Sorry for the Dead

by Nicola Upson

  “Don’t, Josephine. Please.”

  Jeannie got up and walked over to the window, and although Josephine longed to say more about how much that night had meant to her, she knew it wasn’t fair. “I told Charity that we were together all evening. I don’t think she believed me, but she can’t prove otherwise.”

  “Thank you. That was kind of you, especially when you must have wondered if she was right to be suspicious.”

  There was no point in denying it. “Everything was so intense …”

  “You don’t have to make excuses. Why wouldn’t you wonder if I killed Dorothy? After all, we barely knew each other.”

  The comment hurt Josephine, and despite her best intentions she couldn’t resist rising to the bait. “How can you say that?” she demanded. “It simply isn’t true.”

  “Isn’t it? All right then, perhaps I should just say that I didn’t know you.” She turned round and Josephine saw that she was crying. “Was it all my doing, our affair?”

  “Of course it wasn’t.”

  “Did I put too much pressure on you? Make you commit to things you weren’t ready for?”

  “No. You know it was never like that.”

  “Then why, Josephine? Why did you just cut the strings as if nothing had happened between us? One minute you were telling me how much you loved me, and the next you were out with the boy from the army camp. For a while there I honestly thought I was going mad. I told myself that I must have imagined everything that we’d ever said or done, because how could someone change so quickly? Except I could still feel your skin against mine. I could still smell you on my pillow whenever I tried to sleep. And then to see you the other night after all that you’d said, laughing and talking with an attractive woman on your arm. Can you even begin to imagine how that felt?” Josephine went over to hold her, but she pulled away as if someone had scalded her. “Don’t touch me. I can’t bear it.”

  She stood by, helpless to do anything but watch as Jeannie’s grief brought back every emotion that had been so new and raw to her at the time. Josephine had cried for days when the affair ended, avoiding everyone until she could trust herself to pretend, and it was a sorrow that she had never been able to share; even now she carried it alone, too shamed by Jeannie’s pain to point out that she had also suffered. “Do you want me to go?” she asked.

  Jeannie shook her head, and Josephine waited for her to speak. “I need some air,” she said when she was calmer. “Do you mind if we go for a walk? Sometimes I just have to get away from these four walls.”

  They headed for the park, walking in silence until they were well within its boundaries. It seemed to Josephine that Jeannie was following a familiar route, and she wondered how much time she spent here on her own. Although she had expected a confrontation, the intensity of their exchange still shocked her, and she knew that she had underestimated how destructive it might be for both of them to revisit the past. Greenwich was one of London’s most beautiful parks, with a spectacular view of the city’s skyline, but she could find no pleasure in it, and she was glad when Jeannie broke off from the path and led them toward a bench by the boating pool at the foot of the hill to the Observatory. “You must think me such a hypocrite,” she said.

  “I did begin to wonder if someone had played a very bad joke on me,” Jeannie admitted. “When I married Robert, I was settling for a perfectly nice man, just as I thought you had—only to find out that you didn’t do anything of the sort. It was my decision, though, and I’ve only got myself to blame. What happened to your soldier?”

  Even now, Jeannie couldn’t bring herself to say Jack’s name, but the resentment with which she used to refer to him was gone.

  “He died at the Somme.”

  “And would you have married him if he’d lived?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. It would have been so simple, and he was a nice man. We would have made it work, just like you did.”

  Jeannie looked at Josephine, her anger softened by resignation. “She’s beautiful, I’ll give you that, and you don’t have to spare my feelings. Tell me about her.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How did you meet?”

  “She tried to kill me.” Jeannie started to laugh, then realized that Josephine was serious. “It was a little more complicated than that, but let’s just say it wasn’t easy at first. In fact, it’s never been easy, and we’ve both done our damnedest to destroy it, especially me. Marta’s been brave enough for us both at times, although she shouldn’t have to be.”

  “And you love her, so it’s worth the risk.”

  “Yes. I love her very much.” If Jeannie was throwing back some of the words that Josephine had used in the past to justify her own fears, she was doing so without any recriminations, but still Josephine felt the need to explain. “It’s not love that makes the difference, though,” she insisted. “I loved you. You must have known that.” Jeannie nodded. “It just didn’t seem possible, and I don’t know how else to explain it. I couldn’t see a way that you and I could ever be together. My family would never have understood. It would have destroyed them.”

  “Yes, I know. It was my father who compared having a lesbian to losing a child in the war, if you remember, so I do understand all that.”

  “Then you must know why I was so frightened. And this might sound silly, but when we were together, when I was young, it never occurred to me that I could lie—and lying is what makes it possible. You think that the world is going to adapt to you because you’re not doing anything wrong, and then, when it doesn’t, you change instead. Even now, I have to be two people. I don’t talk about Marta to my family. I hide her letters and pretend that her flowers have come from someone else. I’m not myself when I talk to her on the telephone, just in case someone’s listening. She’s never been anywhere near me in Scotland, and she never will. We met in Keswick once, and it was so far north that I spent the whole weekend looking over my shoulder.”

  Jeannie laughed. “Is Marta happy with that?”

