by Nicola Upson
“Not as far as I know. I think they just parted and lived their separate lives.” She watched while Betty and the actress playing Karen Wright came back for one final bow. “This will make her career, you know, provided she chooses carefully from now on. Hers and Charity’s if the story gets any bigger.”
“What?” Marta listened as Josephine told her about the pen name. “Do you think that’s all this has been, then? A cynical bid for the limelight, and damn anyone else who gets hurt in the process?”
“I’m not sure, but I doubt that crumbs off my casting table would be enough to turn her head now. In hindsight, I probably should have tried a different approach.”
She was right to be skeptical. As soon as they arrived at the stage door, jostling for position with a gaggle of fans and reporters, the man on duty shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Miss Tey, but Miss Banks sends her regrets. She simply doesn’t have time to see you today.”
Josephine had been half-expecting the rejection, but she wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of such a casual dismissal, and her frustration got the better of her. “Perhaps if you could explain to her that we just need a few minutes …”
She was interrupted by Marta’s hand on her arm. “What my colleague is too discreet to mention is that we’ve come here today on behalf of someone else. My name is Marta Fox, and I work for Mr. Hitchcock and his wife …” She let the words hit home before continuing, and Josephine stared at her in astonishment. “Miss Tey, as you may know, has recently provided the source material for one of Mr. Hitchcock’s finest films, and she and I are currently working on a new project that may be of interest to Miss Banks. Knowing of Miss Tey’s past association with her …”
“Wait a minute—did you just say Hitchcock?” The American accent was pronounced, and Marta turned to the man who seemed so proud of his own voice that he obviously wanted everyone to hear it. He was in his fifties, heavily built and expensively dressed, and Josephine took against him instantly.
“That’s right.”
“Alfred Hitchcock.”
Marta suppressed a smile. “And Alma Reville, yes. Who are you?”
“Teddy Banks, Betty’s husband. Delighted to meet you, Miss Fox.”
Josephine was used to fading into the background whenever a certain type of man set eyes on Marta, and it amused rather than offended her, but today she felt obliged to speak up, if only to corroborate her lover’s outrageous ruse to get them backstage. “Mr. Banks, perhaps you could persuade your wife to give us five minutes? That really is all we need, lovely as it would be to talk about old times.”
“Hell, you can have as many minutes as you like if you’re here for Alfred Hitchcock. Even better—why don’t you join us for dinner?”
“That’s very kind, but I’m afraid we have other plans, and time is pressing.”
“Then I’ll go and tell Betty you’re on your way. Wait right here.”
He disappeared toward the dressing rooms, ready to groom his wife for her future film career, and Josephine took Marta to one side. “When did you think that one up?” she whispered, half-admiring and half-accusing.
“During the curtain call, when you pointed out that Betty was far too grand to see us. And don’t look at me like that—it worked, didn’t it?”
“Up to a point, but how on earth are we going to carry it off? You’ve virtually promised her a role in Hitchcock’s next film.”
“I’ve done no such thing. If you think about it, I didn’t actually tell any lies. If she—or rather her husband—chooses to jump to conclusions, that’s their problem, not ours.”
“I’ll remind you of that when he’s on the phone to Hitchcock’s office, threatening to sue for breach of contract.”
“He wouldn’t dare.” Marta looked less confident than she sounded. “You don’t really think he’d do that, do you?”
“He strikes me as the type who’ll do anything for his wife’s ambition. He almost tripped over his own desperation on his way to tell her about us.”
“Oh well, it’s done now. If necessary, I’ll just have to come clean with Alma.”
Banks reappeared and beckoned them through to the dressing rooms. He opened Betty’s door without knocking, and the actress glanced up at their reflection in the mirror, which covered the whole of one wall. She finished removing her makeup and rose to greet them, dismissing her husband with a wave of the hand. “It’s all right, Teddy. I’ll see you outside.”
“Don’t you want me to—”
“No, darling. Why you don’t go on to the restaurant? I won’t be long.” To Josephine’s surprise, Banks melted away without any further argument, and Betty gestured to them to sit down. “Bless him—he’s rich and he adores me, but he’s not very bright. You don’t really work for Alfred Hitchcock, do you?”
“Actually, yes,” Marta said. “I’m a screenwriter and assistant to his wife. Right now, I’m helping her destroy Jamaica Inn, although I’d be grateful if you didn’t pass that on to anyone called du Maurier.”
Betty smiled. “But that isn’t why you’re here.”
“No, it isn’t.”
The actress looked at Josephine, waiting for her to speak, and Josephine was struck by how poised and confident she seemed; the likeness to her twin, which she had always struggled to see, was much more obvious in the older woman than it had been in the sulky, uncertain sixteen-year-old, and not just because her dyed blonde hair gave her a physical resemblance to Dorothy. Betty seemed to have grown into the life that was always meant for her sister, and Josephine wondered if her self-assurance was down to a successful career or a shrewd marriage, or if she had simply—as Marta suggested at Charleston—found freedom in shaking off Dorothy’s shadow. “Why did you agree to see us if you knew we were lying?” she asked, genuinely curious about Betty’s motives.
