Sea of Lost Love (9 page)

Forgive me

Milton looked over his shoulder. “What on earth does that mean?” he said, baffled.

“God only knows!”

“Surely not suicide? Of all the people least likely to take their own life it was Monty. Why on earth would he do such a thing?”

Archie didn't feel anything at all except confusion. He would have felt sad had he been convinced his brother had committed such an act. But he wasn't. First, Monty was the happiest man he knew. Second, he was a devout Catholic. Third, he loved his wife and children. Three very good reasons not to end it all. “This is madness!” he exclaimed in fury. “When he bloody well turns up, I'm going to kill him myself!”

He showed Inspector Trevelyan the note. “That looks like suicide to me,” he said, handing it back.

“It would appear so,” agreed Archie, “had it been written by anyone other than my brother. I simply don't believe it.”

“We'll continue the search,” said Inspector Trevelyan. His shoulders hunched, tense with the grim business of his job. “If anything turns up, we'll come straight to the Hall.”

“Thank you,” said Archie, frowning.

 

Archie and Milton returned home in bewilderment. Merlin and Trevor sat in the pub, telling the story over and over again, while everyone else gave their opinions on what they believed had really happened. Nothing united the community better than a good mystery.

When the Rover drew up at Pendrift Hall, the rest of the family spilled out onto the gravel, desperate for news. Archie shook his head. “Damn fool!” he spluttered. “Left this silly note in a champagne bottle. Why the devil would he go and do something like that?”

Pamela took the note. “It's his writing all right,” she said. “You don't think he's…He wouldn't. Not Monty. This is a joke!” It was too late to protect Celestria and Harry. The note was already being passed around and dismissed as preposterous.

“Perhaps what started as a joke, when he was drunk and being silly at the end of the party, finished in disaster,” said Penelope.

“You're saying he's dead?” said Pamela angrily.

“I'm saying he might have fallen in and drowned unintentionally.”

“That's still saying he's dead. Why doesn't anyone admit it? My husband and the father of my children is dead!” She put her hand to her forehead and swooned. “Oh Lord. I must go lie down. I feel like I'm about to throw up my heart!”

Julia and Penelope rushed to her aid, taking an arm each and leading her back into the house. Celestria and Harry watched them go. Neither felt the desire to follow. When Pamela took one of her turns, it was better to stay out of the way.

“I need a stiff drink. Soames!” Archie stalked after them. “Soames!” Soames appeared in the hall, his expression impassive, as he hoped not to reveal that he had been listening to the entire conversation through the pantry window. “Get me a whiskey right away. And one for Mr. Milton, too.”

Celestria and Harry, supported by Melissa and Lotty, Wilfrid and Sam, followed David and the two men into Archie's study. It was a library of bookcases up to the ceiling, with a gaping fireplace surrounded by a burgundy leather club fender and two worn leather sofas. Archie's reading chair had been molded into the shape of his body, and a hole was wearing through in the seat, revealing its foam insides like the guts of one of the boys' dead rabbits. The air was musty, as if the window hadn't been opened in a long time. Celestria recalled, with a stab of pain to her heart, the grim look on her father's face the night before, when she had watched him unseen from the door.

She flopped onto the sofa next to Harry, who had gone very quiet and pale. She put her arm around him and pulled him close. He was as flat as a deflated balloon, and his eyes shone with fresh tears. Melissa and Lotty squeezed in either side of them.

Celestria looked at Archie. “Mama's right, isn't she? Papa's dead.”

Soames brought the drinks in on a tray. Archie took a swig and gulped it down miserably. It was all very baffling.

“I'm not writing him off until I have a body,” he said, his mustache twitching defiantly. “Or at least some evidence of one.”

“What about murder?” David suggested, sinking into his uncle's armchair. Archie was too agitated to sit down. Milton walked over to the window, his hands in his pockets, and stared out as if expecting Monty to wander across the lawn.

“What motive?” said Archie.

