by Nicola Upson
‘No. If there had been, I’d never have left her on her own.’
‘Of course not. Could you tell me what happened at lunchtime?’
‘It was just after twelve. One of the other girls came down to the workroom from up here to fetch something, and she told me there was a man outside asking for Marjorie.’
‘So he’d come into the yard?’
‘Yes. When I went out to talk to him he was standing at the top of the stairs, just outside the door. I recognised him right away—he was often hanging about when the girls left on a Friday, but I never knew it was Marjorie he was waiting for. He introduced himself—Joe, I think he said his first name was—and asked if he could have a quick word with Marjorie. I told him she was out—she’d gone to the Cowdray Club to drop some samples off—but she’d be back any time. He said he’d wait across the road for her, and could I be sure to tell her? By across the road, I assumed he meant the pub. I had a quick look out the window, but I couldn’t see him in the street.’
‘And what was Marjorie’s reaction?’
‘Embarrassed. Angry. Worried that he might get her into trouble, I suppose.’
‘But she went?’
‘Yes, but she wasn’t gone long. About ten minutes, I suppose. She didn’t bother taking the rest of her lunch break.’
‘And you said she was upset when she came back?’
‘That’s right. I didn’t ask her about what had happened because she never liked you to think that she was vulnerable. She pretended to be a lot harder than she was, gave the impression that things didn’t matter to her, but they did. All she said when she got back upstairs was that she was damned if she was going to be walked all over like her mother, and that she’d rot in hell before he got another penny out of her. She was talking to herself, really, and she went quiet when she realised I’d heard. I wish I’d talked to her about it now, but I didn’t like to.’
‘How did Marjorie get on with the other girls?’
‘Well enough,’ Hilda said, considering his question. ‘There was never any unpleasantness. She made them laugh, and I think they were a bit in awe of her at times because she was a natural and learned so quickly. She could leave most of them standing when it came to the work we do here.’
‘And didn’t they resent her for that? It would have been quite natural for them to feel threatened by a newcomer, and women can be unkind if they’re put in that position.’
Hilda smiled. ‘That’s true enough, Inspector, but if they felt that way, I never saw it—and I don’t miss much. Marjorie had a charm about her, a cockiness—in a nice way, though, if you know what I mean. She wasn’t arrogant—she was just young. It would have been very difficult not to like her, and I honestly think most of the girls admired her for the way she was shaking off her past, and wanted her to do well.’
Shaking off her past was an interesting phrase, Penrose thought. ‘Did she still associate with anyone from prison?’ he asked.
‘There was one girl she saw who she’d been inside with. They’d have lunch together occasionally, go out on their days off, that sort of thing. I never saw her, though, and I can’t remember her name. Miss Size would be able to tell you that.’
‘Tell me a bit about the other seamstresses—have most of them been here a while? Where do you hire them from?’
Ronnie was not inclined to hide her exasperation. ‘As lovely as it is of you to take an interest in our business, Archie, how can that possibly matter now? Marjorie’s dead, and a full inventory of our staff is hardly going to bring her back.’
‘Just humour me.’
‘We take students from the trade schools each year,’ Lettice said. ‘Shoreditch and Barrett Street, mainly. Most of them come to us on a personal recommendation from the staff, or Ronnie and I go along to the annual exhibition and hand-pick anyone we think looks particularly promising. We’re lucky—more often than not, we get the ones we want because we can offer theatre as well as fashion, and everyone thinks that’s glamorous. There isn’t as much call for society dressmaking these days—people want more practical clothes.’
‘Thank God,’ Ronnie said with feeling. ‘Some of the staff come to us from the department-store workrooms, as well. Hilda gets us some absolute gems from Debenhams—her husband works there, so she has inside knowledge.’
‘And once they’re here, they do tend to stay. Everyone seems happy enough.’
Penrose nodded. ‘There’s a vodka bottle on the table downstairs, and it looks as though Marjorie was having a drink with someone before she died. Was the bottle around before you left, Mrs Reader?’
