Two for Sorrow

he was thinking about the tragic events that had taken place there just a few months earlier. ‘I thought it might help to remind you of how beautiful the place is,’ she added gently, ‘and perhaps wipe out a few images that aren’t so pleasant.’

Archie looked across at her. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s perfect.’ He stood up and held the painting against the wall, where a previous occupant had obligingly left a picture hook. ‘Over the fireplace, I think, don’t you?’ She nodded, and he hung it in place, then picked up his glass. ‘To a quieter winter.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘Now—tell me about this new book.’

Josephine accepted a cigarette, and Archie listened while she outlined the crimes of Sach and Walters and explained her own connection with Sach’s daughter. ‘Have you heard of the case?’ she asked when she’d finished.

He shook his head. ‘No, although the crime’s familiar and I know about Dyer. She tends to eclipse everyone else, simply because she was so prolific. It’s funny you should mention it now, though—it’s very topical. Baby farmers are high on the government’s new agenda.’

‘What? You mean it still goes on?’

‘Absolutely. The Home Secretary’s just announced a new committee to look into the whole adoption issue. Wait a minute.’ He got up to rummage through a pile of newspapers, and handed her a copy of Tuesday’s Daily Mail. ‘Here you are—“Government Drive against Baby Farmers”. The process is different these days, of course—it’s more a case of selling babies to countries where it’s illegal to adopt native children—but the principle is exactly the same. Making money out of unwanted children.’ He refilled their glasses while she read the newspaper article, then asked: ‘What will the book be? A fictionalised account of the Sach and Walters case, or a modern version of it?’

‘I haven’t really decided. It’s so different from anything I’ve written recently that it hasn’t found its shape yet. I suppose Kif is the closest I’ve come to looking at the story of a crime without turning it into a detective novel, so it’s a bit like going back to the first book I ever wrote, but with a true case. Anyway, I’m going to have a look through all the newspaper accounts of the trial tomorrow and find out as much as I can about the two women to see what that throws up, but I think what really interests me is the impact the crimes had on everyone else around them. When Sach met Walters—however that happened—they set up a chain of events which didn’t just stop with their execution, and so many people were drawn into it; their families, the mothers of the children, the people who were responsible for them in prison. It’s a whole cast of characters, unconnected except by these two women and changed by them for ever. Look at what happened to Elizabeth Sach, for God’s sake, and that was nearly fifteen years later. I don’t think I’d be taking this on if I hadn’t known her and seen first hand how crimes can linger.’

‘That’s interesting. It sounds like your book starts where most of them finish.’

‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ She smiled. ‘I think I’ve only just realised that myself. You don’t often get the aftermath in detective fiction—the sense of life going on, I mean. Or not going on, in Lizzie’s case. It’s funny, and I hadn’t thought about it before, but Lizzie would never have been able to come to terms with what her mother did because she wasn’t given the chance to talk to her about it. The death sentence doesn’t allow for that sort of solace.’ She set down her glass for a second to put some more coal on the fire. ‘I’m glad you think it sounds interesting, though—I was beginning to have my doubts after talking to Celia earlier. She wasn’t exactly encouraging.’

‘Her name sounds familiar. She was one of the warders, you say?’

‘That’s right. And she does a lot of charity work, so her name’s often in the papers—usually mentioned in the same breath as the Queen.’

He laughed at her expression of distaste. ‘The society pages aren’t exactly the ones I’m drawn to first when I pick up The Times.’

‘No, nor me. But she did tell me she’s called your lot in to the Cowdray Club—perhaps that it’s, although I wouldn’t have thought it was serious enough to bother the inspector with.’

‘Ah, the anonymous letters—that’s it. I knew I’d heard her name recently.’

‘Letters?’

‘Yes. Sorry—I shouldn’t have said anything, but it sounded like you already knew.’

‘I don’t know anything about anonymous letters. Celia told me it was theft.’

‘Yes, there’s been some of that, too, apparently, but you’re right—that wouldn’t concern us. Unpleasant letters to the great and the good, however, are a different matter altogether. The chief constable’s wife is a member.’

‘Unpleasant in what way?’

‘I suppose spiteful would be the best word to describe them. There’s nothing threatening or violent about them, but they play on people’s vulnerabilities with remarkable skill. Four members of the staff or committee have had them so far, including Miss Bannerman herself.’

‘And do they come from another member or from outside the club?’

‘We don’t know yet, and I can’t go into details, but they imply a knowledge of the recipients rather than just random targeting.’

‘How upsetting. Celia said there’d been trouble between the nurses and the other members—I wonder if it’s anything to do with that?’

‘Possibly. I don’t think you need to worry, though—it’s not the members themselves who are receiving them; only people closely involved in the running of the club. You haven’t had anything, have you?’

Josephine decided to come clean. ‘Nothing like that, no—only a mysterious gardenia that no one seemed to want to put a name to.’

‘What?’ he asked in mock offence. ‘You mean someone’s welcomed you to town before I did? I’ll have to up my act.’

‘Well, at least wait until the other one’s died—the room’s too small to look like a florist’s shop.’ She drained her glass. ‘I’d better go—it’s late, and I’ve got a long morning at the British Museum ahead of me.’

‘I’ll walk you back—unless you’d rather take a cab?’

‘No—let’s walk.’ They went out into the street and headed towards Leicester Square, and Josephine took his arm, enjoying the easy way that she and Archie seemed to fall into each other’s company these days, no matter how long it was since they were last together. It hadn’t always been that way: when Josephine’s lover—Archie’s closest friend—had been killed at the Somme, Archie had blamed himself, and the subsequent distance between them, the impossibility of ever understanding how the other truly felt, was one of the many ways in which the war had blighted the lives of those who survived it. She knew that their relationship would never be straightforward— neither of them had the temperament to make it so—but they had both learned to accept its limitations, and to rely on an honesty and understanding which they found only in each other. ‘I wonder why Celia didn’t mention anything about those letters to me?’ Josephine asked as they picked their way through the late-night revellers in Piccadilly.

‘Nothing more sinister than an eye on the club’s reputation, I should think. You’re a client as well as an acquaintance, don’t forget, and she won’t want to unsettle the members. She’s got books to balance, and discretion and privacy are what her customers pay for. News of this getting out is the last thing she needs, especially with the gala coming up on Monday. That’s bound to attract publicity.’

‘You’re still coming with me, I hope?’

‘Of course, although I’m heartily sick of it already. Whenever I do see Lettice and Ronnie, it’s all they seem to talk about.’

‘It’s quite a coup for the club, though, getting Noel and Gertie—especially when Tonight at 8.30 hasn’t even been seen in London yet.’

‘Isn’t some relative of his involved in the Cowdray Club?’

‘His aunt, yes. He agreed to do it for her as long as some of the money goes to the Actors’ Orphanage. He’s president, and he takes his role very seriously, apparently. I suppose that’ll be another bone of contention—even less money for the nurses.’

‘It could turn into quite an interesting evening—anonymous letters, charities at each other’s throats. I suppose it’s more interesting than just waiting to see what plum role Noel’s written for himself this time.’

She hit his shoulder playfully. ‘Don’t act the cynic with me. You loved Private Lives