Nicola Upson - An Expert in Murder

‘You’re getting your historical dramas a bit muddled, darling,’

said Lettice. ‘But it sounds like Josephine’s in for a ghastly afternoon. All those boys do when they get together is bitch and squab-ble and talk about money.’

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‘Trust me – I’m more than a match for them with the bitching and squabbling as long as we get to the money eventually,’

Josephine laughed. ‘By the way, what did you mean about my bringing a mystery with me?’

‘Oh, there was some nasty business at the railway station last night,’ said Lettice, whose grasp of real-life tragedy was never quite as acute as her ability to bring it to the fore on stage. ‘The papers are beautifully melodramatic about it this morning, but we don’t want that to ruin our breakfast. What I’m dying to know,’ she continued, casting a sly glance at Ronnie, ‘is what you thought of Lydia’s new find. You’re always such a marvellous judge of character, and I expect she came to meet you? The two of them are practically inseparable at the moment – we’ve never seen anything like it. I gave it three weeks before Lydia started sniffing round somewhere else and Ronnie said a fortnight. George, bless him, reckoned a couple of months but men have no idea how gloriously fickle we can be when we’re bored. Anyway, as far as we can make out, we’re all wrong: she doesn’t seem to have even thought about anyone else. At times I’d have said she was almost happy!’

Josephine agreed. ‘I wasn’t with them for very long, but Lydia did seem happy. And it wasn’t that sickly new-love happiness, either. I have to admit, coming down on the train I was dreading that – it’s always so embarrassing when you’re stuck in the middle of it. It was contentment as much as happiness and I’ve never seen that in Lydia before – she’s always been too restless.’

‘And Marta?’ Lettice asked again, determined to have her verdict.

‘Well, she’s another beauty, certainly. And she seems very nice,’

she finished, conscious of delivering the sort of anti-climax which would never stand up to the Motleys’ relentless gaze.

‘Nice? What sort of word is that for a writer?’ demanded Ronnie indignantly. ‘We know she’s nice, we can see that for ourselves, but we rely on you for something a little more sophisticated. What do those big dark eyes tell you?’

‘That she’s got big dark eyes,’ Josephine said, with a native 37

matter-of-factness that even the Motleys could not penetrate.

‘You surely don’t believe all that nonsense about reading character in the face, do you? I only ever use that when I’ve got myself into a bit of a hole with the plot and need to move things along.

To be honest, she really didn’t say very much at all and that in itself is a good thing, if you want my opinion. But what she did say seemed awfully – well, nice.’

‘Talking of the strong but silent type, our dear cousin telephoned at the crack of dawn to make sure you were all right and to say he was coming over this morning,’ said Ronnie, realising that any further probing would get her nowhere. ‘He sounded a bit out of sorts, actually. When I told him that Lettice and I hadn’t thought for one moment that he’d be able to wait until dinner to see you, he quite snapped my head off. That’s the trouble with policemen: they’ve got no sense of humour.’

In perfectly timed acknowledgement of Ronnie’s observation, there was an impatient knocking at the front door. ‘I expect that’ll be him now,’ she said, as Mrs Snipe glided past to admit the caller with all the momentum of a galleon in full sail. ‘We’d better stop having such a nice time or he’ll arrest the lot of us.’

When the housekeeper returned, the man who followed her did seem distinctly at odds with merriment. Certainly, he bore scant resemblance to the Archie Penrose who, in spite of his cousin’s unjust reproach, usually left his job firmly behind when he came to call on the Motleys and blended beautifully into the chic eccentric-ity of their studio.

‘Good God, Archie, you look absolutely awful,’ said Ronnie, who excelled at speaking her mind, while Lettice responded with the greatest solace she knew: ‘Is Mrs Snipe getting you something to eat?’ she asked, pushing the toast rack, now a shadow of its former self, towards the empty place at the breakfast table.

Josephine shared the Motleys’ concern at Archie’s mood, but not their surprise. During a friendship that had spanned almost twenty years, she had come to realise that there were two sides to this complex individual: the handsome, gregarious entertainer, whose warmth and intelligence made people from all walks of life 38

instantly comfortable in his company and who was genuinely interested in everyone he met; and the detached, serious observer, whose liking for his fellow man did not blind him to the baser motivations of the human mind or to the pain which underpinned more relationships than most people cared to acknowledge. While she enjoyed and admired the former, Josephine’s emotional affinities were instinctively towards the latter and, although Archie protested that these were qualities which Scotland Yard demanded of him, the truth of the matter was that in his work he found a natural outlet for a view of the world which had already taken root in his soul.

Penrose waved away all offers of food but gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. ‘I need to talk to Josephine,’ he said, looking at her for the first time. ‘In private, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about us – we only live here,’ muttered Ronnie as Lettice poked her hard in the shoulder and sent George to gather up the shoes.

‘Just ignore her, darling, we’ve got to go out anyway. Lydia needs a few alterations done in time for this afternoon. In spite of the plague, it would appear that Anne of Bohemia is putting on weight.

Some people just have no self-discipline when it comes to food.’

Right on cue, Mrs Snipe reappeared and, ignoring Archie’s protestations, placed in front of him a plateful of perfectly cooked kidneys and something that looked suspiciously like a kipper. As the Motleys bustled round, fetching coats and scarves and the various bits of costume that they needed for the afternoon, Josephine looked questioningly at Archie. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quietly.

‘In a minute,’ he said, waiting for the sisters to leave. She carried on opening her mail, glad to have something to do, but her attention kept straying back to Archie. She watched as he ran his fingers idly up and down the handle of his coffee cup, lost in his own thoughts and, for a moment, the gesture took her back to the summer of 1919, when they had met for the first time after the war and his face had expressed the same concentrated sadness as it did now. By that time, the initial bond between them – her lover and Archie’s closest friend – had been dead for almost three years, 39

killed helping another officer at the Somme, and Archie had finally come to see her in Scotland. She would never forget the pain in his voice as he described to her how, in the midst of that senseless slaughter, all for the sake of a few yards of mud, Jack Mackenzie, a young private from the 2nd Gordon Highlanders, had responded to a cry from no man’s land. There, another soldier, who had lain motionless near the German wire for nigh on two days and was believed by the British troops to be beyond all aid, had, in defiance of nature, regained consciousness and called for help. Following all the instincts of his training – which was medical, not military –

Jack had left his trench and walked the short distance to where the man lay. Armed only with a handkerchief, which he waved in the direction of the higher ground held by the enemy, he arrived unscathed and was allowed to dress the wounds as best he could, giving the soldier a drink and reassurance that a stretcher party would be sent to gather him safely in under the cover of darkness.