“I thought about it, and I remembered how hard you tried to save Dorothy’s life.” She walked over to an ice bucket surrounded by flowers and poured three glasses of champagne from the open bottle. Josephine looked at the bouquets and wondered how Betty could bear to have lilies anywhere near her when they were such a powerful reminder of that terrible night; to this day, they were the only flower that she herself disliked. “It’s a terrible bond to have with someone, but only you and I really know how that felt—to watch her die, I mean. I don’t think I ever thanked you, did I?”
“No, but there was no need. And anyway, I couldn’t save her.”
“But you tried, which was more than I did.” She held out the glass and stared at Josephine, challenging her to tell the truth. “You thought at the time that I wanted her to die.”
Josephine nodded. “Not consciously, perhaps, but—”
“No? There wasn’t a small voice somewhere telling you that I’d plunged that piece of glass into her throat?”
“I honestly don’t remember thinking that. It crossed my mind that your life might be easier without Dorothy around to overshadow it, but nothing more than that.” The conversation wasn’t at all as Josephine had envisaged it, and she had never expected to be the one under interrogation, but she was interested to see that Betty had obviously spent a great deal of time analyzing her own reactions to that night and thinking about how they might appear to other people.
“So why didn’t you do more to help her?” she demanded, justified now in asking the question that had seemed too insensitive at the time. “You must have got to her a few minutes before I did. If you’d reacted more quickly, she might have stood a chance. Or did you kill her?”
“Josephine!” Marta turned to her in surprise, but Betty didn’t seem in the least bit unsettled by the question; on the contrary, she seemed to welcome it.
“No, I didn’t kill Dorothy, but I didn’t save her either, and I’ve spent the last twenty-three years wondering what that makes me.” She drained her glass, and in the context of their conversation there was something disturbing about the way that the crystal caught the light. “I was shocked w
hen I found her—shocked and frightened. For as long as I could remember, I’d hated and needed Dorothy all at the same time. Do you know what that’s like?”
“No.”
“Then you’re lucky. I seem to have had that my whole life—first with Dorothy, then with my parents and my friends, and now my husband. Never quite strong enough to stand up for myself, but not too helpless to resent my own dependence. Perhaps all twins are like that. But in answer to your question, when I found her lying there, it was as if someone had offered me a choice—my life or hers. That’s what I was thinking about when you got there. That’s what I’ve been thinking about ever since.”
“So why now? Is this Charity’s doing? Is it her fault that we’re all having our lives rolled out for public inspection?”
Betty seemed genuinely surprised by the strength of her objection. “You’re in the public eye already. Why would that bother you?”
“Being well known for your work is one thing. Having your personal life played out in the newspapers is completely different.” Betty looked at her curiously, and Josephine continued quickly, before she had a chance to ask what was so dangerous about Josephine’s personal life. “Being linked to an old crime—if it was a crime—might be good for your career, but I’d prefer it if you left me out of it.”
“But nobody is seriously going to think I meant you.”
“Really? ‘Could her flair for fictional crime be inspired by more than just a rich imagination?’ With lines like that, it’s a miracle I haven’t already been hauled in for questioning.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” Betty said, suddenly less at ease. “I didn’t know she was going to go that far.”
“So this is Charity’s fault.”
“It was her idea. She suggested it when I got the part, but she didn’t have to hold a gun to my head. I needed a break, and this has given me just that.” She threw Marta a wry glance and refilled her glass. “I might not have turned Hitchcock’s head yet, but I’m not without offers.”
“They would have come eventually. You’re very good.”
“Thank you, but we both know that’s not how it works.”
Josephine smiled, conceding the truth of what Betty had said. “Just out of interest, what made you go into acting? We didn’t know each other very well, but it’s not the career I’d have predicted for you.”
“In a funny sort of way, I’ve got Dorothy to thank for that. After she died, everyone wanted me to be like her, so I acted the part as best I could. It turns out I was rather good at putting on a performance. Now, even I’m not sure where the join is.”
Betty had become very adept at cynicism—thinking about it, Josephine didn’t know a successful actress who hadn’t—but every now and again she caught a glimpse of the girl she had known, frightened and insecure, and she had much more sympathy for those qualities now that they were tempered with spirit rather than sullen resignation. She’d had no time for Betty Norwood, but to her surprise, Josephine felt a grudging respect for Elizabeth Banks. “What happened after the inquest?” she asked. “Did your parents sue for negligence like they threatened to?”
“Yes. They were advised against it because the other side could prove that Dorothy had been taught all the proper safety procedures and had simply chosen to ignore them, but my father wouldn’t listen. We were never a rich family, but he spent everything he had on bringing those women to court, and then he lost. Even then, he wouldn’t let it go. He hounded them for a while, and in the end my mother left him because he wouldn’t see reason. He died shortly afterward of a heart attack.”
“And your mother? Is she still alive?”
“No, but we were virtually strangers anyway—her choice, not mine. She remarried, and my stepfather had children of his own—boys, who weren’t expected to live up to a dead sister.”
