Nicola Upson - Two for Sorrow

‘But how on earth did they ever think they’d get away with it?’ Lettice asked, fascinated. ‘Surely they should have been more careful?’

‘Yes, I can’t help feeling that it would have been wise to prepare a more eloquent defence than “I never murdered no babies”.’ Ronnie lapsed into a convincing cockney accent, and Lydia smiled approvingly at her. ‘Seriously, though,’ she added, leaning back to allow the waiter to place a large plate of oysters in front of her, ‘isn’t this gala something to do with a children’s charity as well as the Cowdray Club?’

‘Yes—the Actors’ Orphanage. It’s Noël’s pet cause, and his aunt’s on the club’s committee.’

‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘In what way?’ Lettice asked, irritated by her sister’s habit of never quite explaining her point.

‘Well, here we are in 1935, still having to raise money for unwanted children, just so they can grow up in institutions which can’t be very pleasant, even if they are supported by the lord of the London stage. It might be legal, but it doesn’t exactly sound like progress.’

‘It’s funny—the first time I ever saw Gertie on stage, she was so pregnant she could hardly squeeze into the costumes,’ Lydia said, reaching for some bread. ‘It was just after the war, and I gather she did a matinee and an evening performance on the day before the birth. Of course, that all went tits up. If she hadn’t had her mother to dump the kid on, I suppose she would have ended up in the orphanage as well.’

‘You are sure it’s the charities that this money is going to?’ Ronnie asked, looking at Josephine with a wicked glint in her eye. ‘I’d check the takings very carefully if I were you. Charity begins chez Lawrence with her current predicament.’

‘Don’t be so scandalous,’ chided Lettice. ‘That’s all behind her now. She’s paying off the debts at fifty pounds a week—they’ve just cleared her of the bankruptcy.’

‘Bankruptcy?’

‘Good God, dear—where have you been? Don’t they have newspapers in Inverness? Miss Lawrence’s financial embarrassment has been the toast of the press for months. Apparently, she was so busy ordering new cars and flowers that she forgot to pay her laundry bills. It’s easily done, I suppose.’

‘Oh, it’s been simply awful for her,’ Lettice said sympathetically, balancing roast potatoes around the edge of her steak-and-kidney pie. ‘Gertie, her maid, even her dog—they were all turned out on to the street. In the end, her agent took them in.’

‘Good to know they’re useful for something,’ Lydia said bitterly. ‘Although I have to say, I haven’t noticed any marked drop in standards now Gertie’s slumming it.’

‘No, she’s determined not to cut back on anything.’ Lettice’s familiarity with the gossip columns was legendary, and Josephine wasn’t at all surprised by her intimate knowledge of Gertrude Lawrence’s financial affairs. ‘No—she says she’ll make up every penny through cabaret and extra bits of filming.’

‘And charity galas.’

As the Motleys continued their bickering, Josephine noticed how often Lydia’s face reverted to sadness, and she could bear it no longer. If she stayed here, she was likely to take Lydia discreetly outside and tell her everything that Marta had said, which would surely only make things worse. ‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ she said when there was a break in the sparring. ‘I’ve got another appointment with the baby farmers in the morning, and I should be getting back.’

‘Not so early, surely? You’ll stay for dessert?’

‘No, but I promise to stop by the studio tomorrow and look at my outfit. Archie assured me it’s worth trying on. I’ll see you then—about three o’clock?’

The girls nodded and let her go without any further argument. Outside in the street, she breathed a sigh of relief and looked up to Archie’s flat, but it was in darkness. Disappointed not to find him in, she turned and walked down Maiden Lane, hoping to be lucky with a cab in Bedford Street, but she hadn’t got far before she heard someone call her name. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you just go like that,’ Lettice said, hurrying up to her. ‘You’ve been upset all evening. What’s wrong, Josephine? Has something happened between you and Archie?’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s Lydia—I wasn’t expecting to see her tonight, and it was a bit awkward.’

‘Oh God—you know something about Marta, don’t you? Has she been in touch with you?’ Josephine nodded. ‘And she’s not ready for a happy reunion, by the sound of it?’

