by Nicola Upson
‘Of course, as long as you don’t mind returning the favour.’ Penrose shook his head and took the seat he was offered while she refilled her own glass. Fallowfield stood by the fire, although the roaring flames seemed to be doing very little to carry much heat beyond the grate. ‘That was the only warmth those monks allowed themselves,’ she said, as if they were sightseers come to enquire about the history of the building. ‘Just one damned fire in the whole of their priory. My husband tends more to excess. Once in a while that works in my favour.’
It was hard to say if her frankness was due to the wine, but she was much more self-confident now than she had seemed in her husband’s presence. There was something contradictory about her, Penrose noticed—a strange, brittle strength which was both unsettling and attractive; intelligent eyes partnered a slight twist in the mouth to give her face an expression of wry amusement, as if she found the whole world faintly ludicrous but accepted that the joke was on her. ‘I assume from what you say that your husband is out gambling,’ he said, ‘and not visiting another old college friend?’
His sarcasm seemed to intrigue her, but she gave no indication of understanding what he meant. ‘He doesn’t often tell me where he goes.’
‘So you don’t know where he was yesterday?’
‘No. All I know is that he came back in a foul temper.’
‘What time was that?’
She hesitated, as if weighing up the need to lie. ‘Between five and six.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘And will your household confirm it?’
‘Why don’t you ask them?’
Penrose turned to Fallowfield but he had anticipated the instruction and was already on his way out of the room. ‘Does the name Simon Westbury mean anything to you?’ Penrose continued, and then, when she shook her head: ‘What about Stephen Laxborough? Or Giles Shorter?’
‘No, neither of them.’ In spite of Penrose’s refusal, she poured another glass of wine and pushed it across the table to him. ‘My husband wouldn’t tell me why you were here the other day, Chief Inspector. Perhaps you’ll be a little more obliging?’
Penrose paused. He had no wish to alarm Virginia Moorcroft while she was alone and vulnerable in a house which she clearly found uncomfortable, but her husband’s absence bothered him, no matter how normal it seemed to her; if Moorcroft wasn’t guilty himself, the threats and his recent proximity to Simon Westbury made him an obvious candidate for the killer’s next strike, and he needed her to be honest with him. ‘Two of the men who were at King’s with your husband have been killed in the last ten days,’ Penrose said, watching her face carefully in the candlelight. ‘Another less recent death might also be connected. According to witnesses, Mr Moorcroft was with one of the men on the day he died. That was yesterday, in Felixstowe, and the victim’s name was Simon Westbury.’
‘Are you accusing my husband of murder?’
Her tone was hard to read, but to Penrose’s ears it leaned towards curiosity rather than indignation and he wondered about the state of their marriage. ‘No, certainly not, but I do need to establish why he was there and what they discussed. It might have some bearing on Mr Westbury’s death, and I’m also concerned for Mr Moorcroft’s safety.’ He let the implication hang in the air, but all that he gleaned from her face was that she could sit profitably at the card tables with her husband. ‘Could you be any more specific about where he is tonight? It’s urgent that I speak with him, for his sake as well as mine.’
‘You could try one of his clubs. There’s the Pitt Club in Jesus Lane, and a sporting one—I don’t know where that is or even what it’s called, but it always makes me laugh that Robert’s still a member. It’s been years since he played any honourable kind of sport.’
‘Is it the Hawks’ Club?’
‘Possibly. You might find him there, but he tends to move on later if he finds the right company.’
Any attempt to disguise her hostility was long gone, and Penrose sensed that it would play to his advantage. ‘How important was his time at university?’ he asked.
‘The best years of his life, he often says. It doesn’t say much for me, does it? Or for his first wife.’
‘And yet he doesn’t keep in touch with anyone?’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Yes. Is it a lie?’ Penrose had begun to doubt the claim when he first heard that Moorcroft returned so often to dine at his college; now he wondered if those reunions were more deliberate, used to meet specific people rather than merely to socialise. ‘He told me that he was still close to the men he fought with, but that he could barely remember the names of his fellow choir members.’
She threw back her head and laughed, startling him with her reaction. ‘Oh Inspector, you’ve no idea how funny that is.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘Robert was in the army for less than a month. He avoided conscription for as long as he could, then fell down one of the trench shafts and broke his leg. No one could prove he’d done it deliberately, but he managed to blag his way out of the rest of the war.’ She stood up and brought a silver cigarette box back to the table. ‘I’ve had Paris weekends that lasted longer than his time in France. I don’t doubt that his comrades remember him, but not for the reasons he obviously implied to you.’
‘Are you sure? He left King’s without taking his degree.’
‘That’s because they threw him out. Bullying, I gather—encouraged up to a point, but beyond that not very gentlemanly.’ Her subtle American drawl made the words sound every bit as sarcastic as they were meant to be. ‘His first wife told me a lot about Robert while she was on her way out and I was on my way in,’ she added, sensing his scepticism. ‘I only wish I’d believed more of it at the time.’
‘And he’s never confided in you about any regrets?’
‘Other than marrying me in the first place? No, we don’t have that sort of relationship.’
