‘He’s a policeman in London, yes, and a good one I’ve no doubt. Here, he’s vulnerable because he cares too much. He could so easily lose himself again, just like he did when his parents died – like he did when he came back from the war. You and I both know how close to despair he’s come in the past, and how distant he can be.’
Josephine was disconcerted by how much Morveth obviously knew about her shared past with Archie, but she, for her part, knew that his commitment to the truth was more than a professional obligation. ‘If you’re telling me that Archie is the last person to ask for help when he really needs it, then I couldn’t agree with you more, and I’ll always support him if he’ll let me – but I can’t ask him to turn his back on something that matters to him, particularly when I don’t even understand what it is I’m asking.’
‘Not even if there are things he’s better off not knowing?’
‘You see? That’s exactly what I mean. If you stopped talking in these ridiculous riddles for a moment, I might have a better idea of what I’m supposed to help you protect Archie from. What sort of things is he better off not knowing?’
Morveth turned to her, and it occurred to Josephine that she had rarely seen a face with more strength in it. ‘Archie’s mother, Lizzie, was my closest friend,’ the older woman said quietly. ‘In the days leading up to her wedding, I could see something was bothering her, and we took a boat out on the lake to talk. It took her a while to tell me, but she was worrying about whether or not to tell her new husband that her brother, Jasper, had taken advantage of her.’
‘The vicar?’ asked Josephine, shocked.
Morveth laughed bitterly. ‘Yes, the Reverend Motley. It began when she was ten and he was thirteen, and continued on and off for three years. By that time, getting pregnant frightened her more than he did, so she had the courage to defy him and lock her bedroom door at night so that he couldn’t come and go as he pleased.’
Her words echoed Loveday’s description of Morwenna’s behaviour with Harry, and Josephine was more convinced than ever that she had been right about the violence in their relationship, but it was Archie’s family which concerned her more at the moment. ‘Did William know?’ she asked.
‘No. She didn’t tell anyone while it was happening because Jasper had convinced her that it was her fault for leading him on, and that she would be the one to be punished if they were caught. And afterwards, when her parents had died and William inherited, she couldn’t tell him because she knew he’d force Jasper to leave and she was afraid of the scandal. Shame is a powerful emotion, isn’t it? Much more powerful than love or even jealousy. She told her husband, James, though, and her marriage was the stronger for it, but it was her worst fear that her son would find out. She never wanted him to think of his mother as frightened and ashamed, you see. It was obvious to everyone that she despised her brother, because she rarely set foot inside that church from the day he was ordained, and she left him a pinch of salt in her will. No one really knew why she hated him so much, though, except Archie’s father, and he was a good man – wise enough to see that loving Lizzie was much more important than punishing Jasper.’
‘Do you think that’s what Nathaniel knew?’
‘I doubt it. I don’t see how he could have found out. There are only two people left alive who do know; one of them certainly won’t want it talked about, and I’ve only ever told you. But that’s what I mean – it’s all very well to say truth must out, but it’s not always best; sometimes the braver thing is to keep silent. There’s a darkness in most households if you look hard enough; you just have to do the best you can with the knowledge you have.’
Josephine doubted that Morveth would trust her with any knowledge of the Pinching family, but she needed to ask the question. Before she could think of the best way to phrase it, however, there was a murmur of relief from the stage as the powerful headlights of two police cars and an ambulance appeared at the top of the slope. Morveth walked over to stand with Nathaniel’s parents while William greeted the officers, and the opportunity, for now, was gone.
Penrose waited with Nathaniel’s body while the police made their way across the rocks. The senior officer introduced himself and Penrose gave a succinct account of what had happened, then left the team to its work and retraced his footsteps wearily round to the outcrop, where a more secure method of access had now been put in place.
William and Rowena Cade were standing on the backstage path with a distinguished-looking man who was familiar to Penrose but whose name he did not know. ‘This is Chief Constable Stephens, Inspector,’ explained Miss Cade. ‘He’s always been a great friend to the Minack and to me, and I wanted him to know what had happened straight away.’ And to find out what it means for your theatre, Penrose added mentally, but he could not blame Rowena Cade for her concern; the Minack was her vision and, by all accounts she had created it virtually single- handed and spent a considerable amount of her own money on it. In her position, his priorities would have been exactly the same.
‘Penrose – good to meet you at last, but I wish it had been under happier circumstances. Terrible thing to happen. Rowena tells me you’ve had everything under control, though. Thank God you were here.’
Right at this moment, Penrose could hardly agree but he didn’t argue. Instead, he took the chief constable tactfully to one side and explained again what he had seen from the stage. ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt that it’s murder, Sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll obviously give your investigating officer a full statement as soon as he’s ready,’ he added diplomatically, knowing that county forces were loath to call in Scotland Yard, even when a major crime occurred in their area. ‘And it goes without saying that if there’s any help London can give, you only need to ask.’
‘What do you mean?’ Stephens asked. ‘You’ll take it on, surely? I can call the Yard and clear it with them tonight. Who’s your superior officer?’
‘Superintendent Goodman, Sir, but don’t you want your own force to investigate?’
‘The best man’s a local one, you mean? Well, there’s something to be said for that, I suppose, but you
Penrose hesitated, knowing that he was effectively being asked to tear apart some of the lives he cared about most, and resenting the reduction of the process to an exercise in model policing. ‘There might be a conflict of interest, Sir,’ he said. ‘It involves my uncle’s estate, after all.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve proved yourself to be above all that. If that’s your only objection, we’ll have the body taken to Minack House in the first instance and I’ll notify the coroner.’ Penrose nodded his agreement, realising that he really had no choice.
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday was the first morning since her arrival that Josephine had not awoken to sunlight on the lake, but more than the weather had changed overnight. When William telephoned early to make sure she was all right, he was understandably in sombre mood and even his daughters were uncharacteristically lethargic about their plans for the day. Josephine refused the half-hearted offer of a run into Penzance for some shopping and settled down at the desk in the sitting room’s large bay window, full of good intentions to do something about the woeful lack of progress she had made with her book – but it was not to be: the bland, grey cloud which hung motionless over the water – mocking any celebrations promised by the half-decorated boat – seemed to recognise the futility of a glorious morning after such a senseless waste of life the night before, and she felt much the same. Every sentence she wrote was contrived and artificial, and her mind refused to engage with William Potticary’s progress along an imaginary cliff-top; instead, she kept mulling over her conversation with Morveth and the uncomfortable knowledge with which it had left her. She had no idea what, if anything, to say to Archie, but at least while he was busy with Nathaniel’s death she would have plenty of time to think about it.
She looked around the room, knowing that it was much as it had been when Archie’s parents were at the Lodge and intrigued to see what it might tell her about them. Like William’s library, it was spacious and comfortable, and had clearly been designed for living in rather than effect. A warm Brussels carpet ran the length of the floor, rich in reds and blues, but otherwise the space was divided in character: the area in which she was sitting had two tall windows, one looking out over the lake and the other along a private road that led to Helston, and its
