An Expert in Murder (26 page)

– hope could be trampled on and destroyed. Having to look on while Marta attempted to shake off the slap and continue as before did not help her mood.

‘You know, with all that’s happened tonight I completely forgot to thank you for the flower you left at stage door for me,’ she said, brushing Lydia’s cheek affectionately. ‘It’s supposed to be the other way round, but I’m not complaining. Those green and brown petals are extraordinary – almost like velvet.’ She got up, and Josephine’s heart sank still further: she didn’t say anything but she could tell from Lydia’s bemused expression that, no matter how extraordinary the flower, it wasn’t she who had left it for Marta.

‘Are you all right?’ Archie’s voice was urgent and concerned, and Josephine felt a pang of remorse for not appreciating that of course he would worry when he got the message she had left for him at the Yard, asking him to telephone her as soon as possible.

She reassured him, then gave a brief but thorough account of her conversation with Lydia.

‘If it’s true that Aubrey’s nephew was murdered, it would be hard to think of a more appalling crime,’ he said, and told her about the boy and how he had died. ‘It would have been quite easy to arrange, though. I don’t suppose there was any suggestion that Aubrey thought he might have been the intended victim and not his nephew?’

‘No, nothing like that, and there was no indication of who would have wanted the nephew dead or why. Apparently, Bernard regretted saying anything at all and refused to explain. It was nearly twenty years ago, though – do you really think the deaths could be connected?’

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‘I know they are, but until now I couldn’t see how one could lead to the other. Aubrey was playing a dangerous game if he was out for revenge, and there must be a reason why it’s taken so long to come to anything.’

‘How did you know there was a link?’

Confident of Josephine’s discretion, Archie repeated what Grace Aubrey had told him about the significance of the flower found with Aubrey’s body. ‘Apparently, the iris represents chivalry.’

‘Yes, I think I knew that. “A sword for its leaf and a lily for its heart” – I can’t remember where I read that, but it struck me as an interesting description. It was probably in one of the letters I got when
Richard
opened: apparently, I was wrong to go on about lilies; for medieval writers, fleur-de-lis always meant the iris, and plenty of people wrote politely to tell me so.’

Archie remembered the note in the railway carriage: ‘Lilies are more fashionable.’ Was there a more sophisticated message there than he had thought? A reference, perhaps, to past mistakes, to things being named incorrectly – to an adoption that should never have taken place?

‘Archie? Are you still there?’

‘Sorry, yes. I was just thinking about Elspeth Simmons.’

‘Was there a flower with her body, too?’

‘Yes, an iris again. It occurred to me that she might have been Aubrey’s child, but Grace Aubrey convinced me it was unlikely.

Still, perhaps Elspeth’s death was the catalyst for his. Perhaps when she died she took the reason for nearly twenty years of silence with her. The question is – whose silence? I’m hoping Alice Simmons might be able to help there. Betty telephoned earlier to say they were ready to leave Berwick – Alice wanted to come down straight away to be near Elspeth – so they should be here in a few hours.’

‘Perhaps Arthur fathered a child before he died,’ Josephine suggested. ‘Elspeth could have been related to Bernard that way.’

‘Yes, she could,’ he agreed. ‘Again, Grace claimed not to know of a lover, but they could have kept the relationship quiet. And if the girl was pregnant out of wedlock, she’s hardly going to parade the illegitimacy at a memorial service.’ He sighed heavily. ‘There 182

are so many permutations, but what you’ve told me tonight helps enormously. Where is Lydia now, by the way?’

‘She’s gone home with Marta. They got a car to take them, as you instructed,’ she added, with no intention of admitting that Lydia’s revelations had been made by the side of the Thames in questionable company rather than in the safety of Number 66. ‘I think there are some things they need to sort out – personal stuff, nothing to do with this – and they both looked shattered.’

‘You must be, too. You should go to bed.’

‘I know. I don’t suppose there’s any point in my telling you to get some rest? You can’t go on like this indefinitely.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he promised, ‘and I’ll speak to you tomorrow – well, later today. I can’t say when because God knows what’s going to happen next, but I’ll try to find time to come and see you. And Josephine?’

