Sorry for the Dead

by Nicola Upson

  “It wasn’t a lie, though, was it? Not completely. We’re not talking about a child who makes something up out of spite. I shouldn’t have done it, I admit that, and I wish to God I hadn’t—but it was the truth. Those women were lovers. How other people judged that wasn’t my fault.”

  Rightly or wrongly, there was no argument to that, and Josephine didn’t waste time on trying to find one. “And I’m assuming you think it was one of them who killed Dorothy, even though the damage was already done and it wouldn’t have saved their reputation?”

  Betty hesitated. “Perhaps, but there were other accusations, other secrets. Charity had a knack for finding things out and turning them to her advantage, even then.”

  “So who else is she planning to destroy?” Josephine asked, deciding to brazen it out. “Or do I have to wait for the morning edition?”

  “I can’t tell you that. As it is, she’ll kill me if she finds out how much I’ve said, but I’m not sure I care any more. I’ve carried this guilt around for years, knowing that it should have been me people hated, not Dorothy. I deserve whatever I get.”

  “You’re lucky you’ve been able to decide that for yourself,” Josephine said. “Not everyone has that luxury.”

  “Have you been back to Charleston recently?” Marta asked. “The housekeeper mentioned a visitor who had been there during the war.”

  “No, that was Charity. She wanted me to go with her, but I couldn’t face it. I wish I’d never seen that place. I’ll never go back.”

  Josephine stood to leave, knowing exactly how she felt. “Do give my regards to Charity,” she said on her way out. “It’s nice to know that she’s doing something worthwhile with her life.”

  It was good to be out in the air. They walked toward the river to hail a cab from the Embankment, and Marta took Josephine’s arm. “Well, that was a lot to take in. What do you make of it?”

  “I’m not sure I know what to think. Part of me feels sorry for Betty. It was a stupid, spiteful thing to do, but I can also understand how she felt, and she couldn’t possibly have foreseen the consequences. And she’s still being manipulated by Charity, of course—that relationship hasn’t changed, no matter how successful she’s become.”

  “Are you convinced it wasn’t an accident now?”

  “More convinced than I was, yes. I wish I knew how to get in touch with Harriet and George, though.”

  Marta looked at her doubtfully. “Be careful, Josephine. The way I see it, one or both of them could have done this. Don’t stir things up and put yourself at risk.”

  “I wouldn’t be at risk.”

  “How can you be so sure? And why are you hell-bent on protecting them when you don’t know the facts?”

  “Because I liked them,” Josephine said, knowing how naive that sounded but unable to think of anything more convincing. “Particularly Harriet. I honestly don’t believe they were capable of hurting any of the girls in their care, and they don’t deserve another witch hunt.”

  The words alone brought back the horror of that time, and Marta seemed to sense her strength of feeling. “All right,” she conceded, “but if you’re insisting on going any further with this, I really do think you should talk to Archie. He’s got more ways of tracing people than you or the Daily Mirror, and he could probably find these women straightaway if you asked him to.”

  “I told you—Archie’s in Cornwall, and I don’t want to disturb him.”

  “A telephone call is hardly going to wreck his week.” She sighed impatiently. “It’s been months since he found out about Phyllis, and you know he’s forgiven you. Isn’t it about time you forgave yourself?” As usual, Marta had seen straight through her excuses, and Josephine didn’t try to argue. “This isn’t just a question of curiosity any more; it’s about justice, and the stakes are very high. If someone out there really did get away with murder, you shouldn’t go plowing in without some sort of official help. It’s too dangerous. Give him a call, or better still, come down to Cornwall with me on Thursday when I go to talk about the film.”

  “And spend the day with the Hitchcocks? I’ve had quite enough of them to last me a lifetime, thank you. No, I’ll talk to Archie when he’s back in London. I’m too busy to go chasing round the country until the play opens, anyway, so it won’t hurt to wait.”

