He smiled. ‘Sadly, I don’t think so. That’s all about intimidation so that Marlene knows they’re keeping track of her. There’s no subtlety involved. If there were a Nazi on the island, I think we’d know about it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you need any of my staff to help with things?’
‘Not at the moment. I’m going back up to the tower now with Fielding to get the scene photographed, then I’ll speak to the guests, followed by the staff. We just have to hope that the tides will be kind to us, so you could offer up a few prayers in that direction if you like. I desperately need some assistance from the mainland, even if it’s only by telephone.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll be with Angela if you need me.’
Fielding was waiting outside the vestry, pacing up and down to keep himself warm. He looked pale and anxious, and Penrose regretted not having been more specific about why he was needed. ‘Thank you for waiting,’ he said.
Fielding smiled. ‘I didn’t think I had a choice. What’s happened?’
‘The Reverend Hartley has been killed, and I need a record of the crime scene. Until the weather improves, you’re the only expert I’ve got. Come with me.’
The photographer stared at him. ‘I’m not going up there,’ he said, his voice full of trepidation.
‘Yes, you are. And you don’t have a choice about that. Come on.’
He headed for the tower, but still Fielding hung back. ‘Listen, Mr Penrose, I do society balls, film stars and famous pets. I don’t do crime scenes. I’ll lend you the camera if you like, but you’ll have to take your own pictures.’
Penrose held the door open and stared at his reluctant expert. ‘A man has died, and there’s precious little that any of us can do except make sure that he has some justice,’ he said. ‘Please do as I ask.’ He led the way, and this time Fielding followed. The ascent wasn’t any more comfortable with company, and he wished that he didn’t have to put the young man through such an ordeal, but professional photographs would be much more reliable than his own, even if the subject matter was alien to the photographer. Out in the open, Fielding looked everywhere but at the body, and Penrose patiently gave him his instructions, watching as he set his camera, the intense cold and shocking strangeness of the situation conspiring to make him clumsy. Eventually, he was confident that the outline of the scene had been captured on film, and he moved in to take a closer look at the body.
The wound was every bit as vicious as he had anticipated, a cut so deep that it had partially severed the windpipe. Penrose would have taken comfort from the fact that Richard Hartley had died instantly were it not for the torment and fear that must have preceded the injury. Standing where he was now, he could see that a garland of holly lay in the vicar’s lap, its prickles snagged in the wool of his clothes, and a series of barely perceptible cuts on his scalp showed that it had fallen from his head. A crown of thorns, Penrose thought, wondering what it signified; sacrifice, perhaps, or simply a mockery of the vicar’s faith. Hartley’s hands were clasped together in front of him, and Penrose could just make out something clenched in them. ‘Take some close-ups,’ he said to Fielding, pointing each time to the area he wanted photographed. When he was satisfied that every angle had been covered, he leaned forward to get a better look, gently prising the vicar’s hands apart and removing the item.
‘What is it?’ Fielding asked, his earlier hesitation now replaced by curiosity, but Penrose didn’t answer. He stared down at the old-fashioned decoration, a cotton-wool snowman exactly like the one that had hung on Marlene’s Christmas tree, except that this one was stained with blood. Now he realised what it had reminded him of, that niggling moment of recognition that he hadn’t quite been able to place. The sight of Richard Hartley with his throat slit – just like the children they had been discussing only the night before – took him back to that house in the slums as if it were yesterday, to that scruffy tree, so pathetic in the truest sense of the word, and to the deep, inconsolable sadness that always resurfaced at this time of year in his work, even if it belonged to a different crime and a different family, to a different human tragedy but one which was nonetheless connected on some fundamental level with those that came before it.
‘What is it?’ Fielding asked again, and Penrose realised how strange his silence must seem.
He held the decoration out in his hand. ‘Make sure you get every detail,’ he said, and waited quietly while Fielding did as he was told, appreciating a moment to think. It was the second time in two days and the first time in years that he had thought of those children, and he wondered what had happened to the brother and sister who survived the massacre. He had tried to keep in touch with the case, driven by an unprofessional but inevitable attachment to the orphans he had found in such distress, but once they were surrendered to the authorities they were lost to him – and of course they would have been given new names, as if that could wipe out their past. Would he recognise them now, he wondered? If one of them passed him in the street, would he even know?
‘Give me the camera,’ he said, when Fielding had finished his work.
‘Why?’
‘Because although I’m fairly sure you’re not stupid enough to give these photographs to your editor or sell them to the highest bidder, I’d rather remove the temptation completely.’ He smiled, taking the edge off his words. ‘Hand it over. I’ll make sure any photographs that are yours are sent back to The Times as soon as they’re developed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Penrose took the camera and rewound the film, then removed it and put it in his pocket. ‘Thank you, but you don’t have to call me sir – not unless you’re applying for a job.’
Fielding shrugged. ‘A change of scene might do me good. We’ll have to see how the pictures turn out.’ He removed a hip flask from his pocket, and waved it at Penrose. ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink? I could do with one after this.’
‘Go ahead. You can join the others in the dining room now if you like, but I need you to give me your word that you won’t discuss this scene with anyone else here. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, of course. Do you want a drop of this before I go?’ He held the flask out and Penrose accepted, grateful for the warmth of the whisky. ‘Why do you think he died?’ Fielding asked, lingering at the door.
If he could answer that, Christmas really would be a time for miracles, Penrose thought. ‘I honestly don’t know yet,’ he said, ‘but there’s someone here who does, and it’s only a matter of time before I find out who that is.’
It was said as much in hope as in faith, but Fielding seemed reassured. He left Penrose on his own to take one last look at the scene before facing the practicalities of removing the body and starting his investigations, but the grim theatricality of the murder became more surreal and impenetrable under his scrutiny; there were no answers here, only endless questions. Once again, he felt that odd sense of betrayal at leaving the body behind, and before he headed down to the castle to begin his work, he reached up to the flagpole and tugged at the rope to pull the flag to half-mast. With luck, someone on the mainland would notice and at least be alerted to the fact that something was wrong – and if nothing else, it offered a small affirmation of compassion to contradict the degrading injustice of Hartley’s death.