The Death of Lucy Kyte (Josephine Tey Mystery 5)

by Nicola Upson

  The Death of Lucy Kyte

  NICOLA UPSON

  This story is dedicated to three remarkable women:

  my godmother Pearl, Elizabeth MacKintosh, and Maria Marten.

  I suppose you are more or less living at the cottage these days. That is an experience I must try just once, I feel – making a new home.

  Josephine Tey in a letter to Marda Vanne, December 1934

  1

  Josephine looked at her watch and sighed. Outside, the rain continued to pour down into Church Street, forcing the stream of Friday afternoon shoppers into circuitous routes along the pavement to avoid the puddles. Even through the shifting façade of black umbrellas and raised collars, she was alarmed at how many of the passers-by she recognised, and suddenly she craved the anonymity of the city she had just left.

  The walls of the solicitor’s office were lined with photographs. Prize-winning catches from Ness Castle Pool vied with shooting parties and other events that marked the town’s sporting year, more reassuring to most of the firm’s clients than any proudly framed legal qualifications would have been. These faces, too, were familiar to her and, if she looked closely, she could probably have identified most of them from among her father’s circle of friends – but she was far more interested in the papers that lay on the desk in front of her, tantalisingly undisturbed for the last ten minutes. Impatiently, she glanced over to the small outer lobby that functioned as reception and waiting room; still there was no sign of any purposeful life beyond the frosted glass, so she half-stood and pulled the blotter towards her until the top sheet was close enough to read. She had got no further than the initial formalities when the door opened behind her and she was forced to turn her attention unconvincingly towards a nearby paperweight.

  ‘Janet Mackenzie, died peacefully in her sleep, September 1926. The way we’d all like to go.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  John MacDonald smiled and nodded at the heavy glass object by Josephine’s hand. ‘She left it to me as a thank you for all the changes to her will. Bloody ugly, I know, but I liked the old girl so I feel obliged to keep it. There’s a drawer full of them at home. Why is it always a paperweight?’ He smiled and gestured for her to sit down again. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Josephine. Tea is on its way, I promise.’

  The making of tea at Stewart, Rule & Co. was such a lengthy process that Josephine had often considered leaving a new kettle to the firm as part of her own final instructions, but such a gift would have carried with it a Greek quality and she had never had the heart. ‘From the date on your letter, I’ve kept you waiting,’ she said. ‘I’ve been south for a bit, and I never have my post forwarded when I’m away. It would completely defeat the object of going.’

  ‘England – ah, yes.’ He said it with a wistfulness that most people reserved for Persia, or at least somewhere that required travel by sea. ‘Business or pleasure?’

  Josephine would have found it hard to categorise the events of the last two weeks, even if she had been inclined to. ‘Both,’ she said non-committally. ‘It makes sense to fit as much in as possible when I’m there.’

  ‘Quite, quite. Who knows what your father would get up to if you turned your back for too long? Is he keeping well?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ She was saved from further small talk by the arrival of the tea tray. ‘You wanted to see me about my godmother’s will, Mr MacDonald,’ she prompted gently, aware that if anything was to be achieved efficiently this afternoon, the impetus would have to come from her. ‘I was sorry to hear that she had died. My mother always spoke very fondly of her.’

  ‘Indeed she did. They were great friends.’ MacDonald nodded emphatically. He searched among his papers and removed a photograph from the pile. ‘Let’s get down to business, then. This was Hester Larkspur’s home for many years. It’s in a little village in Suffolk and she loved it there. Now it’s yours.’

  His directness was completely out of character and Josephine looked at him in astonishment, convinced she had misheard. Beaming, MacDonald placed the image in front of her with all the flourish of a sideshow conjuror. She imagined that moments like this were few and far between in the life of a small-town solicitor and, because she liked him and because he had always been kind to her family, she tried not to let her sense of anticlimax show. The house was ordinary, a modest thatched cottage on the edge of a wood, and even the soft shades of sepia could not flatter it into being anything other than run-down and badly in need of repair.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Josephine said. ‘To my knowledge, with the exception of the christening, I never even met my godmother. Mercifully, she seemed to place as little importance on the role as I do, so I can’t imagine what I might have done to deserve this.’

  Her irony was more pronounced than she had intended, and the solicitor smiled. ‘I know what you mean, but it’s an old photograph and I gather it doesn’t do the place justice. And you did meet her again, at least once. She was at your mother’s funeral.’ Josephine thought back over the years but the day was a blur to her, filled entirely with grief and with a selfish fear of how her mother’s early death would change her own life. She had been in no mood to welcome strangers. ‘You were upset,’ MacDonald said gently. ‘Too upset to remember or even to notice who else was there.’

  His kindness made her suddenly vulnerable, and took her back to a moment she had not prepared herself to revisit. ‘My mother often talked about her, though,’ she said, trying to keep the sadness out of her voice. ‘I remember how pleased she always was to get a letter. Etta, she called her. My youngest sister took the nickname from her, but we never actually knew her.’

  ‘She’d moved south by the time you were born, but she and your mother kept in touch, as you say. They’d been friends from childhood – lived next door to each other, went to the same school. When Miss Larkspur’s husband died, your mother became the main beneficiary. Now that responsibility has passed to you.’