“Money,” David replied with a shrug.

Archie dismissed it with a firm shake of his head. “Absolutely not. He might be rich, but he's not Croesus.”

“Maybe Penelope's right,” Milton conceded. “What started as a prank ended in disaster.”

Celestria looked over at Wilfrid and Sam, who sat on the sofa opposite, in shocked silence. “What did you all do when you went out in his boat?”

“We played pirates,” replied Sam.

“Did you ever put notes in bottles?” Wilfrid and Sam looked at each other pensively. She turned to her brother. “Did Papa ever play silly pranks, like pretending to fall overboard?”

“We pretended to shoot at Spanish merchant vessels,” said Harry.

“We never put messages in bottles, but we did talk about it,” said Sam. “Uncle Monty told us that if we were lost at sea it was the best way to get a message home. The tide would take it to the beach.”

“Charming,” said Archie sarcastically. “I doubt that note was written in the boat. The paper was out of my desk, for a start. I think he wrote it here, found an empty bottle, and set off with the intention of doing something silly.”

“You know he liked to play treasure hunts on the sand. What if the note in the bottle was part of a game he was planning?” said David.

“Then why write ‘Forgive me'?” Archie drained his glass. “That's a suicide note if ever I saw one.”

“If Papa was going to kill himself, which I very much doubt,” said Celestria impatiently, “he would have written a longer note. Have you ever known him to say a few words when a dozen would do? He wouldn't have left us in doubt. He would have said, ‘I'm unhappy, this is the only way out.' Or something along those lines. He wouldn't have been so cryptic. Papa has never been cryptic.”

They were all silent for a moment. Everything pointed to suicide, but none of them believed it possible. Then a small voice piped up.

“Papa wouldn't want to make us sad. He loves us.” Harry's pitiful face remained immobile, but for a single tear that trickled down it, leaving a thin, shiny trail.

They were jolted from their thoughts by the urgent ringing of the doorbell. No one moved. The room seemed to hold its breath as Soames's footsteps were heard tapping across the stone floor as he made his way to the front door, followed by the murmur of low voices as he exchanged a few words with the caller. A cold wind swept in and slid across the floor and into the study where the small party waited anxiously for news. Celestria shivered and folded her arms. She felt a gradual tightening around her throat and the shameful inability to cry. It was as if her anguish had blocked her power to express emotion. The draft was damp and smelled of the sea. Had it finally given up her father's body?

At last Soames knocked on the study door. “What is it?” Archie asked, his voice tense.

“It's Inspector Trevelyan,” Soames replied. Archie's eyes fell a moment onto the younger children. He wondered where Nanny was and why Julia hadn't sent them all off somewhere out of the way so they wouldn't have to endure the agony of waiting.

“Show him into the drawing room,” he said. Celestria rose in protest. “I'll see him on my own,” he replied, his tone resolute. They all watched him leave the room and close the door behind him.

“They've found the body,” said Celestria resignedly, rubbing her throat. “I know they have.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions,” Milton suggested, unconvincingly.

“Quite,” agreed David.

“Don't be silly, Celestria,” said Lotty. “I don't believe he's dead. It's all a terrible misunderstanding. Daddy's right, we're leaping to conclusions when we know nothing.”

“We have a note,” Celestria snapped. “There is no alternative conclusion to leap to.”

It seemed a very long time before Archie returned to the study. His face was gray. “They've found his shoes,” he said. “Washed up on rocks.”

Celestria gasped.

Harry sobbed. “Does that mean Papa is dead?” he asked. Celestria exchanged looks with her uncle. He shook his head sadly.

“I'm afraid it's almost certain,” he replied.

“But wouldn't one take off one's shoes to swim?” said Melissa.

“He wasn't planning on taking a swim, silly!” Celestria retorted.

Archie shook his head. “I'm afraid that the note in the bottle, his pocket watch, and the shoes, all indicate that he took his own life. As incredible as it seems, Monty has committed suicide.”

