Shadow’s calmness is restored once we leave the old mansion house, but I’m still processing why Naomi Vine reacted defensively to questions about Alex Rogan’s visit. She claims it was a one-off, but her property is so isolated he may have visited many times without anyone noticing.
Eddie returns to the lifeboat house alone while I set off to interview Martin Tolman again, hoping for more details about the killer’s attempt to torch Rogan’s house two weeks earlier. Tolman lives above St Warna’s Cove in a house he designed himself. It’s a pristine white box with double-height windows, the front door steel grey. The ultra-modern structure looks more suitable for upstate New York than a cliffside at the edge of the world, its outline too sharp-edged for its ancient surroundings, with the fields behind unrolling like a length of bottle-green velvet.
Tolman’s appearance is as austere as his home when he answers the door. The man’s dark suit, hollow cheekbones and well-cut grey hair remind me again of an old-school film star. His wife hovers in the background, dressed in the same sombre clothes. Deborah has an elegant tennis player’s build and jaw-length silver hair that hangs in a neat curtain. She used to be a medic, but her manner would unnerve most patients; there’s little warmth in her smile when she shakes my hand.
‘Can you leave your dog outside, please? We prefer not to have animals in the house.’ Deborah Tolman delivers her request with polite firmness.
I turn to Shadow then fling my arms wide, giving him freedom to roam. The dog bounds away without a backwards glance.
My opinion of the couple’s home changes once I see the interior. I was expecting minimalism, but the walls are drenched in rich greens and blues, a few stylish paintings adding interest to their living room. I spot a small cast-iron sculpture of a woman saluting the sky on one of their shelves, similar to the ones in Naomi Vine’s home, suggesting that the couple are on close terms with their celebrity neighbour from across the bay.
‘It’s good to see you, Ben.’ Tolman gestures for me to sit by the window. ‘Is it okay if Deborah stays? She may be able to help.’
‘Of course, I was hoping to see you both. I’d like to hear about your conversations with Alex. How well did you know him?’
‘I’m afraid I only chatted to him at church,’ Deborah Tolman replies. ‘I’m not much of a pub-goer.’
The architect frowns as if he’s recalling precise details. ‘He attended evensong for a few months last autumn; I sensed that he was troubled.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Spiritual questions seemed to bother him. He was allowing logic to cloud his beliefs. I took him to the pub one night to see if I could help. Alex said he loved it here, but believed some islanders resented incomers.’
‘Did he name anyone?’
‘He didn’t elaborate. I told him to tell the police about the arson attempt, then he admitted that he was still adapting to the smallness of the place. He asked if I’d ever regretted coming back to St Agnes.’
‘You lived here before?’
‘I was born in Middle Town like Deborah, but my parents moved away for better job opportunities.’ Tolman’s face is solemn. ‘I told Alex that my decision to come back has improved my life immeasurably. Deborah and I met when I travelled here from my home in France. How could anyone feel hemmed in when we’re surrounded by endless sea and sky?’
His statement pulls me up short because it echoes the message left by the killer at the murder scene, but that could just be a coincidence. When I glance out of the window, Tolman’s question makes sense. The couple’s view must change constantly; granite boulders on the beach below are catching the light, while the Atlantic pales into the distance.
‘I hear you’re giving Jimmy Curwen a free place to stay.’
He replies with a casual nod. ‘We bought the cottage to renovate, but it feels wrong to leave it empty when someone’s in need. It’s divided into two flats; Jimmy’s using the smaller one.’
‘Do you know where he is at the moment?’
‘I’m afraid not. Jimmy’s secretive at the best of times. I’ve been encouraging him to come to church, but shyness keeps him away.’
‘One more thing, please, before I go. I’m trying to build up a picture of Alex’s last twenty-four hours. We know he spent time with Naomi Vine before he died, but I need more details.’
‘Are you suggesting they were having an affair?’ Tolman’s movements freeze. ‘He never mentioned being unhappy at home.’
‘Alex wouldn’t be the first to stray, even in a place this small.’
He rises slowly to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I know. Come back any time if you have more questions.’
The Tolmans seem eager for me to leave, and I’d like to know why the architect looked surprised when I told him who Rogan visited. The man seems too worldly to be shocked by an extramarital fling. The couple lead me along the hallway before I spot a book of Cornish phrases lying on a table.
‘Which one of you is learning the language?’ I ask.
‘Both of us, but Martin’s far more fluent. He’s been studying longer than me,’ Deborah replies. ‘There’s little chance of improving when so few people here know the language.’
‘Let us know if we can help further,’ her husband says, steering me towards the door.
The architect has retreated into himself by the time I say goodbye. Deborah Tolman soon vanishes inside, but he remains in the doorway when I look back, a funereal figure, dwarfed by the grandeur of his home.
Shadow bounds across the grass to greet me once I get outside. The lighthouse is the first thing I see when I turn inland, reminding me of my uncle’s advice to speak to Stan Eden. I don’t know whether to be daunted or impressed that my dog is already racing towards the building, his telepathic skills growing stronger all the time.
There’s a slow tapping of footsteps when I knock on the lighthouse’s door. Eden’s face is impassive when he greets me, clumps of white hair protruding from his scalp, his matching beard in need of a trim. He must be in his seventies, but looks in good health, his pale blue eyes inspecting me closely. I still remember Eden visiting my secondary school to speak about his long career as a lighthouse keeper. The job struck me as romantic back then, but his way of life had already vanished.
