by Nicola Upson
‘To be honest, I haven’t seen anything that looks remotely as though it might have belonged to anyone from that time, but there’s still a lot of sorting out to be done.’ Her heart sank when she thought of the boxroom. ‘What should I be looking for?’
‘Maria’s wooden clothes chest is the jewel in the crown,’ Andrews said. ‘It’s about four feet by two, made of oak and lined with very faded silk. It’s scuffed and marked and you wouldn’t give it a second glance if you didn’t know whose it was. But if you look closely, you can see where she’s scratched her initials on the lid.’
‘I found a chest in the garage. It holds the stage props I told your assistant about.’
‘I doubt Hester would have put it in the garage,’ Andrews said. ‘It was her pride and joy, and she had it next to the fire when I saw it, but it always travelled with her when she and Walter were on tour. She kept her costumes in it for luck. Hers, but never his; she told me that nothing to do with Corder ever went near it.’ Of all the theatrical superstitions Josephine had heard over the years, Hester’s was one of the more original. ‘Then there were lots of Maria’s early letters to a friend, and her mirror . . .’
‘A small silver hand mirror with roses round the glass?’
His face lit up. ‘Yes, exactly.’
‘That’s still there. I did my make-up in it this morning.’ It was the only mirror in the house. Until she found out about Hester’s blindness, Josephine had been surprised by such an uncharacteristic lack of vanity in an actress. Before she had time to consider the strangeness of looking into the glass that Maria had used, Andrews was moving on through his inventory.
‘Hester also had two Staffordshire figurines, one a Sherratt piece with William enticing Maria into the barn, and the other a group of murderer, victim and judge all standing together. There was an original iron bar from one of the doors to the Red Barn, and something made out of the wood, not unlike the snuffbox we’ve got already. I particularly liked the collection of painted backdrops she had from the early peepshows that travelled round in the 1840s. They were done by a chap called Jack Kelley, a drunken Irishman who lived in Leather Lane – one of them depicted Corder boiling an egg on the morning of his arrest. And last but not least, she had a small elm table that came from the Corder house. Actually, we had that on loan for a while but she asked for it back not long before she died. She said she missed it too much.’
‘Where did she get it all?’ Josephine asked, ignoring for now the more pertinent question of where it had all gone.
‘There are dealers who specialise in that sort of thing, and there always have been. I suppose it goes back to the tradition of the hangman having the right to a murderer’s clothes. It didn’t take him long to realise that he could sell those for far more than he was paid to open a trap. Madame Tussaud paid handsomely, I believe. She used to buy clothes and accessories from real murders to display with the waxworks. In fact, I read somewhere that when they sold off the contents of Road House after the Constance Kent case, they kept back the victim’s little cot in case it ended up in the Chamber of Horrors.’
‘That’s fascinating,’ Josephine said. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Oh yes. It encouraged a lot of fraudsters, of course. Corder’s head was allegedly exhibited by a showman at Bartholomew Fair, although as far as we’re concerned it’s still firmly on his shoulders in the hospital. I suppose Hester was following in a theatrical tradition with her collecting, too. Owners of the sort of theatre that Maria Marten played at used to snap these things up for props, so you might be lucky in your chest in the garage.’ He must have realised he had Josephine completely enthralled by now, because he added mysteriously: ‘Then there are the things that we know exist but have no idea where.’
‘Like what?’
‘Maria’s hand is the most legendary, but there are also rumours that Creed bound a second copy of the trial.’
‘You’re surely not telling me that Hester had Maria Marten’s hand tucked away somewhere?’
‘No. She always denied buying any of the more gruesome relics, even the rope that hanged him – and several people own an inch or two of that.’
‘Don’t you believe her? You sound sceptical.’
‘I’m always sceptical where collectors are concerned, probably because I’m one myself. We lie, and play things very close to our chests. But I did believe Hester. She was always more interested in the social history of the crime, in Maria as a woman.’
