Two for Sorrow

Chapter Nine

The man waiting downstairs to be questioned stood up as soon as Penrose and Fallowfield entered the room. ‘What the hell is this all about, Inspector?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Your lot turn up at my place of work, embarrassing me in front of my staff, and no one has the decency to offer an explanation. I have rights, you know—you might have been more discreet.’

Penrose gestured to him to sit down again and calmly introduced himself. In his experience, people who insisted on their rights so quickly were usually the sort who trampled obliviously over everyone else’s, but he tried not to let cynicism cloud his judgement as he cast an appraising eye over Lionel Bishop. Marjorie Baker’s would-be lover was in his late thirties, with a weak chin, pale complexion and thin, sandy-brown hair. His clothes were expensive but unimaginative, and he wore them without conviction, almost as if they spoke of an authority which even he doubted he possessed. Penrose tried to resist making judgements but, from what he’d heard so far, this was hardly the type of man whom the dead girl would notice, let alone be attracted to. ‘I’m sorry to have caused you so much inconvenience, but I need to ask you some questions in connection with the murder of Marjorie Baker,’ he said, trying not to take anything but a professional satisfaction from the swift erosion of Bishop’s moral high ground. ‘I believe the two of you were well acquainted.’

‘Murder?’ Bishop asked. The shock was genuine, Penrose thought, but the horror in the man’s voice seemed to stem from panic at his own situation rather than any genuine sorrow. ‘What’s that got to do with me? I only knew her as a customer. She came into the shop once or twice a week to collect items on account.’

‘And you saw her yesterday?’

‘Yes, she came in around lunchtime and bought a few things—some beads and needles, and a roll or two of bias binding. We passed the time of day, that’s all. Are you arresting everyone who spoke to her?’

Penrose ignored the question. ‘What sort of needles?’ Bishop looked incredulously at him. ‘What sort of needles did Miss Baker buy?’ he repeated impatiently. ‘It’s a simple enough question.’

‘Standard embroidery needles.’

‘And did you and Miss Baker argue yesterday?’

‘There’s not much to argue about in a list of haberdashery items, is there?’ Bishop said sarcastically.

‘Where were you last night between the hours of nine o’clock and midnight?’

‘At home with my wife, of course. Where else would I be?’

Penrose looked at him for just long enough to make his scepticism obvious. ‘You won’t mind if we confirm that with your wife?’

For the first time, Bishop looked nervous. ‘Will you have to tell her why? She might think …’

‘What might she think, Mr Bishop?’ Penrose demanded impatiently. ‘Shall we start again? How well did you know Marjorie Baker?’

‘All right, all right. I took her out for lunch a few times, and the odd drink after work. So what? There was no harm in that. You know how it is.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t, so why don’t you tell me?’

‘Look, Inspector, I met my wife when we were both very young and we got married far too quickly and for all the wrong reasons. It was during the war. She was a nurse, and I was back from the front for a bit with a smashed leg from a German bullet. We mistook compassion and gratitude for love—that’s all there is to it. We weren’t the only ones, but that doesn’t make it any easier.’

‘So you comforted yourself with Miss Baker—until she’d had enough, and told you where to go. That must have made you angry.’

Bishop shrugged. ‘Not especially. There are plenty of girls like her about. Come on, Inspector—we’re all allowed a little fun, aren’t we? What my wife doesn’t know can’t hurt her.’

‘Except it’s not your wife who’s been hurt, is it, Mr Bishop?’ Penrose stood up, convinced they were wasting their time with the man in front of him. ‘Give your details to Sergeant Fallowfield. If your wife confirms what you say, you’ll be free to go.’

Men like Lionel Bishop brought out the worst in Penrose and he left the room seething. He was on his way up the stairs when Fallowfield called him back. ‘We need to hold on to him for a bit, Sir.’

‘It’s a waste of time, Bill. He didn’t care enough about Marjorie when she was alive to want her dead.’

‘Maybe not, Sir, but I’m wondering who’s giving an alibi to whom?’

‘What do you mean?’ Penrose asked, taking the slip of paper that Fallowfield held out to him.

‘It’s his wife, Sir, Sylvia Bishop. At work, she goes under her maiden name of Timpson—and she works at the Cowdray Club.’

Celia Bannerman paused halfway down the Cowdray Club’s main staircase, listening to the reassuring sounds of business proceeding as usual on the floor below. No matter how busy she was, she always found time to linger here, in one of the most beautiful areas of the building. The staircase was a magnificent feature of the original mansion house which had been left unaltered during the conversion to club and college and, as such, was the only part of the organisation to have an old-world feel about it. Grandiose paintings of ancient Rome covered the walls and ceiling, arguably the work of Sir James Thornhill, Hogarth’s father-in-law and one of the best known mural artists of his day. That the staircase had survived undamaged to enjoy a new existence was a tangible reminder of the past amid an ever-improving present, a symbol of earlier achievements and a firm foundation for those still to come.

Or so, at least, she hoped. The recent unrest at the club, her constant battles with Miriam Sharpe over the future of the organisation and, in a different way, her conversations with Josephine Tey about the past had made Celia take stock of her life: on the whole, she was satisfied with what she had achieved—satisfied, but appalled at how quickly the years had passed and, if she were honest, a little afraid of what the future might hold for her. Her early training as a nurse, before she went to Holloway, seemed like only yesterday but it had, she realised now, been the inspiration for everything she had done since. She could still remember the shock of those first few months on the ward, when she felt more like a charwoman than a young girl with a vocation to help the sick. Nursing at that time was little more than hard physical labour, often in nauseating conditions, and she had bitterly resented the fact that her goodwill and sense of duty had been so cynically exploited, that she and those who worked alongside her were expected to give so much of themselves in return for so little. Disillusioned and exhausted, she had abandoned her ambitions to reach sister or matron level just a few weeks after finishing her probationary period.

