Two for Sorrow

Chapter Fourteen

Celia Bannerman opened the leather carrying-case carefully, and took out its contents one by one: a tape measure and a two-foot rule first, followed by a roll of twine and some copper wire, a pair of pliers, two leather straps, a white cap and, of course, the rope. She was surprised to see a bundle in the corner of the bag, wrapped in what looked like a baby’s shawl. It wasn’t something she remembered packing, but she took it out anyway and laid it on the table. Satisfied that everything was in order, she turned to fetch the prisoner but her exit from the cell was blocked by two men in suits who stepped quickly towards her. Before she realised what was happening, her hands were clasped behind her back with one of the straps and she was swung round and led from the cell. The rope which she had laid on the table only seconds before was somehow now hanging from the ceiling in a chamber at the end of the corridor, and she felt herself pushed inevitably towards it. She tried to speak, to explain that she was the warder and not the prisoner, but it was no good: a white hood was pulled over her face and she began to suffocate, choking on the cloth which moved in and out of her mouth as she tried to gasp for air. Someone shoved a bundle hard into her hands, then, when she could bear the suspense no longer, she heard the sound of a lever being pulled and felt herself falling.

She sat up in bed, trying to breathe calmly until the panic of the dream subsided. It was hard to say which was worse: the long hours spent lying awake, or the short snatches of sleep, when thirty years of denial and suppressed fear came back to haunt her with twisted versions of her past. Someone had once told her that to dream of the gallows was a prophecy of good fortune, but nothing felt further from the truth; whenever she dropped her guard, the images took advantage of an exhausted mind to play themselves out like disjointed scenes from a film which should never have been made, and she fumbled for the lamp on her bedside table, praying that the night was almost over. It was only 3 a.m.

Damned either way if she stayed in bed, she put on her dressing gown and went through to the telephone in the sitting room. The nurse who answered sounded surprised to be disturbed at such an early hour, but she gave Celia the information she asked for: no, there was no change in Lucy’s condition, but, with every night that passed, there were more reasons to be positive; she was obviously stronger than she looked. That was something Celia didn’t need to be told: every time she thought back to those moments on the stairs, she remembered Lucy’s scorched and blistered body struggling beneath her hands. It was the first time in her life that she had underestimated someone, and it would be the last.

She walked over to the window and stared out into the darkness. Cavendish Square lay somewhere beneath her, invisible at this time of night, but Celia needed neither daylight nor streetlamps to be able to plot each individual feature because the familiarity of a view was perhaps the greatest luxury in a life which she had only recently allowed herself to take for granted. She thought she had finally put it all behind her, this need to be continually moving on, but she had begun to look over her shoulder again, and her nerve was not what it used to be. Knowing that to hesitate would be fatal, she took a piece of paper out of the drawer and began to write.

It was just after ten o’clock when Penrose left the canteen, a snatched cup of coffee still burning the back of his throat. He took the lift to the third floor, ready to brief his team. The public sharing of information and progress on a case was normally something he enjoyed tremendously but this morning, as he walked down the long corridor to the CID office, he realised to his surprise that he was nervous. Usually, when he stood in front of his officers, he had the backing of the Yard’s chemists, pathologists and photographers, not to mention a well-tested system of analysis and procedure; today, he was asking them to trust him rather than the evidence. This time, the experts had been unable to help, and even Spilsbury’s typically thorough post-mortem report on Marjorie Baker and her father had only told him what could not have happened. His case against Celia Bannerman was based on his personal dislike, as Fallowfield had pointed out, and on a pieced-together narrative gleaned from unreliable sources, one of which made no attempt to hide the fact that it was fiction. The chief constable had hit the nail on the head—he must be going out of his mind—but his attempts to shrug off the seriousness of what he was doing did not entirely blind him to the reality of the situation: if he was wrong, his career and everything it meant to him were on very shaky foundations.

The sane, businesslike atmosphere of the CID room reassured him a little, if only by its familiarity. Fallowfield had already gathered the rest of the team together, and they looked at Penrose expectantly as he walked in. ‘Right, everyone,’ he said, perching on a desk at the far side of the room, his back to a wall covered in maps of the different London divisions, ‘you all know why you’re here and you’re all familiar with the details of the two murders in question. Some of you have put good work in on the case already, but patience and persistence hasn’t got us anywhere, so it’s time to step things up a gear. Before we go any further, though, I have to stress that what we talk about in this room today goes no further than the people present.’ He saw one or two of the men exchange glances. ‘The Cowdray Club and the College of Nursing are respected organisations with high-profile connections. WPC Wyles is already working at the club under cover, and I’ll brief her later this morning when I go over to Cavendish Square, but she’s the only other person who will know what’s going on.’ He smiled wryly at his colleagues. ‘We don’t want to upset the chief constable’s evening, do we?’

A ripple of laughter ran through the room. Penrose opened the file he was carrying, and passed the contents round. ‘There are some plans of the club here, and photographs from a recent Tatler which show some of its key members and the victim, Marjorie Baker. I want you all to familiarise yourselves with the faces in the picture and the layout of the building—you’ll need both this evening. The woman I’m most interested in is Celia Bannerman, second from the right. She’s the club’s secretary, and a key figure in nursing administration and welfare. I won’t bore you with her list of achievements, but suffice it to say that she’s shaken Queen Mary’s hand often enough to have calluses.’ He paused, anticipating the impact of his next sentence. ‘I believe that Bannerman killed Marjorie Baker and her father because they discovered something about her past which she wanted to keep quiet. I also think that she tried to kill Lucy Peters on Saturday night and that, given the opportunity, she’ll endeavour to finish what she started. That’s where we come in.’

He nodded to Fallowfield, who gave a brief résumé of the past which Celia Bannerman wished to forget—or at least Penrose’s version of it. To his credit, the sergeant showed no sign of the doubts which he had expressed privately to Penrose; loyalty was one of his many fine qualities and, if he still favoured Edwards as prime suspect, none of the younger officers would have guessed as much. Penrose was grateful: if tonight was to be a success, the whole team needed to believe in what it was doing, and he knew that the officers had as much respect for Fallowfield’s opinion as they did for his. ‘Thompson and Daly have been through the records office with a fine-tooth comb,’ the sergeant said, referring to the storehouse of past misdeeds at the Yard, where hundreds of thousands of files were kept on all types of convicts and their associates, ‘but there’s nothing to help us at all with Vale. Of course, it may be that her sentence did the trick and she turned over a new leaf when she got out, or it may be that she just happened to disappear off the face of the earth when Bannerman left London. On the other hand, Bannerman’s employment record since she took the job in Leeds is exemplary, as Inspector Penrose says. No one can speak highly enough of her. I don’t say that as a testament to her good character, but merely as an indication of how much she’s got to lose.’

