Angel With Two Faces (17 page)

Archie remembered Josephine’s suggestion, and how quickly he had dismissed it. Suddenly, he was less sure. ‘Did Harry ever hurt Morwenna?’ he asked.

‘You mean physically? Not to my knowledge.’ He thought for a moment, then added: ‘I’m sure he didn’t – well, as sure as I can be. That’s the trouble with finding out a secret about someone, isn’t it? You start to doubt everything else about them. I know the change in him hurt her, though. Sometimes I’d catch her looking at him as though she couldn’t understand why he was behaving like that, like he’d betrayed her in some way and she didn’t know how to reach him any more. She told Morveth that they’d argued on the night he died – she was very hard on herself about that, apparently, and there was nothing Morveth could say to comfort her.’

‘And what about you?’ Archie asked, conscious of how alone Nathaniel must feel. ‘Who do you have for comfort?’

He took a small, leather-bound book from the top pocket of his shirt, a battered old volume which Archie recognised as the Book of Common Prayer. ‘I’ve always had this,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘It doesn’t do a bad job – at least it didn’t. You know, since I first picked this book up, I’ve never been afraid of anything; now, after Harry’s death, I sleep with a lamp burning every night. Actually, that’s a lie – after what Morwenna said the other day, I hardly sleep at all. All I want to do is forget him, wipe him out of my mind – but he haunts me. I keep thinking about him going into that lake all alone – those waters are so cold, so dark. What sort of despair must he have been in if he really did think that was easier than living? I can’t get that out of my head. I’ve always thought of a loved one’s presence after
death as some sort of consolation for their loss, an affirmation that it doesn’t all just end when we die. But this isn’t any comfort – this is hell, and he’s beside me all the time, inviting me in.’

Archie heard a noise behind him and looked up. ‘So this is where my two leading men have got to,’ Morveth said. She spoke lightly but her face was anxious, and Archie wondered how much she had heard. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing up in front of Nathaniel to give the young man time to pull himself together. ‘We’ve had a touch of stage fright and we thought if we hid here long enough, you might let us off the hook altogether.’

‘You’ll have to try harder than that, my lad – nothing gets past me. I need my jackdaw to practise his take-off.’

‘His what?’

‘She means the jump off the balustrade into thin air,’ Nathaniel explained, trying to emulate Archie’s easy banter. ‘Don’t worry,’ he continued as he saw the look of horror on Archie’s face. ‘All I have to do is drop down on to the backstage path, but it looks spectacular from where the audience is. It’s the highlight of the play, and there’ll be someone there to make sure I don’t overshoot. We wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t safe. After last year…’ He grinned, and handed his costume to Archie. ‘Look after this a minute. I’ll try it a few times in normal clothes first.’

Nathaniel followed Morveth down on to the stage, leaving Archie holding the habit that Harry should have worn. As he looked down at the black silk, he thought about the strange hold that the dead had over the living: they had buried Harry on Sunday, but he had been by far the most powerful presence of this visit so far. What would have made him set that fire all
those years ago? Archie wondered. What was so terrible that he would kill
and
die for it? More to the point, he thought selfishly, what was
he
supposed to do about it? Was Nathaniel’s motive for telling him just the lightening of a heavy burden or a plea for more tangible help? Even if Loveday were telling the truth, and Harry was a killer, he couldn’t see what good it would do to open up the case now – perhaps that was what Morveth had meant when she warned him to leave things alone – but it wasn’t in his nature to turn a blind eye. So what was he supposed to be – policeman or friend?

Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t an actor, he thought resentfully as he walked down from the wings and took his place on the platform which Morveth had pointed out. The stage felt suddenly claustrophobic to him, and far too close to the audience for comfort. As he looked up at the steep grass slope, imagining what it would be like later when it was full of people, he wished more than ever that he had never agreed to take part in
The Jackdaw of Rheims
.