F
ather Dalgliesh cycled up to Pendrift Hall the moment he heard the news. It had been Miss Hoddel who broke it, though she hadn't realized at that stage the enormity of the gossip she had picked up. “Mr. Monty got drunk and fell overboard last night,” she had said, relishing the idea of a scandal. “Everyone's talking about it.” A mole, sprouting three long black hairs, quivered on her right cheek as she attempted, in vain, to disguise her delight.

Father Dalgliesh had been too shocked to question her further and, besides, already he knew that her news was often gossip, distorted and exaggerated like a game of Chinese whispers. He waited for her to finish emptying the bin by his desk, a chore she dithered over, hoping to be questioned, then watched her leave the room with a loud, exasperated sigh. He had telephoned the police station at once and spoken to Inspector Trevelyan's office to discover that Miss Hoddel wasn't as misinformed as he had hoped. Monty hadn't been seen since the party the night before. Now the discovery of his shoes had left Trevelyan in no doubt that the poor man had indeed drowned, leaving two children fatherless and a wife without a husband to look after her. It was a terrible tragedy. An accident, no doubt. The family must be shocked to the core. Father Dalgliesh thought of Celestria, that beautiful, carefree girl who walked with a dance in her step, and he knew he had to go to her.

Once again he cycled across sunbeams, now amber in the fading light of the dying day. Long shadows fell across the road, and a light scattering of orange leaves reminded him that summer was drawing to a close. It was less than a week since he had cycled this same road, his spirits high as the warm August sun had shone down upon him. He could not have foreseen the tragedy that would send him riding up the same winding lane again, with a heart as heavy as stone. He turned his thoughts to Mass the following morning and silently asked God to guide him as to the best way to comfort the Montagues.

His journey was interrupted by a slow herd of soft brown cows ambling up the lane ahead of him. Flies buzzed about their scruffy heads as they mooed irritably, like a bunch of fat-bottomed ladies in the fishmonger's on a Saturday morning. A young lad with a stick encouraged them to move faster, but they stubbornly refused to do as they were told. Father Dalgliesh waited patiently for them to turn into the field, followed by an excited sheepdog clearly not doing his job very well.

With the help of prayer and meditation, he had managed to dispel all improper thoughts of Celestria, that captivating girl. He had been caught off balance; it was as simple as that. He knew that when he saw her again, he would no longer be dazzled by her beauty but would see inside the pretty casing to the human soul that was now in dire need of comfort. He was ashamed of his weakness, but aware that his life's journey would be peppered with temptation. He resolved to rise to each challenge with courage and conviction. His weakness would only make him stronger and remind him that he was a frail sinner like everyone else. It would teach him humility.

These were Father Dalgliesh's thoughts as he arrived at Pendrift Hall. The front of the house was cast in shade, as the sun hung low behind it. Purdy didn't leap out to greet him as he had done the first time. But it wasn't long before the door opened and Soames stood like an aged sentinel on the top step, shoulders back, chin high, eyes wary as he cast his gaze down the slope of his long, imperious nose. He breathed in through dilated nostrils and, without smiling, nodded to invite the priest inside. It was a grim welcome echoed by the house itself, which seemed already in mourning.

“Please wait in the hall,” said Soames. “I will inform the family that you are here.”

“If they do not wish to see me, I quite understand,” said Father Dalgliesh tactfully.

The butler stepped slowly across the flagstone floor and knocked on the drawing room door. He entered, closing the door quietly behind him. Father Dalgliesh strained his ears but heard nothing other than the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and finally its tinny chiming as it struck six. He pushed his glasses up his nose and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It had been hard work cycling uphill.

With an eerie creak, the drawing room door opened and Soames stood aside to let Father Dalgliesh enter. Julia sat on one sofa with Penelope, while Melissa and Lotty sat on the sofa opposite. Celestria was positioned at the piano as if about to play.

