by Nicola Upson
‘The “Slaughter” part is. I believe his first name is actually Norman, but most people call him Mr Murder. Pick a villain and he’s played it.’
‘I see. Well, Miss Peck seemed particularly taken with him – said he was charm itself. Between you and me, I think she rather enjoyed herself. I dare say she’d be only too happy to talk to you about it if you’ve time. She’s quite a fan.’ He hesitated, as if there were something else he wanted to say, and Josephine waited to see what it was. ‘Miss Larkspur telephoned me a few months back,’ he admitted eventually. ‘She told me she was thinking of changing her will. I wondered then if she had another major beneficiary in mind.’
‘And did she?’
‘I don’t know. She never really explained herself. In fact, she seemed very distracted. All she would say is that she wasn’t sure if you would want the house. I told her to send me her instructions in writing when she’d made up her mind, but I never heard from her. In fact, that was the last time we spoke.’ His voice was full of regret, and Josephine wondered what else he thought he could have done for his client. ‘If she was right about that, and the cottage is more trouble to you than it’s worth, I can get a local firm to clear the place and destroy the contents according to her wishes. The property itself is more problematic. She’s made it impossible for you to sell, but I’m not entirely sure about the legality of wanton destruction. It may be that the house must just be left to die in its own good time if you don’t want to keep it. But I’m rather hoping you will.’
‘And you feel burdened by a paperweight? I can’t help wishing my own benefactor had been less creative.’ The word felt strangely Dickensian in her mouth and she looked again at the house, trying to imagine herself there.
‘It’s a lot to ask of someone, I know, but you don’t have to decide immediately. Take some time to think about it and let me know what you’d like me to do.’ He passed a heavy iron key across the desk with the photographs and paperwork. ‘And this belongs to you.’
Josephine took it, already feeling like an intruder. She stood to leave, and MacDonald showed her out. To her relief, his secretary was on the telephone. As keen as she was to know more about Hester Larkspur, she needed time to think about this unexpected turn in her life; Miss Peck’s notes from the wake could wait for another day.
‘Give my regards to your father.’
‘I will.’ The summer rain showed no sign of relenting, and Josephine took her umbrella from the stand. ‘Did my father know Hester?’ she asked.
‘As well as a man ever knows his wife’s best friend, I suppose.’ There was a twinkle in the solicitor’s eye as he bent to kiss her. ‘Or his wife, when she’s with her.’
He left her with that thought, and Josephine walked out into the street, conscious of the key in her bag. She headed for Crown Circus, intent on getting home, then changed her mind and retraced her footsteps back into town. It was only three o’clock, and the library would be open for at least another hour; there was still time to finish the day with more information about Hester Larkspur than she had at present. Someone with more sense than she would be thinking about the practicalities of owning a cottage four hundred miles away rather than chasing the memory of a woman she would never know – but the actress had gambled on her curiosity, on the heart ruling the head, and she had been right. Josephine was less intrigued by the gift itself than by the woman who had made it, and the prospect of seeing a different side to her mother through their friendship only spurred her on.
The library was quiet, and Josephine found a table to herself in the reference room. She pulled out Who’s Who in the Theatre and flicked through the pages, feeling the familiar sense of pride when she passed her own entry. Her godmother’s record was lengthy, particularly for someone who had abandoned her career when it was still in full swing, and Josephine wondered again how she could have been oblivious to her achievements until now.
