The Cornish Widow, page 5
"She couldn't have taken arsenic by accident," says Peter. "And her symptoms came on suddenly. Logic dictates that the poison entered her system the same day, and she'd only kept company with Annie, William, and William's mother."
"Which of them did it?" I ask, now genuinely interested.
"That's the question, isn't it?" says Peter. "My money is on Annie Hearn."
"And mine is on the mother-in-law."
"Don't be silly," he says. What reason could she have to harm Alice? It's either William or Annie. I don't see how it could be anyone else."
"It would be the butler in an Agatha Christie novel," I say. "And there would be a decent cast of suspects. I'm extremely interested, Peter, but I would like more choice for a murderer."
"It's not a game," he says. "So have I whetted your appetite?"
I nod, dreading the disappointment I will undoubtedly feel if Mrs Ponsonby says no, which is highly likely.
"Right. Well, let me speak to my mother, and we'll see what we can do. In the meantime, give some serious thought to our suspects."
CHAPTER FIVE
Escape Plan
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1930
I wake up later than usual, having benefited from a good night's sleep. The tide is high as I make my way to the beach, and I spend a brief five minutes walking across the sand before a sudden gust of rain hits. I haven't even had time to reach the cave and didn't go there yesterday either. I stand for a moment, debating whether to persevere despite the rain. Leaving the cave unsupervised for this long makes me feel out of control. I cast an eye at the greying sky, sombre and thick with clouds, and decide that the weather is unlikely to improve. I can't move quickly, and I'll get soaked to the skin if I carry on. If there is the slightest chance of Isla Tremayne convincing Mrs Ponsonby to let me go to Plymouth, I can't ruin my chances by catching a cold. Reluctantly, I turn my back on the sea and make my way to the library to finish Women in Love.
Miss Templeton, whose full Christian name I have since learned, thanks to Elys, is actually Roxanne, is still guarding the reception desk. She hears me approach, raises her head and sighs. She is so loud and delivers the sigh with such purpose that I know it can't be a product of my overactive imagination. I wonder what I have done to provoke such obvious dislike. I hesitate as I walk past, about to ask her how Dolly is keeping, but I am put off by her hostility and decide to find another way. Instead, I proceed to the library without comment, feeling her eyes jabbing into my back as I walk down the passage.
As I push open the library door, I nearly fall over when someone wrenches the handle from the other side. I stumble and almost topple into the arms of Oliver Fox, who is trying to leave the room.
"Ah, Miss Maxwell. How are you today?"
"Very well," I say, steadying myself.
"A shame our little experiment didn't work," he says. "Still, we can try another day."
"Experiment?" I ask, then I remember yesterday's conversation. "Oh, dear. I fell asleep," I say, crossing my fingers at the little white lie, which was only a slight variation on the truth. In reality, I was so excited about the murder case that I forgot all about it. Once home, I'd waited for Mrs Ponsonby to settle in the parlour, then proceeded to the kitchen before tracking down Elys. I'd made her promise to buy me a daily newspaper so I could keep an eye on the case. Elys refused at first, but a little gentle persuasion did the trick. She'd agreed as long as I didn't tell Mrs P. And by the time I'd got to bed, so much had happened that I'd forgotten Mr Fox's astral travel experiment altogether. "I was tired," I explain, trying to sound convincing.
"I quite understand," he says. "Please don't feel in any way obliged. I mean, it's fascinating to me, but esoteric matters are not everybody's cup of tea. Of course, your abilities are extraordinary, but I appreciate how difficult it is to control them."
"I want to help," I say, watching him intently. Oliver Fox must be in his mid-forties, but his hair has already receded, elongating his face. With sagging cheeks and a down-turned mouth, his appearance is not dissimilar to Samuel Potts' bloodhound, Piper. Fox always looks sad and a little disappointed in life, and I fear I have added to his melancholy. "I'll try again tonight, I promise. Sleep won't get the better of me this time," I say.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and he nods. "Only if you are sure," he says.
"I'm sure."
"Then please excuse me." He gives an odd little bow and leaves the library.
