by Nicola Upson
‘It’s a shame you don’t have an audience. For a moment there, you sounded every inch the prospective buyer.’
‘In my dreams. I’d love a house like this, but I doubt I could afford it. Did the advertisement say how much they were asking?’
‘Not that I recall.’ She watched as Marta crouched down to smell a clump of verbena in the small herb garden just outside the back door, pinching a sprig of the plant between her thumb and forefinger. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? Doesn’t what happened here put you off?’
Marta laughed. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me that without the slightest whiff of irony. The cottage couldn’t have a darker past, but think of how beautiful it is now and how much we love it there.’ She stood up, brushing soil off her clothes, and spoke more seriously, to herself as much as to Josephine. ‘And unlike Cambridge, these aren’t my ghosts.’
Josephine took Marta’s hand and kissed it, smelling the faintest trace of lemon on her skin. ‘It’s not always weakness to turn your back on ghosts,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to vanquish them all.’
‘I know, and I’m learning which ones to ignore, I promise.’
‘Good.’ Josephine followed Marta’s eyes across the lawn to a dark bank of trees on the eastern side. ‘Actually, I think a couple of acres would suit you.’
Marta smiled. ‘Yes, so do I. Do you want to look at the pool before we do a circuit of the house?’
‘I suppose we might as well get it over with.’ An old dovecot marked the opening to a winding stone path which led through shrubs and past statues to the poolside. There was a diving board at one end, and the chequered pattern of the pool’s black-and-white tiles was made abstract by a light summer rain on the surface of the water, but all Josephine could see was the image of that night, etched into her imagination by other people’s memories of it: Vivienne Beresford’s hands on her sister’s shoulders, holding her under until she no longer struggled; Olivia’s body, lifeless and pale by the side of the pool. She glanced back at the house, unsettled now by her thoughts and by Marta’s suggestion that someone might be at home after all, but most of the building was obscured by a soft white powdering of apple blossom.
‘Either they don’t know there was a death here or they’re not bothered,’ Marta said, nodding to a sheltered arbour along one side of the pool which housed a dining table, a motley collection of chairs, and various other trappings of summer living. ‘It doesn’t seem to have stopped them having fun here.’
‘I imagine Anthony Beresford raised a toast to that night every day of his life,’ Josephine said. ‘Vivienne played right into his hands by giving him something like that to hold over her. He struck me as the sort of man who would have done exactly what he wanted anyway, but what she did gave her no recourse whatsoever.’
There was a small wooden building behind the pool area which seemed to function partly as a summer house and partly as a shed, and Marta opened the door to look inside. ‘Why the hell didn’t he just leave her?’ she asked, glancing round at the paraphernalia of family life – the croquet set and tennis racquets, the three bicycles stacked neatly along a side wall, one of them a child’s. ‘Just look at this stuff – his whole world was obviously here, so why didn’t he embrace it? Everything could have been so different.’
Josephine didn’t answer; it was one of the things which puzzled her most about the theory of Beresford’s double life, and his much talked-of concern with respectability didn’t seem an entirely satisfactory explanation. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can see why he wouldn’t end his marriage for the sort of affair we thought he was having with Millicent, but this is very different.’ She looked round again, willing the pieces of the puzzle to fall into place, but inspiration still eluded her. ‘Anyway, one step at a time. We haven’t even proved he was here yet. Let’s go back to the house.’
The kitchen seemed to be the most recent addition to the property, connected at right angles to the main building and forming a pleasant, L-shaped courtyard. Josephine peered through the window and noticed that – apart from some clutter by the back door, where a stand of umbrellas and walking sticks had spilled over onto the floor – the room was neat and orderly; if meals had been prepared there recently, someone had cleared up very thoroughly afterwards. Her eyes swept the room again, and this time she noticed a small, pale face looking back at her. The child stood framed in the doorway, a boy of nine or ten with a shock of blonde hair, clutching an empty glass. It was hard to say which of them was more surprised, but before Josephine had the chance to say anything, the boy turned and ran back into the house. ‘We’d better get our story straight,’ she said quietly to Marta. ‘I have a feeling we’re about to need it.’
