The Cornish Widow, page 15
"Yes, Mr Wilson?" asks the coroner.
"How long was the lemon juice made before Mrs Thomas consumed it?" he asks.
Mrs Parsons looks thoughtfully into the distance. "About two hours before," she says. "It sat on the dressing table for some time."
Finally, Mrs Parsons recounts the moment the ambulance left with her daughter, and the coroner releases her. I watch her face crumple as she leaves the stand, and my heart aches for her. It does not ache for her obnoxious son Percy, who is up next.
Percy Parsons strides purposefully towards the witness stand and faces the jury, black eyes boring like gimlets. He stands, shoulders back, and his neat moustache can't conceal lips trembling with anger.
"Name?" asks the coroner.
"Percy Roy Parsons."
"Occupation?"
"Farmer, living and working at Tremaine Farm."
"November eighth," says the coroner, steepling his fingers. "Tell me about it."
"It was the day of Alice's funeral," says Percy Parsons. "I was introduced to Mrs Hearn, who I had not previously met. I asked a few questions about the day at Bude, and the answers she gave me were not satisfactory."
"What did you ask her?"
"I wanted to know what they had to eat that day. She replied, 'Tea, cake, bread and butter, and sandwiches."
"Why was that unsatisfactory?"
"She left a gap after bread and butter as if she was reluctant to mention the sandwiches."
The coroner leans forward. "I understood she made no secret about including sandwiches in the meal."
"She paused," repeats Percy Parsons, confrontationally. "And what is more, my wife asked Mrs Hearn where the sandwiches came from, and Mrs Hearn replied they came from Bude. Then she changed her mind and said they had taken the sandwiches with them. I asked her which of the statements was true, and my mother interrupted and said that Mrs Hearn had made the sandwiches. Well, all that subterfuge raised my suspicions, and I told her so."
"Told her what, exactly?"
"That I suspected there had been foul play."
I imagine the scene in my mind's eye, Annie Hearn timidly trying to explain the situation in front of three hostile members of the Parsons family. From what I now knew of her quiet demeanour, the confrontation would have terrified her. And Percy Parsons was bristling with anger in the jury box, glowering at William Thomas like a school bully. No wonder Annie fled.
The coroner interrupts my musings. "What made you suspicious of foul play?"
"The fact that my sister had been ill for ten days before anyone informed my mother or me."
"Any other reason?"
"Isn't that enough?" Parsons does not wait for an answer before continuing. "I found it puzzling that Mrs Hearn had been the only woman in the house practically the entire time to do the housework and attend to my sister."
"And you found that odd?"
"Well, to put it plainly, I heard a report that Mr Thomas and Mrs Hearn were too friendly."
"But that is hearsay?"
"Maybe, but it's what they told me."
"What was your relationship with Mr Thomas?"
"We didn't speak, nor did he approve of Annie visiting her family."
"Did your sister get on with her husband?"
"No," says Percy Parsons.
"How many times did you see them when they were not getting on well together?"
Parsons gives the coroner a withering stare. "As I said, they didn't visit."
"How many times?"
"Once."
Percy Parsons leaves the stand, and I am glad to see him go. I rarely dislike anyone on first acquaintance, but Parsons is an exception. I stare at his chair, half expecting to see a puddle of slime, but it is empty until the clerk calls Mrs Tucker, William Thomas's neighbour. She occupies the chair just long enough to contradict Percy Parsons. Mrs Tucker smiles as she says that to her knowledge, the marriage was a happy one. I like Mrs Tucker much better than Parsons, but the chair takes on merry-go-round proportions as another witness takes the stand.
The following three witnesses are doctors. I listen intently as their factual evidence contrasts with Mrs Parsons' emotion and her son Percy's anger. I expect the doctors to spend a long time on the stand, but the coroner ushers them through with unseemly haste. Dr Saunders gives a brief account of his diagnosis of arsenic poisoning. Then Dr Millicent Fox, resident medical officer, tells of her encounter with William Thomas. She says that she told him that his wife was not suffering from food poisoning but had ingested arsenic and that the news shocked Thomas, who suffered the further indignity of being asked to keep away. They did not permit him to attend her bedside, and he could only see Alice through the window. According to the doctor, Thomas displayed genuine distress and seemed overwhelmed with concern for his wife. Finally, Dr Eric Wordley, pathologist, describes his post-mortem examination. It is no less gruesome than Mr Tickle's evidence yesterday, and I fan my face with my hand to fend off the red flush of revulsion that threatens to engulf me. Finally, it is time for the coroner to sum up, and a hush falls across the Guildhall as we listen to his words.