‘And the things she owned were valuable?’
‘Good God, yes. Murder relics have always been big business, even though people are divided about them. Some are disgusted by them, like your friend; others would go to great lengths to get hold of them.’ He smiled at her. ‘Where do you stand?’
‘With most people, I suspect. In my heart, I know it’s wrong and the inhumanity of it disgusts me – but I’m also fascinated by it. And as far as Hester’s collection is concerned,’ she added, telling him what he really wanted to know, ‘I can see the appeal of owning something that Maria loved when she was alive, but I’m not sure I’d want anything from the place where she was killed, and pottery figures are just something else to dust. You’re welcome to those if I come across them.’
‘That’s very kind, but I must warn you against being too generous. Those Staffordshire models alone are probably worth more than your cottage. Relics attract very large sums of money – if they can be authenticated, and Hester’s always were.’
‘Yes, I rather got the impression she was a stickler for that sort of detail.’ She told him about the letter that had arrived with the rare book and the hoops through which the bookseller had obviously been made to jump to prove its value.
‘That sounds about right. Did you say John Moore?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘No, but Corder’s son was called John Moore. He took his mother’s maiden name, for obvious reasons.’
‘Unless the years have been miraculously kind, it must be a coincidence.’
‘Yes, and it’s a common enough name, but it will have amused Hester.’
Josephine cast a quick glance round the museum, but there was no sign of Marta. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve told me,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘and especially for taking those stage sets off my hands. I had no idea that trying to do the right thing for someone you never knew would be quite so difficult.’
‘I’m sure there’s a lot to think about, but they’ll be greatly enjoyed here. Who knows? We might even put on a performance or two in Hester’s honour.’
‘I’ll arrange for them to be sent over to you before I leave.’
‘You’re not here all the time?’
‘No, and there are easier places to commute to Suffolk from than Scotland, but I’m sure it will work out eventually. And I’ll be in touch if I find any of the other things you mentioned, but it seems that Hester got rid of an awful lot in the last couple of years.’
He looked doubtful but didn’t argue, and Josephine walked out into the sunshine, glad to be free of the museum’s shadows. She looked round for Marta and saw her coming out of a bookshop, looking pleased with herself. ‘What have you got?’ she asked.
‘I’ll show you later. Have you finished in the Black Museum?’
She spoke lightly, but Josephine knew that what she had seen had affected her, no matter how old the crime. ‘I’m sorry for taking you there,’ she said. ‘I should have gone another time.’
‘Don’t be silly – it was my choice to go in. It’s a damned good story and I can understand why it interests you, but all I can see in those cases is a woman who was desperate and a man out of his depth. Now – what shall we do first? Shopping or lunch?’
The change of subject was sudden and final. It bothered Josephine that Marta had an intuitive understanding as far as she was concerned, drawing her out and encouraging her to speak about her feelings as she had the day before, but she rarely allowed the gift to be reciprocated.
It was the only imbalance in their relationship, but it seemed to Josephine an important one, and she had not yet found a way to fight it. ‘Shopping, I think,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I could face food just yet.’
‘Good. There’s a department store just down here.’
Plumpton’s offered everything that Josephine wanted; within an hour, she and Marta had bought new linen, ordered curtains, chosen pans and a kettle for the kitchen, and argued over crockery as if they had years of domestic compromise behind them. ‘I still think you should have gone for the Susie Cooper,’ Marta said, as they struggled back to the car with all they could carry. ‘Whoever’s heard of Charlotte Rhead?’
‘If I wanted brown and dingy, I’d use what I’ve got already,’ Josephine insisted. ‘But if it makes you happy, I’ll buy you a nice beige cup of your own.’