Ironically, it took the people she met in the prison service to restore her faith in the ideal of nursing and, although conditions were little better when she returned to the profession a couple of years later, she was, by then, armed with the determination to do something about it. After one or two administrative posts in hospitals in the north, she had been offered a senior position at Anstey and had jumped at the chance to train the nurses and teachers of the future; then came the war, and another generation of idealistic women had dedicated itself to the service of the sick and wounded, only to be financially and emotionally drained by the sacrifice. At Lady Cowdray’s request, Celia had left the sheltered environment of Anstey—which had, in any case, been tainted by Elizabeth Sach’s death—and thrown all her energies into the movement for reform, always with a commitment to education as the way forward. She had been instrumental in many milestones—training courses for nurses, scholarships for public health work and midwifery, the creation of a library of nursing and a student nurses’ association—but nothing gave her greater satisfaction than her involvement in the College of Nursing and Cowdray Club. Thanks to the drive for modernisation, nursing was no longer an isolated, enclosed profession, but was beginning to compete with other walks of life, where women earned new freedoms and rewards every day; Lady Cowdray’s death had been a blow, but it made those who had worked with her even more determined to carry on her vision—and, no matter what Miriam Sharpe said, surely they had come too far now for all that good work to be undone by those who refused to leave the past behind?

Celia moved on down the stairs, pleased to see that the foyer and lounge were busy. Saturday lunch was always popular, and small groups of women—some dressed in work clothes, others in town for a day’s shopping—stood around chatting, waiting for a free table in the dining room. She recognised one or two regulars, and stopped to talk to them on her way through to the office.

‘Bannerman!’ Surprised, Celia turned round. ‘Just the woman I was looking for, God help me.’ It was barely half past one, but Geraldine Ashby seemed to have been in the bar for some time. She stood in the doorway now, making no effort to conceal her anger. ‘I think you need to explain a few things to me. Starting with why you let a vulnerable young woman in your care string herself up in a fucking gymnasium.’

The silence which descended on the foyer was swift and unsettling, and Celia felt it as abruptly as if she had been suddenly plunged under water. She reddened with embarrassment and anger, but managed to keep the emotions out of her voice when she spoke. ‘Whatever you’ve got to say to me, Geraldine, I think it would be better if it were done in private, when you’ve sobered up a little.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do. I’m sure that being involved in a young girl’s death doesn’t sit well with your professional pride or your social ambitions.’

‘Elizabeth Price’s suicide was a tragedy and a senseless waste of life, but there was nothing I could have done to stop it.’

‘So it was all her own fault? You make me sick. You speak as if you had nothing to do with Lizzie until she killed herself, but let’s not forget who set the tone of her life in the first place. You gave her an existence which was based entirely on lies, then tore her away from the one thing that had any truth in it. If anyone set her up to tie that rope around her neck, you did.’

‘Her mother never wanted Lizzie to know who she was, and if by …’

‘Her mother lost the right to dictate to Lizzie when she killed someone else’s baby and got caught.’

‘… and if by the one thing of truth you mean your friendship with her—well, a friendship like that wasn’t what she needed. Sixteen was far too young to come under that sort of influence—we all agreed that, especially your parents.’

‘What the fuck did it have to do with them? Or with any of you? I loved her.’

‘Perhaps you thought you did, but I’m sure you don’t need me to point out why that could never happen. We were simply looking out for Elizabeth’s best interests.’

‘So where were you when she really needed you? When she found out the truth and wanted someone who knew about her history to help her understand?’

‘You’re right,’ Celia admitted. ‘I should have done more to help, but it wasn’t only me who was found lacking. At least spare some of the blame for the person who told her.’

‘You think I don’t? I curse myself every day for writing that letter, but she had a right to know who she was.’

‘You told her?’ Celia could hardly believe what she was hearing, and the relief she felt after all these years was so great and so sudden that it made her speak without thinking. ‘So you were responsible for her death,’ she said, walking over to Geraldine. ‘Doesn’t that tell you anything about the sort of love you offered?’

She felt the sting on her cheek before she was conscious of what had happened. Someone moved across to restrain Geraldine before she could hit her again, then a voice cut through the room—stern and authoritative—ordering everyone to calm down, and Celia recognised the policeman who had been at the club the day before. ‘Are you all right, Miss Bannerman?’ he asked, coming over to her. She nodded, still too shocked to speak, and he introduced the man with him. ‘This is Detective Inspector Penrose.’

‘Inspector Penrose—I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said, knowing how ridiculous that sounded, but unable to think of anything else. ‘I thought the sergeant and I had covered everything we needed to when we spoke yesterday.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not why we’re here, Miss Bannerman,’ Penrose said, inviting her to step away from the crowd. She noticed that his voice remained relaxed and attractive despite the formality of the situation. ‘I need to ask you some questions in connection with the murder of Marjorie Baker.’

‘Marjorie Baker? The Motley girl?’

‘That’s right. Her body was found this morning at the studios in St Martin’s Lane. Is there somewhere a little more private we could talk?’

Penrose followed Celia Bannerman up the stairs and across a broad landing on to a mezzanine level which seemed to be devoted almost entirely to offices. After the elegance and grandeur of the entrance hall and public areas, the monastic simplicity of the secretary’s room seemed to belong to a different building altogether. The oak furniture was tastefully expensive but minimal—just a desk, two upright chairs and a storage cupboard in each alcove. As far as Penrose could see, the only items which were decorative rather than functional were three matching Chinese vases on the mantelpiece, and he wondered if the room’s austerity was a result of Celia Bannerman’s personal taste, or simply a reflection of the practical economy of nursing. Her desk—usually such a good indicator of somebody’s habits and preferences—suggested the former: there were no photographs, no ornaments, no books—nothing, in fact, which could have been said to belong to the person rather than to the organisation.