Dr Pearce clears his throat. "Mr Thomas was undoubtedly indiscreet," he says. "But I can find no evidence of a guilty association with Mrs Hearn. It was unwise for him to lend money to Mrs Hearn without telling his wife. And Mrs Hearn's frequent visits to the house would naturally give rise to gossip among the neighbours. I must now deal with four circumstances in connection with Mrs Hearn," he continues. "She undoubtedly prepared the sandwiches and did the cooking, as you have heard. Undeniably, she bought some weedkiller in 1926, principally comprising arsenic. If she had formed one, a plausible motive might be that if Mr Thomas were a widower, there would be more chance of becoming his wife."
"On the other hand, you must consider that you have heard no evidence that Mrs Hearn wanted to marry Mr Thomas. Regarding the sandwiches, she did not express a desire for any particular sandwich herself. Mrs Hearn ate from the same plate as Mrs Thomas and suffered no ill effects. There was no evidence of arsenic in the sandwiches nor the cooked food. True, the opportunity was there, but did Mrs Hearn take advantage of it?"
I hear a sound to my left. Peter is nodding his head vigorously as if agreeing that she did. His lack of impartiality is annoying, and I am cross that he has distracted me from listening to every word the coroner says. I want to form an unbiased view, and so far, I've heard nothing to convince me of Annie Hearn's guilt. The coroner sips from a glass of water before resuming.
"The letter which Mrs Hearn sent to Mr Thomas," he says, "is capable of two constructions. One could ask why Mrs Hearn jumped to the conclusion that someone poisoned Mrs Thomas, especially as nobody considered the possibility until Mr Percy Parsons intervened. And he said he knew nothing other than what Mrs Hearn said herself. Was it a guilty conscience that struck her when Mr Parsons made the remark? But there is another construction, emphatically asserted in Mrs Hearn's letter. She said she was innocent of the cause of the death of Mrs Thomas. And even more remarkably, that her own passing would clear Mr Thomas. What did she mean by that?"
This time, it's my turn to nod, and I cast a smirk at Peter, who raises his eyes heavenward.
"But she is not here to defend herself," says the coroner. "And in her absence, we must not forget to give due weight to interpreting evidence in her favour as well as the other way."
His summing up concluded, the coroner sits, and a short time later, Admiral Moorshed stands and delivers the jury's conclusion. The coroner makes a formal announcement of the verdict. "Mrs Alice Thomas of Lewannick near Launceston," he says, "was murdered by arsenic poisoning. But there is no evidence to show who administered it."
And that is that. The coroner thanks the jury, the policemen and the public before dismissing us for the final time.
"She's as guilty as sin," says Malcolm, grinning as he approaches Peter. He has spent the second day of the inquest sitting with his journalist friend. I open my mouth to argue but find I don't care enough. Malcolm is boorish, and reasoning with him is pointless. "Get outside quickly," says Malcolm.
"Why?" asks Peter in a muffled voice. He is trying to find my stick, which has rolled under the seat.
"Come on – sharpish. The pressmen are trying to get an interview with Thomas."
"You go," says Peter, ever the gentleman, and Malcolm doesn't argue. He disappears apace while Peter locates my stick. We wait for the room to empty, then make our way outside. But when we leave the Guildhall, we soon realise that we have missed nothing at all. We almost walk straight into a pack of reporters who have corralled William Thomas by the side of the building. Peter raises an arm, and we retreat while staying close enough to listen.
"A few words," Mr Thomas," says a young man, scribbling furiously in a notebook. His colleague stands beside him, clutching a copy of the Sheffield Telegraph.
"Very well," sighs William Thomas with an air of inevitability. "This has been a terrible ordeal," he says, and his voice wobbles. Thomas licks his lips, chokes down a sob, and I dig my fingers into my palms. His misery looks like an act and not a particularly good one.