Penrose took over again, and held up his copy of the club’s floor plan. ‘The gala will take place on stage in the Memorial Hall,’ he said. ‘That’s where Bannerman will be for most of the evening so we’ll concentrate our efforts there, although we’ll also have some of you positioned amongst the guests in the bars and dining room. I want her under close surveillance at all times, and Sergeant Fallowfield will tell you all where you’re to be in a minute. Lucy Peters is being cared for in the treatment rooms on the second floor, which is actually part of the College of Nursing. You don’t need to worry about the distinction between the two organisations; as you’ll see from the plan, they’re linked architecturally, but it’s a complicated building and I want you to know it like the back of your hand before tonight. Bannerman does, and that’s the one advantage she has on us. There are two staircases and lifts between the floors; the stairs by the Henrietta Street entrance are the most direct route to Peters’s room, but don’t take anything for granted.’ He glanced down at the timetable that Wyles had given him for the evening. ‘The champagne reception starts at seven, and the show itself at eight-thirty, but the highlight of the evening doesn’t come till later, after the interval. If Bannerman is going to do what I think she is, she’ll choose the moment when Noël and Gertie take to the stage—that’s when everyone will be in the hall.’

‘Don’t blame them, Sir,’ chipped in one of the officers. ‘That Miss Lawrence is a bit of all right.’

Everyone laughed, including Penrose. ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Ben,’ he said, ‘and if we get the job done, no one will be heading for the front row faster than me. But this is where it gets serious. At that point, if nothing untoward has happened, the policeman on watch outside Peters’s room will come down for a drink and a look at the show. He’ll make sure that Bannerman sees him—she’s been up to check on the poor girl every hour or so, I gather, so there won’t be an issue about her recognising him.’ He took a deep breath and sounded as confident as he could. ‘That’s when she’ll leave the room and go upstairs.’

‘Will there be someone in the room with the girl?’ Merrifield asked.

‘Absolutely. There must be no risk whatsoever to Peters’s condition—it’s fragile enough as it is. I wish we could put someone in her place, but Bannerman’s not stupid. Whichever one of you is in that room, wait as long as you can to make sure that our murderer incriminates herself, but do not—I repeat, do not—put the girl in danger. And if it’s a choice between the two, for God’s sake do the right thing. I’m going to have enough trouble persuading Miriam Sharpe to let us do this at all, so don’t let me down.’

‘Can she be trusted, Sir? Miss Sharpe, I mean.’

It was Fallowfield’s question, and something that Penrose had already thought long and hard about. ‘I’m as sure as I can be, Bill,’ he said, ‘and we have no choice. I don’t doubt that she’s capable of keeping this to herself and she’s no great fan of Celia Bannerman; my only concern is that she’ll object to the ethics of the thing. I know what she means, but if I can convince her that Lucy’s in no additional danger, I think she’ll go along with it. Any other questions?’

‘How will Bannerman do it, Sir?’

‘Suffocation, probably, or perhaps an injection. It depends how prepared she is for the right opportunity.’

Another hand was raised hesitantly, and Ellis glanced nervously at his colleagues before speaking. ‘What happens if you’re wrong, Sir?’

Penrose smiled. ‘Good question. If that turns out to be the case, then I’ll be introducing you to Detective Inspector Fallowfield on my way out of the building.’ The joke eased the tension in the room, and only Penrose realised that there was a serious side to it. ‘I’ll leave you with him now to go over the details for later, and don’t be afraid to ask any questions you like. We need to be as prepared as possible. So best bib and tucker, everyone, and good luck.’

On his way over to the Cowdray Club, Penrose thought about how best to approach the subject with Miriam Sharpe and decided that honesty was the only way to convince her. Even so, as he sat across the desk from her in her office, he realised that he had a long struggle ahead of him. ‘Of course she’s in danger, Inspector. The girl has third-degree burns on a large percentage of her body, and all the other complications which that involves. I hardly think you needed to come all the way from the Embankment to tell me that.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant, Miss Sharpe,’ Penrose explained patiently. ‘I must ask you to keep this strictly confidential, but I don’t think Lucy Peters’s fall was an accident and I think there may well be another attempt on her life during the gala tonight.’

‘Not an accident? That’s impossible, surely. Celia was on the scene immediately, and there simply wouldn’t have been time for someone to push the girl and get away without her seeing them.’ As Penrose remained silent, he could see Miriam Sharpe reading between the lines of what he had said. ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous, Inspector,’ she said, horrified. ‘There’s no love lost between Celia and me, as you know, but she’s built a career—a life, if you like—on improving things for women. Cold-bloodedly pushing a child down the stairs simply isn’t something she’d be capable of.’

‘I gather she’s shown an avid interest in Lucy’s condition since the accident.’

‘Well yes, she has, but that’s only natural. She’s as worried about the organisation’s reputation as I am, and her own position may well be in question if Lucy dies—the girl should never have been doing what she was doing in the first place.’

‘I think she has rather more at stake than her position, Miss Sharpe.’

‘But why on earth would she want to harm a servant?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that at the moment,’ he said, and marvelled at how this simple expression of honesty invariably conveyed a greater significance to the listener. Miriam Sharpe was no exception.

‘Very well, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I suppose I have no choice but to trust you, but please explain to me what you intend to do. I’ll agree to nothing which goes against the interests of my patient.’

‘Of course,’ Penrose said, and outlined his plan with as much reassurance as he could. ‘When the policeman leaves the door outside Miss Peters’s room, I want the nurse on duty to leave, too, and wait in one of the other rooms down the corridor.’

‘You think the girl is in danger so you leave her entirely unprotected?’

‘Not unprotected at all. As soon as the nurse leaves, one of my officers will wait behind the screen in …’

‘Yes, yes, Inspector—we’ve all read The Murder at the Vicarage. But how do I know that I can rely on your officer to put my patient’s safety first? How does the life of a servant girl—particularly a life that is already hanging in the balance—rate against your conviction?’

‘You have my word. There will no additional risk to her life. I don’t make sacrifices, Miss Sharpe, particularly the human sort, and I don’t take it upon myself to decide the value of a life any more than you do in your work.’

His self-righteousness won him the day. She nodded reluctantly, but said: ‘I must stress, Inspector, that if anything goes wrong I will personally do everything I can to ensure you never have the opportunity of making another mistake.’

If anything went wrong, Penrose thought, she would have to get in the queue, but he thanked her and stood up to leave. ‘And I can rely on you not to share this information with anyone?’

‘Yes. I’ll take care of Lucy myself tonight. I have no desire to be at the circus, but my nurses will be only too glad to go. In any case,’ she added as he got to the door, ‘this is hardly something that I’d wish to broadcast, is it?’

Lettice and Ronnie were taking a break in the bar when he got downstairs, and he was pleased to find them on their own. ‘Coffee?’ Lettice asked, pushing the pot towards him across the table.

