by Nicola Upson
‘Lovely, wasn’t she? I thought she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, but it wasn’t just that. She was kind to me, and I wasn’t used to that. All the older boys used to flirt with her whenever she brought us across from the school to sing at the chapel, and she was flattered—why wouldn’t she be? She’d been brought up to think those young men walked the Cambridge streets like gods. And you had your eye on her from the beginning, didn’t you?’ He kicked Moorcroft hard in the ribs and the man on the floor groaned. ‘You used me as your little go-between, taking her notes or presents, asking to meet her. And then came Christmas.’
Slowly, Penrose began to guess at the truth which he had struggled for so long to find. ‘What happened that day, Tom?’ he asked gently. ‘Moorcroft might know but I don’t, and I need to understand.’
‘I’d been at the school for over a year by then,’ Webster said, ‘so I knew how wonderful Christmas there could be. Monty would take us to the pantomime as a treat or put on a play himself, and there’d be lots of parties. And then there was the music—always the music. We practised so hard for that service, and I loved every minute of it. And best of all, because most of the boys had gone home by then, Ellie had more time to spend with those of us who were left behind.’ Penrose let him talk, trying to marry the killer in front of him with the innocent little boy he was describing, and wondering how one could be born from the other. ‘By the time Christmas Eve came, we were beside ourselves with excitement.’
‘You all took part in the carol service?’
‘Yes. For a while it was the happiest day of my life. I waited with the rest of the boys in the vestry on the north side of the chapel, and the men were in the chantry opposite. Those last few minutes of waiting seemed to go on for ever, but the choirmaster signalled to us just before the clock struck the hour and out we went. The chapel was dark but you could feel how crowded it was, how full of expectation. There was a faint hum as the choir took up the note—and then the choirmaster pointed to me.’ Penrose looked blank. ‘To sing the solo, the first verse of “Once in Royal David’s City”. No one knows who’s been chosen until the very last moment, and that year it was my turn.’ He shook his head, as if scarcely believing that the moment had ever really belonged to him. ‘I always loved that carol—its innocence, its hope. Now I can’t bear to listen to it.’ His words reminded Penrose of the deep, inescapable melancholy that Stephen Laxborough had apparently experienced at Christmas. ‘The men joined in with the second verse as we walked up the aisle,’ Webster continued. ‘I can’t expect you to understand how important that sense of belonging was to a little boy who had been lonely all his life. I remember Westbury giving me a wink as we sang, as if he was as proud of me as I was of myself, but I realised afterwards that they were only using me. They’d planned it all, you see.’ He put the torch down on the floor while he looked in his coat for a packet of cigarettes, and the room was plunged briefly into darkness. ‘I can honestly say that was the last time I was ever truly happy.’
Penrose stared at Webster’s face, illuminated by the lighter cupped in his hands, and saw that he was in a world of his own, reliving every moment as if it were happening all over again. ‘Where was Ellen?’ he asked.
‘At the service. There’s a choristers’ tea afterwards and she helped with that, then she told me she was going to meet a friend outside the Empire.’
‘But she never got there.’
‘No. Moorcroft took me to one side and said that he was planning a surprise for her and he needed my help. He said I was the only person he could trust and he promised me a present if I brought her to Hodson’s Folly to meet him. He knew how to make me feel grown up, you see—and after the excitement of the service, I thought I could do anything. He also told me that Ellen would be so grateful to me once she found out what the surprise was, and I didn’t doubt that. As I said, she was flattered by Moorcroft’s attentions. She’d never have gone to meet him on her own—she wasn’t like that—but going with me made it safe.’
‘And you knew Hodson’s Folly?’
‘Yes, we used to swim there all the time. There’d be school picnics on the river and they were always happy days, so I really thought I was doing something nice for Ellen. That’s all I ever wanted, you know—to please her. Instead, I led her to them like a lamb to the slaughter.’
‘But how were you to know?’ As true as that might have been, it made no difference now and Webster didn’t answer. Penrose looked over at Moorcroft, wondering how he could have allowed anyone to witness whatever he had planned. ‘Did you see what happened, Tom?’ he asked.