  His choice of words was interesting, Josephine thought, and appropriate. ‘Isn’t there anyone else?’

  ‘No family, no, and very few close friends. There are a couple of smaller bequests, but nothing very substantial. Miss Larkspur lived a solitary life on the whole, more so as she got older.’

  ‘A childhood friendship once removed still seems a very distant hand to entrust your life to.’

  ‘Perhaps, but nothing would surprise me after all these years.’ He shrugged, and poured her more tea. ‘And what do you do if you die alone, without a next generation to look to and with no one close who cares about you or really needs your money? There’s charity, of course, but it takes a particular strength of mind not to make at least some concessions to sentimentality. A will really is the last word, you know,’ he added, tapping the papers in front of him. ‘It’s your chance to say what you think without any fear or pretensions or niceties. Some people use it to settle a score or underline a grudge, but it’s more often the reverse. Lots of people force an emotional obligation in death that never existed in life, and it’s only human to lay claim to a love that will still be there when you’re gone – anything else smacks of failure.’ He smiled. ‘But I don’t think that’s the case here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Originally, in the event of your mother predeceasing her, whatever Miss Larkspur left was to be divided equally between any surviving children. She changed that relatively recently, because she knew by then that you were making a success of your life in a way that would have made your mother very proud – and, most importantly, doing what you wanted to do. I only knew her as a client, not as a friend, but I knew her for a long time
and she would have admired that.’ Touched, Josephine looked again at the photograph, trying not to let her growing excitement blind her to the gift’s problems. There was a word in her head that was strong enough to transform the cottage, removing its flaws and imperfections before her very eyes, and the word was freedom. MacDonald reached for his glasses and glanced through the first couple of pages. ‘Shall we get the formalities over? Then I’ll try to answer any questions you have.’

  Josephine nodded and listened as he began to read, hoping that the formal language of law would not obscure a personality that was beginning to intrigue her. ‘Let’s see, now. Here we are. “I, Hester Larkspur, residing at Red Barn Cottage, Polstead, Suffolk, desire that everything of which I die possessed, whether money, goods, property, personal possessions, or any other belongings whatsoever, shall, except as hereinafter provided, be given to my goddaughter, Josephine Tey, of Crown Cottage, Inverness, as a tribute to my long friendship with her mother and an acknowledgment of her own achievements.

  ‘“The following personal gifts are those provided for in the first paragraph: To Dilys Nichols, of Wren’s View, St Paul’s Churchyard, I leave all my clothes, including theatrical costumes and furs (in storage at Debenham and Freebody’s). If Dilys Nichols does not survive me, the said clothes to be given to any deserving London charity. No clothes of mine are to be disposed of locally. To Moyse’s Hall Museum, Bury St Edmunds, I give outright the collection of artefacts and theatrical memorabilia at present lent to them by me. To Josephine’s sisters, Jane Ellis and Etta (Mary Henrietta), I leave the gold ring of half-pearls and a brooch made of the same pearls, given to me by their mother.

  ‘“I appoint as my executors Messrs. Stewart, Rule & Co., Inverness, who will know as much about my affairs as anyone has a right to. I leave instructions, separately, to Stewart, Rule & Co. about the disposal of my body, and I charge them to see that my instructions are carried out.”’

  MacDonald leaned back in his chair. ‘There you are. All fairly straightforward so far.’

  ‘Was Hester an actress?’ Josephine asked, intrigued by the personal gifts.

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, I had no idea. I don’t really remember much of what my mother said to us about her, but the things I can recall are all to do with the town and their childhood.’

  ‘Miss Larkspur left here to go on the stage. That’s how she met her husband. They acted together until his death, and then she gave it all up. She once told me that she didn’t have the heart to go on without him.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Walter Paget.’

  Josephine shook her head. ‘Strange that I’ve never come across either of them in the theatre.’

  ‘Not really. Neither of them were ever top-tier, you understand. It was melodrama mostly, real populist stuff.’

  ‘East End rather than West?’

  ‘If you say so. I’m not sure I’d know the difference. It was the acting that took Miss Larkspur to Suffolk, though, I know that much. There’s a connection between the village and one of the roles she played. I suppose I should remember which one, but I’m afraid I don’t. It’s not really my cup of tea, the stage.’ His embarrassment at the admission amused Josephine. ‘I have dug out a photograph for you, though.’

  Eagerly, she took the black and white portrait shot that he held out to her. Hester Larkspur was in costume, but not even the trappings of the Edwardian stage – hat and parasol and a fringe she would probably regret – could hide the warmth and fun in the actress’s eyes. It was an attractive face – ‘charming’ would probably have been the word used by critics – but there was an intelligence there, too, that spoke instantly to Josephine, and she felt she could easily have been looking at Ethel Barrymore or a young Ellen Terry. In the back of her mind, a half-formed memory began to nag at her, but it would not come forward when summoned and she turned her attention back to the will. ‘What did you mean – “straightforward so far”?’

