‘Him,’ she corrected, and Penrose reproached himself for forgetting that not everything in Josephine’s manuscript was fact. ‘I don’t know. Jacob made me give him up. When he said we’d make a clean start, he meant it.’
Whatever the truth of her life was, Penrose could see why Edwards was bitter. As he understood it, she had withstood a great deal of pressure from Sach and Walters to keep her baby, not to mention the social ostracism which she faced as an unmarried mother, only to lose her child to another man’s selfish guilt. Was that why her relationship with her other children had been so strained, he wondered? Because they reminded her of what she had given up and the man who had made her do it? Just as he was about to ask, there was a knock at the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir,’ Waddingham said nervously, ‘but there’s an urgent phone call for you at the desk. It’s about Lucy Peters.’
‘Hardly bloody urgent, Constable,’ Penrose said impatiently. ‘Sergeant Fallowfield gave me that message half an hour ago.’
‘No, Sir, this is a different one. The girl’s had an accident on the stairs, and they don’t know if she’ll pull through.’
Chapter Twelve
By the time Penrose and Fallowfield arrived at the Cowdray Club, Lucy Peters had been moved to one of the treatment rooms on the second floor. Without waiting for an invitation, they went through the foyer into the separate staircase hall. Two maids were hard at work on the stairs, trying in vain to remove the mess caused by Lucy’s accident, but there were still enough traces left for Penrose to guess at the extent of her burns.
‘Get them to stop that until we’ve established exactly what happened here,’ he said quietly to Fallowfield, ‘and have Peters’s room locked. Then get statements from anyone who was close by when she fell. I’m going to find out how she is.’ He turned to go back to reception, then added: ‘And if my cousins and Miss Tey are here, make sure they’re all right, will you, Bill? The last thing Ronnie and Lettice needed tonight was another shock.’
A nurse was waiting at reception to show him through to the college. ‘Shouldn’t Miss Peters have been taken straight to hospital?’ he asked, as he followed her down a short corridor past the dining room and up another staircase, less ostentatious than its Cowdray Club equivalent but just as graceful. The newer building which housed the college had, he noticed, been carefully designed to conform to the type of the older one with which it was connected; it was a great architectural feat, achieved without a hint of awkwardness, and a visitor might easily pass from one house into the other without realising it.
His guide smiled at him reassuringly, as if he were a concerned relative. ‘She really won’t get better treatment than we can give her here,’ she said. ‘With injuries like hers, it’s best to be moved as little as possible, and the faster those burns can be treated, the more chance she stands of making a reasonable recovery.’
‘And you have the facilities to do that?’
‘Oh yes. Not on any great scale, of course, but the college is superbly equipped and you won’t find a greater concentration of knowledge anywhere in the country. Good, practical nursing knowledge, I mean, and that’s what’s needed here. We wouldn’t perform major surgery, but cleaning wounds and preventing infection, monitoring her blood levels and managing the pain as best we can—that’s all second nature to everyone here, and we have excellent contacts with the local hospitals. A doctor will check on her at regular intervals and oversee the treatment. Please don’t think I’m making light of what’s happened, Inspector, but if I were going to scald myself, I’d rather do it here than anywhere else.’
‘How serious is it?’
‘Extremely serious, but Miss Sharpe will explain everything to you. Wait outside, please. I’ll let her know you’re here.’
Left alone in a long, barrel-vaulted corridor, Penrose glanced through the glass in the door and saw Lucy Peters lying on a hospital bed; her injuries were hidden by a bed-cradle which had been placed over her upper body, preventing the sheets and blanket from touching her skin and ensuring that her wounds were protected but remained exposed to the air. Three nurses stood at her bedside, including one in a matron’s uniform whom he presumed was Miriam Sharpe. There was no sign of Celia Bannerman.
He watched, impressed, as Miss Sharpe calmly lifted the sheet to examine the girl’s body, then whispered some instructions to one of the other women. When she came out to greet him, she said nothing at first but gestured to a narrow space at the end of the corridor which had been furnished as a sitting room, with upholstered chairs and a Sheraton bookcase. When she spoke, her words held the same composed economy as her actions. ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ she asked, and he detected a lingering note of Yorkshire in her voice.
‘I was intending to come here later tonight to question Lucy Peters in connection with the death of Marjorie Baker,’ Penrose said, pleased to see that their conversation was unlikely to be punctuated with time-consuming formalities. ‘Obviously, events have overtaken me. How is Miss Peters?’
‘Her condition is critical. Surprisingly, she escaped the fall without any serious damage other than a blow to the head, but the burns to her face, neck and chest are extensive and severe, particularly those on her chest where the cocoa soaked into her clothing and was kept in contact with her skin for longer. We’ve cleaned the wounds, drained the blistering and removed any loose rolls of epithelium—that’s the thin tissue on the outside of the skin— but her body is in shock and her blood pressure dangerously low. The next two hours will be crucial, and even if she survives those, there’s still plenty to worry about—secondary shock, anaemia, infection. I can’t offer you any guarantees at the moment, I’m afraid, except with regard to her care.’
There was no point in beating about the bush. ‘Assuming the best possible outcome, when will I be able to speak to her?’
‘Not for some time. If she regains consciousness—and I do mean if—she will still be in no state to be questioned by the police. The stress of that alone might kill her, and I couldn’t possibly allow it. Apart from anything else, she has extensive burns to her lips and tongue which will make speech painful, if not impossible.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘I wasn’t there, but I understand she tripped and fell down the stairs with a pan of scalding liquid. Quite what she was doing in that situation in the first place, I couldn’t say. The running of the Cowdray Club is entirely Celia Bannerman’s domain, but if you intend to ask her what the hell she thinks she’s playing at by allowing that sort of thing to go on, then you have my full support. My girls have enough to do in their day-to-day work without wasting time on accidents that could have been prevented by common sense.’
Penrose detected a degree of animosity in the outburst which went back further than current events. ‘Where is Miss Bannerman now?’ he asked.
‘Having her own injuries treated.’
‘Oh?’
‘Just minor burns on her hands from trying to help. After that, I advised her to go to her rooms to lie down— she was in shock herself.’
‘Was she first on the scene?’
‘By a matter of seconds, I gather. It was just as well that she was—someone without a nursing background might have done more damage by trying to help. Celia might have spent years in administration, but you never forget your practical training.’
‘I’ll need to speak to her as soon as she’s free, but do you have time to answer some more questions first? I wouldn’t keep you if it weren’t important.’ She nodded. ‘You knew Marjorie Baker?’
‘I’d met her once or twice. This wretched circus on Monday night has been somewhat forced upon me—if it were up to me, it wouldn’t be happening at all, but as it’s done in the name of the college of which I’m president, I feel obliged to take part. Anyway, I met Miss Baker at the fashion house. She helped at the fittings. Please tell me that Lucy Peters is not a suspect for her murder.’
‘Would that shock you?’
‘Quite frankly, Inspector, it would horrify me. I’m sure you’re already aware of recent shameful events at the Cowdray Club which have involved the police and which invariably reflect on the college. If you’re now going to tell me that one of the club’s employees is suspected of murder, I may as well hand in my resignation immediately.
