Mask of Innocence Read online

  I had been under the impression that it was already tricky, but nothing is ever bad enough that it can’t get worse. For midday, the light was poor, with a heavy, black layer of cloud obscuring the sun. Now that there were no trees lining the drive, the dense woodland having retreated down the slope to the left, there was barely any guide to the track’s width. I put on the headlights, but strangely they appeared to be less bright than in complete darkness. But now, ahead and way down below, I caught sight of the building that was our objective. It looked grey and miserable against a background of sodden fields and threatening clouds.

  The sleet became splots of snow amongst the streams of rain. Then the track settled down to become a nearly-straight line, but not directly pointing to the house, so that it seemed, if it continued like this, we would miss the building altogether, and find ourselves nose-down in the stream that surely had to be there, down in the bottom of the valley.

  I slowed. The pot-holes now were severe.

  ‘But it looks smaller,’ murmured Mary. ‘Perhaps some of it’s fallen down.’ She sounded as though that would in no way surprise her.

  The drive had been heading towards the left of the house, as though determined to ignore it, but now, just beyond the inevitable wooden bridge, over which the wheels juddered, it turned right, levelled off, and projected us on to a surface that at least had received some attention, though only to the extent of a scattering of gravel. It opened out. The grey, sombre building faced sideways, and we were now at its front.

  There was no imposing facade to offer to visitors arriving down that track, no compelling aspect whichever way you looked at it, so that to offer a blank end of the building to arriving guests would at least suspend the expectation of possible grandeur. If that had been the intention, the eventual realisation would have been a disappointment, though with no time left to brood on it and retreat. The total aspect was completely flat. True, there were steps up to a terraced entrance, and a solid front door, but the overall design was drab. They must have searched far and wide in order to discover all that grey and depressing stone. And in the event, they had found rather too much of it, so that it was only with reluctance that a window had been put in here and there, each of which was rather too small, allowing the stone to dominate. The frontage was flat, the roof a simple peak of Welsh slates. It was no more than a grey unsubtle block with holes in it for the windows. Penhavon Park.

  ‘But it’s so small,’ said Mary breathlessly.

  I wouldn’t have said that. They’d imported a lot of that stone, and they’d continued building until it was all used up. It could, with very little alteration, have been converted to its apparent true identity, a prison.

  ‘We’ll have to run to the porch,’ said Amelia. ‘If you can’t get any closer.’ The rain battered the roof.

  Vehicles were scattered between us and the door. Other visitors had realised the problem. A red van was parked nose-in beneath a window. A large Mercedes was right across the front steps, and beyond it loomed something that could have been a Citroen 2CV.

  ‘It’s as close as I can get.’

  So we ran for the porch, after I’d assured the dogs we wouldn’t be long. But there was no porch, no cover at all to protect that solid dark-oak door with the tiny stained-glass panels. I pushed the bell button, and we waited. Now the sleet hurled itself at our backs. Clots of snow slid down the door. We had brought no spare clothes, no macs or umbrellas. I’d been stupid, not envisaging the necessity.

  Then the door opened.

  ‘Come in, come in. Don’t stand out there in the rain.’ As though we’d had a choice.

  He was tall, elderly, elegant, with a dove-grey waistcoat beneath his black jacket, a watch-chain draped across it and no doubt a half-hunter in the pocket. The trousers too were grey, his concession to informality, as the jacket almost demanded pinstriped trousers.

  We stood inside the hall, shaking ourselves. It was deliciously warm within those grey walls. Built to keep the elements out, I thought. Practicality rather than elegance.

  ‘I am Geoffrey Russell, Sir Rowland’s solicitor. You’ll be Mary Pinson,’ he said confidently, smiling at our Mary. ‘Don’t deny it. I can see you are.’

  With this puzzling observation, he stood aside, raising bushy grey eyebrows. I introduced us.

  ‘This is my wife, Amelia, and I’m Richard Patton. We thought we’d run her here for the reading.’

