by Nicola Upson
He turned round, and she was sad to see how relieved he seemed to pull back from the conversation he had tentatively begun. ‘I don’t know. Alice Simmons thinks Vintner was capable of finding a way to dispose of her, and she could well be right. I was hoping you might be able to help me there. Did you learn anything about Vintner’s background during the trial? Anything that might help us link what we know about Arthur’s death with the current murders?’
‘Well, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to be impartial about him, but I remember being surprised by how arrogant and manipulative he was. I know hindsight’s a wonderful thing but I can easily see now that he would be capable of murder, and confident of getting away with it. At the time, though, what struck me was how at odds his personality was with the sensibility of his book. It seemed extraordinary that someone so narcissistic – and now, as it turns out, so evil – could have written a novel with such compassion and insight.’ She thought about what Marta had said on the subject, and added, ‘His later books were much more in character – very masculine, almost to the point of misogyny. But The White Heart showed a real understanding of women. He painted the historical relationship between Richard and Anne in very human terms and made them real people. That’s supposed to be what I stole from him. There was nothing like that in his other books – they tended 236
to be full of relationships founded on power, even cruelty. I suppose he’d argue now that his wife’s betrayal with Arthur changed his view of women.’ She considered that for a moment. ‘Who’s to say what effect it had? But you didn’t ask for a literary critique of his work, did you?’
‘No, although it’s interesting that his outlook changed so radi-cally. I’m sorry to revert to something more superficial, but did he remind you of anybody? Did he look like anyone you know from the theatre?’
She smiled at the thought that someone who prided himself on his intellectual and emotional approach to detection had been forced to fall back on such a storybook line of enquiry. ‘Not that I can think of, but you were in court for a while as well. What do you think?’
‘I only saw him briefly. You had a chance to study his manner-isms, and I suppose I was hoping for some miraculous moment of revelation when you realised that he scratched his head in exactly the same way as Terry, say, or Fleming.’
Now they were both laughing at the absurdity of his question, and some of the earlier tension between them disappeared.
‘Definitely not Johnny,’ she said. ‘Vintner would never have entertained all that feminine grace. Fleming’s dark-haired, I’ll give you that, but it’s not much to go on.’
‘What about Esme McCracken?’
‘Who?’
Archie smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how furious she’d be if she knew you weren’t even aware of her existence. She speaks very highly of you. She’s the stage manager and about Vintner’s age.’
‘Oh yes, I know. The pinched woman who writes plays. Johnny says they’re actually quite good. I’m afraid I can’t recall precisely what she looks like, though, so I can’t help you there.’
‘What about family? Do you remember any relatives from the trial? Was there anyone there to support him?’
‘No, only his lawyer.’ She thought for a moment. ‘He did have a family, though. I remember now – he played the big sympathy card about having to bring up his son on his own. That’s why he started 237
writing, apparently – he needed to stay at home and earn money.
But there was no indication of how he lost his wife.’
‘And the son wasn’t in court?’
‘No. I don’t think he was even mentioned by name. I certainly don’t remember it if he was.’
‘Any idea what he does or where he might be?’
‘No. There were obituaries after the suicide, of course, but nothing very significant. Vintner’s reputation soon dwindled when each book turned out to be a bigger flop than the last. By the time he died, the general feeling was that the most exciting plot development he’d come up with in years was to shoot himself. Still, the papers might tell you something about his family life.’
‘Yes, they might. It’s a good place to start, at least.’
‘Do you know how he found out about the affair?’ Josephine asked.
‘He read a letter that was meant for Arthur. I remember letters from home getting mixed up all the time – it was a miracle they got there at all. They arrived in one big pile, and there was such a stampede to get to them. You can just imagine it, can’t you?
Vintner automatically reaches for something in his wife’s handwriting and then notices it’s not for him; he’s hardly likely to put it back on the pile and say nothing. It was a stupid thing to do, really
– to send something so damning with no guarantee of its getting to the right person.’ There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs.
‘That’s my cue to get going,’ he said. ‘The Fox woman’s on the prowl.’
‘You don’t have to rush off,’ Josephine said. ‘She really isn’t as fierce as all that.’
He grinned. ‘No, but it sounds like she needs a heart-to-heart without interruptions. Anyway, I’ve left Bill chasing phone numbers and post-mortem reports, so I ought to see how he’s getting on. And I want to have a look for those obituaries. Tracing Vintner’s son is vital – he’s the obvious candidate if we’re looking for someone desperate to protect Vintner’s reputation.’
Before he could go any further, though, the front door was flung open with almost indecent vigour. ‘Only us,’ called Ronnie from 238
the hallway. ‘Has anyone else died while we’ve been at lunch?’ She sauntered into the room and collapsed onto the chaise longue, apparently oblivious to the pile of sketches that she was sitting on.
‘Shouldn’t you be out catching criminals, cousin dearest?’
Archie flashed what Josephine had come to recognise as his Ronnie smile. ‘I’m on my way to do just that,’ he said. ‘I’d hate to think that your exquisite neck was in peril.’
