London Rain

by Nicola Upson

  Archie was better than his word. In less than twenty minutes, Josephine saw his car enter Piccadilly from Haymarket, although it would have been more accurate to say that she recognised his sergeant’s driving rather than the vehicle itself. She waved and walked over to meet them, wincing as the Daimler pulled in to the kerb, utterly oblivious to the fury of several drivers who had hurriedly readjusted their course into Regent Street to avoid an accident. Archie jumped out, tall and bare-headed despite the rain, and she noticed that his good looks and vitality distracted some of the passing women from their more ordinary companions for a moment. He lifted her off her feet, and Josephine smelt the tobacco on his clothes as she always did when he came to meet her straight from Scotland Yard. Bending to speak to Bill Fallowfield through the fug of cigarette smoke in the car, she caught the expression of wry amusement on the sergeant’s face as he watched his superior shake off the mantle of Detective Chief Inspector as easily as if it were an unwanted item of clothing; it was a remarkable transition, and Josephine wished she knew Archie better at work to appreciate its full impact. ‘Thanks for getting him here so quickly, Bill,’ she said. ‘I know how busy you are.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Miss Tey. It’s about time he left that desk and . . .’

  The rest of Sergeant Fallowfield’s thoughts on Archie’s welfare were lost in a barrage of hooting and swearing as a line of cars built steadily behind him; reluctantly, he rejoined the traffic with a gesture which might have been a wave of farewell or something rather more obscene, and Archie smiled. ‘That’s two favours he’s done me. I’ve sent him on to Maiden Lane with a hearty appetite to get me back into Mrs Snipe’s good books.’ Josephine knew Archie’s formidable housekeeper well enough to realise that he wasn’t joking. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’

  ‘You too. I half thought I’d have more luck if I asked the King out to dinner.’

  ‘It’s not quite that bad but it will be by next week. You made the right choice, though – I’m much better company.’ And almost as well-connected, Josephine thought, as she watched him charm the head waiter into realising that one of the coveted recessed tables was available after all. ‘That was lucky, wasn’t it?’ Archie said with a wink as someone took their coats.

  Josephine shook her head in admiration, tempted to ask what he had said but – like a child who finds sixpence in an empty hand – loath to spoil the magic. In any case, the restaurant offered an atmosphere which made it easy to believe in miracles: gold and marble surfaces glinted everywhere she looked, and the room’s beautiful gilded ceiling, grand windows and imposing arches seemed to transport its diners back to a glorious Byzantine past. It always took her breath away, no matter how often she visited. Like every other couple in the room, they chatted about the Coronation while waiting for the menus, and she noticed how tired he looked. ‘I’m guessing that all these celebrations aren’t quite as exciting for you as they are for the rest of us.’

  ‘Honestly? The whole thing’s a bloody nightmare. Twenty-two thousand men in uniform to look after three million people – and that’s a guess – not to mention the entire royal family. Give me a good honest murder any day.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for. I thought I was going to witness one of those at the BBC today. It was daggers drawn at the read-through.’

  Archie seemed grateful for the change of subject. ‘What happened?’ he asked, as soon as they each had a glass of Chablis in front of them.

  ‘Well, it’s probably only interesting if you’re in those circles,’ Josephine said, suddenly doubtful that her gossip could compete with the event that had the world’s attention, ‘but it certainly brought the green room to a standstill. You know Julian Terry, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve met him at a party or two. He seems nice enough – a bit more down-to-earth than his brother.’

  ‘Yes, he is. I like him very much, and it was fascinating to watch him work. He was brilliant with the cast and I love what he’s done with Queen of Scots. It didn’t sound anywhere near as half-hearted as it looked onstage.’

  ‘You’ve always been over-critical of that play.’

  ‘I know I have, but it’s strange when you don’t like something you’ve created. You feel that it’s betrayed you somehow, even though the faults are entirely yours. Must be what it’s like to have a disappointing child.’

