by Nicola Upson
‘I know it’s down a private drive, and Archie mentioned a lodge. The village can’t be that big, though – if we go slowly, we should be able to spot it.’
It soon became evident that the suggestion was better in theory than in practice. They reached the other side of Old Redding without finding what they were looking for, and a couple of forays down side roads only told them that Olivia Hanlon could not have chosen a better setting for her purposes: Paradise House was even more secluded and elusive than they had been led to believe, and the village seemed to collude in the conspiracy, keeping it safely hidden from view, while presenting a picture of tranquil respectability to anyone who passed. ‘This is hopeless,’ Marta said eventually. ‘We could be driving round all day. I’ll stop and ask someone.’
‘Be careful,’ Josephine warned. ‘We don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves.’
‘Why should we? I’m looking for a house and you’ve come to give me a second opinion – there’s nothing suspicious in that.’ She grinned. ‘We know we’re poking about in someone else’s business, but there’s no reason for anyone else to guess. Anyway, we might pick up some gossip.’ She drew up outside a pretty Victorian pub on the main through-road, painted white and decorated with an enormous number of carefully tended tubs and hanging baskets. ‘Someone obviously likes petunias,’ Marta said wryly, looking at the profusion of red, white and indigo flowers which seemed determined to make the royal celebrations last the whole summer. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
Josephine watched her go inside, amused to see that – in spite of all her warnings – Marta was now the one surging ahead with the scheme, and confident of her ability to sweet-talk information out of any publican, particularly if he was a man. True to form, she returned a few minutes later, clutching a piece of paper and looking smug. ‘What have you found out?’ Josephine asked.
‘Well, this is how we get there,’ Marta said, handing her a hastily scribbled map with directions. ‘And you were right. Paradise House is owned by a French family. He works away and isn’t here all the time – we all know why that is – and she’s a charming woman who loves her garden. They have a little boy, Christophe, and they’ve been here for seven or eight years.’
Josephine nodded. ‘Yes, that fits. Vivienne told me that they came back from France at the end of the twenties. It sounds like he moved his lover in shortly afterwards.’
‘And now they’re selling up to go abroad. They’re popular in the village, if only because they live quietly and keep themselves to themselves – unlike the previous occupant. Everyone seems very sorry that they’re leaving.’
Josephine shook her head in admiration. ‘That really is quite brilliant.’
‘What is?’
‘Well, I always wondered how Beresford got away with being someone else. It’s very easy to change your appearance. If we’re right about all this, I imagine that the celebrity who left London in a suit was virtually unrecognisable as the carefree family man who arrived here in a Bugatti and an open-necked shirt, and no one really knew what he looked like anyway. But his voice was something else altogether – he gave himself away every time he opened his mouth. A French accent would make him sound very different.’
Marta turned the car round and headed back in the direction from which they had come. ‘Do you think she knows he’s married, or has he been leading them both on?’
A double deception was something that Josephine hadn’t actually considered. ‘She’d have to be party to it, surely? His behaviour would seem a bit peculiar if she weren’t, but who’s to say? He’s obviously very convincing. And if she doesn’t know, I get the impression that Vivienne is very keen for her illusions to be shattered as soon as possible. She’d probably kill to do it personally – and that’s not a pun.’ She thought for a moment, then said more seriously: ‘Whoever she is, she’s bound to be devastated. How must that feel? To lose the person you love and not be able to mourn him publicly – perhaps even to discover for the first time through the newspapers that he was married. I’m not sure she’ll be answering the door to anyone, let alone a couple of casual house hunters. We’re probably wasting our time.’
‘Or we could just discover a perfectly happy French family who are packing up to move to a new life and have never heard of Anthony Beresford. There’s only one way to find out.’
The narrow, tree-hung lane was so overgrown that they nearly missed the turning that had been noted down for them. Swearing under her breath, Marta pulled down hard on the steering wheel and the car made a graceless but effective lurch to the left. She learned her lesson and dropped her speed, humouring the sharp bends in the road, and after another half a mile or so they saw the small, octagonal lodge which Archie had described. It marked the entrance to a gravelled driveway, and Marta slowed the car still more.
‘This must be it,’ Josephine said, feeling suddenly excited. ‘Look, there’s the name.’ The sign was discreet and all but buried in a tangle of laurel and rhododendron bushes, but enough of the lettering was visible to confirm that they were in the right place. They had found Paradise House. What else it would reveal remained to be seen.
2
‘You lot are all the same. You’ve had enough tries at framing me for murder, and I suppose you think you’ve got me for this one?’ The voice was rough and coarse, and there was no trace of the Irish descent that the name and the bluster proclaimed. ‘Well, we’ll see about that. You couldn’t make it stick last time, and you won’t now. I didn’t kill her, and none of your filthy tricks can prove that I did.’
