by Nicola Upson
‘Benjy wasn’t there.’
‘Benjy?’
‘Benjamin Barker, Hester’s dog. She named him after the man Sweeney Todd was based on. An old collie he was. They worshipped each other.’
Josephine remembered the basket, but no one else had mentioned a dog and until now she had assumed that he was long gone, and that Hester had kept his things out of sentiment. ‘Anything else? Were any of Hester’s things missing?’
Rose thought about it. ‘Yes, now you mention it. Some of the pottery had gone from downstairs. You remember things you have to dust, don’t you? I assumed she’d broken it. The sort of state she was in, anything could have happened.’
‘What about the other things – Maria’s chest?’
The girl smiled, in spite of her sadness. She had dark blue eyes, almost violet, and laughter lines creased back from their corners, unusual in someone so young; Rose must have packed a lot of laughing into her eighteen or nineteen years, Josephine thought. ‘That old thing? That was no more Maria’s chest than one of our beer barrels. Mr Paget bought that for Miss Larkspur from a dealer. He paid a fortune for it, and she never had the heart to tell him it was a fake.’
Josephine was sceptical. ‘I gather it was very precious to her.’
‘Yes, it was – because he bought it for her. She’d never disabuse anyone who jumped to the wrong conclusion, mind you – but if you look carefully, it’s got a maker’s mark on the bottom, a firm that didn’t even exist when Maria died. But it was still there that day – by the range in the kitchen, where she always kept it.’
The thought of Hester proudly showing Henry Andrews what he thought he most coveted made Josephine smile, but the smile soon faded. Rose’s account angered her beyond belief: whatever Hester had thought was going on, and whatever ghosts Red Barn Cottage held, she had no doubt now that a very human agency had systematically terrified and exploited Hester during her final days, and she was more determined than ever to find out who. ‘And the diary?’ she asked, trying not to betray how she felt.
Rose shrugged. ‘I didn’t see it, but it was always in the study and I didn’t go in there.’ She was quiet for a moment, then said: ‘I let her down, didn’t I? I should have done something about it, but I was scared and angry. Then a few days later, I heard she was dead.’
‘You didn’t let her down, Rose. She was beyond your help by then. Concentrate on all the months that you were there for her.’
Rose smiled, but the textbook reassurances did not convince her, and Josephine would have thought less of her if they had. ‘She didn’t mind that I wanted more than this, you see,’ she said. ‘Mum and Dad always take it so personally, and you can’t have any ambition in this village. You’re either with them or against them, and wanting to do something different with your life is like an act of bloody war.’ She looked embarrassed at the outburst, but Josephine laughed. ‘That’s why I admired Miss Larkspur so much – she took it for granted that a girl could do anything. I suppose she was unusual in that.’
‘Unusual, yes, but not unique.’ Josephine smiled and pushed her empty plate to one side. ‘I’ve kept you long enough, Rose, but thank you. I’ve got to go back to Scotland in a couple of days, but I’ll probably be back here in November. Why don’t you come and have tea with me at the cottage? I still haven’t made up my mind about what to do with it yet, but if I keep it on, I’ll need someone to look after it for me.’ Just in time, she took Rose’s pride into account. ‘If you have time, and it’s something you’d consider.’ Rose nodded and stood up. ‘Now – can you tell me where I might find a builder called Deaves? There’s some work I need doing at the cottage. I can live with the ghosts, but the outdoor toilet is getting me down.’
‘Thought you hadn’t made your mind up?’
Josephine smiled and conceded defeat. ‘It doesn’t hurt to see what the options are, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ She gave Josephine the directions she wanted, and held out her hand. ‘I’ll see you in November, Miss.’