They heard the boy’s voice calling out for someone, speaking quickly in French, and he reappeared a few seconds later with a stocky, broad-shouldered man who held his hand protectively. ‘If he’s the Frenchman, that’s our moral high ground gone,’ Marta said. ‘We’d better be bloody convincing.’
‘Just remember how much you love the house. And smile,’ Josephine added, hoping that hers looked more sincere than it felt.
The man unlocked the back door and immediately disillusioned them of the idea that he might be anything other than English. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked warily in a heavy London accent, looking at each of them in turn.
‘This must seem terribly rude,’ Marta said, her embarrassment judged to perfection, ‘but we were hoping to see the house.’
‘The house?’
‘That’s right. We did knock but there was no answer, and everything was so . . .’ She paused, and Josephine waited as eagerly for the lie as the man for whom it was intended. ‘Well, everything was just so beautiful that we couldn’t resist coming a bit further in. I’m sorry, but I suppose you could say that the house led us astray. It is still for sale, isn’t it? I’ve been abroad, but I read the notice in the paper when I got back, and the name intrigued me. I knew we were meant for each other.’
Josephine held her breath. Marta’s speech had been perfectly pitched until the final claim, but she wasn’t to know that the words ‘Paradise House’ hadn’t actually been mentioned in the advertisement. To her relief, the man seemed to have forgotten the details, if he had ever known them, and he simply shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a wasted trip.’
He went to close the door but Marta wasn’t prepared to give in quite so easily. ‘Is the house sold?’ she asked.
‘No, not exactly,’ he admitted, ‘but things have changed since the notice went in and the owner hasn’t made up her mind whether to sell or not.’
‘So could we at least have a look round?’ Marta pleaded. ‘Then if she does decide to go ahead with the sale, I would at least be in a position to make an offer.’ The man looked at her, as if trying to gauge how serious she was. ‘We have come rather a long way,’ Marta lied, ‘and my friend has to go back to Scotland tomorrow. You know what we women are like – I can’t do a thing without a second opinion. We won’t keep you long, and I’d be so grateful. Could you at least ask the owner for me?’
The man bent down and whispered to the little boy, who went obediently out into the garden to play. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Come in for a minute and I’ll speak to her.’
It was unclear whether he meant by telephone or in person, but Marta winked triumphantly at Josephine and they followed their guide through to a long, low sitting room, with windows to three aspects and an enormous inglenook fireplace built into the other wall. It was a beautiful space, decorated with sumptuous informality in the colours of a winter sunset – red walls, flame-orange curtains and sofas piled high with tasselled cushions in black and gold. One side of the fireplace was taken up with a bookshelf which stretched from floor to ceiling; the rest of the walls were bare except for an extraordinary angular portrait of two women, instantly recognisable as the work of Tamara de Lempicka and precisely placed to be reflected by a large Venetian mirror. A gramop
hone and a pile of records sat on a table near to where Josephine was standing, and she noticed that the needle was pulled to one side, as if the music – a Fats Waller tune – had been interrupted. She was fascinated to stand in the room that both Gerard Leaman and Vivienne had described on the night of the party, but one glance round told her that anything more personal still eluded her – there were no photographs, no letters lying about, nothing that could prove – or disprove – that Anthony Beresford had ever lived here.
‘Wait here,’ their host instructed. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Thank you, Mr . . . ?’ Marta said, but her question – unheard or ignored – went unacknowledged. ‘There isn’t much sign of packing, is there?’ she added when he had left the room.
‘No, there isn’t.’ After a couple of minutes, they heard footsteps moving about on the floor above and Josephine stood up. ‘I’m going to have a look round while he’s gone,’ she said, and Marta looked at her as if she were mad.
‘What if he catches you poking about?’ she asked. ‘He’ll know we’re lying straight away.’