  “Marta accepts it, and before you say it, I know that’s not the same thing.” A clock in the distance struck the half hour, and Josephine saw Jeannie glance anxiously at her watch; she would have to go soon, before Robert got home from work, and Josephine was surprised by how much she resented that. “This business with Charity has brought it all back,” she said, more bitterly than she had intended. “You and I saw firsthand what happens when the lies aren’t convincing enough, and we both know that George and Harriet weren’t just being punished for what happened to Dorothy. It could have been us, and that terrified me.”

  They lapsed into silence while a man sat on the end of the bench to tie his shoelace, and Jeannie seemed lost in her thoughts. “I thought about it for a while, you know,” she said when the man had gone. “Taking a lover, finding a way. There was a woman who used to walk here every day, and we started to talk. Robert works hard and he’s out a lot. It would have been possible.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Because in the end it wasn’t what I wanted. Sex in the afternoons while my husband was at work. Snatched meetings whenever she could get away, and the rest of the time spent wondering. Sooner or later, I would have wanted more, so perhaps you were right to end it. We could never have had a life together, and I wouldn’t have been satisfied with less.”

  “But I shouldn’t have done it the way I did, without any explanation or warning. I know how much it hurt you, and I’m sorry. That was never what I wanted.”

  Jeannie turned to look at her, the first time that she had held Josephine’s eye for any length of time. “I know. Still, I wish you’d been braver. Perhaps then I might have been too.”

  The words reminded Josephine of the last thing that Harriet had said to her, a piece of advice that she had emphatically failed to take. Before she could apologize again, Jeannie stood up to leave. “I’d better get home. Will you walk with me to the end of the street?” She put her arm through Josephine�
�s, taking refuge in an innocent gesture of friendship. “I still haven’t decided what to do about George and Harriet. Do you think I should tell anyone what I heard? It’s so long ago, and God knows where they are or what they’re doing.”

  “They’ve gone back to Sussex, of all places.”

  “How do you know?”

  Josephine told her about Joyce. “I’ve decided to go and see them before Charity finds out. Why don’t you wait until I’ve been and then decide?”

  “Will you come back and tell me what happened?”

  The promise would have been such an easy one to make, but Josephine hesitated, troubled by the hope in Jeannie’s voice and by her own strong desire that they should see each other again. As much as she wanted to believe that there was no danger in another meeting, she knew how many people might be hurt by it, and this time there was only one way to do what Harriet had asked of her. “I’ll write,” she said, and Jeannie nodded, understanding what she meant and accepting it.

  Instinctively, they both slowed their step as they neared the park gates, and it was Jeannie who stopped and turned first. “I’ll say goodbye here. Be happy with Marta.” She took Josephine’s hand and held it to her face, kissing the palm of her hand. “Just out of interest, why haven’t you told her we were lovers? Because it was over and done with?”

  Josephine shook her head. “Because it wasn’t. Not until we’d seen each other again. Not until we’d made our peace.”

  “So you can tell her now.”

  “Yes. I can tell her now.”

  SUMMER 1915

  CHAPTER 1

  Harriet looked at George’s face and knew that there was no going back. Whatever they did from now on, wherever they went and however hard they tried, nothing between them would ever be the same. She remembered their last conversation, so full of bitterness and rage, and the shock of what they had each seemed capable of hit her again like a blow to the stomach. It was ironic, she thought, but at the very moment that threatened to tear them apart, she had never loved George more. “We’ll have to get the girls inside and let them know what’s happened,” she said, resorting to practicalities.

  “Yes, of course.”

  There was a speck of blood on George’s cheek and Harriet reached across to wipe it off, but George turned away, unable even to meet her eye, and Harriet’s hand hovered awkwardly in the air. “I’ll send Vera to the village to get help,” she repeated, trying not to show how hurt she was. “Where is she?”

  “I’ve no idea. In the gardens, I suppose.”

  “It’ll be quicker if we go.” Josephine stood just inside the door with Jeannie, sufficiently recovered from her ordeal to face its aftermath. The “we” wasn’t lost on Harriet, and she wondered if the growing closeness that she had noticed between the two women had come to anything more than friendship.

  “The van’s just over by the orchard,” Jeannie agreed. “We can be halfway to Firle in the time it would take you to find Vera and explain what’s happened.”

  George nodded her agreement, but still nobody moved, and it seemed to Harriet that the glass house had become a twisted sort of sanctuary that they were all afraid to leave, as if to make contact with the world outside would be to acknowledge the reality of Dorothy’s death. Except for Betty, who sat on one of the low walls with her head in her hands, they all stood staring at the young girl’s body, taking in the enormity of what had happened. Outside, the rain was beginning to ease, but a steady drizzle of water still found its way through the open windows, splashing onto Dorothy’s face, and Harriet looked round for something to cover her with.

  “Did anybody find the pole?” Josephine asked into the silence.

  Harriet glanced sharply at her. “What?”

  “The window pole—it was missing. That must be why Dorothy climbed on the wall. We should close the ventilators if it’s here somewhere.”

  “I’ll do it,” George said.

