by Nicola Upson
And it wasn’t that we didn’t get on – it’s just that we never created that spark of joy in each other’s lives that makes everything else irrelevant. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but any of the pleasures that I did take from our life together would not have been lessened had he not been there to share them.’ She looked down at her hands, and gently touched her wedding ring. ‘I was a little harsh on you just then, Inspector. I’m sorry, and perhaps you’re right; perhaps if we had been unhappy rather than merely bored we might have separated and looked for happiness elsewhere. But when you’re neither one thing nor the other, time slips away before you realise that there might be something more.’
Guessing that Aubrey’s widow would despise any form of pre-varication, Penrose decided to make his questions as direct as possible. ‘Were you always faithful to each other?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘You seem very sure. Can you speak so certainly for your husband?’
‘I can afford to be sure, if only for the simple reason that I wouldn’t have minded if he had strayed. There would have been no need for him to lie about it. I might even have been relieved, although of course you never know when jealousy will strike. No, 165
we were both too lazy to have an affair.’ She took a cigarette from the silver box on the table beside her and paused to light it.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘A son, Joseph. He lives in Gloucestershire. He and Bernard were never very close – they were far too much alike to get on well, and Bernard always resented the fact that Joe didn’t want anything to do with his precious theatres. And thank God he didn’t, bearing in mind what’s happened to his father.’
‘Did he have enemies, then?’
‘Clearly he did, Inspector. I would have thought that much was obvious.’
‘But specifically within the theatre? You seem to blame his work for his death.’
‘Bernard was a powerful man. He made careers and he destroyed them. His decisions were invariably right but often ruthless, and he made them with no thought for sentiment or even loyalty. And he was found poisoned in the private area of his theatre.
You’re the detective, of course, but the evidence does seem to point in that direction.’
Penrose resisted the temptation to return the charge of seeing things too simply. ‘I believe your husband’s death is connected to another murder which took place on Friday. Does the name Elspeth Simmons mean anything to you?’
She thought for a moment. ‘The girl who was killed at King’s Cross? I read about it in the paper tonight but I’d never heard of her before that. What makes you think Bernard’s death had anything to do with hers?’
‘She was involved with one of his employees – a young man named Hedley White. I gather your husband thought a lot of him and was very upset at the news of Miss Simmons’s death.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry – I can’t really help you there. He did talk fondly about Hedley – I remember because it’s an unusual name – and he was certainly a great believer in giving young people a chance, but I can’t be more specific than that.’
‘Had you noticed any change in his behaviour recently?’ Penrose asked, although he was rapidly coming to believe that Grace 166
Aubrey knew too little about her husband’s life to be able to throw much light on his death. ‘At the risk of being too straightforward, had he been unhappy?’
She smiled at him with a growing respect. ‘At the risk of being pedantic, I’d say angry rather than unhappy. He always had a short temper, but it was usually soon over. Lately, he often seemed worried or frustrated.’
‘Do you have any idea why?’
‘When Bernard was angry, it was usually because he couldn’t get his own way over something, but don’t ask me what.’
‘I know it’s unlikely, bearing in mind the manner of his death, but can you imagine anything that might have led Bernard to take his own life?’
‘No. Absolutely nothing. He had no great faith to prevent him from doing it, but after all he went through in the war and all the lives he saw snatched away before they were ever really begun, he scorned suicide as the coward’s way out. That was something he never was – a coward – and he despised it in other people. He had a bleak view of the world and he could be very hard on himself at times, usually because of things he hadn’t done that he thought he should have, but he always claimed that the greatest punishment for any sin was to go on living.’
Penrose wondered if the sin for which Bernard Aubrey had felt the need to repent went back as far as the war. He asked as much, and was rewarded once again with a look of approval.
‘What makes you think that, I wonder? You’re right, though.
Bernard had a terrible time, and he came back a very different man. Not broken, you understand, but with a combination of resentment and guilt which ran deeper than the grief we all felt to some extent.’ She lit another cigarette but lodged it almost immediately in the ashtray, where it burned steadily down, forgotten.
‘He’d been in the war in South Africa and distinguished himself there, so, although he was really too old to fight in France, they begged him to go over and lead the war underground. Lots of older men did the same – they needed the youngsters to do all the digging, but they only had a week’s basic training or something 167
ridiculous before they were sent out to that God-forsaken landscape and then expected to do battle with earth and water and charges going off all over the place. People like Bernard, who were experienced and could lead by example, were worth their weight in gold. I know that there was no such thing as an easy war for anyone – you look the right age to vouch for that – but it always seemed to me that tunnelling was a different level of hell. There’s something peculiarly unnatural about never seeing daylight. But he was marvellous with those boys, at least at first; he looked after them, taught them how to keep their nerve and anticipate the enemy’s next move, and believe me – there was nobody better than my husband at doing that. And they learned quickly – they had to; the slightest noise down there could cost lives and if you gave way to panic, that was it – you lost the confidence of your colleagues and your usefulness was over.’
