by Nicola Upson
There was more to it than that, though. The model was poised and confident, as models always were, but she radiated a determination that reminded Charity of Betty when she had last seen her—just before she moved to Hollywood at the height of the war, with bombs falling on London and no end to the conflict in sight. She had never called or written, in spite of how close they once were, and Charity missed the only true friendship that she had ever known—a casualty not of distance or Betty’s success, but of the disappointment and recriminations that had followed their attempts to resurrect the past. The rift had been sudden and unequivocal, and the last time Betty had returned to England to promote a film, Charity was the only influential journalist not to be granted an audience. She looked again at the cover girl with the expression that was so like her friend’s, and acknowledged what troubled her: the magazine reminded her of her biggest professional failure. There had been plenty of personal failures—divorce and the grief of her father’s death, a hasty remarriage, then divorce again—but only on a handful of occasions had she failed to get the story she wanted, and this one rankled more than most. In her heart, she knew that one or both of those women were guilty of murder, but she had never been able to prove it.
She tossed the magazine to one side and went out for lunch, telling Barbara, on a whim, to cancel her afternoon appointments. Even now, five years on, the square outside her office felt exposed and incomplete from the removal of its iron railings for the war effort. It was such an insignificant part of the city’s disfigurement compared to the fallen masonry and open skies, but it was the one that Charity saw most often, and these small, everyday reminders of how the world had changed were somehow more affecting.
The spring day was irresistible, with fresh, powder-blue skies and a generous sun, and instead of choosing one of her usual restaurants, she struck out down Piccadilly, heading for the park. Once inside its gates, she slowed her pace, trying to remember the last time she had wandered aimlessly like this, with nowhere to be and no one demanding her time. Perhaps it was the frustrations that the day had triggered, perhaps simply a feeling that she had achieved all she could in her current position, but Charity suddenly longed to do something different with her life—now, before it was too late. Lost in her thoughts, she was aware of someone coming up behind her, and she moved to the side of the path to allow the person to pass, but the footsteps slowed before they reached her, and she heard a woman calling her name. Surprised, she turned to see who it was, then recoiled instinctively as something was thrown in her face. For a few precious seconds she thought it was water, but then she smelt the pungent odor of bleach, and her skin began to burn with unimaginable pain. She opened her mouth to scream, but another shower of liquid hit her and it was impossible even to beg for mercy as she felt her throat begin to swell and constrict. The poison blinded her, and in her panic she put her hands to her face, desperate to wipe it away, but the gesture only served to spread the pain, as if the chemical were a living thing, crawling all over her body and eating away at her skin with its insidious, deadly advance. Charity felt her chest tighten. She could only breathe in short, desperate gasps, but she was aware of another face close to hers and a woman’s voice, threatening and vaguely familiar. “That was for George. Now you know what poison feels like.”
In a second, her attacker was gone. She heard screams breaking out around her as people began to realize what had happened. Footsteps approached from all directions, running to her aid, but it was already far too late. Charity was unconscious long before they reached her.
CHAPTER 2
Josephine hardly ever accepted invitations to literary parties, disliking small talk and poor sherry in equal measure, but it was virtually impossible to find an excuse when the book being launched was her own. Her publisher wanted to make a fuss of The Franchise Affair, building on the success of her previous effort, and it would have been ungracious to refuse, so she gritted her teeth and took solace in the quality of the wine. She looked round the elegant rooms in Bedford Square, where the offices of Peter Davies were based, and noticed how few of the people present she actually knew; most of them were critics or booksellers, but there was a smattering of other writers and one or two theater friends from her personal guest list, and already several of them were happily clutching a copy of the book. The cover was a clever design incorporating key features from the story—the driveway at the house called the Franchise; a watch which provided an important clue—and seeing the book finished and out in the world gave her the same feeling of pride and excitement that she had experienced when the name “Gordon Daviot’ first went up in lights above the New Theatre. She missed the spirit of common endeavor that was peculiar to the stage, but the more crime fiction she wrote, the more she enjoyed its combination of discipline and subversion—even if she did feel an increasing sense of disloyalty to her stage pseudonym, like turning her back on a faithful lover.
She saw Harriet across the room and waved. The two of them had written to each other now and again over the years and met on one or two occasions, but still Josephine was touched that she had bothered to make the trip to London. She pushed her way through the crowd, waylaid periodically by congratulations from one stranger or another, and Harriet gave her a hug. “A story about two women who are victims of an amazing accusation?” she said, reading from the book jacket. “Are you sure you got the idea from a notorious eighteenth-century cause célèbre?”
She raised an eyebrow, and Josephine was struck by how much better she looked each time they met—younger, if that were possible, and certainly more content, as if the years that had been dogged by grief and suspicion were finally beginning to fade. “Yes, I’m sure—although I won’t deny that some of the things I’ve put my characters through didn’t happen a little more recently and a lot closer to home.”
