Careless In Red (74 page)

A short distance from Redruth, she turned into a minor road and then into another, which was the sort of narrow lane that connects two or more hamlets. This last was marked for Carnkie, but rather than drive upon it, she stopped at a junction, merely a triangular bit of land where one might pull over and read a map. He expected her to do just that, as it appeared to him that they were in the middle of a nowhere characterised by an earthen hedge, partly reinforced by stone, and beyond it an expanse of open land studded occasionally with enormous boulders. In the distance, an unpainted granite farmhouse stood. Between them and it, ragwort and chickweed along with scrub grass were being seen to by sheep.

Daidre said, “Tell me about the room you were born in, Thomas.”

It was, he thought, the oddest sort of question. He said, “Why d’you want to know about that?”

“I’d like to imagine it, if you don’t mind. You said you were born at home, not in hospital. At the family pile. I’m wondering what sort of family pile it is. Was it your parents’ bedroom you were born in? Did they share a room? Do your kind of people do that, by the way?”

Your kind of people. A battle line had been drawn. It was an odd moment for him to feel the sort of despair that had come upon him at other moments throughout his life: always reminding him that some things didn’t change in a changing world, most of all these things.

He unfastened his seat belt and opened the door. He got out. He walked to the hedge. The wind was brisk in this area, as there was nothing to impede it. It carried the bawling of the sheep and the scent of wood smoke. Behind him, he heard Daidre’s door open. In a moment she was at his side.

He said, “My wife was quite clear about it when we married: Just in case you’re considering it, none of this separate rooms nonsense, she said. None of those coy, thrice-weekly nocturnal conjugal visits, Tommy. We shall do our conjugating when and where we desire and when we fall asleep nightly, we shall do so in each other’s presence.” He smiled. He looked back at the sheep, the expanse of land, the undulations of it as it rolled to the horizon. He said, “It’s quite a large room. Two windows with deep embrasures look down on a rose garden. There’s a fireplace—still used in winter because no matter central heating, these houses are impossible to keep warm—and a seating area in front of it. The bed’s opposite the windows. It, too, is large. It’s heavily carved, Italian. The walls are pale green. There’s a heavy gilt mirror above the fireplace, a collection of miniatures on the wall next to it. Between the windows, a demilune table holds a porcelain urn. On the walls, portraits. And two French landscapes. Family photos on side tables. That’s all.”

“It sounds very impressive.”

“It’s more comfortable than impressive. Chatsworth needn’t worry about the competition.”

“It sounds…suitable for someone of your stature.”

“It’s just where I was born, Daidre. Why did you want to know?”

She turned her head. Her gaze took in everything: the earthen hedge, the stones, the boulders in the field, the tiny junction in which they’d parked. She said, “Because I was born here.”

“In that farmhouse?”

“No. Here, Thomas. In this…well, whatever you want to call it. Here.” She walked over to a stone and from beneath it he saw her remove a card. She brought it to him and handed it over. As she did so, she said, “Did you tell me that Howenstow is Jacobean?”

“It is, in part, yes.”

“I thought so. Well, what I had was a bit more humble. Do have a look.”

He saw she’d given him a postcard with the image of a gipsy caravan on it. It was of the type that once embellished the countryside with the flavour of Romany: the wagon bright red, the arched roof green, the wheels’ spokes yellow. He studied it. Since she clearly wasn’t of gipsy birth, her parents must have been on holiday, he thought. Tourists had done that in Cornwall for years: They hired wagons and played at being gipsies.

Daidre seemed to read his mind, for she said, “No romance to it at all, I’m afraid. No getting caught short on a holiday and no Romanies in my background. My parents are travellers, Thomas. Their parents were travellers as well. My aunts and uncles, such as they are, are travellers also, and this is where our caravan was parked when I was born. Our accommodation was never as picturesque as this one,” with a nod at the card, “as it hadn’t been painted in years, but it was otherwise much the same. Not quite like Howenstow, wouldn’t you say?”

He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure he believed her.

“Conditions were…I’d have to call them rather cramped, I suppose, although things improved marginally by the time I was eight years old. But for a time there were five of us shoehorned together. Myself, my parents, and the twins.”

“The twins.”

“My brother and my sister. Younger than I by three years. And not a single one of us born in Falmouth.”

“Are you not Daidre Trahair, then?”