‘Larkspur, Hester, actress; b. 15 September, 1871; d. of the late Robert Larkspur and his wife Helen (Milne); e. Inverness Royal Academy; m. Walter Paget (dec.). Made her first professional appearance on the stage in a sketch, “How Others See Us”, at the Playhouse, Whitley Bay; played various parts with the Hull Repertory Company, and, after gaining further experience with a number of companies in the provinces, made her first appearance in London at the Criterion, 8 Apr., 1891, as Lady Blakeney in The Scarlet Pimpernel.’ Josephine skimmed through the long list of revues, comedy parts and tours that followed, before arriving at the role that had slipped John MacDonald’s memory. ‘In 1896, she played the eponymous Maria Marten for the first time at the Pavilion Theatre, Mile End, where she acted opposite Walter Paget in the story of the Red Barn murder. They married the following year and, over the next two decades, toured the country with popular revivals of “blood and thunder” melodramas, including Sweeney Todd, Jack Sheppard and The Crimes of Burke and Hare, as well as Maria Marten, a play that Larkspur has performed more than a thousand times in her career, and for which she remains best-known.
‘After the war, the couple settled at the Elephant and Castle Theatre, South London, where Paget became actor-manager, attracting West End audiences for their productions and for a popular Christmas pantomime. In 1921, she surprised critics by joining the Little Theatre’s “Grand Guignol” company at the invitation of Sybil Thorndike and Lewis Casson, appearing for more than a hundred performances in The Old Women. She retired from the stage in 1922 after the death of her husband. More than ten years later, she was persuaded to return to the Maria Marten story in a film of the same name, starring alongside Tod Slaughter, this time as the heroine’s mother, but she withdrew from the production before filming started. She was replaced by Clare Greet. Recreations: books; gardening; the countryside; Address: Red Barn Cottage, Polstead, Suffolk.’
Josephine recalled the film – one of those cheap and cheerful crowd-pleasers left over from a different age, memorable for the shamelessly excessive performance of its male star and quite magnificent in its own dreadful way. The details of the story eluded her, but she was fascinated to learn that Hester’s cottage – she could not yet think of it as her own – had a place in the real history of the crime.
‘The wanderer returns,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Is it my imagination, or are you away in the south more often these days?’
Josephine glanced at Margaret MacDougall, the local librarian, and smiled. ‘Twice in two months is hardly a defection.’ The words were as indignant as she could make them, and she hoped that a firm denial would outweigh the truth of the observation. She resented feeling obliged to justify the time she spent away from the town, even to someone she liked, but it was a habit of which she had never managed to break herself.
‘No, I suppose not.’ Margaret peered over Josephine’s shoulder. ‘Ah – the errant Miss Larkspur. Now there was a woman with spirit. It’s a shame we’ve lost her.’
The librarian was roughly Josephine’s age, so the comment could only be based on reputation; even so, she had an exhaustive knowledge of local history, including anyone who had been born within a fifteen-mile radius of the town, and there was no one better to ask. ‘What can you tell me about her?’
‘That you’re wasting your time with a respectable volume like that when you could be benefiting from the insights of our local rag.’ She grinned and disappeared for a moment to rummage through a pile of newspapers. ‘Here you are.’ She handed Josephine a copy of the Inverness Courier, opened at the page that would interest her.
‘Hester Larkspur, actress and former resident of Shore Street, has died at her home in Essex.’ It wasn’t a promising start, Josephine thought: once you left Scotland, you obviously relinquished your right to accuracy. ‘Daughter of popular Inverness baker, Bob Larkspur, Hester attended the Inverness Royal Academy and was destined for a teaching career but failed to achieve the necessary qualifications. It is not known where her interest in the theatre began, but in 1890 she left her home town, intent on turning her hobby
into a profession. A number of walk-on parts and minor roles in northern England followed, then a brief spell on some of the stages of outer London, where she met her husband, Walter Paget – a fellow actor, ten years her senior. When the capital refused to embrace their particular style of melodrama, the couple settled for a life of touring barnstorming productions to provincial stages, returning sporadically to Inverness with productions of Maria Marten, Sweeney Todd and even the occasional Shakespeare.
