by Nicola Upson
Harriet nodded. “Yes. It was one of her father’s friends, although she could barely bring herself to say his name. She made me vow never to tell a soul while she was alive. That was her shame, not the love that she and I shared. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone finding out. I swear she only told me because she had to—she came back to me on the night it happened, and she was in the most terrible state. She kept apologizing, Josephine. I can’t bear that, even now—the fact that she blamed herself for being raped. And I wasn’t as supportive as I should have been.”
“In what way?”
“When she realized she was pregnant, I begged her to keep the baby. I’d always wanted children, but I knew that I’d probably never have any of my own, and this seemed like a miracle—a child by the woman I loved. I should have realized how she’d feel about it and what a painful reminder that baby would be, but I didn’t. She refused, of course. When the time came, she didn’t even want to know if she’d had a boy or a girl. I honestly think she would have killed the baby at birth if there hadn’t been an alternative.”
“She had Vera adopted?”
“Yes. I made all the arrangements, and we never spoke of it again. I tried to put it out of my mind too—until that child walked back through our door seventeen years later.”
“How did you know it was her?”
“I didn’t at first. I assumed what everyone else assumed—that Vera had a faintly embarrassing fixation on George, which would pass in time. When it didn’t, it began to bother me more, and I had it out with her. That’s when she told me who she was.”
“And you believed her?”
“Yes. Her adoptive parents had told her early on that she wasn’t theirs by birth, and she’d found her birth certificate to prove it. She said to me once that she spent most of her childhood waiting for the moment when she could go out and find her real mother. She saw something about the college in the newspaper, and there aren’t many people called Hartford-Wroe. It didn’t take her long to work out that George was the person she was looking for.”
“But she didn’t announce herself to George?”
“No, thank God. She answered the advertisement and came to work for us, but she had the sense not to plough straight in. Deep down, she must have known that she was unwanted and that it might be wise to tread carefully. Looking back on it now, it breaks my heart to remember how hard she tried to impress George and how pleased she was to be noticed. Even the smallest bit of praise was like air to her.”
And the smallest criticism so damning, Josephine thought, remembering Vera’s face on the day that George had humiliated her in front of everyone. “But Vera wanted to be honest, didn’t she? You fought with her about it.”
“Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”
“I heard you discussing it, although I didn’t know what you were talking about at the time. In fact, I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“In the end, I had to tell Vera the truth about her birth and the adoption. It was the only way I could persuade her that if she wanted any part in George’s life, she could never reveal who she was.”
“That must have been a difficult decision to make.”
“Not really. I was desperate. I could see how much Vera had come to value her relationship with George, even though it was far from the one she really wanted, but my motives were selfish too. George would never have forgiven me for betraying her trust by letting Vera stay in our lives once I knew the truth, and I knew I’d end up losing them both. Vera coming back like that was a second chance for me, and I loved her as if she were my own. I was a substitute at first for the mother she couldn’t have, but I was happy to settle for that, and it grew into something more, especially after she and Peter got married. I can’t tell you what a comfort that is to me now, Josephine. Vera’s like George in so many ways—determined and hardworking and brave, even if she goes about it in a quieter way than her mother did.”
“Does Peter know?” Josephine asked, struck by the irony of the marriage when he had always hated George so much.
“Yes. To my shame, I didn’t want Vera to tell him, in case he used it against George, but she was right to insist on it, and I should have had more faith in him. I think he understood George better after that, even if he could never bring himself to like her.” Harriet looked earnestly at Josephine. “You’re the only other person who knows, though. Can I rely on you not to tell anyone? It wasn’t what you came here to find out, and it’s got nothing to do with Dorothy’s death. Well, nothing except …”
She tailed off, preoccupied by whatever had occurred to her, and Josephine took the risk of pushing her. “Except what?”
“Except that the night of Dorothy’s death reminded me of the night that her father’s friend decided to teach George what women really wanted. Her rage was the same each time, and each time it stemmed from fear.”
Fear for the college’s future, Josephine wondered, or fear for her own? For as long as she had known her, Harriet had always despised prevarication and dissembling of any kind, and she decided not to insult her now by beating about the bush. “Did George kill Dorothy?” she asked gently. “Is that why she was so frightened?”
Her directness was rewarded. “Yes, she killed her.” Harriet took a folded sheet of notepaper out of her pocket and handed it to Josephine. “This is all she left behind, after everything we went through. It’s funny, but that’s what hurts me most, far more than what she actually did. I can’t reconcile it with the woman I loved. It’s the only time she’s ever disappointed me.”
Josephine read through the suicide note, a simple confession to Dorothy’s murder and a request for Harriet’s forgiveness. Its brevity and matter-of-factness surprised Josephine too. She would have expected George’s final letter to Harriet to have said more about their love and all it had meant to her, to offer some sort of comfort, no matter how false, but perhaps she had been so wracked with guilt by then that she could think only of one thing. “Did you suspect anything at the time?”
