by Nicola Upson
‘But he loved me.’ Olivia clutched her chest, only capable now of short, broken phrases. ‘You had . . . the broadcaster, Viv . . . the respectability . . . that was . . . what you wanted . . . You had . . . the career, because . . . because you wouldn’t . . . have . . . the child . . . but you were . . . just . . . another woman . . . at the office.’
Olivia collapsed on the bed, gasping for breath. Desperately she tried to reach the cupboard in her bedside table, and Penrose guessed it was where she kept her respirator, but she no longer had the strength and he made a move to fetch it for her. ‘Don’t touch it!’ Vivienne shouted, and he heard the click of the gun being cocked. ‘Don’t you dare help her. I would never have killed Anthony if she hadn’t fooled me all those years ago. His blood is on her hands. She doesn’t deserve to live.’
‘You can’t just let her die like this,’ Penrose argued. ‘You’re not stupid. Think about all she’s said and how it helps your case. If you let her die now when you could have saved her, you’ll be right back to where you started and you won’t stand a chance.’
‘Do you think I care about that now? Too much has happened, and this is worth more to me than my life.’
There was no decision to make. Penrose went for the cupboard, incapable of standing by while someone was dying, and he heard the shot long before he registered its impact. Vivienne had aimed only to wound him, but the pain in his back was excruciating and he fell to the floor, unable to do anything but watch as Olivia Hanlon fought for her life. He closed his eyes for a moment in a vain struggle not to lose consciousness; when he opened them again, he was dimly aware of Josephine bending over him and Fallowfield standing in the doorway. ‘Marta’s waiting for the ambulance,’ she said, her voice deliberately calm and reassuring. ‘They’ll be here any minute. Just hang on and lie still. You’re losing a lot of blood.’ Penrose nodded and bit his lip hard, trying to control the wave of dizziness and nausea that washed over him when he saw the crimson stain spreading quickly across the rug. Josephine took his hand and held it tight, focused only on the danger to him, even in the chaos that surrounded them; he squeezed it gratefully, trying desperately to do the same, but a sudden movement to the right caught his eye and he looked up to see a small child standing in the doorway. The boy stared at his mother, outstretched on the bed, and before Penrose could even shout a warning, the child ran across the room to the bedside table, oblivious to the danger he was in. Startled by his arrival, Vivienne raised the gun again and pointed it straight at him, reacting instinctively now to any new threat, regardless of how innocent it might be. ‘Vivienne, no!’ Josephine screamed in horror. ‘For God’s sake, don’t do it. He’s only a child.’ Vivienne hesitated as the nephew and stepson she had never known calmly removed the respirator and handed it to his mother. ‘This isn’t the way to make anything right,’ Josephine said quietly. ‘You’re better than that, and you know it.’
To Penrose’s relief, Vivienne lowered the gun and allowed Fallowfield to take it from her. ‘You were right,’ she said to Josephine as the sergeant led her from the room. ‘There is always a choice. I just wish I hadn’t waited until now to make the right one.’
6
The cold, grey ash of dawn spread itself over a world which refused to look any different, despite all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Josephine turned away from the window and nodded again to the nurse as she passed, feeling by now that they were almost old friends. Overnight, she had been offered every form of practical comfort as she waited for news of Archie – endless cups of tea, reassuring words, a softer chair to sleep in – and she had been grateful for all of it; now, the nurse had exhausted every weapon in her armoury except for a simple smile of solidarity, but Josephine was surprised by how effective even that could be.
‘I’ll try Bridget again,’ Marta said, putting down a cup of coffee which was just as full now as when she had picked it up. ‘Where the fuck can she be? She told me she was coming back to London yesterday.’
‘Perhaps something came up.’
‘Or perhaps she’s just avoiding it.’
Josephine looked at her in surprise. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Ignore me. I’m just tired.’ She stood up and stretched. ‘I don’t suppose you have a number for her in Cambridge, do you?’
