Death on the Lizard (21 page)

He gripped the tiller harder as a following sea lifted the stern of the sloop and focused his attention on riding the cresting wave until it subsided. There was something else, too. He had not yet heard from Charles Sheridan—he could only assume that Kate would let her husband know where he was staying and the name under which he was registered. But when Sheridan did contact him, that would be awkward, as well.

Andrew had been acquainted with Charles Sheridan for some years now, and on the two occasions on which they had worked together—at Easton Lodge and in Scotland—they had developed a mutual rapport and respect. He knew Charles to be a strong strategist, courageous in the face of danger, and entirely, unquestionably professional: He would certainly keep confidential anything he was told. But while Kate would not pry into her husband's business, she was a clever and imaginative woman. If she were aware that he and Andrew had met, she might press him for details. And if Charles did not respond to her questions, she was perfectly capable of drawing her own conclusions, which might or might not be on the mark. She might even communicate her suspicions to Jenna Loveday, who might pass them on to Wolf when she saw him next. And if the pair ran true to form, that would likely be tonight, at the boat.

Ahead of him, a quarter-mile farther up the Helford River, Andrew could see Wolf dropping his mainsail, preparing to sail the
Mistral
up Frenchman's Creek on the jib. Andrew knew this because he had been watching Wolf for the past fortnight and talking to people in the little village of Helford, who were as familiar with the creek's twists and turns, its deep holes and shallow pools, as they were with the puddles in the village lanes. A foreigner could believe that he was secure from prying eyes, moored there, but it wasn't true. The local folk knew when he came and when he left, and who visited him—especially when his visitor was the lady of the manor. Jenna's affair with this man had become a matter of village gossip.

Andrew could see the Helford quay, and above it cottages and trees. He pushed the helm down, jibed the mainsail and dropped it, and after a moment nosed the sloop gently into its berth, under the admiring gaze of a pair of pretty day-trippers. He took down the jib and busied himself with the pleasant tasks of snubbing the boat to its mooring, stowing the sails and other gear, and hanging the coiled sheet on the boom. His connection to Wolf over the past weeks had given him the opportunity to sail, and he was pleased to think he hadn't forgotten much. Messing about in boats was just as much fun as he remembered, although he was still pretty much of a duffer, while Wolf was a strong sailor, a sailor for all weathers.

Hands in his pockets, whistling between his teeth, and feeling pretty good about himself, Andrew climbed the rickety wooden staircase up from the river and strolled down the lane to the Oysterman. He was met at the desk by his landlord, who greeted him with the news that a gentleman had called round the night before, inquiring after him. Yes, he had left a name. Charles Sheridan, it was. If Mr. Northrup would like to speak with the gentleman, he could be found at the Poldhu Hotel, on the other side of the Lizard.

Andrew sighed. Now that he knew somewhat more about why Sheridan was here, it was clear that they needed to talk. And after what he had witnessed in Mullion the night before, that need was growing urgent. If Charles didn't come to Helford this evening to look him up, he would have to go over to Mullion again.

This time, though, he thought he would hire a horse.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 
 
 
 
It did not seem the happiest of occasions, now, for a picnic. Kate and Patsy were silent, for they did not know what to say or how to say it, and Jenna herself seemed little inclined to talk. The sky, so beautiful in the early morning, had turned decidedly gloomy and all the color had been washed out of the landscape. The green of the moor had grown gray-black and bleak, as if to match their mood, and Jenna, silent, drove the horse as if the devil himself were after them.

At last, Jenna slowed the gig and they turned onto an almost invisible farm track leading up the side of a brown hill. Looking up, Kate could see three tall stones, each larger than a man, leaning sharply toward one another, silhouetted against the darkening sky. Nearby stood the twisted skeleton of a tree sculpted by the wind. She shivered. There was something wildly, almost frighteningly, primitive about the scene.