I sprawl on the sofa, feeling guilty. My life is not so busy that I can't spare a few moments exploring an ability that I have always taken for granted and mostly considered a nuisance. It's delightful dreaming my way across the cliffs to Tregurrian, but I've never yet seen them in daylight. Not that I've ever tried. At last, someone is offering to help me harness this gift, or perhaps this curse. Who knows? Well, I won't find out if I don't try, so tonight I will make an effort.
I read my book, turning page after page until I reach the end. It was worth it. Not the best I have ever read, but by no means the worst, and I rise and make my way back to the cottage. Not a single soul disturbed me in the library. It was bliss.
I arrive at the cottage to find two things of interest. A parked car is outside and can only mean a visitor. But before I have time to find out who it is, I see a letter addressed to me propped up on the side table in the hallway. I pick it up and turn it over. The back of the envelope is blank, and the postmark blurry. I stare for a few moments, trying to remember the last time I received a letter. It must have been last year when Dolly travelled to Somerset and sent me a postcard from Minehead. I am almost reluctant to open it and spoil the surprise for fear of disappointment. But it is a handwritten letter and must be personal. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of me, and I tear it open and withdraw the contents with shaking fingers.
I read the letter greedily. It is from Mary Newson, a woman I met quite by chance on the beach a few years ago. She is an exceptionally talented painter who lives in an artist's colony near Penzance. Mary and I are close in age, but that is where the similarity ends. Mary travels abroad several times a year and has often exhibited her paintings, gaining quite a following of admirers, of which I am one. She is a liberated, uncompromising woman committed to her art. Mary is an impressionist painter, specialising in temperature and tones, but Mrs Ponsonby describes her work as pretentious nonsense. She thinks all artists should paint like the great masters. I disagree. There is an indescribable honesty about Mary that shines through her work.
I turn the pages of the letter and read about her recent journey to Tangier. Her words drip like honey from the page, and I can smell, taste, almost feel the warmth of the sun over the Moroccan souk that she describes. I clutch the letter to my chest, dropping my stick as I read, but I don't care. I yearn to travel and explore the world. There must be something out there for me. I crouch and fumble for my stick, hooking it over the door handle while I finish the letter. The last page is the best and contains excellent news. Mary is coming to Porth Tregoryan tomorrow to paint the cliffs. She doesn't need to, having plenty of access to seascapes of her own, where she lives on the coast at Bosula, but Mary says she wants a change. Porth Tregoryan inspired her so much last time she came that she hopes to emulate her success. But only if the weather holds. I approach the window and anxiously look outside. The rain is still tipping down. I say a brief prayer to the gods of the skies and hope they are listening. Mary has invited me to join her on the beach, followed by lunch at the hotel. Nothing must get in the way of this rare treat.
Elys walks through the hallway on her way to the dining room. "Mary's coming," I beam.
"Mary who?"
"Newson."
"Who?"
"You know. The painter."
"Oh yes. Your friend."
I smile at the thought. I've only met Mary a few times, mostly on the beach, and she sent me a postcard last year. Describing her as a friend is something of an exaggeration, but this is the second time Mary has sought my company, and she must see something in me.
"She's asked me for lunch," I say. "Tomorrow, as long as it doesn't rain."
Elys grimaces. "I don't like your chances, weatherwise," she says. "But at least Mrs Ponsonby approves of her. Anyway, the Tremaynes are here."
I gasp. "Peter's mother?"
"And Peter too."
"Oh, goodness. It's important business. Where are they?"
"In the garden. Mrs Ponsonby is introducing them to the girls."
"Why?" I curl my lip as I ask then rearrange my scowl. "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but the last thing I need is Mrs Ponsonby boring them to death with chicken stories."
Elys laughs. Mrs Ponsonby has little empathy for the human condition, but our chickens fascinate her, and she regularly adds to the flock. She has found a new powder for poultry mites and relentlessly eulogises its benefits to anyone who shows a passing interest.
"Why are you so concerned?" Elys asks.
"Didn't I tell you? Peter has invited me to Plymouth."