Penrose pictured Moorcroft as he had been at their only meeting—sullen, pompous and now, it would seem, a liar—and wondered what had ever persuaded someone as unusual as his wife to look twice at him. ‘How did you meet?’ he asked.
‘Is that important?’
‘Indulge me.’
Again she smiled, but this time without any hint of mockery, and he noticed the fine lines around her eyes, unusual in someone so young. ‘It was at the races. My father and he share a passion for horses. Robert was in the process of getting a divorce, and he was in the mood to celebrate.’ Something in Penrose’s expression must have looked sceptical, because she said more seriously: ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Chief Inspector—it was fun at first. Robert can be amusing when he wants to be and quite charming in his own way—and I wanted a different life, something a long way from Chicago and automobiles. I was young, but I wasn’t stupid.’ Of that, he had no doubt and would have said so given the chance, but she was still speaking. ‘He moved the courtship along rather more quickly than I’d have wanted, though, and I found myself pregnant with my son. I honestly don’t think Robert meant to trap me—he isn’t that clever—but I was trapped. He did the decent thing and my family’s money was his consolation prize.’
‘And what was yours? Obviously not the house.’
‘My children,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘Teddy’s eight now and he goes to the college school. I’m hoping that’s the only path he’ll follow his father down. Evie’s just six months . . .’
‘And already like her mother.’
‘Having seen her for barely two minutes, you’re either very observant or very kind.’ She pushed the glass towards him again and this time he didn’t refuse. The wine—a Burgundy—was exceptional, heavily perfumed and smoky on the tongue, and it gave him a childish satisfaction to think of how furious Moorcroft would be to know that he had had so much as a sip. ‘You said something to my husband the other day about a warning. What did you mean?’
He told her abou
t the photographs of the Priory which both victims had had in their possession, hoping that she wouldn’t ask for details of the murders themselves. ‘I wanted your husband to take the threat seriously,’ he said, ‘and that’s even more important after what happened yesterday. It can’t be a coincidence—not now.’
She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. ‘Be honest with me—do you think my children are in danger? Is my husband putting them in danger?’
There was a knock at the door and Fallowfield came back in. ‘The staff have all confirmed Mrs Moorcroft’s timings, sir. In fact, the gamekeeper can be even more precise. He said Mr Moorcroft came back just after five and went to see him in the gun room. There’s a shoot at the weekend and they spent some time talking about the preparations for it.’
Virginia Moorcroft had removed her hand but not before Fallowfield saw it, and Penrose could only admire his sergeant’s discretion, even if he would have to answer for it later. ‘Until we know more about why these men have been killed, I would advise you to take every precaution,’ he said, knowing she had wanted something more tangible, and disappointing both her and himself with the bland formality which had arrived back in the room with his sergeant’s company. ‘We’ll leave you in peace, Mrs Moorcroft, and look for your husband in the clubs you mentioned. In the meantime, if he comes home before we’ve caught up with him, please get him to contact me as a matter of urgency.’
‘Of course.’ He put his card on the table and stood to leave. ‘And if I think of anything else, Chief Inspector, may I call you?’
‘Yes, please do,’ he said, softening a little. ‘I’ll also speak to the Chief Constable and ask him to get the local force to keep an eye on the Priory until we find whoever is doing this. It may not be possible, as they’re stretched to the limit with other cases, but I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate that. Let me show you both out.’
‘Please don’t bother—we can find our way.’
‘It’s really no trouble.’
She walked out ahead of them and Fallowfield took the opportunity to raise a knowing eyebrow. At the front door, she reached up to draw the top bolts and the sleeve of her dress fell back, revealing a circle of faded yellow bruising on her wrist. She covered her arm quickly and stared defiantly at Penrose, as if daring him to draw attention to it. ‘Forgive me for being frank, Mrs Moorcroft,’ he said, pausing on the doorstep, ‘but your husband strikes me as a man who likes to get his own way.’
She held his eye, and once again Penrose was struck by a combination of vulnerability and detachment. ‘Now why is it that you understood that so much more quickly than I did, Chief Inspector?’
‘What happens when he doesn’t get it?’
She hesitated, and for a moment Penrose thought she was going to close the door without answering, but he was wrong. ‘I can honestly say I’ve never known that to happen,’ she said. ‘And I really don’t think I want to find out.’
10
Mary Ennis lifted the lid on the gramophone and waited for the scratching of the needle to become music. She turned the volume up as high as it would go, sending the first dancing notes of the clarinet out onto the landing. The freedom of an empty house was so rare that she was almost sorry to be going out, but there was a band on at The Rendezvous and she couldn’t let the other girls down. She slipped out of her uniform and hung it carefully in the wardrobe, ready for Monday, then set her make-up down on the dressing table and looked in vain for her lipstick. Hoping that it had simply fallen out of her bag on the way back from the hospital, she grabbed her dressing gown and slipped out into St Clement’s Passage, where her bicycle was leaning against the church railings. With the help of a street lamp, she found the lipstick in the basket and hurried back inside to the lively strains of Benny Goodman.
