Two for Sorrow

by Nicola Upson

  ‘By encouraging a popular readership to simplify a complex issue?’ She shook her head, and Penrose wondered why he felt as if, of the two of them, he was the one lacking in legal experience. ‘Anyway, now that the past seems to have come crashing into the present, perhaps you can discourage Josephine from taking her project too far.’

  ‘Josephine will do as she likes,’ he said, and his smile—although polite—did not entirely mask his irritation.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, softening suddenly, ‘I seem to remember that she usually did.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. ‘Please forgive me for being so harsh, Inspector, but that time at Anstey was a moment of real crisis in my life, and that’s very hard to admit to a former pupil—vanity gets in the way of honesty. It’s hard to explain, but I look at Josephine whenever she’s staying at the Cowdray Club and I see a successful, independent woman with so much still ahead of her—and people adore her, though she doesn’t look for it, sometimes she doesn’t even notice it. From the way you leap to her defence, I imagine you understand that yourself.’

  Penrose was furious with himself for allowing his hesitation to acknowledge the truth of what she said, and his response was uncharacteristically simplistic. ‘You envy Josephine’s success,’ he said.

  ‘No, not at all. Please don’t misunderstand me, Inspector—I’ve got an enviable career of my own to look back on. The improvements in nursing and in administration which I’ve helped to make will last, and women’s lives will be the better for it. I don’t regret any of the decisions I’ve made about my life, and I’m content. Not happy. Content. But every now and again, respected, contented women of my age wonder what they might have missed. It doesn’t last long, and we don’t get hysterical about it, but it’s there.’

  As she spoke, she opened the top right-hand drawer of her desk and took out an envelope, which she passed across the desk to him. Penrose opened it and took out a single page of the Bible, roughly torn from the rest of the book. It was from the Song of Solomon, and, across the top, two words were written in pencil: ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Amelia gave me that on the eve of her execution,’ she explained. ‘It comforted me until Elizabeth died, and it’s haunted me ever since. You see, Inspector, when you make a decision that your work will be your entire life, it’s important to get that right. If you don’t, you feel that you’ve failed on more than a professional level; you feel that you’ve failed as a woman. When Elizabeth Price committed suicide, I had no right to mourn her, except as a teacher mourns the loss of a pupil; I wasn’t her mother, I wasn’t even her friend. More to the point, I couldn’t think of anyone whose death would change my personal life rather than my professional one—and I suppose that made me wonder if it was all worth it. After Lady Cowdray died, things changed here, and now I find myself wondering that again.’ She paused, apparently embarrassed by her own frankness, and then added more cynically: ‘You press on as if it were worth it, though, don’t you? To admit the lie would be unbearable.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this, Miss Bannerman?’ Penrose asked, unable to put his finger on why their conversation had taken quite such a personal turn.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose it’s because what Lady Ashby said has touched a nerve. If you’d come an hour later, I might have had a chance to compose myself and you might not have had to listen to a middle-aged woman’s regrets when you’re trying to conduct a murder investigation.’

  She smiled and stood to dismiss him, but Penrose was not quite ready to leave. He had come here to find out more about the Cowdray Club and the women in that photograph, and, although what Celia Bannerman had told him suggested that Maria Baker might only have mentioned the picture as a ploy to direct his attention away from her door, he still wanted some answers. ‘I’ve got just a few more questions, Miss Bannerman, if you don’t mind,’ he said evenly. ‘I won’t keep you much longer.’ Irritated, she sat down again. ‘Do people sign in and out when they leave the club?’

  ‘It’s a private club, Inspector, not a prison. Trust me—I know the difference. We don’t expect our members to report to us if they want to leave the building.’

  ‘But there’s always someone on reception?’

  ‘Yes, all day, and we have a night porter who takes over at ten o’clock.’

  ‘What about other ways in and out?’

  ‘There’s another entrance in Henrietta Street. Strictly speaking, it’s for the College of Nursing, but there’s nothing to stop members of the club using it if it’s more convenient.’