  She fell silent, thinking about everything that had shaken her that night, from Jeannie’s urgent parting request to Elizabeth Banks’s confession that she, not Dorothy, had set in motion such a destructive chain of events. If those accusations had never been made, would Dorothy still be alive, she wondered? And if that death hadn’t unleashed a tide of hatred and prejudice, would she have been brave enough to acknowledge her love for Jeannie? The strengthening breeze carried a fresh, salty tang from the river, which seemed out of kilter with the heart of a city. The unsettling beauty of the Thames at night always filled her with a mixture of wonder and fear, and today its dark, impenetrable depths seemed to chime with her mood more than ever.

  They were lucky with the third taxi along, and soon heading back to King’s Cross. “As much as I hate to give Charity any credit, contacting Moira House for some addresses is a really good idea,” Josephine said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. It might be useful to talk to some of the other girls about what they remember from that night.”

  “You just promised me you wouldn’t take any risks before you’ve spoken to Archie.”

  That wasn’t quite how the conversation had gone, but Josephine decided against splitting hairs. “I think it’s very unlikely that I’d ever be in danger from someone like Joyce Lanton. It would be nice to see her again and find out if she and Mags ever started their clinic.”

  “What could she tell you, though? Betty was in the greenhouse and you were nearby, and yet neither of you saw anything incriminating. If everyone else was in the main garden, how could they possibly help?”

  “By telling us who was missing,” Josephine said. “I know it’s doubtful, especially in the chaos of the storm, but it’s got to be worth a try.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Will he film any of it here?” Marta asked, looking out of the window as Alfred Hitchcock and his art director tramped around the inn that lent its name to his latest project.

  “I doubt it, but he’s found a stretch of rough track on the moor near Altarnun for the coach scene, and an old post office in Tintagel to base some interiors on, so it hasn’t entirely been a wasted trip.” Alma Reville smiled and joined Marta by the window, more than used to her husband’s painstaking approach to his work; if anything, as the person in charge of continuity on his films, as well as some of the script work, Alma’s attention to detail was just as demanding as his. “I never imagined it would be quite so difficult to find a hundred yards in Cornwall without a telegraph pole or a stretch of tarmac,” she said. “You’ve been very patient, and I’m sorry about the rewrites.”

  “You don’t need to apologize to me. I’m not the one who’ll object to them.” Marta gathered together the research materials that she had used during the script meeting—scores of photographs of Cornish architecture, old maps of the county, and books on wrecking or the history of Falmouth’s Packet ships; everything, in other words, but the novel that had inspired the film in the first place. “Fowey’s not far down the coast, if you wanted to speak to Miss du Maurier in person.”

  Alma laughed and shook her head. “If we started doing unpleasant things like that for ourselves, what would be the point of agents? Anyway, there’s no choice in the matter. If the film is to play in America, we have to change the villain. Daphne will forgive us eventually.”

  Marta had her doubts about that, although she didn’t argue. She knew how much Josephine still resented the changes that Hitchcock had made to her book, and if Marta had written Jamaica Inn, the changes to the plot would be the least of her objections; it was the loss of atmosphere that she felt du Maurier would hate most, the taming of the novel’s raw brutality to a
ccommodate an actor of Charles Laughton’s stature, and she was surprised that Hitchcock was allowing it to happen, no matter how keen he was to get the film done and make his move to Hollywood. “And talking of America,” Alma continued, “are you sure you won’t come with us? There’s always a place for you—you know that.”

  Marta was aware that Hitch and Alma would no longer be as free to pick and choose their team once they were part of the Hollywood system, but still she appreciated the offer and the respect it implied. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” she said, “but I’m settled here now and happier than I’ve ever been—and when you’ve been as unsettled and as unhappy as I have, that counts for a lot. Too much to give up, no matter how tempting the offer.” Alma nodded, accepting her answer. She had become a friend and confidante in the time that Marta had known her, and it was that as much as the work that Marta would miss when she left. “In the meantime, I’ll redraft those scenes in time for you to share them with the other writers next week.”

