Moon Rising (46 page)

‘Very kind,' I acknowledged, wondering how to ask about these other friends, especially Miss Gwyneth, who intrigued me most of all. Could she be the lover I'd been imagining? Not a man at all – no, of course not – but a woman who could love Bella and respond to her with warmth and understanding. Eventually, clearing my throat, I said: ‘Bella modelled, didn't she – for a group of painters?'

‘Oh, aye, she did. Like I said, she made some good friends, the last year or two. They all thought well of her. She could keep still for hours, our Bella – never a word of complaint. And they did some lovely pictures of her – enough to make you cry, some of ‘em.'

As she heaved herself out of her chair, Cousin Martha raised her apron to wipe away a stream of tears. ‘Here, just look at this,' she said, reaching for a small charcoal drawing, framed in passe-partout, of a woman gazing wistfully from a window. It was a study in light and shade, yet I saw at once that it was Bella, so telling and sensitive was the likeness.

‘That's beautiful,' I said softly.

‘Gave me that, Miss Gwyneth did – very attached to Bella, she was. Broke her heart, bless her, when she was ill... Wanted to care for her, but Bella wouldn't have that. She knew, see – knew she didn't have long. Wanted to come home to die...'

I found tears blurring my eyes, and it grieved me to realise how much of Bella's life I'd missed, although I was pleased beyond measure to think she'd enjoyed better times of late. I said: ‘I thought well of her too. She was a good friend – and a good daughter.'

‘Aye, she was that,' Martha said gruffly. ‘Unlike some...'

Unlike some, I echoed silently, thinking of Isa.

At Cousin Martha's prompting, I went upstairs. Foolishly, and in spite of the warning, I had been expecting to see the friend of my youth laid out like a princess in a fairy tale, a pretty, ruddy-cheeked girl, with full red lips and glossy brown hair, just awaiting a true lover's kiss to release her from enchanted sleep.

And in a way, that was almost what I found. For hanging on the wall was an unframed canvas, a portrait in oils of a half-dressed woman, rich with life and colour. It was a portrait painted with love, I saw that at once; a picture that celebrated all the warmth and generosity of which Bella was capable, a picture that would let her spirit live on.

Silently, I thanked whoever had painted it, whoever had thought of placing it there, for the body that was left had little to remind anyone of Bella's youth and beauty. I wept over her, nevertheless, and as I gazed at the ravaged face in the coffin I could see that Bella's death from cancer must have been terrible indeed. And, by that, even more terrible for her mother, trying to ease a depth of suffering that could not have been borne for long. It seemed to me that Cousin Martha must have paid in full for whatever she'd been guilty of in the past, and for the first time I didn't begrudge her the gin, and even had the grace to wonder whether I had any right to judge her actions at all.

~~~

She had suggested I might like to travel in the carriage with the women of the family but I declined. Even though it seemed unlikely, I was afraid Isa might turn up. An hour or so later, I made my own way to the new cemetery outside town.

I noticed at once a group of people whose mourning garb stood out amongst the rusty blacks and dated millinery of Cousin Martha's friends and neighbours. Fisherfolk and jet-workers didn't generally appear in black silk and trailing velvet. There were three men and two women, and one of the women seemed more obviously distressed than the others, which drew my attention at once.

Was she Miss Gwyneth? She was about my age, perhaps a little older, with a long, thin, sensitive face, and eyes that were swollen with weeping. It was a face of deep lines, that looked as if it had struggled with life; a face that I hoped had looked on Bella with love.

During an address which was mercifully short, the minister at the new cemetery chapel managed to express the best part of Bella and leave the rest unsaid. I could feel my sense of detachment wavering, but it was not until he mentioned the family's tragic loss of their father, twenty years before, that my self-control almost crumbled. I felt myself trembling, remembering poor Bella and what she'd suffered, the revenge she'd taken, and the years of punishment she'd chosen for herself. I knew then that for all my promises and good intentions, I'd stayed away because I could think of nothing to alleviate her suffering.

As we moved outside for the interment, I pulled myself together. Douglas was escorting his mother, while a young man who might have been Davey stood up with Lizzie and Meggie. Another brother, dark and heavily built, whom I took to be young Magnus, fell into shambling step beside me. His eyes were red as though from weeping, and he was shivering as we followed the minister outside. Together we withstood the icy blast on that windswept slope.

Miss Gwyneth, supported by the younger woman and one of the men, stood close by. We saw the coffin into the ground, and one by one cast a handful of earth as a parting gesture. I thought of Old Uncle Thaddeus and his folk legends, and prayed that at the last Bella had found some kind of peace and forgiveness. ‘Rest in peace, Bella,' I whispered fervently, ‘no need to come again...'

There were mourners enough from the Cragg and thereabouts to support Cousin Martha and the family. I stayed long enough at the Star to take a steadying glass of port wine and to introduce myself to the smaller group of Bella's friends. We talked for a while, and I sensed enough to confirm my earlier assumptions. Whether Miss Gwyneth understood my sympathy, appreciated my sincerity, or even knew who I was, was impossible to tell. She seemed sensitive and kind, and warmed at once when I mentioned her picture of Bella. I asked whether she'd given it to my cousin, and at once she shook her head. ‘No, it's only on loan – I couldn't bear to part with it. I just wanted people to remember dear Bella as she was – in life, not death . . .'

I pressed Miss Gwyneth's hand and took my leave.

