Two for Sorrow (29 page)

‘Her mother never wanted Lizzie to know who she was, and if by …'

‘Her mother lost the right to dictate to Lizzie when she killed someone else's baby and got caught.'

‘… and if by the one thing of truth you mean your friendship with her—well, a friendship like that wasn't what she needed. Sixteen was far too young to come under that sort of influence—we all agreed that, especially your parents.'

‘What the fuck did it have to do with them? Or with any of you? I loved her.'

‘Perhaps you thought you did, but I'm sure you don't need me to point out why that could never happen. We were simply looking out for Elizabeth's best interests.'

‘So where were you when she really needed you? When she found out the truth and wanted someone who knew about her history to help her understand?'

‘You're right,' Celia admitted. ‘I should have done more to help, but it wasn't only me who was found lacking. At least spare some of the blame for the person who told her.'

‘You think I don't? I curse myself every day for writing that letter, but she had a right to know who she was.'

‘You told her?' Celia could hardly believe what she was
hearing, and the relief she felt after all these years was so great and so sudden that it made her speak without thinking. ‘So you were responsible for her death,' she said, walking over to Geraldine. ‘Doesn't that tell you anything about the sort of love you offered?'

She felt the sting on her cheek before she was conscious of what had happened. Someone moved across to restrain Geraldine before she could hit her again, then a voice cut through the room—stern and authoritative—ordering everyone to calm down, and Celia recognised the policeman who had been at the club the day before. ‘Are you all right, Miss Bannerman?' he asked, coming over to her. She nodded, still too shocked to speak, and he introduced the man with him. ‘This is Detective Inspector Penrose.'

‘Inspector Penrose—I wasn't expecting you,' she said, knowing how ridiculous that sounded, but unable to think of anything else. ‘I thought the sergeant and I had covered everything we needed to when we spoke yesterday.'

‘I'm afraid that's not why we're here, Miss Bannerman,' Penrose said, inviting her to step away from the crowd. She noticed that his voice remained relaxed and attractive despite the formality of the situation. ‘I need to ask you some questions in connection with the murder of Marjorie Baker.'

‘Marjorie Baker? The Motley girl?'

‘That's right. Her body was found this morning at the studios in St Martin's Lane. Is there somewhere a little more private we could talk?'

Penrose followed Celia Bannerman up the stairs and across a broad landing on to a mezzanine level which seemed to be devoted almost entirely to offices. After the elegance and
grandeur of the entrance hall and public areas, the monastic simplicity of the secretary's room seemed to belong to a different building altogether. The oak furniture was tastefully expensive but minimal—just a desk, two upright chairs and a storage cupboard in each alcove. As far as Penrose could see, the only items which were decorative rather than functional were three matching Chinese vases on the mantelpiece, and he wondered if the room's austerity was a result of Celia Bannerman's personal taste, or simply a reflection of the practical economy of nursing. Her desk—usually such a good indicator of somebody's habits and preferences—suggested the former: there were no photographs, no ornaments, no books—nothing, in fact, which could have been said to belong to the person rather than to the organisation.

He took the seat that was offered to him, and waited while she removed a small powder compact from her bag and examined the red mark on her cheek, less concerned about the physical damage, Penrose guessed, than about the public embarrassment which it represented. ‘If I weren't already ashamed of what happened downstairs, I would be now,' she said, snapping the mirror shut and throwing it down on the desk. ‘Your business here makes our squabbles seem very petty, no matter how rooted in tragedy they may be.'

‘May I ask what this particular squabble was about?'

‘A mistake I made twenty years ago. How strange that it should have chosen this particular moment to come back to haunt me.'

‘Strange in what way?'

‘In that it may have something to do with why you're here, Inspector—although I don't see quite why Miss Baker's death should bring you to the Cowdray Club.'

Intrigued, Penrose answered her question first. ‘I understand you had some dealings with Miss Baker in connection with Monday's charity gala?'

‘That's correct. She'd been here a number of times to deliver or collect things on behalf of Motley, most recently yesterday. I didn't see her then, but I saw her later in the day at the studios in St Martin's Lane. She was involved in the final fittings.'

‘And several of your members went for those fittings yesterday?'

‘Yes, four of us. Myself, Mary Size, Miriam Sharpe and Lady Ashby.' To her credit, she spoke the final name without any resentment. ‘They're not the only people who are having dresses made, but the others weren't able to fit in an appointment yesterday.'

‘At the moment, we're investigating a number of possible reasons for Miss Baker's death,' Penrose said, ‘but, for the purposes of elimination, I do need to ask everyone who saw her yesterday where they were last night between the hours of nine o'clock and midnight.'

