Part 23 (2/2)

'Why?'

'Because I don't know what the point will be. Does that sound ridiculous?'

'A little selfish, perhaps, but I think you have enough strong women in your life to set you straight.'

They reached his car and he bent to kiss her. 'Are you sure you want to stay here tonight? You wouldn't rather come back to London with me?'

'No, I want to stay. It's important.' He nodded, understanding what she meant. 'I'll call you as soon as I'm back, though, and come and collect the picture. Good luck with your last case.' His smile must have been unconvincing, because she looked at him with concern and saida 'Remember The Singing Sands, Archie?'

'I can't bring myself to read it,' he admitted.

'You should. There's a section where Grant thinks of a list of things to do when he retires.'

'Such as?'

'Oh, messing about in boats. Running a sheep farm.' He started to laugha but she cut him off. 'And finding time to share his life, to love and be loved.'

He glanced over to the back seat, where the book was lying with a pile of papers. 'And does he retire?'

Marta smiled. 'He's not real, Archie. It's not a real life he's wasting.' She reached into the car and put the book on the seat next to him. 'Perhaps I've read your letter after all. Go and sort your case out, and then go home.'

3.

The journey back through Minffordd and across the toll road seemed to take twice as long. Penrose half expected Gwyneth Draycott's door to remain obstinately closed when he knocked again, but she answered almost immediately. 'Mrs Draycott, what I was actually going to say earlier was that you didn't seem very surprised by what I had to say about David Franks.'

The rest of his carefully chosen opening speech was lost in her response. 'Thank G.o.d you've come back,' she said, pulling him into the house. 'I was wrong to send you away.'

Penrose saw the panic in her eyes and said calmlya 'You knew that David Franks had killed your son, didn't you?'

'Not my son.' He stared at her in confusion. 'I lied to you last time. It's Gwyneth who's ill upstairs. I was only trying to protect her a the habit of a lifetime, I suppose a but she wants to see you.'

'So you're Gwyneth's sister?'

'Not by blood, no, but we were brought up together. I'm Rhiannon.'

'Rhiannon Erley?'

'I don't use that name any more, but yes.' Penrose found it hard to see why Henry Draycott's lover would be caring for his wife; he opened his mouth to ask, but she interrupted him. 'I'll answer all your questions later, but please come and see Gwyneth first. She had a fit while you were here last timea and I don't know how much more her body can take.'

'A fit?'

'Yes. Gwyneth is epileptic. She's very weak now because I can't get her to eat anythinga and I don't think she has much time left. She wants to tell you the truth while she still can.'

As he followed her upstairs, Penrose reconsidered Franks's statement in the context of what he had just been told: the a.s.sertion that Taran was a child forever hurting himself, submitting to a force stronger than he was; Gwyneth's certainty that the danger was 'somewhere hidden away inside'; a s.e.xual a.s.sault which had had such significant consequences a all of these suggested that Taran had shared his mother's illness. He pieced them together with what the local police had said at the time about Gwyneth's family and the suggestion that her son had been better off out of it, and an idea began to form in his mind, one he was reluctant to believe.

The room he was taken to was at the front of the house with a fine view of the island and Portmeirion beyond. It was tastefully furnished but spa.r.s.e, and dominated by an elaborate dressing table. Penrose's attention was drawn to the collection of photographs that covered its surface. As he stood in the doorway, waiting for an invitation to go to Gwyneth's bedside, he studied the pictorial record of David Franks's life: images of a teenager in America and a young man in London, and pictures of him with Hitchc.o.c.k and Alma, one in front of a Tudor country house of white stucco and timber, the other on the set of Blackmail; several showed him as an older man, either behind a film camera or in the company of an attractive woman, and Penrose wondered if he was looking at any of Franks's victims. Of the twenty or thirty photographs, only one seemed to picture Franks with a member of his family: not Bella or his father, but a blonde little boy of around two, presumably the cousin whom he had killed; from its background, Penrose guessed that it had been taken in the dog cemetery.

