Sorry for the Dead

by Nicola Upson

  She heard footsteps running along the landing, and the bedroom door was flung open without a knock, crashing against the wall. “Betty, darling, how awful for you—” Charity Lomax stopped in her tracks when she saw her friend sitting so close to Harriet on the bed, wearing nothing but a slip. The look of disgust was so spontaneous and so sincere that Harriet withdrew her hand from Betty’s face as if it had been burned, hating her own instinct for shame when she had nothing to hide, but unable to help herself. “I’m here to look after you now,” Lomax said, and there was something almost threatening in her attitude. “You shouldn’t be on your own with her, Betty. None of us should. It’s not safe.”

  Harriet stood up, determined to keep her dignity. “And what exactly do you mean by that?” she asked. The words were defiant, but there was something in the brazen confidence of Lomax’s rudeness that told her that the battle was already lost. It was all beginning again—the insinuations and the name-calling, the nudges in the street spilling over into outright hostility—and she doubted this time that she had the strength to fight it.

  “I’ll stay with my friend.” Lomax sat down next to Betty, and Harriet longed more than anything to wipe the sly smirk from her face. “Shouldn’t you go and be with yours?”

  Harriet felt a crimson stain of humiliation flood her neck and face. She left the room without another word, wondering why she and George had ever imagined that the shame might stop just because one person had been silenced. The memory of George’s ashen face in the greenhouse refused to go away, and her mind played tricks on her, obscuring even the most innocent of mental images with Dorothy’s blood. She got to the bathroom just in time and retched over the sink, but the fear and disgust she felt refused to be so easily banished, and she sat for a long time on the edge of the old tin bath, waiting for something to happen.

  “Harry? Harriet, what the hell’s going on? I’ve just passed a police car in the lane, and there’s an ambulance outside the house.” Peter stood in the doorway, staring at her as if she were mad, and she wouldn’t have argued with his judgment. “Are you all right?” he asked, crouching down and taking her hands in his. “Has something happened to George?”

  She shook her head. “No, George is all right.”

  “Then why are you so upset? Christ, Harry, what’s she done now?”

  “How do you know she’s done anything?” Harriet snapped defensively.

  “Because she’s the only person in this world who can make you cry.”

  The sound of another vehicle pulling up outside saved her from having to respond. It was followed by hurried footsteps on the gravel and voices shouting instructions, and she got up to go and look, hoping that Peter wouldn’t come with her. The window in Josephine’s room afforded the best view, and she opened the door, feeling like an intruder in her own home as she noticed how tidy everything was, scarcely more lived-in now than on the day she moved in; how long ago that seemed, she thought, although it was not yet a full month. She stood in the darkness and looked down into the yard, taking in the ominous outline of an ambulance and the police car next to it. There was no sign of the college van; Jeannie and Josephine were either still out or had parked by the orchard again, but she recognized the blue Bifort from its customary position outside the doctor’s house in Firle, and another small piece of privacy slipped from her grasp. “You still haven’t told me what’s happened,” Peter said, coming up behind her.

  She replied without turning round, watching her reflection in the glass as she spoke the words, testing herself for the ordeal to come. “Dorothy Norwood is dead. She fell through some glass in the greenhouse, and Betty found her there. Josephine tried to save her, but her injuries were too serious. She bled to death in front of them.”

  “And where was George?” Her silence seemed to anger him, and he repeated the question. “Where was George while all this was going on? You can’t blame yourself for everything, Harry. Those girls are in her care when they’re in the garden, not yours. If anyone should be feeling like this, it’s George, so don’t let her shrug her shoulders and leave you to pick up the pieces like she did last time. Even better, walk away while you still can.”

