by Nicola Upson
‘Archie? Are you still there?’
‘Sorry, yes. I was just thinking about Elspeth Simmons.’
‘Was there a flower with her body, too?’
‘Yes, an iris again. It occurred to me that she might have been Aubrey’s child, but Grace Aubrey convinced me it was unlikely.
Still, perhaps Elspeth’s death was the catalyst for his. Perhaps when she died she took the reason for nearly twenty years of silence with her. The question is – whose silence? I’m hoping Alice Simmons might be able to help there. Betty telephoned earlier to say they were ready to leave Berwick – Alice wanted to come down straight away to be near Elspeth – so they should be here in a few hours.’
‘Perhaps Arthur fathered a child before he died,’ Josephine suggested. ‘Elspeth could have been related to Bernard that way.’
‘Yes, she could,’ he agreed. ‘Again, Grace claimed not to know of a lover, but they could have kept the relationship quiet. And if the girl was pregnant out of wedlock, she’s hardly going to parade the illegitimacy at a memorial service.’ He sighed heavily. ‘There 182
are so many permutations, but what you’ve told me tonight helps enormously. Where is Lydia now, by the way?’
‘She’s gone home with Marta. They got a car to take them, as you instructed,’ she added, with no intention of admitting that Lydia’s revelations had been made by the side of the Thames in questionable company rather than in the safety of Number 66. ‘I think there are some things they need to sort out – personal stuff, nothing to do with this – and they both looked shattered.’
‘You must be, too. You should go to bed.’
‘I know. I don’t suppose there’s any point in my telling you to get some rest? You can’t go on like this indefinitely.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he promised, ‘and I’ll speak to you tomorrow – well, later today. I can’t say when because God knows what’s going to happen next, but I’ll try to find time to come and see you. And Josephine?’
‘Don’t worry, Archie, I will,’ she said, anticipating his instructions to take care.
As Archie said goodnight, Fallowfield put his head round the door. ‘Miss McCracken’s downstairs, Sir. She’s older than I expected – it’s funny, I always think of the theatre set as packed with sweet young things, but she’s no youngster now and I doubt she’s ever been sweet. Nasty piece of work, but I suppose she’d have to be to write those letters. And she hasn’t stopped talking from the moment I knocked on her door to the moment I put her in the interview room.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Mostly vicious stuff about people she worked with – all except Terry. He seems to share her high opinion of herself. Very nasty about Miss Tey, though, and not a good word to say about Bernard Aubrey.’
‘But no indication that she already knew he was dead?’
‘No, but she’s not stupid, Sir. She wouldn’t give herself away.’
‘I think we’ll let her wait for a bit; our hospitality might calm her down and anyway, I want to bring you up to date.’
Fallowfield listened intently to what Penrose had to say, then added his own news. ‘Nothing further on White yet, Sir, but 183
Seddon’s been through the list of numbers on Aubrey’s blotter.
Most of them aren’t very interesting – firms you’d expect him to deal with in theatre – but one is the number for Somerset House and another is a private number down south. There’s no answer, but I’ve told Seddon to keep trying.’
‘Somerset House is interesting,’ Penrose said. ‘I wonder what Aubrey was digging around there for?’
‘I don’t know yet, Sir, but we’re trying to track down a home number for someone who works there. If not, it’ll be first thing Monday morning at the latest.’
‘Good work, Bill – thanks,’ Penrose said. What he needed now was a voice to unlock the past, someone who could help remove the barrier which time had placed between him and that first terrible death. From that, the more immediate answers would follow, he was sure, and he looked forward more than ever to meeting Alice Simmons.
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Twelve
The early hours of Sunday morning brought nothing but despair to Hedley White. Last night, buoyed up by the beginnings of a plan and some money in his pocket to carry it out, he had almost convinced himself that running away was a feasible solution; perhaps if he left London behind he could also discard the pain of Elspeth’s death, if not the fact of it. He would go to one of the stations – not King’s Cross, he couldn’t bear that and anyway it would be full of police – and buy a ticket to get himself as far away from the city as he could afford to go. He’d choose a town he liked the name of, maybe somewhere on the coast, where he could keep his head down, work hard and start again.
