Marjorie’s fault and she’s always been good to me. She took me for a day out last weekend, you know. Bought the train tickets for us both, and took me to the seaside to cheer me up.’
‘That sounds nice. Where did you go?’
‘Somewhere in Suffolk. I can’t remember what the place was called—it had a funny name. She wanted to talk to somebody who lived there, and I remember thinking how lucky they were. I’d never seen the sea before, except on postcards, and I walked along the beach, waiting for Marjorie to finish, and tried to imagine what it must be like to live there all the time and see it in summer as well as winter.’ She smiled to herself, thinking back to the day, and Celia let her talk, wanting her to make the most of the happy memories before she broached the subject of Marjorie’s murder. ‘We had tea before we came back, and it was like we’d left all the shit behind. We weren’t ex- cons or girls who couldn’t keep out of trouble or any of the other names they call us—we were just Lucy and Marjorie, out for a day by the sea. I even forgot about the baby for a bit—it seemed easier to do that when I was somewhere else.’
‘You should have more days like that, Lucy,’ Celia said gently. ‘Life’s very short. Just try to put the past behind you a little more each day. It
Lucy smiled and Celia watched her leave. Then, with a heavy heart, she reached for the telephone.
Penrose was losing his patience with Maria Baker, as the woman sitting in front of him still insisted on being called. Like most people, she looked much less sure of herself now she was away from her home ground and in a police interview room but, since Waddingham and Merrifield had brought her in, she had steadfastly refused to speak other than to state her name; a flicker of surprise when he first mentioned the alternatives ‘Sach’ and ‘Edwards’ was the only indication she had given him so far that he was on the right track at all.
‘Mrs Baker—there are ways and means of proving your husband’s real identity and your own, but that will take days, perhaps weeks. By forcing us to go down those routes rather than helping us now, you are giving your daughter’s killer the advantage of time. Is that really what you want to do?’
Still, there was no answer. She stared down at the table between them as if oblivious to what he had said. Exasperated, Penrose glanced across at Fallowfield and decided to try a new tactic. So far, he had deliberately avoided going through all the horrific details of Marjorie’s death: if Mrs Baker had killed her daughter, she would reveal herself eventually and he liked to keep some things close to his chest; if she had had nothing to do with it, then it was information which no mother needed to hear. But reason and firmness had got him nowhere, and shock seemed to be the only route left to him. ‘Marjorie was choked to death with glass,’ he said bluntly. ‘Her killer incapacitated her with drugs, waited for her to come round, and then tortured her in the most horrific way possible. While Marjorie was still conscious, he or she took a needle four inches long and sewed her lips together so that the glass and the vomit went back down into her lungs.’ The woman covered her ears with her hands, but Penrose continued relentlessly, loathing what he was doing but determined not to lose the upper hand now that he had finally forced a reaction. ‘The needle tore through Marjorie’s skin and caused severe damage to her mouth, and the pain must have been more extreme than we can begin to imagine. As if that weren’t enough, Marjorie was made to look at herself in a mirror while all this was going on. It was a slow, ugly and humiliating death, and someone must be made to answer for that.’ He had used Marjorie’s name repeatedly in an effort to break down the extraordinary detachment which Maria Baker had managed to maintain since receiving news of her daughter’s death, and it seemed to have worked. She was crying now, and Penrose drove home his advantage. ‘I think your husband told Marjorie about his past, either deliberately or when he was drunk. I also believe that you discovered the secret was out, and were horrified to think that the shame which you’d been running from for years was about to catch up with you.’
‘No,’ she insisted angrily. ‘Marjorie knew nothing about all that. If she had, she would never have kept quiet.’
‘But that’s the trouble, isn’t it, Mrs Baker? Marjorie needed to be kept quiet, so you made sure that she was. And when your husband turned up, you saw the perfect opportunity to silence both of them.’
