by Nicola Upson
“Who was ringing the bell? Miss H?”
“Or Vera. I honestly can’t remember.”
“And you were in the walled garden?”
“Yes, covering as many of the seed beds as we could with tarpaulins.”
“I know this is a tall order after so long, but can you remember if anyone was missing?”
Joyce shook her head. “I honestly couldn’t say for certain. I remember Miss Barker coming out at one point and asking where Miss H was, but that could have been later, when they’d found Dorothy’s body. And most of us were wearing those wretched oilskins too, so you couldn’t tell who was who.”
“Did you see Jeannie come back and go to the house for some coats?” Josephine asked casually.
“Mags said she saw her running up the path. Miss Barker called after her, apparently, but she didn’t take any notice. Or didn’t hear—the storm was so loud.” It was a logical explanation, but Josephine couldn’t help but consider another possibility: that Jeannie hadn’t wanted to be seen until she’d had a chance to change her clothes. “Have you spoken to Vera about that night?” Joyce asked. “She might know who was missing from the garden.”
“She might, but I’ve got no idea how to get hold of her.”
“Well, I can help you with that. She came to Mags’s funeral. They got on quite well, if you remember.”
“How did she know that Mags had died?”
“There was a piece in the Eastbourne paper about it, what with her being an old Moira House girl. Miss Ingham came to the funeral too. She’s hardly changed at all. Hang on a minute, and I’ll dig Vera’s address out for you. We said we’d meet up again and talk properly, but you never do, do you, no matter how much you mean it at the time.”
So Vera must still be in Sussex, Josephine thought, and her guess was soon confirmed when Joyce returned with an overburdened address book. “They’d only just moved back up country when I saw her,” she explained, tearing out one of the few blank pages and copying the details down for Josephine, “but as far as I know that’s still current.”
“They?”
“Yes. I know we used to joke about Vera and Miss H, but she stayed loyal to them all those years, in spite of the trouble. She’s married with children of her own now. Apparently, Miss Barker’s like a grandmother to them.”
CHAPTER 5
Josephine had intended to stay at the Cowdray Club overnight and return to Cambridge by the morning train, but something happened at breakfast to change her mind. Thursday, as she knew only too well, was the day that Faith Hope’s column appeared in the Daily Mirror, and she picked up a copy of the newspaper on her way through to the dining room. The club was always busy at this time of day, as its restaurant served both private members and women from the adjoining College of Nursing, and she was lucky to find a free table. She ordered some coffee and helped herself to breakfast from the buffet that ran the length of one wall, then settled down anxiously to see how much of her encounter with Charity had found its way into print. To her relief, there was no mention of her at all this week, either by name or by implication, but the embers of the story were very much alive. There was a small piece on the imminent transfer of The Children’s Hour to the West End following its unprecedented success at the Gate, and the columnist had been quick to use the news as an excuse to resurrect the story, revealing that more information had emerged following the original “heartbreaking” interview with Elizabeth Banks. One account in particular gave the actress reason to hope that her sister’s murderer would finally be brought to justice, and the fact that the newspaper now felt confident enough to use such an inflammatory word frightened Josephine. She knew that Charity hadn’t believed for one moment in Jeannie’s alibi, and it was only fair to warn her.
The self-satisfied, faintly threatening tone of the article managed to make even the Cowdray Club’s studied elegance feel tarnished and grubby, and Josephine pushed her plate to one side. She finished her coffee, then took Jeannie’s letter out of her bag and went to the telephone, waiting impatiently to be put through. Perhaps it was her imagination, but when it came, the voice at the other end already sounded guarded and suspicious.
“Hello, Jeannie. It’s Josephine.”
There was a long pause, and Josephine began to wonder if Jeannie had actually hung up. “I really wasn’t sure if you’d call,” she said eventually.
“To be honest, neither was I. It was such a shock to see you the other night. I wouldn’t have chosen to meet that way after all this time.”
“If you’d chosen to meet at all.”
It would have been asking too much of Jeannie to make this easy, but still Josephine found her coolness disconcerting. “We didn’t have the chance to talk properly, and I thought we might do that now—if it’s convenient? You said you wanted to see me, and I’m in town. I could come to you, or we could meet somewhere …”
“Somewhere neutral? I’m not sure, Josephine. I’ve been thinking about it, and it would probably be a mistake. It’s too difficult—for both of us.”
“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
“No.” Even in that one syllable, the fear in Jeannie’s voice was palpable. “Why? What’s she saying about us now?”
“Nothing, at least not yet. It’s what she might be leading up to that bothers me.” Perhaps it was foolhardy, but now that she had committed herself to the phone call, Josephine was determined to hold Jeannie to the meeting she had asked for; there were things she needed to say, no matter how difficult they proved. She knew that this was her only chance to confront some painful memories and do her best to make amends. “It’s important, Jeannie, but I don’t want to go into it over the telephone.”
“All right. I’ll be here all day, but don’t come between twelve and one. Robert comes home for his lunch.”
