by Nicola Upson
‘Did he ever ask you to lie to save her?’ The fact that Jacob Sach had spent the rest of his life with the woman who testified so convincingly against the wife he supposedly loved was one of the many things which Josephine had never understood about the case. ‘And would you have done it if he had?’
‘I offered to, but he said no. He said he didn’t know how else to stop her doing what she was doing.’ She noticed Josephine’s expression, and added quickly: ‘I don’t mean he wanted her to hang—of course he didn’t. But neither of them ever believed it would come to that, and Joe thought that if she had to go to prison for a bit, it would frighten her so much that she’d knock it all on the head and they could go back to the way they were, just the three of them. I’m not trying to make excuses for him: he was a bastard to me and a bastard to his kids, and if he hadn’t been such a waste of space, then perhaps Marjorie would still be alive. But nothing would ever convince him that he hadn’t put the noose around her neck himself.’
Josephine hesitated, wanting to move the conversation from Jacob Sach to his wife, but reluctant to aggravate Edwards. ‘You must have got to know Amelia very well,’ she began cautiously.
‘I was her servant, not her friend.’
Precisely, Josephine thought: if someone ever wanted an accurate picture of her, they’d be much better off talking to her maid in Inverness than to Lydia or even Archie. ‘Even so, you lived under her roof. What was she like?’
She realised that it was a simplistic question, but there was no point in trying to dress it up: Edwards would simply see straight through her. It seemed to take her a long time to decide how to answer, or even whether to answer at all, but eventually she said: ‘You could say that she was kindness itself. When I turned up on her doorstep, I was seven months pregnant and desperate. There was nobody I could turn to, and I knew nothing about having a baby. Have you got kids?’ Josephine shook her head. ‘Then you won’t understand what it’s like to feel trapped by your own body. She took me in and looked after me, she explained what was going to happen when the baby’s time came, and she made sure that I wasn’t frightened any more. When I think about Amelia Sach, I think about giving birth to my first child. She was so gentle, so caring, and so in control—it’s the only time in my life that I’ve ever felt truly safe. And she was a devoted mother. Lizzie adored her. So did my son. Nothing was too much trouble for her where they were concerned.’
Josephine had expected to hear that Sach was a good mother, but she had never dreamt that Edwards might regard the woman as some kind of sanctuary. She barely had time to consider the information before Edwards continued: ‘Or you could say that she was an obsessive, manipulative bitch who set out to destroy innocent lives and made a half-decent job of it. I watched her with those other girls, you know, and she was so protective until the moment the baby was born; after that, there was no warmth, no compassion—just a cold, detached process until the kid was safely out of the house. She held those babies as though they were already dead.’
Edwards must have seen the confusion in Josephine’s eyes, because she added: ‘There’s no sense in trying to work out the truth from what I’ve just told you. The point is, you can never know what Amelia Sach was like because you weren’t there. Just ask yourself—how would you feel if someone wrote a book about you in fifty years’ time? Would that be an accurate picture? Would I know what you were really like if I read it?’ She finished her coffee and put the cup down. ‘Don’t think I’m trying to put you off what you’re doing—it makes no odds to me, because things can’t get any worse. But if I were you, I’d forget all about it. It’ll only ever be half a story.’
Josephine looked at the woman she had cast as the pivotal figure in the Sach and Walters story, and saw only another casualty. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked.
‘Bury them and move on. Find somewhere else to hide and live the lie again until someone else finds out.’
Josephine stood to leave, but this time it was her turn to be held back. ‘You said you knew Lizzie,’ Edwards said, and there was an uncomplicated affection in her voice which hadn’t been there when she spoke of anyone else. ‘I didn’t know anything about her death until the police told me. What happened?’
Josephine hesitated, then chose the half of the story which was likely to give Edwards peace rather than further torment. ‘She had an accident in a gym. It was a physical training college, and she was practising on one of the ropes.’
‘But she was happy? I’ve never really forgiven myself for letting her or my son go just because Joe wanted a new start.’
‘Yes, she was very happy. From what I understand, she’d had a fabulous childhood and a lot of love. As hard as it must have been for you to give her up, she never suffered because of it. I’m sure it was the same for your son.’
Uneasy with the lie, she left Nora Edwards to her thoughts and headed back towards Scotland Yard. Archie must have been watching them, because he was already waiting for her on the steps. They walked in the other direction along the Embankment, and found a bench overlooking the river. ‘How did you get on?’ he asked.
‘I think I learned more than I ever wanted to know,’ she admitted, and told him about Amelia Sach’s execution. ‘I’m not sure I want to live in a world where that can happen.’
‘I know what you mean, but if you try to take responsibility for something like that, you’ll go insane. Believe me, I’ve lost enough sleep over it in my time.’
‘We’re all responsible, though, aren’t we? We’ve just come through a general election, for God’s sake, and we’re supposed to live in a democracy.’ She waved a hand in the direction of parliament. ‘If that lot can’t sort out a more humane way of punishing people, isn’t that my problem? Shouldn’t there be basic rights for everyone?’
‘And Marjorie? What about her rights?’
