Which is why he'd come to Howenstow in the first place, a man only thirty years old, called upon as an act of desperation to see to the dying earl. It was hopeless. He'd explained in that earnest fashion of his that there was nothing more to be done besides adhering to the current chemotherapy. There was no cure in spite of what they read and wanted to believe in the tabloids, he said; there were dozens of different kinds of cancer; it was a catch-all term. The body was dying of its own inability to call a halt to the production of cells, and scientists didn't know enough; they were working and striving, but it would be years, decades… He spoke with quiet apologies. With profound understanding and compassion.
And so the earl had lingered and dwindled and suffered and died. The family had mourned him. The region had mourned him. Everyone save Roderick Trenarrow.
9
Nancy Cambrey packed the last of the pint glasses into a carton for the short trip down the hill to the Anchor and Rose. She was extremely weary. In order to be at the school in time to do the setting-up that evening, she'd gone without her dinner, so she was feeling light-headed as well. She criss-crossed the carton flaps and secured the package, relieved that the evening's labour was done.
Nearby, her employer – the formidable Mrs Swarm -fingered through the night's taking with her usual passion for things pecuniary. Her lips moved soundlessly as she counted the coins and notes, jotting figures into her dogeared red ledger. She nodded in satisfaction. The booth had done well.
'I'm off then,' Nancy said with some hesitation. She never knew exactly what kind of reaction to expect from Mrs Swann, who was notorious for her mood-swings. No barmaid had ever lasted more than seven months in her employ. Nancy was determined to be the first. Money's the point, she whispered inwardly whenever she found herself on the receiving end of one of Mrs Swarm's violent outbursts. You can bear anything, so long as you're paid.
'Fine, Nancy,' Mrs Swann muttered with a wave of her hand. 'Off with you, then.'
'Sorry about the call box.'
The woman snorted and poked at her scalp with the stub of a pencil. 'From now on, phone your dad in your own time, girl. Not in the pub's time. And not in mine.'
'Yes. I will. I'll remember.' Placation was paramount. Nancy held tightly to the booth in order to manage un-ruffling Mrs Swann's feathers while betraying nothing of the aversion she actually felt for her employer. 'I learn quick, Mrs Swann. You'll see. People never do have to tell me anything twice.'
Mrs Swann looked up sharply. Her rat's eyes glittered in evaluation. 'Learning things quick enough from that man of yours, girl? All sorts of new things, I expect. That right?'
Nancy rubbed at a smudge on her faded pink blouse. ‘I’m off,' she said in answer and ducked under the booth.
Although the lights were still on, the yard was empty of everyone save Lynley's party and the Nanrunnel Players. Nancy watched them at the front of the theatre. While St James and Lady Helen waited among the empty seats, Lynley posed with the cast as his fiancee took their picture. Each flash lit one delighted face after another, catching their antic posturing on film. Lynley bore it all with his usual good grace, chatting away with the rector and his wife, laughing at cheerful remarks made by Lady Helen Clyde.
Life comes so easily to him, Nancy thought.
'It's no different, my dear, being one of them. It only looks that way.'
Nancy started at the words, at their stabbing acuity. She whirled to see Dr Trenarrow sitting in the shadows, against a wall of the school yard.
Nancy had avoided him for the entire evening, always keeping out of his reach or his line of vision when he came to the booth for a drink. Now, however, she could not avoid the contact, for he got to his feet and walked into the light.
'You're worried about the cottage,' he said. 'Don't. I shan't be putting you on the street. We'll work things out, Mick and I.'
She felt sweat break out on the back of her neck in spite of his gentle declaration. It was the nightmare she feared, coming face to face with him, having to discuss the situation, having to create excuses. Worse, just ten feet away, Mrs Swann had raised her head from the money-box, her interest no doubt piqued by the mention of Mick's name.
‘I’ll have the money,' she stammered. ‘I’ll get it. I will.'
'You're not to worry, Nancy,' Trenarrow said, more insistently. 'And you've no need at all to go begging Lord Asherton for help. You should have spoken to me.'
'No. You see…' She couldn't explain without giving offence. He would not understand why she could go hat in hand to Lynley but not to him. He wouldn't realize that a loan from Lynley carried no burden of unwelcome charity because he gave without judgement, in friendship and concern. And nowhere else in Nancy's life could she expect that sort of help without a companion assessment of the failure of her marriage. Even now she could feel the manner in which Dr Trenarrow was evaluating her situation. Even now she could sense his pity.
'Because a rise in the rent isn't-'
'Please.' With a small cry, she brushed past him, hurrying out of the school yard and into the street. She heard Dr Trenarrow call her name once, but she kept going.
Rubbing arms that were sore from heaving pint glasses and working the taps all night, she scurried down Paul Lane towards the mouth of Ivy Street which led into the twisting collection of alleys and passageways that comprised the heart of the village. These were narrow inclines, cobbled and tortuous little streets too cramped for cars. During the day, summer holiday makers came here to photograph the picturesque old buildings with their colourful front gardens and crooked slate roofs. At night, however, the entire area was illuminated only by oblongs of light from cottage windows. Darkly shadowed and inhabited by generations of cats who bred in the hillside above the village and fed by night in rubbish-bins, it was not a place for lingering.
Gull Cottage was some distance into the maze of streets. It sat on the corner of Virgin Place, looking like a whitewashed matchbox, with bright blue trim on its windows and a lavishly blooming fuchsia growing next to its front door. Blood-red flowers blown from this plant covered the ground nearby.
As Nancy approached the cottage, her steps faltered. She could hear the noise from three houses away. Molly was crying, screaming in fact.
She looked at her watch. It was nearly midnight. Molly should have been fed, should have been fast asleep by now. Why on earth was Mick not seeing to the child?
Exasperated that her husband could be so selfishly deaf to his own daughter's cries, Nancy ran the remaining distance to the cottage, threw open the garden gate, and hurried to the door.
'Mick!' she called. Above her, in the only bedroom, she could hear Molly's screaming. She felt an edge of panic, picturing the baby's face red with rage, feeling her small body tense with fright. She shoved open the door.
'Molly!'
Inside, she ran for the stairs, took them two at a time. It was insufferably hot.
'Molly-girl! Pet!' She flew to the baby's cot and picked her daughter up to find that she was wet to the skin, reeking of urine. Her body was feverish. Tendrils of auburn hair curled limply on her skull. 'Love, lovely girl. What's happened to you?' she murmured as she sponged her off and changed her and then cried out, 'Michael! Mick!'
With Molly against her shoulder, Nancy went back down the stairs, her feet striking the bare wood noisily as she headed for the kitchen at the rear of the cottage.
Feeding the baby was foremost on her mind. Still, she allowed herself to give vent to a small eruption of anger.
'I want to speak with you,' she snapped at the closed sitting room door. 'Michael! D'you hear? I want a word. Now!'