He took the seat that was offered to him, and waited while she removed a small powder compact from her bag and examined the red mark on her cheek, less concerned about the physical damage, Penrose guessed, than about the public embarrassment which it represented. ‘If I weren’t already ashamed of what happened downstairs, I would be now,’ she said, snapping the mirror shut and throwing it down on the desk. ‘Your business here makes our squabbles seem very petty, no matter how rooted in tragedy they may be.’

‘May I ask what this particular squabble was about?’

‘A mistake I made twenty years ago. How strange that it should have chosen this particular moment to come back to haunt me.’

‘Strange in what way?’

‘In that it may have something to do with why you’re here, Inspector—although I don’t see quite why Miss Baker’s death should bring you to the Cowdray Club.’

Intrigued, Penrose answered her question first. ‘I understand you had some dealings with Miss Baker in connection with Monday’s charity gala?’

‘That’s correct. She’d been here a number of times to deliver or collect things on behalf of Motley, most recently yesterday. I didn’t see her then, but I saw her later in the day at the studios in St Martin’s Lane. She was involved in the final fittings.’

‘And several of your members went for those fittings yesterday?’

‘Yes, four of us. Myself, Mary Size, Miriam Sharpe and Lady Ashby.’ To her credit, she spoke the final name without any resentment. ‘They’re not the only people who are having dresses made, but the others weren’t able to fit in an appointment yesterday.’

‘At the moment, we’re investigating a number of possible reasons for Miss Baker’s death,’ Penrose said, ‘but, for the purposes of elimination, I do need to ask everyone who saw her yesterday where they were last night between the hours of nine o’clock and midnight.’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Are you really asking me to provide an alibi, Inspector? Well, I’m afraid I don’t have one. I live on the premises, and I was alone in my rooms all evening. I had an early dinner, and came straight upstairs at about eight o’clock. After that, I didn’t see any of the other members and no one saw me except the housemaid who brought me up some cocoa.’

‘Who was that, Miss Bannerman?’

‘Her name’s Tilly Jenkins.’

‘And what time did she bring the drink up?’

‘Just after eleven, I suppose. I couldn’t sleep, and I remember hearing the clock strike the hour. Look, Inspector,’ she added impatiently, ‘will you allow me to save you some time?’ He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re being very conscientious in following every strand of Marjorie Baker’s existence, but there is one which might prove more profitable than the rest.’

Being quite so blatantly patronised was a new experience for Penrose, but he was too interested to show his resentment. ‘Then I’d be grateful if you’d point me in the right direction,’ was all he said.

‘I don’t like breaking a confidence and everyone has their right to privacy, but Lady Ashby has just been kind enough to point out the dangers of secrecy and perhaps she’s right. Are you familiar with the name Amelia Sach, Inspector?’

He was too surprised to continue the exchange of sarcasm. ‘The baby farmer? Yes, I am. In fact, a friend of mine is currently researching the case. She tells me that you were Mrs Sach’s warder in Holloway.’

‘Ah, so you’re Josephine’s friend from Scotland Yard—the one who owes her so many favours.’

It amused Penrose to hear Josephine’s public interpretation of their relationship, but he would have plenty of time to tease her about that later. Now, he needed some answers. ‘What does Marjorie Baker have to do with Amelia Sach?’ he asked.

‘Strictly speaking, nothing,’ she said infuriatingly, although he sensed that she was simply looking for the best way to explain rather than deliberately leading him round in circles. ‘Amelia must have been dead for several years by the time Marjorie was born. But she is connected to the family. You know a little about the Sachs’ story from Josephine, I’m sure, but it’s what happened later that might help you find out who killed Marjorie.’ Penrose nodded, keen to learn as much as he could about the Bakers’ past, and sensing that he would get much more from a comparative stranger than he had been able to find out in Campbell Road. ‘Well, it involves a certain amount of putting two and two together but, if I’m right, Jacob Sach—Amelia’s husband—is Marjorie’s father.’

‘You mean the Bakers adopted her?’ He was surprised. Maria Baker had struck him as someone whose own children were far too much of a burden for her to consider taking in other people’s on a long-term basis.

‘No, no, more than that—I’m not making myself clear. The Finchley case attracted a lot of publicity and comment, even by the standards of the crime—and if Josephine has her way, it will be resurrected for another generation.’ Penrose was tempted to argue, but the story was too important to interrupt. ‘Part of the strength of feeling was due to the horror which infanticide always causes, but part of it was due to Amelia Sach herself. She’d set herself up as a model of respectability, you see, caring for young women whom society judged too harshly, earning a living through her own initiative, working her way up the social scale—and it was all a front. Amelia was well known in the neighbourhood, she’d run several so-called nursing homes in Finchley—and her disgrace was an impossible burden to carry for those who were left behind after her execution. Apart from the stigma, there was also a very real possibility that one of the mothers who had unwittingly given up her child to be murdered would come looking for revenge. Sach is an easy name to trace, after all.’

‘So he changed it to something less recognisable. Jacob Sach became Joseph Baker.’

‘Exactly. Baker was his mother’s maiden name, I believe. There was much talk at the time of how involved he might or might not have been in Amelia’s business, and I can’t tell you what the truth of that was. I suspect only he really knows. But he did everything he could to distance himself from his wife’s crimes after the trial. He left Jacob Sach behind in that house in Finchley and moved away to make a new start as Joseph Baker. It was easy enough to do back then, and he didn’t waste any time. I believe the “For Sale” notice went up on the day of the execution.’

‘And you knew all this at the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t mean any disrespect, but it seems a lot of information for a prison warder to hold.’

