by Nicola Upson
Damned either way if she stayed in bed, she put on her dressing gown and went through to the telephone in the sitting room. The nurse who answered sounded surprised to be disturbed at such an early hour, but she gave Celia the information she asked for: no, there was no change in Lucy’s condition, but, with every night that passed, there were more reasons to be positive; she was obviously stronger than she looked. That was something Celia didn’t need to be told: every time she thought back to those moments on the stairs, she remembered Lucy’s scorched and blistered body struggling beneath her hands. It was the first time in her life that she had underestimated someone, and it would be the last.
She walked over to the window and stared out into the darkness. Cavendish Square lay somewhere beneath her, invisible at this time of night, but Celia needed neither daylight nor streetlamps to be able to plot each individual feature because the familiarity of a view was perhaps the greatest luxury in a life which she had only recently allowed herself to take for granted. She thought she had finally put it all behind her, this need to be continually moving on, but she had begun to look over her shoulder again, and her nerve was not what it used to be. Knowing that to hesitate would be fatal, she took a piece of paper out of the drawer and began to write.
It was just after ten o’clock when Penrose left the canteen, a snatched cup of coffee still burning the back of his throat. He took the lift to the third floor, ready to brief his team. The public sharing of information and progress on a case was normally something he enjoyed tremendously but this morning, as he walked down the long corridor to the CID office, he realised to his surprise that he was nervous. Usually, when he stood in front of his officers, he had the backing of the Yard’s chemists, pathologists and photographers, not to mention a well-tested system of analysis and procedure; today, he was asking them to trust him rather than the evidence. This time, the experts had been unable to help, and even Spilsbury’s typically thorough post-mortem report on Marjorie Baker and her father had only told him what could not have happened. His case against Celia Bannerman was based on his personal dislike, as Fallowfield had pointed out, and on a pieced-together narrative gleaned from unreliable sources, one of which made no attempt to hide the fact that it was fiction. The chief constable had hit the nail on the head—he must be going out of his mind—but his attempts to shrug off the seriousness of what he was doing did not entirely blind him to the reality of the situation: if he was wrong, his career and everything it meant to him were on very shaky foundations.
The sane, businesslike atmosphere of the CID room reassured him a little, if only by its familiarity. Fallowfield had already gathered the rest of the team together, and they looked at Penrose expectantly as he walked in. ‘Right, everyone,’ he said, perching on a desk at the far side of the room, his back to a wall covered in maps of the different London divisions, ‘you all know why you’re here and you’re all familiar with the details of the two murders in question. Some of you have put good work in on the case already, but patience and persistence hasn’t got us anywhere, so it’s time to step things up a gear. Before we go any further, though, I have to stress that what we talk about in this room today goes no further than the people present.’ He saw one or two of the men exchange glances. ‘The Cowdray Club and the College of Nursing are respected organisations with high-profile connections. WPC Wyles is already working at the club under cover, and I’ll brief her later this morning when I go over to Cavendish Square, but she’s the only other person who will know what’s going on.’ He smiled wryly at his colleagues. ‘We don’t want to upset the chief constable’s evening, do we?’
A ripple of laughter ran through the room. Penrose opened the file he was carrying, and passed the contents round. ‘There are some plans of the club here, and photographs from a recent Tatler which show some of its key members and the victim, Marjorie Baker. I want you all to familiarise yourselves with the faces in the picture and the layout of the building—you’ll need both this evening. The woman I’m most interested in is Celia Bannerman, second from the right. She’s the club’s secretary, and a key figure in nursing administration and welfare. I won’t bore you with her list of achievements, but suffice it to say that she’s shaken Queen Mary’s hand often enough to have calluses.’ He paused, anticipating the impact of his next sentence. ‘I believe that Bannerman killed Marjorie Baker and her father because they discovered something about her past which she wanted to keep quiet. I also think that she tried to kill Lucy Peters on Saturday night and that, given the opportunity, she’ll endeavour to finish what she started. That’s where we come in.’
He nodded to Fallowfield, who gave a brief résumé of the past which Celia Bannerman wished to forget—or at least Penrose’s version of it. To his credit, the sergeant showed no sign of the doubts which he had expressed privately to Penrose; loyalty was one of his many fine qualities and, if he still favoured Edwards as prime suspect, none of the younger officers would have guessed as much. Penrose was grateful: if tonight was to be a success, the whole team needed to believe in what it was doing, and he knew that the officers had as much respect for Fallowfield’s opinion as they did for his. ‘Thompson and Daly have been through the records office with a fine-tooth comb,’ the sergeant said, referring to the storehouse of past misdeeds at the Yard, where hundreds of thousands of files were kept on all types of convicts and their associates, ‘but there’s nothing to help us at all with Vale. Of course, it may be that her sentence did the trick and she turned over a new leaf when she got out, or it may be that she just happened to disappear off the face of the earth when Bannerman left London. On the other hand, Bannerman’s employment record since she took the job in Leeds is exemplary, as Inspector Penrose says. No one can speak highly enough of her. I don’t say that as a testament to her good character, but merely as an indication of how much she’s got to lose.’