  “Good.” Alma glanced back to the window and said, “It looks like they’ve seen enough, so we’ll be off. Are you sure we can’t give you a lift anywhere?”

  “No, thank you. I’m meeting Archie here, and he’ll run me back to the station afterward.”

  “Do give our regards to Chief Inspector Penrose,” Alma said with a twinkle in her eye. “We didn’t part on the best of terms after that terrible business at Portmeirion, but he made quite an impression on us.”

  She went out to the car, and Marta looked at her watch, trying to decide what to do with the half hour she had left before Archie was due. There was no time to do any work, so she went for a walk instead, soaking up the atmosphere while she had the chance, even if it wouldn’t be required for her script. It was a day of constantly shifting sun and cloud, and occasionally the light chased the shadows from the hills with such dramatic speed that it was as if someone had taken a cloth and wiped the landscape clean. The inn occupied a high vantage point with spectacular views across Bodmin Moor, but its remoteness was chilling, even on a warm autumn day; other than a tiny chapel farther down the road, the bleak, gray stone of Jamaica Inn was the only landmark for miles around, and Marta didn’t have to walk far to find the harsh, mournful landscape of du Maurier’s novel.

  She headed back in time to see Archie’s car pull up by the inn. To her surprise, Phyllis was with him, and she watched, unobserved, as they got out and walked over to look at the view. From a distance, they seemed at ease in each other’s company, and although Marta couldn’t have been more pleased for Archie, she felt a sharp pang of envy, so painful that it stopped her in her tracks; her own daughter had been a stranger to her and had died before her eighteenth birthday, younger than Phyllis was now, and not a day went past when Marta didn’t long for a second chance to get to know her. She waited until the emotion passed, then waved and walked across to join them. Archie introduced Phyllis, and Marta saw a look of vague recollection pass across the girl’s face as Phyllis tried in vain to place her. “It was at Cambridge railway station,” she said, reminding Phyllis of where they had met before. “You were with Bridget, and I was on my way back to London.” The recognition was immediately blurred by sadness at the memory of a time when Phyllis had taken her mother for granted. “It’s nice to see you again, but I’m so very sorry for what happened.”

  “Thank you. How did your meeting go?”

  The deflection of sympathy—polite but standing for no argument—was uncannily like Bridget’s, and Marta could see from the look on Archie’s face that the likeness between mother and daughter was still painful for him. “As well as could be expected. I’m not convinced it will be the greatest film ever made, but Alfred Hitchcock’s mediocre is still better than most people’s finest, so I haven’t given up hope.”

  “It must be exciting, though.”

  “It has its moments, but I couldn’t help remembering when I was on my way down here that the last time I was in Cornwall, Hitch had me chasing off to Newlyn for buckets of fish because the seagulls wouldn’t do what he wanted them to. Don’t ever accuse me of being in it for the glamour.”

  Archie laughed. “That was for Josephine’s film, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but as she’d never written that scene in the first place, I didn’t get much sympathy for it. Shall we go inside?”

  “I fancy a walk first,” Phyllis said, “and it’ll give you two a chance to talk.”

  “You don’t have to …”

  “I know, but I’d like to. I love the book, and there’s a Jem Merlyn out there for me somewhere. I’ll see you in awhile.”

  “How are you two getting on?” Marta asked, watching her stride off in search of Jamaica Inn’s romantic hero. “It must be so difficult for both of you.”

  “It is,” Archie admitted. “I haven’t the faintest idea how to be her father, any more than she has of how to be my daughter, but it helps that we seem to like each other.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  “We still can’t talk about Bridget, though.”

  “Give it time. It’s all so new.”

  “I know, but I see how much she’s hurting, and I want to help.”

  “She’ll be hurting for years, Archie—for the rest of her life—so don’t rush her. And you have to accept that helping Phyllis with her grief for Bridget might never be your job. There’s a big enough mountain to climb there with your own feelings. She’ll let you know, when and if she’s ready.”

