by Nicola Upson
‘Actually, I’m just round the corner from you,’ he said, and for a moment she thought she had misheard. ‘The case has a Cambridge connection. Bill and I are checking out a couple of the university clubs but I’ve drawn a blank with mine. I’m meeting him at the local police station in less than an hour, so I haven’t got long, but I thought we could have a quick drink if you’re free? I’m in All Saints Passage, near St John’s, so I can be with you in a couple of minutes.’ She hesitated, caught off-guard. ‘Josephine? If you’re busy, we can do it another time . . .’
‘No, Archie, of course I’m not busy. I’d love to see you, as long as you don’t mind wet paint. The house is in a bit of a state.’
‘Wet paint’s fine. And I’ll bring a bottle—the Hawks’ Club has a very fine cellar.’
He rang off, leaving Josephine to compose herself. She had not expected to see Archie so soon, and the thought of sitting down over a glass of wine, talking about trivial things while the image of Phyllis with his portrait hovered at her shoulder almost made her wish that she had ignored the telephone altogether—but she couldn’t avoid him for ever, especially if his work was now bringing him to Cambridge, and an hour wasn’t long to fill. As long as Bridget didn’t choose this evening to call, all should be well.
He was better than his word, arriving on her doorstep in the time it took her to fetch the corkscrew and do her hair. ‘I see what you mean about the paint,’ he said, giving her a hug. ‘Marta obviously timed her trip to perfection. It’s looking lovely, though, and what a nice place to be.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I’ve found it very easy to make myself at home.’ She stopped him from hanging his coat on the peg. ‘Come upstairs—they haven’t started on the first floor yet, so it’s easier to breathe.’ She opened the wine and poured two glasses, then sat down next to him on the sofa. ‘It is nice to see you,’ she said, meaning it, in spite of the difficulties. ‘Marta said she’d bumped into you in Hampstead. It’s very obliging of your work to keep us in touch.’
‘I was here the other day, too, and I was hoping to call on you then, but I ran out of time.’
‘Here in Cambridge?’
‘Yes, on Tuesday. It’s strange to be back after so long—strangely familiar, I suppose.’
There was an awkward silence while Josephine thought of Archie being close by while she was doing some detective work of her own, poking into a life of which he still had no knowledge. ‘What a shame,’ she said at last. ‘It would have been nice to have longer to talk.’
‘Next time, I promise. Listen—I know this might be a bit of a cheek, but I wondered if you’d do me a favour?’
‘Of course, if I can,’ she said, then paused, distracted by a noise from outside. ‘Just a minute.’ She went to the window, but everything in the passage seemed quiet and peaceful. Even Benny Goodman had obviously outstayed his welcome.
‘Is everything all right?’ Archie asked.
‘Yes, it’s fine. Sorry to interrupt you, but I think the entire female population of Cambridge is a bit jittery at the moment. There’s been a series of attacks on women, and everybody’s talking about it.’
‘So I gather. I called in at the station the other day while I was here, and they seemed stretched to their limits.’
‘Do they really have no idea at all who it might be?’
Archie hesitated—caught, Josephine guessed, between honesty, professional loyalty and a desire to reassure her. ‘They’re following up all the leads they have,’ he said eventually, falling short of at least one of his objectives, ‘and they’re doing as much as anyone could without more information to go on.’
‘In the meantime, I’ll just keep the wardrobe doors open.’
‘Why?’
‘That was the handy advice from the Cambridge Daily News yesterday. We’re all supposed to leave our wardrobe and cupboard doors open when we go out—then when we come back, if anything’s changed, we know there’s a rapist hiding among the coat hangers.’
Archie laughed. ‘It makes sense, I suppose, although I would have thought reliable locks on all the windows and doors would be a better place to start. That way, he might not get to the wardrobe.’
‘Oh, the shops have all sold out of locks. Locks and torches, because we’re advised to keep one of those by the bed. I wasn’t frightened until I read all of that.’
‘Being frightened isn’t necessarily a bad thing,’ Archie cautioned. ‘It means you’ll take better care of yourself. I’m not very happy about your being here alone at the moment. Couldn’t you come down to London for a bit while Marta’s away? Or go and stay at the cottage?’
