The Cornish Widow, page 17
I hesitated for a moment outside the pathway that led to his familiar red door. I wanted to see him so badly that I went in, not knowing if he would even be there. But Peter was in his bedroom and sleeping soundly, snoring as the sheets rose and fell to the sound of his breathing. His room was unlit, but dawn was breaking, and I smiled at the sight of piles of books over his chest of drawers. They were on the floor by the bed, on the nightstand and hanging out of an open cupboard. The thought of a usually organised Peter being untidy in his natural surroundings made me giggle, and I watched over his sleeping form, half wishing he would wake, though he wouldn't see me if he did, so I took a look at a sheaf of papers carelessly strewn across Peter's washstand. He appeared to be reading for the part of Cayley Drummle in The Second Mrs Tanqueray and had asterisked the relevant pages.
I am still thinking of that night in Peter's bedroom when there is a knock at the door. I must have been deep in my reverie to have missed someone coming to the cottage. They knock again, and I peer through the window to see the postman carrying a heavy bag over his shoulder, huffing a cold plume into the frosty air. It is warm inside, and I wait to see if Elys will hurry up the hallway and collect the post as usual, but she doesn't, so I make my way to the door. The postman nods as he hands me a small parcel and three envelopes. I take them and put them on the sideboard without looking, then retreat into the parlour. I am comfortable again when the door opens, and Mrs Ponsonby and Cora bustle through, letting in a draught. I listen while they discuss their coffee morning at St Columb Church and their near-miss as the coach slid on some compacted snow. I wonder why they didn't invite me. I'm not religious; none of us is, but it's a pretty church, and I would like to have gone with them, despite the snowfall. They are still chatting when Elys opens the door and gives the parcel to Cora before extracting two letters which she thrusts towards me. My heart skips a beat when I see one envelope addressed to me in Peter's scratchy hand, but I save it and open the second letter instead. It is from Mary Newson and contains a formal invitation to Bosula for Christmas and an accompanying note for Mrs Ponsonby. I pass it to her straight away, knowing that however long I hold on to it, the answer will be a resounding no. She takes it and raises an eyebrow. "What's this?" she asks.
"Open it," I say. There's no point in trying to explain.
She slits the envelope and examines the brief note inside.
"No, dear," she says. "It's impossible."
My heart sinks, but I am not surprised. I knew she would never agree.
"What is it, Vee?" asks Cora. Mrs Ponsonby sighs and hands her the letter.
"I could take her," she says.
"Absolutely not," says Mrs Ponsonby. "It's out of the question." Cora opens her mouth again, but Mrs Ponsonby silences her with a withering stare. I place Mary's letter on the coffee table. I will thank her and reply later. It is a pity but so wholly anticipated that I am not unduly miserable. I open Peter's letter and withdraw the page in gleeful anticipation but stop before unfolding the single piece of paper. It is short, very short, and too concise to be news. I wonder if he is still angry. Perhaps he has written to tell me never to darken his door again. My hands shake as I unfold the note.
I don't know where you've been, Connie, or what's wrong, but this has gone on long enough. I have news about Annie Hearn, and I'm coming to Pebble Cottage on Friday at two o'clock. Don't go anywhere. P.
I smile in relief. Peter is undoubtedly irritated, but he still wants to see me. He is still my friend, and he brings news of Annie. I clutch the letter to my chest, disappointment at Mrs Ponsonby's reaction forgotten at the thought of Peter's impending visit. Lunch cannot come quickly enough, and I wait impatiently for his arrival.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Exhumation
"YOU'LL NEVER GUESS where I've been?" Peter doesn't waste a moment as he blurts out the sentence while standing on the doorstep.
"Come in," I say, guiding him to the dining room where we can speak undisturbed.
"Go on. Guess."
"Plymouth?" I suggest.
"Don't be silly. We've only just been there."
"Where then?"
"Lewannick."
"Oh, my goodness. To Annie's house?"
"Not exactly. To the graveyard. I suppose you haven't seen the newspapers?"
"Of course not," I say.