He shook his head. ‘Sorry—I haven’t got time. I was hoping to have a word with Wyles if you can get her for me?’

‘I’m not sure we can spare her,’ Ronnie said, and grinned. ‘Seriously, Archie—she’s been an absolute gem, and she’s really taken Hilda’s mind off what’s happened. If you ever decide against women in the force, you know where to send her.’

‘You’ll be lucky,’ he said. ‘I need all the help I can get, especially today. As do you, it seems—you both look exhausted.’

‘It’s the coffee that’s keeping us conscious,’ Lettice admitted. ‘We’ve been here all night. It’s the only way we stand any chance at all of being ready by this evening.’

‘Then you can’t tell me how Josephine is,’ Archie said. ‘I was hoping you might have seen her at breakfast.’

‘Josephine?’ Ronnie asked, confused.

‘Yes. I sent her back to Maiden Lane last night—there’s too much going on here at the moment, and I’d rather she was safely out of the way. And you should be careful, too, if you insist on wandering round the building in the dead of night.’

‘But I popped back to Maiden Lane at around two to fetch something to eat and Josephine …’

‘And Josephine was asleep by then,’ Lettice interrupted, glaring at her sister. ‘But she’s fine, Archie—we saw her this morning when she came to try her dress on. It was sweet of you to be worried, though. I’m sure she appreciated it.’ Ronnie looked at her, bewildered, but said nothing more. ‘We’ll go back to the girls now and find an excuse to send Lillian out to you. Will you be here?’

Archie looked round, and changed his mind about the coffee. ‘Yes, this is private enough and I won’t keep her long. And if you see Josephine again, tell her I’ll be here at six-thirty.’

‘All right. See you later.’

‘What the fuck was that about?’ Ronnie asked peevishly as they made their way out into the foyer.

Marta sat by the window for a long time after Josephine left, half afraid to go anywhere else in the house. It was a neat trick, this conjuring of loneliness from solitude, restlessness from peace, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on how Josephine had managed it in just a few hours, but all her carefully constructed self-sufficiency had disappeared in a taxi to Cavendish Square, and what she was left with now felt empty and desolate.

Tired of the silence, she walked over to the gramophone to put some music on, then changed her mind and made some coffee instead. Her head ached from too much wine and too little sleep, and she turned the bathroom cabinet inside out looking for the aspirin before remembering that she’d left the bottle on the terrace the day before, when her back had lost the war against the ceanothus. Throwing a coat on over her pyjamas, she went out to fetch them. The garden looked worse than ever this morning: it had that weary, dirty feel that always follows snow, and her efforts to clear the borders had only succeeded in trampling mud into the grass and creating piles of dead wood and rubble wherever she looked. As she stared out over a barren, bleak stretch of earth, a wasteland with no hope of spring, she wondered why she had ever imagined that there was a point to all this.

She picked the bottle of pills up and put it down again, afraid of how comforting it felt in her hand. By now, she had lost count of how many times this particular routine had played itself out in her life, but she was surely running out of excuses. She turned to go back inside, the tablets once again in her pocket, but something caught her eye by the wall—a flash of brilliant yellow which hadn’t been there yesterday. Bending down, she looked in delight at the winter daffodil, and smiled to think that it should have chosen today to arrive.

Before she could change her mind, Marta walked back to the house, wrestling with the lid of the bottle as she went. She swallowed two aspirin with a mouthful of cold coffee, then took a card out of the wastepaper basket and went over to the telephone.

Josephine stared at her reflection in the looking glass on the back of the door, and decided that it wasn’t going to get any better. There was no question that Ronnie and Lettice had excelled themselves on her behalf: the dress was modelled on a design by Lucien Lelong which she had casually admired when last at their studios, never suspecting that they would recreate it for her. Cut low at the back, and made of a soft satin which clung to the waist and hips and draped in sinuous folds from the thigh, the gown was predominantly black except for a twisted column of scarlet and emerald ribbons that extended down the spine to the floor. It was stunning, and normally she would have been thrilled, but dressing to be on show was the last thing she wanted to do this evening; she only hoped that she had appeared more gracious than she felt when she tried the dress on earlier.

She fastened a single string of pearls around her neck so that it hung down her back, emphasising the low-cut line of the dress, and left the room while she could still resist the urge to crawl between the sheets and hide. Going down the stairs, she was careful not to tread on one of the club’s more idiosyncratic features—a silver cross, embedded into one of the steps as a memorial to an unfortunate resident of the old house who had died from a fall and was supposed to haunt the first-floor landing. It was all nonsense, of course, but it fascinated some of the members and Celia had always been happy to exploit any legend that brought in more subscriptions—in fact, Josephine had once joked that she probably put it there herself. After the tragic accident at the weekend, though, the remark had ceased to be amusing. She wondered how Lucy was, and remembered how nervous and clumsy she had seemed at their two brief meetings; with the luxury of hindsight, it seemed inevitable that something would happen to the girl sooner or later, but Josephine had never envisaged the horror of the injuries which Celia had described to her.

Archie was waiting at reception, and she smiled nervously at him, wondering how quickly they would be able to leave yesterday’s argument behind. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, bending to kiss her. ‘Gertrude who?’

The words were warm, but Josephine saw her own anxieties reflected in his face and she led him over to the door, out of earshot of the group of women by the desk. ‘Archie, I’m so sorry about yesterday,’ she said. ‘I should never have expected you to counsel me on what to do about Marta, or about anyone else for that matter.’

‘I should be apologizing, not you. I didn’t mean to be so impatient with you, but this case is …’

She raised her hand to interrupt him. ‘Don’t blame yourself or the case when I’m at fault. Please, Archie.’

He smiled. ‘All right. Shall we go in?’

She took his arm, relieved that he seemed as reluctant as she was at the moment to return to the subject of Marta, but they hadn’t got far before Lettice came hurrying out of the dining room. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I’ve been looking out for you. Sorry, Archie, but I just need a quick word with Josephine—you can have her back in a minute.’

‘All right, but let’s get a drink first,’ Josephine said. ‘I’m dying for one.’

‘No, I need to speak to you before you go in,’ Lettice insisted, then added more quietly: ‘After that you can have as many drinks as you like—you’ll probably need them.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Before Lettice could answer, Lydia came up behind them and threw her arms around both of them. ‘Josephine—how lovely to see you.’

‘Lydia, I need to speak to Josephine in private for a moment,’ Lettice said impatiently, and Josephine looked at her in surprise: she rarely lost her temper with anybody; the pressure of the gala and the shock of Marjorie’s death seemed to have taken their toll.

‘Of course,’ Lydia said, ‘but I wanted to say it as soon as I saw you. Thank you, Josephine.’

‘You’re welcome. What for?’

Lydia laughed. ‘Don’t be so modest. For Marta, of course. She’s here tonight, and she told me that you spoke to her and encouraged her to get in touch. I’m so grateful, Josephine.’