  “But surely that doesn’t matter at the moment,” Harriet objected. “And it’s probably best if we keep things as they are …”

  “I said—I’ll do it.” It was hard to tell if the harshness in George’s voice was due to anger or fear, but there was no arguing with it. “Get out—all of you,” she insisted. “I’ll go and break the news to the girls, then come back here to wait for the police.”

  “Let me wait with you,” Harriet offered, clutching at the chance to talk to George alone.

  “No, I don’t need you here. Take Betty back to the house and put her to bed.”

  Harriet helped the girl to her feet, and Betty allowed herself to be gently led away from her sister’s body and out into the fresh summer night. The storm had passed, and only when she felt the cool breeze on her face did Harriet realize how humid and suffocating the greenhouse had been; she took several deep breaths, hoping to think more clearly again, but the air did nothing to dispel the confused images that crowded her mind or the faint sensation of nausea that accompanied them. Betty slumped against her as they walked, clinging blankly to the only refuge left to her, and her trust seemed so misplaced that it sickened Harriet.

  Suddenly she couldn’t be alone with the girl’s grief, and she called back over her shoulder to Josephine. “Come to the house with us and change out of those clothes. You’ve had a terrible shock too, and you need a hot drink and some rest. I’m sure Jeannie can manage on her own.”

  Jeannie seemed to agree with her, but Josephine shook her head. “Thank you, Miss Barker, but I’ll be all right. I’d rather keep busy, at least for now.”

  Defeated, Harriet let them go and headed for the house, glad of a generous moon to guide her up the narrow yew-lined path between the pond and the garden wall. There was a light on in Simon Cassidy’s room, and she could see him through the gap in the curtains, standing back from the window and watching their approach across the gravel; by the time they reached the landing, he was waiting at his bedroom door, and Harriet noticed that his hair was wet, even though he was wearing his dressing gown. “I was out for a walk and got caught in the storm,” he said, answering a question that she hadn’t asked. “I haven’t been in long myself. What on earth has happened?”

  “There’s been an accident in the garden—a terrible accident, I’m afraid. One of the girls has been killed, and Miss Sellwood has gone to Firle to fetch help.”

  “Which girl?”

  “Dorothy, Betty’s sister.” An odd expression passed across Simon Cassidy’s face, and had the circumstances been different, Harriet might have said it was relief. “It wasn’t George’s fault,” she added, then realized as soon as the words were out how suspicious they sounded. “What I mean to say is that it could have happened anywhere, and I wouldn’t want it to affect your view of the college. We have very strict rules on safety, but Miss Norwood doesn’t seem to have been following the methods she was taught, and I …” He was looking at her curiously and Harriet faltered, appalled by her own tactlessness in blaming Dorothy Norwood for her death in front of her grieving sister. She started to apologize, but Betty was staring into space, apparently oblivious to the conversation.

  “People in glass houses,” she said suddenly.

  “What?” Harriet stared at her in horror.

  “That’s what they say, isn’t it? People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, but that’s what you thought Dorothy was doing. You thought she’d told tales to Miss Ingham, that she was threatening to tell—”

  “Now, Miss Norwood, you’ve had a dreadful shock, and you mustn’t upset yourself even more by worrying about what your sister did or didn’t do,” Cassidy said. “Miss Barker will take good care of you, so go along with her now and get some rest.”

  Harriet tried to thank him, grateful for his intervention, but the words came out as an awkward, choked sob, and she turned quickly toward the spare room, feeling his eyes on her back all the way down the dark landing. She lit a lamp and pulled the blankets back on one of the beds, then sat Betty down on a chair and began to he
lp her out of her wet clothes, but the girl seemed more distracted than ever. “Dorothy always did things properly,” she insisted, and Harriet began to wish that she had never implied otherwise. “She wouldn’t have been so careless. All our lives, she’s been the one who followed instructions and kept to the rules. I’ve never known her to put herself in danger.” Betty clutched at Harriet’s hands, and there was an expression of such utter desperation in her eyes that Harriet was suddenly afraid for her. “It should have been me,” she said. “I lied when I said—”

  “When you said what? And why on earth would you think that it should have been you?”

  Still Betty hesitated, and when she eventually spoke, Harriet couldn’t decide if she had changed her mind about what she was going to say originally. “It should have been me in the greenhouse. I lied before when Miss H called us out about it. Dorothy did ask me to close the windows for her that night, but I forgot.”

  “Oh Betty, is that what this is all about?”

  Betty nodded. “She came to me that afternoon because it was her time of the month and she had terrible stomach cramps. I didn’t want to do the shift for her, but she said I’d get into trouble if I refused. Now she’s dead, and it should have been me.”

  She began to cry again, and Harriet led her over to the bed and held her close, wanting to take away her pain and tell her that her sister’s death had nothing to do with a stupid lie over gardening duties. “It was an accident,” she said firmly, trying the words out for herself as much as for Betty. She took the girl’s face in her hands and made her listen. “You have nothing to feel guilty for, I promise. We all tell lies now and again, and what you did was wrong—but that doesn’t change the fact that Dorothy’s death was a terrible, tragic accident that none of us could do anything about.”