"I am not in good health," he says. "And not only have I suffered the loss of my wife, but it's amid all this mystery and suspicion. I would be happy if they found Mrs Hearn so she could throw some light on my wife's death. The jury did not name the perpetrator in the verdict, and although I am innocent, they've left me under a cloud. I have lost my wife, and now I am plunged into all this. I know I'm innocent and can face my neighbours, but I shall have to work hard to live this down and forget the terrible ordeal. I think the inquest has been fair, and I have nothing to fear, for I have told my story faithfully."
"That's all," says Mr Thomas's solicitor, raising a hand in the air. He reaches for his client and guides him away by the elbow while waiting for photographers to snap pictures of his retreating form.
"That's that," says Peter, "all done. What did you think?"
"That Thomas has got away with murder," I say.
Peter raises an eyebrow. "I can't believe you still feel that way. It's hard to credit that we were in the same inquest."
WE ARE STILL BICKERING about the verdict when we get back to Smuggler's Cottage. It is our last night in Plymouth, and Peter's aunt has pushed the boat out once again, and invited Malcolm and his friend for tea. To his credit, Malcolm moderates his behaviour in front of his aunt and fills our last evening with good humour. Once again, I retire early, but Peter is enjoying himself and stays downstairs. I pass Peter's room on the way to mine and eye his door as I contemplate whether to bother attempting a dream walk tonight. I'm still tired, annoyed at the way Peter has taken against Annie Hearn, and past the point at which I care whether he believes me. I could enter his room the traditional way, take a casual glance at his bedside table and save enough time for half an hour's reading followed by the luxury of a good night's sleep. And although part of me wants to prove a point, I give in and push the door. To my disappointment, it stays shut. I turn the round black handle and try harder – nothing. Peter has locked the door and taken the key. Not only does he not believe me, but he has made sure that I won't discover the hidden object by nefarious means.
I walk to my room, stick clattering against the floorboards louder than is necessary, still furious that Peter doesn't trust me. I prop my stick against the wardrobe and dress for bed, unwilling to stay awake to prove I'm not lying. If Peter can't take me at my word, then he can forget it. I sink back into my pillows as I grab the Crawford Newson book. It's a thrilling story but I haven't spent half as much time as I expected reading lately as long days in the Guildhall have left me weary. No sooner do my eyes focus on the pages than the letters disappear in a blur as my eyelids flutter closed. Seconds later, I wake again, hands still clutching the open pages. I try but fail to fight sleep, and the book falls from my grasp and slides face up on the bedspread. I watch the words half-heartedly, too tired to summon the energy to read the book or put it back on my nightstand. I'm happy to take a lingering glance before slipping into a restful sleep. I watch the words, beautiful lines of text, small, symmetrical, and meaningful as they lay regimented on the page. But my eye turns to an undisciplined line in the middle, which throbs and pulses alarmingly among its well-behaved neighbours. And as the vowels disappear with a pop, I raise my finger and push it into the writhing text. My fingernail vanishes as I somehow knew it would. I have entered the dream state without trying. Feeling a clarity of thought at odds with my usual out-of-body consciousness, I decide to take advantage of the situation and deal with Peter's scepticism once and for all. I jump from my bed and spin around my room like a dainty ballerina, light and free, and then I explode through the door in a flurry of energy.
I stop dead in my tracks. The light is on, and someone is coming up the stairs. I fade into the wall and watch as Peter's mother ascends, still close enough to my body to feel my heart fluttering in the distance. It is the strangest thing to feel connected with remote bodily functions, and stranger still to be hiding in a landing wall. But I would die of embarrassment if Isla saw me. I stay there as she passes, and she doesn't seem to notice. Once I am alone again, I proceed towards Peter's room, wondering if the bedroom will be empty. I can't hear anything downstairs, so Malcolm must have gone, and I am paralysed into inaction while I decide whether to risk Peter seeing me. Then memories of his lack of trust spike my thoughts, and my coyness evaporates. I don't care whether I’m visible and it will serve him right if he thinks I'm a ghost. As soon as this crosses my mind, something pulls against the back of my head, and I experience an existential dread again. "No, no, no," I say, trying to direct my inner voice towards safer ground, and I slip inside Peter's room before fear overtakes me.
