by Nicola Upson
Penrose watched him go and turned to Joan Sidney in embarrassment. ‘You must think me very rude, but it took me a moment to recognise you. I’ve only ever seen you dying or dressed as a nun.’ She smiled. ‘I left a message for you to get in touch nearly twenty years ago. Do you mind if we talk now?’
‘If I’ve kept you waiting that long, I’m the one who should apologise for being rude.’
‘David Franks brought you to Portmeirion. How did you know him?’
‘I met him when I was working for Max Hutton. Max and Leyton Turnbull involved him in the seamier side of film-making until Bella found out about it and hauled him back to England. I hadn’t seen him for ages, but he got in touch and asked me to come to the Hitchcock weekend. It sounded like fun and turned into a nightmare. I had no idea the joke was going to be quite so vicious, and then the police showed up the next day. I got out of there like a bat out of Hell.’
‘What about later on? Did you ever work for Franks when he went back to America to stay?’
‘No. I was married by then‚ and I loved – I love – my husband. The money was great. Actually, the money was sensational, but enough was enough. I didn’t want that life any more‚ and I didn’t want Jim and the kids ever to find out what I’d done for a living when I was younger.’ She accepted a cigarette and looked at Penrose thoughtfully. ‘And I suppose it’s easy to say this now, but there was something about David Franks that frightened me. Even in those early days, he wasn’t like Turnbull or Max; it wasn’t about the profits for him. When I heard what had happened, I wasn’t surprised. I was lucky. Other girls weren’t.’
‘And when did Hitchcock ask you to do a little filming for my benefit?’
‘He didn’t. He offered me a part in his new movie.’ She winked, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘That’s the trouble with film: you never know when you’re going to end up on the cutting-room floor.’
Penrose tried one more time before accepting defeat. ‘Is Tom Doyle an actor too? Will I see him in Rear Window?’
She smiled. ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Mr Penrose. Enjoy the film.’
PART SEVEN
Young and Innocent
1 December 1937, London
1
Josephine stood in the queue outside the Empire in Leicester Square, soaking up the atmosphere of a December night in London. The pavement was packed with people, some hoping to be entertained as she was, others waiting in line for a taxi to take them home from work or out to dinner. The square, which looked nothing by day, never ceased to amaze her with its ability to transform itself in a matter of hours: at lunchtime, when she had passed through on her way back to her club, it had looked haggard and drawn, like someone who had been up for too long; now, against a backdrop of darkness and excitement, the lights shone like jewels‚ and the mean gardens and unattractive buildings were barely recognisable as belonging to the same place.
‘I can’t believe we’re having to queue for tickets to see your film,’ Archie said good-naturedly, in a louder voice than was necessary, even above the hubbub.
The people standing close enough to hear him looked round curiously‚ and Josephine glared at him. ‘I knew we should have gone to see this in a fleapit in Clapham,’ she said with feeling. ‘I only agreed to let you bring me here because you promised we could remain beautifully anonymous.’ She glanced up at the enormous lighted billboard above the entrance. ‘Anyway, it’s not my film: look at the title.’
‘Mm. I prefer yours, but at least Young and Innocent tells us what we’re getting.’
‘It could be worse, I suppose. In America they’ve called it The Girl Was Young. It must have taken the Hitchcocks hours of pontificating to come up with that one.’
She smiled, daring Archie to reason with her, but he wasn’t any more inclined than she was to stand Alfred Hitchcock’s corner. ‘I don’t give a damn what they call it,’ he said. ‘It’s still exciting.’
Josephine put her arm through his and squeezed it affectionately. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘And I’m not letting you see it anywhere that isn’t glamorous.’ There was certainly nothing low-key about the Empire, she thought, looking up at the fine Venetian-arched façade which gave only the barest hint of the luxury to be found inside. The owners had wanted a grand movie palace in the American style‚ and they had got one: the cinema’s extravagance was unequalled anywhere else in the country, and Josephine always took an ironic satisfaction in knowing that this epitome of Hollywood idealism – the showplace of the nation, as it was called – had been designed by a Scottish architect.