Webster nodded. ‘I watched while they killed her.’ There was a muffled noise as Moorcroft tried to speak, and Webster tore the rag from his mouth. ‘Oh, I know—you sent me away when you had what you wanted, but I didn’t go and you were too preoccupied to check. I wanted to see Ellie happy, so I stayed behind and watched from the footbridge across the river. I saw everything you did to her, and I knew it was my fault.’
The story was taking its toll by now. ‘Tell me what you saw,’ Penrose said gently, hoping to get the whole story before Webster’s own recollections drove him to turn on Moorcroft.
‘The folly looked beautiful from the river,’ he said, struggling to hold back tears. ‘They’d filled it with candles and lanterns, like a tiny chapel, except there was nothing sacred about what they had planned. Moorcroft was standing by the entrance and he held out his hand to her—but then the rest of them appeared, one by one out of the shadows. When Ellie saw how many of them were there she tried to run, but Moorcroft grabbed her and forced her against the wall. He was hurting her. I didn’t really understand then, but I do now. She cried out when he forced himself into her, and I could hear her sobbing. Do you remember what you said when she gasped like that?’ he demanded, turning to Moorcroft, and Moorcroft shook his head. ‘Well, I do. You said: “See? The little bitch is enjoying it.”’
Penrose looked for the slightest trace of shame in the accused man’s eyes, but there was nothing. ‘The others lined up to take their turn,’ Webster continued. ‘It’s hard to be sure now what I actually remember and what I’ve imagined since, but there was a fleeting moment of bewilderment on Ellie’s part. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her. They weren’t strangers or monsters, and they weren’t even drunk—just privileged young men who should have known better, but who felt they could do what they liked. They mattered, and she didn’t. It was as simple as that.’ Penrose listened, understanding exactly what Webster meant. He had seen it himself, at school and in the army—never a rape, and never violence this extreme, but the bullying and peer pressure which lay at the heart of it. One day—he could only have been about five or six—he remembered stumbling across a group of older boys in the woods on his uncle’s Cornish estate; they had a young fox cornered and were beating it to death, and even though he would have been powerless to save it, the fact that he was too frightened to try had haunted him for years. The guilt had stayed with him, and he could only begin to imagine how Tom Webster must feel. ‘She struggled at first, but Moorcroft and Frost held her up against the wall while Carrington wedged a plank of wood between her feet so that she couldn’t close her legs. After that, I think she gave up. Shorter was next, although he looked almost as frightened as she was, then Carrington. Laxborough couldn’t do it, and the more the others laughed and jeered at him, the more impotent he became. In the end, he gave up and took his anger out on her.’
‘You mean he beat her?’
Webster nodded. ‘Yes, within an inch of her life. And a bit of rough seemed to do the trick for him—he was quite a man after that.’
Alastair Frost’s words about the order of things made more sense to Penrose now; Frost had realised that the sequence of murders followed the order in which Ellen Cleever had been raped, but there was more to it than that. Each victim seemed to have been killed in a manner which reflected their part in the assault: a simple push down the stairs for
Giles Shorter; hours of torment for Stephen Laxborough; and for Robert Moorcroft, the instigator of the crime and undisputed ringleader, a living hell which was not yet over. ‘Weren’t you frightened of being seen?’ he asked Webster. ‘God knows what they’d have done to you.’
‘They were far too busy to worry about me. I didn’t know what to do, if I’m honest. The folly was far too remote to run for help, and anyway I didn’t want to leave her. I suppose I thought they’d stop eventually and then I could go to her, so I left the bridge and hid in the woodland. I wish I hadn’t, because I could see so much more from there. Ellie was barely conscious by now. I watched her sink to the floor and still they didn’t stop, and all the time they were laughing and joking. It was Bairstow’s turn next, then Westbury and Frost, and then Swayne, but the thrill was beginning to wear off. I’ll never forget it, you know. The sudden silence when all the anger was spent and each man began to realise what he’d done—but it was too late by then. Ellie had stopped moving and Swayne dragged himself off her and looked at the others as if they’d tricked him in some way, but they were all as horrified as he was—all except him.’ He jabbed the gun at Moorcroft, who flinched with fear, sensing now that he was running out of time. ‘I thought Ellie was dead and so did they, but then she tried to speak. Just one word. “Please.” Like an animal begging to be put out of its misery. And gentleman that he is, Moorcroft obliged.’
