CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Mr Lambert had been right about the distance. It was almost exactly ten minutes' admittedly brisk walk to Benison Row. Cordelia found herself in a narrow street of Victorian houses curving above the town. Although there was a pleasing unity in the age, architecture and height of the cottages, they were charmingly individual. Some had bow windows, others had been fitted with wooden window-boxes from which a profusion of variegated ivy, geraniums and aubrietia trailed their bright pattern against the painted stucco, while the two at the end of the row had bay trees in painted tubs set each side of the gleaming front door. Each had a narrow front garden set behind wrought-iron railings which, perhaps because of their delicate ornamentation, had escaped being sacrificed for scrap iron in the last war. Cordelia realized that she had never before seen a row of houses with their railings complete and they gave to the street, which was outwardly so English in its small-scale prettiness, a touch of charming but alien eccentricity. The little gardens rioted with colour, the warm deep reds of autumn seeming to burst against the railings. Although it was late in the season, the air was a potpourri of lavender and rosemary. There were no cars parked at the kerb, no throat-catching tang of petrol fumes. After the bustle and hot smells of the High Street, walking into Benison Row was like stepping back into the cosy simplicity of another and legendary age.

Windsor Cottage was the fourth house down on the left-hand side. Its garden was plainer than the rest, a neat square of immaculate lawn bordered with roses. The brass door-knocker in the shape of a fish gleamed bright in every scale. Cordelia rang the bell and waited. There was no sound of hurrying footsteps. Again she rang, this time a longer peal. But there was silence. She realized with a pang of disappointment that the owner was out. It had, perhaps, been stupidly sanguine to expect that Miss Costello would be waiting at home simply because she, Cordelia, wanted to see her. But the disappointment dragged at her spirit and filled her with a restless impatience. She was convinced now that the missing news cutting was vital, and only in this neat little house was there a chance of finding it. The prospect of having to return to the island with this clue unexplored, her curiosity unsatisfied, appalled her. She began pacing up and down outside the railings, wondering how long it might be worth waiting, whether Miss Costello would return, perhaps from shopping, or whether she had shut up the house and gone away for a holiday. And then she noticed that the two upper windows were open at the top, and her spirits rose. A middle-aged woman came out of the next-door house, looked up the road as if expecting someone, and was about to close the door when Cordelia ran forward:

'Excuse me, but I was hoping to see Miss Costello. Do you know if she's likely to be back this afternoon?' The woman replied pleasantly:

'She'll be at the Washateria, I expect. She always does her washing on Monday afternoons. She shouldn't be long, unless she decides to have tea in the town.'

Cordelia thanked her. The door closed. The little street sank back into silence. She leaned against the railings and tried to wait in patience.

It wasn't long. Less than ten minutes later she saw an extraordinary figure turn the corner into Benison Row, and knew at once that this must be Miss Emmeline Costello. She was an elderly woman, trundling after her a canvas-covered shopping trolley from the top of which bulged a plastic-covered bundle. She walked slowly but upright, her thin figure obliterated by a khaki army greatcoat so long that its hem almost scraped the pavement. Her small face was as softly puckered as an old apple and further diminished by a red and white striped scarf bound round her head and tied under the chin. Over it had been pulled a knitted purple cap topped with a bobble. If such a superfluity of clothing was necessary on a warm September day, Cordelia could only wonder how she dressed in winter. As Miss Costello came up to the gate Cordelia moved to open it for her and introduced herself. She said:

'Mr Lambert of the Speymouth Chronicle suggested that you might be able to help me. I'm looking for a cutting from an old edition of the paper – 19th July 1977. Would it be an awful nuisance if I looked through your sister's collection? I wouldn't trouble you, but it really is important. I've tried the newspaper archives but the page I want isn't there.'

Miss Costello might present to the world an appearance of almost intimidating eccentricity, but the eyes which looked into Cordelia's were sharp, bright as beads, and accustomed to making judgements, and when she spoke it was in a clear, educated and authoritative voice, which immediately and unmistakably defined her precise place in the complicated hierarchy of the British class system.

'When you're eighty-five, my child, don't live on top of a hill. You'd better come in and have some tea.'

In just such a voice had Reverend Mother greeted her when she had first arrived, tired and frightened, at the Convent of the Holy Child.

She followed Miss Costello into the house. It was apparent that nothing would be done in a hurry and, as a supplicant, she could hardly insist that it was. She was shown into the drawing-room while her hostess went off to remove several layers of her outer clothing and to make tea. The room was charming. The antique furniture, probably brought from a larger family home, had been selected to suit the room's proportions. The walls were almost covered with small family portraits, watercolours and miniatures but the effect was of an ordered domesticity, not of clutter. A mahogany wall cupboard inlaid with a pattern of rosewood held a few choice pieces of porcelain and, on the mantelshelf, a carriage clock ticked away the moments. When Miss Costello reappeared, wheeling a trolley before her, Cordelia saw that the tea service was in green decorated Worcester and that the teapot was silver. It was an occasion, she thought, on which Miss Maudsley would have felt perfectly at home.

The tea was Earl Grey. As she sipped it from the elegant shallow cups Cordelia had a sudden and irresistible impulse to confide. She couldn't, of course, tell Miss Costello who she was or what she was really seeking. But the peace of the room seemed to enclose her with a warm security, a comforting respite from the horror of Clarissa's death, from her own fears, even from loneliness. She wanted to tell Miss Costello that she came from the island, to hear a sympathetic human voice saying how awful it must have been, a comforting elderly voice assuring her in the remembered tones of Reverend Mother that all would be well. She said:

'There's been a murder on Courcy Island. The actress Clarissa Lisle has been killed. But I expect you know. And now Mr Gorringe's manservant has been drowned.'

'I have heard about Miss Lisle. The island has a violent history. I don't suppose these will be the last deaths. But I haven't read the newspaper account, and, as you see, we don't have a television set. As my sister used to say, there's so much ugliness now, so much hatred, but at least we don't have to bring it into our sitting-room. And at eighty-five, my dear, one is entided to reject what one finds unpleasing.'

No, there was no comfort to be had here in this seductive but spurious peace. Cordelia was ashamed of the momentary weakness that had sought it. Like Ambrose, Miss Costello had carefully constructed her private citadel, less beautiful, less remote, less extravagantly self-indulgent, but just as self-contained, just as inviolate.

Neither excitement nor impatience had impaired Cordelia's appetite. She would.have been grateful for more than the two thin slices of bread and butter provided, particularly as the meagreness of the meal bore no relation to its length. It was surprising that Miss Costello could take so long drinking two cups of tea and nibbling her share of the food. But at last they had finished. Miss Costello said: