Death on the Lizard (10 page)

The small grave was covered with a thick marble slab and marked by a tall, white marble pillar which had been made to look as if it were broken off, topped by a statuesque stone angel in flowing robes, wings spread wide, arms lifted to heaven. An inscription was carved on the face of the monument:

 
HARRIET
Beloved Daughter of George and Jenna Tyrrill Loveday
4 February, 1893-15 February, 1903

 
“It's very . . . impressive,” Patsy murmured. Kate thought that it was not exactly the sort of monument one might erect to a child.

“Harriet would have been amused by the angel,” Jenna said dryly. “But I think a fairy would have been more to her taste.” She stopped, staring down at the grass. “There,” she said. “It's happened again.”

“What's happened?” Kate asked.

“The flowers,” Jenna replied helplessly. “I don't know where they come from, or who leaves them there. It's very strange.”

Kate looked down. In the grass around the marble slab lay drifts of loose blossoms—daisies, meadow sweet, bluebells. “They're lovely,” she said.

“First it was the doll,” Jenna said in a troubled voice. “Lately, it's been flowers. They're always here, and always fresh, every time I come.” She laughed a little. “I thought I was seeing things, but they're very real.”

“The doll?” Patsy asked.

“One of Harriet's. I hadn't noticed it in the nursery for quite a time, and then—” Jenna shook her head. “Then it was here. I have no idea how.”

Fairies!
Beryl whispered, but Kate paid no attention to her. “Harriet's governess, perhaps,” she hazarded.

“There was no governess,” Jenna replied, putting the basket of roses down at the foot of the monument. “I wanted Harriet to go to the school in Helford, as I did, when I was growing up here. The teacher is a young woman, very well thought of and unusually good with the children. In another year or two, a governess, perhaps, for French and drawing—” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “But childhood is so short, so fleeting. I wanted her to have the freedom to enjoy it.”

Kate understood Jenna's feelings. She herself violently disagreed with the practice of consigning young children to nannies until the little boys were old enough to be sent off to boarding school and the girls handed over to governesses. It was ironic, she often thought, that the children of wealthy people often grew up with fewer freedoms, and certainly a narrower view of the world, than the children of their parents' servants.

“My mother-in-law didn't agree with me, of course,” Jenna added. “She came last year, bringing a governess from London, but I sent her away. And she thought it was scandalous that I would let Harriet go into the woods alone. She said I was letting her run wild.” She waved her hand toward the trees beyond. “But I grew up here, and I think I must have inherited some of my ancestors' adventurous spirit. My mother allowed me to explore as I liked, to learn the birds and the plants. To climb trees and play in the woods. I wanted my daughter to have that same sense of freedom.” Her voice grew thin and her face twisted. “The . . . the only place she wasn't supposed to go was the creek. I don't understand why she disobeyed. Oh, God!” she cried suddenly, and buried her face in her hands. “I wish I knew what happened! What was she doing there? How did she die?”

Without a word, Patsy gathered her into her arms and held her tight, rubbing her back and whispering comforting words. Kate saw the tears streaming freely down Jenna's face and understood. If Jenna could have guessed the future, she might have been more strict, more watchful. With a cold shiver, she remembered a horrible thing which had happened when she was a child in New York, an accident which had led to the death of her best friend. Children weren't always mature enough to use their freedom wisely, and—

And then, over Patsy's shoulder, Kate saw a fair-haired, mustached young man striding around the corner of the church, dressed as if for hunting in a Harris tweed jacket and breeches, woolen stockings, shooting spats, and stout boots—but without a gun. Instead, he carried a walking stick and wore a canvas pack on his back. A pair of field glasses were slung around his neck.

“Andrew!” Kate exclaimed, astonished to see his familiar figure in such an unfamiliar place. She stepped forward and put out her hand. When he did not appear to recognize her, she added, “Kate Sheridan, Andrew. Are you here to help Charles investigate the accident at the wireless station?”

