Nicola Upson - Two for Sorrow

Ronnie made a great show of rummaging under the table for a napkin, but Archie seemed less moved. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered under his breath, and Lettice looked questioningly at Josephine; she shrugged, completely bewildered by his reaction.

‘Now to the organisation closest to my own heart and, I know, to many of yours. Of all the people I’ve met in my life, the one I feel most privileged to have known and worked alongside is the lady who has given her name to this club—her name, and so much more. Annie, Viscountess Cowdray, was one of the most sincere and true friends that it is possible for a body of professional women to have. She had a wonderful grasp of business matters, a great ability to make quick and wise decisions and, above all, a deep compassion and desire to be of use to those who needed help.’ She pointed upwards, to three stained-glass windows built into one of the walls, each depicting a cherub in a different pose. ‘Tonight, we’re watched over by the three symbols of the nursing profession, Love, Fortitude and Faith—although some would say that to those three should be added a good sense of humour and a strong back.’ The laughter was most appreciative amongst the nurses in the room, Josephine noticed. ‘Lady Cowdray had more than her fair share of all of them, and it is to her that we owe the success and good standing that her club and this college enjoy all over the world today. If I may, though, I’d like to finish on a more personal note.’ She paused, and looked slowly round the room. ‘Tonight will be my last public event as secretary of the Cowdray Club. The last thirteen years have brought me great joy and satisfaction, but, while I hope my reserves of love, fortitude and faith are as strong as ever, the apocryphal qualities let me down increasingly in the face of old age and it’s time to hand over the reins to younger hands. I hope that my successor, whoever she is, will find this job as rewarding and fulfilling as I have. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen—please enjoy the show, and give as generously as you can to our causes.’

She relinquished the stage to the first act of the night, and Archie turned to Josephine. ‘Did you know she was going to do that?’ he asked, almost accusingly.

‘No, I had no idea. I’ve hardly seen her over the weekend.’ She looked at him, a little put out by his tone. ‘I suppose she wants to leave while she’s still got the respect of most of the members. That scene with Gerry on Saturday must have been the last straw for her, don’t you think?’ Archie said nothing and, although she made several more attempts at conversation, he seemed far too preoccupied to listen to a word she was saying. Exasperated by his silence, and able to think of only one explanation for it, she took his face in her hands and made him look at her. ‘Archie, would you be happier if we didn’t see each other?’ she asked.

‘What?’ At least now she had his attention. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This is about yesterday, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Josephine, but that’s not why I’m so distracted. Forgive me.’ He kept her hand where it was with his own, and smiled at her. ‘But in answer to your question, I can’t imagine a world in which you and I don’t see each other. Nothing would make me un happier. I know it’s not always easy, and I know that there are bound to be things in both our lives that get in the way, things that can’t be shared, but there will never be a time for me when your absence is preferable to your company, and I hope you feel the same.’

She was about to say something when a waiter came over to their table and passed Archie a note. ‘Shit,’ he said, standing up to leave. ‘I’m sorry, Josephine—I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about this later.’

‘I thought you’d want to know immediately. She died ten minutes ago. There was nothing I could do. Her heart was so weak that there was insufficient blood-flow to the vital organs, and the kidneys never regained their function. I’m sorry.’

Penrose realised that Miriam Sharpe was expressing regret at Lucy’s death rather than its inconvenience to his plans, and normally his priorities would have been the same, but Celia Bannerman’s resignation speech had created a sense of urgency which left him uncharacteristically tactless. ‘Who knows about this?’ he asked.

‘Only you and one other nurse, and the policeman who was on duty. But I can’t keep this quiet, if that’s what you’re about to ask. There are procedures to follow and next of kin to be notified, not to mention the small matter of common decency.’

‘I know, and I wouldn’t put you in this position unless it were absolutely necessary,’ Penrose said, desperate to buy himself some time: if Celia Bannerman found out that Lucy was dead, she would have no reason to take any more risks and could happily sail off into a glorious retirement, leaving him with absolutely no proof whatsoever. ‘Please—just give me an hour.’

Miriam Sharpe thought for what seemed like an age to Penrose before saying: ‘I won’t hold up what I need to do, Inspector, but neither will I go out of my way to let anyone know about Lucy’s death. Everyone is preoccupied downstairs at the moment, and that should give you the time you’re asking for. But I hope I don’t need to tell you that I can’t have policemen crawling all over what is sadly now a place of rest.’

She didn’t: even in his desperation to trap Celia Bannerman, Penrose had no intention of offering up a young girl’s body as bait. He thanked Miriam Sharpe, and went to tell Wyles and Fallowfield about the change of plan.

The lights dimmed again after the interval, and an audience which had responded to the entertainment so far with polite applause stood and cheered as the curtain rose on the stars of the night. Noël and Gertie, dressed as music-hall performers, stood in front of a painted street scene which could have been the backdrop to any provincial theatre in England; both wore curly red wigs and sailor clothes with exaggerated bell-bottomed trousers, and each carried a telescope. They launched into their first number, and Archie raised his glass to an older man on a nearby table, who smiled suspiciously as he returned the greeting. ‘Who’s that?’ Josephine asked.

‘The chief constable.’

‘Why’s he looking at you like that?’

‘Because he thinks I’m about to disgrace him with the Home Office.’

She stared at him. ‘And are you?’

‘I hope not.’

They turned back to the stage, where Gertrude Lawrence was taking particular delight in mocking the seedy touring life which she had known earlier in her own career; Coward’s music, and the banter which ran in between the songs, perfectly captured the half-desperate atmosphere of a struggling music hall, an atmosphere that Josephine remembered herself from her early introductions to theatre. The piece was a light-hearted affair, both loving and cynical, but even the ridiculously exaggerated outfits couldn’t hide the magic of the partnership on stage; it was a radiant, if fragile, glamour which had sustained people since the war and which continued to keep them spellbound now, even as most of them feared that their lives were once again held to ransom by politics, and Josephine doubted that there was a single person in the room who wasn’t thankful for it.

As the orchestra picked up the refrain and the on-stage husband and wife lapsed into a series of terrible jokes, Josephine noticed Mary Size leave the room, followed swiftly by Fallowfield. She watched him go, surprised that he was willing to miss a second of the performance; he glanced quickly at Archie as he passed, but she thought nothing of it. His departure left an empty seat by the Snipe, who seemed to be finding the performance a vast improvement on Romeo and Juliet ; the Motleys’ housekeeper smiled when she caught Josephine’s eye, and Josephine hoped to God that she could rely on her to be discreet about the bed which sat redundant in Maiden Lane. She didn’t want to have secrets from Archie, but she wasn’t ready to face her own feelings for Marta yet, let alone discuss them with anyone else.