Two for Sorrow

‘What?’

‘Your father turned up—he said you were expecting him.’ Marjorie knew that the expression on her face must have exposed the lie, but Hilda Reader was too discreet to comment. ‘He said he’d wait for you across the road.’

In the pub, no doubt, Marjorie thought as she hurried back down, wondering if her fury and embarrassment were written all over her face. Sure enough, her father had taken a corner seat in the Salisbury Arms and was just draining his pint glass as she walked in. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ she asked, sitting down opposite him.

‘Come on, love—that’s not very friendly, is it?’ he said. ‘It’s Friday—I thought you might have some wages for me.’

‘Then you thought wrong. We don’t get paid till the end of the day, but don’t get your hopes up. I wouldn’t give you anything even if I had it, so you’d better make that your last drink.’

‘But it’s your mother’s birthday on Sunday, love. You want her to have something nice, don’t you?’

‘The best present you could give her would be to clear off and leave us to it.’

‘You know you don’t mean that. Why don’t you nip back to work like a good girl and ask that nice lady if you can have your money now? It’s not like you’re going to bunk off this afternoon, is it, and I’m sure she’ll understand if you tell her it’s for your old dad.’

‘Like hell, I will. I’ve got a chance here now, and I’m not about to let you ruin it for me.’

She stood up to go, but he reached across the table and took her wrist in his hand. ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ he scoffed. ‘You know as well as I do that your new friends aren’t all they’re made out to be. You’ll never be anything other than a cheap little crook. It’s in your blood—and I should know. You’ll be back inside before you know it, and I’m bloody well going to get what I can out of you before that happens.’

Marjorie wrenched her hand away, accidentally catching the glass as she did so and knocking it to the floor. Blinded by anger and terrified that her father spoke the truth, she picked up one of the broken pieces and thrust it towards him. As he held his hands up to protect his face, Marjorie—for the first time in her life—felt stronger than he was. The balance of power in their relationship had suddenly shifted. How could she not have noticed that he had become an old man? The realisation seemed to shock her father as much as it did her: he made no attempt to speak to her as she placed the glass gently back on the table and left the pub.

Chapter Four

Josephine emerged from the newspaper room at the British Museum with her hands as covered in ink as her notebook, her mind full of the varying press accounts of the trial: the verbatim witness testimonies found in The Times; the lively opinions put forward by the Echo; and the Telegraph’s lengthy descriptive commentaries. Before leaving the building, she couldn’t resist straying for a moment into the Museum’s great domed Reading Room. She sat down at one of the leather- covered reading desks which extended like spokes from the circles of bookcases in the middle of the room and, while the reports were still fresh in her mind, summarised the most interesting aspects of the Sach and Walters case. She had no idea yet how the story would be told but, when she had finished, she was pleased to see that there was a compelling series of scenes to recreate. To a mind untrained in law, the trial and lack of evidence for the defence threw up a number of questions which she looked forward to talking through with Archie. Having read more about the case, though, it seemed that her original instinct had been a good one: it was the balance of power between the two women which would drive the novel, and the effect it had on those around them. The social circumstances of the time were interesting, too: she had been astonished at how many other accounts of child neglect, cruelty and abandonment she had found in the pages of the press without looking very hard for them. Celia had been right: Sach and Walters were certainly not unique in their crimes; she had identified at least four other baby farmers operating during the same period.

She walked out into a pleasant haze of winter sunshine and headed back to the Cowdray Club for lunch, her spirits lifted after the misery of the morning by the brisk freshness of the day. In fact, if the last week was anything to go by, November in London certainly didn’t deserve its bad press. It was cold, certainly, but the trees in Cavendish Square were still in leaf and, although the drift of gold that ran through the branches was a muted, poignant affair, there was no doubt that this month of scarlets and yellows held its own beauty.

‘Miss Tey! What a lovely surprise!’

Josephine glanced across the street and was astonished to see Archie’s detective sergeant, Bill Fallowfield, standing at the entrance to the club. Celia was with him and, judging by the impatient look on her face, he had broken off an important conversation to greet her.

‘The surprise is mutual, Bill,’ she said, smiling warmly. She had a soft spot for the sergeant, and admired the loyalty and good humour that—by Archie’s own admission—saw them both through the most difficult of times. ‘What brings you to this side of town? A spot of early Christmas shopping?’

‘I should be so lucky, Miss,’ he said. ‘No, I do all mine on Christmas Eve, I’m afraid.’

He stopped discreetly short of revealing his business at the club, and Josephine was careful to hide how much she knew. ‘The stealing?’ she asked, turning pointedly to Celia, who nodded. ‘Is it really that serious?’

‘I’m afraid so. Nothing very valuable has been taken, as I said, but that’s not the point. We can’t be seen to be lax about security, not if we want to maintain the reputation of the club. If word gets out about this, the membership is bound to suffer.’

‘We’ll do all we can to put a stop to it before it gets out of hand, Miss Bannerman, and what you’ve told me today has been very helpful.’ He turned to Josephine. ‘Inspector Penrose didn’t even tell me you were in London,’ he said, feigning indignation. ‘I’ll have to have a word with him when I get back to the Yard.’

Josephine looked guilty. ‘He didn’t know himself until last night, Bill. I had the chance to come down a day or two earlier than planned,’ she explained, hoping that she could rely on Celia not to be more specific, ‘and I’ve had a lot of work to catch up with.’

‘A book or a play?’ he asked cautiously.

‘A book,’ she said, knowing that this would please him. Fallowfield was a great fan of her novels and an avid reader of detective fiction in general, but he didn’t ‘hold’ with plays and privately considered that she was wasting her talents in writing them. ‘Actually, Bill,’ she added, looking at him thoughtfully, ‘you might be able to help me.’ Fallowfield was in his fifties, although he looked younger, and would know from experience what policing was like at the time she was investigating. ‘Do you know anything about the Finchley Baby Farmers?’

He looked intrigued. ‘Sach and Walters, you mean? Blimey, that takes me back. I haven’t heard their names mentioned in years.’

‘Takes you back?’ Josephine prompted, scarcely daring to hope.

‘Yes, Miss,’ he said. ‘It’s funny you should ask about them—I was in the car that took the Billingtons into Holloway the day before they hanged them.’

‘You drove the executioners into the prison?’ she asked, resisting the impulse to hug him.

‘Yes, with my sergeant at the time. There were always two of us on a job like that in case of any trouble. Thirty years ago or more, that must have been.’ He shook his head, as if he couldn’t imagine where the time had gone. ‘I hadn’t been in the force long, and it was one of the first jobs I was given—certainly the first job like that. I’ll never forget it.’

His words echoed Celia’s, and Josephine was struck by how many people—young, impressionable and just starting out in their careers—had been affected by the crimes of these two women. ‘Would you tell me about it when you’ve got time?’

‘Of course, Miss. I’d be glad to help, and I might be able to find you a few more people to talk to, as well— I’ve kept in touch with some of the lads from back then.’

Celia cleared her throat. ‘As long as the sergeant has some time left to concentrate on crimes that haven’t been solved yet,’ she said archly. ‘Petty theft isn’t as glamorous as baby farming, I know, but it seems a little more pressing to those whose belongings are at risk.’

Having delivered such a satisfactory parting shot, she went back into the club with a purposefulness that