“I am, in a way.”

“I don’t understand. ‘In a way’? What way?”

“Would you like to meet my real self?”

“I suppose I would.”

She nodded. She hadn’t removed her gaze from him since he’d looked up from the postcard. She seemed to be trying to evaluate his reaction. Whatever she read on his face either reassured her or told her there was no further point to obfuscation.

She said, “Right. Come along then, Thomas. There’s far more to see.”

WHEN KERRA CAME OUT of her office to ask Alan’s advice on a hiring issue, she was greatly surprised to see Madlyn Angarrack in reception. She was alone and wearing her kit from the bakery, and Kerra had the odd sense that Madlyn had come to make a delivery of pasties. She looked at the reception desk to see if a box with Casvelyn of Cornwall written upon it was sitting there.

No box in sight, Kerra hesitated. She reckoned that Madlyn had apparently come on a different sort of errand, and she assumed that the errand might have to do with her. But she didn’t want any more harsh words with Madlyn. She felt somehow beyond them now.

Madlyn saw her and said her name. She spoke tremulously, as if in fear of Kerra’s reaction. That was reasonable enough, Kerra decided. Their last conversation hadn’t gone swimmingly and they’d hardly parted as friends. They hadn’t, indeed, been friends in ages.

Madlyn had always possessed a glow of health, but that was missing at the moment. She looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping well, and her dark hair had lost something of its lustre. Her eyes, however, were still her eyes. Large, dark, and compelling, they drew you in. No doubt they’d done as much for Santo.

“Could I have a word?” Madlyn asked. “I’ve asked for a half hour from the bakery. I told them personal business…?”

“What, with me, then?” The mention of the bakery made Kerra think Madlyn must have come about a job, and who could blame her? For all the relative fame of its pasties, one could hardly expect to build a career at Casvelyn of Cornwall. Or to have much fun. And Madlyn could give surfing instruction if Kerra was able to talk her father into offering it.

“Yes. With you. Could we…somewhere?”

Alan came out of his office, then. He was saying, “Kerra, I’ve just had a word with the video crew and they’ll be available—” when he saw Madlyn. His look went from her to Kerra and rested with Kerra. His expression was warm. He nodded and he said, “Oh. I’ll speak with you later,” and then, “Hullo, Madlyn. Fantastic to see you again.”

Then he was gone and Kerra was faced with whatever reason Madlyn had for coming to speak to her. She said, “I s’pose we could go up to the lounge?”

“Yes, please,” Madlyn said.

Kerra took her there. Outside and below, she saw that her father was directing two blokes who were making something of a mess out of a flower bed, which edged a lawn that was clipped for bowling. They had containers of shrubbery meant to go at the back of the bed and Kerra could see that the labourers had nonsensically planted the shrubs at the front. She muttered, “What are they thinking?” And then to Madlyn, “It’s to give the less adventurous something to do.”

Madlyn looked confused. “What is?”

Kerra saw the other girl hadn’t even glanced outside, so apparently nervous was she. She said, “We’ve done a pitch for lawn bowling over there, beyond the rope-climbing setup. It was Alan’s idea. Dad thinks no one’s going to use it, but Alan says a gran or granddad might come along with the family and not exactly want to abseil or rope climb or whatever. I tell him he’s not got the first clue about modern grans and granddads, but he’s insisted. So we’re letting him have his way. He’s been right about other things. If it doesn’t work out, we can always do something else with the area. Croquet or something.”

“Yes. I can see how he would be. Right, that is. He always seemed…He seems very clever.”

Kerra nodded. She waited for Madlyn to reveal the reason for this call. Part of her was prepared to tell the girl up front that Ben Kerne wasn’t likely to offer surfing, so do save your breath in that regard. Part of her wanted to give Madlyn a chance to make her case. Yet another part had a small suspicion this might not be about employment at all, so she said helpfully, “Here we are, then. D’you want a coffee or something, Madlyn?”

Madlyn shook her head. She went to one of the new sofas and perched on the edge. She waited for Kerra to sit opposite her. Then she said, “I’m very sorry about Santo.” Her eyes filled, quite a change from their previous encounter. “I didn’t say properly when we talked before. But I’m so very sorry.”

“Yes. Well. I expect you are.”