The young man took off his cap and bowed slightly. “I fear you have mistaken me, ma'am,” he said in a distant tone. “My name is John Northrop.” His eyes went to Jenna and then away again. He slipped off his pack, took out a leather card case, and presented Kate with a card. “I am an amateur ornithologist. I come to the Lizard frequently, to observe the birds. There are quite a few rarities here, you know.”

Kate, somewhat surprised, glanced at the card, which indeed confirmed the man's identity as John Northrop, of Colchester, Essex. But she knew she was not mistaken, and Beryl knew it, too.

Why, he's no more an ornithologist than you are, Kate,
she whispered excitedly.
That's Captain Kirk-Smythe!

Andrew Kirk-Smythe had been serving as the Prince of Wales's bodyguard when Kate had first met him at a house party at Easton Lodge, an occasion indelibly marked in her memory, for it was there that Charles had proposed to her. More recently, she and Charles had encountered him again in Scotland, and had learned that he had become expert in codes and ciphers and was serving in Military Intelligence.
³
That Andrew was here on the Lizard, only a few miles from Marconi's wireless research station, could not be entirely coincidental, a suspicion which Beryl seemed to share.

Does he know Charles is here?
she hissed in Kate's ear.
And why is he holding himself out as a birdwatcher? What's his real game?
But Beryl had a writer's imagination and was often needlessly suspicious of even the most innocent motives. Whatever Andrew's game, Kate thought, she would play along, at least for the moment, and learn as much as she could about what he was doing.

“My apologies for mistaking you, Mr. Northrop. You reminded me of an acquaintance whom I have not seen in several years.” She turned to see that Jenna was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, and Patsy was watching curiously. “I am Lady Sheridan Sheridan, and these are my friends Lady Loveday of Penhallow and Miss Marsden.”

With a murmured, “At your service, ladies,” Andrew executed a bow. He straightened, replaced his cap, and turned to Kate. “An accident at the wireless station, you say, Lady Sheridan?”

“I understand that one of Marconi's assistants was electrocuted,” Kate said cautiously, watching his face.

If Andrew already knew about this, he didn't reveal it. He shook his head as if in disgust. “Beastly infernal equipment, if you ask me. They say that generator produces enough electricity to run a trolley. The transmissions make a ferocious noise, too. Quite destroys the peace of the moor. I cannot but think that it is disastrous to the bird life. A Little Bustard I was keeping my eye on has quite abandoned her nest, leaving her eggs to their fate.” He turned to Jenna. “Oh, I say, Lady Loveday. Do forgive my presumption, but I only just heard of your daughter's accident.” He bowed again. “Please accept my condolences at your terrible loss.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jenna said tonelessly.

“Yes, terrible,” he went on. “I go frequently to French-man's Creek, y'know, to monitor several nests there. The water looks serene, but it is quite treacherous, I fear.” He stroked his moustache, drew down his mouth, and spoke with some warmth. “It is no place for a young child, I fear—especially as the boats come from God-knows-where. There
are
still pirates, you know.”

The Andrew with whom Kate was acquainted was neither insensitive nor rude, and she was puzzled and offended by this remark. Was he baiting Jenna? No, Kate didn't think it was that, exactly, although there was something in his voice which revealed strong feeling. Perhaps Andrew was merely trying to caution Jenna, and doing it clumsily.

Kate started to speak, but Patsy interrupted her. “I cannot believe, sir,” she said stiffly, “that you realize the insulting tone of your remark. It is not only rude and unnecessary, but—”

“Never mind, Patsy,” Jenna said. Her face was darkly flushed. “Mr. Northrup's caution is unkind, but I fear quite accurate. The creek is treacherous. It is no place for children. My daughter was not supposed to go there. I don't know why she disobeyed.” Her voice broke. “I would give anything if I could have prevented it.”