It is empty. Peter is not there, but he has left a night light glowing on top of the dressing table. It radiates a beam sufficient to illuminate the nightstand, upon which is a piece of paper. I make my way towards it and look down on the jagged-edged document which Peter must have torn from a jotter. He has drawn a right-facing arrow, and I follow the direction with my eyes. It points to a door, presumably a cupboard with a substantial bolt drawn across and a lock without a key. I examine the width of the wall and roll my eyes. If this is a closet, I don't know what Peter expects me to see, but I try anyway. I reach towards the door and find myself in an unlit cupboard. I can just make out the edges of a piece of paper tacked to the sidewall, and only because there is a sizeable wormhole in the door. Doubtless, it contains a written message or even another drawing for all I know. But because of Peter's cynicism, I have yet to explain the mechanics of dream walking, and he won't know how much darkness inhibits me. I can only see as much as Peter could see if he were in the room. I can't make out detail in an unlit area, nor can I snap my fingers and create light. Far from proving myself, I am no better able to solve Peter's puzzle than I would have been if I'd let myself into his room in the usual manner. Quite the contrary. At least I could have rummaged around in search of the key, which I couldn't now use, even if I found it. I flounce from the closet and swipe the arrowed paper in disgust, but it doesn't move an inch. It is a great pity because Peter has left his water glass on the nightstand and if I could, I would spill it on the bed. I blow as hard as I can, but there isn't so much as a ripple. A nebulous, unfamiliar ache pulses in the centre of my forehead as my frustration takes shape in a rare physical feeling. I am still concentrating on the glass when I hear the door handle turn and immediately flee back into the cupboard. It must be Peter, and he is talking to someone on the stairs. I listen intently.
"Yes, a wonderful time. We've been thoroughly spoiled," Peter says.
A woman's voice replies, but I can't hear her words.
"Oh, I should think so," says Peter. "She'd be pleased."
There is another muffled sentence.
"Yes, I'm sure," Peter replies. "Connie has a very vivid imagination."
I gasp so loudly that I worry he might hear me. What does he mean by vivid imagination? Is he calling me a liar? My mouth hangs open at the unfairness of his words. I am stuck in a cupboard in the middle of the night trying to solve his silly puzzle because he can't trust me. I know it is a leap of faith to believe in something that doesn't seem possible, but Peter knows me. I don't think I've ever lied to him or even in front of him. He should have made some effort to take my word at face value, but he didn't. And now he's telling someone, who by process of elimination must be his aunt, that I have an overactive imagination. It is only a short step away from calling me a liar.
As the anger builds inside me, there is a tugging at the back of my head. I want to burst from the door and scream in Peter's face, but the pull is painful, and I feel friendless and disappointed. I give in to it, and within seconds, I am back in bed, eyes brimming with unshed tears. I sleep, but it is fitful, and I wake up longing for home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Coralie Pennington
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1930
I am sitting in the dining room, glumly stirring a cup of tea. It has stewed for too long and is dark and unappetising, a bit like my life. I haven't seen or spoken to Peter for over a week, and I did not go to the library this morning. Peter called at the house when he finished sorting books. I watched him from the upstairs window while Elys told him I was out, as we'd agreed. Peter waited at the top of the path for a few moments, staring bemusedly at the cottage as if unsure what to make of it. He must have known something was awry. I don't go anywhere, and I never miss book changing day. It was and is the highlight of my week and it took all the self-control I possessed to stay away. But Peter has hurt me, and though I know I will get over it, I can't face him right now and need time apart.
The return journey from Plymouth was uncomfortable. I made polite conversation, but Peter had sensed my change of mood. Our usual easy chatter vanished, and the silences grew more prolonged and awkward. Fortunately, Malcolm and Mrs Tremayne were so deep in conversation that they didn't notice. And when the car pulled up, and Peter took my bag to the door, I watched his retreating form with relief. But it was short-lived. Now that I've been back in Pebble Cottage for a few days, I am as frustrated as ever, and my small world feels claustrophobic. Mrs Ponsonby was tolerable for a day, but she is once again clucking around me, checking on my every move like a broody mother hen.