  We shook hands politely. Amelia was frowning at herself in a tall mirror on the wall, Mary dabbing at her face with a tiny handkerchief. Amelia touched her hair, frowning even more deeply. I allowed myself to look beyond them, observing what now faced us.

  In defiance of the lack of taste and style presented by the exterior, the interior compensated with overpowering grace. The actual hall entrance was narrow but it opened up into a grand, panelled hall, with a wide fireplace on one side and a wall bearing four doors on the other. From a landing facing me above, a staircase swept down, this alone being enough to catch me on an indrawn breath. It began as a relatively straight stair at the top, but widened steadily as it swept downwards, though with fanned, curved banisters. The stair treads, therefore, formed the shape of a trumpet profile, an exponential curve that resulted in treads of gradually widening and deepening curves towards the bottom. The staircase dominated the hall. And the two glorious banisters themselves...I looked more closely later, to confirm my original impression, and yes...each banister rail began as narrow at the top, a mere four inches, and gradually broadened, as it curved, to a width of more than a foot at the bottom, where it was surmounted by a decorative ball. And search as I might as I did later — I could find no join, no hesitation in the grain. Each had been carved from one solid trunk of an oak, and they matched exactly. It must have been a huge task, a triumph for a long-dead and probably unsung master carpenter. And the whole house was filled with beauty from the two same hands, I later discovered. This was the true Penhavon, not the travesty promised by the outer skin.

  And Mary had lived here. But had she been required to use the back stairs, the servants’ stairs?

  It was as though this thought had inspired a vision, for there, it seemed, was our Mary, descending the noble staircase. A younger woman, though, in her mid-thirties, was tripping down with agility, her left hand sliding down the rail. But due to its construction, the stair treads themselves being bowed so that they butted on to the curve of the banisters accurately, the effect was that she gradually turned slightly from us, so that a full face of her, seriously concentrating on a staircase that could be difficult to navigate, became gradually a three-quarters side face, as though she pirouetted on a pedestal. As well she might, this young woman, because beauty was there on display, slim beauty. Dark brown the hair, dark grey the eyes as at last, the stairs safely behind her, she lifted her head, and her face flushed with a wild, almost frantic joy.

  ‘Nan!’ she cried out. ‘Oh...Nanna!’ Then, feet now safe on the parquetry, she ran straight into Mary’s arms, and they hugged each other frantically, as though it could be a vision that might slide away if inadequately applauded.

  But now, close up, I could see that I’d been deceived by this woman’s slim, youthful figure, by her vivacity and the sparkle in her eyes, and that she must have been close to forty, if not actually nudging it, and Mary’s indecision and reluctance were displaying their reason. Her position in the family group — her inclusion in Sir Rowland’s will — all this became clear in an instant.

  Mary must have realised that there had always been a chance that the child would grow into a resemblance of the mother. As she had. A little taller than Mary, slimmer, but with the same features, the honest and trusting eyes, they were all there.

  This had to be Mary’s child, the child she had called Jennie.

  2

  Mary had perhaps realised what she might expect — but had Jennie known? She had greeted her as ‘Nanna’. But she had been too young when Mary had left there to recognise her as her
nanny. This, then, was her version of ‘Mother’. It was a compromise. That, at least, implied an expectation. If there had always been a photograph in the house that included Mary, then Jennie could well have grown into the knowledge as she achieved the likeness. In any event, she had to realise it now, and if it in any way disturbed her there was no sign of it. Excited and delighted her, yes. Disturbed — no.

  ‘But you’re all wet,’ cried Jennie. ‘Come on up to my room, and I’ll find you something.’

  ‘Ridiculous child.’ Mary glowed.

  And so absorbed were they with each other that no introductions were made. We might not have existed. They walked away and up the stairs, Jennie’s arm around Mary’s shoulders. ‘But you never came to visit,’ I heard her murmur.

  Russell cleared his throat. I had forgotten he was there. ‘So you’re Mary Pinson’s friends?’ he asked me softly.