Penrose looked across the table at Frederick George Murphy and made no attempt to hide his dislike. Usually, he avoided relating a man’s actions to his appearance, but in this case the cliché happened to be true: Murphy did have the look of a hardened criminal – a stocky, red-faced bully with a pug-nose and a blank stare, not to mention five previous prison sentences for assault, burglary and pimping. So far in the course of this murder investigation, no one had been prepared to testify favourably to the defendant’s character, not even the woman he lived with, and Penrose was confident of a successful result in court. Resisting the temptation to engage with the accusation of corruption, he charged Frederick George Murphy with the murder of Rosina Field at Islington Green on the twelfth of May, and left the room.
A clerk was waiting for him in the corridor outside. ‘Telephone call for you, sir. It’s the Deputy Governor of Holloway, and she says it’s urgent.’
Penrose nodded and walked over to the desk, wondering what Mary Size wanted. He liked and respected the prison governor, but they sat at opposite ends of the legal system and their paths rarely crossed; his work was invariably over when hers was just beginning. ‘Miss Size, what can I do for you?’
She came straight to the point. ‘It’s about Vivienne Beresford, Chief Inspector.’
‘I’m afraid I’m no longer working on that case.’
‘But she’s asking to speak to you.’
Penrose sighed, intrigued by the request and frustrated at his inability to accept it. ‘As much as I sympathise with Mrs Beresford’s position, my hands are tied. You of all people must understand that?’
‘Oh, I do indeed,’ she said with feeling. Like Penrose, Mary Size had had her fair share of battles over bureaucracy and protocol, and the two were natural allies. ‘But things have just become rather more complicated, Chief Inspector. This involves Miss Tey.’
‘Josephine?’ he asked, taken completely by surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know that she’s been visiting Mrs Beresford?’
‘Yes, she told me.’
‘Then let me be brief, because time is of the essence. Beresford asked to see me first thing this morning. She told me that she hadn’t slept all night because she was worried about having inadvertently said something to Miss Tey which might put her in danger.’
The concerns about Josephine’s safety which had been playing in Penrose’s mind over the last few
days suddenly surfaced with a devastating sense of reality. ‘What did she say?’ he asked, gripping the receiver and trying not to panic.
‘She would only tell me that it concerned the murder of Millicent Gray. Beresford is convinced that she knows who did it, and she thinks that Miss Tey might have set out to prove it. She has a proposal for you.’
‘I’m not sure she’s in a bargaining position.’
‘Normally, I would agreed with you. In this particular case, though, we might want to listen.’
‘All right. What’s the proposal?’
‘Beresford will tell you where Miss Tey has gone, prove to you once and for all that she wasn’t responsible for Millicent Gray’s death, and tell you who was. She has also said that she will give you enough evidence to convict her sister’s murderer.’
‘Olivia Hanlon was murdered?’
‘Yes, she says she has proof.’
‘And do you believe her?’
‘She’s very convincing.’
‘So what are her conditions?’
‘There’s only one. She asks that you take her with you when you go after Miss Tey.’
‘But that’s impossible. My superiors would never agree to that, and surely the Home Office would take a dim view of something so unorthodox.’
‘Unorthodox, yes, but not unprecedented. There are rare occasions when a prisoner is allowed out in the interests of justice – handcuffed to a warder at all times, of course, and with a police escort. Beresford is still on remand, and in a case with a lower profile she might easily have been granted bail while she awaited her trial.’
‘But you’ve just said it yourself – this is such a high-profile case. The press would have a field day if they got wind of it. I’ll happily go and see Rygate now, but he’ll laugh me out of his office.’
‘Then let me give you one more thing to consider which might sway things your way. If we don’t agree to what she suggests, Beresford has made it clear that there will be consequences. She tells me that she has significant evidence of police negligence with regard to her sister’s death – negligence bordering on corruption. She has also made it clear that what she knows about Millicent Gray’s death will do considerable damage to the reputation of the BBC.’
‘Has she spoken to her solicitor?’ Penrose asked hopefully.
‘This morning, on the telephone. I needn’t tell you that he is stressing her right to prove her innocence, as well as the destructive nature of what might emerge in court at her trial. Does that help?’
‘Very much.’ Penrose recalled his conversations with Josephine and tried to follow the logic of what she was thinking. ‘Did Mrs Beresford mention Paradise House?’ he asked. ‘Is that where she wants to go?’
‘Perhaps that’s what she meant, but she wouldn’t be specific. She’s an intelligent woman, as you know.’
Penrose thought about it. If the worst came to the worst, he would go independently to Paradise House, but there was a chance that he was wrong and the most reliable way of ensuring Josephine’s safety was to give Vivienne Beresford what she wanted. ‘Let me have a few minutes to see what I can do,’ he said.
‘I’ll wait by my telephone.’
Penrose ended the call and immediately telephoned Holly Place, reluctant to believe that Josephine would play with fire like this without speaking to him first. There was no answer, so he tried the Cowdray Club, only to be told that Josephine hadn’t been seen since the previous afternoon. As a last resort, he called Ronnie and Lettice at their studio. ‘Is Josephine with you?’ he demanded as soon as Ronnie answered.
‘And good morning to you, too, Archie.’
‘Don’t mess me about. Have you seen her?’
‘No, she telephoned last night, but—’
‘She telephoned? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because you weren’t here to tell,’ Ronnie said, with not unreasonable indignation.
‘Did she leave a message?’