Josephine sighed. ‘I know what you’re saying, and I don’t have any arguments to that one.’ She waited for a pause in the traffic over Westminster Bridge, and then asked: ‘Has Celia admitted everything?’
‘Yes and no. I’m afraid it’s rather more complicated than that. This is strictly confidential, but the woman we have in custody isn’t Celia Bannerman.’
‘What?’ Josephine looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. ‘Of course she’s Celia Bannerman. I should know—I spent enough time with the woman at Anstey.’
‘With the woman, yes, but not with Celia Bannerman.’
She listened, incredulous, as Archie explained. ‘So you’re telling me that half her life has been a lie?’
‘In the fundamental sense of her identity, yes; the personality and the achievements aren’t an act, though—they’re who she really is, as she went to great lengths to point out to me. We’re waiting for Ethel Stuke to get here from Suffolk to confirm what she’s saying, but I’ve no doubt that she’s Eleanor Vale.’
‘But what about the information she gave me for the book? How could she have known all that?’
‘She’d spent enough time in Holloway to know how prison worked, and she lived with Celia Bannerman—they must have talked. I had another look at what you’d written, though; if you analyse it very carefully, there’s not much there that isn’t generally available, and as you’ve just found out yourself, a lot of it isn’t even true.’ He accepted a cigarette gratefully. ‘It’s that speech I can’t get out of my head, you know. All that talk about the nation’s children, and she ends up being a bloody baby farmer.’
Josephine stared out across the river to the crescent-shaped façade of County Hall. ‘Do you think she had anything to do with Lizzie Sach’s death?’ she asked quietly. The thought that Lizzie might somehow have discovered the truth about her mother’s execution as well as her crimes had haunted her from the moment Edwards described it to her.
‘I don’t know. The police were satisfied at the time that it was a straightforward suicide, if you can ever have such a thing.’
‘I’m not saying that Celia
killed her—well, not Celia, but you know who I mean. I can’t think of her as anybody else. I just wondered if she might have had good reason to want Lizzie dead—she was a link with the past, after all. She might have seen the real Celia Bannerman.’
‘She was four years old, Josephine. I doubt she’d have remembered anything that could threaten Vale’s lie.’
‘I was thinking about what you said on the way to Suffolk, though, and you were right: the natural thing for Lizzie to do when she first heard about her mother was to seek confirmation from the woman who had shown such an interest in her life—not take every detail on trust and hang herself in the gym. Wouldn’t you ask questions before you did something like that? What if Celia knew what she was going to do and didn’t try to stop her?’ He said nothing, but Josephine could see that he agreed. ‘Archie, Gerry’s life will never be settled as long as she believes that it was her fault, and only her fault, that Lizzie died. If there’s the slightest chance that Celia was in some way responsible, couldn’t you at least question her about it?’
‘I can’t guarantee I’ll be questioning her about anything else with the state she’s in at the moment,’ he admitted. ‘And the three recent deaths have to be my priority. I’m not even sure that I can get her for the murder of Celia Bannerman after all this time.’
‘I thought you said she’d confessed?’
‘She has, but we still need corroborative evidence if we’re to get a conviction, and she knows that.’
‘So what you’re trying to tell me, in the nicest possible way, is that you can only hang her once.’ She was quiet for a moment, trying to make sense of everything in her life that had been thrown into doubt over the last few days. ‘How far would she have gone, do you think?’
‘She’d have done whatever was necessary to protect the lie,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of that, at least.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Can I get Bill to drop you back at the club?’
‘No, I’d rather walk. I’ll be stuck on a train for long enough later.’
Archie looked surprised. ‘I thought you were staying until the weekend?’
‘Not any more—I’ve managed to get a sleeper for tonight.’ She stood up, hoping to avoid a long explanation. ‘London’s lost some of its loveliness for a bit, and I need to get away.’
He knew better than to try to change her mind. ‘Do you know when you’ll be back?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘But you’ll call me when you do?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled, and bent to kiss him. ‘Perhaps you’ll have got those bloody boxes unpacked by then.’ She was almost at Westminster Bridge when she heard him call after her. ‘What did you say?’ she asked, shouting to make herself heard over the traffic.
‘I told you to think about yourself.’ He threw his cigarette stub on the ground and stood up. ‘Not me. Not Lydia. Not even your family. Just you.’
Chapter Sixteen
Josephine walked slowly up the hill to Crown Cottage with the latest Film Weekly tucked under her arm. Inverness was grey and quiet and misty in the late morning, and the weather seemed to have settled on a compromise, halfway between the absurdly March-like sun which had lit the Grampians on her journey south and the snow which had turned them white to their roots by the time she travelled home. But if nature had righted itself to usher in December, her world remained strangely at odds with itself. She glanced down towards the railway station, with the bleak, dark mass of Ben Wyvis in the background, and watched as the Edinburgh train pulled lazily out into the countryside; just a fortnight ago, she would have considered the sight of a train headed for London as a lifeline; now, she was not so sure.
‘You’re popular today,’ called a cheerful voice from across the road.
