Nine Lessons

by Nicola Upson

  ‘Hardly at all. A friend of mine has just taken a house here, but she’s away at the moment so I’m looking after it for her.’

  ‘I hope you’re better at watering the plants than I am. My mother’s off on a painting holiday and I’m house-sitting for her,’ Phyllis explained, dispelling any lingering doubts that Josephine might have had. ‘I’ll be pleased to get back to my own flat, if I’m honest. I’ve lost two African violets and a jasmine already.’

  ‘God help the dogs.’

  It was a slip, showing more knowledge than she should have had, but Phyllis only laughed. ‘Oh they’ve gone with her, and anyway she’s trained them to be self-sufficient. Come to think of it, she and I have got along much better since I started to fend for myself.’ The comment was made in jest, but Josephine couldn’t help wondering what sort of relationship Bridget had had with her daughter over the years. ‘You can buy advance tickets for the show from Miller’s,’ Phyllis added, and then, as Josephine continued to look blank: ‘It’s a music shop in Sussex Street, near the Dorothy Ballroom. Anyone will point it out to you once you’re back in the town centre.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll call in on my way home.’

  ‘Feel free to have a look round now, though, while you’re here.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not, although I should warn you that if you stand still long enough I might put a paintbrush in your hand. I’m desperately in need of some backstage help and the company will be in soon for a rehearsal.’ She looked at her watch and frowned. ‘But you know what it’s like—if you want something done . . .’

  ‘What do you do? Stage management? Or are you part of the company?’

  ‘A bit of everything really, but mostly behind the scenes or front of house. Assistant stage manager, assistant box office manager, assistant wardrobe manager . . .’ She smiled while she dragged some furniture onto the stage, arranging it according to a diagram taped to the floor. ‘Assistant to anyone who needs one, I suppose. It’s the business of the whole theatre that I love, not the acting or the writing. That’s why helping out here is such great experience—you get to do a bit of everything, and the shows are always different. A thriller one week, Shakespeare the next, ballet the week after—you soon learn what people like and what they’ll pay to come and see. That’s what I’d like to do one day—run my own theatre.’

  Josephine listened, thinking about Archie’s love of the stage and the numerous people he knew who had made it their profession: his cousins, Lettice and Ronnie Motley, who were arguably the most sought-after costume designers in the West End; writers like herself, or the actors and actresses whom he counted as personal friends. Suddenly, the joy and pride that Bridget had denied her daughter and her lover seemed more costly than ever, and Josephine had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from saying something to Phyllis that she would instantly regret. She left the box and walked down to the seats in the pit, where she was closer to the stage. ‘This place must have seen such a lot of history,’ she said, keen to return to safer territory. ‘How old is it?’

  ‘1800-ish, I think, or thereabouts. William Wilkins built it—the architect who did Downing College and the National Gallery.’

  ‘Not a bad portfolio to have.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it is. Terence Gray had it for a few years—that was when I first started to come here.’

  ‘Really?’ Josephine had heard both good and bad things about Gray, a pioneer of avant-garde theatre who was famous for staging the experimental work that the West End wouldn’t touch.

  ‘Yes. It was a mission hall when he took it over, with pews instead of seats and slogans daubed all over the galleries, but he bought it and put it back to its original use. He called it the Festival Theatre and did some extraordinary things with the stage and lighting, but even he ran out of money in the end. It was dark and run-down for a few years, but some of us thought it was worth giving it another go.’