  ‘Fortunately we’ll never know.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, before the read-through, Julian introduced me to a woman called Vivienne Beresford – she’s editing the Radio Times at the moment. I didn’t place the name straight away, but she’s married to Anthony Beresford, the broadcaster.’ The first course arrived and, as they ate their way through beautifully cooked scallops, Josephine told Archie how impressed she had been by Vivienne Beresford, and how unwittingly she had walked into the scene downstairs. ‘It was absolutely excruciating,’ she admitted. ‘Lydia did a sterling job, but there was no saving anyone. The poor woman was mortified.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Archie said. ‘It doesn’t surprise me about Beresford, though. There’s something in his voice that tells you he thinks he’s God’s gift.’

  Josephine laughed, and waited discreetly while the waiter refilled her glass. ‘Nine out of ten women in this country will tell you that what you see as smugness is actually a reassuring and very attractive strength.’

  ‘You’re not defending him, surely?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m merely pointing out that it’s easy to be wise after the event.’

  Archie grinned. ‘Fair point. I met him a while ago, you know – when Mrs Beresford’s sister died. I didn’t know she worked for the Corporation as well, though.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you did,’ Josephine said wryly. ‘The women don’t seem to have quite such a high profile. So were you involved in the case?’ Archie nodded. ‘What happened? Lydia said something about a scandal.’

  ‘That’s right. A death like Olivia Hanlon’s was always going to keep the papers going for weeks. You know she owned the Golden Hat in Soho? We went there once in the twenties.’

  ‘Did we? I don’t remember. Are you sure you’re not confusing me with someone else?’

  He laughed. ‘Hardly. When have I ever made that mistake? I’m not surprised you’re a little hazy about the evening, though. You had to be all but carried home.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Josephine said, ready to argue. ‘I’ve never been . . .’ She stopped, then flushed with embarrassment as a half-formed memory began to niggle at her. ‘Oh God, it was my birthday, wasn’t it? We went to that terrible Twelfth Night, and it was so awful that I challenged you to take me somewhere exciting. Was that the Golden Hat?’

  Archie nodded, trying to keep a straight face. ‘As I recall, I had to sleep on the floor because you were too worried about going back to the Cowdray Club. You’d only just been elected, and you thought they’d cancel your membership if you turned up worse for wear.’ He paused as the waiter brought their main course, but the respite was only brief. ‘It was an excellent night all round,’ he added with a twinkle. ‘You were particularly taken with the dance floor.’

  Josephine thought back to the evening, feeling betrayed by a memory which was obliging enough to embarrass her but far too vague to offer any coherent line of defence. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ she admitted, recalling now how beautiful that glass floor had looked, illuminated from below by hundreds of tiny coloured lights that rippled and shone like sunlight on the sea. ‘God, Archie, it seems like a different life. Who were we?’

  ‘Exactly the same people we are now, just a little younger and a little drunker.’

  ‘It’s not just us, though, is it? London’s aged. Who’d have thought a change of decade would make everywhere so different?’ She looked round the room, taking in the restrained elegance and quiet buzz of conversation. ‘Don’t get me wrong – this is lovely, but everything was so intense in those years after the war. Then the thirties arrived and we all grew up. You can just t
ell that the most daring thing any of us will do tonight is have another brandy.’ It was Josephine’s turn to be self-conscious now, and she smiled, surprised at her own nostalgia. ‘But you were telling me about Olivia Hanlon. What happened to her?’

  His grin acknowledged the swift change of subject, but he let her get away with it. ‘She was found dead in her swimming pool after a party. Well – no one ever really admitted there’d been a party and they’d done their best to clear up, but it was obvious what had been going on.’

  ‘When you say “they”, who do you mean?’

  ‘Good question. Beresford was there, and Olivia Hanlon’s housekeeper, but it was impossible to get to the bottom of who else had passed through that evening. You could make an educated guess from the normal run of things – actors and musicians, one or two high-profile politicians, a handful of people from the BBC. There were rumours about Tallulah Bankhead and even the Prince of Wales, but that’s probably all they were – rumours. Nobody was going to step forward after such an unfortunate accident.’