  “I know, but …”

  “But we all want the impossible.”

  He smiled. “This must be hard for you. It must bring things back.”

  Not many people would have thought of that, and Marta realized how important Archie’s friendship had become to her, regardless of his connection to Josephine and in spite of a difficult start. She took his arm and said, “The fact that you even said that makes it easier. Let’s have a drink.”

  The Inn’s low ceilings and a bewildering number of rooms were disorientating after the openness of the moor, and there was an overpowering smell of wood smoke. “What would you like?” Archie asked.

  “If they do anything but rum, I’ll have a gin and tonic.” She chose a table in the corner, away from everyone else, and Archie soon joined her with the gin and a pint of beer. “It was good of you to come here and save me the extra miles,” she said.

  “My pleasure. Phyllis was dying to see it, and I was pleased to get your call, although I can’t help wondering why Josephine didn’t make it herself.”

  “She still feels guilty about what happened, Archie. She wanted to tell you about Phyllis as soon as she found out, but I persuaded her to wait for Bridget to do it.”

  “And you were right. I can see that now.”

  “It’s not just that, though.” She paused, wondering how honest to be. “Josephine never really trusted Bridget where you were concerned, any more than you trusted me when she and I first met.” Archie smiled but didn’t argue, and Marta added, “I think she always believed you’d get hurt somehow, and from what she’s told me, she was very hard on Bridget during their last meeting, perhaps unfairly so. She urged her to be honest with Phyllis about who her father was, and there’s a part of Josephine that will always believe that if Bridget hadn’t gone to see her daughter that day, she’d still be alive.”

  “You could also say that Josephine gave Bridget the chance to save her daughter’s life.”

  “I know, and I’ve told her that, but she’ll only believe it coming from you.”

  She offered him a cigarette, but he shook his head and took out a pipe. “I’ll talk to Josephine as soon as I’m back and find a way to put it right,” he promised. “I miss her.”

  “And she misses you. If I’m honest, that’s why I really wanted to see you today. This newspaper business just gave me an excuse, although I am worried that she’ll go too far with it. You know what she’s like when she gets the bit between her teeth about something, but I can’t work
out why this is affecting her the way it is. It was all such a long time ago, and the fuss seems to have died down after the first flurry of interest.”

  “I’m not surprised it’s run out of steam. I found the article after you called, and it’s a masterpiece of suggestion, but very thin on facts.”

  “Were you aware of the story back then?” Marta asked. “Josephine told me it happened around the time you first met, when you were both in Sussex.”

  “That’s right. I vaguely remember the accident because Josephine mentioned it to Jack afterward, but she never talked about it in much detail. I always got the impression that she wanted to put it behind her, and to be honest, I was too caught up in going to war to take much notice of anything else.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “If a little selfish. Tell me what else you’ve found out.”

  Marta explained in as much detail as she could everything that Josephine had told her about the murder and the days leading up to it, then recounted the visit to Charleston and their conversation at the theater, including the revelation about Faith Hope’s real identity. “I’ve made a list for you of all the people who were there in 1915, as not everyone is mentioned in the article. The starred names are the ones we can’t trace ourselves, and Josephine is especially keen to track down the women who ran the place. The others are pupils from the school.”

  “Have you spoken to them already?”

  “No, but Josephine thinks she can get their addresses from Moira House. The only person she’s talked to is Jeanette Sellwood, the other teacher. She was at the theater when we went on Tuesday.”

  “Was she? What did Josephine tell you about her?”

  The phrasing of the question struck Marta as odd, and Archie’s tone was suddenly more guarded. “Not much,” she admitted, realizing how little Josephine had actually said about her old friend. “Why?”

  “Oh, no reason, really,” he said, far too casually. “It’s just that I met her once or twice. She came to Summerdown Camp with Josephine when she was seeing Jack.”