"No," she says. "You gave me chapter and verse about newspaper reports, but not a word about a trip."
"Do you think she'll let me go?"
Elys bites her lip.
"Oh, for goodness' sake. I'm not a child."
"She might, with the right approach," says Elys, sounding serious beyond her years.
"Peter thought so too. That's why he's asked his mother for help."
"It's your best chance," says Elys.
"Well, if she says no, I'm going anyway," I say, feeling a sudden surge of rage.
Elys doesn't speak, and she doesn't need to. She knows perfectly well that I can't make the journey without help. I scowl and mentally file away the idea of planning an assisted escape, but voices interrupt my musings as the back door opens.
"I'll make a pot of tea," says Elys, disappearing into the kitchen.
"There you are," says Mrs Ponsonby. "Look – we have visitors." She smiles as she gestures to Peter and his mother.
"Lovely to see you," I murmur, exchanging glances with Peter.
"Elys is fetching tea and cakes," says Mrs Ponsonby. "Won't you join us in the parlour?"
"Let them have a few moments to themselves," says Isla Tremayne. "There's something I'd like to ask you," she continues. "Give us ten minutes to talk among ourselves, Peter."
"Of course." Peter nods, and I direct him into the dining room while Mrs Ponsonby and his mother disappear into the parlour. As Mrs Tremayne shuts the door, she turns to Peter and smiles. My heart floods with affection for her. How I wish Mrs Ponsonby were capable of the same light-heartedness.
"IT'S NOW OR NEVER," I say, taking a seat at the dining table. Peter has already made himself comfortable and is reclining on the chair by the window, with a newspaper in front of him.
"My mother is remarkably persuasive," he says confidently.
"Elys doesn't share your faith," I say, feeling slightly nauseous. My heart lurches at the thought of them deciding my fate next door. I have already invested far too much hope.
"There's nothing we can do," says Peter sensibly. "But I've got something here that might take your mind off it." He opens the newspaper, locates an article, and folds it again.
"What's this?" I ask.
"You'll never guess?"
"They've arrested William Thomas?"
He shakes his head.
"Another murder?"
"Try again."
"Just tell me," I say, bored with the game.
"Annie Hearn has only absconded," he says.
"No!" I am shocked by this turn of events and immediately assume the worst. "Has he killed her?"
"By he, I presume you mean William Thomas?"
"Who else?" I say, mildly irritated. "I wasn't referring to the milkman, and there are precious few suspects."
Peter shakes his head. "I don't think so. They saw Annie Hearn leaving her home."
"Tell me more," I say.
Peter smooths the newspaper pages and summarises the report. "It starts with the usual guff, age, description, that sort of thing," he says.
"Don't gloss over it. I want to know everything about Annie," I say. Only the facts will interest Peter, but though I can take or leave people, they fascinate me.
"Very well. Annie Hearn is about forty years of age."
"Oh. I thought she'd be much older," I say, savouring this new piece of information. I had imagined the elderly Mrs Thomas to be in her nineties and her daughter, husband, and friend twenty years younger. It just goes to show the importance of detail.
Peter looks up. "Indeed," he says brusquely. "Anyway, Annie Hearn is the widow of a Sheffield doctor. She is" – he runs his finger down the column – "five feet two inches tall with dark hair and a sallow complexion."
"Charming," I say. There must be better ways to describe Annie's appearance. It is almost as if the reporter is using his words as a weapon. I wonder how they would write about me under similar circumstances. Constance Maxwell, a spinster of Porth Tregoryan, committed murder today. She is five foot four inches when standing straight in a built-up boot and has windswept auburn hair. Prisoner of her guardian, the veritable Mrs Ponsonby, Miss Maxwell has expressed no remorse for her dreadful deeds. At least they couldn't describe my skin as sallow. I spend far too much time on the beach.
"Are you listening?" asks Peter.
I nod. "Yes. Tell me more."
"She left her house on Tuesday with no luggage and only a small handbag. She was wearing a black and white coat, black shoes, stockings and a black hat," he continues. "And she commissioned a car."