"How long was the lemon juice made before Mrs Thomas consumed it?" he asks.
Mrs Parsons looks thoughtfully into the distance. "About two hours before," she says. "It sat on the dressing table for some time."
Finally, Mrs Parsons recounts the moment the ambulance left with her daughter, and the coroner releases her. I watch her face crumple as she leaves the stand, and my heart aches for her. It does not ache for her obnoxious son Percy, who is up next.
Percy Parsons strides purposefully towards the witness stand and faces the jury, black eyes boring like gimlets. He stands, shoulders back, and his neat moustache can't conceal lips trembling with anger.
"Name?" asks the coroner.
"Percy Roy Parsons."
"Occupation?"
"Farmer, living and working at Tremaine Farm."
"November eighth," says the coroner, steepling his fingers. "Tell me about it."
"It was the day of Alice's funeral," says Percy Parsons. "I was introduced to Mrs Hearn, who I had not previously met. I asked a few questions about the day at Bude, and the answers she gave me were not satisfactory."
"What did you ask her?"
"I wanted to know what they had to eat that day. She replied, 'Tea, cake, bread and butter, and sandwiches."
"Why was that unsatisfactory?"
"She left a gap after bread and butter as if she was reluctant to mention the sandwiches."
The coroner leans forward. "I understood she made no secret about including sandwiches in the meal."
"She paused," repeats Percy Parsons, confrontationally. "And what is more, my wife asked Mrs Hearn where the sandwiches came from, and Mrs Hearn replied they came from Bude. Then she changed her mind and said they had taken the sandwiches with them. I asked her which of the statements was true, and my mother interrupted and said that Mrs Hearn had made the sandwiches. Well, all that subterfuge raised my suspicions, and I told her so."
"Told her what, exactly?"
"That I suspected there had been foul play."
I imagine the scene in my mind's eye, Annie Hearn timidly trying to explain the situation in front of three hostile members of the Parsons family. From what I now knew of her quiet demeanour, the confrontation would have terrified her. And Percy Parsons was bristling with anger in the jury box, glowering at William Thomas like a school bully. No wonder Annie fled.
The coroner interrupts my musings. "What made you suspicious of foul play?"
"The fact that my sister had been ill for ten days before anyone informed my mother or me."
"Any other reason?"
"Isn't that enough?" Parsons does not wait for an answer before continuing. "I found it puzzling that Mrs Hearn had been the only woman in the house practically the entire time to do the housework and attend to my sister."
"And you found that odd?"
"Well, to put it plainly, I heard a report that Mr Thomas and Mrs Hearn were too friendly."
"But that is hearsay?"
"Maybe, but it's what they told me."
"What was your relationship with Mr Thomas?"
"We didn't speak, nor did he approve of Annie visiting her family."
"Did your sister get on with her husband?"
"No," says Percy Parsons.
"How many times did you see them when they were not getting on well together?"
Parsons gives the coroner a withering stare. "As I said, they didn't visit."
"How many times?"
"Once."
Percy Parsons leaves the stand, and I am glad to see him go. I rarely dislike anyone on first acquaintance, but Parsons is an exception. I stare at his chair, half expecting to see a puddle of slime, but it is empty until the clerk calls Mrs Tucker, William Thomas's neighbour. She occupies the chair just long enough to contradict Percy Parsons. Mrs Tucker smiles as she says that to her knowledge, the marriage was a happy one. I like Mrs Tucker much better than Parsons, but the chair takes on merry-go-round proportions as another witness takes the stand.
The following three witnesses are doctors. I listen intently as their factual evidence contrasts with Mrs Parsons' emotion and her son Percy's anger. I expect the doctors to spend a long time on the stand, but the coroner ushers them through with unseemly haste. Dr Saunders gives a brief account of his diagnosis of arsenic poisoning. Then Dr Millicent Fox, resident medical officer, tells of her encounter with William Thomas. She says that she told him that his wife was not suffering from food poisoning but had ingested arsenic and that the news shocked Thomas, who suffered the further indignity of being asked to keep away. They did not permit him to attend her bedside, and he could only see Alice through the window. According to the doctor, Thomas displayed genuine distress and seemed overwhelmed with concern for his wife. Finally, Dr Eric Wordley, pathologist, describes his post-mortem examination. It is no less gruesome than Mr Tickle's evidence yesterday, and I fan my face with my hand to fend off the red flush of revulsion that threatens to engulf me. Finally, it is time for the coroner to sum up, and a hush falls across the Guildhall as we listen to his words.