Penrose took over again, and held up his copy of the club’s floor plan. ‘The gala will take place on stage in the Memorial Hall,’ he said. ‘That’s where Bannerman will be for most of the evening so we’ll concentrate our efforts there, although we’ll also have some of you positioned amongst the guests in the bars and dining room. I want her under close surveillance at all times, and Sergeant Fallowfield will tell you all where you’re to be in a minute. Lucy Peters is being cared for in the treatment rooms on the second floor, which is actually part of the College of Nursing. You don’t need to worry about the distinction between the two organisations; as you’ll see from the plan, they’re linked architecturally, but it’s a complicated building and I want you to know it like the back of your hand before tonight. Bannerman does, and that’s the one advantage she has on us. There are two staircases and lifts between the floors; the stairs by the Henrietta Street entrance are the most direct route to Peters’s room, but don’t take anything for granted.’ He glanced down at the timetable that Wyles had given him for the evening. ‘The champagne reception starts at seven, and the show itself at eight-thirty, but the highlight of the evening doesn’t come till later, after the interval. If Bannerman is going to do what I think she is, she’ll choose the moment when Noël and Gertie take to the stage—that’s when everyone will be in the hall.’
‘Don’t blame them, Sir,’ chipped in one of the officers. ‘That Miss Lawrence is a bit of all right.’
Everyone laughed, including Penrose. ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Ben,’ he said, ‘and if we get the job done, no one will be heading for the front row faster than me. But this is where it gets serious. At that point, if nothing untoward has happened, the policeman on watch outside Peters’s room will come down for a drink and a look at the show. He’ll make sure that Bannerman sees him—she’s been up to check on the poor girl every hour or so, I gather, so there won’t be an issue about her recognising him.’ He took a deep breath and sounded as confident as he could. ‘That’s when she’ll leave the room and go upstairs.’
‘Will there be someone in the room with the girl?’ M
errifield asked.
‘Absolutely. There must be no risk whatsoever to Peters’s condition—it’s fragile enough as it is. I wish we could put someone in her place, but Bannerman’s not stupid. Whichever one of you is in that room, wait as long as you can to make sure that our murderer incriminates herself, but do not—I repeat, do not—put the girl in danger. And if it’s a choice between the two, for God’s sake do the right thing. I’m going to have enough trouble persuading Miriam Sharpe to let us do this at all, so don’t let me down.’
‘Can she be trusted, Sir? Miss Sharpe, I mean.’
It was Fallowfield’s question, and something that Penrose had already thought long and hard about. ‘I’m as sure as I can be, Bill,’ he said, ‘and we have no choice. I don’t doubt that she’s capable of keeping this to herself and she’s no great fan of Celia Bannerman; my only concern is that she’ll object to the ethics of the thing. I know what she means, but if I can convince her that Lucy’s in no additional danger, I think she’ll go along with it. Any other questions?’
‘How will Bannerman do it, Sir?’
‘Suffocation, probably, or perhaps an injection. It depends how prepared she is for the right opportunity.’
Another hand was raised hesitantly, and Ellis glanced nervously at his colleagues before speaking. ‘What happens if you’re wrong, Sir?’
Penrose smiled. ‘Good question. If that turns out to be the case, then I’ll be introducing you to Detective Inspector Fallowfield on my way out of the building.’ The joke eased the tension in the room, and only Penrose realised that there was a serious side to it. ‘I’ll leave you with him now to go over the details for later, and don’t be afraid to ask any questions you like. We need to be as prepared as possible. So best bib and tucker, everyone, and good luck.’
On his way over to the Cowdray Club, Penrose thought about how best to approach the subject with Miriam Sharpe and decided that honesty was the only way to convince her. Even so, as he sat across the desk from her in her office, he realised that he had a long struggle ahead of him. ‘Of course she’s in danger, Inspector. The girl has third-degree burns on a large percentage of her body, and all the other complications which that involves. I hardly think you needed to come all the way from the Embankment to tell me that.’
‘That’s not quite what I meant, Miss Sharpe,’ Penrose explained patiently. ‘I must ask you to keep this strictly confidential, but I don’t think Lucy Peters’s fall was an accident and I think there may well be another attempt on her life during the gala tonight.’
‘Not an accident? That’s impossible, surely. Celia was on the scene immediately, and there simply wouldn’t have been time for someone to push the girl and get away without her seeing them.’ As Penrose remained silent, he could see Miriam Sharpe reading between the lines of what he had said. ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous, Inspector,’ she said, horrified. ‘There’s no love lost between Celia and me, as you know, but she’s built a career—a life, if you like—on improving things for women. Cold-bloodedly pushing a child down the stairs simply isn’t something she’d be capable of.’
‘I gather she’s shown an avid interest in Lucy’s condition since the accident.’
‘Well yes, she has, but that’s only natural. She’s as worried about the organisation’s reputation as I am, and her own position may well be in question if Lucy dies—the girl should never have been doing what she was doing in the first place.’
‘I think she has rather more at stake than her position, Miss Sharpe.’
