Fear in the Sunlight (Josephine Tey Mystery 4)

by Nicola Upson

  The darker subtext that she had felt so strongly in some of Bella’s words now made perfect sense to Josephine. ‘Of course I won’t say anything.’ It was an easy promise to make; in Bella’s position, she would want nothing more than to keep her illness as private as possible and come to terms with the end of her life in her own way.

  ‘Thank you. Dying isn’t easy when you’re famous – people act very differently when they realise they’ve only a limited amount of time to get what they need from you.’ She looked shrewdly at Josephine and said‚ ‘Usually, I’d feel the need to apologise for my cynicism, but I get the impression from your book that we view celebrity in much the same way. There’s a lot of truth in the way your character talks about fame, and somehow I don’t think you got that from other people’s memoirs. It doesn’t sit well with you, does it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Josephine said truthfully. ‘I don’t like the way it encourages people to think they know you when they don’t.’

  Bella nodded. ‘And to compensate for that, you end up becoming someone you don’t always recognise yourself.’ She treated Josephine to a world-weary glance, straight out of one of her films. ‘And you’ll understand now that I found Christine Clay’s death strangely prophetic when I read your book. I imagine people will react to mine in much the same way – pity, dismay and horror, but very little real grief.’

  ‘What about your family?’ Josephine asked. ‘Is that why you’ve come back – to be with them?’ Bella looked so surprised that Josephine suddenly doubted Lettice’s information. ‘I’m sorry – I thought you were born here?’

  ‘Yes I was, but I always forget how much people know. I suppose even I could learn something about my life if I read enough newspapers.’ It wasn’t an accusation, but Josephine reproached herself for being guilty of the very thing that she had claimed to despise in others. Bella pointed across the estuary. ‘I grew up in that house over there. My family name was Draycott, and there were four children. I was the middle of three sisters and we had an older brother called Henry. He wasn’t a nice man. Once he inherited the house from my parents, the rest of us couldn’t wait to get out.’ She took an exquisite art-nouveau cigarette case from her bag and offered it to Josephine. ‘Do you know Portmeirion well?’

  ‘I’ve been a few times.’

  ‘Then you’ll have heard about the eccentric old woman and her graveyard for dogs?’ Josephine nodded. ‘Well, that was Grace, my older sister – except she wasn’t really old‚ and she wasn’t really eccentric. She rented this house for many years, but she didn’t deserve the reputation she seems to have. She was no fairy-tale witch, just a gentle woman who took in strays and mourned them when they were gone.’

  Intrigued, Josephine said, ‘It must upset you to come back here and listen to strangers talking about your own sister.’

  ‘It feels disloyal to sit there and say nothing, but I’m too tired to argue, Josephine. Is that cowardly of me?’

  ‘I imagine it preys more heavily on your conscience than it does on hers.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t have the sunniest reputation in my home town, although I’ve only got myself to blame for much of that. But it doesn’t really bother me now, and I certainly wouldn’t want my sister to lose sleep over it when I’m dead. Would Grace have cared what people say?’

  ‘No, probably not. She’d be too busy laughing at the thought of the heir to the throne having slept in her bedroom. Anyway, compared to the rest of the family, her eccentricities are fairly tame.’

  ‘Oh?’ Josephine said encouragingly, hoping that Bella would have time to finish her story before Alma Reville joined them.

  ‘My younger sister, May, ran off with one of the Gypsies who passed through every summer – much to the moral outrage of all the people round here, of course, but she knew her own mind. And she really didn’t give a damn about what people thought of her. I suppose she must have had the romantic streak of the family.’

  ‘Are you telling me that Hollywood isn’t romantic?’

  ‘Only from the outside looking in. When you see it up close, it’s got more cracks in it than the House of Usher. But May’s romance was very real. Tobin was the love of her life and a good man by all accounts, although I never really knew him. I was too busy with my own life. Not that love did her any good in the long run. She died having their second child, little more than a kid herself.’ There was a restrained anger in her voice. Josephine guessed that it was half grief and half guilt at her absence during her family’s sadness; she knew, too, that there was nothing she could say to make Bella feel any better. ‘So no,’ the actress said matter-of-factly, ‘there’s no one left here to grieve for me, even if I wanted them to.’

  ‘What about your brother?’ Josephine asked. ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘But he doesn’t live here?’

  ‘No. He ran off with a married woman from Porthmadog – his wife’s best friend, actually. Loyalty was never something that either of them aspired to. His wife still lives there,’ she said, nodding to her family home, ‘and I think she was glad to see the back of him. As I said, not a nice man‚ but nothing he does ever seems to come back to haunt him like it would in a just world; he simply moves on and blights someone else’s life. He certainly won’t be shedding any tears on my account, any more than I would for him.’ She spoke dispassionately, as if she were recounting the plot of her latest film, then lowered her voice and added with more feeling‚ ‘Thinking about it, that’s another thing I seem to have in common with your Miss Clay – a healthy capacity for hatred, particularly where our brothers are concerned. Sometimes, Josephine, I wonder if it’s actually hate which is eating me up inside and not cancer at all.’