"To drive or be driven?" I ask.
Peter squints at the paper. "It doesn't say. I can't see how it matters. The police have it on good authority that she's in Looe."
"She's probably visiting someone," I say, feeling deflated. "It means nothing."
"The police believe she is suffering from memory loss," says Peter.
I snort. "How convenient."
"I thought you didn't suspect her?"
"That's not what I mean. The most likely explanation is an extended trip. The implication that Annie has lost her memory is a good press story, isn't it?"
"You haven't got a very high opinion of reporters," says Peter.
I consider his cousin Malcolm and refrain from an honest answer.
"It's not that," I say. "But it's in their interests to make an entertaining story. It leaves their readers wanting more. Anything else?"
Peter inspects the newspaper again. "Only the conclusion that nursing Alice Thomas has had a detrimental effect on Annie's health. They think that overwork and sleepless nights together with the grief of losing a good friend have tipped her over the edge."
"It must be just as hard for Mr Thomas," I say. "And presumably he is still living in Lewannick?"
"As far as I know. Anyway, that's that for now. Fascinating, isn't it?"
"I can't tell you how much I want to be at the inquest," I say. I can see Annie Hearn in my mind's eye, pale and shivering in the dock as she faces a barrage of questions. No wonder she needs a few days away to forget about it. I almost feel protective of the frightened, grief-stricken widow.
The door opens, interrupting my thoughts, and Elys comes in, balancing a tray on her other arm. "Tea's ready," she says brightly.
We follow her into the parlour, where Mrs Ponsonby and Isla Tremayne sit in the two armchairs nearest the fire. Peter and I position ourselves on the sofa and try to decipher the unreadable expressions on their faces.
"Pour the tea, Elys, dear," says Mrs Ponsonby. Elys obliges, then offers a plate of toasted teacake halves that she has hastily gathered, having had no notice of the Tremaynes' visit.
I take one and nibble it nervously. "I hear you are going to the Pottses supper party tomorrow night, Connie," says Mrs Tremayne, blinking. For a moment, it looks as if she has something in her eye, and then I realise the blink was a subtle wink. I understand immediately.
"Yes. I'm looking forward to it," I say, hoping I haven't overplayed my hand.
The edges of Mrs Ponsonby's mouth lift slightly. She reaches for her teacup, takes a sip, and licks her lips. "I have some news, Connie. Mrs Tremayne has invited you to Plymouth for a few days. Would you like to go?"
"Oh, very much."
"I have agreed on the condition that you remain with her throughout your visit. No going off alone," she says. "Not even with Peter."
"Of course," I say. "Yes, anything. Thank you so much." I grin at Peter, and he smiles back all-knowingly. Peter never doubted his mother for a moment.
CHAPTER SIX
Experiments in Astral Travel
I RETIRE TO BED EARLY, having borrowed the clock from the dining room mantelpiece. Tonight, I am mindful of my promise to Oliver Fox and determined not to let him down. I get into bed and start reading, but the clock is distracting, and I wonder how people sleep through the relentless beat. A few moments later, I blink my eyes open and understand the power of the hypnotic tick. I nearly fell asleep, and it is only ten o'clock. I get out of bed and limp to the window. Flinging it open, I push my head into the chilly night air. It is freezing tonight, and the wind is high. A short blast and I am shivering and wide awake. This time, I perch on the end of my bed and read a Woman's Own magazine belonging to Elys. It occupies me for a few brief minutes and reminds me why I rarely bother. The dull articles involve knitting and housekeeping, none of which appeal to me. I close the magazine and sigh, then wonder if I ought to prepare for the experiment sooner. The urgency vanishes as I fuss around the room, opening and closing drawers, tidying a bit of this and that. I look at the clock again. It is only half past ten, but I have assumed that I will fall easily into dream travel, which might not be the case. Relaxing into a trance could take much longer, and I haven't considered how it might work, let alone how I ought to prepare. If I get inside my bedclothes, I will inevitably fall asleep, leaving the matter to chance. I'll need to think of another way.
