Daughters of Darkness

by Sally Spencer

‘Grace, my dear it’s Geoffrey Markham here,’ he intones. ‘It’s Thursday afternoon and I have the most wonderful news for you. You’re very much in the running to be one of the principal speakers at the World Anthropological Society’s conference in Vienna next year, but before the final selection is made on Monday, I need you to commit to appearing if chosen, and I’d like you to make a decision right now, in order to give the committee the mental space to mull it over.’

  The next call is also from Geoffrey Markham.

  ‘Grace, it’s Friday morning. I’m rather disappointed you’ve not got back to me yet, because in matters of this nature, as you know yourself, timing is crucial.’ He gave a sigh and then continued, ‘I’ll ring you again tomorrow, Grace. You really don’t want to lose this opportunity, you know.’

  The next call was from Derek Stockton, who sounded very cross.

  ‘Hello, darling. It’s just after noon on Friday here, which, if I’ve got my calculations right, means it’s late afternoon there. You remember I was supposed to be debating Oliver Keanan tomorrow night? Well, the little shit has cancelled on me, and since I’ve had just about enough of America for this trip, I’ve changed my flight. I’ll be arriving at the time you expected me, but it will be Saturday rather than Sunday. If you can’t pick me up, could you ring me at the hotel and let me know?’

  There were no calls after that. I wonder what had prevented Geoffrey Markham – who seemed to require an answer so urgently – from ringing again.

  As I reach into my bag for my notebook, DC Bentley says, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Since I’m not supposed to take anything from this room, I’m making some notes,’ I say.

  He frowns. ‘I’m not sure you’re allowed to do that,’ he says.

  Oh, come on now!

  ‘Tell me, DC Bentley; are you Chief Inspector Bentley’s son by any chance?’ I ask, taking a stab in the dark.

  ‘No, I’m Superintendent Bentley’s son,’ he says.

  Ah, that explains a lot.

  ‘So if I’m not allowed to take notes, am I allowed to memorize everything?’ I ask him.

  His frown deepens. ‘I don’t know,’ he admits.

  ‘Because if I’m not, we have a problem, since some of the material is already in my head. Do you have a machine at this station for removing memories – or will you have to send to headquarters for one?’

  His perplexity deepens. ‘I didn’t know … didn’t know …’

  ‘You didn’t know that such a machine existed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t – it’s not until you’re promoted to sergeant that they let you in on the secret.’

  If Bentley were a lot smarter, he’d tell me I’m talking sci-fi rubbish. If he were just a little smarter, he’d ask me how it is that I know the secret myself. Neither of these things occurs to him. Instead, he just sits there like a goldfish – mouth wide open, mind grappling with his dilemma. If this were a cartoon, smoke would appear from his ears and the top of his head might possibly blow like a volcano. As it is, he only looks set for a heart attack.

  ‘Let me take the notes now, then I’ll hand them over to DCI Macintosh and let him decide whether I should have them or not,’ I suggest.

  ‘You will hand them over, won’t you?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then go ahead,’ he says, sounding relieved – although we both know I’ll do no such thing.

  I jot down the name of Geoffrey Markham – the man who wanted Grace to address the important meeting in Vienna – and the time and date of her lecture in Southwark.

  They say the first forty-eight hours are vital in a murder investigation, which means that I am three years, six months, fifteen days and – I check my watch – three and a half hours behind schedule.

  It’s a good job I’m an optimist.

  I am back in my office and on the phone to the University of Cambridge Anthropology Department, where (according to my faithful researcher Elaine, in the Central Library) Geoffrey Markham is in gainful employment.

  I am put through to his secretary. ‘A word of warning,’ she says, in a voice which proclaims she is long-suffering, ‘if you don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with him, remember to call him Sir Geoffrey, rather than Dr Markham.’

  ‘It’s a recent honour, is it?’ I guess.

  ‘Last year,’ she replies, ‘but the novelty still shows no sign of wearing off. I can only pray he never gets made a lord.’

  ‘Miss Redhead?’ Markham says when I’m put through to him.

  His tone suggests it is an impertinence for anyone to actually have such a name, and his timbre is even more self-important than it sounded on the answerphone, because, when all is said and done, he is now a knight of the realm.

  ‘Yes, I’m Jennifer Redhead, Sir Geoffrey,’ I say, humbly.

  ‘And you’re working for my colleague Julia Pemberton?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m investigating the death of her mother, Grace Stockton.’

  ‘Ah, dear Grace,’ he says. ‘Her death was a great loss to the world of anthropology – indeed, to the world in general. The average person in the street little appreciates what a valuable glue anthropology provides for a society which is increasingly divergent and—’

  ‘The thing is, Sir Geoffrey …’ I interrupt, aware that I’m risking offending him, but also aware that if I listen to him much longer, pulling my own head off will become an increasingly attractive alternative, ‘what I really want to know about is the phone calls you made to her just before she was murdered. Do you remember them?’

  ‘Of course I remember them,’ he says haughtily. ‘I wanted her to be a keynote speaker at the Vienna conference.’

  ‘You called her on the Thursday and Friday, and you said it was very important you got an answer and you were going to call again on the Saturday. But you never did. Can I ask you why you didn’t make that third call?’