  ‘It’s certainly not run-down now.’ Josephine looked round at the immaculate paintwork and lovingly polished steps. ‘You’ve given it a new lease of life without losing any of the past.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’ Phyllis jumped down from the stage and walked over to where Josephine was standing. ‘We’ve had to beg and borrow everything,’ she said, pointing up at the auditorium lights, ‘but we’ve had some luck along the way. Those candelabras came from the old Alhambra in Leicester Square.’ Sensing a fellow disciple, she began to explain some of the more detailed technical changes that had been made in Gray’s time, so caught up in her story that Josephine was able to study her face intently without seeming in the least bit rude. She looked for a resemblance which would confirm that Archie was the girl’s father, finding him less in her features than in her enthusiasm, in her knowledge and passion, and her eagerness to share them. In all the years that she and Archie had been friends, Josephine had always envied his ease with people, the instinctive way in which he found a common ground with everyone, and she saw now that it was a gift which his daughter shared. That, and his smile—sudden and disarming, transforming a face that was naturally serious; Marta had been right about that. ‘We still can’t afford the big commercial shows that the Arts Theatre has,’ Phyllis continued, oblivious to Josephine’s true interest, ‘and we’re away from the town centre, but we’re hoping to appeal to enough people to keep it open. Dickens came here to do readings, for goodness sake, so we can’t just let it go to wrack and ruin.’

  She climbed back onto the stage and began to unwrap the package she had brought with her. ‘I’d better let you get on,’ Josephine said, picking up her bag. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing the theatre in action, though.’

  ‘Good, and bring some friends if you can. The week’s looking a bit quiet, and it hasn’t helped that the film’s just opened at the Regal with some of the original West End cast.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ Josephine said, thinking back to her first big success with Richard of Bordeaux. A clash with another opening night had led to a disappointing first performance and fears for the play’s future, but the box office telephone had begun to ring at lunchtime the following day and hadn’t stopped for fourteen months. ‘Some of the most successful runs start quietly.’

  Phyllis looked at her curiously. ‘It sounds like you know what you’re talking about. Do you work in the theatre?’

  Josephine hesitated, wanting to be honest with her but knowing that she couldn’t risk saying anything that might reveal who she was. One day, she hoped to sit down and talk to Phyllis properly, but that was a long way off. ‘No, not really,’ she said, feeling shabby now for her part in the deception. ‘I just try to hope for the best.’

  ‘Sometimes I think that should be our motto.’ The girl cast the torn brown paper to one side, revealing the paintings that had prevented her from using her bicycle. One was a still life of orange tulips in a vase; the other was a portrait of a soldier in uniform, young and fresh-faced but instantly recognisable, and Josephine watched in disbelief as Phyllis hung the image of Archie on the wall. ‘At least there are some advantages to having an artist for a mother,’ she said, standing back to make sure that the picture was straight. ‘Meals are never on time, but you can always borrow something to make a stage room look convincing. What do you think?’

  ‘Who is he?’ Josephine asked, keeping her voice as level as she could.

  ‘My father, but I never knew him. He died during the war.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Phyllis said, misunderstanding the apology. ‘And do let me know what you think of the play when you’ve seen it. If I’m not around out front, ask anyone to come and find me. My name’s Phyllis.’

  7

  Penrose drove back into Cambridge and prevailed upon his colleagues in Regent Street for an office and a local telephone directory. If any of the men on Moorcroft’s list still lived in the area, it made sense to pay them a call while he was i
n town, but a quick look through the phone book suggested that they were either ex-directory or had moved away. He charged the police constable on the front desk with talking to the operator and checking for the names in local files or newspapers, then turned his own attention to King’s College. Part of him didn’t trust Moorcroft not to have sent him on a wild goose chase with a selection of false names or convenient misspellings, and he wanted an official list of choral scholars in 1913, the year that the photograph had been taken. A quick call to the bursar’s office got him the promise of just that, with only the faintest whiff of curiosity, and he set out on foot to collect it.

  It was funny, but no matter how often he saw King’s College Chapel, it was always as if he were looking at it for the very first time. There was something in its Gothic splendour, in the spiritual aspiration of those tall, narrow proportions and distinctive turrets, that never failed to move him, and which—even as an undergraduate—he had never taken for granted. Unlike most college chapels, it stood apart from the other buildings in the courtyard, as if the King who laid its foundation stone had somehow known that its importance would far surpass the handful of priests and scholars for whom it was originally built. Penrose paused on King’s Parade to enjoy the interplay of sun and shadows on the limestone, admiring the way in which the building dwarfed a sprawling horse chestnut tree whose magnificence in any other setting would have been unchallenged. He was pleased to find that a London life, surrounded by the finest, most extravagant architecture, had not made him immune to its grace.