‘After the war, they returned to London and took over a small venue. It was to prove an ill-fated move: in 1922, Paget died on stage while playing William Corder to his wife’s Maria Marten, and there were ugly scenes in the auditorium when crowds objected to the production being cancelled short of the murderer’s execution! By this time, melodrama had gone out of fashion on the serious stage and Miss Larkspur took the opportunity afforded by her husband’s death to retire. In a typically theatrical gesture, she chose to live out the rest of her life in the village where the inspiration for her most famous role met her death. During her later years, Hester Larkspur was rumoured to be working on a memoir but this could not be confirmed at the time of writing. She had few friends in the town she turned her back on, and leaves behind no children.’
Josephine threw the paper down in disgust. ‘We certainly know how to celebrate the achievements of our own, don’t we?’ she said acidly.
‘Read and learn, my dear, read and learn.’ She looked curiously at Josephine. ‘Why the interest in Hester Larkspur?’
‘She was my godmother,’ Josephine said, enjoying the flicker of admiration that crossed Margaret’s face. ‘I just wanted to know more about her.’ She considered confiding the rest of the story, but then thought better of it. ‘It’s a shame I didn’t own her with such pride when she was alive, isn’t it? I never dreamt we had so much in common.’ She glanced again at Who’s Who, and wondered about the role that had meant so much to Hester. ‘Do you know anything about Maria Marten?’ she asked.
Her friend shrugged. ‘Innocent village maiden seduced by wicked squire in eighteen-something and killed in a barn.’
‘That’s it? Surely there must be more to it if Hester played her a thousand times? Something that made her different from all the other village maidens seduced by wicked squires?’
‘Well, there’s the killed in a barn bit,’ Margaret said wryly. ‘I don’t think they were all bumped off. And there was something odd about how she was found. Her mother had a dream or something and told her father where to look.’
‘How very convenient.’
‘Yes, I suppose it was. But why are you getting carried away with Maria Marten? Isn’t there another life you should be reading about? How is Bonnie Dundee, if you don’t mind my asking?’
Josephine could have cried. She had recently accepted a commission from Collins to write a biography of John Graham of Claverhouse, nobleman and Jacobite hero, and it was proving to be the worst decision she had ever made. All she had to show so far was a neatly stacked pile of research books and some random notes, but professional pride would never allow her to admit as much, especially not to a woman who was the soldier’s most passionate advocate – so much so that Josephine was tempted to tell her to write the bloody book herself. ‘He’s fine,’ she lied. ‘Coming along nicely.’
‘Good. I’m looking forward to reading it.’ So was Josephine, but that day was a long way off. She thanked Margaret and left the library before a more penetrating question could expose the biography’s true lack of progress.
Outside, the rain had cleared and the soft blue sky promised an evening whose beauty would make up for the day. She walked home to the Crown, deep in thought, looking up only when the polite ring of a bicycle bell told her that she had strayed from the path. As she opened the front door and walked into the hall, she was more sensitive than usual to the peace inside. Her father would not be back for another hour, and everything was just as she had left it when – late to see John MacDonald – she had rushed from the house without a thought for tidying up. She went from room to room, seeing her home through the eyes of a stranger: the morning’s bills thrown hurriedly onto her desk, next to a photograph of Archie and a half-written note to her agent; flowers from Marta with a card propped up against the vase, its message beautifully discreet but open to a dozen interpretations; drawers full of postcards from friends, and books hiding letters that no longer held the urgency of love, but still stirred an affection too precious to be casually thrown away.
Then her bedroom – the jewellery given to her by her parents, clothes that carried her scent, notes left in pockets that seemed private and safe. She imagined her neighbours viewing the house after she was gone, knowing where she had worked and lived and slept, destroying the privacy she had so jealously guarded. In death, she would have no defence except a trust in someone to do as she had asked, and the peculiar terms of the will suddenly presented themselves in a new light: what had seemed both a mystery and a challenge could just as easily be a plea for decency, and Josephine knew then that whatever she eventually decided to do about the house, she could not allow Hester Larkspur’s life to be disposed of by a stranger. Holding the key in her hand for luck, she picked up the telephone and hoped that Miss Peck would be diligent enough to stay late on a Friday afternoon.
