The Death of Lucy Kyte (2 page)

Eagerly, she took the black and white portrait shot that he held out to her. Hester Larkspur was in costume, but not even the trappings of the Edwardian stage – hat and parasol and a fringe she would probably regret – could hide the warmth and fun in the actress's eyes. It was an attractive face – ‘charming' would probably have been the word used by critics – but there was an intelligence there, too, that spoke instantly to Josephine, and she felt she could easily have been looking at Ethel Barrymore or a young Ellen Terry. In the back of her mind, a half-formed memory began to nag at her, but it would not come forward when summoned and she turned her attention back to the will. ‘What did you mean – “straightforward so far”?'

‘Ah – this is where it gets interesting.' He smiled, mocking his own enthusiasm. ‘I do wish everyone could be so creative with their final wishes. It would make my job much more exciting. Now – there are two codicils. The first goes like this: “It is my wish and I direct that my goddaughter, Josephine Tey, shall immediately on my death be given the keys of Red Barn Cottage and that she shall have the sole right of entry thereto until such time as she has cleared up my personal belongings and papers. She must decide, according to her discretion, what is and what is not valuable, to her or to a wider public – and, if she is her mother's daughter, she will know that I am not talking in monetary terms. It is a writer's gift to know what has meaning in a person's life, to decide what stories are worthy of being told, and I instruct – I ask – her now to do that for me.”' Josephine opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. ‘“If, for whatever reason, Josephine Tey is unable or unwilling to undertake the above, it is my wish and I direct my Executors to ensure that Red Barn Cottage and its contents are destroyed in their entirety. No sale of the house or contents shall be permitted; nor shall any inspection of the house be allowed.”'

The room fell silent as Josephine thought about the implications of what she had heard. ‘I see why you called it a responsibility,' she said eventually. ‘It's not just a matter of tidying up the garden, is it?'

‘No, I'm afraid not. But at least Miss Larkspur's was an interesting life – well, a life
you
will find interesting, I think.'

‘You said there were
two
codicils?'

‘That's right. Have a Garibaldi.' He glanced at the tea tray. ‘Good God, a choice of biscuits. What can Miss Peck be thinking of? Still, I suppose it's not every day that we have a celebrity in the office.' Absentmindedly, Josephine chose a shortbread, keen for him to continue. ‘So, last but not least: “In addition to the arrangements made in my will, I bequeath to Lucy Kyte and free of all encumbrances the right to take whatever she most needs from the house as an acknowledgement of the great kindness to me, and in the hope that it will bring her peace.”'

‘Who is Lucy Kyte?'

MacDonald shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I haven't been able to trace her yet. Dilys Nichols is straightforward enough – she's a dressmaker whom Miss Larkspur knew from the theatre. Lucy Kyte is a mystery, but that's my problem, not yours – unless what she needs most turns out to be the kitchen sink, of course. Somehow I don't think so.'

‘No, it sounds more personal than that. What was the great kindness, I wonder? Perhaps Lucy Kyte is someone from the village who looked after Hester?'

‘That was my first thought, but apparently not. There was no one looking after her, and that was the way she wanted it. The local vicar told me that in no uncertain terms.'

Something in his tone made Josephine uneasy. ‘How
did
Hester die? I haven't even asked you.'

‘Oh, at home in bed.'

‘The way we all want to go?' He smiled, but said nothing. ‘Well, I'm glad of that, at least.' She looked at the actress again. ‘What was she like?'

‘Delightful. Gracious, charming and witty – the sort of person whose company you felt you were lucky to have, even for a short time. She rarely came back to Inverness, of course, and we didn't see her often, but there were certain things she asked us to look after over the years – investments, mostly, and the purchase of the house – and her appointments were always looked forward to.' He took the photograph back for a moment and stared at it fondly, and Josephine could imagine him forty years ago, a young man dazzled by a glamorous client, wanting to do his best for her. ‘It would have been easier for her to use a London firm, I suppose, but her family had always been with us and loyalty seemed to be important to Miss Larkspur. She was old-fashioned in that way, and I like to think we served her well. She certainly had Miss Peck eating out of her hand and that is no mean feat, believe me.'