“Yes, but we never talked about it. I wanted George to tell me, if only to share the burden with her, but she cut me off every time I tried to raise the subject. I know she was trying not to implicate me in what she’d done, but I was already implicated.” Josephine was about to ask how, but Harriet answered the question without prompting. “We both said things we didn’t mean before it happened. I was furious with Dorothy for complaining about something that was none of her business and threatening everything we’d worked so hard for, and I made no secret of what I’d like to do to her, given the chance. I encouraged George to kill her, even though I didn’t mean to. It’s as much my fault as hers, and I suppose that’s why I wasn’t brave enough to force the subject. If George never actually said the words, I could almost convince myself I didn’t know.”
In her heart, Josephine had found it hard to believe that the conversation Jeannie had overheard was as damning as it seemed; from what she remembered of that night, George had seemed as shocked and upset as she was, but there was no misconstruing the note in her hand, and she realized now how naive and foolish she must have been. “So you never believed it was an accident?” she asked, torn between sadness for Harriet’s loss and anger at her own gullibility.
“Not with the way George was behaving. She was so on edge, so frightened. Then it all started to add up. The missing window pole—she found that very easily. And the temperature in the greenhouse—you must have noticed how hot it was?”
“Yes. Hot enough to make Dorothy take her oilskin off.”
“Leaving her unprotected—exactly. I saw George turn the heating down while we were deciding what to do, and there was something in the way she did it—surreptitiously, guiltily. That chilled me at the time, you know. I could believe she’d lash out in a moment of panic or anger, but to have planned it all like that …” She took the letter from Josephine’s hand. “And you can’t argue with this.”
“No, I suppose not.” Still Joseph
ine hesitated, unconvinced in spite of the evidence that someone as intelligent and practical as George would risk everything when the damage was done. “It just seems so senseless,” she objected. “The tales had already been told. Gertrude Ingham already knew. Why would George kill Dorothy when there was nothing left to salvage?”
“Anger, revenge, desperation—who knows?” Harriet seemed irritated by her arguments. “I appreciate what you’re doing, Josephine, and it’s kind of you, but I’ve had years to try to come to terms with what I know in my heart George did—for our future, for our love. The shame of our summons to Moira House—it was all starting again, just like it did when we first fell in love and her family set out to make our lives hell. You were in Lewes that day at the market, and you saw what those women did to the gardens. They hated us.” She gave a hollow laugh, as far from joy as was possible. “No doubt it would comfort them to know that we lost everything in the end.”
Josephine watched her staring down toward the sea, and wondered how often she had contemplated leaving the world as George had done. The strength that it must have taken to live when so much had been lost was remarkable. “Not quite everything,” she said. “You’ve got another family now. I know it’s not the same, but it must count for something.”
“It counts for everything, but even that plays on my conscience. I know my relationship with Vera is a betrayal of everything I had with George, and sometimes it feels as if I’ve stolen all the joy that should have been hers.”
“Does Vera know what her mother did?”
“Yes. She found the note, although I’ll make sure she denies it if this all comes out. When it comes out. Now the newspapers are involved, it’s only a matter of time before someone puts two and two together, and then there’ll be no peace.” Harriet shivered and stood up, and they began to retrace their footsteps across the headland. “I sat with George for hours in the chapel of rest, and all I could think of was how perfect her hands were—no soil under the fingernails, no blisters from a spade or cuts from a bramble. They didn’t really look like her hands at all, and I’d never noticed that before. It was a funny sort of comfort, but it told me she’d done the right thing, in spite of everything else. And I’m pleased that she doesn’t have to go through this. Her memory will be disgraced, and no one will ever believe I didn’t know, but at least she doesn’t have to live with the fear.”
“It might not come to that,” Josephine said without conviction.
“It must come to that.” Harriet stopped walking and surprised Josephine by handing back George’s suicide note. “You should have this. You came here to get to the bottom of what happened, and now you know. It’s not fair that other people should be living under suspicion, and I trust you to do the right thing with it.”
“But it’s the last letter you have from George.”
“And it brings me only sadness. I’ve kept it to myself for as long as I could, but I knew from the moment Vera showed me the newspaper that we were living on borrowed time. The lies have gone on for long enough, Josephine. I want this to be over. You said in your letter that you’d already been to see Betty, so perhaps you’ll do me the favor of explaining everything to her. I should do it myself, but I’m afraid I can’t face her. Tell her what happened to her sister. Give her some sort of peace. George is out of her reach now.”
“But you’re not.” Josephine forced Harriet to look at her. “Surely you know what will happen if this letter goes anywhere near Betty or Charity? It’s not only George who will pay. They’ll find a way to incriminate you too.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
Josephine could hear in her voice that Harriet was daring to hope, and she took time to consider what she was about to say in case she might live to regret it. To her left, rival flocks of jackdaws and herring gulls struggled for mastery of the cliffs, and the shifting blur of black and white seemed to underline her moral dilemma. “If they suspect you of being involved, they could hang you. At the very least, they’ll send you to prison.”
“I’ve had my life …”
“But I can’t take any part in ending it.” She held the letter out, insisting that Harriet accept it. “Nothing will bring Dorothy back, but George has paid with her life, and you’ve suffered enough. If your conscience tells you to bring it all out into the open, then that’s what you must do, but as far as I’m concerned, we haven’t had this conversation.”