‘No, I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘All right. I won’t be long. Is there anything else you need?’
‘You could give Lettice and Ronnie a quick ring. I know they’re as worried about Archie as we are, but it was such a relief when they went home. If we keep them up to date, they might stay there, at least for a bit.’ Marta smiled. ‘Is that churlish of me?’
‘Not unreasonably so, no. I’ll do my best to keep them at bay.’
‘Thank you. And good luck with Bridget.’ She watched as Marta walked down the corridor to the telephone, wondering why she seemed so irritated by Bridget’s absence, then turned back to the mismatched collection of reproductions on the waiting-room wall which she had come to know so well. Archie had been lucky, there was no doubt of that: the bullet had entered his right shoulder, narrowly avoiding his lungs, but the blood-loss had been extensive and she had only had to take one look at the expression on the ambulance driver’s face to realise how serious his condition was. Even now, no one would go as far as to say that he was out of the woods. During the past few hours, Josephine had revisited all the complex, untidy memories that coloured her history with Archie, adding guilt to an already lengthy list of emotions: it was her recklessness that had put him in danger in the first place; if he died, she would never forgive herself.
The longer she waited the slower time seemed to pass, and she wondered where Marta had got to. She was about to count Monet’s water lilies for the fourth time in half an hour when the nurse approached again, this time with a greater sense of purpose. ‘Mr Penrose is stable at last,’ she said, finally allowing her smile to give hope as well as reassurance. ‘The doctor says you can see him in a little while if you’d like to, just for a few minutes.’
*
Marta slammed the receiver down harder than she meant to, drawing a look of disapproval from the matron at the desk. She knew that her anger at Bridget’s disappearance was irrational, fuelled in equal measure by exhaustion, shock and her concern for Archie, but sitting round doing nothing wasn’t making her mood any better, and her conscience nagged at her to avert the crisis that she had unwittingly set in motion by discovering Bridget’s secret. On a whim, she went downstairs and hailed a cab; if she couldn’t speak to Bridget in person, she could at least leave a note at her digs, so that when and if she decided to return to London to confront her dilemma head-on, she would know immediately what had happened.
The streets were quiet at this time of the morning and the taxi got her to Hampstead in a matter of minutes. The Vale of Health Hotel nestled in a restful hollow on the edge of the heath, not far from Holly Place; it was quiet and secluded, with an old-fashioned air which would not have been out of place in an Edwardian novel, but its name was misleading and the building was actually divided into a number of artists’ studios. Bridget rented the ground floor and, as the taxi drew up outside, Marta was surprised to see the lights on. She asked the driver to wait and hammered loudly on the front door, caring little now who else she woke in the process; when Bridget answered, she pushed past her without pausing for the formality of an invitation.
‘Jesus, Marta, what in hell’s name are you doing here at this time of the morning?’
‘I’ve been telephoning you all night. Why didn’t you answer?’
‘I was working. I always take the phone off when I need to concentrate. It stops me being bothered.’ She emphasised the final word, and Marta looked down at the telephone wire which had indeed been removed from the wall. She glanced round the room, sparsely decorated and devoted to a single purpose, and her attention was taken by a half-worked canvas on an easel by the window, obvio
usly the painting which had demanded Bridget’s undivided attention. It was a portrait of Archie, unsettling in its intimacy, and if Marta had ever doubted the artist’s feelings for her subject, she didn’t any longer. His face stared back at her, and the expression in his eyes was something that no one would ever want to see in the person they loved – anger, disbelief, betrayal; all the demons that Bridget had been trying to exorcise through her work. ‘You promised you’d give me some time,’ she said, looking intently at Marta and speaking more calmly. ‘I have to do this my way.’
‘I know and I’m not here to bully you, but there is no time. Archie’s been hurt – that’s why I was phoning. You need to come to the hospital.’
The colour drained from Bridget’s face and she stared at Marta in disbelief. ‘Hurt? What do you mean? Is he all right?’