  ‘I did make it,’ he says.

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Remind me what year it was.’

  ‘1972.’

  ‘Hettie, can you find my diary for 1972?’ Markham says.

  His voice sounds a little distant, because he’s talking to his secretary, rather than to me.

  There is a pause of perhaps a minute and a half, then he comes back on the line and says, ‘I did ring her – first thing in the morning, before I set out for my game of squash. She was dead by then, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ I agree. ‘There’s no record of that third phone call on the answerphone. How do you explain that?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of being mistaken?’ he blusters. ‘Are you saying I never made the call?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I say, hastily. ‘The problem is, as I told you, that there’s no record of that call on the tape. I can’t work it out, but you’re much smarter than I am, so I thought there was just a chance you might come up with an explanation.’

  There is an even longer pause on the other end this time, but finally, he says, ‘No, I can’t explain it. I must have heard the recorded message, otherwise I would have made a note of it, and if the message was there, then my third call should be there too.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Sir Geoffrey,’ I say, and hang up.

  Markham has convinced me that he left a message, but that message is not on the tape. There is only one conclusion to be drawn from that, which is that someone erased the message.

  But who would have done it?

  And, more importantly, why would they have done it?

  TWENTY-TWO

  I force myself to ring my widowed mother once a week.

  It’s hard to say exactly why I do it so often, because we have nothing to say to each other.

  Not really.

  It’s true that words do pass between us, but they are either the replay of old arguments or resentments (in which the script never varies) or – worse – phrases as lifeless as plaster of Paris, w
hich are inserted into our so-called conversation solely to fill the gaps.

  Tonight is no exception.

  ‘How are you, Mother?’ I ask.

  (It’s been a long while since I felt I could call her Mum.)

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘you know …’

  And I can picture the forlorn shrug of the perpetual martyr she thinks of herself as.

  ‘Your cousin Enid’s got another promotion,’ she says.

  Ah, my cousin Enid! The family paragon!

  Enid didn’t run away to Oxford University to study English Literature, did she? No, Enid went to a new university, much nearer home, which is, of course, just as good (if not better) than a crumbling pile like Oxford – and anyone who says it isn’t is just being jealous. Nor did Enid read for an airy-fairy degree. She took a practical business studies course, and when she graduated, she moved right back to Whitebridge, which is exactly what any intelligent, normal human being would have done.

  ‘Good for Enid,’ I say, trying – and failing – to sound impressed. ‘How’s the weather up there?’

  ‘How do you think it is?’ she counters scathingly. ‘This is Lancashire. It’s raining.’

  My mother has never really shown me any maternal affection, and I wonder – periodically – if she ever had any to show, or if she gave birth to me simply because that was what you did when you got married.

  ‘Have you made any plans to move back home yet, our Jennifer?’ she asks me.

  Note the yet, as if we both know it’s only a matter of time before I give in to the inevitable.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘For the moment, I’m quite happy here.’

  Why do I play along with her game? And that is what I’m doing, because my ‘for the moment’ just seems to confirm the implicit assumption of her ‘yet’. Why can’t I come right out with it and tell her that, come hell or high water, I’m never going back to Whitebridge?

  ‘So you’re quite happy there,’ she says, and she sniffs, as if she considers happiness to be quite reprehensible.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say.

  ‘I thought you might. You’re never on the phone for long,’ she says triumphantly, as she wins – in her own mind – a competition that I haven’t even entered.

  As I hang up, a single thought keeps flashing through my mind like a neon sign on the blink.

  You need a G&T … You need a G&T … You need a G&T …

  I’ll drink to that.

  I was hoping to come across Charlie – my perpetual source of comfort and reassurance – in the Eagle and Child, but he isn’t there. In fact, there’s not a single person in the pub that I recognize, with the exception of Father Jim O’Brien, who is propping up the bar.

  ‘Do you need company?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘Why not?’ he asks, and then adds, ‘as long as you don’t try to convert me to heathenism.’

  I order my G&T.

  ‘Why do we drink so much?’ I wonder, as the barman slides the glass across to me.

  ‘I can’t speak for you, Jennie, but I do it to deaden the pain,’ Father Jim replies.

  ‘What pain?’ I ask.

  ‘The pain I carry with me every day after confession,’ he says.

  ‘I thought priests were trained to be above all that,’ I reply, knowing I shouldn’t be saying this to him, yet somehow unable to stop myself. ‘I thought you accepted whatever happened as part of God’s great unknowable purpose.’

  ‘Father James O’Brien SJ does accept it,’ he tells me. ‘He accepts it readily and gladly. It’s little Jimmy O’Brien, the barefoot boy from a dirt-poor farm in the Republic of Ireland who has difficulties dealing with it.’ He pauses. ‘Have you ever had a murderer confess to you, Jennie?’

  ‘Twice,’ I say.

  ‘And what happened to them?’

  ‘One gave himself up to the police, the other hanged himself.’

  ‘I’ve had three people confess to me over the years, and they’re all still walking around,’ he says.

  ‘And did you forgive them after they confessed?’