‘Absolutely not. We never allow drinking in the workroom. Apart from anything else, it’s dangerous.’
‘So Lady Ashby didn’t request it or bring it in with her?’
‘No,’ Hilda said, although Ronnie looked sceptical.
‘Take me through everything else that happened yesterday—you said Marjorie went to the Cowdray Club in the morning?’
‘Yes,’ Lettice said. ‘She delivered some samples ahead of the gala on Monday, then went on to Debenhams to get a few things we needed—beads, a couple of particular threads that we’d run out of. Nothing particularly unusual.’
‘Black beads?’
She looked at him curiously. ‘Amongst others, yes. She also delivered a note to Miss Bannerman at the club, asking her to send her ladies round for their final fittings. Four of them came yesterday afternoon, and Marjorie spent the rest of the day dealing with that.’
‘Who were the four?’
‘Lady Ashby, Mary Size, Celia Bannerman and Miriam Sharpe—she’s the president of the College of Nursing. Don’t ask me where that fits into the Cowdray Club—the politics are beyond me. We just smile and do what they ask, but she didn’t seem particularly happy to be here.’
Penrose jotted down the names. ‘Do you have a lot to do with the Cowdray Club?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Lettice said. ‘Several of the members are also private clients of ours, and we’re doing the gala for them next week—at least we were. But that’s because Amy Coward—Noël’s aunt—asked particularly for us. Flattering, I suppose, but it’s been a lot of work.’
‘Yes—the sort of flattery we can live without,’ agreed Ronnie. ‘In return, the club has been helping us out with some classes for the girls—exercise classes, physical training, that sort of thing. People who work for years in this industry are notoriously prone to health problems.’
‘And Marjorie would have been involved in those?’
‘Yes,’ Lettice said. ‘I don’t remember her being the most enthusiastic participant, but we insist that they all do it to some extent. It’s important that they keep themselves well.’
‘Mrs Reader, I’m sorry if this is painful for you, but there’s one thing I have to ask. The needle that was used in the attack on Marjorie—it’s about four inches long, and it bends slightly at the tip.’ He saw her flinch, but there was no way of avoiding the question. ‘I had a quick look around downstairs, but I couldn’t see anything else like it. Do you keep a lot of them? Would it have been easy for someone to pick up when they got inside?’
‘Four inches? Are you sure?’ she asked, forcing herself to concentrate on the question rather than its implications. He nodded. ‘That’s a sack needle, Inspector—we don’t keep those as a rule.’
‘What? None at all?’
‘They’re not delicate enough for most of the materials we use here. We’ve had one knocking about at some point for stage work—sail material, something like that—but not recently, and it’s certainly not something that a stranger could just pick up. I wouldn’t know where to lay my hands on one—and that’s if we’ve got any at all.’
So the murderer had come prepared to humiliate, Penrose thought, more convinced than ever that Marjorie’s death and her father’s were more complicated than they looked. ‘One last thing—was Marjorie paid today?’
‘Yes, everyone got their week’s money at the
end of the day.’
‘And as far as you know, she didn’t leave the building afterwards?’
‘No.’
‘Is any money kept on the premises?’ he asked.
‘Just a bit of petty cash in the office,’ Lettice said. ‘No more than a few pounds.’
‘I’ll have to have a look round your office. I need Marjorie’s address—that is where you keep the staff details?’ She nodded. ‘I’ll get a car to take you home now, Mrs Reader. Will there be someone in? You shouldn’t be on your own.’
‘My husband’s at work, but if someone could take me to Debenhams, he’ll see me safely home and stay with me.’ She stood up, and Penrose helped her on with her coat. ‘What’s to happen about the work for Monday?’ she asked, turning to Lettice and Ronnie. ‘There’s still a lot to do if we’re to be ready in time.’
‘God, I hadn’t even thought,’ Ronnie said. ‘We’ll have to let the rest of the girls know what’s happened somehow. But I don’t see how we can possibly go on with this gala now.’
‘Why not?’ Hilda asked.