  ‘And there’s no one on that door.’

  ‘No. It’s locked at midnight, so your murderer may just have got back in time.’

  Penrose ignored the sarcasm; the rapid change from deeply personal information to the most basic of police questioning seemed bizarre even to him. ‘So there’s no way of knowing who was in the building last night?’ She shook her head. ‘What can you tell me about your receptionist, Miss Timpson? Or should I say Mrs Bishop?’

  Celia Bannerman looked at him with a grudging respect. ‘Sylvia has been with us since the club opened. She’s exceptionally good at her job—conscientious, reliable and always pleasant to the members and their guests. And if she chooses to use her maiden name at work, that’s really no business of mine—or, I would have thought, of yours.’

  ‘So she’s popular with your members?’

  ‘She’s polite and discreet, qualities which are much appreciated by us all. It’s not the business of a receptionist to make herself “popular”, as you put it.’

  ‘To your knowledge, did she know Marjorie Baker? Other than through the gala, I mean.’

  ‘I couldn’t say for sure, but I can’t imagine why their paths would have crossed.’

  ‘What about Miriam Sharpe and Lady Ashby? Did Marjorie have much contact with them, either through her work or outside of it? You said yourself—a dress fitting can be quite an intimate affair, and I imagine there are plenty of opportunities for conversation.’

  ‘Inspector Penrose, I have no idea what you’re trying to insinuate, but I refuse to discuss the members of this club or my colleagues unless you give me a very good reason why I should—and so far, you’ve failed to do that. You’re investigating the death of a seamstress on somebody else’s premises. I’ve made it clear to you that the dead girl came from a family with a lot to hide; even if that has nothing to do with her murder, I would have thought that there were more natural paths to pursue than this one—the people she worked with, for example, or the women she was in Holloway with. Grudges breed very easily within a prison environment, and no one has a longer memory than an ex-convict. The Cowdray Club is vulnerable enough at the moment without your help and, if you persist with this line of questioning, you will leave me no choice but to complain to your superior.’

  ‘Please feel free to speak to the chief constable, Miss Bannerman, but I know that his wife will be reassured to know that we’re making good progress in getting to the bottom of the spiteful letters that seem to be disturbing her sleep at the moment.’

  It was a comment made without any substance whatsoever, but it had the desired effect: for the first time in the entire interview, Celia Bannerman seemed at a disadvantage. ‘What can those letters possibly have to do with the murder of Marjorie Baker?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘That’s precisely what I’m trying to find out,’ Penrose said, ‘but it’s highly likely that there is a connection.’

  ‘By “connection”, I assume you mean that you think Marjorie Baker sent them? Why would you jump to that conclusion?’

  ‘There are aspects of this murder which suggest that Miss Baker was killed to keep her quiet,’ he began, and this time he refused to let her interrupt. ‘Yes, I know what you’re about to say, and I agree with you—what you’ve told me about her family history is a very credible motive for her murder. However, I have to investigate every possibility, and Marjorie’s mother has shown me a photogr
aph which she believes may have something to do with her daughter’s death.’

  ‘A photograph?’ She looked concerned and with good reason, Penrose thought: if Marjorie had sent those letters and been killed for it, the implications for the Cowdray Club’s reputation were much more serious than Celia Bannerman could ever have imagined, and she was certainly intelligent enough to realise that. ‘The photograph was in Tatler last month. You were in it yourself.’

  ‘Yes, I remember it—the one taken at Motley.’

  ‘That’s right. Mrs Baker seemed to think that Marjorie was being forced by her father into doing something as a result of that photograph. Obviously, in light of what you’ve said, I’ll need to talk to Mrs Baker again to find out if she knew who her husband really was and, if so, how she fits into that history—but I can’t ignore other possibilities.’

  ‘Miss Baker might have sent the notes, I suppose, but I don’t see how she’d have gathered the information. I hate to say it, but I always assumed they were sent from within the organisation.’