  At the porters’ lodge Penrose was directed to an austere, classical building on the opposite side of the court, a perfect foil to the chapel’s exuberance. He had expected to collect the list from the clerk who had taken his call, but instead was ushered through to an elegant set of rooms overlooking the lawns down to the river and introduced to the bursar himself. ‘We don’t often get a call from Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector,’ Lawrence Crouch said, as soon as they were seated. ‘Naturally I’ll help you in any way I can, but the information you’ve requested seemed a little incongruous. May I ask why you need it?’

  ‘Of course. I’m investigating the murder of a former Kingsman, Dr Stephen Laxborough. He was a choral scholar here just before the war.’

  ‘And I’m sure he’s been many things since. What makes you think his King’s years are relevant?’

  Penrose suppressed a smile. He could have predicted the tone, if not the actual words—the guarded civility common to institutions as various as the Church and academia, the government and the BBC, the top ranks of his own profession. ‘It’s one of several lines of enquiry,’ he said, matching it note for note. ‘Another man is linked to the crime scene, and the only connection we’ve found between them so far is that they were both in the choir here.’

  Crouch nodded and slid a piece of paper across the desk. ‘The starred names are the lay clerks. The rest are choral scholars.’

  ‘Lay clerks?’

  ‘That’s right. These days, the choir is made up entirely of undergraduates and boy choristers who attend the King’s College School in West Road, but that wasn’t always the case. The original Founder’s Statutes stipulated that the older members were to include stipendiary lay clerks. Back then, some of them would have been college servants and others from a trade in the town, but that had changed by the time that interests you. By then, the lay clerks were professional musicians who came from cathedrals or other musical establishments and stayed at King’s for a few years. There were six of them in 1913.’

  ‘So I see. Why did the system change?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that there’s a much greater interest now in the quality of the music. Lay clerks held the position for life, no matter how badly their voices deteriorated, so there was no replacing them—other than by what might be called natural wastage.’

  ‘I imagine the war helped with that,’ Penrose said wryly.

  ‘Yes, but even so the last one hung on until about ten years ago.’

  Penrose looked down at the list. There were eight choral scholars, including Robert Moorcroft, and he was interested to note that the names Moorcroft had given him were accurate. ‘Do you know where these men are now?’ he asked.

  ‘I had a feeling you might ask me that, so I looked them up. A lot of our alumni keep in touch with the college—some come back regularly to dine, others have made very generous donations. These are the men we’re still in touch with from that list, together with the most up-to-date contact details we have for them. They’re all fairly recent—within the last five years or so.’

  There were seven addresses in total, including one for Moorcroft but not for Laxborough. ‘What about the Kingsmen who died in the war?’ Penrose asked, keen to eliminate as many names as possible before starting to contact the rest. ‘Do you have a list of those?’

  ‘There are various war lists drawn up by the university, but it’s probably quicker to look in the chapel. There’s a roll of honour there for our chaps.’

  The telephone rang and Crouch excused himself to answer it, giving Penrose time to study the list of fourteen names in more detail. The lives of the men in Moorcroft’s photograph had, for the most part, taken a predictable path after their Cambridge days: the clergy, the Home Office, law and academia. One name—Simon Westbury—was familiar to him from his own work. Westbury was a shrewd, experienced barrister, notorious for defending high-profile murder cases, and they had clashed on several occasions in court; most recently, Westbury had come out on top, successfully acquitting a man who had killed his wife, much to Penrose’s anger and disgust. It would give him the greatest pleasure to continue his enquiries at Westbury’s door. ‘We’ve lost touch with several of them, I’m afraid,’ Crouch said, swiftly dismissing his caller and returning the receiver to its cradle, ‘but I can help you with one more. Alastair Frost stayed on as a Fellow here when he took his degree, but he’s on an extended sabbatical and we don’t expect him to return.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Cancer, poor devil. The last time I saw him was a couple of weeks ago, and he looked as if he’d already long outstayed his welcome in the world.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t think I want to tell you that, Chief Inspector. Whatever days or weeks he has got left—well, I’d like them to be peaceful.’ Penrose didn’t argue; if absolutely necessary, he could return and force the issue but he had plenty to occupy him for the time being. ‘Do you want names for the boy choristers from that time as well?’ Crouch asked. ‘The records for those are held at the school but I can have them sent over.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. It’s Stephen Laxborough’s contemporaries who interest me.’