‘Only to call her when you got the chance. Why, Archie? Is something wrong?’
Penrose slammed the receiver down without an explanation, imagining all sorts of horrors, most of which had a starring role for Billy Whiting. Somehow, he managed to stay calm while he mentally gathered every scrap of ammunition that he could think of before making his next move. When he was ready, he telephoned Bill Murray at Broadcasting House and left a very clear message for the Director General; next, he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and had a frank conversation with the Assistant Commissioner, reminding Rygate of his position at the time of Olivia Hanlon’s death; and finally, sooner than even he had dared to hope, he called Mary Size and asked her to make sure that Vivienne Beresford was ready and waiting.
3
Marta parked the Morris in the lane, a few yards short of the five-bar gate that marked the entrance to Paradise House. The approach was still exactly as Archie had described it – a narrow track, enclosed by the exuberant growth of an early summer which had seen rain and sun in equal measure, giving way abruptly to open sky – and Josephine wondered if the rest of the property was as little-changed by the passing of a decade. She got out of the car and walked over to the gate to take a closer look at the house she had heard so much about. It was attractive and elegant in a haphazard sort of way, built of red brick and dating back to the seventeenth century. Its front walls were covered in ivy and wisteria, and the uneven positioning of the windows suggested a house with many landings and staircases – one that had, perhaps, originally been made up of several smaller dwellings. The driveway split in two to form a circular area immediately in front of the property, bordered by mixed hedging, but there were no vehicles parked outside. In fact, the whole house felt lonely and remote, distanced from the life of the village and with the woodland acting as a buffer between the grounds and the main road. All she could hear was the trickle of water from a stream somewhere over to her left. Everything else was disarmingly quiet.
Marta joined her by the gate. ‘The place looks deserted,’ she said, staring up at the windows, some of which had their curtains tightly drawn. ‘It’s a dull day – I’d have expected a light on somewhere if there were anyone at home.’
‘At least if it’s empty we can have a good look round without being disturbed, but I doubt we’ll find whatever it is we’re looking for without going in.’ Josephine sighed, disappointed at the thought of coming so far only to be thwarted by a locked door. ‘Still, I suppose you can learn quite a lot from looking through a window or two.’
‘Yes, but we’d better make sure we’re right first. It doesn’t look good to be caught with your nose pressed to the glass.’ She opened the gate and led the way to the front door, which was flanked by rose beds on either side. The thud of the heavy iron knocker sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness, but it brought no response and Marta tried again. ‘Well, we’re obviously not going to be invited in,’ she said after a decent interval. ‘Looks like we’ll have to show ourselves around.’
Josephine was already ahead of her, peering through the nearest set of windows into the dining room – tastefully decorated in an Arts and Crafts style, with apple-green walls, boldly painted furniture and a large vase of flowers. The house had obviously clung tenaciously to its history, proudly proclaiming its age with exposed timbers and beams and a beautiful polished brick floor, but the flowers had fared less well; once striking, the display was now wilting and badly in need of attention. ‘I’m not sure anyone’s been here for a few days,’ she said. ‘Either that, or they’ve been too preoccupied to worry about the flower arrangements.’
She turned in the direction of a path which led round to the back of the house, but Marta caught her arm. ‘What if you’re right, Josephine?’ she asked. ‘What if there’s a woman in there grieving for someone she loved? Of course she’s not going to answer the door. Lying our way over the threshold is one thing, but poking round uninvited suddenly feels a bit shabby – particularly if we’re only doing it to satisfy Vivienne Ber
esford’s curiosity. She killed him, after all – our coming here on her behalf isn’t exactly tactful.’
Josephine hesitated, knowing that Marta was right but reluctant to abandon the promise she had made. ‘I understand what you’re saying and I agree with you, but I realised yesterday when I was talking to Vivienne that there’s no easy right or wrong to any of this. Millicent Gray should have known better than to get involved with another woman’s husband, but she didn’t deserve to die. Vivienne has killed twice, and yet I can sympathise with her position. This woman – whoever she is – might be destroyed by her grief now, but if she was party to the deception, you could argue that she brought it on herself. I’ve stopped trying to rationalise it now. I just want the answers.’
Marta nodded, either convinced by her argument or too partial to object any further, and they walked round to the back of the house together. The extensive grounds were south-facing, and – in better weather – would have enjoyed sunshine for most of the day; even under slate-grey skies, they formed a stunning backdrop to the house, offering privacy and seclusion to anyone lucky enough to live there. The area immediately by the house was the most formal part of the garden – terraced, with an ornamental fishpond and a rose-clad pergola that gave views over four carefully manicured tiers of lawn, all linked by stone steps. In one direction, a pathway with clipped yew trees led to a substantial kitchen garden and a small apple orchard, and in the other, a sweeping expanse of lawn sloped gently down to the southern boundary, marked by a line of graceful weeping willows. Just visible from where they stood, but with a troubling presence which dominated Josephine’s first impressions of the grounds, was the corner of a swimming pool.
‘Gosh, this is beautiful,’ Marta said, distracted for a moment from their purpose, and Josephine smiled at her enthusiasm.