Perhaps she should walk round and interrupt, but it would take her a good twenty minutes to reach them and by that time the damage might be done. Anyway, she thought, looking down, she could hardly carry this about the estate in full daylight; it had to be disposed of immediately. Burning it would be too risky – the police were bound to comb the area sooner or later, and a fire would leave traces behind; no, it had to be put out of sight in a place where no one would ever find it. When she looked up again, Morveth saw that Morwenna had left the boathouse and was now walking off in the direction of the Helston Road; Josephine watched her go, then turned and went back into the Lodge. Relieved, but still wondering what had been said, Morveth made her way quickly along the bank, through the bluebells and moss-covered tree trunks, and round to the deepest part of the lake.
The group of jackdaws sitting sociably on the roof of Loe Cottage seemed to Josephine to be an unfittingly high-spirited reminder of the night before. She watched their activity as she walked up the lane to the gate; one bird was perched on the rim of the chimney pot, periodically thrusting its head downwards until a puff of black smoke sent it to join its friends on the ridges of the thatch. Their characteristic doglike yap filled the air, high- pitched and insistent. She had read somewhere that jackdaws were once regarded as omens of doom; if that were true, they had chosen their meeting place well.
Loveday was looking out of one of the upstairs windows. Her face brightened as soon as she saw Josephine and she waved, then beckoned her inside. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable about letting herself into another woman’s home, Josephine put her head round the door and called a tentative greeting. ‘Loveday? Is it all right if I come up?’
‘Of course it is.’ The voice was too close to have come from the bedroom, and a few seconds later its owner appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a white cotton nightgown with her long blonde hair tied back in a single plait, and looking even younger than her fourteen years. She was paler than usual, but Josephine was glad to see that there were no other signs of illness. ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ Loveday said, smiling broadly. ‘I’m so bored of lying in bed, but Morwenna says I’ve got to stay there.’
‘Quite right, too. Your sister told me I could come and keep you company for a bit,’ she added, keen for Loveday to know she wasn’t doing anything wrong. ‘Personally, I can’t think of anything more idyllic than lying in bed all day and doing nothing, so think of it as a treat and make the most of it while you can.’
Loveday protested good-naturedly, but led the way back to her room. The stairs, which went up from the ill- fated kitchen, came out on to a long, dark landing, and Josephine could not decide whether the claustrophobic feeling it gave her was due to the physical structure of the cottage or to her knowledge of what had gone on there; probably the latter, she thought, because the house itself was surprisingly spacious inside. Three doors led off the landing, and Loveday headed for the one at the very end, giving Josephine a perfect opportunity to glance into the other rooms on the way. The first was obviously Morwenna’s and was notable only for being slightly untidier than the rest of the house, but the second – stripped completely bare, even down to the curtains at the windows – stopped her in her tracks. Of course grief affected people differently, but this utter eradication of Harry from the sisters’ lives only strengthened her belief that he was guilty of something more terrible than his parents’ murder – more terrible in Morwenna’s eyes, at least. An image flashed into her mind of Harry and Morwenna by the boathouse on that last morning; it was not something that she could ever have seen – she didn’t even know what Harry looked like – but it held the intensity of a memory, and she wondered again about his death. How or why was beyond her, but – having glimpsed this emphatic denial of a life – she had no doubt that Morwenna would certainly have been capable of her brother’s murder.
‘In here,’ Loveday called impatiently. Her room was small but cheerful, with ceilings which sloped almost to the ground and shiny black floorboards, covered in rugs worn so thin that the animals embroidered lovingly on to them were barely recognisable. On the mat nearest the bed, a horse peeped out from a hot-water bottle which had been cast aside onto the floor. The bedclothes themselves were entirely white, giving a pure, almost virginal quality to the room which was straight out of the stories of romance and adventure that filled the shelf above the bed. Clearly, Loveday’s tastes inclined towards the heroic: Malory, Kipling and Rider Haggard rubbed shoulders with Ouida and Stevenson, and Josephine was pleased to see dog-eared editions of Conan Doyle and
Loveday patted the bed, and Josephine sat down. ‘Here – I’ve brought you something to read,’ she said, handing over Archie’s copy of
‘No, no – of course not,’ she said, smiling bravely. ‘I just hoped it might be one of yours, that’s all.’ Realising that she must sound ungrateful, she added: ‘I’m sure Gordon Daviot’s very good, though.’
Josephine laughed. ‘That’s one of
‘Won’t Mr Penrose mind you lending me his book?’
‘Of course not,’ said Josephine, who had no qualms whatsoever about raiding Archie’s library, particularly today. As far as she was concerned, he could curl up with his bloody Tennyson and leave her alone to polish her mirror. She smiled sweetly at Loveday. ‘He’d be pleased to know you were enjoying it.’
‘I’ll keep it safe for him,’ Loveday promised, tracing the lettering on the jacket thoughtfully with her finger. ‘Why wouldn’t you want people to know you’ve written a book?’ she asked. ‘I think it’s a wonderful thing. If it were me, I’d have my name as big as possible on the front.’
‘Not if you lived in Inverness, you wouldn’t,’ Josephine said, smiling.
‘Why? Aren’t the people very nice?’
‘It’s not that. It’s just that as a family we’ve always preferred to keep ourselves to ourselves, and that’s not necessarily the best way to make yourself popular in a small town. Everyone already thought I was a little odd because I refused to take part in the endless round of going out to tea, and I didn’t want to make it worse for myself by being seen to do anything as queer as writing a book. It was stupid of me, really, but I thought I could keep the two things entirely separate.’
‘But they found out?’
‘Yes. The play I wrote was a bit of a hit, and that scuppered me completely. And you’re right – calling myself Gordon Daviot wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. It seemed a nice tribute at the time, but it gets me some very strange looks and I dread to think what they’ll be saying about me in fifty years’ time.’
‘Who was it a tribute to?’
‘Someone I used to know. It was a long time ago now – I was only a few years older than you. Daviot is a small village a few miles from where I live now – about the same distance as Penzance is from here. I used to go on holiday there every summer with my parents, and that’s where I met him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Oh, he’s not around any more.’
‘Did you jilt him?’
Reluctant to start a conversation about the war and what it had meant to her, Josephine smiled. ‘No. In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that he jilted me.’
Loveday looked petulant. ‘I’ve jilted Christopher,’ she said.
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because he’s ignoring me. He hasn’t spoken to me since Sunday.’
‘Does he know he’s in your bad books?’
‘Of course not. I haven’t had a chance to tell him.’
Had she not realised the seriousness of Christopher’s disappearance, Josephine would have been amused by Loveday’s indignation: a girl was never too young to resent being denied the chance to air her grievances first. ‘So you haven’t heard from him at all?’
‘No, not a thing.’
‘And he didn’t say anything to you about having to go away? To see some friends, perhaps?’ Loveday shook