Josephine looked at her watch. It was still only half past nine, but it would take her a while to cross London, and she didn’t want the meeting to be hurried, with one eye always on the clock. “This afternoon, then,” she said. “I’ll be there as close to …”
“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” The line went dead, and Josephine imagined Jeannie composing herself in the hallway, setting her face to a smile as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, lying to her husband about who was on the phone and chatting absentmindedly about what she might do with her day when she had waved him off to work. She wanted to call Marta but decided against it, knowing that the conversation would involve telling a lie that was just as reprehensible as those she was attributing to Jeannie, and with far less justification. Whatever happened this afternoon, and even if her worst fears about Dorothy’s death were confirmed, Josephine resolved to share everything with Marta as soon as she got back to Cambridge.
It was just as well that she hadn’t attempted a morning visit. The journey to Greenwich from Cavendish Square seemed designed to be as complicated as possible, and by the time she got out at Maze Hill Station, it was already a quarter to one. She resisted the temptation to take the short walk to Jeannie’s house in time to catch a glimpse of Robert and skirted the park instead, wondering how Jeannie coped with living in the city. The avenues of chestnut trees and gentle green slopes leading up to the Observatory still had a countrified feel, reminiscent of former days, but it was impossible to ignore the tall chimneys and gasometers which were creeping in on every side, and in the distance she could map the curve of the Thames by the industrial settlements now lining its banks. After half an hour of aimless wandering, Josephine judged it safe to head for Greenwich Park Street and found Jeannie’s address on the corner with Old Woolwich Road. The house was a handsome three-story building with a steeply pitched roof. As far as Josephine could see, there was no garden.
Jeannie opened the door quickly in response to her knock, and they stood awkwardly in the narrow hallway, each of them waiting for the other to speak. A copy of the newspaper lay next to the telephone, and Josephine nodded toward it, glad to have something to bre
ak the ice. “You’ve read the latest, then.”
“Yes. I went out to get a paper as soon as Robert left for work.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a doctor—a GP. I was teaching at a school in Tunbridge Wells for a while, and one of the other mistresses introduced us. We married about fifteen years ago, when he took the job here.” She spoke quickly, giving Josephine far more information than she had asked for, as if she wanted to get the circumstances of her life out of the way. “I’m sorry I was so abrupt when you called earlier, but I couldn’t possibly talk to you in front of him and behave normally.” Jeannie smiled for the first time, and once again Josephine found it alarmingly easy to forget about the years that had passed since they were last alone together. “You seemed very composed at the theater the other night. I hope our meeting by chance like that didn’t cause trouble with your friend?”
“No.”
“Because she trusts you or because you haven’t told her everything?” Josephine felt the color rise to her cheeks, making any other answer redundant, and her response obviously intrigued Jeannie. “Go through and sit down. I’ll make us some tea.”
The sitting room was tidy and comfortably furnished, and Josephine looked round for a photograph that would fit a face to Robert’s name. There were just two, a formal wedding portrait and another taken in front of a French hotel at around the same time, perhaps while Jeannie and her husband were on their honeymoon. Robert was tall and broad-shouldered, and he looked a little older than his wife, with fair hair and a strong, determined face; his expression was naturally earnest, even in the more relaxed of the two photographs, but his eyes had a kindness to which Josephine immediately warmed, and Jeannie seemed genuinely happy by his side. If she didn’t know any better, Josephine would have taken it for granted that she was looking at a couple very much in love—and she realized suddenly that she didn’t know any better; she had no right to assume a knowledge of Jeannie’s feelings after all this time, or to imagine that the marriage was anything other than a success.
She moved away from the photographs, embarrassed by how predictable her curiosity was, and sat down on the sofa. The alcoves on either side of the fireplace were filled with books, but it was the picture above the hearth that drew Josephine’s attention—a print by Eric Ravilious of the South Downs, with paths zigzagging across the hills and a hauntingly empty landscape, so typical of the artist’s work. She stood up again to take a closer look, admiring the way that—in the absence of any human figures—it was each slope and chalk path that seemed particularized and individual. A fence strung across the fields led her eye deep into the picture until she felt as if she were actually standing on the crest of a hill looking down into the valley, and although Ravilious had chosen soft, pale colors to bring his landscape to life, there was a radiance to the scene which she couldn’t help but associate with that June afternoon when she and Jeannie had become lovers.
“I miss it.”
The words connected naturally with Josephine’s thoughts, and it took her a second to realize that Jeannie was talking about the countryside she had grown up in. “So do I,” she said. “Do you go back very often?”
“When we can. My brother runs the pub now, but my parents are still in Firle, and they can’t help but interfere. Robert’s mother lives up north, though, so we have to spend time there too.”
She set the tea tray down, and Josephine joined her on the sofa. “What about your other brother? Did they both get through the war?”
“Yes, they were lucky. They’re married now, with a gaggle of children between them, so that took the pressure off me.”
“You didn’t want children?”
Jeannie shrugged. “It just never happened, but I think that was more of a disappointment to Robert than it was to me.” She poured the tea and passed a cup to Josephine, not needing to ask how she took it. “And to his mother, of course—Robert’s the only son of an only son, so that’s the end of the Priestley line.”