Rhiannon noticed him looking at it and beckoned him over to the bed. The window was wide open, allowing a pleasant breeze to blow in off the estuary, but still the room was stale and heavy with the unmistakable smell of sickness. Gwyneth Draycott was lying with her back to him, staring out across the water, and he could see how thin she was from the frail form beneath the sheets. 'I knew someone would come eventually,' she said. Her words were barely more than a whispera and Penrose moved closer to make it easier for her. 'I'm glad you're here. I began to think it would be too late.' He waited while Rhiannon held some water to her lips; when she continued, her voice was stronger. 'David did what he did because I begged him to. You must understand that. He killed Taran for me because I didn't want my little boy to suffer any more. It was a terrible thing to ask him to do, but he agreed because he loved me and he knew I would never be able to do it myself. I know it was wrong but it was an act of mercy.'

Penrose tried to concentrate on her grief-stricken face, but all he could see was the film his mind had made of Taran's final moments. Her version of her son's death was so far from the stark truth of Franks's confession that he was reluctant to let her continue, but he knew how important it was to her. 'Tell me what happened, Mrs Draycott.'

'Henry was already gone by the time I found out I was pregnant,' she said. 'G.o.d forgive me, but I tried everything I could think of to get rid of the baby before it was born. I knew what the risks werea and I didn't want a child of mine to suffer like my brother had, but he a or she, for all I knew a had other ideas. I suppose that heartened me, in a way a to think that the baby might turn out to be tough. I called him Taran because I wanted him to be strong, and he was so beautiful when he was born that it was hard to believe there could be anything wrong. Nothing happened for the first few months, and I began to let myself hope: perhaps Taran had his father's genes. It wasn't something I'd have wanted for him, but it was the lesser of two evils, better than inheriting this sickness from me.'

'Were you looking after him on your own?' Penrose asked, imagining what the strain of watching and waiting must have been like with no one to confide in.

'No. I shut this place up and moved into the old mansion house with Grace during the last weeks of my pregnancy,' she explained. 'I'd never had much time for any of the other Draycotts. They were always a bit above themselvesa and they didn't take kindly to Henry walking out with a girl from town, but Grace was a good woman, quiet and kind. She kept herself to herself, and that suited me. She invited me to bring the child up in her house during the early years, where there was help around if I needed it.'

'Because she knew what the situation was with your illness?'

'Because she thought her brother had abandoned his wife and child,' she said, and Penrose was interested in her phrasing of the sentence. 'That's not fair, mind. She did it out of genuine kindness, not because her conscience troubled her, and I confided in her eventually because I knew she wouldn't judge.' She paused to take another sip of water. 'It was a good arrangement for her, too, I think. They were difficult years for everyone, but Grace felt things very deeplya and war saddened her. She hated the reality of what we're all capable of. It was easy for us both to hide away from our worries over there and pretend they didn't exist. They were happy times at first, peaceful a just the three of us, with David and his father spending the summers there and some of the Gypsies pa.s.sing through now and again. Life was very straightforward.'

'And then Taran's epilepsy began to show itself?' Penrose asked, gently moving her on. He had known as soon as he saw Gwyneth that Rhiannon had not been exaggerating the seriousness of her illness, and the reliving of her past would only put her under more strain. The woman in front of him had already decided to give up on life, and she was simply waiting for her body to concede defeat; selfishly, Penrose wanted to be able to piece together the whole story at last, while she was still strong enough to give her version.

'It started before his first birthday. We were playing together in the garden and Taran just stopped laughing and stared into s.p.a.ce, completely unaware of me or anything else. It only lasted a few seconds, but I knew the signsa and it was enough to make me realise how foolish I'd been to think that everything would be all right. The absences happened regularly after that, several times a week. Then he had his first fit. He was sleepya and I was putting him to bed one night when his limbs started to jerk. He cried when it was over, as though he knew what it meant and wanted to tell me he was sorry.'

'How did David find out what was happening?'

'He came into the kitchen one day when Taran was having a fit. It happened so suddenly that I forgot to lock the door. Seeing him like that frightened David half to death, I think, but he was so good; he cus.h.i.+oned Taran's head and moved things that he might have hurt himself on. Taran was always very confused afterwardsa and David helped me to get him into bed to recover. He was so gentle with him, so grown up. It was as if he finally understood something that had been puzzling him for a long time, and I was grateful to him. You don't expect to look to a fourteen-year-old for strength, do you? But I suppose they grew up quickly then. There were boys as young as David killing and dying in France.'

Hardly for the same reasons, Penrose thought, but he bit his tongue. 'Mrs Draycott, are you sure that you asked David to kill Taran? It wasn't his suggestion?'