  Two ambulance men carrying a covered stretcher came from the direction of the garden, and there was a terrible finality about their lack of urgency. Harriet closed her eyes, but not before she had noticed a group of farmworkers with lanterns standing over by the barn, silently watching the comings and goings. The landlord would have been told immediately, of course—there was no way to avoid that. And soon everyone would know—the village, the newspapers, perhaps even the government, with one of its civil servants on the premises. “It was Dorothy who caused the trouble for you at Moira House, wasn’t it?” Peter said, piecing together a story in spite of her refusal to help. “Do you think George had something to do with this? My God, you do, don’t you? That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t keep this quiet, Harry, or George will destroy you completely.”

  Harriet didn’t trust herself to answer. “I’ve got to go down. People will be wondering where I am.” She pushed past him and stood at the top of the stairs, watching while strangers gathered in her hallway—the doctor and two uniformed policemen, one of senior rank to the other. O’Brien looked up, and Harriet was struck by how shaken he seemed. “Miss Barker, please forgive us for arriving unannounced, but Miss Hartford-Wroe said to come up to the house.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Securing the glass house. She’ll be here in a moment.”

  The sergeant cleared his throat. “My name’s Chadwick, ma’am, and this is Constable Rees. We need to ask you a few questions, if we may.”

  “Of course, but there’s not much I can tell you. Dorothy was dying as I got there. One of our teachers—Miss Tey—was at the scene before me.” She bit her lip, conscious of sounding as if she were already defending herself in the dock, when she hoped to God it wouldn’t come to that. “I’m sure she’ll give you an accurate report. She’s very competent.”

  “So I understand, and I’ve already had a word with Miss Tey, but we’d still like to speak to you and to Miss Hartford-Wroe—just to confirm one or two things. I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”

  “Very well. Come through to the kitchen, and I’ll make some tea.”

  She ushered them through the dining room and held the door open for O’Brien, but the doctor shook his head. “I’ll be on my way, Miss Barker. I’m not needed here any more.” He hesitated, as if there were something he wanted to say, and her stomach tightened again. “Do you and Miss Hartford-Wroe have a solicitor?” he asked eventually.

  “A solicitor? Why on earth would we need a solicitor?”

  “It might be a sensible precaution, under the circumstances.”

  “But the circumstances are quite straightforward, Dr. O’Brien. Dorothy’s death was an accident—we had nothing to do with it.”

  “I’m not suggesting you did.” He looked genuinely taken aback by the idea, and Harriet realized too late that she had completely misread his advice. “But there will still be an inquest and a police inquiry. The publicity will be extensive, and of course there will be the question of … well, of negligence. The girl’s parents may want to pursue that, and you would be wise to be prepared.” Harriet wasn’t sure if her urge to cry was down to his kindness or just the hopelessness of her situation; furious with herself, she blinked back tears, and he put a solicitous hand on her arm. “Don’t give up, Miss Barker. As you know, my wife and I are great admirers of the work you do here. You gave our daughter a sense of purpose in life when we were at our wits’ end with her, and we’ll always be grateful to you for that. If you ever need someone to speak up for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  His loyalty gave Harriet some of her spirit back. “Be careful what you agree to, Dr. O’Brien,” she said wryly. “You may find yourself on the wrong side of the witch hunt.”

  He smiled. “It’s a risk I’m happy to take. In the mea
ntime, there’s a solicitor in Lewes I can recommend. He’s a smart chap, and beyond the sphere of local gossip, if you know what I mean. I’ll telephone him in the morning and ask him to consider taking your case—if it comes to that, of course.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very kind, and we’re eternally grateful, both of us.”

  “Not at all. Now—chin up.” He disappeared into the night, and Harriet went back to the kitchen. The policemen were standing awkwardly by the table, trailing mud all over the floor that she had recently cleaned, and George had just come in from outside. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said. “Unless you’d like something stronger?”

  “No thank you, Miss Barker. Please don’t go to any trouble on our account.”

  “It’s no trouble.” She filled the kettle, if only to prove that the choice was still hers to make, and George was obviously of the same mind because she fetched a decanter of whisky from the sideboard in the dining room and poured four glasses. “Do sit down,” Harriet said, irritated by the self-conscious formality that had suddenly taken over her kitchen. “What do you want to know?”

