Nine Lessons

by Nicola Upson

  ‘It’s nothing, Josephine, and it probably doesn’t matter now.’ She didn’t argue, but waited patiently for him to decide how much he wanted to say. ‘Can I tell you something without your thinking badly of me?’

  ‘I’d say there’s a good chance you can, yes.’

  ‘I blamed the case for unsettling me, and that’s true—but not just professionally. There’s a woman involved. Her name’s Virginia Moorcroft, and she’s married to one of the men being targeted.’

  ‘Yes, you told me. You were with her the other night.’

  ‘That’s right, and I saw her again this afternoon. Another body’s turned up, this time at the Priory where she lives. Her son found it, and she telephoned me for help.’ He blushed again. ‘Bill thinks she’s wrapping me round her little finger, and he’s got a point.’

  ‘Because you like her?’

  ‘Yes, I like her, and I can’t keep pretending to myself that I don’t. Moorcroft’s a brute, Josephine. He treats her appallingly, and I don’t know why she—’

  ‘Hang on, Archie—don’t confuse attraction with sympathy.’

  ‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’ he demanded, daring her to say yes.

  ‘I can’t answer that. I’m just saying that you’re a kind man who hates injustice—and Bill’s usually a very shrewd judge of character.’ Archie laughed and she looked at him curiously. ‘What have I said that’s so funny? Bill knows you as well as I do.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s something she said. She told me that kindness frightened her because she might come to depend on it.’

  Josephine lifted an eyebrow. ‘Gosh, she is good.’

  ‘So you think I’m being stupid as well. I wish I’d never mentioned it. Virginia’s not on trial, Josephine. I don’t remember being this judgemental when you were dithering about Marta.’

  In all the years that he and Josephine had been friends, he had rarely been able to get the better of her in an argument, and today was no different. ‘As I recall, you refused even to talk about Marta at the dithering stage.’ She smiled, and took his hand. ‘I don’t think you’re being stupid, but it sounds as though both of you are vulnerable at the moment and whatever you feel for her might be tied up with your frustration at not being able to solve the case.’ She sensed his resentment, and tried to explain what she meant. ‘You know they arrested a man for the rapes this morning?’ Archie nodded. ‘I was in the market square when it happened and I saw it all. The only thing I could think of afterwards was Mary—my young neighbour who was attacked—so I went to the hospital to tell her. I thought if she could look forward to some sort of justice, it might help.’

  ‘That was kind of you.’

  ‘I couldn’t do it, though, because she’d already been discharged. But the nurse on duty told me that Mary’s decided to go back to the town she came from and marry the boy next door. I think she saw it as something to celebrate but I was horrified. It’s Mary’s choice, I know that, and perhaps I’d feel exactly the same in her position, but it just seems such a waste. She’ll have to give up everything she’s worked for. I can’t believe it’s 1937 and women are still having to make those choices.’

  ‘I agree with you, but what’s that got to do with Virginia?’

  ‘Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. I was thinking about Mary’s fiancé, too, as I walked home. I don’t doubt that he asked her to marry him for all the right reasons, but he can’t possibly save her now from what happened to her—the horse has bolted on that one. And when they finally realise that, I think it will destroy them both.’

  ‘So you’re casting me as the boy next door?’ Archie asked, his irritation returning as quickly as it had left. ‘Anyway, I love Bridget, and I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.’

  It was to Josephine’s credit that she refrained from pointing out who had raised the subject in the first place. ‘I know you love her, but as someone said to me recently, love isn’t always enough in itself.’

  Now it was Archie’s turn to look concerned. ‘Is everything all right between you and Marta?’

  ‘Oh yes. It wasn’t Marta who said it. Marta will have “love for love’s sake” engraved on her tombstone—at least I hope she will. But we were talking about you, and “getting back to normal”, as you put it just now, isn’t always the best thing to do. Sometimes it means settling for less than you want, and only you can look into your heart and decide whether or not that’s what you and Bridget have been doing.’

  He nodded, reluctantly acknowledging the sense of what she said. ‘The trouble is, I don’t trust my own judgement about anything at the moment, personal or professional. And you’re right, I suppose—I am letting the hopelessness of this case colour everything, but it’s hard not to. I’ve never felt so out of control. Whoever’s behind these killings is always one step ahead.’

  ‘How many times have I heard you say that?’

  Archie smiled. ‘Yes, but this time it’s true. I really thought I was getting somewhere today, but it turned out to be yet another dead end.’ She listened, intrigued, while he outlined the connection between the four murders and M. R. James’s stories, finishing with the clue that came directly from ‘The Tractate Middoth’. ‘So I’m no closer to knowing who’s doing this, or even why.’

  ‘But surely when James wrote that story, he set it in the old library, not the new one. That’s only been there a few years.’

  ‘Yes, I know it has, but the books are the same—and it’s the books that matter, not where they are.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? What’s the old building used for now?’

  ‘It’s a law library.’ She just looked at him and Archie realised how stupid he had been. ‘Bill’s right, isn’t he? I really am losing the plot.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Five to six—it should still be open. Thanks, Josephine—I’ll telephone you later to let you know if you were right.’