  ‘She was friends with a Lucy Peters—they were in prison together and kept in touch afterwards. I understand that Miss Peters works here.’

  ‘Yes, she’s a housemaid. She’s been here for a few months, but we’re not in the habit of allowing housemaids access to personal information.’

  ‘Even so, they have a way of finding out. There was a small silver photograph frame found on Miss Baker’s body. It matches the description of one of the items which has been reported missing from the club, and it’s possible that the two girls were involved in both the thefts and the anonymous letters.’

  She thought about it, and then said reluctantly: ‘It’s Lucy’s half day today, but I’ll speak to her as soon as she comes in this evening.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you’d leave that to me. Just let us know as soon as she’s back.’

  ‘Fine, but please be gentle with her. These letters haven’t made any financial demands on their recipients, so I really don’t see what Marjorie and Lucy would stand to gain by sending them. I still believe your answer lies with the Sach family—in which case Lucy will have lost a good friend on top of everything else she’s been through.’ Penrose looked questioningly at her. ‘Lucy got herself into trouble in more ways than one before she went to prison,’ she explained. ‘She had a child while she was in Holloway, and had to give it up—and it affected her very badly. She still hasn’t quite got over it—if you ever do, that is.’

  ‘Please don’t worry—we’re not in the habit of bullying witnesses,’ Penrose said pleasantly, and was satisfied to see that his own condescension had not gone unnoticed. ‘I appreciate what you’re saying, but there’s no reason why the answer shouldn’t lie with the Sach family and the Cowdray Club—after all, you have a link to both, and we now know that Lady Ashby does, as well. Assuming that what you say is correct, Marjorie Baker was Elizabeth Sach’s half-sister.’ The idea seemed not to have occurred to her, so he let it sink in a little before asking: ‘What about Miriam Sharpe and Mary Size? Could they have any links back to Amelia Sach?’

  ‘Mary’s been at Holloway for about eight years,’ she said doubtfully, ‘so apart from being deputy governor at the prison which hanged her, I can’t see any connection.’ She was about to dismiss Miriam Sharpe out of hand, then seemed to change her mind. ‘Come to think of it, Amelia once told me that she had met Walters at St Thomas’s Hospital—you knew they were both nurses?’ Penrose nodded. ‘Miriam was matron at St Thomas’s for many years, and she worked her way up before that. You’d have to check the dates with her, but it’s possible that they might have been there at the same time.’

  Penrose shut his notebook and stood up. ‘Thank you, Miss Bannerman, you’ve been very helpful. Either I or my officers will need to speak to the members who knew Miss Baker, and to some of your staff—Miss Peters and Miss Timpson in particular. We’ll be as discreet as possible.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector—I appreciate that. You already know, I’m sure, that Motley will be moving into the club for a few days to get ready for the gala?’

  He nodded. ‘I knew they intended to ask you if that would be possible.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know at the time what had led to the request—Lettice said she would explain later—but, under the circumstances, I’m even more glad to be able to help. It’s very good of them to go ahead with the gala at all. I assume you have no objections to the arrangement?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Good. And I’ll make sure that you and your officers have the Cowdray Club’s full co-operation with your investigation.’

  It was an uneasy truce, but Penrose was more than satisfied with what he had learned from Celia Bannerman. The interview had taken longer than anticipated, and Fallowfield was waiting for him at reception when he went back downstairs. His sergeant listened calmly to what he had to say, but Penrose could tell that Fallowfield was as excited as he was. ‘Back to the Bunk, then, Sir.’

  ‘We certainly need to talk to Maria Baker again right away, but I’d like to do it more formally this time—she doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll be easily unsettled, but an interview at the station might give us the advantage. You might as well get Waddingham and Merrifield off the telephones and send them round to Campbell Road to pick her up. For God’s sake tell them to be gentle, though—the woman’s just lost a daughter and a husband, and we don’t know that she had anything to do with it. She’s not under arrest—not yet, anyway. We just need some answers. In the meantime, I’ve got a couple more questions here. Has Lady Ashby calmed down yet?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I’ve had a chat with her, and she seems genuinely shocked by Miss Baker’s death—shocked, and upset. She’s confirmed everything that Mrs Reader told you about last night, even down to asking the girl out, and it was her who took the vodka in. She volunteered everything freely enough—I didn’t have to push her.’