In true American fashion, the box office was open to the street. ‘Where would you like to sit?’ Archie asked.
‘In the balcony, if you can stretch to three and six.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He paid for the tickets and they went inside. The magnificent double-height foyer was lined with mirrors and dark walnut, and its opulence was almost overpowering: everywhere Josephine looked, she saw crystal chandeliers, rich drapery and ornate Renaissance decoration. ‘Are you all right?’ Archie asked, seeing her hesitate.
Josephine nodded. ‘God knows why I’m so nervous. I haven’t done anything towards this film. Still, it’s not every day you have your work trashed in front of thousands of people.’
‘You don’t know that he’s trashed it. Or has Marta said something?’
‘I couldn’t get anything out of her because she didn’t want to spoil it, but she warned me not to expect to recognise too much of the plot.’
‘It’s a shame she’s not free until later.’
Josephine agreed half-heartedly, then admitted‚ ‘I’m actually quite glad it’s just the two of us.’ He looked at her‚ and she blushed. ‘If it’s terrible, I don’t want to feel stupid in front of her. Is that ridiculous of me?’
Archie laughed. ‘No, it’s very human.’
They walked through a luxuriously decorated tea lounge into the auditorium. The circle extended over most of the stalls and its decor echoed the design of the foyer. Josephine had been here several times but the scale of it always took her breath away: the cinema held more than three thousand people, making it bigger than any other picture house, theatre or concert hall in the West End, and she was thrilled to see that there were very few empty seats. ‘You’ve got to hand it to Hitchcock,’ she said. ‘He knows how to pack them in.’
They sat impatiently through the newsreels. Eventually, the main feature started‚ and Josephine felt a rush of pride as she saw her name appear on the screen. ‘I’d like to have seen it in bigger letters,’ Archie whispered, but she was too distracted by the cast list to appreciate his loyalty. ‘Where have all my characters gone?’ she asked, bewildered. ‘The killer’s not even in it. And who the hell is Old Will? Or Inspector Kent?’
Archie shrugged, and they watched as the film opened abruptly with a couple having a row against a backdrop of a stormy sea. ‘Is that Christine Clay with her husband?’ he asked.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Why has he got a twitch?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Cornwall looks good, though,’ he said lamely.
Josephine stared at the screen, torn between resentment at such a rapid departure from her book and a grudging admiration of the dramatic scene that Hitchcock had created. The storm took her back to Portmeirion, and she was about to say so when the camera lingered broodingly on the man’s face, its implications all too obvious. ‘But that’s not who did it!’ she cried indignantly. ‘She wasn’t killed by her bloody husband.’
Her outburst drew a chorus of resentful tutting from the row behind‚ and she heard Archie stifle a laugh before he said‚ ‘At least you don’t have to worry about it spoiling the book for your readers.’
Reluctant to suffer the ignominy of being thrown out of her own film, Josephine settled back in her seat. For a few minutes, the story reverted to something more familiar as the actress’s body was discovered washed up o
n a beach amid a cloud of screaming gulls, but the respite was short-lived‚ and she resigned herself to being an outsider in the narrative she had created. The next hour passed quickly in a flurry of Chaplinesque chases and whistle-blowing, interspersed with cleverly filmed model shots and panoramic views of the sunlit Kent countryside with its long, straight roads. It was strange to watch roles which had so clearly been created for some of the guests at Portmeirion and yet to see none of those actors on the screen, and her sense of regret at Bella Hutton’s death – which had never entirely left her in the last year – only increased when the story expanded to include Erica’s aunt. The performances were good, though; in fact, although she would have been hard pushed to find five direct points of similarity between Hitchcock’s story and her own, the essences of the film and the book were not dissimilar.
‘Well?’ Archie asked as the film finished.
‘If it weren’t for the credits at the beginning, I’d think I was at the wrong screening,’ Josephine said, then gestured towards the people in the audience, happy and smiling as they left the auditorium. ‘But I can’t argue with that, and there’ll always be the book. Let’s go and get a drink. I think I need one.’
