It was impossible to tell if the question was a symptom of the anger that so often accompanied sudden bereavement, or of Angela Hartley’s general state of mind; either way, Josephine could think of no response to the injustice of it, and was relieved to see Hilaria making her way across the terrace to take over from them. They stood helplessly by as she tried to comfort the vicar’s wife, who eventually asked to go back to her room, then headed for the dining room to join the remaining guests.
‘If there is a war, they’ll be after you for the interrogation unit,’ Marta said as they walked down the Long Passage. ‘What was that third degree all about? Surely you don’t suspect her of killing her own husband on top of a tower in the middle of the night?’
‘Of course I don’t. That wasn’t what it seemed like, was it?’
‘A little. Carry on in that vein and you’ll make Archie look like a rookie copper on his first big case.’
Josephine smiled, in spite of the circumstances. ‘Well, I doubt that all the experience in the world will get him any further with Mrs Hartley.’
‘What exactly do you think she can tell him?’
‘I think she knows – or at least suspects – who her husband was going to talk to.’
‘But why would she hold something back that might help catch his killer?’
Josephine shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m wrong, and she really can’t remember. Or perhaps she’s frightened of being targeted herself.’ She stopped before they reached Chevy Chase and took Marta’s hand. ‘It hadn’t even occurred to me until now, but what if this isn’t the end of it? What if someone else is in danger?’
‘I’m sure it’s occurred to Archie,’ Marta said. ‘Why else would he want us all gathered together in one place?’
It had obviously occurred to their fellow guests, too, because every member of the group seated in the dining room seemed on edge as Josephine and Marta walked in. The atmosphere was oppressive, like the heavy silence that invariably follows a row, and when Rachel Lancaster looked up nervously to see who the newcomers were, Josephine was shocked by the livid purple marks on her temple and cheekbone. Breakfast had been laid out along one side of the room, but no one had touched it, and the long refectory table now seemed absurdly large for the dwindling number of guests. The Lancasters, Marlene and Barbara Penhaligon were clustered together at one end, an improbable attempt at solidarity that only served to emphasise the desperate situation in which they found themselves. Each place setting was finished off with a small Christmas stocking, personalised to a particular guest, and Josephine counted it a blessing that Fielding and his camera were absent from the room: it would have been hard to imagine a picture which contrasted more sharply with Hilaria’s hopes for the weekend than the scene in front of her, and she wondered where the photographer had got to.
Marlene followed her gaze to the stockings and picked up the one in front of her. ‘It was kind, wasn’t it? Miss St Aubyn doesn’t deserve to have such sadness brought into her home. It will never be the same again for her.’ She got up and walked purposefully across to the bank of silver dishes, as if doing something practical could somehow salvage Hilaria’s good intentions. ‘We should have coffee and something to eat. It will help us to think more clearly.’ She began to put eggs, bacon and toast onto six plates, and Josephine remembered what Archie had said about her kindness on the journey down; a motherly instinct was not something she would have associated with the film star, but she liked her all the more for it. No one argued as she passed the food round, but there was very little appetite amongst the group, and Marlene herself ate less than anyone.
‘How is Mrs Hartley?’ Rachel asked, pushing her plate away and looking directly at Josephine and Marta, as if daring them to mention the bruises that hovered unacknowledged on the edges of the conversation. ‘I can’t imagine how she’ll cope. They were so happy together.’
It was a very definite statement for such a brief acquaintance, and Josephine wondered if the two women had confided in each other the night before, or if happiness was simply the accepted thing to assume after a death; somehow, she couldn’t imagine the same formality being extended to the Lancasters if one of them had been murdered in the night. ‘She’s in shock,’ Marta said, ‘and it’s hard to know how much of what’s happened has really registered yet. Hilaria has taken her to her room to lie down.’
‘I’ll call in on her later, if that’s allowed.’ Josephine noticed Gerald Lancaster glance sharply at his wife, but he said nothing. He, too, was pale and heavy-eyed from the excesses of the night before, and she could only speculate as to what had gone on after the couple retired to their room.
Marlene got up again and poured the last of the coffee into her cup, then rang the bell for more. ‘I think I must have been the last person to see the Reverend Hartley alive,’ she said, drawing the focus of the gathering as deftly and surely as she did a camera’s. ‘He came to my room last night. We had a drink, and we talked.’
‘Why?’ Barbara Penhaligon asked, and there was a childish note of petulance in her voice, as if she resented the fact that Marlene seemed on the verge of taking the starring role in another, far more important, drama.
‘Because I invited him.’ Barbara repeated her question, this time even more vehemently, and in the pause that followed, Josephine realised that she had been completely wrong about the voice she had heard in Marlene’s room; no wonder Archie had ignored her innuendo. ‘I met him in the corridor last night on my way to bed,’ the actress said. ‘He was upset – crying, actually – and I thought it was because of the talk of war at dinner.’ She looked pointedly at Barbara. ‘He was chaplain at a clearing station near the Somme during the war, and it cannot be easy to live with those memories.’
‘And was that the reason?’ Josephine asked, conscious of how intently they were all awaiting the answer.
‘No, it wasn’t. It was because of his wife. He had been talking to her about their wedding, but she couldn’t remember it. She pretended to, but he could see in her eyes that it was lost to her. It was the first time that had happened, and he knew it was going to get worse, because he had seen it all before. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing the only person who shared his most intimate memories. Happiness was like guilt, he said; it only existed if someone could bear witness to it.’
There was a long silence in the room as everyone considered the vicar’s words and what their significance might be. ‘Mrs Hartley told us that her husband had gone to talk to someone,’ Marta said eventually. ‘Do you think he meant you?’
‘Me? No, I don’t think so. We made no arrangements to meet – it happened by chance, and he came straight to my room. If he told her he was going to talk to someone, he must have meant someone else.’ She thought about it for a moment, then added: ‘Lots of things seemed to be troubling him. He said how ironic it was that his wife should be losing her grip on the past, while his was coming back to him when he least expected it.’
‘Did you ask him what he meant by that?’
‘No. Again, I thought he was talking about the war. It’s only because of what has happened that I’m wondering about it.’