But as daylight released the life back into Paddington Station, things looked very different. Hedley stood by the station’s great memorial to railway staff who had fallen during the war, dwarfed by the statue of a soldier and envious of the huge greatcoat in which it was draped. It wasn’t the cold or the rain that had eaten away at his resolve, though; it was the loneliness that had worn him down. All his life, Hedley had known companionship: in a large and close-knit family, in the chaotic but familial world of the theatre and, most recently, in the intimate miracle of love; now, as he gazed over towards the long line of platforms, each leading out to a different version of that second chance he had craved, the isolation of such a life bore down on him with a merciless reality. If Elspeth were with him, he thought, he would be stronger; she always brought out the best in him and he would know what to do for them both. He looked up again at his bronze companion, who held not a weapon but a letter from home, and 185
imagined him to be so engrossed in this reminder of tenderness that the trenches were forgotten. That was nobility, he thought, and Elspeth’s absence returned again to mock him. Who was he trying to fool? Who was this decisive and courageous protector that his imagination conjured up so readily? Elspeth was dead, and he was no hero.
By now, the ticket office had opened and Hedley joined the queue, hoping it would force him into making a decision. ‘Where to?’ the booking clerk snapped when his turn came and tapped a ruler impatiently on the counter. As Hedley hesitated, a policeman came into view. He was just a bobby on an early shift, looking forward to his first hot drink of the day, but Hedley – who had been brought up to believe in the power of authority – saw it as a sign.
He recalled a book he had read recently. When he first met Elspeth and discovered her love for Richard of Bordeaux, he had borrowed a couple of Josephine Tey’s novels from the library to impress her. He couldn’t remember the titles but the one he had particularly enjoyed was a mystery which involved the chase and inevitable capture of a suspected murderer. Reliving it now, and finding himself on the wrong side of the story, he knew without any doubt that a life on the run was not for him. Hurriedly, he left the queue. What on earth had he been thinking of? He couldn’t spend the rest of his life cowering in the shadows, afraid to show his face, no matter how much trouble he was in. Decisive now, Hedley walked quickly to the nearest public telephone and called the only person he could think of without fear.
Lydia took some time to answer and, when she did, her voice was full of sleep. ‘I’m sorry to wake you so early on a Sunday,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t know who else to ring.’
‘Hedley? Where on earth are you? Are you all right?’
He explained, and she listened patiently. When she spoke again, all traces of sleep had disappeared and her tone was warm but firm. ‘You have to go to the police, darling. You haven’t done anything wrong but if you run away they’ll have something to hold against you; if you go now, there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
When he didn’t speak immediately, Lydia continued reassuringly.
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‘Inspector Penrose is a fair man, Hedley, and he’ll be on your side as long as you’re honest with him. You want them t
o find who did this to Elspeth, don’t you?’ He could tell from the sudden forced brightness in her voice that she knew it was a cheap shot, but she was right to guess that nothing would make him see sense more readily.
‘You’re right and this sounds stupid, but I just can’t face having to walk into a police station,’ he said. ‘I know I’ve made it worse by waiting till now. Could you speak to Mr Penrose for me? Tell him I’m here?’
There was silence on the line, and Hedley waited for Lydia’s answer. ‘Look, I’ll speak to him now for you but I think it’s best if you go back to your digs and he comes to find you there. There’ll probably be a policeman waiting, but just explain what’s happening. You don’t want to have all this out in the middle of Paddington Station.’
Reading between the lines, Hedley realised that she was doing her best to keep his shame as private as possible without saying as much, and he appreciated her efforts while suspecting that they signalled a rough time ahead for him with Inspector Penrose. Still, he had made his decision and he wouldn’t go back on it now.