  He leaned forward to kiss her and she stared at him in amused disbelief. ‘You’re surely not expecting me to get out of the car? I’m coming with you to the law library. The least you can do is give me the satisfaction of seeing the look on your face when the key to the whole case comes fluttering out of that book.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’

  A sequence of side roads surrounding St Clement’s Church brought them back to the main thoroughfare. Trinity Street was almost too narrow for two lanes of traffic, and Penrose had to pull over once or twice to make room for delivery vans coming the other way. ‘I don’t know why they can’t bring the bloody groceries in at a more convenient time,’ he muttered as the driver of a Matthew’s lorry gave him a cheerful wave of thanks. ‘We’ll be lucky to get there before Christmas at this rate.’

  But when he reached the end of the street, lights were still blazing from the neoclassical building next to the Senate House. ‘I’ll wait here,’ Josephine offered as he parked at the corner of King’s Parade. ‘I think the simultaneous presence of a police officer and a woman might be a little too much for them.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He was back at the car in less than ten minutes, carrying a heavy, leather-bound book. ‘The fact that they were about to close rather played into our hands,’ he explained. ‘I thought I was going to have to jump through hoops to borrow this, but one flash of my warrant card did the trick.’

  ‘So it should when you’re in the law library. And?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I thought we’d look together.’ He gave her the torch from the glove compartment to enhance the efforts of the street lamp, and opened the book—an exhaustive study entitled Law and the Practice of Criminal Appeals which made Walter Johnson’s archaeological insights seem daring by comparison. Again, there was nothing taped to the flyleaves, but it didn’t take him long to see that there was something tucked inside about halfway through the book. He turned the pages carefully in case the placement itself was important, cursing the clumsiness of his gloves, and to
ok out a small, dog-eared photograph of a gravestone. ‘Ellen Jane Cleever,’ he said, reading the inscription on the stone. ‘Beloved daughter of Alfred and Maud Cleever. Why is that name familiar?’

  ‘Because it was in the list of news items I gave you the other day. Do you remember? There were two young women who had drowned, one not long after the other, and one of them was called Ellen Cleever. I can’t remember if it was the one who was missing for a month or the one who was found soon after she disappeared, but I’m sure she’s one of them. Do the dates on the stone tally? I can’t read them in this light without my glasses.’

  ‘Born 3 July 1896, died on Christmas Eve 1913. And there’s an inscription: “To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die”.’ He looked at her, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘We might not be any closer to the “who”, but I think we’ve just found the “why”. Can you remember what the newspaper said about her death? Was there any suspicion of foul play?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. I think I’d have taken more notice if there had been—but I can go back to the library tomorrow and check if you’d like me to? As far as I recall, it sounded like a tragic accident and there wasn’t any connection to King’s or the choir, so I didn’t follow it up, but there might have been an inquest report later on. What do you think happened, Archie?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I intend to find out and the first person I’m going to ask is Robert Moorcroft.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no chance that he might be killing his fellow choristers to prevent them from revealing what happened?’ She gave him a sly half-smile. ‘That would solve one of your problems, at least.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But no, I still think Moorcroft is a target rather than a killer. If revenge for Ellen Cleever’s death is the motive for these murders, then I suppose we should be looking for someone close to her—someone in the family, perhaps.’

  Josephine looked again at the photograph, and her face held the sadness he had noticed earlier. ‘She was just seventeen,’ she said. ‘Born a couple of weeks before I was. I wonder who she’d be now, if she’d lived?’

  ‘And I wonder who she was then? Will you go to the library for me tomorrow and see what you can find out? I’ll check the police files, obviously, but the newspapers might have more background about her and her family.’

  ‘Yes, of course. There might even be a few more details in the notes I’ve made already—where she lived or what she did. If I find anything in the news reports that I think you should know, where can I get hold of you?’

  ‘At the local station—leave a message for me there. And if there are any developments in the meantime, I’ll give you a ring.’ He switched on the headlamps, then noticed that she was smiling at him. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just nice to see you more optimistic. Perhaps getting back to normal isn’t so bad after all.’

  She opened the car door, ignoring his objections. ‘Please, Josephine—let me take you back to St Clement’s Passage.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. You’ve got work to do and it’ll only take me a minute or two. At least I can put the key in the door now without worrying who might be waiting for me.’

  ‘All right, but be careful until they’re sure they’ve got the right man.’

  ‘I will, I promise. Where will you stay tonight?’

  ‘I think the hospitality of the local nick is about the best that I can hope for. I’m waiting for some forensic reports and I want to go through all the victims’ files again, just in case I’ve missed something. I hope I’ll have time to go and see Bridget, though. You’re right—we do need to talk.’

  ‘Well, you know where I am if you want anything.’

  He was touched to see the concern on her face as she got out of the car and walked away. With one more glance at the photograph, he went to start the engine but stopped when he saw Josephine change her mind and turn back to him. ‘Archie?’ she called from the other side of the street. ‘You take care, too.’