She took the comment as it was meant. ‘I’d be the first to admit that I wasn’t ideal prison officer material, Inspector Penrose. I never quite managed the art of detachment that’s so important if you want to be good at the job. I got far too involved in the lives of those women—that’s partly why I didn’t stay at Holloway for very long. I thought I could solve all their problems.’ She smiled sadly. ‘In fact, all you can ever do for a woman inside is treat her like a human being and try to remain one yourself, but it’s hard not to make promises you can’t keep, particularly in the condemned cells—you say what they want to hear because you think they’ll never know the difference. I sat for hours at a time with Amelia during the last three weeks of her life, and I got to know her—better than I knew any of my colleagues at that prison, better than I know most people here. When your time is precious, you talk about what matters—and what mattered to Amelia was her daughter.’ She held up her hands when she saw his face. ‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking—the irony of that is quite remarkable when you consider her crimes, but Amelia would have made an excellent prison warder: her detachment from the reality of what she had done never faltered. To this day, I don’t know if she sensed that I was malleable and manipulated the situation or if she was simply desperate and poured her heart out—either way, I heard myself promising to look out for her child when she was gone.’

‘That was very generous.’

‘You mean very stupid.’

‘Perhaps naive would be fairer. That was why you were in touch with her husband?’

‘Yes. Amelia didn’t trust him to look after Lizzie properly, although I don’t think she ever dreamt that he’d give her up.’

‘And why did he?’

‘I can only guess, but I think she reminded him too much of Amelia. Lizzie was the spitting image of her mother.’

‘That seems very hard on the child.’

‘Perhaps, but I suppose there’s precious little room in a fresh start for the mirror image of what you’re running from. I never asked him why he did what he did—it wasn’t my business and I was all too conscious of having overstepped the mark already.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I went to see him two days before the execution. It was entirely unofficial, of course—I would have been dismissed instantly for making any contact with a prisoner’s family. But I’d promised Amelia that I’d talk to Jacob, offer him some help if he needed it, and I wanted to be able to look her in the eye before she died and tell her that I’d fulfilled my promise.’ She got up and walked over to the window which looked out on to Henrietta Street. ‘It was snowing then, as I recall. Winter is always so exciting before Christmas, and so depressing afterwards. Anyway, I found the house and knocked before I could change my mind. When Jacob came to the door, he didn’t recognise me at first; he’d seen me often enough at the prison when he came to visit his wife, but people look different out of context, and he thought I’d been sent by a newspaper—he’d had several reporters hanging round the house from the moment Amelia was arrested. He let me in eventually, and there was a desolation about that place, a bleakness that I’ve never seen before or since. As we went through to the kitchen, I noticed that all the rooms had been stripped bare. Lizzie was nowhere to be seen, and Jacob had started drinking heavily by then. There was a box absolutely crammed with empty bottles in the yard.’

She sighed heavily at the memory of it all, and sat back down at her desk. ‘To cut a long story short, I told him why I’d come and asked if there was anything I could do to help with Lizzie. He didn’t hesitate: he told me that if I really wanted to help, I could take the child off his hands, the sooner the better.’

‘That must have put you in a very difficult position.’

‘It did. I could hardly go back and tell Amelia that her daughter was about to lose her father as well as her mother, but I could see for myself that it wasn’t in Elizabeth’s best interests to stay in that house.’ The phrase echoed what she had said to Geraldine Ashby in the foyer, and Penrose wondered how many decisions she had made for other people over the years. ‘From what I could see, Jacob intended to drink himself to death as soon as possible,’ she added, ‘and he wasn’t about to let a child stand in his way. Then he threw a pile of papers across the table at me—letters, all from women who had contacted Amelia Sach, requesting to adopt a child.’

Penrose was astonished. ‘But my understanding was that there was never any truth in the adoption story. I thought it was just a front for what she really did?’

‘No, Inspector. It was never as straightforward as that. Not all the children were adopted, obviously, but some were.’

‘And did you show these letters to the police? It might have affected the case.’

She looked at him like a parent looks at a child who insists on the existence of the tooth fairy. ‘The police knew all about them already. As far as they were concerned, they had linked Amelia to the murder of one baby and that was enough to hang her. They weren’t interested in any of the other children who might have passed through her establishment.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I told Jacob I’d take care of it, but that he’d have to give me time. Then I took the letters, parcelled them up and sent them to one of the charities that looks after children’s welfare, together with an anonymous letter explaining the situation. Please don’t look at me like that, Inspector—I know I went too far. I should never have let myself become emotionally involved, but it was such a desperate situation and I just wanted to help. And sure enough, within a few days of Amelia’s execution, someone had been in touch with Jacob and the adoption was arranged. None of the women who wrote got the child, of course, but Phyllida Ashby had a lot to do with that; she was on the board of the charity, and the child went to her housekeeper. But it was all done legally and it worked out well, for a while at least—Lizzie could have made a good life for herself if she’d been allowed to leave her past behind. I don’t know how much you heard of what went on downstairs, but I stand by what I said to Lady Ashby—she had no business playing with things she didn’t understand.’

‘Although you said your mistake was twenty years ago, not thirty.’

‘Implying that what I feel truly guilty about is what happened then, rather than the original act? Yes, I suppose it is. I prided myself on knowing when my pupils needed help, but I was wrong. It would have been terrible if it had been any of those girls, but it was worse because it was Elizabeth. It felt like I’d betrayed two people—her, and Amelia.’

Penrose was interested in the extent to which Celia Bannerman continued to talk of Sach as a friend rather than a prisoner, even now, but he was keen to move the story on. ‘Did anybody ever find out what you’d done?’

‘I admitted it to Phyllida later, when any possibility of reprimand was past. Our paths crossed on the board of several charities, and naturally I was interested in Elizabeth’s progress.’

‘Did you have any contact with Jacob Sach after the adoption?’

‘Yes, when his daughter died. I’m afraid I didn’t believe him when he said he never wanted to hear her name again—proof that naivety doesn’t relate to age, I suppose.’

‘You wrote to him in Essex?’

‘No, I went to see him in person. He turned me away without shedding a tear.’

‘But you didn’t know anything about his new family?’

‘No. He was hardly going to invite me in to talk about old times over a cup of tea.’