Dr Pearce clears his throat. "Mr Thomas was undoubtedly indiscreet," he says. "But I can find no evidence of a guilty association with Mrs Hearn. It was unwise for him to lend money to Mrs Hearn without telling his wife. And Mrs Hearn's frequent visits to the house would naturally give rise to gossip among the neighbours. I must now deal with four circumstances in connection with Mrs Hearn," he continues. "She undoubtedly prepared the sandwiches and did the cooking, as you have heard. Undeniably, she bought some weedkiller in 1926, principally comprising arsenic. If she had formed one, a plausible motive might be that if Mr Thomas were a widower, there would be more chance of becoming his wife."
"On the other hand, you must consider that you have heard no evidence that Mrs Hearn wanted to marry Mr Thomas. Regarding the sandwiches, she did not express a desire for any particular sandwich herself. Mrs Hearn ate from the same plate as Mrs Thomas and suffered no ill effects. There was no evidence of arsenic in the sandwiches nor the cooked food. True, the opportunity was there, but did Mrs Hearn take advantage of it?"
I hear a sound to my left. Peter is nodding his head vigorously as if agreeing that she did. His lack of impartiality is annoying, and I am cross that he has distracted me from listening to every word the coroner says. I want to form an unbiased view, and so far, I've heard nothing to convince me of Annie Hearn's guilt. The coroner sips from a glass of water before resuming.
"The letter which Mrs Hearn sent to Mr Thomas," he says, "is capable of two constructions. One could ask why Mrs Hearn jumped to the conclusion that someone poisoned Mrs Thomas, especially as nobody considered the possibility until Mr Percy Parsons intervened. And he said he knew nothing other than what Mrs Hearn said herself. Was it a guilty conscience that struck her when Mr Parsons made the remark? But there is another construction, emphatically asserted in Mrs Hearn's letter. She said she was innocent of the cause of the death of Mrs Thomas. And even more remarkably, that her own passing would clear Mr Thomas. What did she mean by that?"
This time, it's my turn to nod, and I cast a smirk at Peter, who raises his eyes heavenward.
"But she is not here to defend herself," says the coroner. "And in her absence, we must not forget to give due weight to interpreting evidence in her favour as well as the other way."
His summing up concluded, the coroner sits, and a short time later, Admiral Moorshed stands and delivers the jury's conclusion. The coroner makes a formal announcement of the verdict. "Mrs Alice Thomas of Lewannick near Launceston," he says, "was murdered by arsenic poisoning. But there is no evidence to show who administered it."
And that is that. The coroner thanks the jury, the policemen and the public before dismissing us for the final time.
"She's as guilty as sin," says Malcolm, grinning as he approaches Peter. He has spent the second day of the inquest sitting with his journalist friend. I open my mouth to argue but find I don't care enough. Malcolm is boorish, and reasoning with him is pointless. "Get outside quickly," says Malcolm.
"Why?" asks Peter in a muffled voice. He is trying to find my stick, which has rolled under the seat.
"Come on – sharpish. The pressmen are trying to get an interview with Thomas."
"You go," says Peter, ever the gentleman, and Malcolm doesn't argue. He disappears apace while Peter locates my stick. We wait for the room to empty, then make our way outside. But when we leave the Guildhall, we soon realise that we have missed nothing at all. We almost walk straight into a pack of reporters who have corralled William Thomas by the side of the building. Peter raises an arm, and we retreat while staying close enough to listen.
"A few words," Mr Thomas," says a young man, scribbling furiously in a notebook. His colleague stands beside him, clutching a copy of the Sheffield Telegraph.
"Very well," sighs William Thomas with an air of inevitability. "This has been a terrible ordeal," he says, and his voice wobbles. Thomas licks his lips, chokes down a sob, and I dig my fingers into my palms. His misery looks like an act and not a particularly good one.