  His tone managed to put the last word in inverted commas.

  ‘Didn’t you question them?’ Josephine asked.

  ‘Not with any great vigour. Olivia Hanlon had friends in high places.’

  ‘All the more reason to get to the bottom of her death.’

  The comment sounded naive, but Archie took it seriously. ‘You and I might see it that way, but we’re not protecting our reputations. For a while, the Golden Hat was legendary. Olivia Hanlon was one of Mrs Meyrick’s girls originally . . .’

  ‘The 43 Club?’ Kate Meyrick’s name had been synonymous with London nightlife when Josephine first began to spend time in the city on a regular basis. Although she had never met the club hostess in person, many of her friends in the world of theatre and cabaret still spoke of her with great affection, and it was said that all the dance bands in London had fallen silent at the news of her death. ‘She was supposed to be quite special.’

  Archie looked sceptical. ‘Yes, in the way that Dick Turpin’s quite special, or Robin Hood. It’s easy to get romantic about people who live on the edge of the law, but there’s always another side to it. Kate Meyrick kept a gun in her drawer and was on friendly terms with more gangs than I’m likely to meet in my entire career. She could break up a fight as easily as any policeman I know, and she did three stretches in Holloway for a reason – most notably for bribing a policeman called Goddard. But she was very good to the girls who worked for her. She encouraged a lot of them to set up on their own, and Miss Hanlon was one of her more successful protégées. The Golden Hat was a victim of its own success, really – a little more risqué than the others, with what you might call more adventurous pleasures.’

  ‘Now I’m even more embarrassed that I can’t remember much about it.’

  ‘Don’t be. It was still quite ordinary when we went. The interesting times came later, just before Miss Hanlon’s death.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, one raid too many. One bribe too many. She got into debt, and the club was in dire straits by the time she died.’

  ‘So did she take the easy way out? Was it suicide?’

  ‘Who knows? As I said, it wasn’t a very thorough investigation. A few people much higher up the chain than I was were far too familiar with Olivia Hanlon, either because they frequented the club or because they took bribes to protect her. As I recall, the path to death by misadventure was cleared very quickly.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure we’ll ever really know. My guess is that the drugs or the sex got out of hand, and when they came up for air, someone noticed that their hostess had stopped breathing. After that, the party disappeared into the night and the Beresfords were left to mourn a tragic accident at a private gathering.’

  ‘It must have been awful for Vivienne, though – to lose a sister and be tarred with scandal.’

  ‘Yes, although they tried to play the scandal down. There was much talk of an asthma attack while swimming and no medical evidence to disprove that. Unwittingly, the press encouraged the verdict by indulging in so much ludicrous speculation that it would have been impossible to sift out the truth, even if there had been something more sinister in it.’

  A waiter took their plates, and Josephine refused dessert in favour of coffee and brandy. ‘No wonder Beresford left the country,’ she said. ‘Vivienne told me that he worked abroad for a while when they were first married. I imagine he was keen to put some distance between himself and the gossip he’d married into before coming back to claim his glittering career.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds about right. From what I’ve heard, Reith takes a very dim view of the slightest misdemeanour. The BBC is an extremely moral outfit.’ He smiled. ‘At least as far as the general public is concerned.’

  ‘Well, I shall look at them all in a new light now I know what went on,’ Josephine said.

  ‘Do you have to go to all the rehearsals?’

  ‘No, thank God. Julian extended what might best be described as a polite invitation, but they’ll get on much better without the author breathing down their necks and I’m happy to leave them to it. I’ve decided to go to the cottage for the weekend. I haven’t had a chance to spend any time there since February, so I want to make sure that everything’s all right while I’m down here. Marta’s supposed to be joining me on Saturday if she can get back from Cornwall in time.’