  ‘Have you been to see his wife?’ Josephine asked, wondering if the intensity with which Bella had been watching the house when she first came in was down to a human connection or simply an attachment to the bricks and mortar of home.

  ‘Gwyneth? No. I haven’t seen her for eighteen years. She hides herself away from everyone as much as she can, and I’m not surprised. What happened to her isn’t the sort of thing you just get over.’ Josephine looked curious. ‘Just after Henry left her, Gwyneth found out she was pregnant,’ Bella explained. She never told him because she didn’t want him back, but she adored that child‚ and Grace took her in for a while and helped her as much as she could – not out of family duty, but because she genuinely liked Gwyneth and she had the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. Three years later‚ Taran went missing and was never seen again, dead or alive. It destroyed her – the loss, and then the uncertainty. So the house has become an obsession with her, something she’s terrified to leave in case Taran is still alive and doesn’t know where to find her. She cut herself off from everything and everyone the day that child disappeared.’

  ‘Doesn’t she have any idea what happened?’

  ‘No. There was talk of an abduction, and the locals turned on an outsider – out of desperation, I hasten to add, rather than knowledge.’ She looked down. ‘That was the worst part for me. The outsider was May’s Gypsy.’

  ‘But surely he didn’t . . .’

  ‘Of course not, but violence and prejudice don’t work according to reason, do they? Remember the mob scene in The Lodger?’ Josephine nodded. ‘It was just like that, except Tobin wasn’t as lucky as Mr Novello. Nobody remembered to write him a happy ending.’

  ‘What happened?’ Josephine asked.

  ‘They killed him. There used to be an old cottage in the woods‚ and they cornered him there like an animal. It was all conveniently brushed over, of course. There was a long and bitter history between the Gypsies and the men from the town – fights every summer when the camp arrived, accusations of vandalism and theft on both sides, rows over women. But the locals stuck together on this one, and the police weren’t exactly diligent. As far as they were concerned, one less Gypsy in the world was a public service. Anyway, no one could prove who was ultimately respon
sible, and they could hardly arrest the whole mob.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Grace was devastated, but at least May was dead by then. She never had to see it.’

  ‘Surely the police could have worked a bit harder to find out who was to blame?’ Josephine said, thinking about Archie and the personal responsibility he took for every case he worked on. ‘You can’t turn a blind eye to someone’s death just because it’s difficult.’

  Bella was quiet for so long that Josephine began to wonder if she had finally overstepped the mark; the story, though freely told, was not hers to comment on. ‘No,’ the actress said eventually, but her tone was wistful rather than resentful. ‘No, I don’t suppose you can.’

  Another couple sat down at the next table, and Josephine watched as the girl made a less than subtle gesture towards the film star. ‘It must be difficult to try to make peace with your ghosts in the middle of a busy hotel.’

  ‘It’s probably the best thing that could have happened to the place. When something’s too dark, covering it with glamour and glitz is the only way. Hollywood depends on it. I’ve done it all my life. But you’re right – there are ghosts everywhere.’ She leant forward and surprised Josephine by taking her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise it until you sat down, but I needed to talk to someone – someone who, sadly, I’ll never meet again. You’ve been very kind, and you’ve helped me make my mind up.’

  ‘Can I ask what about?’

  Bella shook her head. ‘No, I’ve said enough‚ and, if I’m right, you’ll soon find out.’ She looked up and withdrew her hand. ‘Anyway, the power behind the throne has just arrived, and there’s not a chance in Hell of an abdication there.’

  ‘Miss Tey – I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’ Alma Reville had changed into a rust silk-crêpe evening dress which emphasised the auburn shades of her hair, and its formality, together with a perfect make-up, made her look older than she had at first seemed. Bella raised an eyebrow and subtly tapped her wrist, and Josephine couldn’t resist a quick glance at her watch. It was precisely ten past six. ‘What would you like to drink?’ Alma asked. ‘Shall we start with a Martini?’

  ‘Why not? We can switch to something stronger later if I need it.’

  ‘I hope you won’t. Bella? Can I get you something?’ The offer was formal, and Josephine noticed a cool civility between the two women. Alma seemed relieved when the actress declined and left them to it. She beckoned a waiter and ordered their cocktails with an authority that suggested she was used to having people at her command, and a warmth which told Josephine that she never took it for granted. She nodded at the book which Josephine still held in her hand. ‘Not much time for reading when Bella’s around.’

  ‘No, but I probably do too much of that anyway,’ Josephine said, matching the subtlety of the probing in the way it was deflected. ‘It’s always easier to read other people’s books than to write your own. I used to justify my time by calling it research. Now I’m just shameless about it.’

  ‘I suppose I’m lucky. We’re always looking for new projects, so I could call anything work and get away with it. I’m afraid it takes me for ever to read a novel, though. I can’t pick one up without imagining every camera angle, or dramatising every scene and piece of dialogue.’

  The comment was friendly enough, but that only made it more irritating. ‘How interesting,’ Josephine said before she could stop herself. ‘Most authors rather imagine they’ve saved you the bother.’