‘No,’ she screamed, standing up and slamming her hand down hard on the table in front of him. ‘That’s not what I meant. Marjorie didn’t know who we were.’
‘Shall I take that as an invitation to call you Mrs Sach?’
‘Call me what you fucking like, but I didn’t kill my daughter.’
She was so close to him now that Penrose could feel her breath on his face, but he resisted the temptation to sit back. ‘There was no love lost between you, though, was there?’
‘So? You try playing happy families with the sort of life we had. What sort of world do you live in, for Christ’s sake? Walk down a street like ours, and you can count the loving mother-and-daughter relationships on the fingers of one hand. But there’s a difference between that and what you’ve just told me. I could never do that to another human being, and I didn’t do it to Marjorie.’
‘What about your husband? Could you have pushed him down some stairs?’
‘He wasn’t my husband. I didn’t marry him. He never asked me. He always loved Amelia.’
Penrose was astonished that she would tolerate the life she had led for a man who didn’t love her, but he wasn’t going to give her another chance to point out his naivety by questioning her about it. Instead, he just said: ‘But you are Nora Edwards?’ She nodded. ‘Right, Miss Edwards—I’m going to give you a few minutes to compose yourself, and then I’d like you to answer my questions as honestly and as fully as you can. Let the constable outside know if you need anything.’
In truth, it was Penrose who needed the break. He closed the door to the interview room and leant against it. ‘Well done, Sir,’ Fallowfield said quietly. ‘I began to think she was never going to admit the connection.’
‘At what cost, though?’ Penrose asked. ‘You know, Bill, sometimes I hate this job. If she’s not guilty, she didn’t need to know all that.’
‘She left you no choice, Sir. Do you think she is guilty?’
‘I really don’t know. Somehow I doubt it, but that could just be because I don’t want to believe that a mother could do that to her child.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘It must be the sort of world I live in. We’ll give her five minutes, then go back in. Right now, I need some coffee.’
Fallowfield obliged, and returned with two mugs and a piece of paper. ‘A message for you at the desk, Sir. Miss Bannerman’s just telephoned—Lucy Peters is back at the club, and she’s keeping an eye on her.’
‘Then God help the poor kid,’ said Penrose. ‘But that’s good news—we’ll finish with Edwards first, and then go over there. Lucy won’t be disappearing again if she’s under that sort of surveillance.’
Celia stood at the top of the staircase and waited for Lucy to come back with the cocoa. The club was always quiet at this time of the evening, particularly on a Saturday, when most of the members had either gone out to the theatre or to dinner, and she enjoyed the peace of the old house as it must have been when it was a family residence. It wouldn’t last long, she knew: she had done her duty and left a message for Inspector Penrose, and he was bound to arrive soon to speak to Lucy. She only hoped that she was doing the right thing.
Voices drifted up from the bottom of the stairs, and Josephine appeared with the two Motley sisters. Celia greeted them warmly. ‘I hope you’ve had a peaceful evening after such a terrible day.’
‘Hardly peaceful,’ Josephine said wryly. ‘We’ve been all over the Highlands, and witnessed a shooting at the London Palladium.’
‘We went to see the new Hitchcock,’ Lettice explained. ‘It’s really terribly exciting.’
‘Although I’m not sure playing a sex-starved crofter’s wife counts as Peggy’s finest hour,’ Ronnie said, and continued in a dreadful Scottish accent. ‘ “You should see Sauchiehall Street, with all its fine shops.” Lydia will die laughing when she sees it.’
‘I thought she was rather good, didn’t you, Josephine?’
‘Not bad for someone who’s clearly never been north of Camden. But I think Lydia would happily play the croft if it meant getting a film role, so my advice is not to mention it.’
Celia walked with them along the corridor to the drawing room. ‘Make yourselves at home. The hot drinks are on their way up.’
‘Bugger the hot drinks,’ Ronnie said, grimacing. ‘I want something a bit stronger after all that bracing