2
The bus pulled out of the pretty Suffolk town, leaving behind the ancient half-timbered houses and present-day bustle of a Wednesday market. It was a beautiful day, clear and seasonably warm, but Josephine suspected that her own mood would have transformed even the dullest of mornings into something worth celebrating. After the early train from London, the bus seemed interminably slow, but she was glad of the opportunity to savour an adventure that would only come once. In the few days that had passed since the meeting with her solicitor, the mystery of Hester Larkspur’s will had only intrigued her more and – although she had made no plans other than this fleeting, exploratory visit – she wanted desperately to like what she found.
Her father’s reaction to her unexpected inheritance had been characteristically sanguine; if he had harboured any selfish concerns about what it might mean to his own life, he had not shown them. They had had ten years to settle into their respective roles and, in hindsight, Josephine realised that her original decision to return home was driven more by a personal sense of duty than by any great expectations on his part: he was an independent man with a life of his own, and he afforded her the same courtesy. By that time, both her sisters were married and living in England, scarcely more than visitors to the town they were raised in, and that life could have been hers if she had wanted it. But she had not, and her own journeys south – though frequent – had never held that quality of permanence. This one should have been no different – and yet it was, because she had changed: success was addictive, and the popularity of her books and plays had created other opportunities that she wanted to explore; and her love for Marta, still so new, had brought joy to her life whilst completely destroying its former contentment. As she booked her ticket and packed her case, Josephine had vowed to keep Hester’s gift in perspective; but the solidity of bricks and mortar, so far away from all that was familiar to her, had subtly transformed idle thoughts into real possibilities. The sunlight sparkled on the road ahead, and she could not decide if fate was blessing her with different choices, or daring her to make something of them.
The weather must have been fine for some time. Some of the corn had been gathered in already, and where it remained, the countryside was a rich, deep yellow, pure and unspoilt. Away from the town, the landscape seemed increasingly at peace with itself, Josephine thought, happy to amble through the years and caring little if it kept pace with the rest of England. From the window of the bus, her impressions grew section by section, rather like a jigsaw puzzle. She longed for a hill or any sort of vantage point that would allow her to take in more of the area at a single glance, but Suffolk refused to make itself known in that way. ‘Wait,’ it seemed t
o say: ‘I’ll show you when I’m ready.’ It was not a county for the lazy, it seemed, and she suspected that it hid its finest secrets away from the main road, down tiny lanes and myriad footpaths. What she could see hinted at an attractive independence: irregular-shaped fields; random, solitary oak trees that dared her to question their position by their very magnificence; hedges of blackthorn and hazel, wild and unruly and growing entirely as they pleased. As they rode, she wondered if she would find the landscape’s strength of will reflected in its people, and if she would ever truly come to know either.
Eventually, the names she had studied on a map began to appear on signposts – Bower House Tye, Whitestreet Green, Polstead. The bus descended a slope, then slowed as it entered the village and turned left by a large pond. The road climbed again, past the water pump, and Josephine looked in delight at the well-kept houses on either side. For a village scarred by murder, Polstead certainly knew how to show itself off: a more perfect picture of rural tranquillity was hard to imagine. Its green was a triangle, fronted by an old inn, and a couple of the other passengers got off with Josephine when the bus pulled up. They looked curiously at her, but said nothing as they parted and went their separate ways. It was lunchtime, and somewhere nearby she could hear the sound of a children’s playground. The inn was open and seemed the obvious place to ask for directions, but she wasn’t yet ready to announce herself in such a public way; instead, she made her way to the opposite corner, where a small garage – the forge in its past life – stood under the shade of a splendid chestnut tree. A man was working under the bonnet of a car, and he glanced up as he heard her approach. ‘Can I help?’ he asked.
His tone seemed to suggest that it was unlikely, but she had already committed herself. ‘I’m looking for Red Barn Cottage. Do you know it?’