‘No, not really. I’ve rather committed myself to the decorators, and actually I love being here. It’s a beautiful town. I’ve even started to do some work.’
‘What on?’
‘A new play. I’ll tell you more when it’s further along.’
‘All right, as long as you’re happy. But promise me you’ll take care, Josephine. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad Bridget’s in Devon. I know for a fact she’ll be blasé about the whole thing, and the more I tell her to be cautious, the more risks she’ll take.’
Little did he know there was someone else in Cambridge he should be worrying about, Josephine thought, someone whose age made her a much more likely target. ‘So what can I do for you?’ she asked, hoping that the favour in question wouldn’t involve taking welcome home flowers round to Bridget.
‘It’s to do with this case.’
Josephine was surprised. There had been several occasions in the past when Archie had talked through his work with her, usually because she knew the people involved, and once or twice she had infuriated him by interfering in things that didn’t concern her—but it was rare for him to ask for help out of the blue. ‘You’re talking about the murder in Hampstead?’ she clarified.
‘Yes, although things have moved on since then. There’s been a second murder, in Felixstowe this time, and another suspicious death in Essex.’
‘All linked? No wonder you’re busy.’
‘Quite. I can’t go into much detail, but all the victims were at King’s College at the same time. I’d like to find out more about Cambridge back then, and I wondered if you had time to read through some old newspapers?’
‘Of course I do,’ she said, genuinely intrigued. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Archie said helpfully, ‘and the whole thing might be a pointless exercise, but the only thing we’ve found that’s common to all the victims is that they were in King’s Choir just before the war. That’s the period you need to focus on, starting with the autumn of 1913. Anything relating to the college or to the choir, obviously, and anything to do with M. R. James.’
‘As in ghost stories?’
‘Yes. He was Provost of King’s at the time, and he would have known the people involved. Are you a fan?’
‘No, not really. I’ve read some of them and they’re very good, but I went off ghost stories when I acquired a ghost of my own.’ The year before, Josephine had inherited a cottage in Suffolk from her godmother, only to discover that it held more than happy memories and family secrets. ‘When your suitcase throws itself off the bed at regular intervals, the figments of other people’s imagination tend to lose their power, no matter how well written they are. But why M. R. James in particular? Surely a lot of other people in Cambridge would have known these men as well.’
‘I have my reasons . . .’ Archie began enigmatically.
‘. . . but you can’t tell me what they are. All right, I know the routine. Any other obscure references you’d like me to report back on?’
‘No, but I will give you a few names to look out for. Have you got a pen and paper?’
She found both and watched while Archie jotted down a list. ‘There are four names there,’ she observed. ‘I thought you said three victims.’
‘I did. Robert Moorcroft is very much alive at the moment, more’s
the pity.’ Josephine stared at him, surprised by the vehemence of his words as much as the sentiment itself. ‘Sorry, but I’ve just been with his wife and he obviously treats her abominably. God knows why she puts up with it. For the children, I suppose, although I can’t help thinking that sometimes it’s better to have one happy parent than two who are constantly making each other miserable.’
‘That depends on the parent, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I suppose it does. And everything I’ve just said is confidential, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
He smiled and drained his glass. ‘Thanks, Josephine. I’d ask for help from the Cambridgeshire force, but the Detective Superintendent has made it very clear that I’m welcome to a desk and a cup of coffee any time I like, but extra manpower at the moment is out of the question. As it is, I’ve got to beg him to make an exception by keeping an eye on Moorcroft’s house. And we’re up against it here. I don’t think this killer’s going to stop at three. Then there are the preparations for Armistice Day. I’m on duty at the Cenotaph this year and I can’t believe how quickly—’
‘It’s all right, Archie,’ Josephine said, laughing at the panic in his voice. ‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Just tell me where to send the bill. Am I seconded to Cambridgeshire or to Scotland Yard?’