"I thought Elys was keeping you supplied."
"She got caught," I reply, squirming with embarrassment. I could understand the problem if Elys was bringing me alcohol or inappropriate reading material. But Mrs Ponsonby's ire at discovering a newspaper in our house went beyond the pale.
"Shame," says Peter. "But worry ye not. That's why I'm here. To bring you news of the exhumation, though I jolly nearly didn't make it with all the snow. I've never seen anything like it."
"What exhumation?" I ask.
Peter sheds his coat, hangs it over a chair and fumbles inside his pocket. He withdraws a crumpled newspaper. "Look at this," he says, pushing it towards me.
I grasp it eagerly. "The Western Morning News," I murmur. "The tenth of December. That's two days ago."
"I know," says Peter.
"I can't believe you didn't tell me straight away."
"You've been in a strange mood recently, Connie," says Peter. Besides, we were stranded in the village overnight because the snow was so deep. Malcolm dug our car out of a snowdrift, but it wouldn't start. We were lucky that someone took us in and gave us a bed for the night."
"So, you've only just got back?"
"Not quite, but rest assured, I found my way to you as soon as possible."
"I know. Thank you," I say, poring over the paper again.
"Oh, don't bother," says Peter, snatching it away. "It's more interesting if I tell you what happened, and Mrs Ponsonby might come in."
I nod. "Go ahead," I say, agog with interest.
"Well, it wasn't much of a secret that there was going to be an exhumation. The press has been speculating for a while now. But Malcolm knows a policeman who received a tip-off – an excellent tip-off, as it turns out. Malcolm asked to borrow Mother's vehicle, and I had a quick word with her to ensure that borrowing it was conditional on Malcolm taking me along. Quite a tall order as I was going to work that day, but Mother smoothed it over with Mr Whitstable. She must have done a good job too, as he was all smiles and sympathy this morning."
I think of Peter's capricious employer, who was as likely to be cantankerous as he was to be genial and wonder what Mrs Tremayne said, but I don't mention it. I am all ears for the news. "So, you went straight to Lewannick?" I ask instead.
"Immediately," says Peter. "We arrived mid-afternoon and waited until dusk arrived. I thought there must be a mistake, but Malcolm told me to be patient. Other pressmen had said it would happen under cover of darkness. And sure enough, as night fell, a truck of labourers arrived and set up a rudimentary shelter using tarpaulin and poles."
"Could you see the bodies?" I ask disappointedly.
"No, and I know it sounds macabre, but even though there was little to see, it was still exciting. Snow fell again – fat flakes spun through the air and settled all around us. We stood as close to the graves as possible, and the atmosphere was electric, though eerie. It's hard to imagine without being there, but we were in the middle of a graveyard, in a snowstorm, hypnotised by the swirling wind and falling flakes. All we could hear was the clunk of spades and thuds of soil as the labourers dug ever deeper."
"Why were they digging her body up?"
"Who?"
"Mrs Thomas."
"Not her, Connie. They'd only just buried Alice Thomas, and the police knew full well that she'd been poisoned. No. They exhumed Lydia and Mary Ann Everard."
"Who are they?"
"Annie Hearn's sister and aunt."
"The devils," I breathe. "As if Annie isn't unhappy enough. They've persecuted her so badly, she had no choice but to run away, and now they're wasting time digging up her family. I can't believe it."
"I thought you'd understand," says Peter.
"Why would I? I haven't seen you since Plymouth."
"I'm sure they speculated about this at the inquest."
"I must have missed it," I say. I am shocked and sit back in my chair, feeling close to tears. I don't know why I'm affected by this news, but it's almost as if they had disinterred my kin. My heart breaks for Annie.
"Are you feeling alright?" asks Peter.
I nod. "Yes, I am. I can't explain why this news makes me feel so sad, but it does."
"Perhaps I should leave the rest of the story for another day," says Peter.
"No. Tell me now."