She spoke the words as if they offered a perfectly rational explanation of why her mother had abandoned her, and Josephine began to understand how deeply scarred Betty had been by her childhood, even before Dorothy’s death. “Where did Harriet and George go?” she asked.
“Devon at first. After that I don’t know. My father lost track of them eventually, which was probably just as well.”
“Does Charity know where they are?”
Betty hesitated. “No, not yet.”
“But she’s looking for them?”
“Yes.”
And God help them when she struck lucky, Josephine thought; suddenly her wish to talk to the two women took on a new urgency. “Who else have you kept in touch with, apart from Charity?”
“No one, really. I lived in America for a while after I met Teddy. I still get a Christmas card every year from Joyce, which is very sweet of her, but that’s about it.”
“Joyce Lanton?”
“Joyce Thorpe now.”
It was tempting to ask more about a girl she had liked very much, but there were more pressing questions, and Josephine moved on. “And what about Peter Whittaker? Do you know what happened to him?”
“He was killed during the war—in the final few days, I believe.”
It was hardly an unexpected response, but still it saddened Josephine—so much so that she began to ask herself if the mission she had set herself to get to the bottom of Dorothy’s death was really worth all the grief it entailed. She had never been the sort to attend school reunions or sustain friendships beyond their natural course, preferring to leave the past where it was; anything else—as she had been reminded today already—was just too painful.
“How did Whittaker and Dorothy get on?” Marta asked, taking part in the conversation for the first time. “Were they ever an item?”
Betty looked at her in bewilderment. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“Because he often sketched her.”
“Oh, I see. No, that was nothing special. He sketched us all, and gave some of us lessons too. It didn’t mean anything.” She looked to Josephine for corroboration, and Whittaker’s image of her with Jeannie came instantly into her mind; it wasn’t the first time she had thought of it, but after the recent embrace, it had become more than just a harmless, two-dimensional memory. “If Peter liked anyone, it was Charity. That’s how I heard of his death. She was very cut up about it.”
Betty glanced at her watch, and Josephine knew that their time was almost up. “Do you honestly believe that Dorothy was killed?” she said, getting back to the point, “or did you just say that for dramatic effect because Charity told you to?”
“No. I do believe it.” She paused, as if deciding whether or not to trust them. “There was someone else in the greenhouse when I got there, you see. I heard them running away.”
“What? Why on earth didn’t you say so at the time?”
“Because I was frightened that something would happen to me. Charity was the only person I trusted, and she agreed that we should keep quiet about it.”
It was a pity that Charity’s sense of discretion had died with Dorothy, Josephine thought, but she said nothing. “What exactly do you remember?” she asked, and then, pre-empting Betty’s response, “I know it’s a long time ago, but do your best.”
“Well, I was down by the sheds, checking all the cold frames, when I saw the van come back and park by the side of the orchard. You’d been out with Miss Sellwood that afternoon, if you remember?” Josephine nodded, desperately hoping that Betty wasn’t about to say that she had seen them together. “I saw you running toward the potting shed, and I was about to come and warn you that Miss H was on the warpath about you being out so late when we needed all hands on deck, but then I heard the crash of broken glass from the greenhouse. I knew that Dorothy was there, so I went to see what had happened. That’s when I heard the footsteps, and then the gate. You know how it always used to squeal?”
“But you didn’t actually see anyone?” Betty shook her head. “Jeannie had gone to fetch some oilskins from the house for us,” Josephine said carefully. “Are you sure it wasn’t her foot
steps that you heard?”
“They were definitely by the greenhouse. That’s all I know. I went inside and found Dorothy lying there. You arrived shortly afterward.”
“And you think this was directly connected to the accusations she made about Harriet and George?” Josephine clarified, aware of how serious things would look for the two women if Betty was telling the truth. Seeing the actress hesitate, she continued. “That’s what the article said. Charity claimed that—”
Betty held her hand up to interrupt, and Josephine saw to her surprise that it was trembling. “Dorothy didn’t make those accusations,” she said, her voice much quieter now. “I did.”
Josephine stared at her, wondering if she had misunderstood. “Miss Ingham told Harriet and George that Dorothy had complained about them,” she said, but even as she was speaking, another small piece of the mystery fell into place.
“I telephoned Miss Ingham, pretending to be Dorothy,” Betty admitted. “Our voices were similar, so she believed what she was told.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To pay them all back for the way they treated me. I was so miserable at that farmhouse, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t compete with Dorothy. Then Miss H humiliated me after the row about the greenhouse, so I thought I’d teach her a lesson. I’d expose them for what they were and turn them against their precious Dorothy at the same time.” She gave a bitter laugh at her own childishness and shook her head in disbelief. “So perhaps now you can understand why I’m doing this. If my sister was killed because of those accusations, that really was my fault, and it should have been me. That’s why I can’t rest. I need to put it right.”
“But you’re still using Dorothy as a cover—how can that be putting it right?” Josephine argued. “Think of the lines you’ve been speaking all night: a girl tells a lie, and it destroys everyone.”