~~~

Making my way back to the hotel, I clenched my jaw against a strong desire to call down curses upon Isa Firth's head. For my own sake, I was glad she hadn't turned up at the funeral, but she should have been there. To have ignored her twin sister when she was dying was unforgivable. There was no question of her not knowing: each member of the family told me that she'd been informed. They told me about the shop too, maintaining that Isa had turned her back on them after the photographer died and left her most of his money.

‘Ashamed of us, she was,' Lizzie had said bitterly, ‘with her little shop and her stuck-up ways. Sweets and gifts for the visitors – you know, bits of jet, fossil paperweights, stuff like that. A few picture postcards. Seasonal trade mostly, but she seems to keep going. God knows how – there can't be much profit in it.'

I knew about the shop, and had suspected for years that my quarterly contributions to the mythical Jack Louvain Memorial Fund were helping to keep Isa Firth in business.

Well, there would be a reckoning, and very soon. In my luggage at the hotel was a collection of Isa's notes and photographs that I had deliberately kept for some such opportune moment. With Henry's death I could have stopped the blackmail, but she didn't know about that, and, having saved this moment, I wanted her to understand that I had no compunction about taking her letters to the police. I wanted to frighten her, and frighten her badly.

~~~

‘Perhaps her only intention was to hurt you,' Bram hazarded over tea in my sitting room. ‘To enjoy hurting you – there are such people, you know. Even if she knew who I was – and she may have done – it could be that she was afraid to approach me. I may have seemed too risky a proposition – whereas she knew you, could estimate your reactions. It was a calculated gamble, d'you see? You would pay up rather than risk exposure, but I might well have sent the police...'

That possibility had not occurred to me before. To me, Isa Firth was interested in money and social position, one leading to the other – and though I knew she was vindictive and had always detested me, I never imagined she would use blackmail purely for those reasons.

‘To inflict pain,' Bram repeated, ‘and exert power. They may have been her prime intentions. You have to consider that she might not have needed the money at all.'

‘But a little extra always comes in handy, doesn't it?' I remarked acidly.

‘Oh, yes, indeed it does. But I was merely pointing out that if Jack Louvain left her money enough to set up in business – and if she had enough photographic plates to reproduce his pictures – then perhaps she didn't
need
what was extracted from you.'

‘Perhaps not,' I said thoughtfully, chilled by the idea of such malice. ‘Perhaps I was the only one, after all. Sometimes I've imagined her collecting money from men and women all over Whitby. Women particularly.' As always the idea made me feel sick. To combat it, I rose briskly from the table. ‘Anyway, I intend to find out.'

‘And I intend to come with you.'

I was about to refuse again when he checked his pocket-watch and turned to glance out of the window. ‘Look,' he said, ‘I have an idea. It will soon be dark, which could prove helpful, so why don't we revise that plan of yours?'

Wraiths of mist like widow's weeds were gathering over the sea, and as Bram and I left the Royal Hotel the herring gulls were muttering and settling on their rooftop nests. Smoke spiralled upwards with scarce a disturbance in the frosty air, collecting in a lilac haze. Below, the glow of gaslights defined the harbour, while brighter beams from the lighthouses were attracting the fishing cobles like moths. With men at the oars they came speeding in, eager to escape the freezing clutches of the fog.

We paused for a moment to watch them coming in, each of us remembering other times. Caught by nostalgia, we made our way down the steps, leaning over the harbour rail to spy the silvery gleam of fish amongst the nets. Killing time, we even looked in the window of Jack Louvain's old studio on St Ann's Staith, but the place was a now a hardware shop and could not have been more different. I didn't know whether to be pleased or sorry at the change, and nor, it seemed, did Bram.