“I do apologize if I have offended, Lady Loveday.” There was real contrition in Andrew's voice, and although Kate could not quite make out his expression, his eyes seemed to linger on Jenna's face longer than was polite. “That was certainly not my intention, I assure you.” He put out his hand and took the card he had given to Kate, which she was still holding. “I am staying at the Oysterman's Arms,” he added, scribbling quickly, “should someone wish to contact me.” He put his cap back on his head. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I will be on my way. Lady Loveday, your pardon, I implore you. I am a cad.” And with that he was gone.

“Well, that is God's truth!” Patsy cried, stamping her foot. “What a rude, horrid man! And what an appalling cheek!”

Kate pocketed Andrew's card without looking at it, not wanting to attract the others' attention. “I wonder what he meant by that remark about boats in the creek,” she said, as much to herself as to the others.

Indeed,
Beryl said wonderingly.
What
could
he mean? It seems such a strange thing to say. And that look he gave her. Why, it's as if he's half in love with her!

“Birdwatchers are often rather strange, aren't they?” Jenna said, with a gesture which seemed to make light of the episode. But her voice had gone thin and reedy, and Kate heard something in it that she could not quite identify. Was it . . . was it apprehension? She looked more closely and saw that the hand that Jenna put up to brush the hair out of her eyes was trembling.

“I think it is time we started back,” Patsy said cheerfully. A breeze had sprung up and the fog thickened, and she glanced at the gray sky. “Do you think it might rain? I for one am looking forward to a nice cup of tea when we return to the manor. Aren't you, Kate?”

Patsy linked her arm in Jenna's and drew her away down the path. Kate pulled her shawl more tightly around her and hurried to keep up with them. The three walked back to Penhallow in a gay and spirited conversation, avoiding any mention of Frenchman's Creek and the rude, horrid stranger they had encountered in the churchyard.

But while Kate kept up her end of the conversation, Beryl was mulling over what had just happened and wondering what sort of plot might lie behind it. Andrew Kirk-Smythe would not be here on the Lizard, in disguise, unless he had a mission of some sort. Was he on government business? Did his presence have anything to do with Charles's visit to the Lizard? Was this something Charles should know about?

And what was the reason behind Andrew's remark— for Beryl felt sure there was one—about the boats on French-man's Creek? Pirates were a thing of the past, weren't they? Or were they?

By the time Kate and Beryl got back to Penhallow and warmed themselves with a cup of hot tea, Beryl was already deep in an intricate plot involving a seventeenth-century lady, a handsome, devil-may-care pirate, and a small wooden schooner with its sails furled, riding at easy anchor in French-man's Creek.

CHAPTER EIGHT

 
 
 
 
If Kate and the others had turned as they left the churchyard, they might have seen a small red-haired girl in a blue dress and white pinafore slipping through the trees behind them. And if Beryl had seen her, she would have undoubtedly cried out,
Look, Kate! A fairy!

But the girl, whose name was Alice, might not have been seen at all, for she was pretending that she was invisible. And perhaps she was, for she had seen everything and heard almost everything which went on in the churchyard that morning, and no one at all was the wiser. Alice had watched from the vantage point of the church belfry, where she went each day to feed the pigeons and play at being a pirate's lookout, stationed at the very top of a pitching, plunging mast, with the wavetops whipping white frothy spume in the Channel seas far below and the wind such a fine, fresh gale in her face that it nearly hurled her from her post and into the violent water, which would have been a very great adventure, Alice considered, without giving a great deal of thought to the consequences.

It had been an interesting morning even before the arrival of the grown-ups, for there had been a surprise among Alice's pigeons—a new bird, one which Alice had not seen before, although she thought she knew where it came from. Her usual flock, the ones who met her there most mornings to take the grain from her hand, were all gray-blue, with beaks like gold scimitars and feather capes of iridescent green and purple. This bird was a soft tawny brown brushed with silver, like moor grass in a December frost. Its eyes were rubies and its legs were coral and its wings had been dipped in chocolate. It refused to eat out of Alice's hand like the others, but when she scattered the grain on the dusty floor, it flapped down from its perch in the rafters and strutted, hungry and hopeful, toward the feast.