‘And what if he comes back and says the house is off the market? We’ll be escorted politely to the front door, and that will be that. This might be our only chance to find something.’
‘All right, but I’m coming with you.’
‘Don’t be silly – we can’t both go. At least if he comes back while I’m gone you can tell him I’m looking for the cloakroom.’
She left the room before Marta could argue any further, knowing that her time was limited. There were three doors off the sitting room, and she chose the one that went out into the hall. She had already seen enough of the dining room to know that it was unlikely to help her, so she passed straight through to the room next door – a small oak-panelled study, overlooking the courtyard. A desk with a typewriter stood by the window, and next to the typewriter was a photograph, turned face down. Eagerly, Josephine picked it up. The glass in the small oval frame had been broken, but the photograph itself was undamaged. It had been taken in the garden, next to a beautiful, ornate sundial, and it pictured the little boy they had just met, younger and sitting on a man’s lap, laughing into the camera. The man was dressed casually in clothes meant for gardening, and Josephine was moved by the love and pride with which he looked down at his son. Had she not been seeking Anthony Beresford, she would never have recognised him: the transformation was extraordinary, and its agent was not so much the different clothes or the change of surroundings, but his obvious happiness. She looked with interest at the only face in the picture that she had never seen before: the woman wore no make up and was by no means conventionally pretty, but there was an amusement in her eyes and a wry worldliness about her smile that seemed more memorable than pleasant features would have been; it was, she thought, the face of a woman whose company would never be dull.
Josephine heard footsteps in the hall and hurriedly returned the photograph to the desk where she had found it, but she had not been quick enough. The man stood in the doorway, watching her, and she could not decide if the expression on his face was fury or simply panic. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘and why are you really here?’
4
Vivienne sat in the back of the police car, trying to cope with the outside world. She had been at Holloway for less than a week, but already London felt strange and disorienting, and she understood now why people who had known an institutional life for any length of time found it difficult to readjust to anything else. Beside her, the prison warder stared straight ahead, calm and impassive, and Vivienne wondered why – when she had always been shackled to someone – this temporary humiliation should matter so much? The cold steel of the handcuff around her wrist made her suddenly claustrophobic and she tried to subdue the panic by concentrating on the sliver of sky above the city’s streets, grey and depressing, an ungracious welcome for the swallows who had flown so far to announce summer. Wilde’s story came back to her, unwelcome and uninvited, and she thought again of the book in Anthony’s car, the book that she had always found so sad as a child. ‘Could I have some air?’ she asked, and Penrose – sitting in the passenger seat – wound down his window.
It was strange how quickly the journey came flooding back to her as soon as familiar landmarks began to appear – the fields that marked the end of city life, the buildings on the outskirts of the village, and most familiar of all, the small knot of hatred that grew tighter in her stomach as they drew close to Paradise House. She scarcely knew how to contain her rage at the depth of Anthony’s deception. Another life, another lover, a child – and with them, no doubt, he was another man, the one she had always looked for but never found. For the sake of her own sanity, Vivienne steered her thoughts away from Anthony to other things. She thought about the years she had spent in Olivia’s clubs, perched on a stool and wearing a mechanical smile, watching as her sister dealt ruthlessly with anyone who crossed her. She thought back to the night at Paradise House when her whole life had changed, and remembered how surprised she had been to discover a similar violence deep within herself. But most of all, she thought about the question that Josephine had asked: would she have killed Anthony if she had not killed Olivia? The answer haunted her now with the knowledge that she had wasted her life, and she wondered how she could ever have been so stupid.
5
‘Well?’
Josephine hesitated, unable to think of a single excuse which would justify her behaviour. When she failed to speak, the man walked over to her and took her gently but firmly by the arm. ‘I think it’s time for you and your friend to leave.’