“And are your women innocent or guilty, I wonder? Don’t tell me. I’m looking forward to reading it.” She accepted a drink from a passing waiter and glanced round the room. “This is quite a crowd. I’m so pleased for you, Josephine, but don’t let me monopolize you when you must have guests to speak to. I just wanted to come and wish you well.”
“I’m glad you did, and don’t rush off. I have no idea who most of these people are, and I was just wondering what on earth we might find to say to each other.” They talked for a few minutes about family and work, and Josephine was pleased to hear that Peter had just become a grandfather for the second time. “And are you more settled now?” she asked. Several of Harriet’s letters had talked of how homesick she was for the countryside she loved. When war broke out and the threat of invasion loomed, the coastline at Birling Gap had been taken over by the Canadian Artillery, and Peter and Vera were forced to move inland. Harriet went with them, eventually taking a cottage in Lewes, which she had struggled to feel at home in. “I thought you might move back to one of the villages after the war.”
“To be honest, I couldn’t face the upheaval, and now I’m older, it suits me to live in the town. It took me a while to get used to a smaller house and so little garden, but the war spoilt things forever. You must have experienced that.”
“Yes, although we were luckier than most at home.”
“I can never look at that headland now without remembering the barbed wire. I’ll always associate it with our conversation, though. That was a new start for me, Josephine, and I’m still eternally grateful. I don’t want to go back.” She squeezed Josephine’s hand in thanks. “It looks like you’re needed. You can sign this for me later.”
Josephine turned to see her publisher beckoning to her from across the room. “Time for the speeches,” she said without enthusiasm. “Don’t go away, though. Mine, at least, will be very short.”
Peter Davies was chairman of the firm that had now handled two of her novels, and Josephine had come to like and respect a man whose life story was as fascinating as most of the books he published. Cousin to the du Mauriers, he was also one of the boys befriended and adopted b
y J. M. Barrie, and had spent most of his life trying to shake off the notoriety of being the original Peter Pan. Although she couldn’t claim to know Davies well, she appreciated his humor and was intrigued by the darker streak that surfaced occasionally in his conversation, and his loyalty to her books had been unwavering. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, calling the room to attention, “thank you for joining us today to celebrate the publication of a very special book. The Franchise Affair is the fourth detective novel that Josephine has written and the second that we have had the privilege of publishing. Readers of its predecessor, Miss Pym Disposes, will know not to expect an orthodox detective tale from this most unorthodox of writers, and I can assure you that The Franchise Affair is as disturbing and exciting a novel as any you are likely to read this year.” There was a murmur of expectation from the audience, and Davies paused to savor it. “The book makes a fascinating modern story out of an eighteenth-century case, popularly known as the Canning mystery, which remains unsolved to this day. With all the skill that we have come to expect from her, Josephine has us doubting in turn the victim and the victimized. One minute her central characters seem capable of almost anything; the next we are firmly on their side as they battle the poisonous atmosphere of small-town gossip—something on which I suspect the book’s author has very strong opinions.” A ripple of laughter ran round the room, and Josephine smiled in acknowledgment. “What is certain, though, is that The Franchise Affair could only be the work of one person, and it gives me great pleasure to call on her now to tell you a little more about this remarkable book.”
Josephine thanked him and did as he’d asked, outlining the details of the book’s inspiration and expanding on why she had become so interested in the story of a young servant girl whose month-long disappearance became the basis of one of the most notorious criminal cases of the eighteenth century. She was about to bring the speech to a close when she caught Harriet’s eye, and something in her wanted to acknowledge what had really been most in her mind during the writing of the book. “I once made the mistake of describing my crime novels to a friend as “yearly knitting,’ ” she added, “and I’ve since learned never to say something to an actor if you don’t want it repeated word for word every night and twice on a Saturday.” She waited as the audience laughed again. “By knitting, I simply meant that discipline and structure are important, but what’s more important still is to write about what interests you and what troubles you. This book is about what happens when you’re judged for who you are as much as by what you do. It’s about prejudice and hatred, and it’s about what happens when people take the law into their own hands. I witnessed that myself once when I was very young, and it’s always stayed with me; more recently, we’ve all seen it at work on a terrifying scale. Nothing is ever quite as straightforward as it seems, and sometimes justice and the law are very different things, but we all know what injustice is when we see it, and ultimately The Franchise Affair is about having the courage to stand up to it.”
During the applause, she noticed that Archie had arrived, slipping effortlessly into the party atmosphere despite having come straight from Scotland Yard. “Sometimes justice and the law are very different things?” he repeated wryly. “I can’t think what gave you that idea.”
“I rather hoped you’d missed that part. Please don’t take it personally.”
“After the day I’ve had, I’m far more likely to be agreeing with you. A lot of people will be talking about justice and the law when they understand the full implications of what’s going through Parliament at the moment.” The Commons had recently passed an amendment to the criminal justice bill to suspend capital punishment for five years, and Josephine knew how torn Archie was on the subject. “Sorry I’m so late,” he said. “Has it gone well?”