He turned away with a sigh, and, without thinking, I squeezed his arm. But as he patted my hand I withdrew it, faintly alarmed by the ease with which we seemed to be slipping into partnership again, into those old, seductive, easy ways. Together, talking, I could feel whole chunks of the past beginning to slide away from me, and when I looked back they had sunk without trace. I had to remind myself to hold on, not to let go; I'd clung to them for years and without them I might drown.

Fog was rolling in now, great freezing billows of it, obscuring everything as we crossed the bridge. I was glad Whitby's streets hadn't changed too much in the time I'd been away, that I knew almost to the door where Isa's shop must be.

It stood at the town end of Southgate, the harbourside street which serviced the east side's docks and boatyards. The building looked drab but respectable enough, narrowly missing a clear view down Bridge Street to the harbour.

I judged it to be the ground-floor rooms of a house with one or perhaps two separate residences above, and wondered why Isa hadn't chosen a better property with more potential. Surely, I thought, she could have afforded something closer to the Church Stairs, which would have been more attractive to holiday visitors. There was, however, a front window and small doorway to the shop, and, down a yard to the side, I noticed another door at ground level which probably led to her private quarters. Bram agreed to wait outside until I called him. I didn't want Isa bolting when she clapped eyes on us, then escaping through the yard and up the bank.

I looked in at the shop window. Behind big glass jars of bull's-eyes and aniseed balls I could see a gas light flickering but no customers, and no sign of Isa. The sound of the door would no doubt call her to duty: I could not imagine her employing anyone else.

On a deep breath I took the handle firmly and pushed open the door, startled by the sudden jangling of the bell. There was barely time to note a display of postcards and some jet ornaments, when suddenly, as though she'd been waiting, Isa appeared from behind a screen.

I was dumbstruck for a second, seeing the resemblance to Bella in her coffin. She was thin and grey. Grey hair, grey skin, grey gown – relieved by a black shawl and a widow's pleated bonnet. She looked an old woman, yet we were the same age.

As Isa Firth recognized me, every muscle went slack. Her jaw gaped and eyes widened, fingers clutching at the counter for support. But then, like a gate closing, the muscles tightened and she was herself again, suspicion written in every narrow line.

‘What do you want?'

‘Well, Isa, I'm not after sweets, you can be sure of that.' Very slowly, I peeled off my gloves. ‘A few postcards, souvenirs of Whitby, perhaps – or do I mean
photographs
?'

She had nerve, I'll give her that. Brass-faced, she nodded towards the display. ‘That's all there is for sale.'

‘What about the rest?' I demanded. ‘The blackmail pictures?'

Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don't know what you're on about.'

‘Well, that's a pity,' I said softly, watching her edge towards the screened recess behind the counter, ‘because I've come to make you an offer.'

She'd been about to bolt, but hesitated at that. ‘What kind of an offer?'

I took my time and reached out for one of the little jet ornaments, a lighthouse so smooth and perfect it was a delight to hold. I turned it this way and that, holding it up to the flickering light behind the counter, leaning across to see it better. And then grabbed her wrist and called out for Bram before she could wriggle free.

He came at once, squeezing behind the counter to move the screen aside. With his bulk blocking the doorway behind it, Isa stopped struggling. I let go of her and locked the shop door, turning the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
. Then we escorted her through to the back of the shop.