‘Yes, of course. Do you want a drop of this before I go?’ He held the flask out and Penrose accepted, grateful for the warmth of the whisky. ‘Why do you think he died?’ Fielding asked, lingering at the door.

If he could answer that, Christmas really would be a time for miracles, Penrose thought. ‘I honestly don’t know yet,’ 181he said, ‘but there’s someone here who does, and it’s only a matter of time before I find out who that is.’

It was said as much in hope as in faith, but Fielding seemed reassured. He left Penrose on his own to take one last look at the scene before facing the practicalities of removing the body and starting his investigations, but the grim theatricality of the murder became more surreal and impenetrable under his scrutiny; there were no answers here, only endless questions. Once again, he felt that odd sense of betrayal at leaving the body behind, and before he headed down to the castle to begin his work, he reached up to the flagpole and tugged at the rope to pull the flag to half-mast. With luck, someone on the mainland would notice and at least be alerted to the fact that something was wrong – and if nothing else, it offered a small affirmation of compassion to contradict the degrading injustice of Hartley’s death.

182

3

Personally, Josephine thought it might have been better to take Angela Hartley somewhere further from the scene of her husband’s death than the drawing room, but the vicar’s widow scarcely seemed to notice her surroundings. She had had to be led gently but forcibly from the church; the initial shock, followed swiftly by the confirmation of her worst fears, had sapped all her energy, and now she sat next to Marta on a powder blue sofa – the sofa once used by Queen Victoria, Josephine recalled from the night before; how long ago that evening suddenly seemed. She looked with concern at Mrs Hartley, who was deathly pale. Her hands shook in her lap as she repeatedly wound and unwound the tippet, and its black silk now struck a horribly prophetic note. She had yet to cry; a numbing fog seemed to have smothered her emotions, along with a sense of disbelief that Josephine shared. All the theatre of Christmas gave a heightened, surreal quality to the tragedy, and she felt as if she were observing things from a distance, unable to take part. The tea and brandy that one of the footmen had brought sat untouched on the table in front of them.

Outside, she saw some of the islanders beginning to leave the church by the north door. They walked in twos and threes across the terrace, heads bowed in respect or against the cold, and Josephine knew that they had no choice but to use the walkway which ran immediately round the drawing 183room. She got up to pull the curtains across the windows, partly to give Angela Hartley some privacy, but mostly to prevent her from seeing the fuss that would no doubt ensue when the departing congregation reached the south terrace; the last thing she needed in her grief was to witness people pointing up at the spectacle on the tower. Josephine shivered as she crossed to the windows, although the fire was doing its best to placate the chill of the day. The drawing room was actually made up of two individual spaces, divided by the chimney breast, and the blue walls and ornate white plasterwork were utterly out of character with the rest of the castle. The contrast had been less stark the night before, when the room was filled with lamplight and shadows, but now it had a completely different feel – cool and elegant, certainly, but a little austere, like a Wedgwood vase amongst everyday earthenware. The beautiful Christmas tree, which had sparkled along with the warmth and laughter of Christmas Eve, now looked redundant and out of sorts in the corner.