‘Send it to me and I’ll settle it personally.’ She offered him a refill but he refused. ‘Better not—I can’t keep Bill waiting and we need to get on. But I’m bound to be back in Cambridge soon and I’ll make sure we have time to talk then. Perhaps we could have dinner and go to the theatre or something? You choose.’ Anything but Night Must Fall, Josephine thought. She had allowed herself to be distracted by the intrigue of their conversation, but Bridget’s portrait of Archie came suddenly into her mind again, unbidden and unwelcome, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. ‘Josephine? Are you sure you’re all right? You seem very preoccupied. Is something bothering you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, Archie, honestly. Just missing Marta. It’s strange here without her, especially at night.’ They talked for a few more minutes, about the house and about Cambridge, but she noticed the distracted note in his voice which always signalled that work was vying for his attention. ‘I’d better let you get off,’ she said. ‘Let me know when you think you might be back here again, and in the meantime I’ll see what I can find out for you. And give my love to Bill.’
‘I will.’ She went to the door and watched him walk away down the passage, feeling suddenly lonely. Their brief conversation had only emphasised how important Archie’s friendship was in her life. It was selfish of her, bearing in mind how much else was at stake, but she resented Bridget more than ever for bringing this awkwardness between them; the trust they had always shared might only be the minor casualty of an impossible situation, but she felt its loss keenly. It had taken them years to find this degree of ease in each other’s company, untroubled by intense emotions and the different degrees of love that Marta had so rightly referred to; now, she knew she couldn’t even sit across a dinner table from him without his knowing instinctively that something was wrong. And when he found out that she had carried this secret, albeit briefly and through no choice of her own, she didn’t know if they would ever be able to find a way back.
She went upstairs and put the wireless on, then sat down at Marta’s typewriter with another glass of wine. Work had always been something she could retreat to as a distraction from other dilemmas, and she found that her concentration improved in direct proportion to how bad the other problems were; in less than an hour she had written two scenes. She collected the sheets of paper together and began to read back through her work, but was soon interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. On cue the clock in the hallway struck eleven, as if sharing her surprise that anyone might call on her at this time of night: Archie would be on his way back to London by now, and she had no other friends in the town. She hesitated, remembering Archie’s words of caution, but the ringing of the bell was immediately followed by a furious banging on the door and she went to the window to look. Perhaps it was Bridget, back early from Devon and complying with her request to the letter. If so, Josephine was ready for her.
The face that looked up at her was streaked with blood and tears, and at first she didn’t recognise it. Shocked and horrified, Josephine hurried downstairs and threw open the door with no thought other than to get the girl inside. She helped her up the steps and into the hallway, noticing that her feet were bare and her clothes—an incongruous combination of night-and daywear—had obviously been pulled on in a hurry. Blood was seeping through the sleeve of her cardigan and there were cuts and bruises on her face which testified to a vicious attack. In the uncompromising starkness of the overhead lighting, Josephine recognised the nurse from next door. Instinctively, driven partly by shock and partly by a vicarious rage on her behalf, she turned to go out into the passage and look for whoever was responsible, but the nurse clung to her arm with such fierce desperation that she simply slammed the front door and bolted it.
She led her slowly through to the sitting room and sat her down, grateful now for the dustsheet which had been intended to protect Marta’s sofa from paint rather than blood, then grabbed a clean towel to stem the flow of bleeding as best she could. ‘Look at me,’ she said gently, her hand against the girl’s cheek. It was a strong face, she noticed, handsome rather than pretty, with high cheekbones and a firm mouth; the eyes that turned to her now were the deepest of browns, and Josephine imagined that even in happier circumstances they would give her expression a natural earnestness. ‘You’re safe now,’ she promised, keeping her voice low and reassuring. ‘No one can hurt you here. What’s your name?’
‘Mary,’ the girl said, moistening dry, swollen lips with her tongue and wincing at the alien taste of blood. ‘Mary Ennis.’
‘All right, Mary. I’m Josephine. You live next door, don’t you?’
Mary nodded. ‘He must have got in while I was fetching my lipstick. The downstairs windows were all locked and I shouldn’t have left the door open, but I was only out there for a second or two.’