‘Then how did you know about Marjorie? Baker is a common enough name—you said yourself, that was the point of his taking it—so I don’t understand why you would assume that the girl doing your dress fittings was part of that history?’

‘You’re right. I would never have thought anything of it, but when I went to Motley last Friday, I saw a man outside in the street. I noticed him because he was talking to Marjorie Baker and I knew his face, but I simply couldn’t place it. It had been driving me to distraction, but even then I don’t think I’d have remembered him if I hadn’t been digging up the past with Josephine. Talking about those years brought it all back, and last night I remembered—he’d aged, and life had obviously not been kind, but it was him. That was why I couldn’t sleep—if I’m honest, those years are ones I would prefer to forget.’

‘But you’re sure about all this?’

‘I’m sure that the man I saw outside Motley with Marjorie was Jacob Sach—as I said, the rest is putting two and two together, but it makes sense to assume that a young girl called Baker who associated with him was his daughter.’

It made sense to Penrose, too, and if this was the secret that Marjorie had been killed to protect, the obvious suspects were the ones closest to home. Just for a second, he doubted his instinctive dismissal of Joseph Baker as a candidate for his daughter’s murder, and wondered if there was another explanation for the corroborative evidence which Spilsbury had given him; but then he thought about Maria Baker—her unemotional reaction to her daughter’s death, the fight which the two women had allegedly had in the street, the jealousy and the resentment. What was her past, he wondered, and how much had she suffered because of the stigma attached to her husband’s name? Did she even know about it? He wished now that he’d been firmer with her rather than trying to respect a grief which wasn’t there; he would have to see her again immediately.

When he looked up, he realised that Celia Bannerman was waiting for an answer from him, but he had been too distracted with his own thoughts to hear the question. ‘I said, have you spoken to Miss Baker’s father yet?’ she repeated impatiently.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Penrose replied, and he saw in her face that his tone had told her what his words had not.

‘He’s not dead as well, surely?’

‘Yes. His body was found at the same time as his daughter’s.’

‘At Motley?’ she asked. He nodded, and she was quiet for a long time. ‘Another life destroyed by those crimes,’ she said at last. ‘If only Amelia could have known how far the violence would spread. Can I ask—was he murdered as well?’

‘I’m not in a position to say at the moment, I’m afraid.’ Her wry glance suggested that she knew what that meant, but she said nothing. ‘Did Jacob Sach recognise you when you saw him last week?’

‘To my knowledge, he didn’t even see me. He was deep in conversation with Miss Baker at the time, and he didn’t seem to be taking much notice of what was going on in the street around him.’

‘And did Marjorie ever give you any indication that she knew about her family background, or your connection with it?’

‘No. She talked generally about the weather and the gala, and she asked me a lot of questions about myself, but that was simply professional curiosity.’ She smiled. ‘You couldn’t be expected to know this, Inspector, but there’s a certain etiquette shared by hairdressers and dress fitters which demands that they affect an interest in their clients. It gives us the impression that we matter to them, and it glosses over the more embarrassing intimacies which we have to endure to look respectable. Miss Baker was very good at it—she was always pleasant, and had a healthy appetite for inconsequential detail.’

‘And you didn’t say anything to her?’

Her reply was a frosty look. ‘Of course not.’

‘But someone must have told her.’

She shrugged. ‘I can’t help you there. Perhaps her father let it slip—he was obviously still a drinker. Is her mother alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘She probably didn’t know herself, though. I can’t imagine he’d feel the need to be entirely honest at the beginning of a new relationship.’

‘No, although I got the impression they’d been married for a long time. Marjorie was among the youngest of eight children. Anyway, we can easily establish that now we know what we’re looking for, so thank you for the information. Of course, Marjorie might have found something out in prison—I’m sure gossip has a longer life in Holloway than in most places, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, now you mention it,’ she said, although it seemed to take her a second to understand what he meant. ‘And I suppose no one can disappear entirely—not even Jacob Sach can have rolled up every carpet behind him.’

It was an apposite phrase. ‘And in all these years, you’ve never mentioned his new identity to anyone?’

‘Absolutely not. It was never my secret to give away.’

‘You weren’t even tempted to point Josephine in the right direction?’ he asked, imagining what she would have given for the opportunity of five minutes in a room with Jacob Sach. ‘She told me that you’d helped as much as you could.’

‘It’s not the stuff of fiction, Inspector. I would have thought that you of all people would know enough about the debris of crime to realise that it isn’t a subject for fireside entertainment.’

‘That isn’t my impression of what Josephine’s trying to achieve.’

‘Perhaps not, but her digging has already caused trouble between myself and Lady Ashby, and I can’t imagine that either of us is happier now because we know more than we did last week. I’m sure Josephine’s intentions are good,’ she added, and Penrose resisted the temptation to mention stones and glass houses, ‘but what she’s doing isn’t right.’

‘Even if it helps people come to terms with what’s happened to them? I can understand why you would want to put certain things behind you, but burying the past can hurt the victims of a crime as much as it silences the perpetrators. It isn’t the best way of ensuring justice.’

She scoffed. ‘When did you last read a crime novel that was about justice, Inspector?’

‘That’s a question for my sergeant, I’m afraid—he reads more of them than I do. But he would probably tell you that A Pin to See the Peepshow did more to highlight the flaws in the Thompson and Bywaters case than any amount of campaigning has managed.’

‘By encouraging a popular readership to simplify a complex issue?’ She shook her head, and Penrose wondered why he felt as if, of the two of them, he was the one lacking in legal experience. ‘Anyway, now that the past seems to have come crashing into the present, perhaps you can discourage Josephine from taking her project too far.’

‘Josephine will do as she likes,’ he said, and his smile—although polite—did not entirely mask his irritation.

