Two for Sorrow (7 page)

‘Well, start by opening this,' she said, handing over the flat, square parcel. ‘At least the walls are peaceful—you might even be able to see it.'

Intrigued, Archie unwrapped the brown paper and stared in delight at the painting, a delicate watercolour of a lake surrounded by woodland and the perfect likeness of his home in Cornwall, where he and Josephine had spent some time together during the summer. Regardless of its personal meaning, the painting was superb and the artist—like all the best watercolourists—had made the medium look deceptively
simple. The minute detail of the trees contrasted with spontaneous washes of colour for the sky and the surface of the water and, looking at it now, Josephine felt as though she would sense the magic of the place even if she had never been there.

‘Loe Pool!' Archie exclaimed. ‘Where on earth did you find this?'

‘I got it while I was there,' she said, pleased that he liked it so much. ‘There was a painter on holiday—he was staying in the village, but he was by the lake whenever I went for a walk; I must have seen him do at least fifteen pictures. I pestered him to let me buy one, and eventually he agreed—just to get rid of me, probably. It came back from the framer this afternoon.' She watched his face as he looked down at the painting, and knew that he was thinking about the tragic events that had taken place there just a few months earlier. ‘I thought it might help to remind you of how beautiful the place is,' she added gently, ‘and perhaps wipe out a few images that aren't so pleasant.'

Archie looked across at her. ‘Thank you,' he said quietly. ‘It's perfect.' He stood up and held the painting against the wall, where a previous occupant had obligingly left a picture hook. ‘Over the fireplace, I think, don't you?' She nodded, and he hung it in place, then picked up his glass. ‘To a quieter winter.'

‘I'll drink to that.'

‘Now—tell me about this new book.'

Josephine accepted a cigarette, and Archie listened while she outlined the crimes of Sach and Walters and explained her own connection with Sach's daughter. ‘Have you heard of the case?' she asked when she'd finished.

He shook his head. ‘No, although the crime's familiar and I know about Dyer. She tends to eclipse everyone else, simply
because she was so prolific. It's funny you should mention it now, though—it's very topical. Baby farmers are high on the government's new agenda.'

‘What? You mean it still goes on?'

‘Absolutely. The Home Secretary's just announced a new committee to look into the whole adoption issue. Wait a minute.' He got up to rummage through a pile of newspapers, and handed her a copy of Tuesday's
Daily Mail
. ‘Here you are—“Government Drive against Baby Farmers”. The process is different these days, of course—it's more a case of selling babies to countries where it's illegal to adopt native children—but the principle is exactly the same. Making money out of unwanted children.' He refilled their glasses while she read the newspaper article, then asked: ‘What will the book be? A fictionalised account of the Sach and Walters case, or a modern version of it?'

‘I haven't really decided. It's so different from anything I've written recently that it hasn't found its shape yet. I suppose
Kif
is the closest I've come to looking at the story of a crime without turning it into a detective novel, so it's a bit like going back to the first book I ever wrote, but with a true case. Anyway, I'm going to have a look through all the newspaper accounts of the trial tomorrow and find out as much as I can about the two women to see what that throws up, but I think what really interests me is the impact the crimes had on everyone else around them. When Sach met Walters—however that happened—they set up a chain of events which didn't just stop with their execution, and so many people were drawn into it; their families, the mothers of the children, the people who were responsible for them in prison. It's a whole cast of characters, unconnected except by these two women and
changed by them for ever. Look at what happened to Elizabeth Sach, for God's sake, and that was nearly fifteen years later. I don't think I'd be taking this on if I hadn't known her and seen first hand how crimes can linger.'

‘That's interesting. It sounds like your book starts where most of them finish.'

‘Yes, I suppose it does.' She smiled. ‘I think I've only just realised that myself. You don't often get the aftermath in detective fiction—the sense of life going on, I mean. Or not going on, in Lizzie's case. It's funny, and I hadn't thought about it before, but Lizzie would never have been able to come to terms with what her mother did because she wasn't given the chance to talk to her about it. The death sentence doesn't allow for that sort of solace.' She set down her glass for a second to put some more coal on the fire. ‘I'm glad you think it sounds interesting, though—I was beginning to have my doubts after talking to Celia earlier. She wasn't exactly encouraging.'

‘Her name sounds familiar. She was one of the warders, you say?'

‘That's right. And she does a lot of charity work, so her name's often in the papers—usually mentioned in the same breath as the Queen.'

He laughed at her expression of distaste. ‘The society pages aren't exactly the ones I'm drawn to first when I pick up
The Times
.'

‘No, nor me. But she did tell me she's called your lot in to the Cowdray Club—perhaps that it's, although I wouldn't have thought it was serious enough to bother the inspector with.'

‘Ah, the anonymous letters—that's it. I knew I'd heard her name recently.'

‘Letters?'

‘Yes. Sorry—I shouldn't have said anything, but it sounded like you already knew.'

‘I don't know anything about anonymous letters. Celia told me it was theft.'

‘Yes, there's been some of that, too, apparently, but you're right—that wouldn't concern us. Unpleasant letters to the great and the good, however, are a different matter altogether. The chief constable's wife is a member.'

‘Unpleasant in what way?'

‘I suppose spiteful would be the best word to describe them. There's nothing threatening or violent about them, but they play on people's vulnerabilities with remarkable skill. Four members of the staff or committee have had them so far, including Miss Bannerman herself.'

‘And do they come from another member or from outside the club?'

‘We don't know yet, and I can't go into details, but they imply a knowledge of the recipients rather than just random targeting.'