  The sergeant took the chair next to her, and Byron jumped onto his lap, oblivious to any etiquette where the law was concerned. The dark blue trousers were soon covered with ginger fur, and Harriet suppressed a smile in spite of the circumstances. “We wanted to let you know that Miss Norwood’s parents have been notified, and they’re on their way down from Nottingham,” Chadwick said, his authority somewhat compromised by the purring from his lap. “They’ll be here in the morning.”

  “Then they must come to us and stay as long as they like. They shouldn’t be in a hotel at a time like this, and they’ll want to be with Betty.”

  “Harriet, for God’s sake don’t be so bloody ridiculous!” George slammed her empty glass down and glared across the table. “Their daughter’s dead—don’t you understand that? A warm bed and a good meal isn’t going to fix everything.”

  Harriet’s hand shook as she reached for her whisky, and she realized that she had been waiting for the outburst; she had only ever seen this sort of rage once before in her lover, and then—as now—it was the product of fear. “Mr. and Mrs. Norwood won’t be coming here, Miss Barker. Their other daughter will be back at school by the time they get to us. One of my colleagues has spoken to the principal there, and she feels it best if all the girls return to Eastbourne as soon as possible. Arrangements are being made to collect them in the morning.”

  “All of the girls?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so.”

  “But that’s really not necessary. Tell them, George—surely you haven’t agreed to that?”

  “I think we’ve rather forfeited our right to an opinion, don’t you?”

  Harriet fell silent, afraid of provoking George into saying something indiscreet. Chadwick drew breath to continue, but he was interrupted by a knock at the kitchen door. Vera hesitated when she saw the police, but George waved her in and introduced her. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Just to say that everyone’s turned in now except for Lomax.”

  “She’s upstairs with Betty,” Harriet said. “They’ll both sleep in the house tonight.”

  “How are the girls?” George asked.

  “Upset, obviously, and still very shocked, but they’re comforting one another. I’ll make sure to keep an eye on them.”

  She turned to go, but Chadwick called her back. “Just a minute, Miss Simms. While you’re here, perhaps you could give us your version of tonight’s events?” Vera glanced quickly at Harriet but nodded her agreement. “Where were you when the accident happened?”

  “In the walled garden with the girls. Miss H rang the bell as soon as she realized how serious the storm was going to be, and we all did what we could to protect the plants.”

  “And that includes Miss Norwood?”

  “Yes, Dorothy was there.”

  “So how did she come to be in the glass house?”

  “She offered to go,” Vera said quickly. “I asked for a volunteer to check the sheds and greenhouses, and she put herself forward. She’d been on those duties recently, and she knew the routine, so it made sense for me to choose her.” Harriet stared at her, thrown by the lie; she had heard George order Dorothy to the glass house herself as soon as the girls reported for duty, and Vera had had nothing to do with the decision. “I think she felt guilty about something that happened a couple of weeks ago,” Vera continued, looking the policeman in the eye. “She let herself down and wanted to make up for it. I wish now that I’d gone instead of her, but I honestly didn’t think there was any danger.”

  “Of course not, Miss—why would you? Did you notice anyone else near the greenhouses at around that time?”

  “No, but I wasn’t really taking much notice of who was where. The rain was pouring down, and we were all so busy—and everyone looks the same in those oilskins anyway. It would have been impossible to keep tabs on individual girls.”

  If the sergeant found that a convenient excuse, he didn’t say so. “Do you have any idea why Miss Betty Norwood would have gone out to the greenhouse?” he asked.

  Vera shrugged. “I’ve no idea. You’ll have to ask her that. There was certainly no love lost between her and Dorothy—I know that much.”

  “Vera!” Harriet objected.

  “It’s true, though—they hated each other. We all witnessed that the other day.”

  Chadwick made a note and asked Vera to explain. When she had finished, he turned to Harriet. “You said Miss Norwood was upstairs, Miss Barker. Perhaps you could take me up to her?”