Lettice mouthed an apology behind Lydia’s back, while Archie looked as if all his Christmases had come at once. Wondering if she had inadvertently walked on stage in a farce at the Vaudeville, Josephine heard herself give the sort of nervous laugh which usually made her want to slap someone. ‘Marta’s here tonight?’ she asked, the voice barely recognisable as her own. ‘Gosh—she doesn’t waste much time.’

‘No. I sent her an invitation weeks ago, never dreaming that she’d say yes, but she phoned this morning, completely out of the blue.’

‘I’ll meet you inside in a minute,’ Josephine said to Lettice and Archie. ‘Lydia and I will just have a quick chat out here while it’s peaceful.’

‘No, no—Lettice needs to talk to you and I don’t want to interrupt.’

‘It’s fine,’ Lettice said, defeated. ‘I can wait.’ She disappeared into the crowd with Archie, glancing back apologetically over her shoulder.

Lydia took Josephine’s hand and led her over to the window. ‘Let’s sit down here for a minute,’ she said. ‘I owe you an apology, as well as a thank you.’ Her words came so soon after Archie’s unwarranted contrition that Josephine began to suspect some sort of conspiracy, designed to make her feel worse than she already did. ‘I haven’t been a very good friend to you since Marta and I split up, have I?’ Lydia began hesitantly.

‘It’s been hard for you—I understand that. You love her, and you’ve been apart—you’re bound to feel bitter at times.’

‘It’s more than that, though.’ She looked away, and Josephine guessed that she was considering how much to say. ‘The fact is, I blamed you because we didn’t get back together again the moment she stepped out of prison. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I thought there was something between you—something on her side, at least—that was keeping us apart.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were thinking?’ When I could have denied it truthfully, was what Josephine wanted to add, but she simply said: ‘We should have talked about this months ago.’

‘I know, but I was angry and hurt and bewildered at Marta’s silence, and the last thing I wanted to do was show any vulnerability to you.’ She smiled, embarrassed. ‘And rather more childishly, I didn’t want to find out that you were in touch with her if I wasn’t. Jealousy isn’t a very generous emotion, is it? Or a very attractive one.’

‘No, and it has a habit of creeping up on you when you least expect it. I don’t suppose I would have behaved any more generously in your position. And I’m sorry if I’ve made things worse for you—I never meant to.’

‘You didn’t. It was just the shock of it all, and knowing that Marta felt able to talk to you about things that she’d never discussed with me. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but it’s not just about sex, is it?’ Josephine shook her head. ‘I began to wonder how close we’d really been. And then there was Archie, and everything he did when she gave herself up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He found her a lawyer, spoke up for her in court, made people take into account her mental state—you’re surely not telling me he did that for Marta? He did it for you. And I thought to myself—why would that be such a gift? Why, by helping Marta, could he hand you something precious?’ Josephine was too shocked to speak: she had honestly never considered that Archie might be doing anything other than what he believed to be right and just, but she knew now that what Lydia said was true, and Marta’s words came back to haunt her: how many times had she made Archie unhappy without even realising it? ‘It was stupid of me,’ Lydia continued, ‘but the longer the silence lasted, the more significant all these things became in my imagination. I blew them up out of all proportion, when I should have had the sense to realise that Marta just needed time to get over what happened to her, to leave prison behind.’

‘Is that what she said?’

‘Not in so many words, but she’s changed, Josephine, and even I can see that things are different now. I suppose I’ll just have to be patient.’

‘You’ll never be able to pick up where you left off, but that’s not always a bad thing.’ She looked at her friend, knowing how fragile Lydia’s new-found happiness was. ‘You can build something new—something stronger.’

‘I hope so. We haven’t actually talked about getting back together and I don’t want to rush her, but friendship’s a start, isn’t it?’

Josephine was too tired to do anything but give Lydia the hope she was looking for. ‘Yes, it’s a good start. And you’re right to give her time. Take her to the cottage. Find some peace together.’

She stood up, afraid to test her public generosity any further, and they walked together into the Hall. Lydia disappeared to find Marta, and Josephine looked round for Archie, but he was nowhere to be seen. She was about to head for the bar, when someone shoved a glass into her hands. ‘Coward,’ Gerry said, ‘and I’m not giving you a run-down of the play bill. I see you’ve decided to play Cupid after all.’

‘It’s not as straightforward as you think.’

Her voice was less ambiguous than her words, and Gerry looked at her with genuine concern. ‘Christ, Josephine, I’m sorry—are you all right?’

‘I’ll be fine as long as I stay angry.’

‘With her or with yourself?’

‘That’s not a distinction I want to make at the moment.’ She drank the champagne and looked at Gerry. ‘How are you? I notice that Celia’s still on her feet tonight.’ They both stared across the room to where the secretary was deep in conversation with Amy Coward, Mary Size and the rest of the club’s committee. Archie was standing nearby, talking to a man she didn’t recognise. ‘I’m sorry about Marjorie,’ Josephine said, more seriously. ‘You’ve had a bitch of a weekend.’

‘Haven’t we both? Losing someone is losing someone, no matter how it happens.’

‘Did you know her very well?’ As soon as she asked the question, Josephine realised that Gerry was probably still oblivious to the fact that Marjorie had been Lizzie’s half-sister; Archie was unlikely to have shared the details of the case during his questioning, and he wouldn’t thank her for interfering now before everything was resolved, but Gerry would have to know eventually and Josephine doubted that it would make things any better.

‘No, not really. Not well enough, anyway.’ She pointed across to the bar. ‘If you’re still angry, now might be the moment to show it. She’s on her own. And Josephine?’

‘Yes?’

‘If you want someone on your arm later—purely to get your own back, of course—I’m happy to oblige.’

Gerry grinned, and Josephine laughed properly for the first time that day. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.’ The hall was beginning to fill up with guests, and it took her a few minutes to get to the bar, but Marta didn’t seem to be going anywhere. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she asked angrily.

‘You look beautiful. Champagne?’

‘Don’t mess about. Why are you here?’

‘I wanted to see you.’

‘So you just turn up on Lydia’s arm without even warning me?’

‘If I’d warned you, as you put it, you’d have found an excuse not to be here.’

‘Jesus, you move quickly. It’s a wonder that any of us can keep up with you. I thought after …’

‘After what, Josephine?’ Marta turned to look at her for the first time, and Josephine was startled to see tears in her eyes. ‘After you left, and I wandered round the house wondering what to do with myself? After I stopped trusting myself to be on my own?’ She waited until her voice was more under control, and then said: ‘I know how this looks, and I know how angry you are, but please try to understand—being with you last night made me realise how isolated I’ve become, and how damaging that can be. I need company, friendship, love—whatever you want to call it, and I need it more often than I could ever demand it from you. You were right. I can have that with Lydia, and I can make her happy—really happy. But none of that changes how I feel about you. Everything I said last night, everything I asked of you—it still stands. I just can’t be on my own while I wait for you to come back to London.’