“As well as these things ever go, but I’m looking forward to dinner. You’re still giving me an excuse to leave early, I hope?”
“Of course. The table’s booked for seven thirty.” He took her to one side, away from the crush. “I don’t mean to spoil the evening, but I think you’ll want to hear this. The woman who once caused you all that trouble—what was her name?”
“Which one? There have been so many.”
He smiled. “The journalist who was hounding the women in Sussex.”
“Ah. Charity Lomax.”
“Yes, I thought so. Keep this to yourself for now, but she was attacked this afternoon. Someone threw bleach in her face in Green Park. The chaps on the case think she must have been followed from her offices when she went out for lunch.”
Josephine stared at him in horror. “How serious is it?”
“Very. She’s still alive, but only just—and if she does pull through, I’m really not sure what sort of life it will be. They’ve got her on an iron lung at the moment—the bleach got to her throat and chest, and her facial injuries are too horrific to contemplate. Whoever did it really meant business.”
“So they haven’t caught anyone?”
“Not yet.”
“And they don’t know why it happened?”
Archie shook his head. “Her secretary said that Miss Lomax had made herself very unpopular over the years, but I don’t know a successful journalist who hasn’t, and they’re not all subjected to this.” He looked round for a waiter. “I’m going to get a drink. Would you like one?”
She handed him her empty glass. “Yes, please. I think I need it.”
His place next to her was soon taken by a succession of well-wishers. Josephine did her best to concentrate on their questions, but The Franchise Affair had trouble competing for her attention with the real-life mystery she had just been told about, and she was pleased when Harriet sought her out again. “I thought I’d better get this signed before I leave,” she said, passing Josephine her book. “Whatever’s wrong? You look as if you’ve had a terrible shock.”
“I have.” She hesitated, remembering Archie’s request for discretion, but the incident was bound to be in the evening paper, and she was interested in Harriet’s reaction. No matter how hard she tried to put it to one side, the coincidence of her friend being in London on the day that Charity was assaulted bothered Josephine, and she desperately wanted to put her own mind at rest. “It’s Charity Lomax.”
“Good God, she’s not here is she? I thought all that was over and done with.”
To Josephine’s relief, there was nothing forced or artificial about the response. “No, she’s not here,” she said, more relaxed now. “I’ve just heard that someone threw bleach in her face at lunchtime, while she was out walking. She’s in hospital, fighting for her life.”
Harriet went so pale that Josephine thought she was about to faint. She put a steadying hand on her arm, but Harriet shook it off. “I’m sorry, but I’m late for my train.” She turned and left the room, without another word, and Josephine watched her go, debating whether she should follow.
“Is everything all right?” Archie asked, handing her a glass of champagne.
“Yes, I think so, but I’m still trying to take in what happened to Charity. I can’t help wondering if it had anything to do with her articles about Charleston and Dorothy’s death.”
“But that was years ago. I imagine this is connected to something much more recent. You never did get to the bottom of what really happened there, though, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.” Josephine hated lying to Archie, but she was loathe to compromise him where his job was concerned, or to risk sharing a confidence that he would feel obliged to betray. Now, remembering the fear in Harriet’s face, she found herself wondering if her denial was actually a lie after all.
CHAPTER 3
The journey to Victoria seemed interminable, and when the doors of the underground train finally opened, Harriet felt as though she had been set free from a prison of her own making. She pushed her way through the rush-hour crowds to platform nineteen, where she had arranged to meet Vera by the entrance to the station’s tiny news cinema, all the tim
e desperately hoping that she was wrong—but even from a distance she could tell that her worst fears were justified. The girl—strange how she always thought of Vera as a girl, even though she was fifty now, with grandchildren of her own—was pacing up and down by the staircase that linked the concourse to the small first-floor auditorium; she was ashen-faced and apparently oblivious to anything but her own tortured thoughts, and, when she eventually lifted her head in response to her name, Harriet could see that she had been crying. “Vera, what have you done?” she said, taking her by the shoulders and resisting the urge to shake her like a child. “What in heaven’s name have you done?”
At first, Vera seemed bewildered by the fact that Harriet knew anything at all, but her confusion was soon replaced by relief at not having to make a confession, which she had obviously been dreading. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She clung to Harriet as if her life depended on it, and any last-minute hopes of a misunderstanding vanished as Harriet saw the red weals on her arm where her skin had been splashed by bleach. Anger and panic and love overwhelmed her, and she pulled the sleeve of Vera’s cardigan down over her wrist to hide the injury, torn between keeping her safe and wanting to punish her. “How could you be so stupid?” she demanded as she held her close. “It was over, Vera. George made that possible for both of us—don’t you understand? If you’ve ruined that by hurting Charity, her sacrifice will mean nothing.”