‘Come for a tour have you, young man?’
‘I was hoping for a chat about Alex Rogan.’
‘I don’t have much to say.’ Eden’s wariness fades by a few degrees when he spots Shadow. ‘Is that a police dog?’
‘He’d never pass the training. If I leave him at home he wrecks the place.’
The old man scrutinises my face again. ‘Ray Kitto’s nephew, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right, I moved back to Bryher earlier this year.’
‘Help me check the building if you like. The volunteers always miss things.’
He’s already climbing the spiral staircase so I follow in his wake. The building’s history clings to its walls: the air smells of sea salt, brass polish and the keepers’ tobacco. We’re climbing higher now, and the ascent would be cruel for anyone with vertigo. The steps are made of perforated metal, giving a clear view down to the concrete floor, a hundred feet below. Our boots send echoes ringing around the lighthouse’s circular core, like coins dropping through a grate. Despite his age, Stan Eden has enough stamina to describe the building’s history as the steps wind upwards.
‘The first lighthouse stood here in the sixteenth century, but keeping was hard work back then. They lit fires in the brazier each night, hoping mariners would see the flames. Gaslight didn’t take over until the nineteenth century. It was still being used when I worked here.’
‘That sounds dangerous.’
‘Only if staff were badly trained. One of my colleagues got second degree burns from releasing too much fuel into the canopy before lighting the flame.’
‘Were you always stationed here?’
‘Trinity House could send us anywhere. The hardest light was Bishop’s Rock, five miles west of here. Sometimes the seas were so high we’d be stranded for weeks with little food. I preferred working here, while my wife was alive.’
By now we’ve reached the gallery with its high glass walls. I can see the ring of metal where the beacon once rotated, but the circular room is empty, apart from winter light flooding through the windows.
‘The building’s had its guts ripped out. I’m campaigning for the lantern to be replaced, but it won’t happen in my lifetime.’ There’s a frown on his face when he turns in my direction. ‘We worked long hours in those days and the discipline was brutal. If you missed a minute of your shift, the head keeper could get you sacked.’
I spot a chair with pillows and a blanket draped over it, facing out to sea. ‘Do you sleep here sometimes?’
He replies with a fierce stare. ‘Old habits die hard, young man. I’ve spent hundreds of nights here over the years.’
‘You must have saved a lot of lives.’
Eden’s wizened features relax suddenly. ‘Many ships would have foundered on the western rocks without this light.’
I’d like to ask about Alex Rogan but the man slips into a reverie as we circle the glass-walled room. I can see the entire island from the gallery, all the way down to Wingletang Bay. Eden must enjoy keeping watch over familiar terrain during his long vigils. He peers out at the Atlantic, as if it’s still his responsibility to protect mariners from harm. The man’s expression is calm as he surveys the ocean and I understand why his opinion carries so much weight on St Agnes. His work has given him a long view, letting him see past every obstacle. I’d like to request his support, but sense that a direct appeal would be rejected.
‘What is it you want to know?’ he asks.
‘Why Alex Rogan’s body was found on Bonfire Night. You understand the island better than anyone.’
‘That’s a terrible business. It makes no sense at all.’
‘You fished with Alex sometimes, didn’t you?’
‘He joined me some evenings last summer, if the water was high.’
‘Did he seem afraid of anything?’
‘Only fatherhood. He was nervous, but excited . . .’ Eden’s voice quietens. ‘I’ll fish with anyone who wants to drop bait off the quay, but Alex interested me more than most. He never bragged about his achievements; I liked his dry sense of humour.’
‘People aren’t giving much away. I need to interview Jimmy Curwen, but he’s nowhere to be seen.’
‘The Birdman was at his flat last night.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I saw him from up here, outside the keepers’ cottages. Jimmy’s a neighbour of mine. He always feeds his birds just before bedtime.’
‘Call me if he comes back, please. It would help the investigation.’
He studies me again. ‘You went to Naomi Vine’s house earlier today, didn’t you?’
‘You don’t miss a trick, Mr Eden.’
‘Call me Stan, but you should know, that woman’s not popular here. Most people wish she’d pack up and leave.’
The boldness of his statement shocks me. ‘Why’s that?’
‘We welcome incomers who respect our ways, but Naomi Vine only thinks of herself. I don’t want her sculptures littering our beaches. She’ll be trying to buy the lighthouse next.’ His voice is filled with disgust. ‘She’s almost persuaded the council to let her dump her rusting bits of metal all over Blanket Bay.’
It interests me that the island’s most respected citizen has taken such a strong dislike to its most creative newcomer, as if he’s terrified of change. ‘Alex visited her the night before he died.’
‘Maybe that was his mistake. I should go now, it’s time to lock up.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ I say, pressing my card into his hand.
‘Give my regards to your uncle. That man builds the finest boats in the Scillies.’
‘He’ll be glad you think so; he sends you his best wishes.’ I take the piece of granite from my pocket, then hand it him. ‘Before I go, could you translate these words for me, Stan?’
‘Someone’s not keen on you.’ Eden speaks in a lilting Cornish accent: ‘Gas kres dhe Sen Agnes na gaffo tan dha enev.’
‘What does it mean?’
He seems in a hurry to pass back the stone. ‘Leave St Agnes in peace, or fire will claim your soul.’