  Crouch hesitated, and Penrose knew he was debating whether or not to voice the question that concerned him most. ‘Do you really think one of the others killed him?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I’ve got no evidence to suggest that,’ Penrose said firmly, correctly anticipating the expression of relief on the bursar’s face, ‘but I do want to speak to them as soon as possible, if only to make them aware of the situation with Dr Laxborough. Until we’ve established exactly what the motive was for his murder, they would all be wise to be vigilant. Nothing can be ruled out at this stage.’

  Crouch sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. And now, if that’s all, I’ll take you over to the chapel.’

  They walked out into Front Court and Penrose did his best to picture the rooms he had visited that Christmas Eve, but his memory failed him. ‘Did you know M. R. James?’ he asked.

  ‘Monty was before my time, I’m afraid, although his legend still lives on here.’

  ‘Is there anyone at the college who would remember him well?’

  Crouch thought about it. ‘The Dean knew him, of course. I don’t know how well, but I believe it was Monty who persuaded Eric to take the position just before he resigned as Provost.’

  ‘Eric . . .?’

  ‘Eric Milner-White. He was
chaplain here before the war and became Dean shortly after returning from the Front. If you want to know anything more about the choir, Eric’s your man. It was he who introduced the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, you know—without it, I doubt that our service would be as famous as it is.’ Penrose was interested in knowing more about the Dean, but Crouch moved on before he had the chance to ask. ‘You could also try Sydney Cockerell at the Fitzwilliam Museum. He took over the directorship there from Monty, but they knew each other long before that—something to do with buying medieval manuscripts for William Morris. I believe he saw Monty at Eton shortly before he died. If you want me to put you in touch with him, just let me know. He often dines here.’

  ‘Another time, perhaps,’ Penrose said reluctantly. He probably had enough now to convince his boss that Laxborough’s Cambridge past and King’s associates were worthy of further investigation, but wasting time on a dead ghost story writer—no matter how legendary—was pushing his luck too far. ‘At the moment, it’s little more than personal curiosity. I went to one of his Christmas Eve readings, and I wish I’d taken more notice. All I really remember was the atmosphere—that, and the camaraderie afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, Monty had a genius for friendship—I remember Sydney once telling me that. His kindness was much missed when he left us, I gather.’ He glanced at Penrose and gave a wry smile. ‘Kindness isn’t a particularly common trait among successful academics. Nor, I suspect, among successful policemen.’

  ‘Let’s just say it’s not encouraged beyond a certain rank.’

  They were at the north door to the chapel by now, and Penrose followed the bursar inside. Instinctively, after just a few steps, he stopped and looked round in wonder, forgetting for a moment that he was there on business. Crouch watched him, and spoke unguardedly for the first time. ‘It gets me like that, too. Every time, even now. Magnificent, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is.’ The chapel’s interior was breathtaking—long and high and perfectly proportioned, with a glorious fan-vaulted ceiling which was surely one of the most precious architectural jewels that England had to offer. The light through the windows played its customary trick, a feat which had always fascinated Penrose: from the outside, the building stood solid and majestic, weighted to the earth by the genius of the master masons and the sweat of those who had lifted each stone into place; inside, especially on a bright autumn day like this, it was surprising how little of the wall was actually solid but occupied instead by a feast of glass and colour which shone with a luminous intensity. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any great faith,’ he admitted, ‘but whenever I walk in here, I thank God for the people who do. I suppose you could call that someone up there having the last laugh.’