Marta’s vulnerability made Josephine long for the privacy they had shared the night before, but it was impossible to hold her in a hall full of people. Casually, she slid her glass a few inches along the bar until her fingers rested against Marta’s; it was the subtlest of touches, imperceptible to an onlooker, but sufficient to dispel everything else in the room. Denied the possibility of anything more, they allowed this one small gesture to become the focus of everything that was miraculous and fated about their relationship, and the moment was so surprisingly intense that it was a while before Josephine could speak. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked quietly.

‘I love you.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘It’s the best I can do. Can you think of a better one?’ Josephine shook her head. ‘You have to go,’ Marta said, squeezing her hand. ‘It looks like you’re needed for the cameras.’

‘That can wait. This is more important.’

‘Yes, but this could take a lifetime to resolve, and we have approximately fifteen seconds.’ Marta hugged her, and Josephine felt her hand trace the line of pearls down her back so fleetingly that she might have imagined it. ‘You’re about to be fetched.’

‘What?’ Josephine turned round to see Celia Bannerman bearing down on her and beckoning her over to the other side of the room, where a couple of reporters were lining up guests to be photographed. She groaned. ‘That’s just what I need.’

‘Before you go, take this.’ Marta held out an earring. ‘You left it at Holly Place. I was going to keep it, but when you start holding pearls to ransom in the hope that someone will come running for them, you really are lost.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t have any more tricks up my sleeve, Josephine. You’ll come, or you won’t come. I hope you do.’

She disappeared into the crowd and Josephine fought her way reluctantly across the room to smile for Tatler. ‘Nice to see you back in London, Miss Tey,’ called one of the reporters. ‘You’ve got a new Inspector Grant book out soon, we hear.’

‘Yes—early next year. It’s called A Shilling for Candles.’

‘Let’s hope it raises a bit more than a shilling, eh? You’re donating the proceeds to charity, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right, to a cancer hospital.’

‘And is there a personal reason for that?’ He must have seen the look on her face, because he added quickly: ‘I’m not trying to pry, but it’ll make a nice little story to go alongside the Cowdray Club piece. It all helps to get the public on side, doesn’t it?’

It was a cheap trick, but Josephine felt obliged to answer, as he had known she would. Remembering why she hated the press, and why she never gave interviews, she said: ‘My mother died of breast cancer twelve years ago.’

‘That must have been a sad time for you.’ She didn’t even dignify that with a response: in truth, her mother’s death had devastated her, but she wasn’t about to share that with the world, not even in the name of charity. Smiling politely, she tried to excuse herself, but the reporter hadn’t finished. ‘A lot of people say that one of the characters in Mrs Christie’s new book is based on you,’ he said with a sly grin. ‘Muriel Wills—the woman who writes plays as Anthony Astor. Is there any truth in that, do you think?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t often read Mrs Christie.’ It was the best snub she could think of at short notice; she had, in fact, bought the book as soon as she heard the rumour, and had been furious to discover a ghastly creation who simpered and giggled and cluttered her home with nick-nacks; the fact that the playwright was observant and deadly with a pen did nothing to soften her anger.

‘No harm in a bit of friendly rivalry, though, is there?’ the reporter continued. ‘I just wondered if we might find a little cameo in your new book for Mrs Christie?’

‘What?’ Josephine was distracted by a commotion at the door. ‘A cameo for Mrs Christie? I couldn’t possibly say. If you look carefully, though, you’ll find a tramp with a very similar sense of humour. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are some people I have to talk to.’ This time, she didn’t have to work very hard to get away: the commotion signalled the arrival of the real stars of the evening. As the dignitaries and charity ladies clamoured for position around Noël and Gertie, Josephine found her table and sank gratefully into a seat next to Lettice. ‘I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with Jack Dempsey,’ she said. ‘What have I done to deserve a night like this?’

‘Looked gorgeous in that dress?’

‘You’re the third person to tell me that tonight, and you can probably guess who the other two were. The dress is stunning, though—thank you.’

Lettice poured her a drink. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to you first,’ she said. ‘I wanted to let you know what you were walking into, but Lydia was too quick for me.’

‘Don’t worry—it was nice of you even to try. Where’s Archie?’

Before Lettice could answer, the lights in the hall were lowered and Celia Bannerman walked on to the stage. ‘That’s it, then, girls—fun over,’ Ronnie said, slapping two more bottles of champagne down on the table. ‘Sweet charity’s arrived.’ She leaned across to Josephine. ‘And where did you spend the night? You could have had the whole of Scotland Yard out looking for you if it hadn’t been for our discretion.’

‘You? Discreet?’ Luckily for Josephine’s self-respect, a ripple of applause drowned out the rest of her reply. Celia held up her hand for silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the College of Nursing and Cowdray Club on what promises to be a very exciting occasion for us all. Before we go any further, I’d like you to join me in giving a warm welcome to our special guests this evening, Miss Gertrude Lawrence and Mr Noël Coward, who have taken a break from the tour of their latest production to be with us.’ The spotlight moved to a table at the front of the hall. ‘Later on, they’ll be treating us to two short pieces from Tonight at 8.30. You’ll be the first London audience to enjoy the new show, and I’m sure it will whet our appetites for when it comes to the West End early next year.’ There were cheers around the room and, when they subsided, Celia said: ‘Clearly neither of our guests needs any introduction from me, but I will, if I may, tell you a little about one of the charities that we’re all here tonight to support.’

‘Here we go,’ Ronnie muttered. ‘It’ll be Tomorrow at Bloody Six by the time she’s finished.’

‘The Actors’ Orphanage, of which Mr Coward is president, started nearly forty years ago and now offers a home and a school to sixty children at a time. I need hardly stress to you that today, even with the vast improvements that have taken place in social welfare over the last few years, one of the casualties of a modern city is still the unwanted child, or the child who is left without anyone to care for him. Hard times press hardest on our children: now that the winter has come, and the days are dreary with fog and the streets are cheerless, now that Christmas approaches, it’s only natural that we turn our thoughts to bringing some brightness into their lives. But Mr Coward and his colleagues work tirelessly to do that all year round; thanks to them, and to other organisations like the Actors’ Orphanage, women are no longer driven to the desperate measures with which they were once faced, and children find the fabric of their lives immeasurably improved each day. I’m sure you’ll agree that money donated to such a cause is money well spent.’

Archie slipped into the seat on Josephine’s right, and she poured him a glass of champagne. ‘I’ve got to hand it to Celia,’ she said, ‘this is quite a performance.’ He nodded, but seemed too intent on the stage for any further conversation.