  “She’s asleep, Sergeant, and she’s had a terrible ordeal, regardless of how she might have felt about her sister. Do you really have to see her now, or can it wait until the morning?” The thought of Betty being questioned by the police, with Charity on hand to embellish her answers, terrified Harriet, and she added in what she hoped was a voice of reason, “It’s not as if she’s going to run away, is it? And she’ll be stronger in the morning with her parents or Miss Ingham to stand by her.”

  “Very well, Miss Barker, we’ll do as you suggest and leave you all to get some sleep.” There was precious little chance of that, Harriet thought, relieved to be rid of them. “Just one more thing,” Chadwick said at the door. “I understand from Miss Tey that the top windows in the greenhouse are usually opened with a pole that was missing tonight. Do you have any idea where it is?”

  “Yes, I found it myself just before you arrived,” George said. “Miss Tey was right about it not being in the usual place, but it was standing just inside the next section—perfectly visible to anyone who looked properly. I’ve no idea why Dorothy didn’t see it. Perhaps she was simply in too much of a panic. It’s still there now if you’d like to go and look.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. We have everything we need for now.”

  George stood up to see the policeman out to their car, and Vera watched them go from the window. She drew the curtains and walked over to the table. “It’s going to be all right,” she said, putting her arms around Harriet’s neck and kissing the top of her head. “If we all stick together and try to behave normally, no one can touch us.”

  With a shock, Harriet realized that Vera knew—or thought she knew—everything that had happened. She turned to face her, trying to decide if she could be trusted not to falter, and understood that—of the two of them—Vera was the stronger, at least for now. The kettle had been boiling for some time, and Vera took over making the tea. She fussed around George when she came back in, and Harriet tried not be hurt by how much more willing George seemed to engage with Vera than she was with her. It was funny, but she hadn’t noticed until now what a lot they had in common. For the first time in her life, she knew how it felt to be jealous.

  “I’d better go and check on the girls,” Vera said after a while. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She left them alone with each other, and although it was what
Harriet had been craving all night, she found no comfort in it. “Dr. O’Brien thinks we should get a solicitor,” she said, unable to stand the tension any longer. “He’s going to talk to a man in Lewes on our behalf.” She studied George’s face, looking for the smallest sign of acquiescence, but there was nothing. “George, we’ve got to talk about this, or we’re going to lose everything we’ve worked for,” she pleaded. “I know you’re upset—we both are—but we can’t just let it go. Otherwise, what was the point—”

  “—of her death? Funny, I was just thinking that myself.” George got up without another word, and Harriet watched her go. She poured herself a drink and took it over to the window, waiting for a light to appear in the office across the yard and wondering why—after all that had happened—she was still the one who seemed to be asking for forgiveness.

  In the stillness left behind, she heard the soft murmur of voices coming from Jeannie’s room just above. Even though it wasn’t hers to cling to, the companionship was soothing, and she let it drift over her until the voices eventually fell silent. She listened for the sound of footsteps across the floor and the click of a door closing as Josephine went back to her own room, but they never came, and she envied the women their solace in each other—the thrill of another body and the fleeting illusion that nothing could ever come between you and the person you loved.

  CHAPTER 2

  Harriet woke late to the sound of the morning bell, and for one glorious moment it was just like any other day. She sat up in bed, waiting for the whisky fug to clear, and the events of the last few hours fell back into place with all the scattered logic of pebbles coming to rest on a beach. George hadn’t come to bed, and Harriet was surprised to hear her summoning the girls for duties so soon after the tragedy, but perhaps it was a welcome sign that she intended to fight after all. Daring to hope, she went to the window and looked down into the garden, but it was Vera ringing the bell, not George, and the response was understandably half-hearted. The girls gathering together on the lawn seemed to embody everything that had changed in the last twenty-four hours. They looked defeated and vulnerable, as if they had already had the life knocked out of them, and the idea that they were to carry the hope of a generation seemed suddenly forlorn and ridiculous.