‘I wish I'd known her.' She smiled at her own cliché. ‘You must hear that a lot.'

‘Yes, and not always from people who were strangers to each other. Don't get me wrong, Josephine – she wasn't an easy woman. That's what I meant about knowing her as a client and not as a friend: there was a “thus far and no further” quality to her. She knew how to keep people at arm's length, and she didn't give a damn if that offended them. She was a law unto herself and that hardly made her popular here, as I'm sure you can imagine.' He gave Josephine a knowing look which she chose to ignore. ‘Or, I understand, in Suffolk. The funeral was the last straw.'

‘Why? What instructions did she leave?'

‘That on no account was she to be buried in Polstead. She wanted a private cremation, and her ashes to be placed with Walter's at St Paul's in Covent Garden, with a memorial service for them both. It's an actors' church, apparently.'

‘Yes, I know it. That's reasonable enough, surely?'

‘Not to her neighbours. If a village is good enough to live in, it's good enough to die in, and I suppose that's reasonable, too. It was viewed as something of a snub. No one likes to be denied a good funeral – especially when the war has cheated us out of so many. But, as I said, she didn't give a damn.'

‘An actress who didn't need to be liked? That
is
impressive.' He laughed, and Josephine sensed he was enjoying the opportunity to talk about a woman he wished he had known better. ‘I'm sorry I didn't get your letter in time to pay my respects,' she said. ‘I can't imagine it was much of a memorial if she had isolated herself in the way you say. Did you go?'

‘No. I was tied up here, so Miss Peck represented us. There was a reasonable turnout, apparently – fans who remembered Miss Larkspur from her heyday, old colleagues who went out of curiosity after so many years, even a few famous faces.'

‘Oh?'

‘Sybil Thorndike and her husband were there. And Tod Slaughter. That can't be his real name, surely?'

‘The “Slaughter” part is. I believe his first name is actually Norman, but most people call him Mr Murder. Pick a villain and he's played it.'

‘I see. Well, Miss Peck seemed particularly taken with him – said he was charm itself. Between you and me, I think she rather enjoyed herself. I dare say she'd be only too happy to talk to you about it if you've time. She's quite a fan.' He hesitated, as if there were something else he wanted to say, and Josephine waited to see what it was. ‘Miss Larkspur telephoned me a few months back,' he admitted eventually. ‘She told me she was thinking of changing her will. I wondered then if she had another major beneficiary in mind.'

‘And did she?'

‘I don't know. She never really explained herself. In fact, she seemed very distracted. All she would say is that she wasn't sure if you would
want
the house. I told her to send me her instructions in writing when she'd made up her mind, but I never heard from her. In fact, that was the last time we spoke.' His voice was full of regret, and Josephine wondered what else he thought he could have done for his client. ‘If she was right about that, and the cottage is more trouble to you than it's worth, I can get a local firm to clear the place and destroy the contents according to her wishes. The property itself is more problematic. She's made it impossible for you to sell, but I'm not entirely sure about the legality of wanton destruction. It may be that the house must just be left to die in its own good time if you don't want to keep it. But I'm rather hoping you will.'

‘And you feel burdened by a paperweight? I can't help wishing my own benefactor had been less creative.' The word felt strangely Dickensian in her mouth and she looked again at the house, trying to imagine herself there.

‘It's a lot to ask of someone, I know, but you don't have to decide immediately. Take some time to think about it and let me know what you'd like me to do.' He passed a heavy iron key across the desk with the photographs and paperwork. ‘And this belongs to you.'

Josephine took it, already feeling like an intruder. She stood to leave, and MacDonald showed her out. To her relief, his secretary was on the telephone. As keen as she was to know more about Hester Larkspur, she needed time to think about this unexpected turn in her life; Miss Peck's notes from the wake could wait for another day.