‘Oh do stay and have some tea, Archie,’ Lettice said on her way through to the kitchen. ‘I’m gasping for a hot drink. Guermani’s was so crowded today that we ended up on the table next to the Daintrey-Smythes and you know how Angelica gets on my tits. I couldn’t possibly stay for coffee – as it was, dessert took endurance beyond all measure. All those loud-but-oh-so-self-effacing references to her double-page spread in The Sketch when we know full well what she had to spread to get it. It’s enough to make a witch spit.’
Archie had to laugh at this uncharacteristic outburst from his cousin, who normally left vulgar asides to her more experienced sister, but he stuck to his guns about going. His goodbyes were drowned by a squeal from the next room. ‘Oh lovely!’ Lettice exclaimed, and emerged carrying a vase with a single flower that looked a little the worse for wear. ‘You brought something to cheer Josephine up, Archie. How thoughtful. And what an extraordinary colour.’
‘Good tactic, dear – move in when she’s vulnerable,’ piped up Ronnie. ‘You may get somewhere at last. A little tip, though –
bring one that’s alive next time.’
‘Stop teasing him,’ said Lettice, but Archie just stared at the flower, oblivious to them all.
‘Archie didn’t bring it,’ Josephine said quickly, in case he was feeling awkward. ‘I found it tucked in Marta’s manuscript. She must have forgotten it was there. She thinks Lydia left it at stage door for her but I know she didn’t, so, for harmony’s sake, I thought I’d better find a home for it. Another admirer on the scene isn’t what their relationship needs right now.’
‘Is there trouble, then?’ Ronnie asked wickedly, settling in for a 239
good story, but Archie interrupted before Josephine could feel obliged to satisfy her curiosity.
‘You say that belongs to Marta?’ he asked, looking thoughtful.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘And Lydia definitely didn’t give it to her?’
‘No, she ju
st looked bewildered when Marta thanked her for it.
Is it important? Why do you look so worried all of a sudden?’
‘Because I’ve already seen one flower like that today, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. The first was at Grace Aubrey’s – she had a vase of them. Bernard planted them for her, apparently. Its common name is widow iris.’
‘All this horticultural chat is fascinating, but I’d rather shoot myself than take up gardening so would you mind telling us what your point is,’ Ronnie said, but Josephine understood immediately what Archie meant.
‘You think Bernard’s killer left it for Marta as some sort of message, don’t you?’ she said, and Lettice slammed the vase down on the cocktail cabinet and moved hurriedly away from it. ‘And if that’s the case, the obvious implication is that Lydia’s next.’
As Ronnie and Lettice looked at him in disbelief, Archie said,
‘I certainly think she could be in danger, and whoever’s doing this is capable of anything. It’s funny – Lydia’s been on the periphery of everything this weekend; she was at the station with you when Elspeth was killed and she found Bernard’s body. It’s all too close for comfort, but at least she’s safely at the Yard now
– I think that’s the first stroke of luck we’ve had since this started. I’d better get back straight away and make sure she’s still there. Just before I go, though – is there any chance that Lydia could be in some way connected to Aubrey other than through the theatre? This is confidential,’ he added, looking pointedly at Ronnie, whose expression implied she had much to teach the Virgin Mary on the subject of innocence, ‘but Aubrey left her a considerable lump sum in his will. I just wondered if she could possibly have had any part to play in what happened with Arthur?’
‘I really don’t think so,’ Josephine said. ‘I haven’t known her 240
that long, of course, but we have talked a lot about our lives and she’s never mentioned anything that could possibly fit in. She had a brother who was shot in the trenches, but I’m sure she didn’t meet Bernard until long after the war was over.’
‘I’m not surprised he wanted to look after her financially,’
Lettice added. ‘They really were good friends, you know, and he valued her opinion on everything. I think she was closer to him than anyone, and of course he always admired her professionally.
He wasn’t one to let sentiment interfere with his business, but their personal friendship would have been strong enough to last through any decisions that the actress in Lydia didn’t like.’
Josephine agreed. ‘Lydia has a talent for friendship, if not for relationships,’ she said. ‘She was always fiercely loyal to Bernard and I think he prized loyalty above most things. It’s not a terribly common currency in theatre.’
‘But if the killer suspects they were close enough for Bernard to have confided in her about Arthur, that would be enough to make her a target,’ Archie said. ‘I’ll go and speak to her, and I’ll telephone to let you know she’s all right. Would you explain the situation to Marta when she gets here? I’m afraid it’ll mean coming clean about the flower, but try not to alarm her too much. I could be over-reacting and Lydia could be perfectly safe – let’s hope so –
but I don’t want another death on my hands, so I’ve got to consider every possibility. I’m happy to look stupid – even in front of Marta Fox – but not negligent.’
‘Is Marta coming over?’ asked Lettice, casting another suspicious glance at the flower which had so recently enchanted her.
‘Yes, in fact she should be here by now.’ Josephine looked at the clock, still distracted by what Archie had said. ‘I wonder what’s keeping her?’
‘Perhaps she’s sparing a thought for nervous policemen.’ Archie smiled and kissed her goodbye. ‘Try not to worry about Lydia,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I won’t let anything happen to her, even if I have to keep her under lock and key for her own protection.’
