Nicola Upson - Two for Sorrow

Her reticence would make sense if she had been raised in an institution, Penrose thought; even now, there was a stigma attached to that sort of upbringing. ‘And did she ever mention being attacked by a prisoner?’

She looked at him, startled. ‘No. Is that what Ethel Stuke told you? Sorry—I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m trying so hard to be discreet and respect the confidentiality of your case, but it’s not easy when I know some of the people involved.’

‘It’s because you know them that we can’t talk about it. Sod’s law, really—I’d value your opinion, but I simply can’t put you in that position. And please don’t mention it to her—the attack, I mean.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

‘Actually, I’m not terribly happy about your being at the Cowdray Club at all at the moment. Couldn’t you come to Maiden Lane and spend a couple of nights with the girls?’

‘They seem to be spending most of their time at the club right now. Ronnie told me she’s developing quite a taste for the institutional life, and Lettice has booked herself in for lunch every day until next Wednesday.’ His smile was half-hearted. ‘You mean it, don’t you? If it will stop you worrying, of course I’ll stay with them, although I can’t imagine they’ll thank me—they’re frantically busy.’

‘It’s all right—the Snipe will sort it out. She’ll be pleased to see you. Don’t make a big thing of it, though—you don’t have to tell anyone if you stay out all night, do you?’

She laughed. ‘It’s not a boarding school, Archie. I can come and go as I please.’

‘Fine. I’ll tell the Snipe to make up a bed.’

‘All right. There’s no hurry, though—I thought I’d pop in to Holly Place first if there’s time when we get back. You were right yesterday—I do need to speak to Marta.’ She waited, but he said nothing. ‘You haven’t asked me anything about it.’

‘Perhaps I just don’t want to know.’ The remark came out more abruptly than he had intended, but it had the advantage, at least, of being honest.

‘It isn’t what you think.’

‘I’m glad you know what I think, because I don’t.’

‘Oh come on, Archie. This isn’t like you. Can’t we at least talk about it?’

‘No, Josephine, I don’t think we can. Who you see and what you do is entirely up to you—you’ve always made that abundantly clear. But surely you can’t expect me to sit here like some sort of passive sounding-board while you work out where your heart is? I’m not a bloody saint.’ He could see he had shocked her; in truth, he had shocked himself, but there was no point in trying to retract his words now. ‘This is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself. I can’t help you.’

They sat in silence as the train snaked through the East End. When they got off at Liverpool Street, he was surprised to find Fallowfield waiting for him on the platform. ‘I’ve got some information, Sir—I thought the sooner you heard it, the better.’ He smiled at Josephine. ‘Can I drop you somewhere, Miss Tey?’

‘Thanks, Bill, but no. I’ll get a taxi.’

‘No, Josephine, don’t be silly,’ Penrose said. ‘At least let us take you to Hampstead. I didn’t mean that we can’t ever …’

She cut him off abruptly. ‘No, Archie, it’s fine—you’re busy. And you’re right. I need to sort this out for myself. Tell me one thing, though: Marjorie’s murder and what happened to Lucy—is it because I’ve been digging up Sach and Walters?’

‘No. Marjorie knew nothing about her family history—I’m convinced of that.’

‘Good. I’ll see you at the gala.’ He nodded and moved to kiss her, but she had already walked away.

Chapter Thirteen

The taxi jolted slowly but steadily up the hill, and Josephine sat in the back, wondering what on earth she was doing. The driver’s first few efforts at conversation had met with such a brusque response that he soon lapsed into silence, but the peace did nothing to help her make sense of her thoughts, or to form any sort of rational decision on what she was going to say when she knocked at Marta’s door. Archie’s words had hit a nerve, and not only because she recognised how upset he must be to make his feelings so obvious; in truth, she was at a loss even to understand the situation she found herself in, and she certainly had no idea how to resolve it. The only thing she was sure of was that the longer she hesitated, the more damage she would do.

Hampstead rested on higher ground than most of the city, and had a clean, country feel to it, even on a grey, November afternoon; the church clock which struck the half hour as she got out of the car had little other noise to compete with, and the spire which nestled among the trees just ahead of her could easily have graced any village in the south of England. When she turned into Holly Place, she found it quieter still; as she rang the bell at number 8, only the poignant song of birds about to roost and the dry rustle of leaves along the pavement disturbed the peace. She waited, but there was no answer, so she rang again, relief mingling with disappointment at the prospect of finding no one in. Still, the house refused to come to life, and she was just about to leave when a woman ran down the steps of the house next door. ‘She’s in the garden,’ she called to Josephine over her shoulder. ‘Try round the back.’

She did as she was told, following a narrow path around the side of the house. Her heart sank when she heard Marta’s voice—the last thing she needed was to walk uninvited into a crowd of strangers—but she resisted the temptation to turn back. In fact, Marta was alone. She stood next to a pile of earth by the far wall, wrestling with a large ceanothus root which stubbornly refused to budge from the ground. On the lawn next to her, there was a wheelbarrow piled high with dead branches, stones and bits of brick, and a motley collection of spades, trowels and secateurs, none of which seemed to be of much use in the task she had set herself. ‘Come out, you bastard,’ she swore loudly, oblivious to the fact she had any company other than the tree.

‘Do you want some help?’

Marta let go of the wood as if it had burnt her. ‘Josephine! What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Is this a bad time?’

‘No, of course not. Well, yes, but only because of my pride. Look at me—I’m such a mess.’ She gestured at the mud on her face and the twigs caught in her hair, but, if anything, she looked more striking than ever, and it occurred to Josephine that this was the first time she had ever seen Marta truly at peace with herself. ‘Muck and dirt wasn’t exactly what I envisaged wearing when we met. If we met.’

The contentment left her face, and Josephine knew that Marta was trying to work out if her appearance five days ahead of their scheduled meeting was good news or bad. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Muck and dirt suit you. What do you want me to do?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re hardly dressed for gardening.’

‘No, I’m not. It was probably short-sighted of me, but I didn’t expect to be digging up trees in November in virtual darkness. If you insist on it, though, I might as well join you.’ She took off her hat and fur, and threw them down on a wrought-iron table, next to her bag. ‘Anyway, they’re only clothes.’

Marta smiled. ‘At least let me get you a coat.’ She disappeared into the house for a moment, and returned carrying an old tweed jacket, gloves and a pair of boots. ‘I’ll feel better if we both look ridiculous. I can’t be seen in rags while you stand there in Chanel.’

Josephine slipped the jacket on, noticing that it smelt faintly of cigarette smoke and Marta’s perfume. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said. ‘How long have you been here?’