‘I’m glad you know what I think, because I don’t.’
‘Oh come on, Archie. This isn’t like you. Can’t we at least talk about it?’
‘No, Josephine, I don’t think we can. Who you see and what you do is entirely up to you—you’ve always made that abundantly clear. But surely you can’t expect me to sit here like some sort of passive sounding-board while you work out where your heart is? I’m not a bloody saint.’ He could see he had shocked her; in truth, he had shocked himself, but there was no point in trying to retract his words now. ‘This is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself. I can’t help you.’
They sat in silence as the train snaked through the East End. When they got off at Liverpool Street, he was surprised to find Fallowfield waiting for him on the platform. ‘I’ve got some information, Sir—I thought the sooner you heard it, the better.’ He smiled at Josephine. ‘Can I drop you somewhere, Miss Tey?’
‘Thanks, Bill, but no. I’ll get a taxi.’
‘No, Josephine, don’t be silly,’ Penrose said. ‘At least let us take you to Hampstead. I didn’t mean that we can’t ever …’
She cut him off abruptly. ‘No, Archie, it’s fine—you’re busy. And you’re right. I need to sort this out for myself. Tell me one thing, though: Marjorie’s murder and what happened to Lucy—is it because I’ve been digging up Sach and Walters?’
‘No. Marjorie knew nothing about her family history—I’m convinced of that.’
‘Good. I’ll see you at the gala.’ He nodded and moved to kiss her, but she had already walked away.
Chapter Thirteen
The taxi jolted slowly but steadily up the hill, and Josephine sat in the back, wondering what on earth she was doing. The driver’s first few efforts at conversation had met with such a brusque response that he soon lapsed into silence, but the peace did nothing to help her make sense of her thoughts, or to form any sort of rational decision on what she was going to say when she knocked at Marta’s door. Archie’s words had hit a nerve, and not only because she recognised how upset he must be to make his feelings so obvious; in truth, she was at a loss even to understand the situation she found herself in, and she certainly had no idea how to resolve it. The only thing she was sure of was that the longer she hesitated, the more damage she would do.
Hampstead rested on higher ground than most of the city, and had a clean, country feel to it, even on a grey, November afternoon; the church clock which struck the half hour as she got out of the car had little other noise to compete with, and the spire which nestled among the trees just ahead of her could easily have graced any village in the south of England. When she turned into Holly Place, she found it quieter still; as she rang the bell at number 8, only the poignant song of birds about to roost and the dry rustle of leaves along the pavement disturbed the peace. She waited, but there was no answer, so she rang again, relief mingling with disappointment at the prospect of finding no one in. Still, the house refused to come to life, and she was just about to leave when a woman ran down the steps of the house next door. ‘She’s in the garden,’ she called to Josephine over her shoulder. ‘Try round the back.’
She did as she was told, following a narrow path around the side of the house. Her heart sank when she heard Marta’s voice—the last thing she needed was to walk uninvited into a crowd of strangers—but she resisted the temptation to turn back. In fact, Marta was alone. She stood next to a pile of earth by the far wall, wrestling with a large ceanothus root which stubbornly refused to budge from the ground. On the lawn next to her, there was a wheelbarrow piled high with dead branches, stones and bits of brick, and a motley collection of spades, trowels and secateurs, none of which seemed to be of much use in the task she had set herself. ‘Come out, you bastard,’ she swore loudly, oblivious to the fact she had any company other than the tree.
‘Do you want some help?’
Marta let go of the wood as if it had burnt her. ‘Josephine! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Is this a bad time?’
‘No, of course not. Well, yes, but only because of my pride. Look at me—I’m such a mess.’ She gestured at the mud on her face and the twigs caught in her hair, but, if anything, she looked more striking than ever, and it occurred to Josephine that this was the first time she had ever seen Marta truly at peace with herself. ‘Muck and dirt wasn’t exactly what I envisaged wearing when we met. If we met.’
The contentment left her face, and Josephine knew that Marta was trying to work out if her appearance five days ahead of their scheduled meeting was good news or bad. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Muck and dirt suit you. What do you want me to do?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re hardly dressed for gardening.’
‘No, I’m not. It was probably short-sighted of me, but I didn’t expect to be digging up trees in November in virtual darkness. If you insist on it, though, I might as well join you.’ She took off her hat and fur, and threw them down on a wrought-iron table, next to her bag. ‘Anyway, they’re only clothes.’
Marta smiled. ‘At least let me get you a coat.’ She disappeared into the house for a moment, and returned carrying an old tweed jacket, gloves and a pair of boots. ‘I’ll feel better if we both look ridiculous. I can’t be seen in rags while you stand there in Chanel.’
Josephine slipped the jacket on, noticing that it smelt faintly of cigarette smoke and Marta’s perfume. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Only a couple of months, and it was the location I chose it for.’ She picked up a spade and started digging again. ‘I couldn’t be in the city, Josephine—I’ve had enough of being hemmed in by bricks and mortar day after day. I took a flat in Kensington when I got out, but I soon realised that a place doesn’t have to be a prison to feel like one. I couldn’t face the loneliness of the country, either, so this is a perfect compromise—solitude in the middle of London. And you’re right,’ she added, touching the crumbling red brick which enclosed the whole garden, ‘there’s something special about these walls. Think how many summers’ worth of sun they must hold.’
‘I must try something like this one day,’ Josephine said, raising her voice slightly as an aeroplane clattered lazily overhead. ‘I’ve never made a new home in my life.’
‘You’ve always lived in the same house?’
‘Not in the same house, no, but always the family home. I’ve got an encyclopaedic knowledge of digs, boarding houses, hotels and other people’s homes, but that’s not the same as choosing something for yourself.’ She dug a fork deep into the earth and lifted it so that Marta could cut through the sinewy roots that had spread towards the wall. ‘It’s pure laziness, I suppose. I could easily have had a flat when I was teaching, but I preferred even the ugliest of rooms to doing anything for myself.’
‘You should try prison,’ Marta said drily. ‘It doesn’t get much uglier than that, and you never have to cook a thing.’ They worked in silence for a while, each preoccupied with their own thoughts. ‘Do you have a garden in Inverness?’ Marta asked eventually.
‘Yes, and it’s full of every sort of shrub and tree, from hydrangeas to monkey puzzle, all painstakingly cared for and agonised over each year, but if you were to ask me what I love most about it, I’d say the daffodils that fill the drive in the spring without a moment’s work from me. I know it’s not a very original observation, and if I were a proper gardener, it’s probably the last thing I’d single out, but I don’t care. I look forward to them every year, and every year they surprise me.’
A thin trail of smoke rose up from a pile of burning leaves in a neighbouring garden and the smell filled the air, at once nostalgic and bitter, the final goodbye to summer. ‘That’s the point of a garden, though, isn’t it?’ Marta said, wiping soil off her face with the back of her hand. ‘Something to look forward to, something permanent. That’s what I want to create here—markers of a year. You can keep your flower pots and your annuals—they’re all far too temporary for me. No sooner has something flowered than you’re deciding what to replace it with, and I can’t cope with that at the moment. I need something that promises to come back, something that convinces me I’m going to be here to see it.’ She glanced up, embarrassed at having strayed into the emotional territory which they both seemed to have been avoiding. ‘Something like your daffodils.’
Josephine crouched down and took off her gloves, then gently brushed the mud away and let her hand rest on Marta’s cheek. ‘I can’t be what you want me to be,’ she said.
Marta smiled sadly at her, and covered Josephine’s hand with her own. ‘But you already are—that’s the
