but feeling it was the least she could do. Mrs Snipe was amongst the women, and Josephine went over to speak to her.
‘She’s not hurt, Miss Tey,’ the Snipe said, her arm still reassuringly around Loveday’s shoulders. ‘But she’s scared half to death and very confused. She keeps saying that Harry’s in there, but she must be getting it mixed up with the last time. It beggars belief, doesn’t it? This happening twice, I mean – it scarcely seems possible.’ She lowered her face and placed a comforting kiss on the top of Loveday’s head. ‘I’ll look after her, though – don’t you worry.’
‘Who got her out? Was it Morwenna?’
‘No, Miss – it was Jacks, of all people. He was working in the woods and saw the smoke. Morwenna’s nowhere to be seen. Loveday swears she’s not at home – keeps saying something about her going to get Shilling, but I don’t think the poor kid knows what’s what at the moment.’
‘And where’s Jacks now?’
‘He’s gone back into the fire.’ She looked up, and Josephine knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘He wouldn’t have it that Morwenna was safe.’
Archie was talking urgently with two men, one of whom turned and left as Josephine approached. ‘The fire brigade’s been called,’ he said, ‘but Jacks has gone back inside. I’ve told Joseph Caplin to go and fetch William – the last thing he needs is to stand here and watch a fire after what he’s been through. Is Loveday all right?’
‘Shocked and upset, but not hurt,’ Josephine said. ‘But Harry
‘Shit. What about Morwenna?’
‘Loveday says not. She went to fetch Shilling, apparently.’
‘Shilling? Why would she do that?’
Josephine shrugged. ‘You’re asking me for logic? Just be pleased she’s not in the cottage. That neither of them is. It looks like Harry made sure this time.’
‘Do something for me – go and speak to Loveday, and try and make sense of what happened. If she insists that Morwenna went to get Shilling, take the car to the stable block and see if there’s any sign of her or the horse.’
‘What about you? You’re not thinking of going in there, I hope.’
‘I don’t have any choice.’
‘Archie, you can’t – it’s not safe. I won’t let you do that – leave it to the fire brigade when it gets here.’
‘Who knows how long that will take? Look, I’m not going to be stupid about it, I promise. If there’s no chance, I’ll come out straight away, but two men are in there and I have to try.’
‘Why? Just so you can hang one of them if he’s not already dead and let the other one carry on beating his wife? Do you have to be a hero, Archie? Just because we got here too late and there’s nothing else you can do? Can’t you see how selfish that is?’
‘Go and speak to Loveday,’ he repeated, and turned towards the cottage before she could say anything more. Angry and upset, Josephine did as she was asked.
The back door was already open, and Archie headed for the stairs. Before he was halfway up, though, thick, black smoke drove him down into the kitchen again. Realising that he had even less time than he thought before the whole cottage was alight, he went quickly through the sitting room and along the corridor to the back stairs. If anything, the smoke was even worse here: already, his eyes were smarting and he found it difficult to breathe, but, as he climbed the steps, he could see Jacks halfway along the landing, bent double and choking with the fumes, but still inching slowly forward. He called out, but Jacks either couldn’t or wouldn’t hear him, and Penrose had no choice but to follow. He grabbed the gamekeeper’s arm and tried to pull him back towards the stairs, but was pushed roughly aside.
‘Fuck off, Penrose. I need to find Morwenna.’
‘She’s not here, Jacks. There’s nothing more you can do.’
‘You’re lying. That door’s locked – there must be someone in there. I can’t just leave her.’
‘It’s not Morwenna,’ Penrose insisted, still trying to force Jacks back downstairs.
‘Who else would it be? You just want to play the hero.’
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ he said, already tired of an accusation that he had heard twice in as many minutes. ‘That isn’t Morwenna and this isn’t a game. Look at those flames – whoever it is, he’s beyond our help. Come with me – now, before the roof collapses.’ The sound of exploding glass from the nearest bedroom served to underline Penrose’s warning, although he suspected that the thought of another man in Morwenna’s bed was more influential in Jacks’s decision. Reluctantly, the gamekeeper turned and allowed himself to be pushed towards the stairs.
Help arrived sooner than Penrose could have hoped for. By the time he and Jacks emerged from the cottage, choking and gasping, an ambulance driver was wrapping Loveday in a blanket and the clanging of a fire engine’s bell could be heard across the fields. He brushed aside any medical assistance for himself but made sure that Jacks was in safe hands, then walked back to the road. There was no sign of Josephine or the car.
‘Sir?’ Penrose turned and saw Trew hurrying over the lawn. ‘I got here as quickly as I could. What’s happened?’
Penrose explained succinctly, impressed – as he had been at the Minack – by the calm and intelligent way in which Trew absorbed information and wasted no time on questions that could wait until later. ‘Tell the firemen what they’ll find inside and clear everyone away before they bring the body out, especially his little sister – make sure she’s looked after. I don’t know how long she was in there with the fire, but the shock alone will need some care. I’m going to look for Morwenna.’
Trew nodded and went to greet the fire brigade, and Penrose headed for the woods which offered the quickest route to the house and stables. Within a matter of minutes, it was as though he had entered a different world. A density of new summer growth cushioned him from the pall of smoke and commotion that clung to Loe Cottage, and he looked with a mixture of astonishment and sadness at the extraordinary beauty which could exist so close to death. The flowers stretched out in front of him, as if someone had taken a brush and covered the ground in a delicate, vein-blue wash, and he had the illusion of walking through water – a continuation of the lake which could be glimpsed here and there through the trees, first lavender, then cobalt, as the light played different tricks on its surface. He picked his way through the bluebells, and their faint but unmistakeable scent brought back his childhood and something else besides – something universal, something lost. The woods were quiet, unnaturally so, and suddenly Penrose knew what he would find. How strange, he thought, that he should feel such a calm acceptance as well as regret; that even he, it seemed, could acknowledge that this was the best – the only – way.
Morwenna had chosen a sycamore tree to mark her death. Her body was hanging from its lower branches by a narrow rope – a lone, dark figure, one for sorrow, certainly, although the grief was no longer hers. A soft breeze ruffled her skirt and the sleeves of her blouse, and the image was so familiar to Penrose that he wondered if that moment all those years ago – that pairing of beauty and death which had affected him so deeply – had, in fact, been a premonition, a sign that it was already too late to save her. There was a pile of logs close to her feet and, as he got closer, Penrose could see that the rope was actually a long leather rein – one of Harry’s, no doubt. Her head was tilted to one side, away from the fatal knot, and the only mark that he could see on her skin was the imprint of a metal ring at the front of her neck. Otherwise, her face was pale and uncongested, suggesting a merciful cardiac response rather than slow asphyxiation. She would probably only have suffered a few seconds of consciousness, but she had left nothing to chance: as he walked around her body, he noticed that her wrists were tied clumsily together behind her; it was a poignant sign of her resolve, and something which he had occasionally seen in those bent on self-destruction who feared they might lose courage at the final moment. Every human impulse in him wanted to raise his arms and lift her gently down, but he knew that he should not touch anything, and he felt the conflict between his job and his heart more sharply than ever.
There was no note that he could see, but then he would not have expected to find one. Morwenna had nothing left to say to the living – she had made that perfectly clear at their last meeting. But on the ground, too close to the place of her death to be a coincidence, Penrose noticed something which was as eloquent an expression of atonement as any suicide note he had ever read. A dead bird lay among the bluebells – a jackdaw. He knelt down and parted the hanging flowers to take a closer look, and saw that there was a piece of rough twine around its neck. Its small, serpent-like eyes were clouded and lifeless and, if Penrose had ever doubted Morveth’s