‘No, not at the moment. Perhaps not ever.’

‘Shouldn’t you tell Lydia?’

‘Yes, I should, but I need to think carefully about what I’m going to say first.’

‘Marta always liked you, didn’t she?’ Lettice looked at her and Josephine knew what was going through her mind, but she was kind enough not to force the point. Instead, she said: ‘I’m sure you’ll work it out, but if you need any help, you know where I am. No one else need ever know.’

Josephine smiled gratefully at her. ‘What will you tell the others? They’ll wonder why you’re chasing after me in the snow.’

‘No they won’t—they think I found your glove under the table.’ She squeezed Josephine’s hand. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

When Marjorie came round, she found herself lying on the workroom floor. All the main lights in the studio had been switched off, and the only glow in the room came from a lamp on Hilda Reader’s desk. It was desperately cold, and she tried to raise herself to a sitting position, but her body felt heavy and the nausea and dizziness were so extreme that she found it impossible to stay upright for more than a few seconds. Her head fell back on to the boards and she lay there in the silence, waiting for the symptoms to pass and trying to make sense of what had happened. The room was so quiet that she thought she was alone, but her relief was short-lived; a noise came from over to her left, a sound like pills being shaken from a bottle, and, as she listened more carefully, she could hear footsteps moving softly around the room. Something in their leisure-liness made her afraid.

She must have passed out again. When she regained consciousness, she was dimly aware of someone standing over her, then she felt hands under her arms, lifting and dragging her like an invalid over to the head cutter’s table. She was pulled roughly on to a chair, where her hands were fastened behind her with a length of soft material. Although she tried to protest, the words were thick and heavy in her mouth and the noise that came from her throat was unrecognisable even to her. A cold sweat broke out on her face and the palms of her hands, and—whilst a small part of her told her that it must be the effect of the spray she had inhaled—it felt like the physical expression of her fear, spreading slowly but irrevocably through her body. Desperately, she tried to see what was going on but there was a shadow between her and the lamp, and only when it moved away did she realise that what she had experienced so far was nothing compared to what was to come. The light from the lamp shone down on to a needle—not the sort that was commonplace on Hilda Reader’s desk but a sack needle, used for hessian rather than silk and familiar to Marjorie from her time in prison. Next to it were the beads she had bought that morning, still in their box. As the box was calmly lifted and opened, she heard again the sound which she had believed to be pills, and watched in horror as the beads poured out on to the desk in front of her, a stream of sharp, black glass.

The waiting was unbearable, eased only by the fact that she was so dreadfully tired. More than anything, she wanted to lie down again and allow unconsciousness to get the better of her, but she was tied to the chair and, in any case, what instinct for life she had left told her that she must try to stay awake. Her breathing came in deep, irregular sighs now, but she made one last effort to look this madness in the eye. It was her final act of defiance. The deadly calm was replaced in an instant by a frenzy of violence and hatred, and Marjorie felt hands on her face, wrenching her mouth open and stifling any attempts at a scream with handful after handful of glass. The sharp edges of the beads cut into her tongue and ground against her teeth, and her mouth began to fill with blood. She tried to spit the glass out before too much of it went back into her throat, but strong fingers held her nose, forcing her to swallow in order to breathe, and she felt the piercing certainty of death moving down into her stomach. Just for a second, the hands moved away and she was able to gasp for air, but the intensity of her breathing only served to aid the invasion of her body, leaving her choking and helpless, and then the torture began again. Her head was yanked back from behind and the needle tore through her skin, focusing her mind on a pain so great that nothing else existed, ripping the tissue in an outpouring of rage. The sensation of the thread moving in and out of her lips made her gag, but there was nowhere for the vomit to go except through her nose or back into her throat. She felt herself slowly suffocating, and her feet beat uselessly against the floor, counting out the final seconds of her life. Just before her vision began to fade, the hands were once more at her face, but this time the violence was gone. Unable to struggle any longer, Marjorie allowed her head to be moved gently round to the right and, in the full-length mirror which had been so carefully placed, she watched the ugly, humiliating horror of her own death.