‘Yes,’ she said, softening suddenly, ‘I seem to remember that she usually did.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. ‘Please forgive me for being so harsh, Inspector, but that time at Anstey was a moment of real crisis in my life, and that’s very hard to admit to a former pupil—vanity gets in the way of honesty. It’s hard to explain, but I look at Josephine whenever she’s staying at the Cowdray Club and I see a successful, independent woman with so much still ahead of her—and people adore her, though she doesn’t look for it, sometimes she doesn’t even notice it. From the way you leap to her defence, I imagine you understand that yourself.’

Penrose was furious with himself for allowing his hesitation to acknowledge the truth of what she said, and his response was uncharacteristically simplistic. ‘You envy Josephine’s success,’ he said.

‘No, not at all. Please don’t misunderstand me, Inspector—I’ve got an enviable career of my own to look back on. The improvements in nursing and in administration which I’ve helped to make will last, and women’s lives will be the better for it. I don’t regret any of the decisions I’ve made about my life, and I’m content. Not happy. Content. But every now and again, respected, contented women of my age wonder what they might have missed. It doesn’t last long, and we don’t get hysterical about it, but it’s there.’

As she spoke, she opened the top right-hand drawer of her desk and took out an envelope, which she passed across the desk to him. Penrose opened it and took out a single page of the Bible, roughly torn from the rest of the book. It was from the Song of Solomon, and, across the top, two words were written in pencil: ‘Thank you.’

‘Amelia gave me that on the eve of her execution,’ she explained. ‘It comforted me until Elizabeth died, and it’s haunted me ever since. You see, Inspector, when you make a decision that your work will be your entire life, it’s important to get that right. If you don’t, you feel that you’ve failed on more than a professional level; you feel that you’ve failed as a woman. When Elizabeth Price committed suicide, I had no right to mourn her, except as a teacher mourns the loss of a pupil; I wasn’t her mother, I wasn’t even her friend. More to the point, I couldn’t think of anyone whose death would change my personal life rather than my professional one—and I suppose that made me wonder if it was all worth it. After Lady Cowdray died, things changed here, and now I find myself wondering that again.’ She paused, apparently embarrassed by her own frankness, and then added more cynically: ‘You press on as if it were worth it, though, don’t you? To admit the lie would be unbearable.’

‘Why are you telling me this, Miss Bannerman?’ Penrose asked, unable to put his finger on why their conversation had taken quite such a personal turn.

‘I don’t really know,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose it’s because what Lady Ashby said has touched a nerve. If you’d come an hour later, I might have had a chance to compose myself and you might not have had to listen to a middle-aged woman’s regrets when you’re trying to conduct a murder investigation.’

She smiled and stood to dismiss him, but Penrose was not quite ready to leave. He had come here to find out more about the Cowdray Club and the women in that photograph, and, although what Celia Bannerman had told him suggested that Maria Baker might only have mentioned the picture as a ploy to direct his attention away from her door, he still wanted some answers. ‘I’ve got just a few more questions, Miss Bannerman, if you don’t mind,’ he said evenly. ‘I won’t keep you much longer.’ Irritated, she sat down again. ‘Do people sign in and out when they leave the club?’

‘It’s a private club, Inspector, not a prison. Trust me—I know the difference. We don’t expect our members to report to us if they want to leave the building.’

‘But there’s always someone on reception?’

‘Yes, all day, and we have a night porter who takes over at ten o’clock.’

‘What about other ways in and out?’

‘There’s another entrance in Henrietta Street. Strictly speaking, it’s for the College of Nursing, but there’s nothing to stop members of the club using it if it’s more convenient.’

‘And there’s no one on that door.’

‘No. It’s locked at midnight, so your murderer may just have got back in time.’

Penrose ignored the sarcasm; the rapid change from deeply personal information to the most basic of police questioning seemed bizarre even to him. ‘So there’s no way of knowing who was in the building last night?’ She shook her head. ‘What can you tell me about your receptionist, Miss Timpson? Or should I say Mrs Bishop?’

Celia Bannerman looked at him with a grudging respect. ‘Sylvia has been with us since the club opened. She’s exceptionally good at her job—conscientious, reliable and always pleasant to the members and their guests. And if she chooses to use her maiden name at work, that’s really no business of mine—or, I would have thought, of yours.’

‘So she’s popular with your members?’

‘She’s polite and discreet, qualities which are much appreciated by us all. It’s not the business of a receptionist to make herself “popular”, as you put it.’

‘To your knowledge, did she know Marjorie Baker? Other than through the gala, I mean.’

‘I couldn’t say for sure, but I can’t imagine why their paths would have crossed.’

‘What about Miriam Sharpe and Lady Ashby? Did Marjorie have much contact with them, either through her work or outside of it? You said yourself—a dress fitting can be quite an intimate affair, and I imagine there are plenty of opportunities for conversation.’

‘Inspector Penrose, I have no idea what you’re trying to insinuate, but I refuse to discuss the members of this club or my colleagues unless you give me a very good reason why I should—and so far, you’ve failed to do that. You’re investigating the death of a seamstress on somebody else’s premises. I’ve made it clear to you that the dead girl came from a family with a lot to hide; even if that has nothing to do with her murder, I would have thought that there were more natural paths to pursue than this one—the people she worked with, for example, or the women she was in Holloway with. Grudges breed very easily within a prison environment, and no one has a longer memory than an ex-convict. The Cowdray Club is vulnerable enough at the moment without your help and, if you persist with this line of questioning, you will leave me no choice but to complain to your superior.’

‘Please feel free to speak to the chief constable, Miss Bannerman, but I know that his wife will be reassured to know that we’re making good progress in getting to the bottom of the spiteful letters that seem to be disturbing her sleep at the moment.’

It was a comment made without any substance whatsoever, but it had the desired effect: for the first time in the entire interview, Celia Bannerman seemed at a disadvantage. ‘What can those letters possibly have to do with the murder of Marjorie Baker?’ she asked cautiously.

