll talk to you.’ He attempted a smile. ‘If you can get Jacks to open his mouth, you can do anything.’ Perhaps he’d opened his mouth a little too readily, Penrose thought, remembering what Josephine had suggested and regretting being so prickly with her about Morwenna; in his heart, he wouldn’t trust a word Jacks said. ‘You’re a fair man, Archie,’ Jago added. ‘If Christopher’s done something wrong, he’ll have to be punished, but he’s a good lad really. I just want to know he’s all right.’
Penrose gave in. ‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’ They turned back towards the workshop. ‘William told me you found Harry’s body when it came ashore,’ he added.
Instantly, the defences came up again. ‘What of it?’ Jago said, stopping by the doors.
‘Nothing in particular. I was just interested in what Morveth did out on the lake.’
‘It was probably a coincidence, but at least it gave the girls some comfort. It’s not knowing that breaks people.’
‘Was Christopher with you at the time?’
‘No, thank God. The body wasn’t a pretty sight after being in the water all that time.’
‘But surely he helped you afterwards?’
‘No, he didn’t, but there’s nothing to read into that. I don’t let him near any drowning.’
‘You weren’t protecting him for any other reason?’
‘Like what? I didn’t need any other reason. Do you think a sixteen-year-old should be exposed to that sort of misery? My father broke me into this business gently. He didn’t let me near a drowning until I was a man, and I fully intend to offer Christopher the same courtesy. Even so, I can still remember the first time I had to put a drowned man on a stretcher – the smell of it, the touch of his skin, or what was left of it.’
Penrose acknowledged to himself that it was the same in his own job. As a young detective constable, he’d been lucky enough to work for a boss who had carefully judged when he was ready to face the more unpleasant crime scenes, and the sergeant had managed to protect him without making him feel patronised or useless. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s all right. You and I both remember a time when kids had to grow up too quickly – you were one of them. But war’s one thing – let’s not destroy the innocence of a peacetime generation earlier than we have to. I know you think I’m over-reacting, but can’t a father be worried about his son? What if someone’s taken him to punish me?’
Penrose was taken aback. ‘Punish you? What have you done to make enemies?’
Jago seemed to have no answer to that, and was saved from having to find an explanation by the sound of footsteps coming up the lane. A boy of about ten appeared, panting hard and flushed pink by the sun. ‘Mum sent me to say you can come whenever you like, Mr Snipe,’ he said. ‘Miss Wearne’s finished now, and the parlour’s ready.’
‘All right, lad, well done. We won’t be much longer.’ He turned to go back inside, already removing his overalls. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said to Penrose, but Penrose was not so easily dismissed. ‘Look, Jago,’ he said, catching hold of his sleeve. ‘I
Jago looked straight at Archie, but his eyes were unreadable. ‘There’s nothing else to know,’ he said firmly. ‘Please – just find my son.’
Chapter Eight
The music drifted across the Bar as the fair got underway, replacing the deceptive serenity of the cricket match with a Celtic brand of merrymaking that seemed much less alien to the Cornish sand. It was not yet dark, but a bonfire had already been lit in the centre of the beach, and it threw its warmth and energy out to a growing band of dancers. They cheered as the musicians – a young trio of concertina, fiddle and tin whistle – struck up another round of jigs and reels, gathering speed as they went and seemingly oblivious to anything other than the next tune. Behind them, where the shingle met a rough stretch of grass, a row of colourful makeshift stalls had been set up with an almost magical efficiency, and stood facing the sea from a safe distance. Some of the vendors were peddling cheap and cheerful trinkets, but most offered food which was no less appealing to the eye: jars of sweets stood in rows of silver and scarlet and green, interspersed with slabs of toffee and long, pink sticks of peppermint rock; clean, white cloths were spread with tiny plates of limpets, mussels, shrimps and other tasty delicacies at a penny a time; and freshly baked breads, mixed with the distinctive deep yellow of saffron, threatened to spill out from their baskets as they were carried amongst the revellers. The whole beach buzzed with the excitement of a high-spirited crowd determined to make the most of a weekday holiday, and to forget about work the following morning.
Joseph Caplin drained the cider from his glass and watched Loveday as she moved through the fair. She stopped near the band, entranced by a marionette which kept time with the music, and her upturned face and long blonde hair reminded him – as it always did – of his own young daughter, or how she might have been had she lived beyond those four short years. Joseph had grown up determined to be different from the unhappy man his father had been, always so dissatisfied with the gruelling monotony of life on the farm, and capable of communicating only through work or through sex. Unlike his parents, he had married for love and, when his wife left him for another man just days after bearing their second child, he remembered the resentment which had constantly eaten away at his father and fought against it in his own life, even though he had much more to be bitter about. Forced to cope on his own with a young daughter and a baby, he had vowed still to be the father he had always wanted to be even if he could no longer be the husband, and he worked harder than ever, comforted by the fact that his days moved along familiar paths, worn as deep into the fabric of the community as the ruts in the tracks between the fields.
William Motley had been good to him, and had found him some help with the children and the house. He remembered every inch of that cottage as it was in those days – back when he was proud of it, back when he still had a reason to care if the blue slate slabs on the kitchen floor were clean or the tiny windows in the rooms upstairs were so rotten with rain that they no longer fitted well enough to keep the draught out. He remembered how glorious the small parlour had looked in the days leading up to Christmas, warm from the glow of the fire, the sideboard already piled with dates and nuts and holly from their own garden. He sold his father’s watch for the presents and went into Penzance for something more special than the shops in Helston could offer. When he returned, clutching his daughter’s new blue jumper to his chest, he remembered thinking that he wouldn’t have swapped places with anyone in the world. She had been so thrilled to find the parcel under the tree and had plagued him to let her open it early; eventually, three days before Christmas, he allowed her to unwrap it and it was hard to say who was more excited when she tried it on and strutted round the cottage in it. It would be filthy by Christmas morning, no doubt, but what did that matter compared to her joy now? That night, he was so tired that he dozed in front of the fire, his daughter on his lap. While he slept, she slipped from his arms and climbed onto a chair to admire herself again in the mirror over the fireplace. As she leaned forward towards the looking glass, a flame caught the bottom of her skirt, and he was awoken by her screams. Disoriented, and praying to be still asleep and the victim of a hideous nightmare, Joseph put the fire out, covering her small body with his own, but she was already too severely burned. She died in hospital two days later, and was buried before the new year. His wife had not come to the funeral.
The beach was more crowded now, and it seemed to him that the whole of the estate had come out to enjoy itself. He watched as couples and young families walked around the fair, relaxed and happy to be together, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow that he would never see either of his children in love and married. He had given his baby up after the accident, before they could come and force him to do it. He knew that he wasn’t capable of looking after a child, but didn’t want to give anyone else the satisfaction of making his decision for him, so he walked to the Union the day after his daughter’s funeral and handed the baby over at the gate, trying not to notice the pity in the woman’s eyes. He went straight across the road to the nearest bar and drank as much as he could pay for, determined to prove to himself that he was unfit to be a father, and to resist the temptation to run back to those gates and say it had all been a mistake. It was a Friday, and the bar was packed with people by six o’clock. A