‘Before we move on to the night’s other very good cause, I have one more organisation to thank. You will all know the name of Motley; through their splendid designs for the stage and the high street, they bring romance into our lives and glamour into our wardrobes, and I’m sure I’m not the only woman here who offered them up a prayer when she was getting dressed tonight.’ A murmur of appreciation ran through the audience. ‘Tonight, though, our thanks are tinged with sadness when we think of the appalling tragedy which took place just a few days ago, and which would have brought a less stoical organisation to its knees. Lettice and Ronnie tell me that the dress I’m wearing this evening was the last that Marjorie Baker worked on before she died, and I feel humble and honoured to own it. The money from tonight may go to our charities, but the spirit of the occasion belongs to Marjorie, and to her colleagues and friends who must continue without her.’

Ronnie made a great show of rummaging under the table for a napkin, but Archie seemed less moved. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered under his breath, and Lettice looked questioningly at Josephine; she shrugged, completely bewildered by his reaction.

‘Now to the organisation closest to my own heart and, I know, to many of yours. Of all the people I’ve met in my life, the one I feel most privileged to have known and worked alongside is the lady who has given her name to this club—her name, and so much more. Annie, Viscountess Cowdray, was one of the most sincere and true friends that it is possible for a body of professional women to have. She had a wonderful grasp of business matters, a great ability to make quick and wise decisions and, above all, a deep compassion and desire to be of use to those who needed help.’ She pointed upwards, to three stained-glass windows built into one of the walls, each depicting a cherub in a different pose. ‘Tonight, we’re watched over by the three symbols of the nursing profession, Love, Fortitude and Faith—although some would say that to those three should be added a good sense of humour and a strong back.’ The laughter was most appreciative amongst the nurses in the room, Josephine noticed. ‘Lady Cowdray had more than her fair share of all of them, and it is to her that we owe the success and good standing that her club and this college enjoy all over the world today. If I may, though, I’d like to finish on a more personal note.’ She paused, and looked slowly round the room. ‘Tonight will be my last public event as secretary of the Cowdray Club. The last thirteen years have brought me great joy and satisfaction, but, while I hope my reserves of love, fortitude and faith are as strong as ever, the apocryphal qualities let me down increasingly in the face of old age and it’s time to hand over the reins to younger hands. I hope that my successor, whoever she is, will find this job as rewarding and fulfilling as I have. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen—please enjoy the show, and give as generously as you can to our causes.’

She relinquished the stage to the first act of the night, and Archie turned to Josephine. ‘Did you know she was going to do that?’ he asked, almost accusingly.

‘No, I had no idea. I’ve hardly seen her over the weekend.’ She looked at him, a little put out by his tone. ‘I suppose she wants to leave while she’s still got the respect of most of the members. That scene with Gerry on Saturday must have been the last straw for her, don’t you think?’ Archie said nothing and, although she made several more attempts at conversation, he seemed far too preoccupied to listen to a word she was saying. Exasperated by his silence, and able to think of only one explanation for it, she took his face in her hands and made him look at her. ‘Archie, would you be happier if we didn’t see each other?’ she asked.

‘What?’ At least now she had his attention. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This is about yesterday, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Josephine, but that’s not why I’m so distracted. Forgive me.’ He kept her hand where it was with his own, and smiled at her. ‘But in answer to your question, I can’t imagine a world in which you and I don’t see each other. Nothing would make me unhappier. I know it’s not always easy, and I know that there are bound to be things in both our lives that get in the way, things that can’t be shared, but there will never be a time for me when your absence is preferable to your company, and I hope you feel the same.’

She was about to say something when a waiter came over to their table and passed Archie a note. ‘Shit,’ he said, standing up to leave. ‘I’m sorry, Josephine—I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about this later.’

‘I thought you’d want to know immediately. She died ten minutes ago. There was nothing I could do. Her heart was so weak that there was insufficient blood-flow to the vital organs, and the kidneys never regained their function. I’m sorry.’

Penrose realised that Miriam Sharpe was expressing regret at Lucy’s death rather than its inconvenience to his plans, and normally his priorities would have been the same, but Celia Bannerman’s resignation speech had created a sense of urgency which left him uncharacteristically tactless. ‘Who knows about this?’ he asked.

‘Only you and one other nurse, and the policeman who was on duty. But I can’t keep this quiet, if that’s what you’re about to ask. There are procedures to follow and next of kin to be notified, not to mention the small matter of common decency.’

‘I know, and I wouldn’t put you in this position unless it were absolutely necessary,’ Penrose said, desperate to buy himself some time: if Celia Bannerman found out that Lucy was dead, she would have no reason to take any more risks and could happily sail off into a glorious retirement, leaving him with absolutely no proof whatsoever. ‘Please—just give me an hour.’

Miriam Sharpe thought for what seemed like an age to Penrose before saying: ‘I won’t hold up what I need to do, Inspector, but neither will I go out of my way to let anyone know about Lucy’s death. Everyone is preoccupied downstairs at the moment, and that should give you the time you’re asking for. But I hope I don’t need to tell you that I can’t have policemen crawling all over what is sadly now a place of rest.’

She didn’t: even in his desperation to trap Celia Bannerman, Penrose had no intention of offering up a young girl’s body as bait. He thanked Miriam Sharpe, and went to tell Wyles and Fallowfield about the change of plan.

The lights dimmed again after the interval, and an audience which had responded to the entertainment so far with polite applause stood and cheered as the curtain rose on the stars of the night. Noël and Gertie, dressed as music-hall performers, stood in front of a painted street scene which could have been the backdrop to any provincial theatre in England; both wore curly red wigs and sailor clothes with exaggerated bell-bottomed trousers, and each carried a telescope. They launched into their first number, and Archie raised his glass to an older man on a nearby table, who smiled suspiciously as he returned the greeting. ‘Who’s that?’ Josephine asked.

‘The chief constable.’

‘Why’s he looking at you like that?’

‘Because he thinks I’m about to disgrace him with the Home Office.’

She stared at him. ‘And are you?’

‘I hope not.’

They turned back to the stage, where Gertrude Lawrence was taking particular delight in mocking the seedy touring life which she had known earlier in her own career; Coward’s music, and the banter which ran in between the songs, perfectly captured the half-desperate atmosphere of a struggling music hall, an atmosphere that Josephine remembered herself from her early introductions to theatre. The piece was a light-hearted affair, both loving and cynical, but even the ridiculously exaggerated outfits couldn’t hide the magic of the partnership on stage; it was a radiant, if fragile, glamour which had sustained people since the war and which continued to keep them spellbound now, even as most of them feared that their lives were once again held to ransom by politics, and Josephine doubted that there was a single person in the room who wasn’t thankful for it.