‘They’ve made him as comfortable as they can but it’s a serious gunshot wound to the shoulder.’
‘Oh God, no. I’ve dreaded this, Marta – every time he does something dangerous in this fucking job of his. I’ve only just found him again. I can’t lose him – not now.’
She stood in the middle of the room, suddenly as helpless as a child, and Marta took a coat off the hook by the door and handed it to her. ‘Come on – there’s a taxi outside.’
They were silent for most of the journey back, and Marta was relieved that Bridget seemed too shocked to ask how or why Archie had been hurt. ‘You have to tell him,’ she said eventually, when the hospital’s handsome red-brick facade came into view. ‘Not now, obviously, but when he’s strong enough to hear what you have to say. Let something good come out of this. If you don’t, you’ll always regret it.’
*
Josephine shut the door quietly behind her and sat down next to the bed. Archie’s eyes were closed and his face was pale in the room’s cool, soothing half-light, but the pain which had frightened her so much had been replaced by something more peaceful, at least for now. Reluctant to wake him, she put her hand gently on the sheet, as close to his as she dared without actually touching him, and finally allowed herself to cry.
‘Josephine, don’t – there’s no need.’ His fingers brushed hers, more reassuring than his words. ‘I’m all right.’
‘But you might not have been. I’m so sorry, Archie. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. You saved that child’s life.’
‘Perhaps, but only because I put it at risk in the first place. And you weren’t quite so forgiving at the time. I’ve never seen you as furious as you were when you first got there.’
He tried to smile, but a wave of pain damned the effort. ‘What happened after I blacked out?’ he asked when it had passed. ‘Did Olivia . . .’
‘Yes, she pulled through. But don’t worry about any of that now. Just save your strength.’
‘Where’s Bridget?’
‘We haven’t been able to contact her yet. Marta’s trying again now. She’ll be here soon, I’m sure.’
‘And she’ll probably finish the job that Vivienne Beresford started. She’s always telling me not to take risks.’ He frowned, irritated that his body wouldn’t let him speak as freely as he wanted to. ‘I thought I was never going to see her again, Josephine. All I could think about as I lay there was how much time we’d wasted.’
‘Then you must tell her that. Stop worrying about how she’ll react and just be honest with her.’
‘That sounds ominous.’ Bridget stood in the doorway, uncertain of her welcome, and Josephine would have found it hard to explain the muddle of emotions that she felt when she saw the joy in Archie’s eyes.
‘I don’t think you’ve got too much to worry about,’ she said, getting up to go. ‘I’d better leave you to it.’
Acknowledgements
I’m forever grateful to Josephine Tey (Elizabeth MacKintosh), who continues to be such a rich inspiration for this series – and to her readers, who love those eight precious detective novels as much as I do, and who have embraced these books because of it.
Many writers have helped to shape and inform London Rain. The book began with another crime novel, Death at Broadcasting House by Val Gielgud and Holt Marvell (long overdue a reprint), and with the subsequent 1934 film version, much of which was shot at BH. Val Gielgud’s various memoirs inspired the character of Julian Terry, and fans of today’s radio drama owe a great deal to his pioneering spirit, a legacy every bit as lasting and important as his brother’s to the stage. I’m indebted to the BBC Yearbook, and to The Story of Broadcasting House: Home of the BBC by Mark Hines, whose beautiful descriptions and photographs are the next best thing to walking through that iconic building in the 1930s; to memoirs by SW Smithers, Maurice Gorham, and Sydney Moseley, all of which gave valuable insights into the early days of the Corporation; and to The Radio Times Story by Tony Currie, which – together with that very special Coronation issue – documents a British institution.
Many of the deaths that take place during London Rain’s Coronation are real, and more information on them can be found in newspaper accounts of the day, which also do a splendid job of recreating the atmosphere on the city’s streets.