She shook him off, just as Marta appeared in the doorway. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re after, but I want you both out of here now. The house isn’t for sale.’ Josephine shook her head discreetly, warning Marta not to argue. His manner was still civil, but she could not forget the expression in his eyes when he had first seen her looking at the photograph, and fear had eclipsed her initial embarrassment at having been caught. Her recklessness had put them both in danger, and she would be pleased now when they were safely off the premises. To her relief, Marta seemed as eager to leave as she was, and they allowed themselves to be escorted to the front door and out into the driveway without any further objection. ‘I’ll see you to your car.’
‘There’s really no need,’ Josephine protested.
‘I think there is.’ He ushered them forward, but was distracted by the sound of another car approaching down the lane, obviously moving at speed. As they watched, a black Daimler appeared at the open gate, and Josephine recognised Bill Fallowfield at the wheel. The car slowed, and Archie jumped out. ‘Mr Whiting,’ he said, subtly moving the man to one side, away from Marta and Josephine, ‘how nice to see you again. I’ve been hoping to catch up with you. There are a few questions I’d like to ask you, but perhaps you’d care to tell me what’s going on here first?’
Josephine looked again at the man who had let them into the house, realising now who he was and how close she and Marta had been to the main suspect for Millicent Gray’s murder. The agony of the actress’s death returned to her in a series of vivid and horrific images, and she understood how foolish she had been. Whiting recovered quickly from his surprise, and his answer to Archie’s question was calm and composed. ‘These ladies came to look at the house, but it’s off the market. I was just making sure they got safely on their way.’
Archie looked at Josephine and she could see that fury had replaced his initial relief at seeing her safe and well. ‘Are you all right?’
The enquiry was brusque, the tone clinical, and she knew she would have a lot of explaining to do. ‘Yes, we’re fine.’ She gave him an embarrassed half-smile, hoping that some of his coldness was an attempt to disguise the connection between them, but he had already turned away.
‘Why is the house your concern, Mr Whiting?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’ This time it was Bil
ly Whiting’s turn to have no ready answer. He stared first at Josephine and then at Archie, and she could see him trying to work out if he had imagined a familiarity. ‘You’re very quiet all of a sudden,’ Archie continued sarcastically, ‘but if you’re doing guided tours, perhaps we could all have a look round? I’ve brought someone with me who’d very much like to see Paradise House again.’
He turned back to the car and nodded to Fallowfield. Josephine watched Billy Whiting’s face as Vivienne Beresford got out of the back seat, handcuffed to a prison warder, and saw his disbelief turn swiftly to horror. ‘Where is she, Billy?’ Vivienne demanded. ‘Where are you hiding my sister?’
Whiting said nothing but glanced instinctively back at the house, and the movement – though fleeting – was enough to tell Vivienne all she needed to know. Josephine followed her gaze up to the first floor and saw a woman standing at the window immediately above the front door; her face was indistinct in the unlit room, but there was no doubt in Josephine’s mind that she was looking at the woman in the photograph – Anthony Beresford’s lover, and the mother of his child. She was still trying to match the realisation to the words she had just heard when Vivienne gave a choked sob of recognition. For a moment, Josephine thought she was going to break down, but she made a visible effort to hold herself together. She tried to move towards the door, but the warder held her back.
‘What do you mean, Mrs Beresford?’ Archie asked, looking at her in astonishment. ‘Your sister is dead. How can she be here?’
Vivienne ignored him and stared at Billy until he could no longer meet her eye. ‘You knew, didn’t you? And all this time you’ve been helping them – keeping his car in your garage, making sure that no one got too close, propping up our charade of a marriage. You’ve spent years driving us round, listening to us squabble, asking me how he is and what we’re doing together at the weekend, and all the time you knew it was a sham.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘And you were so kind to me that night. You drove me away and made me feel safe, but you weren’t protecting me at all, were you? You were protecting Anthony and Olivia and their filthy little secret.’ She moved a couple of steps closer to Whiting and Josephine noticed how uneasy her presence made him, but she couldn’t decide whether it was out of guilt or genuine fear. ‘So how far did it go, Billy? Did you kill for them? Did Millicent Gray get a little too close to the truth?’