'He knew how desperate I was,' she said, and it was hard to tell if she had deliberately avoided the question or was simply answering it in her own way. 'I was more afraid every day of what would happen to Taran because I'd seen it all before in my own family and I knew what the future held for him. I knew it would affect his mind and how people would torment him; I knew they might try to take him away from me and what would happen if they did; and I knew how difficult it would be for me to look after him properly. Buta most of all, I knew how unhappy he would be, how much he would suffer. And it was my fault. I'd allowed it to happen, I'd given him this terrible thinga and it was up to me to make it right, but I didn't know how to do it. Then I was walking in the woods one day and I saw David killing a dog. He told me it had broken its lega and he was putting it out of its misery a his father had taught him to do it, he said a but it was so quick and so painless, and I wished more than anything that someone would do that for my son. He must have known what I was thinking because he looked at me and nodded. I didn't even have to speak the words. I can't explain the relief I felt to know that there was a way out if things got too bad.'

'And Taran's condition got worse after that?'

She nodded. 'It happened very quickly in the end. David woke him early one morning and took him out. He did that sometimes to give me a break, and Taran loved to be with him. He had a terrible fit while they were out in the boat. David blamed himself a Taran was always more vulnerable when he was tired or if he had just been woken up a but it wasn't his fault; it could have come at any time, and David was only doing what I'd asked him to do when the moment was right.'

'But he decided when that was, not you.'

'Fate decided,' she insisted, and then, as he looked doubtfully at her, she askeda 'Have you ever seen someone having an epileptic fit?' Penrose nodded. 'Then you'll know it starts with very little warning, and the force of it seems to come from nowhere. Your natural impulse is to hold the person you love until it stops, but you can't because the movements are so violent that you might break an arm or a leg if you try to suppress them. So much strength in such a small body,' she said, unconsciously echoing Franks's words. 'And it gets worse as they get older until it's almost impossible to cope.' Penrose saw the recognition in Rhiannon's face and understood how hard it must be for Gwyneth to accept help when she knew better than anyone what a burden it was, both physically and mentally; no wonder her own death seemed to hold no horror for her. 'Taran was hurting himself that day. There were terrible bruises on his face where he had struck his head against the bottom of the boat, and two of his little fingers were broken from slamming into the wood. David reacted instinctively. It was better that way, I think a better for me not to have known when it was going to happen. I'm not sure I would have had the strength to go through with it.'

Every nerve and fibre in Penrose's body wanted to expose Franks's cruelty and tear the sick, twisted halo from his head, but he held himself back. 'What happened then?' he asked evenly. 'Did David bring Taran's body back?'

'No. He left him somewhere safe and came to fetch me.'

'Where, Mrs Draycott? Where is Taran now?'

He repeated the questiona but she ignored it as if it had never been asked, and Penrose guessed that her desire to unburden herself was no match for her determination to ensure that her son's body remained undisturbed. 'He's at peace now,' she said, confirming it as much for herself as for him. 'He wasn't tormented like Edwin. He wasn't hurt or laughed at or punished like a criminal and left to rot . . .'

She was becoming agitateda and Penrose watched as Rhiannon eased her back against the pillows and gently calmed her. 'I'll tell him, Gwyn,' she promised. 'You've said what you needed to say and now you've got to get your strength back. Edwin was her brother,' she explained, turning back to Penrose. 'They were twinsa and his epilepsy was very severe. Gwyn was lucky, if you can call it that: she only had mild attacks when she was a kid, and so rarely that she managed to hide it, but Edwin was different. The family was terrified of the stigma. When he was too old for them to keep it quiet, they had him shut away in the Castle. It's a hotel now, but it used to be an asylum.'

'Yes, I know it.'

'I went with Gwyn to visit him once a week. n.o.body else from the family would even acknowledge he existed. Not that it did them much good, mind; the gossip round town was disgusting. That place was like a museum for every form of human misery: suicidal, delusional, violent, and a lot like him who were just ill, but there was no difference between them. Some were more trouble than others, that's all. Edwin was one of those. Behind-the-table patients, they used to call them a the ones they thought were going to be most disruptive. I'll never forget the first time we went in there. They'd put him on a chair behind a long table with five or six other patients, backs to the wall, never allowed to speak, and nothing to do except stare and be stared at. If you weren't mad to start with you soon would be.'

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