by Nicola Upson
Josephine believed her, and felt desperately sorry for the girl. Injustice was such a strong emotion, and so scarring, especially at Rose’s age; nobody ever forgot the first time they learned that the world was not designed for fairness, and she well understood the potent mix of rage, helplessness and resentment that Rose must have felt since that day, not to mention the shame and disappointment of losing a position she had obviously loved. There was nothing that could be done to calm that rage, either; it just had to burn itself out, but she tried at least to show she understood. ‘Rose, my godmother wasn’t herself when she died. Something made her turn her back on people who cared about her. She did the same thing to Bert. I don’t know what happened, but I’m trying to find out and if I do, I promise I’ll come and explain.’
‘She’d lost her mind, hadn’t she? That’s what was wrong.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Rose looked over to the bar and scowled at her mother, mouthing an ‘I’m busy’ in response to an unspoken question, and Josephine hid a smile: whatever had happened with Hester, she couldn’t help but feel that Rose’s days in service were numbered. ‘I went back to Red Barn Cottage to try one more time,’ she said. ‘After I got over the shock, I wanted to have it out with her. Mrs Lampton wouldn’t take me back at the vicarage, and I wanted to tell Miss Larkspur that she couldn’t treat people like that.’ She smiled at her own bravado. ‘Well, that’s what I told myself, anyway. What I really wanted was to find that she couldn’t cope without me, and to be welcomed back with open arms. She didn’t answer the door, so I let myself in. I knew she’d be there – she never went out. There was no one downstairs, so I called up to her but she didn’t answer. I was worried then, in case she was ill or had hurt herself somehow, so I went up. She must have heard me on the stairs, because she started screaming long before I got to the top. She was on the floor in the corner of her bedroom, huddled under a blanket.’ Rose paused, struggling with the scene in her mind, and Josephine waited for her to go on. ‘She looked terrible. Far too thin, and there were burn marks on her hand from the fire or the hot plate or something. She wasn’t in a state to look after herself. I went over to her, telling her it was me and saying I wanted to help her, but she didn’t know who I was. She kept screaming, and I’ve never heard anyone make a noise like that. She was like an animal, when they’re frightened and they don’t know you’re trying to help. There was no reasoning with her. And it was the same thing, over and over again. “Leave me alone or tell me what you want.” This might sound daft, but I think she thought I was Lucy.’
‘You mean she thought Lucy was tormenting her?’
‘Yes. She said her name a couple of times. And I did feel it then, Miss – a presence in that cottage. It was the first time I’d ever sensed anything like that there, and it wasn’t nice. I left Miss Larkspur then. I know I should have stayed to help, but I was frightened and I just wanted to get out.’ She looked at Josephine. ‘Is that what’s happened to you? You’ve felt that too?’
Josephine was too shocked and saddened by the image of Hester to answer immediately, and Rose had to repeat the question. ‘I have felt something,’ she admitted, ‘and I’ve seen and heard things I don’t understand, but I couldn’t honestly say that it was hostile. It frightens me, because I’ve never experienced anything like that in my life, but I’ve never got the impression that Lucy – if that’s who it is – means me any harm. It’s sadness rather than anger.’ Rose’s description of Hester’s fear rang true with the way that Bert had found her body, although there was still no explanation for Hester’s being in that room: if her mind was telling her that Lucy was trying to hurt her – and Josephine was particular in how she phrased the question to herself; she was not prepared yet to subscribe to the notion of vengeful spirits, if only for her own sanity – why would she retreat to the room most affected by Lucy’s presence? ‘Did you notice anything strange about the cottage that day?’ she asked.
‘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<
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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 love, 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 . . . ?’