“Father,” said Julia, rising to greet him. “I'm so grateful you have come.” If she was at all bothered by his sudden appearance, she didn't let it show.

“I wanted to offer my sympathy,” he said, his eyes wandering to the piano, where Celestria watched him impassively. “I heard the terrible news.”

“Please sit down,” replied Julia, gesturing to an armchair. She sensed his awkwardness and attempted, in her usual bright way, to put him at his ease. She, however, felt as far from bright as a drizzly Cornish sky. “It is all rather confusing. Monty left a note asking us to forgive him and supposedly threw himself into the sea. The trouble is it's so out of character none of us wants to believe it.” She reached for her cigarettes.

“Play something cheerful, dear,” said Penelope to Celestria. She looked at the priest. “It's been a trying day.”

Celestria began to play, her music dominating the room so that Julia had to raise her voice to be heard.

“I've sent the little boys out with their cousin David to shoot rabbits. Anything to distract Harry, poor darling. He worshipped his father.”

“How is his wife?”

Penelope spoke without thinking. “She's in bed with a migraine. I doubt she'll ever get up again.”

“Will she come to Mass tomorrow?” Father Dalgliesh asked.

“Goodness no,” replied Julia hastily. “She's not a religious woman.” She didn't want to repeat the things that Pamela had said about the Church. It wasn't fair to show her in a bad light to a stranger. However, if Father Dalgliesh hoped to give her comfort, it would have to be delivered by prayer alone.

“Archie's gone to tell our mother, and Milton is out searching for the body,” said Penelope in her loud, booming voice, regardless of her niece. “If there were shoes, there are bound to be feet. If there are feet there must be legs. Monty is out there somewhere, unless he's in the belly of a fish.”

Suddenly Celestria stopped playing and stood up. Her face was deathly white, emphasizing the clear gray of her eyes. Her hair, drawn off her face and clipped up on top of her head, cascaded down her back in waves, making her look younger and fragile.

“I don't think he drowned at all,” she said. “Why would lace-up shoes come off all by themselves? I'd believe it if the shoes had feet in them.”

“I agree with Celestria,” said Melissa.

Lotty nodded emphatically. “I think he's been kidnapped.”

“Then why leave a note?” said Julia kindly.

“He was forced to write it,” Celestria replied. She walked past the priest and joined her cousins on the sofa.

“But the paper came from Archie's study,” protested Julia, dragging heavily on her cigarette. This was all giving her a headache.

“Then someone broke in and made him do it.” She looked at her aunts in a sudden fury. “Papa didn't commit suicide.” She turned to the priest. “He's a religious man. He believes in heaven and hell. Everyone knows that taking your life is no shortcut to heaven but to eternal damnation. Why would eternal damnation be any better than life?”

She glanced down to his feet and noticed he was wearing odd socks. Father Dalgliesh followed her eyes with a sinking feeling. He had done it again: one red sock and one yellow sock. They looked at each other, and Celestria gave a wan smile. In spite of the tragic tone of the day, the priest couldn't help but smile back.

“Then one has no alternative than to wait,” said Julia with a sigh.

“And pray,” Father Dalgliesh added gravely. “Whatever happens is the will of God.”

“Or the will of Monty,” said Penelope dryly.

 

When Elizabeth Montague heard the news, she wouldn't at first believe it. “It's not true. Robert would never be so selfish!” she raged, her face flushing the color of a fresh bruise.

Archie tried to rationalize. “I know. It's implausible. But it's the only explanation. Monty has disappeared. The note in the bottle, the shoes in the sea, the boat left to drift—they all point to one thing: that Monty has taken his own life.”

“Robert would never do such a thing. Even if he were unhappy. Which he wasn't, because I'd know about it. I'm his mother, for God's sake. This has got to be a prank. A sick joke. Or kidnap.”

Archie sighed. He'd already had this argument with David. He rubbed his forehead wearily. “I'm afraid, Mother, at this stage we have nothing else to believe but the worst. How or why, we may never know, but Monty is most probably dead.”