Her need to justify herself incensed Josephine. ‘This isn’t your fault,’ she said sympathetically, saving her anger for the faceless man who had earned it. ‘Whoever did this to you is entirely to blame and you certainly don’t need to make excuses for him. All right?’ Mary nodded. ‘Good. Now let me have a look at your arm. Did he cut you anywhere else?’
‘I don’t think so. It was all such a blur. I didn’t know what to do.’ Gently, Josephine peeled the cardigan away from the girl’s injured arm; there were several knife marks above the elbow and on her chest and shoulder, but only one of the wounds looked particularly deep. ‘All right, hold this towel over the cut and keep the pressure on it. I’m going upstairs to look for some bandages, but first I’m going to call an ambulance and let the police know what’s happened.’
Mary looked at her, panic-stricken. ‘No, please don’t do that,’ she begged. ‘I can’t go to hospital. They all know me there and they mustn’t find out what’s happened. I don’t want anyone to know.’
Josephine sat down again and took her hand. ‘Somebody’s got to look at these injuries and treat them properly—you know that as well as I do, and I’m sure they’ll be discreet. You’re a nurse, Mary—you wouldn’t advise any other girl to ignore what’s happened, would you?’
‘No, but I can’t tell them anything and they’ll think I’m so stupid. All those things he did to me, and yet I didn’t even see his face. How can I help anyone?’
‘That doesn’t matter at the moment. The important thing is that you’re taken care of by people who know what they’re doing. Stay here—I won’t be long.’
She dialled 999 and gave the address and a brief account of what had happened to the anonymous voice at the end of the line. Once an ambulance was on its way, she washed her hands and found a battered old first aid tin whose contents had neve
r seen the light of day. ‘Lie back a little,’ she said, ‘and keep your arm up.’ She gave the girl a wry glance. ‘It should be you giving me the instructions, I suppose. I used to wear a uniform like yours but that was a long time ago now, so you’ll have to bear with me.’
Mary tried to respond, but the cuts to her lip made it too painful and the result was an odd half-grimace. Josephine swapped the towel for a sterile pad from the tin, then wrapped a bandage firmly round the arm to keep the pad in place. ‘That’s not too tight?’ Mary shook her head. There was still blood soaking through the pad and bandage, so she repeated the process with more dressings, maintaining the pressure on Mary’s arm until at last the bleeding stopped. ‘There—that should do until they get you to hospital.’
Her face clouded again, but she didn’t offer any further objections to going. Josephine stood up to fetch her a drink, but was interrupted by a loud banging at the door. Mary jumped and sat up, the fear instantly back in her eyes, and Josephine tried to reassure her. ‘It’s all right, it’ll just be the ambulance.’ She looked out of the window to make sure, and saw a police constable and another man in plain clothes whom she took to be a detective. ‘Actually, it’s the police. Don’t worry—I’ll stay with you while you talk to them.’
She opened the door and the detective introduced himself. ‘Miss Tey? I’m Detective Inspector Webster. You called to report an assault?’
‘That’s right—on the girl next door,’ Josephine said, conscious of the irony in such an innocent phrase. ‘Her name is Mary Ennis.’
Webster glanced at the adjoining house and Josephine noticed that the front door was still wide open. ‘And she’s with you now?’
‘Yes. She came for help after he’d gone.’
The uniformed man spoke for the first time. ‘Is she badly hurt, miss, or was it just an assault?’
Josephine looked at him in disbelief and was about to speak her mind, but the detective did it for her. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, Patterson,’ he said, his voice low with suppressed anger. ‘Just an assault? Do you honestly think it’s the knife scars that are going to stay with this girl, or with any of the others? Get next door and out of my sight and make sure the house is secured. And if I ever hear you make another comment like that, you’ll have an assault of your own to worry about.’ The constable did as he was told, although he didn’t seem particularly chastened by the rebuke, and Webster turned back to Josephine. ‘I’m sorry about that. It’s no excuse, but the boys just aren’t used to dealing with something like this. I think what Constable Patterson meant to ask was how badly is Miss Ennis hurt?’