“I thought we would have our picnic up there,” Jenna said, pulling the horse to a stop. They were the first words she had said since they left the tea shop. “But we should keep an eye on the sky. We may need to beat a hasty retreat if it begins to rain.”

“What's up there?” Patsy asked, getting her camera out of the gig. “I can see the rocks. Is it an ancient settlement?”

P'rhaps it's a fairy ring,
Beryl suggested, as Kate took out the basket.
Look sharp. We don't want to step on a pixie!

“It's a cromlech,” Jenna said, “a circle of standing stones—
menhir,
they're called. Or rather, it used to be a circle. Those three are the only stones left. Over the centuries, the rest have been hauled off as building material.” She nodded toward the north. “This must have been a fairly populated area once. There's a hill fort over there, on the other side of that little valley. And if we drove another mile or two toward the west, we'd begin to find tumuli—mounds of stone piled on top of burial chambers dug out during the Bronze Age.”

“So long ago,” Kate murmured, feeling the weight of time across her shoulders almost as if it were something physical. So many people, so many generations living and loving and dying in this bleak place, leaving nothing of themselves, no imprint of their lives, no mark of their passing. All that remained was what they had begun with: the rocks themselves.

Tying the horse to a small tree, Jenna added, “Over near Land's End, there's another big circle, called
Dans Maen
, in Cornish—Stone Dance.” Her voice was dry, her smile crooked. “The nineteen stones are said to be nineteen women who foolishly went out to dance and sing one Sabbath dawn—at the invitation, it's said, of the devil. They were turned to stone for their sin, and their pipers with them.”

“I suppose there's a metaphor there somewhere,” Kate said, as they began to walk up the hill. In this bleak landscape, the very idea of frivolity seemed dangerous.

“Not a metaphor, but a moral,” Patsy said, frowning. “I don't fancy being turned to stone. Remind me not to do any dancing or singing on Sunday.”

“There's a prohibition against almost everything worth doing,” Jenna said shortly.

Isolde,
Beryl whispered, and Kate did not contradict her.

Taking turns carrying the basket between them, they walked up the hill—not an easy walk, for the moor was rough and they had to detour around impenetrable billows of bramble and gorse. At the top, they set down their basket on a flat, tablelike stone, spread a cloth, and began to lay out the sumptuous feast Mrs. Tremaine had assembled for them: sandwiches and cheese, savory pastries, currant tea cakes, fruit, and a large thermos of tea. The standing stones, their granite skin crusted with blue-green lichens and moss, bent over them like stern schoolmasters listening to the inconsequential chatter of schoolgirls.

But they didn't talk much, really. For a time, Jenna was silent and pale, sitting somewhat apart, her eyes on the southern horizon as if she were straining to see something beyond sight. And then she flushed, stirred, and began to talk quickly and brightly. Kate watched her and was not deceived.

Mrs. Tremaine's food was delicious, but they did not do it justice, Kate thought. They finished eating quickly. Patsy jumped up, took her camera, and hurried off in the direction of a small stream, obviously glad to be gone. Jenna lapsed into silence as Kate repacked the basket, and then they both sat with their backs against the rocks, watching the dark clouds skittering across the sky. Kate was thinking about what had happened at Gillan Harbor, and she knew Jenna was, too.

At last Kate said, “If talking would help, Jenna, I'd be glad to listen.”

“I don't know what to say,” Jenna said in an exhausted voice. “It all seems so . . . so hopeless.”

That's what Isolde must have thought, too,
Beryl said.
Hopeless.

“Who is he?”

There was a long silence. In a low voice, Jenna replied, “His name is Niels Andersson. He's a sailor, from Norway, although he has lived in many places. He sometimes moors his boat in Frenchman's Creek.”

Frenchman's Creek?
Beryl asked.
Remember that odd remark of Kirk-Smythe's about pirates in Frenchman's Creek? You don't suppose he was referring to Jenna's sailor, do you?

“Have you known him for a very long time?” Kate asked, thinking of the coincidence of seeing Kirk-Smythe in the little harbor this morning.

