Despite his earlier protestations, a hot meal was just what Archie needed and he nodded. ‘Yes, very good. You’re not taking Maria to Cornwall with you?’ he asked, intrigued by this woman who could stand up to the Nazis one minute, then fuss like a mother hen around a policeman she had only just met.
‘No, she’s spending the rest of the holidays with her father in Paris. She left this morning.’
‘You’ll miss her.’
‘Of course, but she will be safer there, away from me.’
He looked more closely at her, and saw for the first time the tiredness that make-up disguised so well. ‘Are you worried that the Nazis will use her to get to you?’
‘Not the Nazis, no – they wouldn’t risk it. As I said, we are playing a game of cat and mouse. They want me too badly but I cannot afford to upset them. I need my German papers to be in order if I’m to get my American citizenship. As long as I behave, they wouldn’t dare touch Maria. But others, perhaps; others who always seem to know where I am.’ She hesitated, and Archie waited to see if she would confide in him. ‘I get so many letters, but some of them lately have been a little … well, obsessive.’
‘Anonymous, I presume?’ She nodded. ‘Can I see them?’
‘I always destroy them. I didn’t want Maria to find them and be frightened, not after last time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There were some kidnap threats a few years ago, when we were in California. It was just after the Lindbergh baby had been taken. You remember how hysterical everyone was?’
And with good reason, Archie thought. The son of the famous aviator had been abducted from his home in New Jersey, and although his parents had paid a huge ransom demand, the toddler’s body was found by a truck driver a couple of months later, dumped near the side of a road. ‘I don’t remember any publicity surrounding your daughter,’ he said.
‘We kept it quiet and nothing came of it. One day the letters just stopped.’
‘No one was ever caught?’
‘No. These are different, though. The others were just about money.’
‘And these are targeted at you, not your daughter? And sent to you here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘No. There’s nothing actually threatening about them. It’s hard to put my finger on it, but something isn’t right. He knows too much about me.’
‘Or she.’
‘Where I’m concerned, it’s usually a “he”.’ She finished her drink and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m probably being too sensitive. It’s no secret that I’m here, so why shouldn’t I get letters?’ That was true, Archie thought, although he had a feeling that she was keeping something back; someone in her position would know the difference by now between an over-zealous fan and a real threat, and she was clearly unsettled. She shrugged again, and smiled. ‘So you can understand why a castle surrounded by the sea has its attractions, and Miss St Aubyn strikes me as a very gracious host. She said in her letter that you know St Michael’s Mount?’
‘I grew up nearby, yes.’
‘You must tell me all about it on the way. What time will your car be here in the morning?’
He looked at her stupidly. ‘My car?’
‘Yes, your car. How else will we get all the way to Cornwall?’
‘But we’re not going by car. There’s a sleeper booked on Friday’s overnight train. That’s why I’m here – to go through the arrangements—’
‘No, no, no,’ she interrupted him. ‘Friday is too late. I’ve spoken to my astrologer, and he tells me we must leave sooner. My luggage will be sent on, of course, so shall I expect you here straight after breakfast?’
‘Driving down really isn’t sensible in this weather. It’s such a long way, and we’d have to break the journey.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘There are no hotels outside London?’
‘Of course there are, but—’
‘Then that is what we will do. Go home and pack, Mr Penrose. I’m not in the mood to be sensible, and being a long way away is exactly the point.’
7
Richard Hartley put his head round the living room door to make sure that his wife was still dozing by the fire, then went quietly upstairs. He shut himself in their bedroom and set about repacking the suitcases that Angela had so carefully prepared the night before, removing the summer things that should have been stowed away at the end of the season; the outmoded dress that she hadn’t worn for years but was still sentimental about; the ill-matching ties and socks. There was far too much luggage for three nights, so he put everything back where it belonged as quickly as he could, then set one suitcase aside to return to the box room. He had only just finished choosing clothes more suitable for the weekend when he heard footsteps on the stairs and her voice at the door.
‘Is everything all right, Richard?’
Angela looked anxiously at the freshly packed cases, and he saw the familiar uncertainty in her eyes, the lack of confidence in her ability to do the simplest of tasks which never failed to break his heart. ‘Perfectly all right, my dear,’ he said reassuringly, hating the brightness in his tone which seemed so necessary and yet so false; they had never spoken to each other like this when she was well. ‘I was just making sure I’d got my tippet, but you’ve already packed it. As usual, you’re one step ahead of me.’
She smiled, like a child who had been praised by the adult she most wanted to please, and he prayed that only he was aware of how much their marriage had changed. He remembered so clearly the first indication that something was wrong – five years ago now, when they were still living in London. It had been such an ordinary day – he at home in his study, working on his sermon for the weekend, while Angela went to a committee meeting for one of the charities to which she gave so much energy. At five o’clock, just when he was beginning to worry about her, the telephone rang and he heard her anxious voice at the end of the line, tearful because she couldn’t find her way home. It was a route she had taken for years, little more than a mile through a handful of streets that she knew like the back of her hand – and yet she had been walking for hours, too ashamed at first to admit that she couldn’t remember where she lived. In the end, he had gone out to find her, and their silent walk home through the fog of a November evening had seemed such a cruel metaphor for what lay ahead.
Angela took the black silk tippet out and refolded it, carefully aligning the ends. ‘It was nice of Hilaria to ask you to take the Christmas Day service again,’ she said. ‘Have you decided what your theme will be?’
‘Love,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘What else is Christmas about?’
‘And not just Christmas.’ She sat down next to him on the bed and took his hand. ‘We’ve been happy, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, and we still are.’
‘Even here?’
‘Here, or anywhere else, as long as we have each other.’ He wondered why the sincerest of words invariably sounded so trite, and put his arm around her to give them substance. They had come back to Cornwall in the spring, having spent most of their married life in the city, and he had tried – successfully, for the most part – to make the move without resentment. He was used to a busy parish and his work in London was by no means finished, but he had given it up for something less demanding, knowing that if he didn’t spend more time with his wife now, while it mattered and while she still had a sense of who he was, he would bitterly regret it later. The parish he had taken in Marazion was even quieter than he feared, the community too self-sufficient to need him for much between birth and death, but it made sense: Angela had a sister nearby to whom she had always been close, and he knew that he would need help with her care eventually. ‘Let’s get these cases ready to go,’ he said, before the mood could take hold of them both. ‘Now we’ve packed everything, we can just look forward to the day.’