‘That’s precisely what I’m trying to find out,’ Penrose said, ‘but it’s highly likely that there is a connection.’

‘By “connection”, I assume you mean that you think Marjorie Baker sent them? Why would you jump to that conclusion?’

‘There are aspects of this murder which suggest that Miss Baker was killed to keep her quiet,’ he began, and this time he refused to let her interrupt. ‘Yes, I know what you’re about to say, and I agree with you—what you’ve told me about her family history is a very credible motive for her murder. However, I have to investigate every possibility, and Marjorie’s mother has shown me a photograph which she believes may have something to do with her daughter’s death.’

‘A photograph?’ She looked concerned and with good reason, Penrose thought: if Marjorie had sent those letters and been killed for it, the implications for the Cowdray Club’s reputation were much more serious than Celia Bannerman could ever have imagined, and she was certainly intelligent enough to realise that. ‘The photograph was in Tatler last month. You were in it yourself.’

‘Yes, I remember it—the one taken at Motley.’

‘That’s right. Mrs Baker seemed to think that Marjorie was being forced by her father into doing something as a result of that photograph. Obviously, in light of what you’ve said, I’ll need to talk to Mrs Baker again to find out if she knew who her husband really was and, if so, how she fits into that history—but I can’t ignore other possibilities.’

‘Miss Baker might have sent the notes, I suppose, but I don’t see how she’d have gathered the information. I hate to say it, but I always assumed they were sent from within the organisation.’

‘She was friends with a Lucy Peters—they were in prison together and kept in touch afterwards. I understand that Miss Peters works here.’

‘Yes, she’s a housemaid. She’s been here for a few months, but we’re not in the habit of allowing housemaids access to personal information.’

‘Even so, they have a way of finding out. There was a small silver photograph frame found on Miss Baker’s body. It matches the description of one of the items which has been reported missing from the club, and it’s possible that the two girls were involved in both the thefts and the anonymous letters.’

She thought about it, and then said reluctantly: ‘It’s Lucy’s half day today, but I’ll speak to her as soon as she comes in this evening.’

‘I’d be grateful if you’d leave that to me. Just let us know as soon as she’s back.’

‘Fine, but please be gentle with her. These letters haven’t made any financial demands on their recipients, so I really don’t see what Marjorie and Lucy would stand to gain by sending them. I still believe your answer lies with the Sach family—in which case Lucy will have lost a good friend on top of everything else she’s been through.’ Penrose looked questioningly at her. ‘Lucy got herself into trouble in more ways than one before she went to prison,’ she explained. ‘She had a child while she was in Holloway, and had to give it up—and it affected her very badly. She still hasn’t quite got over it—if you ever do, that is.’

‘Please don’t worry—we’re not in the habit of bullying witnesses,’ Penrose said pleasantly, and was satisfied to see that his own condescension had not gone unnoticed. ‘I appreciate what you’re saying, but there’s no reason why the answer shouldn’t lie with the Sach family and the Cowdray Club—after all, you have a link to both, and we now know that Lady Ashby does, as well. Assuming that what you say is correct, Marjorie Baker was Elizabeth Sach’s half-sister.’ The idea seemed not to have occurred to her, so he let it sink in a little before asking: ‘What about Miriam Sharpe and Mary Size? Could they have any links back to Amelia Sach?’

‘Mary’s been at Holloway for about eight years,’ she said doubtfully, ‘so apart from being deputy governor at the prison which hanged her, I can’t see any connection.’ She was about to dismiss Miriam Sharpe out of hand, then seemed to change her mind. ‘Come to think of it, Amelia once told me that she had met Walters at St Thomas’s Hospital—you knew they were both nurses?’ Penrose nodded. ‘Miriam was matron at St Thomas’s for many years, and she worked her way up before that. You’d have to check the dates with her, but it’s possible that they might have been there at the same time.’

Penrose shut his notebook and stood up. ‘Thank you, Miss Bannerman, you’ve been very helpful. Either I or my officers will need to speak to the members who knew Miss Baker, and to some of your staff—Miss Peters and Miss Timpson in particular. We’ll be as discreet as possible.’

‘Thank you, Inspector—I appreciate that. You already know, I’m sure, that Motley will be moving into the club for a few days to get ready for the gala?’

He nodded. ‘I knew they intended to ask you if that would be possible.’

‘Yes. I didn’t know at the time what had led to the request—Lettice said she would explain later—but, under the circumstances, I’m even more glad to be able to help. It’s very good of them to go ahead with the gala at all. I assume you have no objections to the arrangement?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Good. And I’ll make sure that you and your officers have the Cowdray Club’s full co-operation with your investigation.’

It was an uneasy truce, but Penrose was more than satisfied with what he had learned from Celia Bannerman. The interview had taken longer than anticipated, and Fallowfield was waiting for him at reception when he went back downstairs. His sergeant listened calmly to what he had to say, but Penrose could tell that Fallowfield was as excited as he was. ‘Back to the Bunk, then, Sir.’

‘We certainly need to talk to Maria Baker again right away, but I’d like to do it more formally this time—she doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll be easily unsettled, but an interview at the station might give us the advantage. You might as well get Waddingham and Merrifield off the telephones and send them round to Campbell Road to pick her up. For God’s sake tell them to be gentle, though—the woman’s just lost a daughter and a husband, and we don’t know that she had anything to do with it. She’s not under arrest—not yet, anyway. We just need some answers. In the meantime, I’ve got a couple more questions here. Has Lady Ashby calmed down yet?’

‘Yes, Sir. I’ve had a chat with her, and she seems genuinely shocked by Miss Baker’s death—shocked, and upset. She’s confirmed everything that Mrs Reader told you about last night, even down to asking the girl out, and it was her who took the vodka in. She volunteered everything freely enough—I didn’t have to push her.’

‘Not too freely, though? You believed her?’