Lettice looked surprised. ‘Well, we haven’t got anywhere to work for a start.’
‘There’s plenty of space at the Cowdray Club,’ Hilda said, buttoning her coat. ‘And I reckon they owe you girls a thing or two after what you’re doing for them. It is their bloody gala, after all.’
‘Hilda!’ Ronnie said, shocked. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard you swear once in fifteen years.’
‘You’ve taught me a thing or two, Miss Ronnie—I just like to choose my moments.’
‘But is it right to go ahead after what’s happened?’ Lettice asked. ‘It seems so heartless, somehow.’
Hilda looked at her, then sat down and took her hand. ‘It’s too easy to say what the dead might or might not have wanted,’ she said. ‘I should know—it took me long enough to stop feeling guilty about marrying again. But sooner or later, you have to think about the living and what they need—and those other girls have been looking forward to this gala for weeks. They’re going to be devastated when they hear about Marjorie—and they’ll need something to focus on to get them through it. Making them idle won’t help. And personally, I think Marjorie would have been the last to down tools if it’d been someone else.’
‘Oh Hilda—we do love you,’ Lettice said, giving her a hug. ‘You’re right, of course—we’ll ask Miss Bannerman.’
‘No we bloody won’t,’ Ronnie said. ‘We’ll tell her. Go with Archie now, Hilda, and we’ll be in touch to let you know what’s happening. And if you need anything—anything at all, promise you’ll ask us.’
‘There is one thing—it’s Miss Bannerman’s evening cape, the blue silk. Marjorie must have started work on it last night—I’d like to finish it for her. You won’t let anything happen to it, will you, Inspector?’
‘No, of course not. I’ll make sure it’s safe. We’re going to have to go over everything very carefully, I’m afraid, and it will take time, but we’ll be as quick as we can.’ He followed Hilda over to the door. ‘Whatever you pay this woman,’ he said, looking back at his cousins, ‘it’s nowhere near enough.’
‘Do you think we don’t know that?’ Lettice answered, but Ronnie called him back.
‘You think there’s more to this, don’t you?’ she said quietly.
‘Later,’ he said. ‘Please take care of yourselves.’ He delivered Mrs Reader into the safe hands of PC Ellis, then went to find Fallowfield. ‘Pop over to the Salisbury for me, Bill. I think Marjorie and her father had a bit of a row there yesterday lunchtime. Find out what it was about if you can. I’m going upstairs to talk to Spilsbury.’
As he had known it would be, the Motleys’ workroom was now a completely different place and the ominous stillness of an hour ago had given way to an organised clamour of activity. There were several photographers in the immediate crime scene, each one a trained detective, and the Home Office pathologist, Sir Bernard Spilsbury—as famous in his own right as the criminals he convicted—waited patiently for them to finish before he could examine the body. ‘You don’t do things by halves, do you Archie?’ he said as soon as he saw Penrose. ‘I gather this is your cousins’ business. I’m sorry to hear that—it must be terrible for them. I suppose the logical scenario is that he kills her and falls down the stairs in his haste to get away.’
‘But?’ Penrose asked, and his eagerness must have been obvious.
Spilsbury smiled. ‘Yes—somehow I thought you’d be looking for a but. Well, I can’t give you anything more than you’ve got yourself at the moment, and that’s instinct—but the logical scenario doesn’t quite add up to me either. I’d say that the man downstairs was knocked unconscious by the fall and died of exposure, which doesn’t help to build any other case but the obvious one—but I’m hoping to find something more conclusive for you up here.’
‘All done now, Sir,’ one of the photographers called, and Spilsbury went over to the body.
‘You were right about the row, Sir,’ Fallowfield said, coming up behind Penrose. ‘Barman said he thought he was going to have to call for help at one point—she threatened Baker with a glass, apparently.’
‘Really? What was it about?’