  ‘Indeed we are,’ said Amelia, whose eyes were shining, and whose lips were moving towards an outright laugh or possibly tears; in either case, joy.

  ‘Then you no doubt realise why I had to make it an official reading of the will.’ He was heavily solemn.

  ‘An out-of-date procedure now, surely,’ I said. ‘But in the circumstances...you’ll be able to control the situation this way.’

  ‘I can but try,’ he said, a little doubtfully, staring at his feet. Then he looked up quickly. ‘Mary Pinson may need her friends.’

  ‘We’ll be close,’ I assured him.

  ‘Good. It would seem strange if her only support came from the testator’s solicitor. But heavens! I do beg your pardon — you’re both wet. We’ll have to do something about that.’

  And he rushed away into the nether regions, calling out, ‘Tessa, Tessa!’

  This led to Tessa, who was clearly the widow, escorting us upstairs, where she took Amelia into her own room, and ushered me into that of the late departed, directly opposite. I was supposed to help myself.

  I sat down on the edge of his huge double bed, with the feeling that we were not going to get away from there very easily. We were being drawn into a situation that threatened to be distressing, and I was expected to wear a dead man’s clothes in which to tackle it.

  Hell! I thought. Bloody hell!

  But I was wasting time. I was not really very wet, though the jacket seemed damp to my shoulders and the trousers were sticking to my knees. There was no alternative but to resort to Sir Rowland’s clothes. If we were anywhere near the same size, that was the point.

  I was reasonably lucky. The slacks that I found were a little short for me, the waistline somewhat loose. They would have to do. And for now — around the house — a V-necked cardigan would suffice. I stretched, feeling better, opened the window, and stood there as I lit my pipe and blew smoke into the cold, wet day. The rain had ceased, but the air was restless and chill. Then I prowled the room, knowing that Amelia would need more time, my natural curiosity leading me on. It was by no means a search, just a look around.

  The room was large for a bedroom, by my standards, and there had been attempts made to absorb some of the space with heavy, dark cupboards and wardrobes, small tables, and the double bed, all of the woodwork delicately carved, the proportions perfect. The same master carpenter?

  On every available surface there were framed photographs, all of them records of the growing family. In some was Mary, smiling, a trim and younger Mary, so strikingly like Jennie was now that it was breathtaking. But Mary was in there with the boys, always, hands resting on or snugly around shoulders. Mary, Mary. But not one photograph included the mother, Sir Rowland’s wife, Tessa. One or two featured Sir Rowland as well, a well-built and placid man, though in all cases it was with the two boys. It was possible that he had not wished to go on record as being intimately connected with a child so clearly Mary’s. By this time, it seemed more and more certain that he had to be the father. Had he not remembered her in his will — a young woman in a menial position in the household?

  It was even, I realised, likely that Geoffrey Russell knew the truth about that.

  But I’d wasted enough time. I went out into the corridor, strolled towards the head of the stairs, and glanced at my watch. Twelve twenty. Already we were late for the reading. But there was no hurry, though I was concerned a little about the dogs, shut away in the car.

  Below me, I saw Russell walk out of one of the doors into the hall. He too looked at his watch, flipping it out of his waistcoat pocket. I walked rapidly down the centre of the staircase, and he looked up.

  ‘It’s not really safe,’ he said quietly. ‘Down the middle.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Coming down the centre of the stairs. It’s all very fine using curved treads to match the curved banisters, but it can be confusing. The curved vision — the perspective.’

  ‘I didn’t realise that.’ But I did realise he was leading, delicately, to something.

  ‘Even dangerous for people used to it.’ He nodded sagely. ‘It was how Rowland died, running down the middle and turning his head from side to side.’

  He stopped, his eyes on mine. It was my turn to take it on. ‘And why was he doing that?’ I asked politely.

  ‘He was, apparently, trying to detect where the shouting was coming from. And who, I suppose. Or so the doctor decided. He’d had experience of those stairs. In any event, the Coroner didn’t think an inquest was necessary.’