"I am not in good health," he says. "And not only have I suffered the loss of my wife, but it's amid all this mystery and suspicion. I would be happy if they found Mrs Hearn so she could throw some light on my wife's death. The jury did not name the perpetrator in the verdict, and although I am innocent, they've left me under a cloud. I have lost my wife, and now I am plunged into all this. I know I'm innocent and can face my neighbours, but I shall have to work hard to live this down and forget the terrible ordeal. I think the inquest has been fair, and I have nothing to fear, for I have told my story faithfully."
"That's all," says Mr Thomas's solicitor, raising a hand in the air. He reaches for his client and guides him away by the elbow while waiting for photographers to snap pictures of his retreating form.
"That's that," says Peter, "all done. What did you think?"
"That Thomas has got away with murder," I say.
Peter raises an eyebrow. "I can't believe you still feel that way. It's hard to credit that we were in the same inquest."
WE ARE STILL BICKERING about the verdict when we get back to Smuggler's Cottage. It is our last night in Plymouth, and Peter's aunt has pushed the boat out once again, and invited Malcolm and his friend for tea. To his credit, Malcolm moderates his behaviour in front of his aunt and fills our last evening with good humour. Once again, I retire early, but Peter is enjoying himself and stays downstairs. I pass Peter's room on the way to mine and eye his door as I contemplate whether to bother attempting a dream walk tonight. I'm still tired, annoyed at the way Peter has taken against Annie Hearn, and past the point at which I care whether he believes me. I could enter his room the traditional way, take a casual glance at his bedside table and save enough time for half an hour's reading followed by the luxury of a good night's sleep. And although part of me wants to prove a point, I give in and push the door. To my disappointment, it stays shut. I turn the round black handle and try harder – nothing. Peter has locked the door and taken the key. Not only does he not believe me, but he has made sure that I won't discover the hidden object by nefarious means.
I walk to my room, stick clattering against the floorboards louder than is necessary, still furious that Peter doesn't trust me. I prop my stick against the wardrobe and dress for bed, unwilling to stay awake to prove I'm not lying. If Peter can't take me at my word, then he can forget it. I sink back into my pillows as I grab the Crawford Newson book. It's a thrilling story but I haven't spent half as much time as I expected reading lately as long days in the Guildhall have left me weary. No sooner do my eyes focus on the pages than the letters disappear in a blur as my eyelids flutter closed. Seconds later, I wake again, hands still clutching the open pages. I try but fail to fight sleep, and the book falls from my grasp and slides face up on the bedspread. I watch the words half-heartedly, too tired to summon the energy to read the book or put it back on my nightstand. I'm happy to take a lingering glance before slipping into a restful sleep. I watch the words, beautiful lines of text, small, symmetrical, and meaningful as they lay regimented on the page. But my eye turns to an undisciplined line in the middle, which throbs and pulses alarmingly among its well-behaved neighbours. And as the vowels disappear with a pop, I raise my finger and push it into the writhing text. My fingernail vanishes as I somehow knew it would. I have entered the dream state without trying. Feeling a clarity of thought at odds with my usual out-of-body consciousness, I decide to take advantage of the situation and deal with Peter's scepticism once and for all. I jump from my bed and spin around my room like a dainty ballerina, light and free, and then I explode through the door in a flurry of energy.
I stop dead in my tracks. The light is on, and someone is coming up the stairs. I fade into the wall and watch as Peter's mother ascends, still close enough to my body to feel my heart fluttering in the distance. It is the strangest thing to feel connected with remote bodily functions, and stranger still to be hiding in a landing wall. But I would die of embarrassment if Isla saw me. I stay there as she passes, and she doesn't seem to notice. Once I am alone again, I proceed towards Peter's room, wondering if the bedroom will be empty. I can't hear anything downstairs, so Malcolm must have gone, and I am paralysed into inaction while I decide whether to risk Peter seeing me. Then memories of his lack of trust spike my thoughts, and my coyness evaporates. I don't care whether I’m visible and it will serve him right if he thinks I'm a ghost. As soon as this crosses my mind, something pulls against the back of my head, and I experience an existential dread again. "No, no, no," I say, trying to direct my inner voice towards safer ground, and I slip inside Peter's room before fear overtakes me.