‘Don’t worry, Archie, I will,’ she said, anticipating his instructions to take care.

As Archie said goodnight, Fallowfield put his head round the door. ‘Miss McCracken’s downstairs, Sir. She’s older than I expected – it’s funny, I always think of the theatre set as packed with sweet young things, but she’s no youngster now and I doubt she’s ever been sweet. Nasty piece of work, but I suppose she’d have to be to write those letters. And she hasn’t stopped talking from the moment I knocked on her door to the moment I put her in the interview room.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Mostly vicious stuff about people she worked with – all except Terry. He seems to share her high opinion of herself. Very nasty about Miss Tey, though, and not a good word to say about Bernard Aubrey.’

‘But no indication that she already knew he was dead?’

‘No, but she’s not stupid, Sir. She wouldn’t give herself away.’

‘I think we’ll let her wait for a bit; our hospitality might calm her down and anyway, I want to bring you up to date.’

Fallowfield listened intently to what Penrose had to say, then added his own news. ‘Nothing further on White yet, Sir, but 183

Seddon’s been through the list of numbers on Aubrey’s blotter.

Most of them aren’t very interesting – firms you’d expect him to deal with in theatre – but one is the number for Somerset House and another is a private number down south. There’s no answer, but I’ve told Seddon to keep trying.’

‘Somerset House is interesting,’ Penrose said. ‘I wonder what Aubrey was digging around there for?’

‘I don’t know yet, Sir, but we’re trying to track down a home number for someone who works there. If not, it’ll be first thing Monday morning at the latest.’

‘Good work, Bill – thanks,’ Penrose said. What he needed now was a voice to unlock the past, someone who could help remove the barrier which time had placed between him and that first terrible death. From that, the more immediate answers would follow, he was sure, and he looked forward more than ever to meeting Alice Simmons.

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Twelve

The early hours of Sunday morning brought nothing but despair to Hedley White. Last night, buoyed up by the beginnings of a plan and some money in his pocket to carry it out, he had almost convinced himself that running away was a feasible solution; perhaps if he left London behind he could also discard the pain of Elspeth’s death, if not the fact of it. He would go to one of the stations – not King’s Cross, he couldn’t bear that and anyway it would be full of police – and buy a ticket to get himself as far away from the city as he could afford to go. He’d choose a town he liked the name of, maybe somewhere on the coast, where he could keep his head down, work hard and start again.

But as daylight released the life back into Paddington Station, things looked very different. Hedley stood by the station’s great memorial to railway staff who had fallen during the war, dwarfed by the statue of a soldier and envious of the huge greatcoat in which it was draped. It wasn’t the cold or the rain that had eaten away at his resolve, though; it was the loneliness that had worn him down. All his life, Hedley had known companionship: in a large and close-knit family, in the chaotic but familial world of the theatre and, most recently, in the intimate miracle of love; now, as he gazed over towards the long line of platforms, each leading out to a different version of that second chance he had craved, the isolation of such a life bore down on him with a merciless reality. If Elspeth were with him, he thought, he would be stronger; she always brought out the best in him and he would know what to do for them both. He looked up again at his bronze companion, who held not a weapon but a letter from home, and 185

imagined him to be so engrossed in this reminder of tenderness that the trenches were forgotten. That was nobility, he thought, and Elspeth’s absence returned again to mock him. Who was he trying to fool? Who was this decisive and courageous protector that his imagination conjured up so readily? Elspeth was dead, and he was no hero.

By now, the ticket office had opened and Hedley joined the queue, hoping it would force him into making a decision. ‘Where to?’ the booking clerk snapped when his turn came and tapped a ruler impatiently on the counter. As Hedley hesitated, a policeman came into view. He was just a bobby on an early shift, looking forward to his first hot drink of the day, but Hedley – who had been brought up to believe in the power of authority – saw it as a sign.

He recalled a book he had read recently. When he first met Elspeth and discovered her love for
Richard of Bordeaux
, he had borrowed a couple of Josephine Tey’s novels from the library to impress her. He couldn’t remember the titles but the one he had particularly enjoyed was a mystery which involved the chase and inevitable capture of a suspected murderer. Reliving it now, and finding himself on the wrong side of the story, he knew without any doubt that a life on the run was not for him. Hurriedly, he left the queue. What on earth had he been thinking of? He couldn’t spend the rest of his life cowering in the shadows, afraid to show his face, no matter how much trouble he was in. Decisive now, Hedley walked quickly to the nearest public telephone and called the only person he could think of without fear.