‘Give my regards to your father.'

‘I will.' The summer rain showed no sign of relenting, and Josephine took her umbrella from the stand. ‘Did my father know Hester?' she asked.

‘As well as a man ever knows his wife's best friend, I suppose.' There was a twinkle in the solicitor's eye as he bent to kiss her. ‘Or his wife, when she's with her.'

He left her with that thought, and Josephine walked out into the street, conscious of the key in her bag. She headed for Crown Circus, intent on getting home, then changed her mind and retraced her footsteps back into town. It was only three o'clock, and the library would be open for at least another hour; there was still time to finish the day with more information about Hester Larkspur than she had at present. Someone with more sense than she would be thinking about the practicalities of owning a cottage four hundred miles away rather than chasing the memory of a woman she would never know – but the actress had gambled on her curiosity, on the heart ruling the head, and she had been right. Josephine was less intrigued by the gift itself than by the woman who had made it, and the prospect of seeing a different side to her mother through their friendship only spurred her on.

The library was quiet, and Josephine found a table to herself in the reference room. She pulled out
Who's Who in the Theatre
and flicked through the pages, feeling the familiar sense of pride when she passed her own entry. Her godmother's record was lengthy, particularly for someone who had abandoned her career when it was still in full swing, and Josephine wondered again how she could have been oblivious to her achievements until now.

‘Larkspur, Hester, actress;
b.
15 September, 1871;
d.
of the late Robert Larkspur and his wife Helen (Milne);
e.
Inverness Royal Academy;
m.
Walter Paget (dec.). Made her first professional appearance on the stage in a sketch, “How Others See Us”, at the Playhouse, Whitley Bay; played various parts with the Hull Repertory Company, and, after gaining further experience with a number of companies in the provinces, made her first appearance in London at the Criterion, 8 Apr., 1891, as Lady Blakeney in
The Scarlet Pimpernel
.' Josephine skimmed through the long list of revues, comedy parts and tours that followed, before arriving at the role that had slipped John MacDonald's memory. ‘In 1896, she played the eponymous Maria Marten for the first time at the Pavilion Theatre, Mile End, where she acted opposite Walter Paget in the story of the Red Barn murder. They married the following year and, over the next two decades, toured the country with popular revivals of “blood and thunder” melodramas, including
Sweeney Todd, Jack Sheppard
and
The Crimes of Burke and Hare
, as well as
Maria Marten
, a play that Larkspur has performed more than a thousand times in her career, and for which she remains best-known.

‘After the war, the couple settled at the Elephant and Castle Theatre, South London, where Paget became actor-manager, attracting West End audiences for their productions and for a popular Christmas pantomime. In 1921, she surprised critics by joining the Little Theatre's “Grand Guignol” company at the invitation of Sybil Thorndike and Lewis Casson, appearing for more than a hundred performances in
The Old Women
. She retired from the stage in 1922 after the death of her husband. More than ten years later, she was persuaded to return to the Maria Marten story in a film of the same name, starring alongside Tod Slaughter, this time as the heroine's mother, but she withdrew from the production before filming started. She was replaced by Clare Greet.
Recreations
: books; gardening; the countryside;
Address
: Red Barn Cottage, Polstead, Suffolk.'

Josephine recalled the film – one of those cheap and cheerful crowd-pleasers left over from a different age, memorable for the shamelessly excessive performance of its male star and quite magnificent in its own dreadful way. The details of the story eluded her, but she was fascinated to learn that Hester's cottage – she could not yet think of it as her own – had a place in the real history of the crime.

‘The wanderer returns,' said a voice behind her. ‘Is it my imagination, or are you away in the south more often these days?'

Josephine glanced at Margaret MacDougall, the local librarian, and smiled. ‘Twice in two months is hardly a defection.' The words were as indignant as she could make them, and she hoped that a firm denial would outweigh the truth of the observation. She resented feeling obliged to justify the time she spent away from the town, even to someone she liked, but it was a habit of which she had never managed to break herself.