‘And is that what happened to Bernard?’
‘No, not at all, although I don’t know how he kept it together.
He had to spend hours alone in cramped positions, straining every sinew to hear enemy noise. Apparently, sound travels further through solid ground and water than it does through air and it was his job to interpret what he heard, to plot the direction of the tunnels and judge the distances for the charges. There must have been enormous pressure on him, psychologically I mean, knowing how much depended on his decisions and how close he was to the enemy. It would have been easy to let your imagination run away with you in a situation like that.’
Penrose waited, not wanting to hurry her. When she didn’t speak for some time, he said, ‘It’s not surprising that he developed claustrophobia. Surely nobody could leave that behind and come away unscathed?’
‘I don’t know. He was a strong man, in some ways incredibly so, and I think he’d have been fine if it hadn’t been for one particular incident. It was in the spring of 1916 – some of the tunnels ran a third of a mile or so under enemy territory by then, so you can imagine how important the ventilation was. They’d judge it by a candle – forgive me if I’m telling you things you already know –
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and if it stayed alight, even if it was only the feeblest of blue flames, it was judged safe to work. With the longest tunnels, there’d be an infantryman above ground working those big blacksmith’s bellows, pumping air to the face along lines of stove piping. It was real teamwork, and a huge act of faith for the men underground.’
She got up and poured herself a whisky and soda from a decanter next to the flowers, then picked up a second glass and looked at him questioningly. He shook his head, reluctant to accept anything that wou
ld make him more tired than he was already, and she resumed her story. ‘One day, Bernard was down there with two others, young engineers who were placing charges according to his instructions. They’d nearly finished when they noticed that the air was beginning to deteriorate and it was getting harder to breathe. Obviously they couldn’t just call up to see what was happening with the bellows – it was too far and anyway, only sign language was permitted below ground – so Bernard ordered them back up immediately. Fortunately, because their senses were so attuned to the slightest change, they’d noticed in time to make it back to safety, but one of them refused to go.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’d nearly finished laying the charge and was determined to get it done. Bernard knew the boy had misjudged how long he could stay down there safely and he tried to drag him away, but he wasn’t strong enough to do it on his own – the third man had followed orders immediately and left – and he knew it would be dangerous to make a noise by struggling because it would alert the enemy to their position. He had no choice but to go back and get the bellows working again, and try to save him that way. When he reached the surface, he found his colleague and a few other soldiers wrestling with the piping; apparently the infantryman had been working the bellows constantly, so they realised there must be a blockage somewhere in the system. Of course, Bernard knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of locating it before the man below suffocated, so he turned and went back down.’
Penrose was silent, trying to imagine the courage it must have 169
taken for anyone to respond like that, to descend to what must have seemed like certain death. The mental picture of Aubrey’s contorted face and outstretched hand, already fixed distressingly in his mind, took on a new horror.
‘Needless to say, it was hopeless. The air in the tunnel was all but extinguished and Bernard only got a hundred yards or so in before he was gasping for breath and losing consciousness. He was on his knees, still trying to move forward, when the man he’d sent back caught up with him and dragged him out. It’s a miracle that either of them got out alive.’
‘And the boy?’ Penrose asked, although he knew there could only be one outcome.
‘When they got the air circulating again, they found him about a hundred yards from the face, obviously on his way back. What a terrible death it must have been – all that blackness and nothing to breathe, and the sheer terror of being down there alone and knowing you’re doomed. He was face down, Bernard said, with his mouth full of soil. They may as well have buried him alive.’ She shuddered, and added with a wry bitterness, ‘The charge was perfectly laid, however. They used it that evening and I gather it was rather successful.’
‘It’s impossible for anyone who wasn’t there to understand how that must have affected him and I’m sorry if this sounds naive –
but I don’t quite see why he felt that to be a sin for which he had to be punished. Guilty for not being able to help, perhaps – but not responsible. It was an accident, surely? What more could he have done?’
‘Yes, it was an accident, but the boy who died wasn’t just anyone: he was Bernard’s nephew, Arthur, his sister’s only child, and Bernard had made a promise to look after him. That in itself is ridiculous, of course – you can’t make promises in war, it doesn’t work that way – but he made it all the same and never forgave himself for being unable to keep it, even though his sister certainly never laid the blame at his door.’
For Penrose, a piece of the jigsaw fell at last into place. He had no idea how it got him any closer to finding Aubrey’s killer, but 170
somehow he knew it was important. ‘Do you happen to have a photograph of her?’ he asked.
‘Of Nora? Yes, of course. I’ve got one of her with Arthur, taken not long before his death. Do you want to see it?’