William parked the Lanchester next to Ronnie’s Austin, and he and Josephine gathered up the picnic things between them and walked over the brow of the hill towards the sea. The view of the headland stretched out for miles before her, and she could see people making their way in twos and threes to the Minack, following coastal paths or taking shortcuts across fields, laughing and chatting and, for the most part, laden with hampers and warm clothes in preparation for the evening. A table – covered carefully in pristine white linen and giving the air of a vicarage tea party – stood on the lawn in front of the big house, and served as a box office. After a good-natured skirmish in the queue, William reluctantly conceded the right to buy the tickets and the two of them joined a trail of people making their way down a steep, narrow path lined with furze bushes. As the crowd zig-zagged to left and right, eventually striking off in different directions to stake a claim on a patch of turf or find a more sheltered position against one of the rocks, Josephine could not help but think that this was the strangest entrance to a theatre she had ever encountered – but she was by no means the only person to stop in wonder and pleasure at her first sight of the stage itself, crisp and clear in the evening sunlight.

She spread the rug out on the ground about halfway up the auditorium and allowed William to wrestle with the
deckchairs, aware of the peculiarity in the male psyche that insisted on mastering anything to do with the outdoors. It was a little after six, and there was still an hour and a half to go before the Minack’s equivalent of curtain-up – sundown, she supposed – but already the open spaces were filled with eager theatre-goers and, every now and then, the sound of a popped cork underlined their hopes for the performance ahead. She recognised a few members of the audience: Morwenna was there with Loveday, who waved excitedly from the back of the seating area when she saw Josephine; the unmistakeable bulk of Jasper Motley sat with his back to her in the front row; and several of the spectators from the cricket match had turned out again to support their friends and family – but she was impressed to see that the crowd was largely made up of people who seemed to have no vested interest in the play except a passion for theatre. Looking over their heads and out to sea, she noticed how different this section of coast was from the stretch which bordered the Loe estate; here, on a headland devoid of harbours or any other human footprint, the serrated line of cliffs had a frowning, wave-beaten grandeur which seemed cold and immovable – hostile, even. As the waves frilled around the jagged bases of the rocks, which clawed their way towards the horizon like skeletal fingers, the landscape seemed far more in touch with an ancient, unfathomable past, and Josephine could easily understand how myth and legend still held the balance of power here.

‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ William said, following the direction of her gaze. ‘Coming here always reminds me of something my father said about Cornwall: it’s the best place God ever made – when He finishes it.’

Josephine laughed and sat down on one of the deckchairs. It
was true though, she thought, looking out to sea again; the rocks did have an unfinished look about them, as if someone had laid the foundations for a project and then had to abandon it in a hurry. ‘I imagine it takes on a different character altogether when the weather’s in a less forgiving mood,’ she said, waving to Lettice and Ronnie, who had just emerged hand in hand from the backstage area, looking a little shaky. Lettice appeared to have her eyes shut, and Ronnie’s signal made it clear that a drink would be in order.

‘Lettice is terrible with heights,’ William explained, lining up the champagne glasses as his daughters made their way up the slope. ‘The dressing area here always makes her dizzy.’

‘Remind me never to go back there again,’ Lettice confirmed, sitting down heavily and asking a lot from her deckchair. ‘If they want alterations doing, they can come out here for them.’ She leaned over to cut herself a generous slice of pork pie. ‘That wire fence wouldn’t save anyone from an accident – I’m beginning to agree with Hephzibah.’

‘Although don’t you find it interesting that Rowena didn’t see fit to tell her about the new walls behind the stage?’ Ronnie asked, pointing vaguely towards the offending stonework with a stick of celery. ‘If I were being cynical – which of course I never am – I’d say that was a deliberate omission.’

‘Is Archie all right?’ Josephine asked, peeling a hard-boiled egg and smothering it with salt. ‘I expect he’ll be glad to get it over with.’

‘He’s a bit quiet,’ Lettice admitted, ‘but we think that’s just fear. He refused anything to eat or drink in favour of a few minutes alone with his script. He sends his love, though,’ she added, taking a jar of pickles from the hamper.

‘I must confess, I feel a bit guilty for strong-arming him into
doing it at all,’ William said. ‘But I didn’t see what else we could do.’

Ronnie picked up the champagne that William had poured for Archie and divided its contents between Josephine’s glass and her own. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Pa – a bit of community spirit won’t hurt him,’ she said, with all the benevolence of someone who was rarely required to indulge in it herself. ‘It’ll make a nice change from all that paperwork.’