"Well, they dug only partway down that night," says Peter. "And eventually we went back to the car and stayed there until dawn when the sexton arrived, and they started up again. The labourers worked through rain and sleet, and we stood in the shelter of the trees watching as they finally unearthed two coffins. They cleaned off the worst of the soil and took them into the tent."
I shudder. "How horrible," I say.
"It was both horrible and fascinating," says Peter. "The coffins were so far down that we could only see the tips of the labourers' spades appearing above the earth as they tossed out the soil. Then the officials arrived. Do you remember Superintendent Pill?"
I nod. "He was at the inquest."
"And also at the exhumation, together with the coroner and the vicar of Lewannick. The vicar said a few words as they pulled the coffins free. And then, the strangest thing happened, Connie. Two owls were sitting on a low-hanging branch almost immediately above the graves. They were there during the whole exhumation and didn't move. Not once, throughout all the activity. It was as if they were watching and waiting for something to happen, like winged guardians."
"I thought you didn't believe in such things," I say, waspishly. The comment washes over Peter without a reaction.
"Then what happened?"
"Nothing really," he says. "The pathologist arrived, but we couldn't see much after that. We waited for a while and collected as much information as we could."
"You mean you gossiped," I say.
"Fair point. It was, and we did, then we went to start the car, and it wouldn't go."
"Rotten luck," I say sympathetically.
"Connie, we were starving," says Peter. "And nobody was around, only policemen and the press. You would have thought the villagers would have shown some interest, but there was hardly anyone there. Luckily, the village carpenter was nearby."
"I wonder why?"
"He opened the coffins," says Peter. "And presumably had to put them back together again for reinterment. We fell into conversation, and he offered us a room for the night and a very reasonable supper. Malcolm was one of the few pressmen able to witness the reburials. But he was in a filthy mood for the rest of the night."
"Why?"
"Because he couldn't file copy until the next day, which meant some of the other news accounts went to publication first."
"Couldn't he telephone it through?"
"The weather was awful," says Peter. "Nothing worked the way it should."
"Well. There wasn't much to report anyway," I say.
"No, but then fate stepped in. Malcolm woke up in a much better frame of mind and sent for a mechanic to repair the car. While waiting, he decided to make the most of his time in the village and asked questions. Far from being reticent, almost everyone was willing to give their opinion on the exhumations. It took us two hours to finish interviewing, but it was worth every minute."
"Who did you talk to?"
"Who didn't we talk to?" asks Peter, grinning fit to burst. "We started with Elizabeth Spear, Mrs Hearn's next-door neighbour. Mr Harper, the carpenter, had said something about a will, so Malcolm asked if she knew anything about it. She didn't, and neither did Mrs Tucker at the corner shop. But they said that Mary Ann Everard, Annie Hearn's aunt, had left Annie her entire estate when she died. Quite a motive, don't you think?"
"It depends how much she left her," I say.
Peter ignores me. "By good fortune, the auctioneer was in Lewannick while we were there," says Peter. "Malcolm asked about Trenhorne House, and he said that he had let it to Mrs Hearn about five years before. Then, immediately before she vanished in November, she wrote to him terminating the lease. Annie Hearn said that any monies owed should come from the furniture in the house which she owned. Even you can't say that isn't suspicious."
"It's exactly what I would expect of someone hounded away from their home who was contemplating taking their life," I say indignantly. Peter is so set in his poor opinion of Annie that he cannot see things any way but his.
"I disagree," says Peter. "But let's not argue. Guess who we saw next?"
I raise a sarcastic smile. "I am not playing that game," I say and silently wait for Peter to reply.
He gives up quickly. "William Thomas," he says. "He was in Congdon's shop with Mrs Tucker. She's his cousin."
"Irrelevant," I say in the manner of a high court judge.
Peter smiles. "I suppose it is," he says. "But Malcolm asked him what he thought of the exhumation, and he replied."
"I'm surprised," I say.
"I'm not. Thomas was very cooperative, though I could see the sadness etched across his face. He said that anything concerning his wife was naturally painful. Seeing her photo in the papers now she was no longer alive, had caught him unawares a few times. But he seemed grateful for the conduct of the press. He impressed Malcolm when he said that they'd been civil and gentlemanly when he'd asked for privacy."