As the orchestra picked up the refrain and the on-stage husband and wife lapsed into a series of terrible jokes, Josephine noticed Mary Size leave the room, followed swiftly by Fallowfield. She watched him go, surprised that he was willing to miss a second of the performance; he glanced quickly at Archie as he passed, but she thought nothing of it. His departure left an empty seat by the Snipe, who seemed to be finding the performance a vast improvement on Romeo and Juliet; the Motleys’ housekeeper smiled when she caught Josephine’s eye, and Josephine hoped to God that she could rely on her to be discreet about the bed which sat redundant in Maiden Lane. She didn’t want to have secrets from Archie, but she wasn’t ready to face her own feelings for Marta yet, let alone discuss them with anyone else.

The fading music-hall couple attempted a snappy finale, but Lawrence’s character dropped her telescope and ruined the whole effect. As her husband glared at her, the curtain fell, then rose again almost immediately on a squalid dressing room. Noël and Gertie reappeared, still breathless from the number and looking furiously at each other; they flung their wigs down and ripped off the sailor clothes, and the sight of Gertrude Lawrence clad only in brassiere and silk knickers drew the loudest cheer of the night. ‘I bet you’re not saying “Gertrude who?” now,’ Josephine whispered to Archie, but he was still miles away. He nodded at someone, and she followed his gaze to the door and to Lillian Wyles; as she watched, Wyles walked over to the committee table and whispered something in Celia Bannerman’s ear, then handed her a note and left the room. ‘What’s going on, Archie?’ Josephine asked, suddenly afraid. ‘First Mary Size and now Celia.’ As if on cue, Bannerman got up and hurried from the hall. ‘You surely can’t think …’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Just stay here. I’ll explain later.’ Without another word, he got up and went after the two women.

From the doorway to Memorial Hall, Fallowfield watched Mary Size walk across the college foyer to the stairs, then followed her at a discreet distance up to the first floor. She hesitated at the mezzanine level, and he held back, waiting for her to make a move; for a moment, he thought she was simply looking for the ladies’ cloakroom and he breathed a sigh of relief, but then she turned and hurried up the stairs. He quickened his pace, hoping that the muffled cheers and applause from the hall below would mask the sound of his footsteps, and followed her over the next landing and up to the treatment rooms on the second floor. There was only one place she could be headed for now, and he could think of no legitimate reason why she should have left the performance to see Lucy Peters. But a prison governor? Could they really have got it so wrong?

He arrived at the door to Lucy’s room just in time to hear her remonstrating with Miriam Sharpe. ‘Oh come on, Miriam—just let me see her for a moment. I won’t stay long and surely it won’t do her any harm? From what I hear, it can’t get much worse for the poor girl.’

The nurse looked questioningly at Fallowfield, and he nodded. ‘You’re right, Mary,’ she said gravely. ‘I’m afraid it really can’t get any worse at all. Lucy died earlier this evening.’

Fallowfield watched Mary Size’s face as she took in the news, but there was no hint of relief, only a deep sorrow which she made no effort to hide. He introduced himself, and then asked gently: ‘Can I ask why you wanted to see Miss Peters, Ma’am?’

She took a moment to register the question, then held out a photograph. ‘Yes of course, sergeant—I came to leave this by her bedside. I wanted it to be the first thing she saw when she came round.’ He took the picture and looked down at a beautiful baby girl, less than a year old. ‘I’m afraid I’ve broken all the rules and accepted procedures to get hold of it. You should never contact the new parents once an adoption has gone ahead, but I don’t regret it. The one thing Lucy wanted was to know that her baby was all right. I thought if she had that peace of mind, she might have the strength to pull through this terrible thing that’s happened to her, but it seems that I’ve come too late.’ She unpinned the silk violets from the front of her dress and handed them to Miriam Sharpe with the photograph. ‘I hope she may have found some peace of a different sort now, but will you give her these anyway?’

Fallowfield was about to offer what words of consolation he could find, but, before he had the chance, a scream came from the floor below.

By the time Penrose left the hall, there was no sign of Celia Bannerman, but he knew exactly where to go: he had instructed Wyles to lead her to the first-floor drawing room, where two other officers were already concealed, and he hurried up the stairs and along the corridor, past the glass dome over the dining room and into the Cowdray Club part of the building. The door was ajar, but there was no sound of voices from inside. Impatiently, he waited a few seconds, then cautiously pushed the door open. As he had feared, the room was empty.

‘Where is she?’ he shouted, panic driving him quickly to anger.

Swann and Christofi emerged from their respective hiding places, looking bewildered. ‘She hasn’t come anywhere near here, sir,’ Christofi said. ‘When did she leave the gala?’

‘A few minutes ago,’ Penrose snapped as he headed back to the door. ‘Come on. If she’s on her own with that bitch, God knows what might be happening.’

The scream from further down the corridor offered more possibilities than any of them wanted to hear.

Wyles had not expected Bannerman to follow her so quickly from the hall; before she had a chance to climb the stairs, she heard a voice behind her, calling her back.

‘Not the drawing room,’ Bannerman said calmly, her voice showing no trace of anger or fear. ‘Someone may come in. If you want to talk to me, we’ll go to my office.’

Wyles hesitated, knowing that to obey would be to go against everything that she had been taught in her fifteen years of policing; by the same token, a chance like this was what she had been waiting for all that time. She weighed Penrose’s anger against his approval, and the latter won. After all, the woman in front of her was in her fifties or sixties; if she was no match for that, she shouldn’t be in the police force at all. Hesitantly, she nodded at Bannerman, and followed her up to her room.

Once inside, Bannerman locked the door and removed the key. Without a word, she walked over to the other side of the room, took a piece of paper out of her evening bag and placed it with Lillian’s note on the desk between them. ‘Your letter implied that you know what happened to the last person who sent me a threatening message,’ she said. ‘If that’s the case, I’m surprised you would wish to risk following in her footsteps.’

This veiled affirmation of everything that Penrose had suspected sent a shiver of triumph and fear through Wyles. She looked defiantly at Bannerman, determined to force her into a more direct confession. ‘I’m smarter than Marjorie,’ she began cautiously, ‘and I’m not greedy. Anyway, you can’t go on like this forever, can you? Sooner or later, it’s got to stop, and it might as well stop with me. I can keep my mouth shut for a fair price, without the help of a needle.’

It was a gamble, but it seemed to give Bannerman the proof she was looking for. She nodded, and unlocked the top drawer of her desk. ‘I see. And what would you call a fair price?’

‘Two hundred should do it.’ Wyles looked over at the pile of notes that Bannerman had removed from the drawer. ‘Or as near as damn it. Like I said, I’m not greedy.’

‘And how do I know that if I give you your money today, you’re not going to come back tomorrow for more?’ Bannerman walked towards her, the money in her hand.

‘Because you can trust me. Why would I push you when I know what you’re capable of?’