‘But why on earth would she want to harm a servant?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that at the moment,’ he said, and marvelled at how this simple expression of honesty invariably conveyed a greater significance to the listener. Miriam Sharpe was no exception.
‘Very well, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I suppose I have no choice but to trust you, but please explain to me what you intend to do. I’ll agree to nothing which goes against the interests of my patient.’
‘Of course,’ Penrose said, and outlined his plan with as much reassurance as he could. ‘When the policeman leaves the door outside Miss Peters’s room, I want the nurse on duty to leave, too, and wait in one of the other rooms down the corridor.’
‘You think the girl is in danger so you leave her entirely unprotected?’
‘Not unprotected at all. As soon as the nurse leaves, one of my officers will wait behind the screen in …’
‘Yes, yes, Inspector—we’ve all read The Murder at the Vicarage. But how do I know that I can rely on your officer to put my patient’s safety first? How does the life of a servant girl—particularly a life that is already hanging in the balance—rate against your conviction?’
‘You have my word. There will no additional risk to her life. I don’t make sacrifices, Miss Sharpe, particularly the human sort, and I don’t take it upon myself to decide the value of a life any more than you do in your work.’
His self-righteousness won him the day. She nodded reluctantly, but said: ‘I must stress, Inspector, that if anything goes wrong I will personally do everything I can to ensure you never have the opportunity of making another mistake.’
If anything went wrong, Penrose thought, she would have to get in the queue, but he thanked her and stood up to leave. ‘And I can rely on you not to share this information with anyone?’
‘Yes. I’ll take care of Lucy myself tonight. I have no desire to be at the circus, but my nurses will be only too glad to go. In any case,’ she added as he got to the door, ‘this is hardly something that I’d wish to broadcast, is it?’
Lettice and Ronnie were taking a break in the bar when he got downstairs, and he was pleased to find them on their own. ‘Coffee?’ Lettice asked, pushing the pot towards him across the table.
He shook his head. ‘Sorry—I haven’t got time. I was hoping to have a word with Wyles if you can get her for me?’
‘I’m not sure we can spare her,’ Ronnie said, and grinned. ‘Seriously, Archie—she’s been an absolute gem, and she’s really taken Hilda’s mind off what’s happened. If you ever decide against women in the force, you know where to send her.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ he said. ‘I need all the help I can get, especially today. As do you, it seems—you both look exhausted.’
‘It’s the coffee that’s keeping us conscious,’ Lettice admitted. ‘We’ve been here all night. It’s the only way we stand any chance at all of being ready by this evening.’
‘Then you can’t tell me how Josephine is,’ Archie said. ‘I was hoping you might have seen her at breakfast.’
‘Josephine?’ Ronnie asked, confused.
‘Yes. I sent her back to Maiden Lane last night—there’s too much going on here at the moment, and I’d rather she was safely out of the way. And you should be careful, too, if you insist on wandering round the building in the dead of night.’
‘But I popped back to Maiden Lane at around two to fetch something to eat and Josephine …’
‘And Josephine was asleep by then,’ Lettice interrupted, glaring at her sister. ‘But she’s fine, Archie—we saw her this morning when she came to try her dress on. It was sweet of you to be worried, though. I’m sure she appreciated it.’ Ronnie looked at her, bewildered, but said nothing more. ‘We’ll go back to the girls now and find an excuse to send Lillian out to you. Will you be here?’
Archie looked round, and changed his mind about the coffee. ‘Yes, this is private enough and I won’t keep her long. And if you see Josephine again, tell her I’ll be here at six-thirty.’
‘All right. See you later.’
‘What the fuck was that about?’ Ronnie asked peevishly as they made their way out into the foyer.
Marta sat by the window for a long time after Josephine left, half afraid to go anywhere else in the house. It was a neat trick, this conjuring of loneliness from solitude, restlessness from peace, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on how Josephine had managed it in just a few hours, but
all her carefully constructed self-sufficiency had disappeared in a taxi to Cavendish Square, and what she was left with now felt empty and desolate.
Tired of the silence, she walked over to the gramophone to put some music on, then changed her mind and made some coffee instead. Her head ached from too much wine and too little sleep, and she turned the bathroom cabinet inside out looking for the aspirin before remembering that she’d left the bottle on the terrace the day before, when her back had lost the war against the ceanothus. Throwing a coat on over her pyjamas, she went out to fetch them. The garden looked worse than ever this morning: it had that weary, dirty feel that always follows snow, and her efforts to clear the borders had only succeeded in trampling mud into the grass and creating piles of dead wood and rubble wherever she looked. As she stared out over a barren, bleak stretch of earth, a wasteland with no hope of spring, she wondered why she had ever imagined that there was a point to all this.
She picked the bottle of pills up and put it down again, afraid of how comforting it felt in her hand. By now, she had lost count of how many times this particular routine had played itself out in her life, but she was surely running out of excuses. She turned to go back inside, the tablets once again in her pocket, but something caught her eye by the wall—a flash of brilliant yellow which hadn’t been there yesterday. Bending down, she looked in delight at the winter daffodil, and smiled to think that it should have chosen today to arrive.