Nicola Upson - Two for Sorrow

‘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.

Chapter Three

‘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.’

Lettice looked up from the design she was working on and rinsed her paintbrush vigorously in a Staffordshire harvest jug which stood on her desk, chipped and missing its handle like most of the antiques she collected. ‘Cheer up, darling,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s nearly over.’

‘Is it, though? I know we’ve almost finished the costumes, but somebody’—Ronnie looked pointedly at her sister—‘somebody agreed to make the do-gooders’ evening gowns for them and donate all the profits to the charity. So now we’ve got to clothe the whole of the bloody Cowdray Club as well as their ridiculous gala night.’ Lettice caught her eye accusingly. ‘All right, I know there are only eight of them, but it feels like the whole club.’