‘Thanks for trusting me,’ he said.
‘Don’t be silly, Hedley – of course I trust you. I’m glad you phoned me and I want you to let me know straight away if you need me. It’ll be all right, really it will. I’m sure the police will sort it out. And Hedley?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m truly sorry about Elspeth. I know how much you loved each other.’
Hedley replaced the receiver without speaking and made for the underground, fighting back tears. He trusted Lydia and knew her advice was sensible, but first there was something he needed to do.
Penrose was unavailable, so Lydia left an urgent message with the constable on the desk and climbed back into bed, shivering as she removed her dressing gown.
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‘You didn’t tell Hedley about Aubrey’s death,’ Marta said, putting her arms around her.
‘No,’ said Lydia. ‘I just couldn’t. I was afraid I’d be able to tell from his voice that he already knew.’
Rafe Swinburne rode over the river and into Blackfriars Road, taking advantage of the straight, broad street and peaceful Sunday morning to reach a satisfying speed which was rarely possible in the city. He passed the entrances to Stamford Street and the Cut before turning right into the network of smaller roads behind Waterloo Station, and was pleased to see that the area in which he always parked his motorcycle – close to his digs, where he could keep an eye on it – was clear of cars. He cut the engine, relieved for once to be home and alone: his nightly diversions were taking their toll, although it was the smiling rather than the sex which wore him out. Perhaps he should have tonight off: it was supposed to be a day of rest, after all.
He took his keys from the ignition and crossed Chaplin Close, heading towards the old three-storey house in which he and Hedley shared rooms. It was shabby, but cheaper than lodgings on the other side of the river and, with his bike or the underground, the West End was only a few minutes away. If all went well, it wouldn’t be long before he could afford something better but, in the meantime, this suited him perfectly. The street was quiet and, from Waterloo Road, he could hear the bells of St John’s. It must be about nine o’clock, he thought. With a bit of luck, Hedley would still be in bed and he could enjoy a cup of coffee in peace before getting some sleep himself.
He was still three or four doors from home when he heard someone call his name from the other side of the street. Looking over, he was astonished to see his room-mate lurking in the shadows outside a butcher’s shop. Hedley was beckoning urgently to him, and it would have been hard to imagine a more complete picture of human misery.
‘Jesus Christ, you look terrible,’ Swinburne said, going across to him. ‘What the hell are you doing out here?’
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‘Waiting for you. I knew you’d be back soon and there’s something I need to ask you before I hand myself in.’
‘Hedley, what are you talking about? In where?’
‘To the police. They’ll be waiting at the house, I expect – that’s why I needed to catch you out here first.’ As Swinburne looked over his shoulder, bewildered, Hedley explained. ‘It’s Elspeth. She was the girl who was killed on the train and they think I did it.’
‘Fucking hell, mate, that’s awful. They’re here now, you say?’
‘Probably. Lydia said they would be.’
‘You’ve spoken to her about it?’
‘I had to. I didn’t know what else to do. She told me to give myself up and trust them to be fair.’
Swinburne was sceptical. ‘No doubt she means well, Hedley, but are you sure you want to do that? Wouldn’t you rather just keep out of sight for a bit until they catch the bastard who really did it?’
‘I don’t think I could stand it. Anyway, the more time they waste looking for me, the less likely it is they’ll get whoever did this to her. And I can’t bear the thought of him getting away with it, Rafe
– nothing would be worse than that.’ Swinburne waited while Hedley pulled himself together. ‘I’d like you to do something for me, though. I need an alibi for Friday night before the show. The papers said it happened early evening, so it’ll be before I got to the theatre. I didn’t kill her, but they’ll never believe me, so would you say I was with you?’
It was a risk, Swinburne thought; he didn’t want to get himself into trouble. ‘Aubrey would vouch for you,’ he said. ‘He’d know you couldn’t have done it.’
Hedley looked down. ‘I can’t ask him, not now. Anyway, I don’t think he would.’