It is empty. Peter is not there, but he has left a night light glowing on top of the dressing table. It radiates a beam sufficient to illuminate the nightstand, upon which is a piece of paper. I make my way towards it and look down on the jagged-edged document which Peter must have torn from a jotter. He has drawn a right-facing arrow, and I follow the direction with my eyes. It points to a door, presumably a cupboard with a substantial bolt drawn across and a lock without a key. I examine the width of the wall and roll my eyes. If this is a closet, I don't know what Peter expects me to see, but I try anyway. I reach towards the door and find myself in an unlit cupboard. I can just make out the edges of a piece of paper tacked to the sidewall, and only because there is a sizeable wormhole in the door. Doubtless, it contains a written message or even another drawing for all I know. But because of Peter's cynicism, I have yet to explain the mechanics of dream walking, and he won't know how much darkness inhibits me. I can only see as much as Peter could see if he were in the room. I can't make out detail in an unlit area, nor can I snap my fingers and create light. Far from proving myself, I am no better able to solve Peter's puzzle than I would have been if I'd let myself into his room in the usual manner. Quite the contrary. At least I could have rummaged around in search of the key, which I couldn't now use, even if I found it. I flounce from the closet and swipe the arrowed paper in disgust, but it doesn't move an inch. It is a great pity because Peter has left his water glass on the nightstand and if I could, I would spill it on the bed. I blow as hard as I can, but there isn't so much as a ripple. A nebulous, unfamiliar ache pulses in the centre of my forehead as my frustration takes shape in a rare physical feeling. I am still concentrating on the glass when I hear the door handle turn and immediately flee back into the cupboard. It must be Peter, and he is talking to someone on the stairs. I listen intently.
"Yes, a wonderful time. We've been thoroughly spoiled," Peter says.
A woman's voice replies, but I can't hear her words.
"Oh, I should think so," says Peter. "She'd be pleased."
There is another muffled sentence.
"Yes, I'm sure," Peter replies. "Connie has a very vivid imagination."
I gasp so loudly that I worry he might hear me. What does he mean by vivid imagination? Is he calling me a liar? My mouth hangs open at the unfairness of his words. I am stuck in a cupboard in the middle of the night trying to solve his silly puzzle because he can't trust me. I know it is a leap of faith to believe in something that doesn't seem possible, but Peter knows me. I don't think I've ever lied to him or even in front of him. He should have made some effort to take my word at face value, but he didn't. And now he's telling someone, who by process of elimination must be his aunt, that I have an overactive imagination. It is only a short step away from calling me a liar.
As the anger builds inside me, there is a tugging at the back of my head. I want to burst from the door and scream in Peter's face, but the pull is painful, and I feel friendless and disappointed. I give in to it, and within seconds, I am back in bed, eyes brimming with unshed tears. I sleep, but it is fitful, and I wake up longing for home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Coralie Pennington
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1930
I am sitting in the dining room, glumly stirring a cup of tea. It has stewed for too long and is dark and unappetising, a bit like my life. I haven't seen or spoken to Peter for over a week, and I did not go to the library this morning. Peter called at the house when he finished sorting books. I watched him from the upstairs window while Elys told him I was out, as we'd agreed. Peter waited at the top of the path for a few moments, staring bemusedly at the cottage as if unsure what to make of it. He must have known something was awry. I don't go anywhere, and I never miss book changing day. It was and is the highlight of my week and it took all the self-control I possessed to stay away. But Peter has hurt me, and though I know I will get over it, I can't face him right now and need time apart.
The return journey from Plymouth was uncomfortable. I made polite conversation, but Peter had sensed my change of mood. Our usual easy chatter vanished, and the silences grew more prolonged and awkward. Fortunately, Malcolm and Mrs Tremayne were so deep in conversation that they didn't notice. And when the car pulled up, and Peter took my bag to the door, I watched his retreating form with relief. But it was short-lived. Now that I've been back in Pebble Cottage for a few days, I am as frustrated as ever, and my small world feels claustrophobic. Mrs Ponsonby was tolerable for a day, but she is once again clucking around me, checking on my every move like a broody mother hen.