‘Yes please, if you don’t mind.’ She was gone only a couple of minutes and, when she returned, handed him a small photograph in a plain gold frame. The boy in the picture was, he guessed, little more than twenty, and he smiled broadly out from behind the glass, handsome in his new uniform and with a warmth in his eyes which would have made him attractive even if the rest of his features had been less appealing. He had his arm round his mother, who looked up at him proudly but with an apprehension which had been justified all too soon. Her face was in profile and she was older here than when Penrose had last seen her, but it was unmistakably the same woman whose picture looked down from the bookshelf in Aubrey’s office, the woman to whom he imagined the bayonet and flower had been pointing. Without really knowing why, he asked: ‘The irises – here and in Bernard’s office – are they connected at all to his sister?’
She looked at him, completely taken aback. ‘I suppose in a way they are, although how you know so much about my husband puzzles me.’
It puzzled Penrose, too, although he had no intention of discussing the scenes – and they were, he realised now, very much like theatrical scenes – which had been created for him both on the train and in Aubrey’s office. In truth, almost everything he knew about Aubrey was based on what the killer had told him, so who else, he wondered, was so familiar with the man’s past?
Too polite to question him more, Grace Aubrey continued with her explanation. ‘Actually, the irises are more linked with Arthur.
He was a brilliant young man, you know. When he enlisted, he was two years into an engineering degree at Cambridge, but what he loved most was gardening and he spent virtually all his time in the Botanic Gardens. It was always his intention to go back there after the war. There was a job waiting for him as soon as he graduated.’
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Penrose remembered the Gardens; he’d visited them once or twice himself during his university days and, although they lay just on the edge of the town, within easy walking distance of his col-lege, their contrasting landscapes offered a seductive other world.
He and Aubrey’s nephew must have been in Cambridge at the same time, he realised.
‘Arthur got his love of flowers from his mother, although she was a botanical illustrator, not a gardener. He transformed their own garden when he was still just a boy, and their neighbours’, then he earned money doing it in his spare time at university. The iris was his favourite flower. After he died, when Bernard came back from the war, he had twenty-one different varieties planted here in the garden, one for each year of Arthur’s life. Part of the penance, I think, although he hardly needed flowers to remind him.’ She stood, and walked over to the vase below the painting.
‘Bernard chose the species to have flowers all year round, so it’s just as well I’ve grown to love them too. See how beautiful they are when you look at them closely.’
He joined her and saw what she meant. The flowers which he had believed to be of a uniform deep lilac with a single splash of yellow were, in fact, a complex blend of tones and colours, each slightly different to the next. ‘Did you know it’s supposed to be the flower of chivalry?’ she asked. ‘Three petals – one for faith, one for wisdom, and one for valour. Bernard laid an iris on the Cenotaph for Arthur every week, almost without fail. I shall do the same now for both of them – there’s no one else left to remember. Nora died five years ago – she had cancer – and Arthur’s father was already long dead when he went to France.’
‘Did Arthur have a lover?’
‘Not that I know of. Certainly there was no girlfriend at the memorial service we held for him.’
Having believed at first that he would get nothing from Grace Aubrey, Penrose now sensed that the time spent with her had hinted at everything of significance in the case. At a loss for the moment as to how it related back to the theatre and to Elspeth Simmons, he fell back on a more conventional line of enquiry.
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‘Can I have the name of your husband’s solicitor, Mrs Aubrey? I’ll need to see the details of his will.’
‘It’s John Maudelyn at Maudelyn & De Vere. They’re in Lan-caster Place, but I think I can save you some time. If the
re was one thing that Bernard and I did discuss, it was our financial affairs.’
She left the room, again only briefly. ‘This is a copy of his will,’ she said, handing Penrose a large ivory-coloured envelope. ‘You’ll want to check with John, but you certainly won’t find him at work on a Sunday so this might help in the meantime. I’d be very surprised if he’d changed it without telling me, and there are none of those startling revelations in here that make things so much easier for detective writers.’ She smiled wryly. ‘And theatre producers, for that matter. Put simply, the houses, Bernard’s stocks and shares and a significant amount of capital go to Joseph and to me; neither of us will ever want for anything, as you’ll see.’
‘And the theatres?’
‘Ownership of the bricks and mortar goes to Joseph, but no executive powers in their management. That falls to John Terry, together with a sizeable share of the profits. Or, I suppose, the losses, although he’d have to be very stupid to whittle away assets of the scale that Bernard has built up over the years. A lump sum has been left to Lydia Beaumont; they were good friends, and he could always fancy himself a little in love with her without the fear of having to do anything about it – I’m sure you know what I mean. The most unusual clause concerns Hedley White – I knew I’d seen the name somewhere. He is to have a job – and a well-paid one – at the New and Wyndham’s theatres for as long as he wants one or, should he choose to leave, he will receive a sum of money that should set him up for life.’
Penrose thanked her and held out his hand, ready to leave her in peace, but she walked with him down to the hallway, stopping at the door to another room on the way to point out a second vase of flowers. ‘These don’t strictly belong to the iris family but I liked them so much that Bernard planted them for me. Ironic, isn’t it?’
He looked at the velvety brown and green flowers without understanding her meaning. ‘ Hermodactylus tuberosus, Inspector. Or, to 173