  A grill-like mask slides over his face, as if my words have inadvertently pushed a secret button.

  ‘I can’t discuss that with you,’ he says, and it’s clear that Jim O’Brien has gone, and Father O’Brien is back.

  ‘The Church has its weaknesses and its failings,’ he says, ‘but in a shifting world where good and evil seem to have become no more than a matter of personal preference, it is a rock to which I can chain myself, and I thank the Lord God daily for providing it for me. He provides it for you, too, Jennie, and one day you will feel the need of that rock, and you will come and ask me where to find it.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t leave it that long if I were you,’ he says, with just a hint of Jim O’Brien.

  And then he winks.

  PART THREE

  Wednesday 29th October, 1975

  TWENTY-THREE

  The London Borough of Southwark is on the south bank of the River Thames, and in the golden age of Queen Elizabeth I, it served as a sort of Tudor Las Vegas for the people who lived on the other, more puritanical, side of the river.

  (Perhaps, back in those days, there was a common saying that ran something along the lines of, ‘What happeneth in Southwark, stayeth in Southwark!’ – but I somehow doubt it.)

  There were any number of pleasures to be sampled. The borough had a profusion of taverns in which the reckless could lose a fortune at dice or cards. Bear baiting was popular, as were bull baiting and cock fighting. And for the young man who was feeling an unbearable pressure on his codpiece, there were more brothels than you could shake an erect organ at. It was here that the first British theatre, called the Rose, was built, with Bill Shakespeare as one of its resident playwrights. Shakespeare was a provincial – some considered him a mere country bumpkin – and unlike most of the other hacks who churned out plays to order, he did not have the benefits of a university education. He did, however, have a burning ambition, and when the next theatre, the Globe, was constructed, he was one of the main shareholders.

  In the nineteenth century and earlier part of the twentieth, it was through Southwark’s docks that Britain conducted much of its trade with its empire (an empire which, at its height, encompassed a quarter of the world), and it was for that reason that it was bombed so heavily during the Blitz.

  Southwark thus had had more than its fair share of history, and, as a minor footnote to that history, it is also possible that it was here, three years ago, that Grace Stockton’s fate was sealed.

  I emerge from the tube (or to give it its proper name, the Underground Metropolitan Railway) at the Borough High Street station in Southwark, and head straight for the local library. The place is called the John Harvard Library, and is named after a local clergyman who emigrated to Massachusetts sometime in the seventeenth century, and while he was there, founded a university. (The name of the university slips my mind – maybe it was Yale!)

  Once down in the library archives, I select a microfilm of the Southwark Gazette for March/April 1972, fit it into the reader, and begin to scroll down.

  It does not take me very long at all to find exactly what I am looking for.

  Famous anthropologist gives exciting talk at local girls’ school

  The pupils of the Lady Margaret School for Girls were today treated to a fascinating lecture by the famous anthropologist Dr Grace Stockton. The subject of the lecture was the life of an anthropologist, and it has led to a number of the girls wanting to follow in Dr Stockton’s footsteps.

  Grace Stockton once lived in the Borough, and for a while, near the end of the war, taught English and Geography at Lady Margaret’s. She now lives in a converted farmhouse just outside Oxford, and teaches at the university.

  Accompanying the article is a photograph of Grace, standing in front of some nondescript building.

  This simply has to be the newspaper photograph that Red Duffle Coat Woman showed
around Oxford railway station, and it proves not only that RDCW lives here now – or at least did until three years ago – but also that she was living here thirty years ago, as the Second World War drew to a close.

  My only difficulty now is to locate her in an area where there are a quarter of a million other people living.

  Needles and haystacks come instantly to mind.

  The Lady Margaret School for Girls is just off Great Suffolk Street. It is a large nineteenth-century, mock Gothic building constructed of red brick, with gargoyles aplenty, grinning wickedly down. It is the sort of worthy edifice that respectable, civic-minded gentlemen of the Victorian era would consider building after a jolly evening spent in a brothel which specialized in children. The whole structure positively aches of fake piety and self-indulgent seriousness, and despite my usual respect for historic buildings, I feel an almost overwhelming urge to attack it with a sledgehammer.

  The headmistress of the school projects a self-image which is in marked contrast to the building itself. She is in her late thirties and wearing a pale lemon trouser suit, and though the polished brass plate on the door of her light and airy study announces she is Mrs Horner, we have only just gone through the preliminaries of shaking hands when she asks me to call her Sue.

  ‘It was really very good of you to find the time to see me at such short notice, Sue,’ I say, ingratiatingly.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for what it said on your business card, I probably wouldn’t have, because I really am very busy,’ she admits. ‘But when all’s said and done, you are a fellow Oxonian.’

  Which of your many business cards is this one? I hear you ask.

  It is the one that reads:

  Jennifer Redhead MA (Oxon)

  Confidential Research Consultant

  (The MA, I should explain, isn’t something we graduates of Oxford and Cambridge have actually earned, it’s more a top-up on the BA, which we’re entitled to apply for four years after graduating, providing we’ve managed to stay out of debt and out of prison until then.)

  Most of my business cards are outright lies, and this is no more than the truth, so you might imagine I should be quite happy using it.