"Poor man," I say, before remembering that if Annie hadn't killed Alice, then he almost certainly had.
"Malcolm asked him if Annie Hearn had left a will, and he said that he thought not," continued Peter. "Then Mrs Tucker said that Annie Hearn kept her private life very much to herself and that neither her sister nor her aunt had ever met Annie's husband."
"Well, she was a widow," I say defensively. "And her marriage may have been short." But even as I say the words, something about Annie's marital status feels wrong. I don't tell Peter, though, as he is utterly convinced of Annie's guilt.
"There's quite a lot to think about," Peter says. "Do you still believe she's innocent?"
"I nod. You have said nothing to make me change my mind."
"What if they find arsenic in the bodies?" he asks.
I recoil in surprise. For all the talk of exhumations, it hadn't occurred to me that they might actually find something. "I don't think it's likely," I say, uncertainly.
"But if they do?"
"I'll tell you my opinion then," I say. "This is not one of your plays."
"I have news on that front," says Peter excitedly.
"I know. You're performing The Second Mrs Tanqueray, and they've cast you as Cayley Drummle."
Peter stares at me with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide and round.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"What did you say?"
I am about to repeat myself when the penny drops, and I realise my mistake. I say nothing but wait for him to speak.
"Nobody's aware yet," says Peter. "Not a single soul. Not even my mother. How could you possibly know?"
I raise an eyebrow, wondering if it's worth trying to explain. Peter won't believe me, and if he's careless of my feelings, we might fall out again. But as sensible as it would be to keep my silence, I can't help myself.
"Try tidying your room occasionally," I say. "It's unbelievably messy, and if you leave your script on the washstand, it won't stay private for long. And while we're on the subject, don't leave silly arrows for people to find that lead straight into dark cupboards. The rules of physics apply in the astral world too, and it's impossible to move physical objects. You're infuriating."
Peter is still catching flies. His eyes dart from side to side, and I detect a faint tic on the top of his cheek. It is a reaction with which I am familiar, and it means that he is processing something. He doesn't speak for several minutes, and when he does, he utters a trivial comment about the weather. He is still making stilted conversation when Elys walks in, followed by Cora and Mrs Ponsonby. Peter flounders in the group of women, seemingly unable to make small talk. His face is pallid, his cheeks scarlet, and he looks distinctly uncomfortable. I am not in the least surprised when he makes his excuses and leaves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bosula
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1930
I am writing this journal from my room in the east wing of a large country house set close to the coast near Bosula. My window overlooks the bay, and after only a few hours, life feels as settled as it does at Pebble Cottage. It is blowy today, and dusk is falling as I gaze across the choppy water towards the horizon, and my heart flips with excitement as I contemplate the coming week. I still can't believe I'm here, still don't know the magical, honeyed words that Coralie Pennington employed to convince Mrs Ponsonby to let me join Mary Newson for Christmas. And although her agreement came with an embarrassing condition, it is not onerous. Mrs Ponsonby insisted I must have a chaperone, so Cora volunteered. Mary was more than happy to host her, especially having a widowed mother who enjoys new company, and Cora is nothing if not entertaining.
Still, Mrs Ponsonby was more than a little morose when we left this morning, and she waved us off with her head bowed as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. She will spend her Christmas with Isla Tremayne and has nothing to complain about, though whether the same can be said for Peter is a moot point. For a young man to be stuck with two elderly ladies on Christmas Day falls short of desirable, even if Peter is used to spending the festive season with his mother. Perhaps he won't mind. But it's not my problem to ponder, and I am thrilled at the prospect of Christmas at Cormorant House with Mary Newson and her artist friends.
I didn't realise until I arrived that many of them live communally, sharing resources and chores. Most of the artists and their families live in the big house with one or two residing in small cottages within the grounds. Cormorant House is enormous, and I will never get to see all of it, but the spacious accommodation allows plenty of visitors and Cora, and I are not the only guests this yuletide.