Madlyn flinched. “I know what you think. That I wanted him dead. Or at least that I wanted him hurt. But I didn’t. Not really.”

“It wouldn’t have been so strange if you’d wanted that, at least that he be hurt as much as he hurt you. He was rotten in the way he treated you. I thought he might be. I did try to warn you.”

“I know you did. But, see, I thought that you…” Madlyn pressed her hand down the front of her pinny. The whole kit she wore was terrible on her: the wrong colour, the wrong style. It was amazing to Kerra that Casvelyn of Cornwall could hold anyone in their employment, making their girls wear such a getup. “I thought it was jealousy, you see.”

“What? That I wanted you for myself? Sexually, or something?”

“Not that. But in other ways. In friendship ways. She doesn’t like to share her friends, I thought. That’s what this is all about.”

“Well. Yes. It was, rather. You were my friend and I couldn’t see how you could be with him and still be…It was so complicated. Because of how he was. And what would happen when he threw you over? I wondered that.”

“You knew he’d do what he did, then.”

“I thought he might. It was rather his pattern. And then what? You’d hardly want to come round here and be reminded of him, would you? Even being with me would remind you of him, put you into the position of having to hear about him when you weren’t prepared. It was all too difficult. I couldn’t see a way past it and I couldn’t put what I was feeling into words anyway. Not in any sensible fashion. Not in a way that would make me sound reasonable.”

“I didn’t like losing you as a friend.”

“Yes. Well. There it is.” Kerra thought, What now? They could hardly pick up where they’d left off in the pre-Santo days. Too much had occurred, and the reality of Santo’s death still had to be dealt with. His death and the means of it hung between them even now. It was the great unspoken and it would remain so, as long as there was the slightest possibility that Madlyn Angarrack was involved.

Madlyn herself seemed to understand this because she next said, “I’m frightened about what happened to him. I was angry and hurt. Other people knew I was angry and hurt. I didn’t keep it to myself…what he’d done. My father knew. My brother knew. Other people knew. Will Mendick. Jago Reeth. One of them, you see…Someone might have hurt him, but I didn’t want that. I never wanted that.”

Kerra felt a tingle of apprehension along her spine. She said, “Someone might have hurt Santo to get revenge on your behalf?”

“I never wanted…But now that I know—” Her hands balled into fists. Kerra saw her fingernails—those nicely clipped crescents—dig into her palms, as if telling her she had said enough.

Kerra said slowly, “Madlyn, do you know who killed Santo?”

“No!” There was a rise to Madlyn’s voice, suggesting that what she’d come to say had not yet been said.

“But you do know something, don’t you. What?”

“It’s only that…Will Mendick came round last night. You know him, yes?”

“That bloke from the grocery. I know who he is. What about him, then?”

“He thought…I’d spoken to him, you see. Like I said before. He was one of the people I told about Santo and what happened. Not everything, but enough. And Will…” It seemed that Madlyn couldn’t finish. She twisted her hands in the hem of her pinny and looked generally miserable. “I didn’t know he fancied me,” she concluded.

“You’re telling me he did something to Santo because he fancied you? To…to get even with Santo on your behalf?”

“He said he sorted him. He…I don’t think he did more than that.”

“He and Santo were friendly. It wouldn’t have been impossible for him to get to Santo’s climbing kit, Madlyn.”

“I can’t think he actually…He wouldn’t have.”

“Have you told the police?”

“I didn’t know, you see. Not till last night. And if I’d known…If I’d known that he’d even planned it or thought about it…I didn’t want Santo hurt. Or if I wanted him hurt, I wanted him hurt, not hurt. D’you know what I mean? Hurt inside, the way I was hurt. And now I’m afraid…” She was making a real mess of her pinny. She’d balled it up and got it hopelessly wrinkled. Casvelyn of Cornwall was not going to like that.

“You think that Will Mendick killed him for you,” Kerra said.

“Someone. P’rhaps. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t ask…I didn’t tell…”

Kerra saw why the girl had come to her, finally. The knowledge dawned upon her and with the dawning came a fuller understanding of who Madlyn was. Perhaps it was the central shift within her that had come about because of Alan. She didn’t know. But she did feel different about Madlyn at long last, and she could see things from Madlyn’s perspective. She rose from her place opposite the other girl and sat at her side. She thought about taking her hand, but she didn’t. Too abrupt, she thought. Too soon.