The snow was entirely gone from the lower parts of the village. Even though the tide was on the wane, the water levels in the harbour were still high, and Penrose could tell from the seaweed and other debris along the front that the sea, at its worst, must have pounded against the most exposed line of houses, all of which now had boards and sandbags across their doors and windows. He parted company with Pendean by the graveyard, and crossed the narrow road to the museum on the corner. The ground floor was in darkness, so he knocked hard on the door and waited. When there was no answer, he went round to the side of the building to look for another, more private entrance, but there were only two sets of windows, which showed him nothing but a counter and a variety of packed display cases. Disappointed, he returned to the front door and tried again.
‘No luck?’ Pendean called, coming out of the Change House.
‘No, she’s obviously not at home. How about you?’
‘Trannack’s up for it, as long as you’re happy to wait for low tide, and he says he’ll get John Mathews to come as well – he’s our postman, and he’s seen a fair few rough crossings in his time, so you’ll be in safe hands.’ He looked with concern at the museum, and knocked on the door himself. ‘The chaps in the Change House say they haven’t seen Emily all day. I hope she’s all right.’
‘Does she live alone?’
‘Yes, since her husband died.’
‘And she couldn’t have gone away for Christmas?’
‘Not unless it was a last-minute thing. Her son’s up country in Plymouth now, and she’s supposed to be coming to us later. It was her first Christmas on her own, so Nora asked her over for supper. I think she’d have let us know if her plans had changed.’ He rattled the door, but it was firmly locked.
‘Do you want to force it?’ Penrose asked.
‘No need. Nora keeps a spare on her castle keys. I’ll ask her to nip down if she’s free.’
He went back to the Change House to use the house telephone and Penrose walked over to the causeway, trying to assess how difficult the task ahead would be. The sea swelled and churned against the harbour wall, its surge still strong even at a fraction of its power, and he hoped that he hadn’t made the wrong decision.
6
So this was how easily it happened, Nora thought, as her husband rang off and the line went dead. One slip, followed by another and then another, until someone noticed the inconsistencies and your life unravelled in front of you. She had lied to the guests on Christmas Eve about Emily’s absence from the museum, and then to the policeman about her time in the church, and now he would be waiting for her in the harbour because Tom was so hell-bent on doing the right thing. Ironic, she thought, that her husband’s simple wish to help should have sealed her fate.
Her fear dogged her progress down the Mount like a physical disability, making her footsteps heavy and slow, clutching at her heart until she found it hard to breathe. There was something malignant in the wind today, something in the fury of it that frightened and tormented her, perhaps because it reminded her of those last, terrible breaths that had taken Emily from the world; she heard them still in the wind’s persistent moaning, until it felt as if her friend would never let her rest. Above her, the branches of the ancient pine trees creaked and strained under the pressure, threatening to snap at any moment, and she knew exactly how that felt.
And there they were, below her in the harbour, waiting by Emily’s door. Her stomach tightened and she stopped in her tracks, wondering which of the two men she feared more. For a moment she was tempted to turn back, to make an excuse about her work and try to delay the inevitable, but that was all she would gain by prevarication – a few more hours of this desolate, insidious fear, and she honestly didn’t know how much longer she could stand it. It would almost be a relief to stop the charade now, no matter what the consequences.
She pressed on, arriving flustered and out of breath. ‘Don’t look so worried, love,’ Tom said when he saw her. ‘I was wondering if Emily went over yesterday and got caught on the mainland. That would make sense, I suppose, but it’s best to be on the safe side.’ He squeezed her shoulder and she had to turn away, caught on the other side by the policeman’s sympathetic smile; he was obviously touched by her apparent concern for her friend, and she wanted to scream at him not to be so kind, when kindness was the last thing she deserved. He moved away from the door to let her unlock it, but Nora hesitated and handed the keys to her husband. The wind rushed in ahead of them, as if determined to get to the truth, and the rustle of dried seaweed across Emily’s carefully swept floor was the only sound that broke the silence.
‘Emily?’ Tom called as he walked over to the counter. ‘Emily, are you here? It’s Tom, we’ve just come to see if you’re all right.’ She waited for him to stop in horror, to turn and look back at her with shame or disgust, but his behaviour was so natural that she caught herself waiting for Emily to reply. He rummaged in a drawer for some matches and passed them to her. ‘Light the lamps, love, or Mr Penrose won’t be able to read anything.’ She did as he asked, and a warm glow filled the room. ‘Those albums are here, next to the postcards,’ he added, pointing them out to Penrose. ‘Take whatever you think might help.’
‘Thank you.’
Nora braced herself to join the two men at the counter, standing where she had stood during that fateful conversation. She looked round, then closed her eyes, convinced that her mind was playing tricks on her, showing her what she dearly wished to see rather than the reality of her terrible deed; so seductive was the illusion that she had to will herself to look again, but still there was nothing there. Emily’s body, the dust sheet and the boxes, the blood that had spread in pools and rivulets across the floor – it was all gone.
‘Emily?’ Tom called again.
‘She must be here somewhere,’ Nora insisted, a note of panic in her voice. She stared round, utterly bewildered. ‘Where is she, Tom? Why isn’t she here?’ The only response to her question was a loud, indignant mewing as a tiny black-and-white cat appeared from a back room and began to rub round each of their legs in turn. ‘Oh God, I forgot about Charlie,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t been fed.’
‘I must have been right, then,’ Tom said. ‘She’ll have gone to Marazion and been stranded by the tides.’
‘But she can’t have done.’
Her voice began to rise hysterically. Penrose found her a stool, but she waved it away. ‘No, I’ll be all right in a second. It’s just the day, and everything that’s happened. I’ve got to feed Charlie, though. Emily would never forgive me for letting him go hungry.’
She made to go upstairs, but her husband put his hand on her arm. ‘Let me go, love,’ he said. ‘You stay here with Mr Penrose. Show him Emily’s albums.’
She watched him walk through the workroom and draw back the curtain that covered the staircase. He hesitated, glancing back at her and quickly pulling the curtain across again, but she had already seen her friend’s body lying at the foot of the stairs.
‘Don’t go any further, Mr Pendean,’ Penrose ordered. ‘Come back and look after your wife.’