Nicola Upson - An Expert in Murder

Marta sensed her dilemma. ‘While you decide what’s best, can I ask you to do something else? Will you go to Elspeth’s funeral? Say goodbye to her for me. Hello and goodbye.’

With mixed feelings, Josephine agreed. She wanted to pay her own respects, too, of course, but she had always hated the trappings of professional mourning and resented having to say goodbye to those she loved in such an atmosphere.

‘And make sure the new book gets published – under my name this time. Give the money to a charity that cares for women. Cares for them in this life, I mean, not one that just redeems their souls for the next. That’s if it sells, of course.’

‘Of course it will sell. You don’t need me to tell you how good it is.’ She paused, then gave it her final shot. ‘The third novel would be even better, though.’

It was a straw, she knew, but in spite of everything Marta seemed gratified by Josephine’s regard for her work. ‘At least I know the manuscript’s in good hands this time,’ she said. ‘And I’ve always hankered after a foreword by someone famous if you have time on your hands.’ She held up the papers in her hand, the manuscript of the book that had started so much trouble.

‘Seriously, Josephine, whatever happens to me I want you to put the record straight about this. Write a foreword that explains everything, and make sure people get to read it.’

A crowd of well-wishers was gathering to see loved ones safely on their various journeys, and Marta looked back at the carriages.

As a trail of steam from the engine signalled the promise of departure, Josephine finally made up her mind. ‘No, Marta, write it yourself and send it to me from wherever you are,’ she said, pushing her quickly towards the train. ‘I’ll make sure it’s read, but promise me you’ll do that before you even think of doing anything else.’

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Marta turned and looked at her for a long time. ‘I promise,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Josephine.’

‘And think about what you do after that. Please.’ They kissed as if the journey heralded nothing more than a week at the seaside, then Marta got on board without looking back and Josephine lost sight of her. She waited until the train was pulling out, then turned back to face Archie’s fury. In the end, it was she who had broken her promise, not him, and there was also the small matter of tampering with evidence to own up to. Before she had taken half a dozen steps, however, she heard her name called and looked up in surprise to find Fallowfield coming towards her. He was alone and she looked questioningly at him, wondering where Archie had gone. Shrugging as apologetically as a policeman could, Fallowfield nodded towards the train, which by now had almost disappeared from view.

So Archie had been one step ahead of her after all. She should have known. Her anger and frustration threatened to get the better of her and, on the verge of tears, she brushed aside Fallowfield’s arm and walked back up the platform, desperate for a few moments alone. It was the other train’s turn to depart now, and she had to move several yards further on to get some peace from the hustle and bustle. Shivering from the cold, she looked sadly back at the carriages, remembering the journey down with Elspeth and wondering what would happen when Archie caught up with Marta. Her attention was caught by the lamps going on in the final compartment, and she watched as a mother and daughter settled themselves by the window. How different things could have been, she thought, and was about to turn away when another woman slid back the carriage door and settled into one of the vacant seats.

She stared in astonishment, but Marta simply put her finger to her lips. From a distance, it was difficult to be sure but Josephine could have sworn she was smiling as the train moved slowly out into the evening.

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Sixteen

In the early hours of Monday morning, St Martin’s Lane was still reluctant to engage with a new day. Lydia slipped quietly from the Motleys’ studio and out into the deserted street, confident that the soft click of the front door would not be noticed: everyone inside was exhausted, and unlikely to stir for at least another hour or two. Unable to face going back to her digs the night before, she had been glad of company – but sleep was out of the question. In fact, feeling as she did now, she wondered if she would ever manage to sleep again.

Across the road, the New Theatre seemed strangely untouched by the violence: its walls were as solid as ever; its steps as polished; and the photographs on the boards outside – apart from being half-covered with a ‘Final Week’ announcement – promised the familiar glimpse of romance and excitement. How extraordinary that this glamorous world of make-believe should still exist in the face of such horror, she thought, but exist it did – and the play would indeed go on. Archie had confirmed that performances could begin again as normal on Tuesday and, although Johnny had offered to put an understudy on for Lydia or to cancel the rest of the week as a mark of respect, she had refused both options, knowing that work would get her through as nothing else could and that Bernard would not want Terry’s first week in charge to be dark. She had little doubt that Johnny would make a success of what had been left to him, but what his reign would mean for her she could not say.

She crossed the street and sat down outside the theatre, watching as the light grew stronger over the city. Was Marta somewhere 275

waiting for the day to start, or had she already taken that last, terrible step? Lydia had been furious with Josephine for letting her go, but she knew in her heart that it was a selfish reaction which stemmed in part from jealousy: those vital moments had created a bond between her lover and her friend from which she was excluded and, in her grief, she found that hard to accept. She wanted to believe that she could have succeeded where Josephine had failed, but was too honest to ignore the truth for long. Now, her anger replaced by helplessness and regret, she was left to reflect on what she could have done to make Marta want to live. Could she have put work second for Marta’s sake? Smiling sadly, she was brave enough to acknowledge both the answer and the guilt that came with it. She had loved her, certainly, but that had not been enough – for either of them.

Just for a moment, Lydia saw herself in ten years’ time – grateful for insignificant parts that kept her on the stage; enduring long, second-rate tours in bleak lodgings with poor company; and trail-ing a string of broken relationships. She was grateful to Aubrey for having left her financially comfortable and she had always longed for a house in the country, a place to retreat to when she was not on the stage, but perhaps she should consider more permanent changes?

A van turned into St Martin’s Lane and idled its way up the street, stopping just a few yards away. The milkman got out to place a couple of cans on the Salisbury’s doorstep, and looked surprised to see someone sitting outside the theatre at the wrong end of the day. Then he recognised her, raised his cap politely and returned to his van. Instead of driving on, though, he poured a glass of milk and brought it over with a piece of paper.

‘Early rehearsal, Miss?’ he joked, and handed her the milk.

‘This’ll keep you going till they let you in. I’ve been to the show a couple of times myself, but the wife practically lives here. No disrespect, but thank God it’s finishing or I’d be bankrupt.’

Lydia laughed, and nodded at the paper. ‘Would you like me to sign that for her?’ she asked, taking the stubby pencil that was offered and chatting graciously until the milkman felt obliged to 276

get on his way. How easily the mask came down, she thought, when he had gone. A new career? Who was she trying to fool?