  ‘Ah – this is where it gets interesting.’ He smiled, mocking his own enthusiasm. ‘I do wish everyone could be so creative with their final wishes. It would make my job much more exciting. Now – there are two codicils. The first goes like this: “It is my wish and I direct that my goddaughter, Josephine Tey, shall immediately on my death be given the keys of Red Barn Cottage and that she shall have the sole right of entry thereto until such time as she has cleared up my personal belongings and papers. She must decide, according to her discretion, what is and what is not valuable, to her or to a wider public – and, if she is her mother’s daughter, she will know that I am not talking in monetary terms. It is a writer’s gift to know what has meaning in a person’s life, to decide what stories are worthy of being told, and I instruct – I ask – her now to do that for me.”’ Josephine opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. ‘“If, for whatever reason, Josephine Tey is unable or unwilling to undertake the above, it is my wish and I direct my Executors to ensure that Red Barn Cottage and its contents are destroyed in their entirety. No sale of the house or contents shall be permitted; nor shall any inspection of the house be allowed.”’

  The room fell silent as Josephine thought about the implications of what she had heard. ‘I see why you called it a responsibility,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s not just a matter of tidying up the garden, is it?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. But at least Miss Larkspur’s was an interesting life – well, a life you will find interesting, I think.’

  ‘You said there were two codicils?’

  ‘That’s right. Have a Garibaldi.’ He glanced at the tea tray. ‘Good God, a choice of biscuits. What can Miss Peck be thinking of? Still, I suppose it’s not every day that we have a celebrity in the office.’ Absent-mindedly, Josephine chose a shortbread, keen for him to continue. ‘So, last but not least: “In addition to the arrangements made in my will, I bequeath to Lucy Kyte and free of all encumbrances the right to take whatever she most needs from the house as an acknowledgement of the great kindness to me, and in the hope that it will bring her peace.”’

  ‘Who is Lucy Kyte?’

  MacDonald shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t been able to trace her yet. Dilys Nichols is straightforward enough – she’s a dressmaker whom Miss Larkspur knew from the theatre. Lucy Kyte is a mystery, but that’s my problem, not yours – unless what she needs most turns out to be the kitchen sink, of course. Somehow I don’t think so.’

  ‘No, it sounds more personal than that. What was the great kindness, I wonder? Perhaps Lucy Kyte is someone from the village who looked after Hester?’

  ‘That was my first thought, but apparently not. There was no one looking after her, and that was the way she wanted it. The local vicar told me that in no uncertain terms.’

  Something in his tone made Josephine uneasy. ‘How did Hester die? I haven’t even asked you.’

  ‘Oh, at home in bed.’

  ‘The way we all want to go?’ He smiled, but said nothing. ‘Well, I’m glad of that, at least.’ She looked at the actress again. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Delightful. Gracious, charming and witty – the sort of person whose company you felt you were lucky to have, even for a short time. She rarely came back to Inverness, of course, and we didn’t see her often, but there were certain things she asked us to look after over the years – investments, mostly, and the purchase of the house – and her appointments were always looked forward to.’ He took the photograph back for a moment and stared at it fondly, and Josephine could imagine him forty years ago, a young man dazzled by a glamorous client, wanting to do his best for her. ‘It would have been easier for her to use a London firm, I suppose, but her family had always been with us and loyalty seemed to be important to Miss Larkspur. She was old-fashioned in that way, and I like to think we served her well. She certainly had Miss Peck eating out of her hand and that is no mean feat, believe me.’

  ‘I wish I’d known her.’ She smiled at he
r own cliché. ‘You must hear that a lot.’

  ‘Yes, and not always from people who were strangers to each other. Don’t get me wrong, Josephine – she wasn’t an easy woman. That’s what I meant about knowing her as a client and not as a friend: there was a “thus far and no further” quality to her. She knew how to keep people at arm’s length, and she didn’t give a damn if that offended them. She was a law unto herself and that hardly made her popular here, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ He gave Josephine a knowing look which she chose to ignore. ‘Or, I understand, in Suffolk. The funeral was the last straw.’

  ‘Why? What instructions did she leave?’

  ‘That on no account was she to be buried in Polstead. She wanted a private cremation, and her ashes to be placed with Walter’s at St Paul’s in Covent Garden, with a memorial service for them both. It’s an actors’ church, apparently.’

  ‘Yes, I know it. That’s reasonable enough, surely?’

  ‘Not to her neighbours. If a village is good enough to live in, it’s good enough to die in, and I suppose that’s reasonable, too. It was viewed as something of a snub. No one likes to be denied a good funeral – especially when the war has cheated us out of so many. But, as I said, she didn’t give a damn.’

  ‘An actress who didn’t need to be liked? That is impressive.’ He laughed, and Josephine sensed he was enjoying the opportunity to talk about a woman he wished he had known better. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get your letter in time to pay my respects,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine it was much of a memorial if she had isolated herself in the way you say. Did you go?’

  ‘No. I was tied up here, so Miss Peck represented us. There was a reasonable turnout, apparently – fans who remembered Miss Larkspur from her heyday, old colleagues who went out of curiosity after so many years, even a few famous faces.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Sybil Thorndike and her husband were there. And Tod Slaughter. That can’t be his real name, surely?’