She walked down the landing to the bathroom and turned on the taps, imagining what her landlady would say if she could see the hot water gushing into the tub. With no one queuing or telling her to hurry, she lay back in the bath with a magazine and a glass of ginger wine, but she had only been there for a minute or two when the music came to an abrupt stop. She sat up, knocking her glass off the side of the tub, and, as she reached down to pick it up, she thought she saw a shadow pass underneath the bathroom door. Unsettled now, she got out and wrapped herself in a towel, listening all the time for a noise out on the landing, but the only thing that broke the silence was the steady dripping of the cold tap. Cautiously, she opened the door and went through to the bedroom. The record was still spinning silently on its deck, but the needle had been pulled roughly to one side.
And then the lights went out. Stifling a growing sense of panic, Mary pulled some clothes on, caring little what they were, and fumbled her way out onto the landing. The house was deathly quiet, but the street lamp immediately outside the front door was strong enough to confirm that she was no longer on her own. A figure stood motionless on the staircase, looking up at her, and then, as she watched, he began to climb the stairs. She ran into her bedroom and shut the door, but he was too quick for her—too quick and far too strong. She felt his weight against the wood while she was still fumbling with the lock, and he pushed the door open with such force that she was sent flying back across the room. In a single, frantic movement, he dragged her up onto the bed and pulled the curtains across the window; the room was pitch black now, and as the light from the street lamp vanished completely, it seemed to Mary that the world had turned its back on her. She felt cold metal against her throat, and, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that the man was wearing something dark across his face which moved in and out as he breathed. He clamped his hand over her mouth, squeezing her jaw to tell her to be quiet, and she nodded her promise, feeling the sharp edge of the knife catch at her skin.
He stank of beer and cigarette smoke, and the warmth of his breath on her face made her gag. Her body was rigid with fear, every nerve and muscle straining against the inevitability of what he was about to do to her, and she wished now that she hadn’t read the stories in the newspaper. The details forced themselves into her mind, mapping out the horror of the next few minutes with a merciless clarity, and she felt the knife sliding down her chest, cutting through her blouse and underwear, then returning to circle her breasts. He lifted his mask a little and she felt his mouth all over her, sucking at her nipple, biting her skin until she could bear it no longer. As he moved his hand away from her mouth to undo his trousers, she wrenched her head to one side and screamed. It was the stupidest thing she could have done. His fist made contact with her jaw and her head snapped back, then he was on top of her again, forcing her legs apart, calling her a bitch for resisting. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, feeling the blood drying round her mouth, pulling the skin taut. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She had no idea who she was apologising to, but she said it again and again, pouring words into his silence until her body offered up the only atonement that mattered.
When it was over, he stroked her hair and she lay there in the darkness with tears running mutely down her face, trying not to flinch at his touch in case it angered him again. Out of nowhere he whispered her name, and Mary froze, horrified to think that he might know her. Had she treated him in hospital, she wondered—washed him and fed him and nursed him back to health? Or had they simply passed the time of day in a club or a cafe or the queue for the pictures? Had she been too friendly, encouraging him to think that she wanted this? Or too aloof, provoking him to teach her a lesson? For some reason, this casual assumption of intimacy—harmless in comparison with the violence that preceded it—seemed to Mary the greatest outrage of all, and her fear was suddenly replaced by a fury she had never known before. She launched herself at her assailant, screaming obscenities that sounded alien in her mouth, longing to hurt him as he had hurt her. At first he was taken by surprise, but he recovered quickly and she felt the knife cut deep into her arm, a weapon now and not a threat. Still she struggled, daring him to wound
her again and caring little if she lived or died, but his anger seemed to diminish as hers grew, and the cold, methodical strength that replaced it was too much for her. Defeated, she lay shivering and half-naked on the bed, feeling the blood seep from her arm, listening while he rummaged through her dressing table and wardrobe. At last, he answered her prayers and left her to her nightmares, pausing only to throw a blanket over her shame on his way to the door.
11
The night air in Cambridge was chilly and damp as the mist drifted up from the river, but it was marginally less objectionable than the smell of paint which lingered long after the decorators had finished for the day. Josephine opened the sash a little wider and leant on the window sill, breathing in the cold, sharp freshness. The house was near the town end of the passage and she watched the comings and goings of a boisterous Friday night, content to soak up the atmosphere and sense of expectation without actually being part of it. Next door, someone had turned the gramophone up to full volume, and the cheerful back and forth of Benny Goodman and his band was just the sort of unexacting company she was looking for.
The telephone rang in the hallway and she went downstairs to answer it, hoping by some miracle that it might be Marta, even though she would still be somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. ‘Archie—what a lovely surprise!’ she said, praying that the false note she heard in her own voice was simply her imagination. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, just rushed off my feet. There’s no let-up in the case I’m working on, and it’s moving so fast that I’m always a couple of steps behind.’
‘That sounds interesting.’
‘It would be if there weren’t quite so much at stake, and time is definitely not on my side.’
His tone was animated, in spite of his obvious frustration, and she pictured him sitting at his desk, oblivious to everything but the paperwork in front of him. ‘Scotland Yard sounds lively tonight,’ she said, listening to the clamour of voices in the background. ‘What on earth’s going on?’