19
Felixstowe was only thirty miles away, but Josephine left an hour earlier than she needed to, swayed by Bert’s assessment of Chummy’s reliability. She reprised her journey to Stoke, the map open and marked on the seat next to her, and headed out to the coast, relishing the twin prospects of some time with Archie and a spot of sea air: one of them, surely, would help her clear her head. She had gone over and over her meeting with Rose Boreham, and whilst it had helped her to get the house’s history into perspective, it had brought her concerns over the more recent past sharply back into focus. When she had walked back into the cottage, all she could see was Hester’s pain, and it filled her with a sense of rage and horror that was far greater than anything a ghost could invoke. Any injustices that Lucy had suffered were dead and buried, but Hester’s were recent enough to be acknowledged and paid for, even if they could never be set right. When her godmother had sat down with John MacDonald to write her will, she could not possibly have foreseen the real challenges that would face Josephine after her death; even so, Josephine was determined not to let her down, and while her sense of purpose was strong, she was able to keep her grief at a distance.
She didn’t know this particular stretch of the Suffolk coastline, but her first impressions were of a charming seaside town with a bustling high street and handsome villas. At the top of Bath Hill, she slowed Chummy to a stop to enjoy her first glimpse of the sea: dirty, slate-grey and dull under a heavy band of cloud, yet still powerful and invigorating. The hill declined steadily into Undercliff Road East, and she soon found the Fludyers Arms Hotel where Archie had suggested they meet. Accustomed as she was now to old thatched cottages and low timbered buildings, she looked on the modern, plain-speaking brick façade as a refreshing change; it was like any number of the larger public houses to be found on the outskirts of London, and it reminded her that one of the things she was coming to love most about Suffolk was its variety.
The only other cars in the street were parked outside the hotel, so she drew up in front of the restaurant next door, feeling as though she were driving a toy in comparison with the smart black Buick a few yards up the road. She was early, having underestimated what Chummy was capable of, and she didn’t want to go in before the appointed time in case Archie was busy and felt obliged to entertain her, so she sat in the car for a while, marvelling at a silence that was disturbed only by the rhythmic sound of the sea breaking on a deserted beach. It had started to rain, and the drops stirred the surface of old puddles in the road, making a mockery of the beach huts that stood hopeful and redundant nearby, a remnant of sunnier days. There was something faded and melancholy about a seaside town out of season, she thought: it seemed to stand for all the summers that were lost, for a childhood that was now a distant memory.
The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun, and she walked over to the Fludyers Arms, bowing her head against the bitter air and pulling her fur tighter around her. As she reached the hotel, a man with a camera got out of the second car – considerably less impressive than the Buick – and took a photograph of her as she climbed the steps to the entrance; she looked back at him, bewildered, but he showed no sign of apology or explanation, so she shrugged and went inside.
The hotel’s restaurant was at the front of the building and she asked for a table in the corner, where she and Archie would be able to talk in private. Through the archway into the hall, she saw him come downstairs and pause to talk to another guest in reception, and she wondered what duties had brought him here. The other man was about forty and dressed in an understated dark suit, and Archie could match him for height but certainly not for build; he didn’t look like a policeman, and they seemed to speak as equals, and Josephine enjoyed a rare opportunity to watch Detective Chief Inspector Archie Penrose at work – serious and dedicated, unconscious of being observed. She had known Archie since the war and although their bond had occasionally been threatened by the no man’s land between friendship and l
ove, it remained the most constant and uncomplicated relationship in Josephine’s life – in his, too, she hoped. She cherished it, and realised now how relieved she was to see him, and how unsettled she had been for those few days when she had not been able to speak to him.
His face lit up when he noticed her. ‘You look lovely,’ he said, bending to kiss her, then lowered his voice: ‘Sorry about the venue. It’s hardly a romantic country inn with a roaring fire.’
‘Don’t apologise – I like it. It’s quite nice to be somewhere younger than I am for a change. I’m beginning to find history intimidating.’ He smiled, intrigued, and she added: ‘I thought we could sit here. It’s out of the way, and we won’t be interrupted.’