Josephine waved to the post girl, but her heart sank as she envisaged a pile of bills, begging letters and catalogues. The mail was always so dull after a trip away, and it was only a matter of days now, surely, before the first Christmas card dropped smugly on to the mat. ‘Couldn’t you just tell them I’ve moved, Jenny?’ she asked drily. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Eight letters and a parcel. I’ve left them in the porch for you.’
Josephine thanked her and climbed the narrow set of steps which led directly to the back of the house, saving her the bother of greeting her neighbours as she went down the drive. What could the parcel be, she wondered? Something back from the laundry, perhaps, although she couldn’t immediately remember sending anything to the laundry. When she picked it up and saw the label of an Oxford Street bookshop, she smiled and looked for the explanatory letter; there it was, in Marta’s handwriting; in fact, two of the envelopes were from Marta.
She barely had a chance to close the front door behind her before her maid emerged from the kitchen, clutching a wet towel. ‘Miss Tey—thank goodness you’re back. The sitting-room grate’s fallen out and now we’ve got a leak under the kitchen sink. I’ve mopped it up as best I can, but the whole place will be flooded if it’s not fixed this afternoon.’
How quickly reality came crashing back in, Josephine thought, listening to the catalogue of domestic disasters that seemed to have befallen Crown Cottage in the space of an hour and a half. She took one look at the girl’s worried face, and knew that she just wanted to be on her own. Putting the mail down on the hall table, she took the towel from her gently and led her back to the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Morag. You’ve had a lot to deal with while I’ve been away, and you deserve some time to yourself.’
Morag looked at her in astonishment. ‘But I haven’t even started your unpacking yet.’
‘I’ll take care of it later,’ Josephine said firmly. ‘Go and do some Christmas shopping or something.’
‘But what about the leak?’
Just in time, she stopped herself saying something about the leak that Ronnie would have been proud of. ‘Stick a bucket under it before you go, and I’ll make sure it’s dealt with.’ She helped Morag on with her coat. ‘Were there any messages while I was out?’
‘Your sister telephoned. She and Mr Donald are coming up on Thursday instead of Friday next week. And your father won’t be in for supper—he said to go ahead and eat without him.’
Josephine breathed a sigh of relief as Morag’s footsteps faded down the drive, and tried to remember the last time she had had the house to herself for eight glorious hours. The rooms were still fragrant with Marta’s flowers; the scent had followed her to Inverness from London, filling the sleeper and reminding her—if she needed reminding—that whatever she was running from was not so easily shaken off. She picked the post up, walked through to the tiny sitting room at the back of the house where the grate was still intact, and settled down with her feet on the hearth to look through her mail. The book was a copy of Wuthering Heights, a beautiful leather edition with gilt lettering, its pages yet to be cut; Marta had looked at her in disbelief when she said she hadn’t read it, almost as if it were a personal affront, and Josephine knew that it would only be a matter of time before the novel found its way to Inverness. With apologies to Emily Brontë, she put the book aside and turned to Marta’s letters. One envelope contained some more pages from the diary, which Marta had promised to continue to send her; the other, a short note.
You left me no time to give this to you in person, so I throw myself upon the mercy of His Majesty’s post and hope that it slips through those hallowed defences at Crown Cottage, even if I can’t. It seems that we’re destined to spend our lives at railway stations, you and I, and hurried departures are becoming a habit. Once again, you’ve blighted my life by going out of it, but tonight, somehow, Inverness feels closer than it used to.
Lydia tells me that she’s writing to suggest you join us at Tagley for Christmas. It will be amusing to see whether you accept or refuse. In your place, I should wickedly accept for the fun of seeing what the other fellow would do, but perhaps your Scottish code doesn’t allow that? Stop
being so glib, I hear you say—but Josephine, sometimes it’s the only way. Don’t ever be fooled by it; don’t doubt that I love you.
That, at least, was no longer in question: Josephine had known it from the moment that Marta first touched her, had felt the truth of it in every hour they spent together, and she was ashamed to remember how easily she had dismissed Marta’s feelings as something less than real. And if the looker-on in her still insisted that there was no sense in loving someone you couldn’t be with, there was, for the first time in her life, another voice which accepted that the loving itself was not a matter of choice.
She glanced through the rest of the mail—sure enough, there was the card from Lydia—and put it down to open later. There was something she needed to do first, something for Gerry which she would have found impossible when they had talked that morning at breakfast. Consciously or not, she had underestimated Gerry’s love for Lizzie Sach, too, and had written it off as some sort of adolescent passion which would have passed with time, but she realised now that it was her imagination which had been lacking, not Gerry’s feelings. Determined to make it up to her, she settled down at her typewriter to lay the Sach and Walters case to rest once and for all. The final chapter would only ever be read by one person; even so, it was the one that mattered most.
(untitled)
by Josephine Tey
First Draft
Anstey Physical Training College, Birmingham, Wednesday 14 June 1916
Lizzie knocked loudly on the door of Celia Bannerman’s office and went straight in without waiting for a reply. Miss Bannerman was at her desk, and made no acknowledgement of any interruption until she had finished the letter she was writing. The arrogance of her unhurried progress across the page sickened Lizzie, and she could barely contain her anger; eventually, the teacher looked up at her and smiled.
‘Miss Price—what can I do for you at this time of night?’