‘Thanks, Archie,’ Josephine said, walking him to the door. ‘And not just for that.’ When she returned to the middle studio, she was 241
surprised to see that Ronnie and Lettice had put their coats on.
‘Are you going out again already?’
‘Apparently so,’ said Ronnie peevishly. ‘It seems we’ve got to walk the streets to give you time to reassure Marta in peace.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Lettice said. ‘We can go to George’s for an hour or two. It would be better for you if you were on your own with her, wouldn’t it?’ she asked Josephine. ‘You’ll be all right?’
‘Of course I will. I don’t want to drive you out again, but it would make things easier and I’ll bring you up to date when you get back. There’s an awful lot you don’t know yet.’
‘Yes, like who the fuck Arthur is for a start,’ Ronnie called over her shoulder as they clattered down the stairs. Josephine waited a minute or two, then picked up the telephone. It was more than an hour now since she had spoken to Marta, and Lydia’s flat was only a ten-minute walk away. Where on earth could she have got to? Anxiously, she waited for a reply but none came. Perhaps Marta had simply got carried away with something else, but was now on her way? She was about to replace the receiver when the call was answered and she heard Marta’s voice, sharp and slightly agitated.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Josephine. Are you all right?’
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’ she snapped, then softened.
‘I’m sorry, Josephine, I should have telephoned. I can’t come over after all – not at the moment, anyway. Perhaps later – but I’ll ring first. I need some time on my own. All right?’
It could be her imagination, but it seemed to Josephine that she was being despatched as quickly as possible. Why was that, she wondered? ‘That’s fine. I hope you and Lydia work it out, but you know where I am if I can help.’
‘It was very sweet of you to offer, but I think it’s something we need to sort through ourselves.’
As Josephine recalled, it was Marta who had asked rather than she who had offered, but there was no point in splitting hairs.
‘Have you heard from Lydia?’ she asked.
‘No. I told you – she’s at the police station. I don’t expect her 242
back for a while yet. Now, I really must go. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.’
There was no further explanation, and Josephine heard the line go dead long before she had a chance to raise the subject of Lydia’s safety. God, Marta was volatile. How could her attitude have changed so much in such a short time? It was like speaking to two different people. She was about to hurry down to the street to stop the girls making themselves scarce unnecessarily, but paused as she passed the ominous flower, incongruously dumped between bottles of Cointreau and crème de menthe. The widow iris. Of course, in her anxiety for Lydia she hadn’t thought to tell Archie that Marta was already a widow. Could that be significant? She tried to remember what Marta had actually told her: there was very little to go on – just that the marriage had been unhappy and that her husband had died; at the time, Josephine had assumed she meant during the war but, looking back, she realised that Marta hadn’t actually said that. When had the relationship turned sour, she wondered? She reflected on the letters she had received from Lydia, hoping that some of them might have contained information about Marta’s background, but the facts were remarkable only in their scarcity. Certainly, though, someone who was unhappily married didn’t bother to write stories for her husband and send them to the front; that was an act of love. So what had gone wrong? Unless, of course, those stories had been sent to her husband’s regiment but not actually to her husband.
Josephine sat down, still looking at the widow iris. She was used to working back from an unlikely starting point to see if she could build a plausible chain of events, but no scenario she had considered in her fiction could compete with the story now playing in her mind. Could it be that Marta’s interest in Elliott Vintner was more personal than that of
one writer in another? Surely there were too many objections to the idea that Marta had been Vintner’s wife and Arthur’s lover? For a start, she didn’t seem the type to stand by and do nothing about the crime that had been committed: wouldn’t she have created hell about Arthur’s death – if she suspected it wasn’t an accident, that is? But perhaps that was a little naive: 243
Josephine was well aware that the independence she had always enjoyed was still the exception rather than the norm, and things would have been very different for a young married woman twenty years ago; she shouldn’t underestimate how difficult it would have been for someone shackled to a man like Vintner to stand up for herself, let alone for anyone else. If he showed the sort of violence towards his wife that he was clearly capable of, who could say what abuse she had suffered or what sort of fear she lived in; and because she had been unfaithful, society would have been against her, too. Pregnant with another man’s child, she would have been utterly at his mercy and completely alone in the world.
After he died, though, she would no doubt have moved heaven and earth to find her daughter; was that why she was here? Even for Josephine, it was far too much of a coincidence that Marta should happen to turn up in a circle of people who were so connected to the other part of her life – if that’s what it was. Had she moved in on Lydia merely as a way to get to Aubrey, and so to Elspeth? Was it Lydia who was being used after all? She remembered the look of pain in Marta’s eyes the night before when she had believed herself to be unimportant in her lover’s life; that had been genuine, Josephine was sure, but perhaps Marta was dealing with feelings she had not expected to have, feelings which would have complicated things if she had simply been waiting for the right moment to let Aubrey know who she was and to be reintroduced into her daughter’s life. With a start, Josephine realised that Marta and Elspeth had come within a whisker of meeting at the station: was that why Marta had disappeared to find a taxi? If she had recognised Elspeth, she wouldn’t want to be forced into an introduction on a railway platform.