  It might have been her face or her voice that gave her away, but Archie was quick to pick up on her concern. ‘Is everything all right with Marta?’

  ‘Yes, it’s wonderful. That’s the trouble.’

  ‘Now you’ve lost me.’

  She told him about the uneasiness she felt with Lydia. ‘I suppose it was worse because of the Beresfords, but I just know that all this is about to blow up in my face and it terrifies me.’

  ‘Would that really be so awful, though? It’s time, Josephine. You know by now that this isn’t a whim or a cheap infatuation. You and Marta love each other. Don’t let guilt rule you forever. You’re braver than that.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. My star sign should be Cancer, not Leo – I can crawl sideways round any confrontation.’ She took a cigarette and leaned forward to let him light it. ‘You’re right, though. I’ll talk to Marta about it while we’re at the cottage. It’s always easier there.’

  ‘Good. And you’ll be back in London in time for the party?’

  ‘Oh yes. I don’t suppose I need to ask what you’re doing?’

  ‘No. I’ve got a bit of time off at the weekend. Bridget’s involved in a group exhibition in Bond Street, so we’re going to the opening on Saturday.’

  ‘Are you seeing much of her, or is she in Cambridge a lot?’

  ‘She’s here more than there.’ He grinned. ‘Well, she has been lately, so I must be doing something right. And we spend time together when we can, in between my work and hers.’

  ‘Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Surprisingly, yes. I keep waiting for the excitement to wear off, but it hasn’t yet.’

  ‘Must be that Irish charm of hers working its magic.’

  ‘Something like that.’ He paused, looking for the right words, and Josephine sensed that his relationship with Bridget was something that he had not yet managed to explain to himself. ‘When we first met, all those years ago, it was very brief and very intense.’

  ‘That’s war for you. No time to notice the imperfections.’

  ‘Exactly. But there’s plenty of time now and I still haven’t found them.’

  She smiled, pleased that Archie was happy. He signalled to the waiter and they argued over the bill before Josephine got her way, claiming the meal as a thank-you for her coronation ticket. ‘What will it be now?’ Archie asked as they walked back out into the street. ‘A nightcap or a taxi back to the Cowdray Club?’

  The rain had stopped and the air was fresh and invigorating, encouraging crowds of people to drift in
and out of the invisible streets around Piccadilly. Josephine loved moments like this, when the true fabric of London touched her soul, and she was reluctant to go back indoors. ‘Neither,’ she said. ‘We’re not far from Soho. Why don’t you jog my memory and show me where this club was? If I’m not going to live it down, I should at least be able to picture the scene of my disgrace.’

  They struck out towards Leicester Square, and the night-time bustle made rural names like Haymarket and Windmill Street seem even more incongruous. Josephine followed Archie into the maze of roads which ran behind Shaftesbury Avenue, noticing how suddenly and completely the character of the area changed. Soho was dominated these days by foreign restaurants and exotic grocers’ shops, and the smells that drifted up from basement kitchens blended with the faded, shabby architecture to give the streets a faint but melancholy air of exile. In Gerrard Street, Archie stopped outside a nondescript red-brick building that now housed an Italian cafe on the ground floor and offices above. ‘This is it, I’m afraid. The Golden Hat was in the cellar.’

  Josephine stared in disappointment. She didn’t know quite what she had expected, but the grime-ridden steps down to a dingy basement flat and the smell of garlic and fish failed to recreate the atmosphere of faded decadence for which she was hoping. ‘You certainly knew how to show a girl a good time, didn’t you?’ she said eventually. ‘No wonder I’ve done my best to forget it.’

  ‘It was rather different then, I promise.’ He drew her closer to the railings to allow a group of passing Italians more room to gesticulate. ‘Have you seen enough?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Still, she lingered a moment, trying in vain to reconcile past and present, disorientated by the familiarity of Archie’s arm in hers and the strangeness of the building in front of her. ‘We really can’t go back, can we?’