“What about Betty?”
“Perhaps I’m only trying to justify what I would have done anyway, but part of this is for her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was Betty who made the call to Moira House all those years ago,” Josephine explained. “She started this, and she’s already wracked with guilt about it. Finding out beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was the cause of her sister’s death won’t give her the peace you want to offer—just the opposite. It’s kinder to leave things as they are, and without a confession, no one can prove anything to the contrary. Charity will give up eventually and find some other lives to play with.”
Harriet read through the letter one last time and seemed to come to a decision. Before Josephine could stop her, she tore the page into tiny pieces and scattered them to the wind. “That was the proof of your innocence,” Josephine objected. “What will you do now if someone does accuse you of being more involved than you were?”
“Take my chances with George, like I always have. Everything was an adventure when we were together—that’s what I meant when I told you it was worth it.” She looked at Josephine, and already some of the burden seemed to have lifted. “Did you and Jeannie last beyond that summer?” she asked. “I’ve often wondered.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“I thought not. George and I played our part in destroying that too. Not many people would have followed their hearts after living through that.”
“You didn’t destroy it. I was perfectly capable of doing that myself. You gave me some good advice, and I only wish that I’d worked harder at taking it.”
“But are you happy with someone now?”
“Yes, very.”
“I’m glad.” They began the descent to the tiny hamlet at Birling Gap, and Josephine said, “You already suspected that Dorothy wasn’t your accuser, didn’t you? That’s why you asked me what I thought of her.”
“It certainly wasn’t in character, and I began to wonder about that,” Harriet admitted. “I just thank God that George never guessed. It would have destroyed her to know that the wrong girl had died.”
The coldness of the phrase unsettled Josephine. For a moment she couldn’t help but consider Harriet’s strength and how it had been she, not George, who had seemed so determined to keep the college going in spite of everything, almost as if she was making sure that Dorothy hadn’t died in vain; she was still thinking about it when they reached the foot of the hill. “Charity and Betty seem to have had a knack for meddling in things that were none of their business,” she said. “Do you think they knew about Vera and George?”
There was a brief hesitation, so brief that she might have imagined it, then Harriet turned and looked her squarely in the eye. “I really don’t see how they could have found that out, do you?”
An unguarded conversation like the one she had overheard would have been enough, but there was little point in further speculation, or in worrying Harriet needlessly about things that might or might not emerge in the press. They finished the rest of the walk in silence. “Are you heading back to London tonight?” Harriet asked as they reached the hotel.
“Yes.”
“Then I’d better let you go.” She hugged Josephine like an old friend, just as she had done the last time they parted. “I can never thank you enough, but please know how grateful I am. Will you stay in touch?”
“Yes, of course. I’d like that.”
“So would I.”
They said goodbye and Josephine watched her go, wondering how she was going to explain t
he choices she had made to Marta. Just for a moment, she considered lying about what Harriet had told her, but if she had learned one thing over the last few weeks, it was to be honest from the start. She walked over to the hotel and found Marta in the corner of the lounge.
“Are you all right?” Marta asked, noticing her anxious face.
“Yes, I think so, although I have no idea if I’ve done the right thing.”
“Do you know who killed Dorothy?”
Josephine nodded and sat down. “It was George. She committed suicide three years ago, and she left a confession behind. Harriet showed it to me.”
“And you’ve promised not to tell anybody because she’s suffered enough.”
“How do you know that?”
Marta smiled. “Just a lucky guess. Come here.” She held Josephine tightly and kissed her hair. “You did the right thing, but now it’s over. Let’s go home.”
1948
“Women who live lonely lives do insane things.”
—Josephine Tey, The Franchise Affair
CHAPTER 1
“The new issue’s just arrived, Miss Lomax.”
“Thank you, Barbara.”
Charity turned away from the window and stubbed out her cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray, then picked up the magazine that her secretary had placed on her desk. There was a time when it would have filled her with a sense of pride—the gradual fashioning of order from chaos as features took shape and photographs were selected, all under her guidance—but those days were long gone. Now, each working week bored her a little more than the last.
This month’s cover had the usual skillful blend of elegance and mystery—a picture of perfection that would have women scrambling for the newsstand shelves, yet sufficiently grounded in reality to convince them that the life was theirs if they wanted it. The model wore a gray belted dress, chic and of the moment, with a nipped-in waist and bold shoulders, but it was the accessories and scene setting that gave the image its narrative: the white, elbow-length gloves and string of pearls that promised purity and status; the scarlet buttonhole that emphasized bright red lips and hinted at danger; a bird cage standing next to an open window, conflicting symbols of the freedom and constraints that most of the magazine’s readers spent their lives trying to navigate. To her surprise, Charity found the overall effect faintly unsettling, partly because women on her covers now were invariably much younger than she was. At one time, she might have been mistaken for a model herself, but these days—a few months shy of her fiftieth birthday—she stood among the ranks of those looking back at their lives with a bewildering muddle of panic and emptiness.