‘How upsetting. Celia said there'd been trouble between the nurses and the other members—I wonder if it's anything to do with that?'

‘Possibly. I don't think you need to worry, though—it's not the members themselves who are receiving them; only people closely involved in the running of the club. You haven't had anything, have you?'

Josephine decided to come clean. ‘Nothing like that, no—only a mysterious gardenia that no one seemed to want to put a name to.'

‘What?' he asked in mock offence. ‘You mean someone's welcomed you to town before I did? I'll have to up my act.'

‘Well, at least wait until the other one's died—the room's too small to look like a florist's shop.' She drained her glass. ‘I'd better go—it's late, and I've got a long morning at the British Museum ahead of me.'

‘I'll walk you back—unless you'd rather take a cab?'

‘No—let's walk.' They went out into the street and headed towards Leicester Square, and Josephine took his arm, enjoying the easy way that she and Archie seemed to fall into each other's company these days, no matter how long it was since they were last together. It hadn't always been that way: when Josephine's lover—Archie's closest friend—had been killed at the Somme, Archie had blamed himself, and the subsequent distance between them, the impossibility of ever understanding how the other truly felt, was one of the many ways in which the war had blighted the lives of those who survived it. She knew that their relationship would never be straightforward—neither of them had the temperament to make it so—but they had both learned to accept its limitations, and to rely on an honesty and understanding which they found only in each other. ‘I wonder why Celia didn't mention anything about those letters to me?' Josephine asked as they picked their way through the late-night revellers in Piccadilly.

‘Nothing more sinister than an eye on the club's reputation, I should think. You're a client as well as an acquaintance, don't forget, and she won't want to unsettle the members. She's got books to balance, and discretion and privacy are what her customers pay for. News of this getting out is the last thing she needs, especially with the gala coming up on Monday. That's bound to attract publicity.'

‘You're still coming with me, I hope?'

‘Of course, although I'm heartily sick of it already. Whenever I do see Lettice and Ronnie, it's all they seem to talk about.'

‘It's quite a coup for the club, though, getting Noël and Gertie—especially when
Tonight at 8.30
hasn't even been seen in London yet.'

‘Isn't some relative of his involved in the Cowdray Club?'

‘His aunt, yes. He agreed to do it for her as long as some of the money goes to the Actors' Orphanage. He's president, and he takes his role very seriously, apparently. I suppose that'll be another bone of contention—even less money for the nurses.'

‘It could turn into quite an interesting evening—anonymous letters, charities at each other's throats. I suppose it's more interesting than just waiting to see what plum role Noël's written for himself this time.'

She hit his shoulder playfully. ‘Don't act the cynic with me. You loved
Private Lives
when we went to see it. In fact, I seem to remember you were quite tongue-tied with awe when Gertie spoke to you at the party afterwards, and we could all hear the ice cubes rattling when she asked you to hold her drink.'

‘All right, all right,' he said, holding his hands up in defeat as they turned into Cavendish Square. ‘I do have a soft spot for Miss Lawrence but I'll try to curb it on the night.' They stopped outside the club. ‘Listen, I don't know how much time I'll have over the weekend, but it would be nice to see you. Do you have any plans?'

‘Only to get some more work done, and to call in on the girls to try the dress they've made me for the gala. They haven't told me anything about it, but they've made enough clothes for me by now to know what I like.'

‘I've seen it, and I don't think you'll be disappointed. Shall I telephone when I know what I'm doing?'

‘Yes, do. There's a new Hitchcock on at the Odeon—we could go to see that.'

‘Excellent, but it might be short notice.'

‘That doesn't matter. I'll be here most of the time.'

‘Am I allowed in if it's not on official business?'

‘Only if I vouch for you, so no more talk of Gertrude Lawrence.' She kissed him goodnight and ran up the steps to the club, feeling much more cheerful than when she had left it. The lift was still out of order, so she took the stairs reluctantly, thinking how ashamed Celia Bannerman would be if she saw her pause for breath at the second flight: Anstey girls were not supposed to pant, even in the grip of approaching middle age. Ashamed of herself, she pushed on to the third floor and was surprised to see her bedroom door ajar. There was a light on inside, although she knew she had left the room in darkness, and the spiteful letters—which had seemed a world away in the warmth of Archie's flat—suddenly seemed much closer to home. Gently, she pushed the door open a little further. The lamp was on at her desk, and the girl she had met earlier—the one who had knocked her parcels to the floor—was standing by the chair, reading through the pile of papers which Josephine had left by her typewriter before she went out.

‘What are you doing here at this time of night?' she asked, relieved and annoyed at the same time.

The girl jumped and threw the pages down as though they had scalded her. When she turned to face Josephine, it was obvious that she'd been crying. ‘I'm so sorry, Miss. I brought you the vase that you asked for earlier, and I … I just …' Unable to control her tears, she pushed past Josephine and ran down the corridor towards the stairs.

Still a little shaken, Josephine glanced quickly round the
room to make sure that nothing was missing, then bent down to pick the pages up. She put them back in order, noticing that the ink on the most recent work was smudged in several places. Was this what had upset Lucy? she wondered, as angry at herself for leaving the work out in plain view as she was at the girl for reading what did not concern her. Or had something else happened in the club? Worried now, she walked quickly back to the main staircase, hoping to be able to call Lucy back and talk to her—but the girl was nowhere to be seen.

‘Fucking charity,' said Ronnie, shutting the door to the workroom behind her and leaning heavily against it as though something savage were at her heels. ‘It may well begin at home, but I didn't expect to have to live with it morning, noon and night. I don't know why we do it to ourselves.'