‘You’re taking it better than I thought you would,’ he said, as they fought their way out into the street.
‘If I thought too much about it, I’d be furious,’ Josephine admitted. ‘But what’s the point?’
‘Strange how being happy can put things into perspective.’
‘Is that what you think this is?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Well, I suppose that might have something to do with it.’
Lettice and Ronnie were waiting for them by the entrance. ‘I thought you were meeting us at the restaurant?’ Josephine said, pleased to see them.
‘We couldn’t wait to see what you thought,’ Lettice said, giving her a hug. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’
‘The dog was excellent,’ Josephine said dryly.
‘Yes, I thought so too.’ The voice was vaguely familiar‚ and she looked round in surprise. In her pleasure at seeing the Motleys, she hadn’t noticed that Ronnie was not on her own.
‘David’s going to join us for dinner,’ she explained. ‘He came back early from Kent to celebrate.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be in a hurry to see a Hitchcock film,’ Archie said.
Franks smiled. ‘It took me a while to get over the embarrassment,’ he admitted, ‘but there’s no point in holding a grudge, is there? Anyway, I’ve got other plans now. In fact, I’ve just persuaded your cousin to come and see me in America.’
Josephine looked at Ronnie, hoping that her dislike of their unexpected dinner guest didn’t show in her face. ‘Shall we go?’ she suggested. ‘We don’t want to be late for Rules, and Marta will be waiting.’
They headed for Maiden Lane‚ and Lettice took Josephine’s arm. ‘What I really loved about the film was the ending,’ she said. Josephine nodded, knowing exactly how she felt. ‘I’m so glad they ended up together. You might think of doing that next time you write a book.’
Josephine caught Archie’s eye. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘Yes, I might.’
Author’s Note
Portmeirion was created in 1926 by Clough Williams-Ellis. Over the next fifty years‚ driven by a passion for the landscape of North West Wales and a unique artchitectural vision‚ Clough transformed a neglected wilderness into a magical Italianate village‚ celebrated by The Times as ‘the last folly of the Western world’. In 1934‚ shortly after the West End run of her play‚ Queen of Scots‚ Josephine Tey and a number of her most intimate friends were among many theatrical stars to fall under its spell and find refuge there from the trappings of celebrity; Noel Coward wrote Blithe Spirit at Portmeirion in 1941‚ and John Gielgud‚ Gerald du Maurier and Alistair Sim were regular visitors. Famous more recently as the setting for George Harrison’s fiftieth birthday party and the 1960s television series‚ The Prisoner‚ Portmeirion is now owned by a charitable trust and is managed by Clough’s grandson‚ Robin Llywelyn. It remains true to its origins: a place of beauty‚ peace and inspiration‚ untouched – thankfully – by bloodshed or by film directors with a questionable sense of humour.
The Dog Cemetery‚ which lies in the woodland beyond Portmeirion village‚ was created by the house’s former tenant‚ Adelaide Haig‚ whose son Caton – an authority on Himalayan flowering trees – developed the wild gardens. Fear in the Sunlight is inspired in part by Mrs Haig’s compassion and eccentricity‚ but the Draycotts’ story is entirely fictional.
Young and Innocent‚ based on Josephine Tey’s 1936 crime novel‚ A Shilling for Candles‚ was released in Britain in December 1937. Starring Derrick de Marney as a young man wrongly accused of murdering a famous actress‚ and Nova Pilbeam in her first adult role‚ the film was celebrated for its light comic touch‚ elaborate model work and a spectacular climax in which the camera tracks 145 feet across a crowded dance floor to within inches of the villain’s face. It was Hitchcock’s own favourite among his British films; 75 years later it stands up to his original estimation of its qualities‚ anticipating later classics such as Notorious‚ Marnie and North by Northwest. The director contacted Tey’s publisher to enquire if she would collaborate with him on the script‚ but she declined.