Lydia took some time to answer and, when she did, her voice was full of sleep. ‘I’m sorry to wake you so early on a Sunday,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t know who else to ring.’

‘Hedley? Where on earth are you? Are you all right?’

He explained, and she listened patiently. When she spoke again, all traces of sleep had disappeared and her tone was warm but firm. ‘You have to go to the police, darling. You haven’t done anything wrong but if you run away they’ll have something to hold against you; if you go now, there’s nothing to be afraid of.’

When he didn’t speak immediately, Lydia continued reassuringly.

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‘Inspector Penrose is a fair man, Hedley, and he’ll be on your side as long as you’re honest with him. You want them to find who did this to Elspeth, don’t you?’ He could tell from the sudden forced brightness in her voice that she knew it was a cheap shot, but she was right to guess that nothing would make him see sense more readily.

‘You’re right and this sounds stupid, but I just can’t face having to walk into a police station,’ he said. ‘I know I’ve made it worse by waiting till now. Could you speak to Mr Penrose for me? Tell him I’m here?’

There was silence on the line, and Hedley waited for Lydia’s answer. ‘Look, I’ll speak to him now for you but I think it’s best if you go back to your digs and he comes to find you there. There’ll probably be a policeman waiting, but just explain what’s happening. You don’t want to have all this out in the middle of Paddington Station.’

Reading between the lines, Hedley realised that she was doing her best to keep his shame as private as possible without saying as much, and he appreciated her efforts while suspecting that they signalled a rough time ahead for him with Inspector Penrose. Still, he had made his decision and he wouldn’t go back on it now.

‘Thanks for trusting me,’ he said.

‘Don’t be silly, Hedley – of course I trust you. I’m glad you phoned me and I want you to let me know straight away if you need me. It’ll be all right, really it will. I’m sure the police will sort it out. And Hedley?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m truly sorry about Elspeth. I know how much you loved each other.’

Hedley replaced the receiver without speaking and made for the underground, fighting back tears. He trusted Lydia and knew her advice was sensible, but first there was something he needed to do.

Penrose was unavailable, so Lydia left an urgent message with the constable on the desk and climbed back into bed, shivering as she removed her dressing gown.

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‘You didn’t tell Hedley about Aubrey’s death,’ Marta said, putting her arms around her.

‘No,’ said Lydia. ‘I just couldn’t. I was afraid I’d be able to tell from his voice that he already knew.’

Rafe Swinburne rode over the river and into Blackfriars Road, taking advantage of the straight, broad street and peaceful Sunday morning to reach a satisfying speed which was rarely possible in the city. He passed the entrances to Stamford Street and the Cut before turning right into the network of smaller roads behind Waterloo Station, and was pleased to see that the area in which he always parked his motorcycle – close to his digs, where he could keep an eye on it – was clear of cars. He cut the engine, relieved for once to be home and alone: his nightly diversions were taking their toll, although it was the smiling rather than the sex which wore him out. Perhaps he should have tonight off: it was supposed to be a day of rest, after all.

He took his keys from the ignition and crossed Chaplin Close, heading towards the old three-storey house in which he and Hedley shared rooms. It was shabby, but cheaper than lodgings on the other side of the river and, with his bike or the underground, the West End was only a few minutes away. If all went well, it wouldn’t be long before he could afford something better but, in the meantime, this suited him perfectly. The street was quiet and, from Waterloo Road, he could hear the bells of St John’s. It must be about nine o’clock, he thought. With a bit of luck, Hedley would still be in bed and he could enjoy a cup of coffee in peace before getting some sleep himself.

He was still three or four doors from home when he heard someone call his name from the other side of the street. Looking over, he was astonished to see his room-mate lurking in the shadows outside a butcher’s shop. Hedley was beckoning urgently to him, and it would have been hard to imagine a more complete picture of human misery.