‘A good answer, but not quite the right one.’ She held out the notes, and only spoke again when Wyles had committed herself to taking them. ‘You see, I’ll know you’re not coming back because you simply won’t be able to.’ Even as her fingers closed around the money, Wyles was conscious of Bannerman’s other arm moving rapidly upwards, drawing a line across her chest; she saw the glint of a knife before she felt the pain, and looked down to see blood already seeping through her dress. The cut was mercifully shallow, but the shock of the attack and the sudden realisation of the danger she was in were enough to make her feel faint, and she struggled not to lose consciousness. Bannerman came at her again with the knife. It was a surgical instrument, Wyles noticed, small but deadly, and it struck her as ironic that something which had been created to save lives should so easily be put to the opposite purpose. Using her strength while she still had some to use, she grabbed hold of Bannerman’s wrist and smashed her arm down on the desk. The woman yelled in pain and let go of the knife, and Wyles used her temporary advantage to kick it across the room. The respite was only brief: Bannerman’s anger fuelled her strength, and Wyles was astonished and horrified by the ease with which the older woman pushed her to the floor. She tried to resist, but the brief amnesty on pain which follows any wound was well and truly over now, and Wyles felt increasingly weakened by the loss of blood. Sensing victory, Bannerman pinned her to the floor and put her knee on Wyles’s chest, twisting it hard against her skin and aggravating the injury until she screamed to be released from the torture; she thought she saw her attacker smile as she took the scarf from her own neck and wound it round Wyles’s throat.

Then there were shouts in the corridor outside. For the briefest of seconds, Wyles was overcome with relief—until she realised that the prospect of help was just the impetus Bannerman needed to finish what she had started. As desperate shoulders pushed against the heavy oak door, she felt the scarf tighten around her neck and knew that the struggle was all but over. Seconds later, she heard Penrose’s voice calling her name and felt him dragging Celia Bannerman away from her, but she lost consciousness before she was able to thank him.

‘Loving you is hard for me—it makes me a stranger in my own house. Familiar things, ordinary things that I’ve known for years like the dining-room curtains, and the wooden tub with a silver top that holds biscuits and a watercolour of San Remo that my mother painted, look odd to me, as though they belonged to someone else—when I’ve just left you, when I go home, I’m more lonely than I’ve ever been before.’

Josephine had tried not to look over to Marta’s table too often, but the music-hall sketch had given way to an exquisitely written piece set in a railway station cafe, and, as Gertrude Lawrence’s character continued with an understated but affecting monologue which seemed so accurately to express the situation they found themselves in, she was compelled to look to Marta for some solidarity, if only to reassure herself that she wasn’t suffering alone. Lydia chose that moment to stand up and walk to the bar; as she passed behind Marta, she let a hand rest on her shoulder and Marta squeezed it affectionately. It was an unconscious gesture, not designed to be provocative in any way, but its very ordinariness was the last thing that Josephine wanted to see: it spoke of a bond that didn’t need to be continually questioning itself, a life too busy being lived to find its way into the pages of a diary, and it was so different from the connection which she and Marta shared that she could stand it no longer. She stood to get some air, wondering if Noël and Gertie had ever had to put up with so much disruption during a performance. The mood at supper afterwards was likely to be deadly.

The door to Henrietta Place stood open and she watched the comings and goings in the street for a while, too glad of the anonymity to worry much about the cold. Putting Marta from her mind, she wondered where Archie was; she had long given up trying to work out what was going on—the conclusions she came to were simply too bizarre to contemplate—but she was worried about him, in spite of his reassurances that everything was fine. As if in response to her concern, the noise of an ambulance cut sharply across the murmur of night-time traffic in Oxford Street; to her horror, it rounded the corner a moment later and pulled up by the kerb, followed shortly by two police cars, and she moved back into the foyer to allow the men through unhindered.

One or two people began to drift out of the hall when they heard the commotion. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Gerry asked.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Josephine shrugged. ‘I just hope that everyone’s all right.’ It seemed a ridiculous thing to say as people in uniform continued to pile into the building, but she had nothing else to offer. Ronnie and Lettice joined her, but she had barely begun to explain when Archie appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Thank God,’ she said, then looked on, astonished, as he held the door open for Celia Bannerman to be brought through; Fallowfield and another officer led her carefully downstairs, her dress stained with blood, to where a crowd was gathering in the foyer.

‘Are you all right, Celia?’ Josephine asked, but her voice faded as she saw that Bannerman’s hands were cuffed behind her back, and she looked apprehensively at Archie. ‘What’s she done? Who’s been hurt?’

‘It’s WPC Wyles, but she’ll be fine, thanks to Miriam Sharpe. They’re taking her to hospital, but there’s no danger.’

‘And what else?’ In her heart, Josephine already knew the answer; still, she clung to the possibility that there might be some other explanation, but Archie’s silence said it all. She turned to Gerry, but it was too late to stop her.

‘You fucking bitch,’ she screamed, throwing herself at Bannerman. ‘Did letting Lizzie die give you a taste for it? What did Marjorie ever do to you?’

Archie pulled her away and held her until she was calm. ‘She will pay,’ he said quietly. ‘It may not seem like justice, but I promise you—the pain that Marjorie suffered will come back to haunt her when she’s waiting in that cell, and the fear will be a thousand times greater than anything Marjorie had time to know.’

Ronnie looked at Celia Bannerman in disbelief. ‘Marjorie? You did that to Marjorie?’

Fallowfield tried to move on, but Josephine caught his arm. ‘Why, Celia?’ she asked softly. ‘I’ve looked up to you since I was eighteen. All the people you’ve taught and cared for, every woman you’ve given a start to in life—does that count for so very little that you just trample all over it as if it never existed?’

Celia Bannerman stared back at her. ‘You can’t rewrite history, Josephine, no matter how hard you try. Those achievements still stand, regardless of anything else I’ve done.’

‘Of course they don’t. They were tainted the moment you started choosing between lives to build and lives to destroy.’ She looked at her old teacher, wondering how she could possibly remain so unchanged by what she had done. ‘I don’t even know who you are any more.’

Bannerman laughed and took a step towards her. Josephine flinched as she felt the woman’s breath on her face and Archie stepped forward to intervene, but she waved him away; her pride refused to let her pull back, and, in any case, she was still hoping for some sort of explanation which would help her to understand how she could have been so wrong. ‘And do you know who you are, Josephine?’ Bannerman asked, her voice low, almost gentle. ‘The lives you separate, the names you hide behind—one day, they’ll all come crashing down and you’ll be left on your own, trying to work out where the real person went. If I’ve taught you anything, let it be that.’

She turned and allowed herself to be led away. Fallowfield headed for the Henrietta Street entrance, but Penrose stopped him. ‘No, Bill,’ he said, unable to resist a quick glance in the chief constable’s direction. ‘Take her out the front. She inflicted as much humiliation as she could on Marjorie Baker—let’s show her how it feels.’