  He was explaining more fully than he needed to have done, and to a virtual stranger.

  ‘Shouting?’ I asked. ‘Do you mean quarrelling? Disputing?’

  ‘If it matters.’ He shrugged, his bony shoulders lifting high. ‘Jeremy and Paul were always going on at each other. If it matters,’ he reflected, more emphatically now. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  He became abruptly severe. ‘Rowland broke his neck. That’s what matters.’ He seemed determined that I should have this information.

  ‘I meant, does it matter if we start late?’

  He looked surprised at this suggestion. Russell was a man fixed in his life patterns. ‘Well, no. I suppose not.’ Then he smiled weakly. ‘Though I must admit I’ll be glad to get it over and done with.’

  As he turned away, I looked back at the staircase. The whole effect was startlingly beautiful, but, as the banisters were graded in their curves, from almost straight at the top to a much tighter curve at the bottom, this meant that the stair treads also curved in tighter arcs, and were wider towards the bottom. It was a most bewildering effect as you walked down.

  I had concentrated ahead, and found no difficulty. But the significant fact was that Russell had used the explanation awkwardly, as an excuse to tell me this. His legal training, I had to suppose, precluded any direct statement of the facts. But he was clearly concerned.

  ‘And why would they have been fighting?’ I asked.

  ‘What else but over a woman? Or so I was told. You’ll know that it’s the most usual reason for violence.’

  ‘I believe the statistics would indicate that.’ I could match his formality.

  ‘Known from your own experience,’ he said softly, almost sadly. So that was it. He’d wanted to establish my background.

  ‘You know I’m an ex-policeman?’

  ‘I guessed. I was once involved — I rarely touch criminal work — but I was involved in a burglary case. A Sergeant Richard Patton was the police officer making the charge.’

  I couldn’t help grinning at him. ‘Then why the devil didn’t you just ask?’

  He looked severe. ‘I have a reputation to protect.’

  ‘For what?’ I raised my eyebrows at him. ‘Deviousness?’

  He didn’t even blink. ‘Discretion.’

  ‘Your reputation remains solid,’ I assured him.

  ‘Thank you. Ah — here they are now.’

  Amelia and Tessa were coming down the stairs, Amelia leading, each with a hand on a banister. I had found little difficulty with my sartorial
change, but Amelia had clearly been difficult to fit. Slim Amelia, at five foot six, and rather plump and colourless Tessa, at five foot ten. There was a certain amount of tucking-in here and there, a belt to the waist, and rather more leg showing beneath the skirt than was usual for Amelia, as they’d clearly rolled up the waistband, but rather too far, keeping on the right side of decision and future eventualities.

  ‘The youngsters are in the library,’ said Russell. ‘Shall we join them?’

  It was clear, as we approached the library door, that the youngsters, who turned out to include Mary, were certainly not quietly reading. The chatter was loud, and at the moment it was friendly. They were, it was clear as we entered, indulging in a nostalgia trip. D’you remember the time...That sort of thing. However, as is usual, the memories did not always produce the same images. The arguments were fierce, but amicable.

  At our entry there was an abrupt silence. Almost shocked silence. At once they had to rearrange their minds. Friends a second ago, now potential disputants.

  They were facing each other across a long table down the centre of the library. The smell was of musty and unruffled books, and of wasted learning. The shelves were packed with it. Mary was sitting beside her Jennie, oblivious of the fact that their relationship was now revealed so openly.

  The two men were sitting side by side, facing them. I had to assume they were Jeremy and Paul, the sons, Jeremy the elder. His seniority was obvious, though there was no more than two years between them. He looked more mature than Paul, more fixed in his ways, more severely concerned with life’s fortunes and misfortunes. From the moment that their mutual nostalgia trip was interrupted by our entrance, he almost visually thrust from himself any hint of frivolity, and sat back, stern, presenting a figure of strict rectitude. He was smartly dressed, and there was a distinct air of authority about him. He might have been at a board meeting; his bearing was that of a senior director. The Mercedes out there at the front could well have been his.