“Since . . . since the beginning of the year. He moored his boat in the creek occasionally, and we became . . . acquainted.” She looked down at her hands. “I've been lonely, you know, since George died. It's hard, being alone. Niels and I, we became . . . lovers. We exchanged rings.” She held out her right hand. On her third finger, she wore a gold ring, cast in a curious twist. A love knot.

There was another silence, awkward and uncomfortable, and then the words began to tumble out, as if, now that she had begun, Jenna couldn't hold them back. “When Harriet died, I decided to stop going to the boat to see him. I thought . . . I thought her death was a punishment for what I'd done. A punishment for my sin. I wasn't turned into stone—instead, my daughter was taken from me.”

“Oh, Jenna,” Kate whispered. What an awful burden to bear!

Jenna clasped her arms around her bent knees and began to rock back and forth. “Niels sailed away and I thought I'd never see him again. I thought it was all over, and I resigned myself to being alone. Now he's come back, and he's asked me to go away with him. But I can't, Kate. I can't!”

“Do you love him?”

She turned haunted eyes to Kate. “Yes,” she whispered. “God help me, I love him. But there's nothing to be done about it, not after what happened to Harriet.”

“I don't understand,” Kate said. “What does Harriet have to do with it?”

“I don't know,” Jenna said helplessly. “That's the worst part. She drowned in Frenchman's Creek, you see.”

Kate frowned. “But I—”

“I don't know why she went there,” Jenna said, as if that explained everything.

Ah,
Beryl sighed.
She thinks her daughter followed her. She thinks her daughter knew about Niels, but she's not sure.

“Oh,” Kate said. “Yes, I understand.”

Jenna nodded numbly. “I went to Niels that night, after I'd put Harriet to bed. It was dark, of course, and I have no idea whether Harriet might have followed me. We were together in the boat for several hours. I came back to the house very late. It was raining, and I was wet through, and all I wanted was a fire and a cup of something hot. I didn't look in on her.” She swallowed. “When I went to wake her the next morning for school, she was gone. They found her in the creek.”

“Near the boat?” Kate asked.

“Near where the boat had been. It was gone.” So low that Kate could scarcely hear, she said, “She must have been there . . . in the water . . . when I left him. It was dark. I couldn't see. I didn't—” Her voice broke, and Kate could hear the anguish in it. “I didn't look. God help me, I didn't even look!”

“Of course not,” Kate said softly. “How could you? You didn't know.”

“And that's the worst of it!” Jenna cried, with a sudden passionate violence. “I
should
have known! Don't you see? Any mother
would
have known, any mother who wasn't blinded by her own selfish desires!”

How ghastly,
Beryl whispered.
How appallingly ghastly.

“And now he wants me to go away with him,” Jenna said. “And I want to, oh, I
want
to!”

Jenna began to shake, and then to weep, and Kate gathered her into her arms. She sobbed stormily against Kate's shoulder for a while, then pulled away and dried her eyes with her sleeve.

“Now that I've started, I might as well tell you the rest of it.” She blew her nose. “A few days after Harriet was buried, I began having . . . well, hallucinations, I suppose you'd call them. Sights, sounds, things which aren't there. At first I thought that my nerves were just overwrought. But some of the episodes were—are—really rather frightening. I consulted a specialist, who diagnosed it as hysteria.”

Hardly surprising,
Beryl said sympathetically,
under the circumstances. So much guilt, so much grief. It would drive anyone right round the bend, wouldn't it?

“Specialists have to find a name for everything,” Kate said, remembering how a dull, debilitating sadness had clung to her for months after she lost her baby, how the sight of every infant had brought her to tears. Work had been her salvation—work and a trip which she and Charles had taken together. “Perhaps you need a change of scene. Sometimes that helps.”

“That's what my mother-in-law keeps saying. She thinks the answer is for me to leave this place.” She paused. “Sir Oliver believes that there's another explanation. He thinks Harriet might be trying to get in touch with me.”