‘Will anyone mind if I pop backstage and wish him luck?’ Josephine asked.

‘No, dear, of course not – but for God’s sake watch your step. I’m not climbing down after you in these heels.’

Josephine picked up her glass and followed a circuitous path through the rugs and hampers to get to the performance area. A sign marked ‘Players Only’ indicated the backstage quarters. She made her way carefully round the rock, and was surprised to walk in on what felt like a cast of thousands. It was a strange and wonderful spectacle. The actors were clad in a Motley array of holy vestments and, although her knowledge of religious orders didn’t stretch to a confirmation of the costumes’ authenticity, she had no doubt of how effective the colours would be on stage: just to her left, a dark-haired man – clothed all in white – stood patiently waiting for the play to begin, holding a brown velvet cushion and a bright red mitre with flamboyant tassels; by contrast, his neighbour wore an extravagant red outfit which draped to the floor in lavish folds and was finished off by a triangular hat in a matching shade of scarlet. The majority of the Winwaloe Players formed an army of monks, largely indistinguishable from each other in their rough, brown habits and hoods; they were gathered round a crate of ale which William had sent backstage to wish everyone
luck, nervously stubbing out cigarette ends with their sandalled feet, while six angelic choirboys, dressed in white, received last-minute instructions from over-anxious parents whose pride had got the better of their composure. Faced with so many characters, she tried to remember what
The Jackdaw
of Rheims
was about: the Ingoldsby Legends had been a favourite of one of her teachers at school, and she vaguely recalled that this particular poem told the story of a jackdaw who stole a cardinal’s ring, had a curse put on him, then repented and subsequently became a saint. It was a bit thin on plot, she thought, although she was hardly in a position to criticise – one dead blonde didn’t make a crime novel. Visually, though, it was bound to be fabulous, but she would have expected nothing less from Ronnie and Lettice.

There was very little room to move in the crowded backstage area, but she eventually found Archie sitting on an upturned bucket behind the props table. He had his head down, although he appeared to be lost in thought rather than studying his script, and she was taken aback a little at how fine he looked. He, too, wore a white habit but his was made of satin rather than wool. It was offset by a black cowl which covered his shoulders and was tied at the neck by a beautiful silver cord that matched the inner lining of his hood. The familiarity of a twenty-year friendship had taught Josephine to take Archie’s good looks for granted, but the costume lent him an austerity and remoteness which were absent in his everyday clothes, and she looked at him now with an admiration that had little to do with piety – although she was honest enough with herself to admit that it was precisely the forbidden element in his clothing which attracted her.

‘Here,’ she said, holding out her glass, ‘Dutch courage.’ He
looked up, delighted to see her, and accepted her offer gratefully. ‘I hate to say it, but holy orders suit you. You’ll steal the show in that costume – I hope those cousins of yours haven’t been guilty of favouritism.’

‘You know, they made this from scratch in two hours flat – and you’re right, it is rather grander than the original. It’s not something I’d ever admit to their faces, but they’re remarkably clever.’

‘Have you only just realised that?’ She waited while he turned another bucket upside down and brushed the dust off it, then sat down next to him, grimacing as Kestrel Jacks walked past, looking as sullen as ever. ‘If you want my opinion,’ she said archly, glancing back to the playing area, ‘he’d be a grand candidate for testing the strength of that wire behind the stage. There aren’t many people I’d wish a nasty accident on, but I’d happily wave to him on his way down.’

Archie smiled, unaware that her comment had more to it than an automatic sharing of his own dislike. ‘Nice of you to be so partisan,’ he said, then lowered his voice and added more seriously: ‘I had a chat with Nathaniel earlier.’

‘The curate?’