‘All right, then. I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t say we went for a drink together. Not the Salisbury, though – someone might contradict that. We need somewhere more anonymous.
How about the Duncannon? It’s always busy on a Friday so nobody could swear we weren’t there. We went there together and arrived at about six o’clock. Is that early enough?’
Hedley shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
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‘OK. We sat upstairs and drank beer – two halves each – until it was time to go to the theatre, then we walked back together as far as stage door. I’d say we got there about an hour before the performance, wouldn’t you?’
‘Can anybody prove we’re lying?’
‘I doubt it. I was actually with a girl but she wasn’t very memorable, and if I can’t remember her name, there’s not much chance of anyone else tracking her down. Fortunately, she was quite easy to shake off.’ He looked at Hedley’s worried face and wondered if it was sensible to ask; in the end, he couldn’t resist the question, but tried to make it casual. ‘What were you really doing, by the way?’
Hedley hesitated, then seemed to decide that he owed an explanation in return for the favour. ‘I was singing,’ he said, offering perhaps the one answer that would never have occurred to Swinburne. ‘Elspeth wanted one of those dolls from the play so badly but I couldn’t afford to buy her one. I thought if I did a quick round of the pit doors, entertaining the queues for a bit at each one, I might make enough money to get her a present.’
Swinburne raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘I can see why you want an alibi,’ he said, then, as Hedley began to protest, cut him short. ‘All right, all right – it’s unlikely enough to be true. I’ll speak up for you, and you’re probably right to assume that the police won’t go to the effort of tracing theatre queues to prove you innocent.’
He put a hand on Hedley’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. You can rely on me.’
‘Then will you do one more thing for me?’ He reached into the bag he was carrying and took out a doll. ‘I got the money,’ he said, handing it to Swinburne. ‘Actually, I did better than I could have hoped. I bought this in the interval ready to give to Elspeth when I saw her last night. Will you take it to her uncle for me? I’d still like her to have it and he’ll know where they’ve taken her. I’ve written the address down for you – it’s in Hammersmith, but it won’t take you long on a Sunday. And will you tel
l him I’m sorry?’
Swinburne looked down at the doll in his hands, relieved to have something to distract him from the intensity of Hedley’s grief.
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It was the female character from the play, the Queen, and more a puppet than a doll, really. The figure, which wore a rich green velvet gown and head-dress, was sufficiently pliable to be posed and he raised its left arm, examining the coloured glass in the wedding ring and around the neck of the dress. He had always thought there was something hideous about dolls of any sort and this one was unnervingly realistic. An image of it clutched in a dead girl’s hands sprung involuntarily to mind and he shuddered, hoping that Hedley wouldn’t notice the horror which his posthumous gift to Elspeth had aroused.
‘I’ll do it now,’ he said quickly, wanting the thing out of his charge and remembering what was waiting for Hedley at home. At least it was a good excuse to be out of the way, he thought: he certainly had no desire to come between the police and their prime suspect.
The lights had gone out one by one as the residents of Verbena Gardens took to their beds and now, several hours later, Frank Simmons watched them come on again in near-perfect reverse order. The night had passed even more slowly than he feared it would; more than once, he got up from his seat at the window to check that the clock on Betty’s side of the bed was still working; each time, as he picked it up and held it to his ear, the gentle tick-ing confirmed that time was determined to move on, even if he had no idea how to move with it.
He hadn’t tried to go to bed, knowing that sleep would be impossible and, when Betty was not there with him, reluctant to disturb the tidy counterpane which she smoothed into place each morning. As soon as she had telephoned to say that she and Alice were leaving Berwick, he had turned his chair to face the point where the street joined the main road; he knew it would be an age before they arrived, but the very act of looking out for the car seemed to bring them closer. He would feel safer when Betty was home again. The police had been kind but he knew what they must be thinking in private, and he was mortified whenever he remembered the expression in Josephine Tey’s eyes as she had turned to 191