Olivia Hanlon’s life was inspired by Kate Meyrick’s memoir, Secrets of the 43 Club; her death, by the speculation surrounding Brian Jones’s final days at Cotchford Farm in 1969. A rock star isn’t an obvious reference for period crime fiction, but in many respects the 1960s hold a mirror to the 1920s, and eagle-eyed readers will have noticed an occasional nod to the Rolling Stones. In a similar vein, Fine Day for a Hanging: the Ruth Ellis Story by Carol Ann Lee helped me to understand the motives of my own killer.
Love and thanks to everyone at Faber & Faber, David Higham Associates, HarperCollins and Fletcher & Company for the care they take with the series; to Mick Wiggins for yet another beautiful cover; to Richard Reynolds and Heffers Bookshop for making writing and reading such a pleasure; and especially to my family and friends, who support each novel so fabulously, and who will all know why a new year and a new book mean even more this time. And to Mandy, whose love and insight make each book more joyful, more satisfying, and just plain better – thank you. Two authors in the house now – that’s a bit special.
There are some people you never want to speak of in the past tense. PD James was a part of this series from the very beginning, and she greeted each new book with warmth and excitement – as generous and original in her reading as in her writing. Phyllis was a great friend to Mandy and to me for many years, and we miss her. I would much rather be taking her a copy of London Rain than dedicating it to her, but the novel – like the ones before it and the ones still to come – has been cheered on by her words, the finest advice any writer can have: ‘Make it the best book you can, dear.’
About the Author
Nicola Upson was born in Suffolk and read English at Downing College, Cambridge. She has worked in theatre and as a freelance journalist, and is the author of two non-fiction works and the recipient of an Escalator Award from the Arts Council England.
Her debut novel, An Expert in Murder, was the first in a series of crime novels whose main character is Josephine Tey – one of the leading authors of Britain’s Golden Age of crime writing.
She lives with her partner in Cambridge and spends much of her time in Cornwall‚ which was the setting for her second novel‚ Angel with Two Faces. Two for Sorrow‚ the third book in the Josephine Tey series‚ was followed by Fear in the Sunlight and The Death of Lucy Kyte, chosen by The Sunday Times as one of the fifty best crime novels of the last five years.
Follow Nicola on Twitter @nicolaupsonbook
or at www.nicolaupson.com
Praise for Nicola Upson and the ‘Josephine Tey’ series:
‘A distinguished series.’ P. D. James
‘An ingenious concept‚ beautifully realised.’ Reginald Hill
‘Nicola Upson’s Josephine Tey mysteries are a class above the usual crime fiction. They shimmer with a love f
or their pre-war setting and the artistic circles Tey, a real-life detective novelist, frequented. Her choice of sleuth was a masterstroke of literary theft . . .’ Independent on Sunday
‘A highly literate page-turner is something you don't see every day. Nicola Upson is a new discovery for me, and this novel is so interesting, so well-crafted, so engaging and so genuinely creepy that it was wonderful to find that there are four other books in the series to date . . . complex and convincing.’ Sydney Morning Herald
‘Upson writes well‚ giving new life to a classic murder setting. The portrayal of Tey herself is both sympathetic and perceptive . . . Upson is chillingly effective at showing how good intentions may lead to evil consequences . . . a fine addition to a promising series.’ Andrew Taylor‚ Spectator
‘Upson legitimately uses [Tey] as an avatar to meld a golden-age plot with modern frankness‚ and Tey’s creative process mirrors her own concerns about blurring fact and fiction.’ Financial Times
‘Delectable.’ Philip French‚ Observer
‘An absolute delight . . . Upson has created a fine series of cosy but intelligent mysteries.’ Catholic Herald
‘Any crime aficionado whose beach reading usually consists of a bagful of crinkly old paperbacks should make room for Nicola Upson’s novels.’ Daily Telegraph
also by Nicola Upson
AN EXPERT IN MURDER
ANGEL WITH TWO FACES
TWO FOR SORROW