Alfred Hitchcock and Alma Reville moved to Hollywood with their daughter‚ Patricia, in March 1939‚ shortly after Hitchcock had completed Jamaica Inn. Alma gave up her professional career‚ but continued to be her husband’s closest and most significant collaborator. In 1979‚ when Hitch was awarded the Life Achievement Award by the American Film Institute‚ his acceptance speech named only four people: a film editor; a script writer; the mother of his daughter; and ‘as fine a cook as ever performed miracles in a domestic kitchen’. All of them were Alma Reville.
Acknowledgements
Portmeirion has become very special to me, and I’m extremely grateful to Robin and Sian Llywelyn for not turning a hair at the prospect of its becoming a playground for a killer. They, their staff and all the people who have written about Portmeirion and its history over the years have helped tremendously in the research for this book. Like many people, I’m indebted to everyone at Portmeirion for preserving the original spirit of a place which is genuinely unlike any other.
I owe a great debt of thanks to George Perry and to the late Anna Massey for sharing their personal memories of Sir Alfred Hitchcock and Alma Reville, and for bringing a very human touch to the legend. Among the many written accounts of Hitchcock’s life and career, books by Michael Balcon, Jack Cardiff, Charlotte Chandler, Sidney Gottlieb, Pat Hitchcock O'Connell and Laurent Bouzereau, Patrick McGilligan, Ken Mogg, John Russell Taylor, Donald Spoto and Francois Truffaut have helped to create a comprehensive picture of a complex and fascinating man.
Walter Donohue’s knowledge of Hitchcock and film has been invaluable, and I hope he knows how much I appreciate his commitment to the series. Thanks, too, to Alex Holroyd and Katherine Armstrong at Faber; to Veronique Baxter, Laura West and David Higham Associates for a brilliant first year; to Mick Wiggins for the beautiful illustrations; and to Sandra Duncan and Dominic White for giving the books such a fabulous audio life.
And my love and thanks, more than ever, to Mandy, for all the conversations, ideas, imagination and insight that have made this book far better than it would otherwise be; to my parents, Ray and Val, and to Michael, Sue and John for everything that they do; to Phyllis, for her continued inspiration and encouragement; and especially to Tilly, who waited to see it finished.
By the Same Author
An Expert in Murder
Angel with Two Faces
Two for Sorrow
About the Author
Nicola Upson was born in Suffolk and read English at Downing College, Cambridge. She has worked in theatre and as a freelance journalist, and is the author of two works of non-fiction and the recipient of an Escalator Award from the Arts Coun
cil England.
Her debut novel, An Expert in Murder, was the first in a series of crime novels whose main character is Josephine Tey – one of the leading authors of Britain’s Golden Age of crime writing.
Nicola lives with her partner in Cambridge and Cornwall.
Praise for Nicola Upson and the ‘Josephine Tey’ series:
‘If you like your crime fiction complicated‚ reliant on double-handfuls of coincidence and bursting with red herrings‚ then you’ll read with gusto.’ Herald
‘Nicola Upson’s clever and evocative debut novel . . . alternates between pastiche and the perspectives that distance permits. She’s very good on the way in which society after the 1914–1918 conflict was drenched in death . . .’ Guardian
‘Within a relatively short period‚ Nicola Upson has established herself as one of the most inventive and unusual of crime writers‚ marrying a sure storytelling grip to a non-pareil skill at evoking both period atmosphere and English locales. However‚ her real coup lies in her canny utilisation of a classic English writer‚ Josephine Tey‚ as the protagonist of her books . . . it’s easy to feel that Tey herself would be delighted with these fictitious imaginings of her life as an investigative figure.’ Amazon
‘Nicola Upson’s Angel with Two Faces is a truly sublime piece of literary detective fiction with an ensemble cast directed with real flair. The literary and criminal constructions are sharp‚ controlled and often surprising and the ending brings about both consolidation for the criminal plot and anticipation for the lives of the main characters Josephine and Archie . . . this installment comes highly recommended.’ juxtabook.typepad.com