made her so angry: by threatening to betray Lydia, she had also betrayed Josephine’s fragile hope that a partnership based on love and respect and compromise might yet be possible for her. ‘Yes, I did,’ she admitted truthfully. ‘As happy as two people
‘Ever the optimist,’ Lydia said, smiling at her, and there was a trace of their old friendship in her gentle mockery. Josephine realised suddenly how much she had missed it; they talked so rarely these days. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Lydia sighed. ‘Perhaps she’d be better with someone else, and I should stick to wining and dining chorus girls at the Ivy.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘I know, and don’t worry—I’m not quite ready to give in yet.’
They reached the restaurant and Josephine opened the door gratefully, anxious to be seated at a table where the conversation would be diluted. She didn’t know who to blame more—Marta for putting her in this position, or herself for allowing it to happen—but at least while she was angry, she didn’t have to think more deeply about how she actually felt.
As well as having the distinction of being just across the street from the Motleys’ new apartments, Rules was the oldest restaurant in London and a second home to most of the theatrical profession. In fact, it had long been crowded with celebrities from all walks of life, and past customers from Dickens to Edward VII lived on in the cartoons and photographs which lined the walls. The family had built its reputation on traditional London food, and the restaurant still specialised in game, much of which was brought in from its own estate; it was the sort of menu which would normally have delighted Josephine, but tonight she merely glanced at it perfunctorily and chose the first thing on the list.
‘So tell us more about these odd people you’ve been hanging around with.’ Lettice’s tone was bright enough but she looked curiously across the table, sensing that something was wrong. ‘Archie says it’s got something to do with a real crime.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ They listened as she outlined the bare bones of the Sach and Walters case, then explained her own connection with what happened at Anstey years afterwards.
‘I don’t quite see her problem myself,’ Ronnie said, washing her sarcasm down with a swig of champagne. ‘It sounds to me like her mother had hit on a bloody good idea. I once had to look after a friend’s baby for half an hour—and I would have considered thirty pounds to be a very reasonable price.’
‘But how on earth did they ever think they’d get away with it?’ Lettice asked, fascinated. ‘Surely they should have been more careful?’
‘Yes, I can’t help feeling that it would have been wise to prepare a more eloquent defence than “I never murdered no babies”.’ Ronnie lapsed into a convincing cockney accent, and Lydia smiled approvingly at her. ‘Seriously, though,’ she added, leaning back to allow the waiter to place a large plate of oysters in front of her, ‘isn’t this gala something to do with a children’s charity as well as the Cowdray Club?’
‘Yes—the Actors’ Orphanage. It’s Noel’s pet cause, and his aunt’s on the club’s committee.’
‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’
‘In what way?’ Lettice asked, irritated by her sister’s habit of never quite explaining her point.
‘Well, here we are in 1935, still having to raise money for unwanted children, just so they can grow up in institutions which can’t be very pleasant, even if they are supported by the lord of the London stage. It might be legal, but it doesn’t exactly sound like progress.’
‘It’s funny—the first time I ever saw Gertie on stage, she was so pregnant she could hardly squeeze into the costumes,’ Lydia said, reaching for some bread. ‘It was just after the war, and I gather she did a matinee and an evening performance on the day before the birth. Of course, that all went tits up. If she hadn’t had her mother to dump the kid on, I suppose she would have ended up in the orphanage as well.’
‘You
‘Don’t be so scandalous,’ chided Lettice. ‘That’s all behind her now. She’s paying off the debts at fifty pounds a week—they’ve just cleared her of the bankruptcy.’
‘Bankruptcy?’
‘Good God, dear—where have you been? Don’t they have newspapers in Inverness? Miss Lawrence’s financial embarrassment has been the toast of the press for months. Apparently, she was so busy ordering new cars and flowers that she forgot to pay her laundry bills. It’s easily done, I suppose.’
‘Oh, it’s been simply awful for her,’ Lettice said sympathetically, balancing roast potatoes around the edge of her steak-and-kidney pie. ‘Gertie, her maid, even her dog—they were all turned out on to the street. In the end, her agent took them in.’
‘Good to know they’re useful for something,’ Lydia said bitterly. ‘Although I have to say, I haven’t noticed any marked drop in standards now Gertie’s slumming it.’
‘No, she’s determined not to cut back on anything.’ Lettice’s familiarity with the gossip columns was legendary, and Josephine wasn’t at all surprised by her intimate knowledge of Gertrude Lawrence’s financial affairs. ‘No—she says she’ll make up every penny through cabaret and extra bits of filming.’
‘And charity galas.’
As the Motleys continued their bickering, Josephine noticed how often Lydia’s face reverted to sadness, and she could bear it no longer. If she stayed here, she was likely to take Lydia discreetly outside and tell her everything that Marta had said, which would surely only make things worse. ‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ she said when there was a break in the sparring. ‘I’ve got another appointment with the baby farmers in the morning, and I should be getting back.’
‘Not so early, surely? You’ll stay for dessert?’
‘No, but I promise to stop by the studio tomorrow and look at my outfit. Archie assured me it’s worth trying on. I’ll see you then—about three o’clock?’
The girls nodded and let her go without any further argument. Outside in the street, she breathed a sigh of relief and looked up to Archie’s flat, but it was in darkness. Disappointed not to find him in, she turned and walked down Maiden Lane, hoping to be lucky with a cab in Bedford Street, but she hadn’t got far before she heard someone call her name. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you just go like that,’ Lettice said, hurrying up to her. ‘You’ve been upset all evening. What’s wrong, Josephine? Has something happened between you and Archie?’
‘No, nothing like that. It’s Lydia—I wasn’t expecting to see her tonight, and it was a bit awkward.’
‘Oh God—you know something about Marta, don’t you? Has she been in touch with you?’ Josephine nodded. ‘And she’s not ready for a happy reunion, by the sound of it?’
‘No, not at the moment. Perhaps not ever.’
‘Shouldn’t you tell Lydia?’
‘Yes, I should, but I need to think carefully about what I’m going to say first.’
‘Marta always liked you, didn’t she?’ Lettice looked at her and Josephine knew what was going through her mind, but she was kind enough not to force the point. Instead, she said: ‘I’m sure you’ll work it out, but if you need any help, you know where I am. No one else need ever know.’
Josephine smiled gratefully at her. ‘What will you tell the others? They’ll wonder why you’re chasing after me in the snow.’
‘No they won’t—they think I found your glove under the table.’ She squeezed Josephine’s hand. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
When Marjorie came round, she found herself lying on the workroom floor. All the main lights in the studio had been switched off, and the only glow in the room came from a lamp on Hilda Reader’s desk. It was desperately cold, and she tried to raise herself to a sitting position, but her body felt heavy and the nausea and dizziness were so extreme that she found it impossible to stay upright for more than a few seconds. Her head fell back on to the boards and she lay there in the silence, waiting for the symptoms to pass and trying to make sense of what had happened. The room was so quiet that she thought she was alone, but her relief was short-lived; a noise came from over to her left, a sound like pills being shaken from a bottle, and, as she listened more carefully, she could hear footsteps moving softly around the room. Something in their leisure-liness made her afraid.
She must have passed out again. When she regained consciousness, she was dimly aware of someone standing over her, then she felt hands under her arms, lifting and dragging her like an invalid over to the head cutter’s table. She was pulled roughly on to a chair, where her hands were fastened behind her with a length of soft