Before they could fall irretrievably into small talk, Josephine forced herself to broach the question that had brought her here. “What did you want to see me about, Jeannie? It sounded important.” The change of subject was abrupt to the point of rudeness, and Jeannie smiled. “I’m sorry,” Josephine said, trying to explain. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about your husband, but …”
“That wasn’t why I was smiling. Nobody calls me that anymore, that’s all. It’s nice that you still do.” She put her cup down and clasped her hands, looking anywhere but at Josephine. “And you’re right, this is important, so we might as well get it over with. There’s something I’ve never told anybody about the day that Dorothy died, and when all this started up again, I didn’t know who else to talk to.”
“What is it?” Josephine asked, although it was the last thing that she actually wanted to hear. She felt the knot tighten in her stomach as she braced herself for a confession, knowing that—no matter how wrong it was and how hard it would be to live with the guilt—she would never be able to betray Jeannie; not in that sense, at least.
“It was after breakfast that morning, before we set off for the Beacon. I went to the kitchen to ask what Harriet wanted us to pick for lunch, and I overheard her and George having a row. They were talking about what had happened with Miss Ingham at Moira House and how the complaints against them could destroy everything they’d worked so hard for. Both of them were very bitter about it, and understandably angry with the girl who had made them, and I heard George say that she wanted to have it out with her. At the time I thought it was Charity because I knew she’d accused them of bullying and told tales to her parents.”
“Is it wicked of me to wish that it had been Charity?”
“If it is, then we’re both guilty. In hindsight, though, they were obviously talking about Dorothy.”
Josephine would have to tell Jeannie that it was actually Betty who had been responsible for the trouble at Moira House, but she didn’t want to interrupt her story. “What exactly did you hear?” she asked instead, trying to hide the relief in her voice now that her worst fear had failed to materialize.
Jeannie hesitated. “Harriet said that she could kill her. She was so angry, Josephine. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard someone quite so beside herself with rage, before or since. She kept saying that she’d like to beat the girl from dawn until dusk every day for a year. That’s when George stepped in.”
“And said what?”
“That it would be the easiest thing in the world to shut Dorothy up, once and for all, and teach her a lesson. She said there were enough death traps lying around, and no one need ever know. Then suddenly they both went quiet because Vera came in through the back door and interrupted them.”
“Do you think she heard anything?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t react as if she had, and we were out shortly after that so there was no opportunity to talk to her, even if I’d been brave enough to raise the subject. Then later, when I got to the greenhouse and saw you covered in blood, I thought for a moment that they’d hurt you, and it would have been my fault because I hadn’t warned you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what you’d heard?”
“I’m not really sure now. Partly because I didn’t think for a minute that they were serious. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry, and most people vow to kill someone at some point in their lives, but they don’t actually go out and do it. And I suppose part of the reason was more selfish than that. I didn’t want to cause trouble when you and I were so close. If there was any suspicion that Dorothy had been murdered, I knew that the college would be closed down immediately, and you’d probably be sent straight back to Birmingham. I loved you, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. That was more important to me than any consideration of right and wrong for Dorothy. I suppose I should be ashamed of it, but I’m not.”
Josephine remembered how fearful they had both been of anything that jeop
ardized their time together; the summer had felt so fleeting and so precious, and perhaps they had both known deep down that it was all they would ever have. “I would have done exactly the same,” she admitted, “but what I don’t understand is why you’re still keeping their secret even though Charity is knocking on your door and threatening to pin the whole thing on you.”
“How do you know that she threatened me?”
“Because she paid me a visit too. She offered me the chance to give you an alibi, as she put it. Why didn’t you just say you were with me when Dorothy was killed? It would have been so easy.”
“It wasn’t true, though, was it? I did leave you as soon as we got back and I was gone a long time.” She accepted a cigarette and fetched an ashtray from the mantelpiece. “Charity took a gamble on that and decided to twist it, and I could hardly put her right about the real reason. It’s perfectly harmless, but to admit to it would have given us away. It’s our secret I’m keeping, not theirs. We’ve all got something to hide now. That’s about the only part of Charity’s article that was true.”
“So why were you gone for so long?”
“I wasn’t the tidiest of people back then—you know that.”
“What’s being tidy got to do with anything?”
Josephine stared at her, confused, and Jeannie blushed. “I hoped you’d come back with me that night. I hoped we’d make love, but the room was a tip so I went upstairs to tidy it and change. I wanted everything to be perfect.”
She hadn’t needed to revisit Jeannie’s old room at Charleston for the image of it to be as fresh and vivid in her mind as it was twenty years ago—the neatly made bed and the bunch of delphiniums that must have been gathered in the rain, the cool breeze through the window that seemed to cleanse everything after the storm. Coming so soon after the horror of Dorothy’s death, the peace and beauty of that room had felt like a sanctuary, and Josephine allowed herself to remember just for a moment how gently Jeannie had removed her bloodied clothes, how loving and tender she had been. “It was perfect,” she said quietly. “It would have been perfect whether the room was tidy or not.”