‘You saw him kill her?’
‘I saw him drag her towards the river and push her in with his foot. The others had run off across the bridge by then, but Moorcroft stayed behind to clear up. By the time he’d finished, there was no sign that they’d ever been there.’
Penrose looked again towards the boy in the corner and began to hope for Teddy’s sake that he was drugged and unconscious; to make him listen like this to what his father had done was unbearably cruel, no matter how convinced Webster was that he had right on his side. ‘And what did you do?’ he asked.
‘I waited until I was sure they were gone and then I went to Ellen. I tried to pull her out but she was too heavy, so I sat with her for as long as I could bear it. After a while, I went back to the college to tell someone what I’d seen.’
‘And did you tell anyone?’
Webster shook his head. ‘No. I lost my nerve. When I got there, I saw Moorcroft and Westbury coming out of their staircase as if nothing had happened, and I knew then that no one would believe me. I had no proof, and there were eight voices against mine. Anyway, in my heart I knew it was my fault. Ellie would never have gone to them if I hadn’t taken her there. I’m just as guilty as they are, but at least I admit it.’
‘Teddy isn’t guilty, though,’ Penrose said. ‘Let him go, Tom. I can see why you want Moorcroft to suffer, but don’t make Teddy pay for his father’s sins. You’re better than that. Whatever you think, and however responsible you feel, you’re not the same as those men.’
He took a couple of steps towards the camp bed but Webster stopped him with the revolver. ‘Did you get a chance to look at Ellen’s police file?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, I did. I’ve looked at it a lot since I’ve been at the Cambridge station, and I don’t know what sickens me more—the details of her injuries or the fact that no one really bothered about her after she died. I joined the police because I thought I could make up for everything I should have done for her back then and didn’t, but we’re no better than anyone else, are we? We still allow filth like him to walk the streets, destroying lives whenever he feels like it, and there’s not a damned thing that any of us can do about it. How can that be right? Ask him, Penrose—did he ever think about Ellie after that night? Did any of them?’
Penrose glanced at Moorcroft, hoping that he would have the sense to stay quiet, but there was a defiance in his eyes, an expression of arrogance which did as much to confirm Webster’s accusations as any spoken confession could have done. ‘No,’ he said brazenly. ‘No, I didn’t think about her. If you hadn’t reminded me, I couldn’t even have told you her name.’
Before Penrose could say anything, Webster walked over to the camp bed and pointed the gun at Teddy’s head. ‘I’ve blamed myself all these years,’ he said. ‘The life I could have had was taken away from me just like Ellen’s, and now I’m going to destroy yours.’
‘Wait!’ Penrose shouted, at the same time as Moorcroft let out a howl of rage and fear. ‘Wait, Tom—please. It’s not just Moorcroft you’re punishing. That boy has a mother who loves him, just like Ellen’s mother. Don’t put her through the same pain that Maud Cleever has suffered all these years—that’s not justice.’