  20

  The notes from Josephine’s first visit to the library were more comprehensive than she remembered. Ellen Cleever had been found on Christmas morning by a middle-aged couple walking along the Cam, en route to spend the day with their daughter’s family in Newnham. Her body was caught up in mud and weeds on the river’s east bank, a little way out of the town centre near a place called Hodson’s Folly, and the girl was identified by her father, Alfred, a butler’s assistant at Jesus College, who had reported her missing late on Christmas Eve. Ellen’s mother, Maud, was a bed maker, also at Jesus, and at the time the family had lived in a college house in Park Street, just around the corner from St Clement’s Passage.

  Was it feasible that they still lived there, Josephine wondered? Ellen had died twenty-four years ago at the age of seventeen, so, if her parents had had her when they were young, there was a good chance that they would still be of working age and entitled to their college-owned house. She longed to talk to the couple personally about their daughter rather than relying on second-hand accounts, but had no way of confirming their address: she could hardly knock on every door in Park Street without arousing suspicion, and it was unlikely that they would have a telephone, so looking them up in the local directory would be pointless. In any case, they might well have moved away after the tragedy or died themselves in the intervening years; perhaps Alfred Cleever had gone to war, leaving Maud to cope with the loss of her husband as well as her daughter. Archie, of course, would be able to check all of this much more efficiently than she could, but Josephine wanted to have more information to hand before bothering him, so she packed her glasses and a notebook and set out for the library.

  It was a bitterly cold morning, but the grey skies and drizzle of the day before had been replaced by a crisp brightness. Shopkeepers were raising their blinds and unlocking their doors, and, as she turned into St John’s Street, the newsagent—who had had an earlier start than most—was mending a puncture in between customers. She crossed the cobbles and he leant the bicycle against the window, anticipating her daily visit for sweets or magazines. ‘And a copy of last night’s newspaper if you haven’t sold out?’ she asked, looking in vain for the Cambridge Daily News on the counter. ‘I expect everybody’s keen to read about the arrest now he’s safely behind bars.’

  The newsagent gave a scornful laugh and Josephine looked at him in surprise. ‘If he’s safely behind bars,’ he muttered. ‘Five hundred to one they’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Robbing a jeweller’s in the middle of the day with the police milling around for the Armistice? Someone who’s been as clever as he has until now would never take a risk like that. It’s asking for trouble.’ At the time, Josephine had also thought it an odd change to the rapist’s established pattern, but she assumed that he had been provoked by the recent police press statements accusing him of cowardice. ‘I’m afraid I have sold out of last night’s edition, but you’re welcome to my copy free of charge,’ he offered, reaching under the counter for a newspaper which—in spite of his disdain—looked remarkably well read. ‘It seems to me that the police are so desperate they’ll arrest anyone. We’ll just have to wait and see if the real man strikes again, I suppose. In the meantime, I’m telling all the girls who come in here to keep their wits about them.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ Josephine said. It was a chilling thought, and she wondered how many women around the town would—like her—be dropping their guard prematurely. She accepted the paper gratefully and paid for the other items, waiting patiently while the newsagent went through to the back to fetch more change. There was a pile of empty news bags in the corner, left there after the morning’s delivery, and it gave her an idea. ‘I suppose you deliver to Park Street?’ she asked, and the newsagent nodded. ‘You must know all the locals—does a family called Cleever still live there?’

  ‘Alf and his lady? Oh yes, they’re still about. I don’t
see much of her, but he’s in here two or three times a week for his Amber Leaf.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have their address to hand, do you?’ He looked at her suspiciously, and she offered the first explanation that came to mind. ‘My brother was at Jesus College before the war, and he always says that Mrs Cleever was the kindest woman he’d ever met. He was so homesick, living on his own for the first time and the rest of us miles away in Scotland, and she was his bed maker. I promised him I’d look her up while I was here if I had the chance.’

  She must have been convincing, because the shopkeeper took an enormous ledger down from the shelf behind him and began to flick through the pages. ‘It’s Park Street, as you say, but I couldn’t tell you the house off the top of my head. Ah—here it is,’ he said, stabbing the line triumphantly. ‘They’re at number ten. Cambridge Daily News, Radio Times and a Woman’s Weekly.’

  He closed the ledger and Josephine thanked him. ‘I’ll call round to see them later, so can I take one of those as well?’ she asked, pointing to a box of Terry’s Thistle Chocolates with its expensive-looking packaging. ‘And a couple of packets of Amber Leaf.’

  ‘Generous chap, your brother.’

  Josephine smiled. ‘If I’m honest, they’re as much a thank you from me as from him. He once told me that if it weren’t for Mrs Cleever, he’d never have stayed at Cambridge—and the last thing I wanted when I was thirteen was to have him back at home and stealing the limelight.’ She paused, then spoke more seriously. ‘And it was a terrible thing, the way they lost their daughter. I don’t suppose you were here back then? Just before the war, it was.’

  ‘No, I’ve only had the shop a year or so. What happened to their daughter? Alf’s not much of a talker, except about his roses.’

  Josephine hesitated. ‘Please don’t say anything to Mr Cleever—I’m sure it’s not something he’d want raked up again—but she drowned in the Cam on Christmas Eve. I gather no one knows quite what happened.’