‘Mm.’ He looked doubtfully at the table, then went over to speak to the waiter. The next thing Josephine knew, a couple was moved discreetly from the centre of the window and given two large brandies by way of recompense, and she and Archie were ushered into their seats. She stared at him in amazement, but he simply shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. ‘It’s a shame to come all the way to the seaside and not have a sea view,’ was all he could manage by way of explanation.
She looked out at the bleak October day, and noticed that the man with the camera was still sitting in his car. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she asked. ‘He took a photograph of me on the way in.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Archie said, but she could have sworn that he was trying to hide a smile. ‘I’m sorry I missed you in London. Bill said you were keen to speak to me. What’s been going on?’
Josephine began to explain, but she hadn’t got far when she realised that she might as well have been talking to herself. Archie stared out at the beach, distracted, and when she stopped speaking, he barely seemed to notice the difference. ‘Are you sure you’ve got time for this?’ she asked, worried that she was keeping him from his work.
‘What? Oh yes, of course. Sorry. Shall we order?’ Josephine hadn’t even picked up the menu, but Archie was obviously hungry or in a hurry, so she gave it a perfunctory glance and chose a game pie. Archie ordered the same, and smiled apologetically at her. ‘It really is lovely to see you. How’s the cottage?’
‘Complicated.’ She hadn’t progressed much further with her explanation when another man appeared in the doorway, this time obviously a plain-clothes policeman.
‘Excuse me a minute.’ Archie got up and spoke earnestly with his colleague for a few minutes, while Josephine looked on, exasperated. She was giving up hope of getting his attention at all, and began to wish that she had never come; it was obviously awkward for him, and, in hindsight, it would have been far better to go home to Scotland and speak to Archie on the telephone when he was back in London and able to concentrate.
‘Sorry,’ he said, sitting down at the table, and Josephine honestly thought she would have to slap him if he apologised again. ‘There’s been a change of plan with things here. Where were we?’
Exactly where we started, Josephine thought ungraciously, but she tried to hide her impatience. He seemed pressed for time, so she dispensed with any lengthy descriptions of Polstead and the cottage and cut to what she really wanted to talk about. ‘Have you heard of the Red Barn murder?’
‘It rings a bell, but I couldn’t tell you why.’
She outlined it succinctly, and Archie nodded. ‘Yes, I remember now – Bill talks about it. Wasn’t there something unusual about the trial that set some sort of legal precedent?’
‘They charged him with everything,’ Josephine said dismissively; of all the different aspects to the case, she found Corder’s guilt and how it was proved the least fascinating. Two men sat down at a table nearby and chatted up the waitress in an American accent; one of them smiled at Josephine and she looked quickly away, uncomfortable with their obvious interest. ‘And have I told you that Hester made a career out of playing Maria Marten?’
‘Yes, you mentioned it in your letter.’ Their food arrived and Archie picked at his, although the pie was exceptionally good. He still seemed fascinated by the beach, but all she could see was a couple out walking. ‘So is the cottage near where it happened?’ he asked.
‘Archie, I’ve just told you that,’ Josephine exclaimed impatiently. ‘Look, why don’t you go off and do what you need to do, and I’ll just wait here until you’re free? Or it can wait for another time,’ she added reluctantly.
‘No. Bill said it was important. I’m listening, honestly.’ She began again, but stopped as the couple on the beach turned and headed back towards the hotel. The man with the camera got out of the car, and Archie pushed his chair back. ‘Wait here. I’ll try not to be long.’
By now, Josephine had lost the will to live and she simply nodded as he left the restaurant, followed by the shifty Americans from the next table. The giant she had seen in reception appeared from nowhere, and she watched, suddenly interested, as he and Archie flanked the couple protectively, making it impossible for anyone else to get close, and walked them quickly past the hotel. The woman was striking, dark and very slim, with clothes that were classy but unobtrusive; her companion was a couple of inches shorter, a slight figure in an overcoat with a shock of thick, fair hair, and there was something in his walk that . . . Josephine put her fork down and stared in astonishment. They were whisked out of sight before she had a chance to look again, and she waited impatiently for an explanation. ‘For God’s sake, Archie,’ she whispered as soon as he returned, ‘wasn’t that . . . ?’