Webster paused, and Penrose walked over to Moorcroft and forced him to his feet. ‘If he had the gun at your head I wouldn’t be standing in his way,’ he said, shocked to find that he was actually speaking the truth. ‘But you’ve already ripped one woman’s heart out and I won’t let you do that to your wife. Tell him what he wants to hear. Admit what you did all those years ago and take the consequences properly, in a court of law.’ Moorcroft remained stubbornly silent and Penrose tried the only argument he had left. ‘If you think he’s bluffing, ask yourself what it takes to shut a living man in a tomb and walk away. I don’t think I ever told you how much Stephen Laxborough suffered, did I? I work with a pathologist who’s seen every sort of torment that one man has seen fit to inflict upon another, and he told me that Laxborough’s death was the most agonising he’s ever come across. Hours shut in another man’s grave, knowing there was no escape, so mad with fear that he tore the skin from his own face and gnawed his fingers—those beautiful musician’s fingers—quite literally to the bone.’ He watched with satisfaction as Moorcroft’s confidence began to drain away, and hammered home his advantage. ‘So don’t ever underestimate what Thomas Webster might do. That child’s life means nothing to him compared with making you suffer, and pulling a trigger is easy. If you have any love for your son, give Webster what he wants. Is he telling the truth? Was Ellen Cleever’s death your fault?’ Moorcroft nodded, but Penrose still wasn’t satisfied. ‘Say it out loud,’ he insisted, shaking Moorcroft hard. ‘It’s the only thing that can save Teddy now.’
‘All right—it was my fault. I killed her. I killed Ellen Cleever.’
Penrose let him go and he slumped to the floor. For a moment, Webster’s expression was hard to read as he took in the four small words which meant so much to him, but eventually he let the gun fall to his side. ‘You heard that, sir,’ he said, ‘and I want you to make sure he hangs for it. Now untie him and let him see his son.’
Penrose did as he was told, but something in Webster’s words made him fear for the tiny form which lay so still and lifeless beneath the blankets. Oblivious to the expression of triumph on his captor’s face, Moorcroft ran over to the bed and began to tear off the covers, but all that he found was a pile of crumpled linen and sacking, shaped to look like the body of a boy. Desperate now, Moorcroft continued to search for his son, calling Teddy’s name again and again, even though the trick was painfully obvious. ‘Where’s my son?’ he cried, throwing himself on his knees in front of Webster. ‘I’ll do anything you want. Just tell me where he is.’
Webster watched him for a moment, then simply turned and left the room. Fearing what was still to come, Penrose took Moorcroft’s wrist and handcuffed him to one of the iron rings. ‘I’m going to look for your son,’ he said, ‘but don’t think for one moment that I’m doing it for you. And make no mistake—you will pay for this now it’s out in the open.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Moorcroft said, a trace of his old arrogance returning. ‘There’s no proof, and that confession was made under duress. You wouldn’t even get me to court.’
‘Your confession might be inadmissible, but Richard Swayne’s isn’t.’ Penrose let the lie sink in, enjoying Moorcroft’s surprise. ‘Didn’t I mention it? We’ve got him in custody now and his lawyer is advising a full confession—in exchange for leniency, obviously. I’m afr
aid you won’t come out of it very well, sir.’
Sooner or later he would have to admit to the deception, but for now Moorcroft’s uncertainty was reward enough and he set off up the steps after Webster. There was no sign of anyone on the first floor, so he continued on to the roof—a flat, open space with a high parapet and a raised platform in the centre where the original artillery had been mounted. It was dark now, and a mist was coming in with the approaching tide, deadening the roar of each successive wave. Webster sat on the wall with his back to the sea, smoking a cigarette and nursing the revolver. ‘What have you done with Teddy?’ Penrose called, stopping by the central platform. ‘It’s time to end this now, Tom. He’s just a little boy. Don’t do to him what those men did to you.’
Webster looked at him and calmly stubbed the cigarette out on the wall. ‘Teddy’s at the college school,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I dropped him off there before I left Cambridge. They’d heard about the body at the Priory, so it was quite understandable that his parents would want him to be taken care of until all that was cleared up. One flash of my warrant card and they were very happy to oblige.’ He smiled and Penrose could have wept with relief. ‘You don’t honestly think that I could hurt a child after what I went through, do you? And he’s a nice lad—loves his music, just like I did. I hope no one takes that away from him.’
‘So that charade was entirely for his father’s benefit?’
‘It worked well, didn’t it? For a moment there, that bastard knew what it was like to be afraid, just like she was.’
Penrose walked over to the wall and sat down a few feet from Webster. ‘Why now, Tom? Why after all these years?’