‘Money. He wanted her to hand over her wages, and she wasn’t having any of it. Did you know she’d been inside?’ Penrose nodded. ‘Well, he got at her about that, as well—that’s when she picked up the glass.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. She wasn’t there very long. The bloke had been in now and again over the last few weeks, the barman said—he’d never seen him before that. But he was always on his own until yesterday.’
‘Right—then we need to find out if Marjorie’s wages are still here somewhere,’ Penrose said, and walked across to where Spilsbury was making his painstaking examination. ‘Bernard, I need to know right away if you find any money on the body.’
‘I can tell you that now, Archie.’ He held up a small brown envelope in a bag. ‘Is this what you’re looking for? It was in the pocket of her dress.’ Penrose took the wage packet, which he could see had not even been opened. ‘And this was with it.’ The second bag held a small silver photo frame, with a picture of a young woman and baby. It was no one he recognised.
‘That’s interesting, Sir,’ Fallowfield said, taking the bag from him. ‘I’d have to check, but it matches the description of something stolen from the Cowdray Club. Why would she have that?’
‘I’ve no idea, Bill, but I think it’s time we paid the club a visit.’ He brought his sergeant succinctly up to speed on what he had learned from Hilda Reader and the Motleys.
‘So you think someone else is involved?’
‘I think this suggests that,’ Penrose said, holding up the wage packet. ‘They were fighting over money, so why would he go to all that trouble only to leave behind what he came for? And for God’s sake, Bill—how much do you think is in here? Twenty shillings? Thirty? It hardly warrants that sort of violence, does it? No—either someone disturbed him before he could take what he wanted …’
‘In which case, why haven’t they come forward?’
‘Exactly. Or he didn’t do it. I don’t doubt that he came here looking for Marjorie, but I think this is what he found. No wonder the poor bastard fell down the stairs—they might not have got on, but can you imagine how any father would feel, seeing his daughter like this?’
‘I suppose he might even have walked in while it was happening.’
‘Indeed he might, Bill, and then we could be talking about two murders, not one—but all this is speculation until we have the post-mortem reports.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘In the meantime, we’ve got to break the news to her mother so I’d better dig her address out. Then we need to find a tactful way of asking if she thinks her husband was capable of choking their daughter with beads and stitching her mouth up with a sack needle. If you’ve got any ideas as to how to put that, I’ll hear them on the way.’
(untitled)
by Josephine Tey
First Draft
Claymore House, East Finchley, Tuesday 18 November 1902
Amelia picked up the book and settled Lizzie more comfortably on her lap. Out of the nursery window, she could see coils of smoke drifting up from the chimneys of the houses opposite, thin lines of charcoal against a slate-grey sky. The snow which had so delighted Lizzie on Sunday was long gone, and the only trace of its brief existence lay in a corner of the yard, a small mound of muddy white with twigs and buttons and one of Jacob’s old pipes sunk pathetically into its heart. Her daughter wriggled impatiently on her knee, keen to get on with the story; Amelia kissed the top of her head and dutifully found the right page. ‘They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank,’ she began, ‘the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life.’
As the last of the daylight drained from the world outside, Amelia read on, enjoying the sense of transporting the two of them to another place—a private, imaginary place, far away from Hertford Road, where adventures could be safely contained by the closing of a cover. Eventually, the warmth of the room and the comforting sound of her voice had its customary effect: Lizzie slept soundly, and Amelia slipped the book gently on to the bedside table. She looked down at her daughter, and wondered again what sort of life she would make for herself; she had always expected motherhood to bring with it a new sense of responsibility, but nothing had prepared her for the intensity of being relied upon by a child, the fear of failure that kept her awake at night. It was time that Lizzie had a brother or sister, she thought—she was so withdrawn at times, so self-contained, and they could afford to try for another child now. Surely Jacob would see that? There had been an uneasy truce between them since the argument last week, but perhaps another child would bring them closer together; perhaps it would be the one dream which could remain untainted by the money that made it possible. With a stab of regret, Amelia remembered how happy they had been when they were first married; now, she felt like a stranger to him. It might be her imagination, but it seemed that new alliances were forming in this house which no longer included her.