  ‘Not too freely, though? You believed her?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. As far as I can see, she says what she means and does as she likes. You know how it is with the aristocracy. She’s a bit worse for wear, though—I think that explains what we walked in on.’

  ‘Probably,’ Penrose said, although it was his private opinion that the temptation to slap Celia Bannerman might prove hard to overcome whether you were drunk or sober. ‘What about an alibi?’

  ‘She was at the Ham Bone Club until after midnight. I’ve checked it out, and both the owner and the barman confirm that she was there all night. She’s also given me the names of some friends she left with, if we want to take it any further.’

  ‘Good, although if she’s a regular there, I imagine they’ll confirm anything she wants them to. Is she still here?’

  ‘Yes, Sir—in the bar. There’s a room next door we can use if you want somewhere more private, though.’

  ‘The bar’s fine—I want her to be happy to talk. What else?’

  ‘Lucy Peters is off duty. She left the building just after one and no one’s seen her since. Sylvia Timpson doesn’t work Saturdays.’

  ‘So I gather. We’ll have to try her at home.’

  ‘Mary Size is at the prison. I’ve made an appointment for you at three-thirty.’

  ‘Good.’ Penrose looked at his watch. ‘You told her what it was about?’

  ‘Yes. She’ll have all the records ready for you. She was upset, as well—you get the feeling that Marjorie was popular everywhere but at home, don’t you?’ Penrose remembered the expression on Ronnie’s face, and nodded. ‘She asked about Peters right away, Sir. She’s worried about her—the two of them were close, apparently. I’ve asked reception to let us know immediately if they see her.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ve asked Miss Bannerman to do the same. I’ll have a quick word with Lady Ashby, then I’ll go to Holloway and you can take Timpson.’

  ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s got anything to do with it, but it won’t hurt him to wait a b
it longer, will it?’ Fallowfield smiled. ‘At least until I’ve spoken to his wife. Can’t say I blame her for not wanting to take his name, though.’

  He found Geraldine Ashby keeping company with a bottle of cognac. ‘Is the bitch pressing charges, then?’ she asked as he walked in.

  Penrose sat down opposite her. ‘If you mean Miss Bannerman, I seem to have forgotten to give her the opportunity.’

  He smiled, and she looked surprised. ‘Good God—two understanding policemen in one day. In that case, I’ll forgive you for preventing me from finishing what I started. Bannerman got off lightly, which is more than Marjorie did, by the sound of it.’

  She nodded towards the bottle, but Penrose shook his head. ‘Not just now, thanks. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’

  ‘Be my guest. As you can see, I’m not going anywhere.’

  She spoke evenly, and he would never have guessed the level of the bottle from her voice, but the intoxication which Fallowfield had spoken of was obvious in her eyes and in the way her hand shook when she lit a cigarette. ‘Did Marjorie ever tell you anything about her family when you saw her at Motley?’

  ‘No,’ she said instantly, but Penrose’s initial disappointment was short-lived. ‘She didn’t know anything about them herself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. The first time I met her, she asked me what it felt like to be able to trace your family back for generations, because she only knew her parents and her brothers and sisters. I know she didn’t get on with either her mother or her father these days, but she said even when she was younger they wouldn’t tell her anything about the rest of her family.’

  ‘So she was curious about her own history?’

  ‘Yes—or rather about its absence. She asked me how she might find out more about it, but I told her I wasn’t the best person to give that sort of advice—if I want to know anything about my family, I just go and look at a portrait on a wall. I suggested that she was better off not knowing, but she just pointed out that it was easy for me to say that, and of course she was right. She was right about a lot of things, actually.’