‘Yes, Sir. As far as I can see, she says what she means and does as she likes. You know how it is with the aristocracy. She’s a bit worse for wear, though—I think that explains what we walked in on.’

‘Probably,’ Penrose said, although it was his private opinion that the temptation to slap Celia Bannerman might prove hard to overcome whether you were drunk or sober. ‘What about an alibi?’

‘She was at the Ham Bone Club until after midnight. I’ve checked it out, and both the owner and the barman confirm that she was there all night. She’s also given me the names of some friends she left with, if we want to take it any further.’

‘Good, although if she’s a regular there, I imagine they’ll confirm anything she wants them to. Is she still here?’

‘Yes, Sir—in the bar. There’s a room next door we can use if you want somewhere more private, though.’

‘The bar’s fine—I want her to be happy to talk. What else?’

‘Lucy Peters is off duty. She left the building just after one and no one’s seen her since. Sylvia Timpson doesn’t work Saturdays.’

‘So I gather. We’ll have to try her at home.’

‘Mary Size is at the prison. I’ve made an appointment for you at three-thirty.’

‘Good.’ Penrose looked at his watch. ‘You told her what it was about?’

‘Yes. She’ll have all the records ready for you. She was upset, as well—you get the feeling that Marjorie was popular everywhere but at home, don’t you?’ Penrose remembered the expression on Ronnie’s face, and nodded. ‘She asked about Peters right away, Sir. She’s worried about her—the two of them were close, apparently. I’ve asked reception to let us know immediately if they see her.’

‘Excellent. I’ve asked Miss Bannerman to do the same. I’ll have a quick word with Lady Ashby, then I’ll go to Holloway and you can take Timpson.’

‘What about her husband?’

‘I don’t think he’s got anything to do with it, but it won’t hurt him to wait a bit longer, will it?’ Fallowfield smiled. ‘At least until I’ve spoken to his wife. Can’t say I blame her for not wanting to take his name, though.’

He found Geraldine Ashby keeping company with a bottle of cognac. ‘Is the bitch pressing charges, then?’ she asked as he walked in.

Penrose sat down opposite her. ‘If you mean Miss Bannerman, I seem to have forgotten to give her the opportunity.’

He smiled, and she looked surprised. ‘Good God—two understanding policemen in one day. In that case, I’ll forgive you for preventing me from finishing what I started. Bannerman got off lightly, which is more than Marjorie did, by the sound of it.’

She nodded towards the bottle, but Penrose shook his head. ‘Not just now, thanks. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’

‘Be my guest. As you can see, I’m not going anywhere.’

She spoke evenly, and he would never have guessed the level of the bottle from her voice, but the intoxication which Fallowfield had spoken of was obvious in her eyes and in the way her hand shook when she lit a cigarette. ‘Did Marjorie ever tell you anything about her family when you saw her at Motley?’

‘No,’ she said instantly, but Penrose’s initial disappointment was short-lived. ‘She didn’t know anything about them herself.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that. The first time I met her, she asked me what it felt like to be able to trace your family back for generations, because she only knew her parents and her brothers and sisters. I know she didn’t get on with either her mother or her father these days, but she said even when she was younger they wouldn’t tell her anything about the rest of her family.’

‘So she was curious about her own history?’

‘Yes—or rather about its absence. She asked me how she might find out more about it, but I told her I wasn’t the best person to give that sort of advice—if I want to know anything about my family, I just go and look at a portrait on a wall. I suggested that she was better off not knowing, but she just pointed out that it was easy for me to say that, and of course she was right. She was right about a lot of things, actually.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as making the most of your chances and standing on your own two feet. I don’t think she meant that as a criticism, although she’d have been justified—let’s face it, I live entirely on a monthly allowance which is almost offensively generous. But she was just being honest. I suppose that’s what got her killed, is it?’

‘Quite possibly. We don’t know yet, but we will find out and what you’ve just told me helps.’

‘Does it?’ she asked. ‘Well, I’m glad, because it doesn’t help me. You know, sometimes it feels as though every bright thing in this world is snuffed out as soon as it begins to flourish.’ She looked directly at him for the first time, and he was struck by how vulnerable she seemed. ‘Most of us suspect that, but we spend our time trying to convince ourselves otherwise; in your job, you must know it to be true. I don’t know how you do it.’

He was tempted to tell her that neither did he, but such an admission was hardly appropriate. Instead, he stood up to go. ‘I’m sorry about what’s happened,’ he said quietly. ‘To Marjorie, and to Elizabeth.’

She raised her glass sadly, and he left her to it. ‘Looks like Miss Bannerman was right, then,’ Fallowfield said when he was back in the foyer. ‘Marjorie found out too much for her own good. Do you want to postpone Miss Size and go straight back to the Yard to see Baker?’

Penrose thought about it. ‘No, she’ll have a tight schedule and it’ll take Waddingham and Merrifield a while to get over to Campbell Road and back. We’ll stick to what we said, but don’t hang about.’

He was on his way out the door when Fallowfield called him back. ‘I’ve just remembered, Sir—it’s something Miss Tey said.’ Penrose looked at him curiously. ‘It was the other day,’ Fallowfield continued guiltily, trying to ignore his inspector’s raised eyebrow. ‘I bumped into her and she happened to say that she was interested in Sach and Walters—so we had a chat about it.’

‘Oh yes? You never mentioned it, Bill.’

‘No, Sir—you were too busy. Anyway, I might be wrong, but I’m sure she said that one of the women who gave evidence at the trial was called Edwards.’

‘Edwards? As in Maria Baker’s family?’ Penrose was suddenly serious.

‘Yes. This Edwards woman lived in the house. It was her evidence that sealed Sach’s fate, apparently. You’ve just got time to talk to Miss Tey if she’s here,’ Fallowfield added, trying not to look too smug. ‘She might not be Miss bloody Marple, Sir, but she’s got a lot of notes.’

Penrose smiled, and went to reception to ask where he might find Josephine.