After lunch, they walked through the Abbey Gardens, enchanted by its ruined beauty. A long stretch of green sloped down towards the river bank, and they sat for a while, watching families picnic in the sun. ‘I can’t go there, Josephine, and I never will,’ Marta said, out of nowhere. ‘I know you want me to talk about what happened, and I know you want to help, but it wouldn’t help. It would destroy me even to say his name.’ She was close to tears and Josephine longed to hold her, but she sat staring into the distance, her face impassive, her body tense and wary of the slightest touch. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Of course it’s all right,’ Josephine said quietly.
‘I don’t want you to feel that I’m shutting you out, but I can’t let that be part of our life. Part of my life.’
She started to say something else, but Josephine put a hand on her cheek. ‘Marta, look at me. It’s all right. I understand.’ She felt Marta’s relief and it saddened her, because she knew she could never truly understand. Marta’s son had killed her daughter, and paid the ultimate price. It was what had brought them together and what would always, to some extent, keep them apart.
10
The following day, Josephine spent a long and dusty morning in the garage, emerging at last with two large boxes of rubbish but no clue as to the fate of Maria’s clothes chest. ‘Any luck?’ Marta asked.
‘No, just props in a trunk with travel stamps all over it. I’m not sure Maria ever went as far as Karachi.’
‘Don’t you think it will all be in that room you’re avoiding?’
‘Perhaps, but I’m not ready for that yet.’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘Not on such a lovely day. What have you been up to?’
‘Waging war on the vegetable garden. I hope you like beetroot. Hester obviously did.’
‘Not especially,’ Josephine said, looking doubtfully at the mound by Marta’s feet.
‘No, I can’t stand it either. Still, we could always take it to the church.’
‘What?’
‘The vicar’s wife called while you were busy. She seems nice.’
‘Not much like a vicar’s wife, you mean.’
‘Exactly. She told me not to disturb you, but she brought an invitation to the harvest service tonight. I said we’d go.’
‘You are joking.’
Marta laughed at the horror in her voice. ‘No, I thought it would be fun. It’s the ideal opportunity to have a look at the rest of the village.’
‘Isn’t that the best possible reason not to go?’
‘I’m dying to see them.’
‘Yes, and I’m sure they’re dying to have a look at us. Did you say we’d definitely be there?’
‘I’m afraid so, although I did decline the communal supper afterwards. She was thrilled, Josephine – you can’t possibly let her down. I rather got the impression you’re the most exciting thing to have arrived here for some time.’ She grinned, and held up the beetroot. ‘One generous contribution to the harvest table, and the invitation to open next year’s fête is yours for the asking.’
The evening in prospect had not grown on Josephine by the time the bells rang out over the fields to call the congregation to worship, and she followed Marta reluctantly to the car. Polstead church was set apart from the village, as if even St Mary wanted to distance herself from what had gone on there. It stood at the top of a hill leading up from the village pond, and was distinguished by an unusual medieval spire and by commanding views over the surrounding countryside – gentle, sloping fields on one side, and a deer park on the other, fronting an eighteenth-century manor house which Josephine assumed was Polstead Hall. ‘Is Maria Marten buried here?’ Marta asked, looking round the churchyard.
‘Yes, but I don’t know where. Hilary told me that the gravestone was chipped away over the years. It doesn’t seem right that she should go unmarked, does it?’
‘At least she gets some peace and quiet.’
‘Lucky her,’ Josephine muttered, already feeling the eyes of the village upon them from a stream of people filing into the church by the south door. ‘Shall we have a look round out here first? Let the queue die down and slip quietly into the nearest pew? With a bit of luck, Hilary will be too busy to make a fuss of us.’
Marta smiled at her cowardice, but humoured her by breaking away from the path and heading off into the oldest part of the churchyard. It did not take them long to find the Corder graves: the family made its presence felt in six substantial stones, standing side by side and facing defiantly back towards Polstead Hall, as if daring anyone to mention the son whose body was elsewhere. None of the Marten graves seemed to be marked, and again Josephine found it strange that it was the victim’s family who had been shamed out of history.