‘The King, yes.’
‘Who’s that with him?’
Archie grinned. ‘I can’t say, I’m afraid, but obviously someone who looks very much like you.’
‘Are the rumours true, then?’ She stared out of the window, as if her questions could bring the couple back to give an answer. ‘What on earth are they doing in Felixstowe?’
He was saved from having to respond by the arrival of his colleague. ‘He’s gone, sir,’ the policeman said discreetly.
‘And . . . ?’
‘She’s back at the house. Ladbrook’s gone with her.’
‘Excellent. Thank you, Storrier.’ He left, and Archie winked at Josephine.
‘Those men with cameras were from the press, weren’t they? Please tell me I’m not going to be all over the papers.’
‘If you are, it’ll only be across the pond. Our lot are holding off – gentleman’s agreement, and all that – so Inverness will never know.’ He laughed at the expression on her face. ‘The Americans have suddenly become great experts on our constitution and our divorce laws; they just need to go the extra mile and photograph the right woman. Thinking about it, it might be worth your putting an order in for the Boston Globe when you get back home.’
‘You might at least have given me a hint so that I could get a better look at them,’ Josephine said huffily, genuinely irked by what she had missed.
‘Sorry, but now I really am all yours.’ He looked at the cold lunch that sat neglected on the table between them. ‘Shall we go somewhere else? I could do with a change of scene, and there’s a theatre along the front with a very good tearoom.’
‘All right. A damned good tea is the least you can do if you’re using me as a decoy for the King’s mistress.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’ They walked arm in arm along the beach, and cut through some pleasant municipal gardens to get to the Spa Pavilion. This time, Archie let Josephine choose the table and sat with his back to the sea so that she could be sure of his full attention. True to his word, he ordered every sandwich and cake on the menu, and settled back in his seat. ‘Right – your godmother and the Red Barn murder. Start again.’
She did as she was asked, beginning with the peculiar terms of the will and her first impressions of the cottage, then describing the ephemera she had found that revealed Hester’s interest in Maria Marten. ‘Everything was going well, and I was quite enjoying myself – and then Bert came round one evening to bring me her car.’
‘Bert?’
‘He�
��s the garage man. He’s lived in the village all his life – fearsome wife, couple of children, and a friend of Hester’s. The only true local she had anything to do with as far as I can see. He helped her out with jobs around the house and looked after her car, and she gave it to him when she found out she was losing her sight. He wanted me to have it, because he said it was a ladies’ car.’
‘The turquoise Austin?’
‘That’s right.’ She glared at him defiantly. ‘Don’t smirk like that. We’re getting along just fine, Chummy and I. It’s a female thing, but there’s nothing wrong with that.’ He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t argue. ‘Anyway, I’d found out already that it was Bert who discovered Hester’s body, and I asked him about it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he hadn’t mentioned it, and I thought that was odd. There’s a room in the cottage . . .’ Josephine hesitated, suddenly shy of telling Archie everything that she feared about that room; he would think she was irrational, and she didn’t want to look stupid in front of him or to detract from the real business of Hester’s death. ‘It’s off the main bedroom, and Hester used it to store her junk. Actually, it’s deeply unpleasant, but that’s where Bert found her body, buried under a pile of old clothes as if she’d crawled away to die. As if she was frightened, and had tried to hide.’
‘And that’s what’s concerning you?’
‘It was the first thing, yes. It seemed an unlikely thing for her to do.’
Archie looked sceptical. He waited while a girl served their tea, then said: ‘That sort of death is more common than you might think among elderly people. I’ve seen women – sometimes men, but usually women – who have crawled into wardrobes or the corner of a pantry, who’ve pulled books and furniture down on top of them, or covered themselves in newspapers. Sometimes the house is in such disorder that it looks like a break-in. They’re often undressed when they’re found. Was Hester . . . ?’