She knelt by her friend for a long time, waiting for the nausea to pass, then shakily stood up and went through to the back to wash off the blood, scrubbing persistently at her hands and face and then at the figure. When she was sure that the painted king held no lingering evidence of her guilt, she dried it with a towel, ready to carry to the church, and took her coat from the chair by the fire, hoping that it would cover her uniform while she went home to change. There was a display of jewellery in the glass case nearest to her; she put a handful in her pocket, then blew out the lamps and left the museum as calmly as she could, waving back over her shoulder as if nothing had happened, and leaving her friend’s body lying on the floor for someone else to find.
3
The drifts were deeper than ever as the train moved on into Devon – great swathes of white beneath a leaden sky that threatened worse to come. All across the moors, ponies stood huddled against bleak stone walls, and Josephine pitied them; the snow that had seemed so radiant and magical amid the comforts of a London winter was shown up here for what it was – harsh, unforgiving and relentless. She was glad when they reached the milder climate of Cornwall and the snow began to dwindle.
‘It’s a big county, isn’t it?’ Marta said, fidgeting in her seat. ‘I always forget we’re not there just because we’ve crossed the Tamar.’
She was right. The train’s progress grew more laboured as it neared the end of the line, stopping at a series of towns filled with dark, stone buildings that reminded Josephine of Scotland. ‘It’ll be worth the wait,’ she said. ‘It’s not far now.’
A number of the remaining passengers left the train at St Erth, ready to make the connection to the north coast. Josephine sat forward in her seat, eager for the first glimpse of St Michael’s Mount, and it didn’t disappoint. The island moved in and out of view between the tall reeds lining the track, and somehow the movement of the train served to emphasise the castle’s solidity, standing majestic and forbidding over the crescent-shaped bay. ‘God, it’s stunning,’ Marta said. ‘The photograph doesn’t do it justice.’
‘Isn’t it magnificent? I’ve only seen it once before, but I’ve never forgotten it.’ That had been on an early summer’s day, when the Mount seemed more like a fairytale castle, glistening and insubstantial in the sunlight; today, it had a completely different atmosphere, dark and brooding under a bruised sky, with a handful of buildings clustered round its foot. The tide was out, leaving the causeway clear to cross, but a choppy sea licked at the rocks around the island and white horses flecked the surface as far as they could see. As they watched, a shaft of sunlight broke through the purple underbelly of cloud, changing the character of the day yet again, and Josephine couldn’t help but feel that the scene in front of them would easily upstage any film set that Marlene had stepped onto.
The train came to a halt and a guard announced their destination. Marazion was a tiny station, consisting of nothing more than a modest station house sandwiched between the sea and a stretch of marshland, a small goods yard and a row of stationary railway carriages – apparently used as accommodation – with curtains drawn across their windows. At the far end of the platform, crates piled high with fruit and vegetables were being loaded onto the back of a horse-drawn cart, changing places with several braces of pheasant that were destined for the train. There was a smart black car parked next to the cart, and Josephine noticed that it carried a coat of arms. ‘That must be our transport,’ she said, raising her voice above the starlings that swirled over the reed beds, their cries woven into a long, rambling song.
‘I’m rather relieved it’s not a boat,’ Marta admitted, looking round for a porter. ‘Do you think she’s here yet?’
‘Who?’
‘Marlene, of course.’
‘I’ve no idea, but I hope you’re not going to spend all weekend in a state of high alert. You’re making me nervous.’ It amused Josephine that Marta – who rarely gave a damn what anyone thought – could occasionally fall victim to the same bouts of shyness that dogged her on a daily basis. ‘I doubt she’ll be travelling in a horse and cart, though, so we’re probably safe to go over.’
The car was unattended, although a man in a chauffeur’s uniform seemed to be giving instructions to the station master, presumably making arrangements for the guests arriving later. A young couple stood next to the car, and as she and Marta walked over to join them, Josephine noticed how nervous they both seemed: the man was tapping his hand repeatedly against his thigh and looking anxiously at the car, as if it might somehow move off without him, and the woman at his side – slightly taller than her husband, and attractive in a pale, delicate sort of way – was tying and retying her scarf in the reflection of the rear window. ‘The Lancasters, do you think?’ she said to Marta.
‘Must be. He certainly doesn’t look like a vicar or a colonel.’
The couple brightened as they approached, apparently relieved to have company. ‘Christmas at the Mount?’ the man asked, and then, when they nodded, offered his hand. ‘Gerald Lancaster, and this is my wife, Rachel.’
Mrs Lancaster smiled, and shook hands a little too vigorously. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ she said.
Josephine and Marta introduced themselves, and Josephine was about to ask how far they’d come when Lancaster interrupted her. ‘Thirty-nine across!’ he said, looking at her triumphantly. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Thirty-nine across in today’s Times crossword.’ He poked the newspaper that Marta had tucked under her arm. ‘It was a crime and detection special. You must have seen it?’ Josephine nodded, still confused by the turn in the conversation. They had resorted to the puzzle during a long wait in Exeter, but Marta didn’t read much crime fiction and there were too many clues about Dorothy L. Sayers for Josephine’s liking, so they hadn’t got as far as looking for a pen. ‘“Her victim had to wait his turn, nine and three”,’ Lancaster continued. ‘That’s obviously a reference to your first novel, The Man in the Queue, so you must be the answer.’
‘Gerry knows everything there is to know about detective fiction,’ his wife added, and it was hard to tell if her tone was nervous or simply weary. ‘He has all your books.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Josephine said, smiling as her heart sank. ‘I hope you enjoyed them.’
‘I did, very much, but there’s something I must ask you about A Shilling for Candles. Do you really think that Inspector Grant would have allowed Tisdall to give him the slip like that? I mean, he seems a perfectly competent policeman in most other respects, but that was a classic schoolboy error, and I wondered why you showed him up like that?’
Josephine was saved from having to justify the premise that most of her plot had been built around by the return of the chauffeur, who gave his name as Trannack and apologised for keeping them waiting. ‘Your luggage will follow on,’ he said, ‘so if you’re ready, I’ll take you across to the Mount. Is this your first time on the island?’