‘Perhaps they’re not buried here,’ Marta suggested. ‘They might have left the village – you’d be tempted, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose you would.’ She looked back at the church, and added reluctantly: ‘We should go in.’ The flaws in her plan to remain inconspicuous became obvious as soon as they crossed the threshold. ‘Ah, visitors,’ announced the verger in a tone designed to discourage such an aberration, and everyone turned to look at them. Elsie Gladding whispered in his ear and Josephine caught the words ‘cottage’ and ‘theatre’, neither of which seemed to improve her standing in the community; if anything, the verger’s frown deepened.
Undaunted, Marta beamed at him and held up the basket of vegetables. ‘Where would you like us to put these?’ she asked, and was directed grudgingly over to the harvest table. As they put their offering down with the rest, Josephine could feel the entire congregation’s eyes on her and felt somehow as though she were stealing from the poor rather than making a donation. She looked at the impressive array of produce, and wondered if it was uncharitable of her to think that its outward message of generosity stemmed from a rather less Christian competitive streak among the givers.
‘Josephine! You made it – how lovely.’
Hilary kissed her on both cheeks and shook Marta’s hand warmly. ‘You two met this morning, I believe,’ Josephine said. ‘I’m sorry I missed you. I was on a wild goose chase in the garage.’
‘Don’t worry – I felt much the same in the village, but it seems to have paid off. Not a bad turnout at all. Are you in the theatre, too, Miss Fox?’
‘No, I work in film. I’m a scriptwriter.’
‘Oh, even better.’ Hilary clapped her hands together at the prospect of two interesting women for the price of one, and Josephine saw Marta stifle a smile. ‘I must introduce you to Stephen.’
She went to great pains to point him out – somewhat redundantly, Josephine thought, bearing in mind the occasion and what he was wearing, but she looked with interest at the Reverend Stephen Lampton. He was older than his wife by several years, and had a thoughtful, kind face and an air of unworldliness that must have made him easy prey to the more assertive of his female parishioners. He excused himself from two of them now in response to his wife’s frantic gesturing, and came over to welcome them. ‘Miss Tey – I’m delighted to meet you. Your godmother was a remarkable woman, and we miss her dea
rly.’
The words were a cliché, but the warmth with which they were delivered made anything more elaborate unnecessary, and Josephine had no doubt that he was speaking as a friend rather than a vicar. ‘I hope we’ll have a chance to talk about Hester,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘When you’re less busy, of course. I’m still finding out about her, and I get the impression there’s a lot to learn.’
‘Of course. You must come for dinner, both of you. But in the mean time, just let me say how much I enjoyed Richard of Bordeaux. I was thrilled when Hilary told me that you were taking on the cottage. It’s nice to think that the theatrical tradition will continue.’
Josephine thanked him and led Marta firmly towards the back of the church, choosing a pew from which they could watch the congregation without themselves being the subject of too much attention. ‘They haven’t exactly gone to town on the decorations, have they?’ Marta muttered, nodding to the five cooking apples and a tiny pot of corn that stood near the altar. ‘Has it been a particularly bad year?’
Josephine smiled. ‘At least it won’t take long to be thankful for it,’ she said, standing for the first hymn. After a somewhat flowery preamble, the organ launched unexpectedly into ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’, catching the congregation by surprise. It took everyone a few lines to catch up, and Josephine leaned over to Marta. ‘Trust us to get stuck with a warbler,’ she whispered, as the woman in the pew behind found her stride. Marta’s snort earned them a glare from a couple on the other side of the aisle and a nervous smile from Hilary, and as they reached each chorus, Josephine marvelled at the number of syllables that the word ‘love’ could have in the wrong hands. The singer built to a crescendo and the hymn struggled to keep up, and Josephine could feel the muscles in her own throat straining in sympathy. She tried to control her laughter by imagining a face to go with the voice, but the tears ran helplessly down onto her hymn book, smudging the words that she did not trust herself to sing. Next to her, she could feel Marta’s shoulders heaving but she dared not meet her eye.