Elizabeth sank into the sofa. “If that is the case, then it won't be long before I join him,” she said, her voice tight with restrained grief.

Archie poured her a glass of gin, then walked over to the window and stared out into the diminishing light. The dower house was a short walk down the garden from the Hall and overlooked the sea. It was a pretty white house with large windows, built at the same time as the main house but not as loved and uncommonly damp. It bore the same chilly expression as its mistress and required fires to be lit throughout the summer. Outside, the ocean was calm beneath a flamingo-pink sky. Feathery clouds drifted on the horizon, turning a deep shade of gray as the sun dipped beneath it.

“Why the note?
‘Forgive me.'
Forgive you for what, Monty? For leaving your family bereft? For not communicating your unhappiness? For bottling it all up? For never asking for help?” Archie seemed to be talking to himself.

“He wasn't unhappy,” Elizabeth snapped then took a large gulp of gin. “He was jolly. He's always been jolly. There's no side to Robert.
No surprises.
He's always been like that. Like his father. Straightforward. A more honest man one simply couldn't find. If he is dead, then it wasn't because he sought death. Death found him and snatched him away.” She straightened, her jaw stiff as if struggling to contain her emotions. “But I won't believe it until there's proof. No funeral until the body is found. Until then, my Robert is still alive.”

Archie turned to face her. She was a broad woman, with wide hips and a strong, formidable face and yet, in that cold room, she looked very small.

“Why don't you stay at the Hall for a while?” he suggested kindly, even though Julia wouldn't thank him for suggesting it. His mother looked at him sternly.

“I might be old, but I've survived on my own for fourteen years. There's no reason to be a burden to anyone now. I shall join you at Mass tomorrow as usual, and then I would like to see Father Dalgliesh alone. If Robert is dead, then only God will be able to comfort me.”

As Archie left the room he heard the sound of breaking glass. He hurried back to find his mother on her knees, picking up the pieces with trembling hands. He knelt down beside her. “Leave me alone,” she growled. The ferocity of her reaction stunned him, but he did as he was told. He looked back a moment to see her sink to the floor and bury her face in her hands. His natural instinct was to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. He left with the sense of inadequacy that had dogged him all his life. How come Monty had admired
him
? What was there to admire?

 

Father Dalgliesh reached for his bicycle. The dusk was heavy, the air cooler, the first smoky smell of autumn carried on the wind with the scent of the sea. He paused a moment, wondering if his visit had done any good at all. Father Hancock would have known exactly what to say. But not him. He didn't have the vocabulary or the delivery.

Suddenly he felt a presence behind him. Still holding the handlebars, he turned around. There, sitting on the doorstep, sat Celestria. She struck a match and lit a cigarette, and her lovely face was suddenly illuminated in the dusk.

“Mama hates me smoking. She says it's unladylike.”

“I think she's probably right,” replied Father Dalgliesh.

“I think it's excusable today of all days, wouldn't you agree?”

“I'm very sorry, Celestria.”

“So am I. It's a crying shame. I'm being driven mad in there. Going around and around in circles: ‘It looks like suicide, but how unlike Papa. Why would he do it?' And on and on and on. I want to close my ears to it all. As for Mama, she's in bed with a migraine again, and there's no Papa to put her out of her misery. Aunt Penelope's right, she'll never recover.” She raised her eyes, blowing out a puff of smoke. “What drives a man to take his own life?”

“An unbearable unhappiness,” he replied. “A depression so heavy that the alternative, whatever he believes that to be, is better than living.”

“You see. That's what I don't understand. Papa was so happy. All the time. He always smiled. He had time for everyone. No one was too small or insignificant for him to take trouble with. You know, he cared about people. He cared about us. He loved life. Why would somebody like that write a note, put it in a bottle, motor out into the middle of the ocean, and then jump overboard?”