Two for Sorrow

time, Miss Size. It’s much appreciated.’

‘You’re welcome, although I don’t know how much use I’ve been to you.’

‘Apart from anything else, you’ve helped me to understand what happens when my job is over,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think we’re not sufficiently aware of the consequences of what we do.’

He left, and Mary Size turned to Josephine. ‘Now, Miss Tey …’

‘Please—call me Josephine,’ she said, ‘but can I ask you something first?’ ‘Of course.’

‘Marta Fox—how did she cope?’

Mary Size looked surprised but, to her credit, she resisted the temptation to answer Josephine’s question with one of her own. ‘I always think the miracle is that she did cope,’ she said quietly. ‘I see every prisoner within hours of her arrival here, and I feared for Marta at first. It wasn’t surprising after everything she’d been through—an abusive marriage, the loss of her children in the most horrific circumstances, so many revelations which must have been impossible to come to terms with—but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite as empty. Guilt and self-reproach, even despair—those are all emotions I’m used to seeing, and I can deal with them in whatever way is best for the prisoner concerned. But emptiness, a complete lack of concern for what happens to you—that’s very hard, and it went on for some time. She refused all visits and returned all her letters unread—but you probably know that?’

Josephine nodded. ‘So what changed? Or did it change?’

‘Yes, gradually. Two things helped, I think. The gardens, strangely enough. She seemed to find peace there —peace, rather than nothingness. And her writing. I don’t know what she was working on but, in the end, I think she wrote herself back to sanity.’

‘And now? What does it feel like to come out the other side of that?’

‘Is that really why you’re here? To understand what she’s been through?’

‘To know what she’s been through, perhaps. I doubt that I could ever understand. But I would like to have some idea of what she needs now.’

‘Well, not the sort of help that the Prisoners’ Aid Society can give, that’s for sure. I’m not a psychologist, Josephine, but I’d say that Marta needs something—or someone—she can rely on. Something that isn’t going to be snatched away from her. Above all, something safe.’ The telephone rang on her desk. ‘We’ll be right down,’ she said. ‘They’re waiting for you at the gate. I won’t bother you with prison reform now; it looks like you might have your own rehabilitation project on your hands, but do think about it, and if you want to talk to me—about anything at all—you know how to get hold of me. Next time, though, we’ll have a drink at the club.’

‘And I’ll see you at the gala on Monday.’

‘You certainly will, although I considered boycotting it because I’m furious that Celia’s got Noel and Gertie. I can see I’m going to have to raise my game in the fundraising stakes; perhaps you could have a word with someone for me?’

Josephine smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Excellent. And if it’s appropriate, Josephine, please give my regards to Marta.’

‘Do you think Celia Bannerman did mean one of the other prison warders?’ Archie asked as he waited for a gap in the traffic streaming down Camden Road.

‘What? Oh, no, I don’t. I’m sure she said Ethel Stuke—it’s not the sort of name I’d make up.’

‘Says the woman who created Ray Marcable.’

She laughed. ‘That’s different. You’re allowed ridiculous names in detective fiction—in fact, it’s positively encouraged. No, Celia must have made a mistake—it would have been almost impossible to keep up with prison news after she’d changed careers. Have you got Ethel Stuke’s address for me?’

‘Yes. I might use it myself if I draw a blank with Edwards. Where are you going now? Back to the club?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said, although there was something very tempting about the overnight sleeper to Inverness. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a drink?’

‘Afraid not. I’ve got to get back to the Yard—I hope Edwards will be there by now.’

‘She fascinates me, you know. I think she’s the most interesting person in the entire case. I suppose there’s no point in asking you if I can sit in on that one?’

‘No. No point at all.’

‘Bill would let me.’

‘Which is why Bill’s still a sergeant.’

‘Did she kill Marjorie, do you think?’

Archie considered the question, although he had been thinking of very little else. ‘She’s certainly the main contender—she’s got a motive and no alibi, and the method of killing fits with the sort of jealousy that she’s supposed to have shown towards her daughter. And her reaction to the news was very odd.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘Not in my heart, no. But I’ll make you a promise—if she turns out to have no connection with this murder, I’ll ask her if she’ll see you. Are you sure I can’t drop you somewhere a little more welcoming than the Cowdray Club?’

‘Oh, it’s not so bad, and the girls might still be there. If not, I suppose I could go and see a film later—it sounds like Geraldine needs keeping out of trouble.’

‘You wouldn’t rather go to Holly Place?’

She looked at him, horrified. ‘How could you possibly have read the address on that letter?’

‘I didn’t—I just recognised Marta’s handwriting. She sent me a note, too, a few weeks after she got out. Rather briefer than yours, thank God—the writing’s impossible. It just said thank you, although judging by the expression on your face when you got back from your prison tour, she has precious little to thank me for.’

‘I don’t know about that. She was an accessory to murder, and what you did for her was extraordinarily generous.’

‘It was right, that’s all. She didn’t kill anyone, and she was badly used—by everyone in her life, as far as I could see.’

‘Even so, she made things difficult for you, and I didn’t help.’

‘I’m not in policing to get my own back.’

She stared out of the window, relieved that Archie had raised the subject of Marta but unsure of how much to say to him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d heard from her?’ she asked.

‘Because I thought she’d be in touch with you as well and, if she wasn’t, there was no point in raking it all up again.’ He pulled over in Camden Town, ignoring the angry hooting from the car behind, and looked at her with genuine concern. ‘So, what’s it to be—Holly Place or the Cowdray Club?’

‘The Cowdray Club,’ Josephine said quickly. ‘I’m not ready to talk to Marta yet.’

(untitled)

by Josephine Tey

First Draft

Holloway Gaol, Wednesday 14 January 1903

Amelia Sach sat in her cell on the eve of her trial, and waited for news of another woman’s fate. Eleanor Vale’s appearance in court was the talk of the prison, but Amelia had more reasons than most for anticipating the verdict: the similarity of the charges in their respective cases—she still refused to use the word ‘crimes’—was undeniable, and she hoped that Vale’s treatment would at least give her a sign of what she should prepare herself for.

She was unsure if it was the cold or the anticipation that made her shiver. In mid-winter, prison clothes consisted of a cotton frock; a thin vest and knickers made of once-white calico; and harsh, black woollen stockings with holes she could put her fist through. She had no idea if the drab uniform had a summer equivalent or if it had been carefully designed to jar with any season, but she prayed that she might be here to find out; two months ago, she would never have believed that the inhumanity of Holloway was the lesser of two evils, but the thought of her daughter made her cling to life at all costs. Beneath her feet, the stone floor made her colder still but she focused