‘Yes – he and Harry were friends. This isn’t the time or place, but I’d like to hear what you think.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It is. At least two nightcaps’ worth, I’d say.’ He shuffled his bucket forward a little to allow Jago Snipe to step past. The undertaker was carrying a hand bell and had exchanged his customary dark suit for one of the brown habits, but the lightening of tone had no effect on his demeanour, which seemed particularly dour as he headed towards the stage. Josephine watched him with interest. Rounding the rock, he bumped
into Joseph Caplin coming the other way; Caplin looked unsteady on his feet and was already the worse for drink, and the collision sent him reeling perilously close to the cliff edge. In his panic, he clutched at Jago’s costume and only the undertaker’s strength and bulk saved them both from going over. There was a gasp of relief from a few of the actors, and Josephine watched as Jago shook the other man off in disgust. Impatiently, he pulled his hood over his head and continued out to the auditorium to ring the bell.

‘That’s five minutes to go,’ Archie said, draining the glass. ‘You’d better get back to your seat and pour yourself a drop of this. Go up that way,’ he added, pointing to a narrow set of steps which led up one side of the auditorium, out of view of the audience. ‘You don’t want to make an appearance on stage now or they’ll think we’ve started early.’

‘I don’t think this outfit is quite old enough to qualify as period dress,’ she said in mock indignation. ‘Where do the steps come out?’

‘Up at the back of the seating area. There’s a set the other side, as well – it’s designed so that an actor can exit one side and make his entrance at the other without the audience noticing, but you have to be fit to do it. Getting round in time is one thing, but having enough breath left to speak your lines is something else altogether.’

She picked up the glass and gave him a kiss. ‘Good luck. You can have my critique later over a large malt.’

‘I can’t wait, but I need a favour first.’

‘Of course – what is it?’

‘I’ll introduce you to Morveth when the play’s over, and no matter how terrible it is, or how long an evening you feel you’ve had, would you congratulate her? She’s put such a lot
into it and a word of praise will really mean something if it comes from you. ‘

‘You know me,’ she said, smiling mischievously. ‘Sincerity is my middle name.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ he called after her. ‘And don’t take your eyes off the action – you wouldn’t want to miss the moment when our jackdaw takes flight.’

Intrigued, Josephine set off back to her seat. As she paused to catch her breath at the back of the auditorium, mourning the days of her early twenties when she taught physical education and would have thought nothing of such a steep climb, she noticed that the blanket which Morwenna and Loveday had put down was empty, except for a hamper and a dog-eared copy of Tennyson’s poetry. It would be just like Loveday to run off now and steal the show, she thought, and, although she didn’t particularly like Morwenna, she sympathised with her for having to spend so much of her life worrying about where her sister was. She could still remember how terrified she’d been every time she was left in charge of her own little sister – and Moire was an angel, so God knows what sort of responsibility Loveday must be.

In deference to the drop in temperature, the chink of glasses on the air had been replaced by the unscrewing of thermos flasks, and William welcomed her back with hot coffee and pastries. ‘Everything all right back there?’ he asked, unscrewing a silver hip flask and passing it over.

‘Fine, in a chaotic sort of way, and the costumes are wonderful,’ she said to Lettice and Ronnie, settling back in her seat to enjoy the performance. ‘I’ve just seen Archie in a whole new light – very ascetic.’

As twilight fell, and a flock of jackdaws flew noisily home to
roost in the cliffs, oblivious to the story about to be played out in their honour, the shadows lengthened on the rocks and stage area. Moths, and a bat or two, fluttered past the lanterns which were dotted about the stage and, with the auditorium shrouded in dusk, the magnificent backdrop came into its own. Josephine didn’t envy any playwright the task of inventing lines which would compete with such splendour for the audience’s attention, but how Shakespeare would have loved this setting, she thought, watching as a small fishing boat followed its familiar course back to Newlyn, pulled on as if by a magnet. The moon seemed determined to play its part in the performance, effortlessly providing a light more intense and somehow more illusory than any lighting designer could devise, and she could only imagine how wonderful
The
Tempest
must have been when it was played here. The goodwill of the elements seemed to underline the transient nature of the performance and intensify the anticipation amongst the audience, and their excitement was infectious. Josephine had seen many of the finest productions that London had to offer, in theatres peopled by stars of today and ghosts of past triumphs, and she had herself been the centre of attention at many of them – but tonight, caught up in the scent of the sea and the magic of the evening, she could not imagine a grander scene.