  To her credit, Alma looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. That must have sounded very rude, but it wasn’t intended to be. All I meant was that it’s my job to see a story in pictures. I’ve been doing it since I was a teenager and it’s a very hard habit to break.’ She thought for a moment, choosing her words more carefully this time. ‘A film can’t just be a visual record of a book or it will never have a life of its own,’ she said. ‘You saw The 39 Steps?’ Josephine nodded. ‘And you must have read the book, so you’ll know that most of the things that made it a great movie were entirely Hitch’s invention – the love interest, Mr Memory, the scene at the London Palladium. It’s those things that a film audience responds to, but none of them would have been possible without the book.’ Josephine’s scepticism must have been written all over her face, because Alma added‚ ‘It’s like any marriage, I suppose. The two things can coexist if they’re both good in their own right, and it doesn’t have to be one at the expense of the other.’ She smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking: that’s easy for me to say when it’s not my book which is being vandalised. I can understand why you might feel protective.’

  ‘Overprotective, probably, but that’s only because this particular marriage is so uneven – when people start making books out of films, authors might relax a little.’

  ‘And film-makers will bring a whole new meaning to the word indignation. Hitch hates it if a producer makes the slightest alteration to the way he’s filmed something.’ Their drinks arrived‚ and Alma picked the glass up gratefully. ‘Can we start again?’ she asked. ‘I know how hypocritical it all must sound, but it’s important that I’m honest with you from the start. If you allow us to base our film on A Shilling for Candles, changes will have to be made.’

  ‘Such as?’ Josephine asked, aware of how carefully the last sentence had been phrased.

  ‘It’s too early to say in any detail, but some characters will have a much bigger role and others will go altogether. Your plot won’t necessarily be our plot, and you might be surprised at how quickly our storyline diverges from the one you’ve written. Some of the changes you’ll hate; others – I hope – you’ll understand, and even like.’

  Josephine admired her frankness, even if she was a little unsettled by it. ‘And I dare say none of those changes would be detrimental to the book’s sales,’ she said wryly. ‘Or to the box-office receipts.’

  Alma raised her glass. ‘That much we can agree on.’

  ‘Tell me – if your husband wants to use so little of my story, why don’t you just go ahead and write your own? Surely that would save you the trouble of consulting anyone?’

  ‘Because the idea is yours, and it seems right to recognise that – financially and creatively. We could just develop the movie from it in our own way without giving you or the book any credit whatsoever. I’ve seen that happen, but it’s not how we do things.’

  It was an honourable attitude, although Josephine couldn’t help thinking that the other way might be kinder in the long run. She noticed how naturally Alma referred to the work as a joint endeavour, and began to understand the extent to which when people spoke of a Hitchcock film they were unconsciously referring to a partnership. ‘How do you choose which ideas to work on?’ she asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘We read the review pages, see new plays in the West End, wade through manuscripts.’ She smiled. ‘And sometimes we get a nudge in the right direction. Miss Fox did us a favour. When she gave us your book, we were rather stuck.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Alma hesitated, and Josephine sensed she was gauging how honest she could be without causing offence. ‘To be quite frank, Miss Tey, we were hoping for another John Buchan, but he was far too busy being Governor General of Canada even to see us.’

  Josephine laughed and finished her Martini. She looked directly at Alma. ‘Does either of you actually like the book, Miss Reville?’

  ‘My husband sees its potential,’ she said diplomatically, but then spoke far more warmly. ‘And I like the book, Miss Tey. I like it very much, and I’d be delighted if you’d consider working on it with us.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Other than a twice-weekly visit to the cinema, I know nothing about the film world. As you say, it’s very different from writing a novel.’

  ‘But not so different from writing a play. A lot of the best screenwriters come from the theatre and we’d be lucky to have you, so don’t dismiss it.’ She accepted a cigarette and leant forward to have it lit. ‘I often think I’d like to
write a novel, you know, if only because I could do that on my own.’

  It was the first time that Alma had hinted at a professional ambition which existed independently from her husband’s career, and it surprised Josephine. ‘I got the impression that the partnership was as important to you as the work,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t you miss that?’

  ‘Of course, but it can’t go on for ever and I’ll need something to take its place.’ She signalled for more drinks, and answered Josephine’s questioning glance. ‘Don’t get me wrong: I love being part of a team, but it’s not always like that now. The team is becoming an organisation‚ and organisations are always about power, even if their business is a creative one.’ She sighed, and absent-mindedly twisted her wedding ring. ‘I’ll always support Hitch, of course I will. He involves me in everything he does‚ and my opinion is invariably the one he listens to, even at the expense of his own, but it’s the sort of support that a wife gives a husband. If – when – he goes to America, there’ll be no place for me as his equal. Not in other people’s minds, anyway.’

  ‘If it were me, I’d resent that.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’ll feel,’ Alma said honestly. ‘And I won’t until it happens. Back when we started, we didn’t think about the future. It was just a case of muddling through together, trying things out and doing the best we could. Film wasn’t really any older than we were, so there were no rules. That sense of adventure isn’t there any more; we all have to pretend we know exactly what we’re doing.’ She smiled. ‘It’s been replaced by other excitements, of course, and by opportunities which we could only dream of back then. Still, I miss it.’