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Are you really asking me to provide an alibi, Inspector? Well, I'm afraid I don't have one. I live on the premises, and I was alone in my rooms all evening. I had an early dinner, and came straight upstairs at about eight o'clock. After that, I didn't see any of the other members and no one saw me except the housemaid who brought me up some cocoa.'

‘Who was that, Miss Bannerman?'

‘Her name's Tilly Jenkins.'

‘And what time did she bring the drink up?'

‘Just after eleven, I suppose. I couldn't sleep, and I remember hearing the clock strike the hour. Look, Inspector,' she
added impatiently, ‘will you allow me to save you some time?' He nodded. ‘I'm sure you're being very conscientious in following every strand of Marjorie Baker's existence, but there is one which might prove more profitable than the rest.'

Being quite so blatantly patronised was a new experience for Penrose, but he was too interested to show his resentment. ‘Then I'd be grateful if you'd point me in the right direction,' was all he said.

‘I don't like breaking a confidence and everyone has their right to privacy, but Lady Ashby has just been kind enough to point out the dangers of secrecy and perhaps she's right. Are you familiar with the name Amelia Sach, Inspector?'

He was too surprised to continue the exchange of sarcasm. ‘The baby farmer? Yes, I am. In fact, a friend of mine is currently researching the case. She tells me that you were Mrs Sach's warder in Holloway.'

‘Ah, so you're Josephine's friend from Scotland Yard—the one who owes her so many favours.'

It amused Penrose to hear Josephine's public interpretation of their relationship, but he would have plenty of time to tease her about that later. Now, he needed some answers. ‘What does Marjorie Baker have to do with Amelia Sach?' he asked.

‘Strictly speaking, nothing,' she said infuriatingly, although he sensed that she was simply looking for the best way to explain rather than deliberately leading him round in circles. ‘Amelia must have been dead for several years by the time Marjorie was born. But she
is
connected to the family. You know a little about the Sachs' story from Josephine, I'm sure, but it's what happened later that might help you find out who killed Marjorie.' Penrose nodded, keen to learn as much as he could about the Bakers' past, and sensing that he would get
much more from a comparative stranger than he had been able to find out in Campbell Road. ‘Well, it involves a certain amount of putting two and two together but, if I'm right, Jacob Sach—Amelia's husband—is Marjorie's father.'

‘You mean the Bakers adopted her?' He was surprised. Maria Baker had struck him as someone whose own children were far too much of a burden for her to consider taking in other people's on a long-term basis.

‘No, no, more than that—I'm not making myself clear. The Finchley case attracted a lot of publicity and comment, even by the standards of the crime—and if Josephine has her way, it will be resurrected for another generation.' Penrose was tempted to argue, but the story was too important to interrupt. ‘Part of the strength of feeling was due to the horror which infanticide always causes, but part of it was due to Amelia Sach herself. She'd set herself up as a model of respectability, you see, caring for young women whom society judged too harshly, earning a living through her own initiative, working her way up the social scale—and it was all a front. Amelia was well known in the neighbourhood, she'd run several so-called nursing homes in Finchley—and her disgrace was an impossible burden to carry for those who were left behind after her execution. Apart from the stigma, there was also a very real possibility that one of the mothers who had unwittingly given up her child to be murdered would come looking for revenge. Sach is an easy name to trace, after all.'

‘So he changed it to something less recognisable. Jacob Sach became Joseph Baker.'

‘Exactly. Baker was his mother's maiden name, I believe. There was much talk at the time of how involved he might or might not have been in Amelia's business, and I can't tell you
what the truth of that was. I suspect only he really knows. But he did everything he could to distance himself from his wife's crimes after the trial. He left Jacob Sach behind in that house in Finchley and moved away to make a new start as Joseph Baker. It was easy enough to do back then, and he didn't waste any time. I believe the “For Sale” notice went up on the day of the execution.'

‘And you knew all this at the time?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't mean any disrespect, but it seems a lot of information for a prison warder to hold.'

She took the comment as it was meant. ‘I'd be the first to admit that I wasn't ideal prison officer material, Inspector Penrose. I never quite managed the art of detachment that's so important if you want to be good at the job. I got far too involved in the lives of those women—that's partly why I didn't stay at Holloway for very long. I thought I could solve all their problems.' She smiled sadly. ‘In fact, all you can ever do for a woman inside is treat her like a human being and try to remain one yourself, but it's hard not to make promises you can't keep, particularly in the condemned cells—you say what they want to hear because you think they'll never know the difference. I sat for hours at a time with Amelia during the last three weeks of her life, and I got to know her—better than I knew any of my colleagues at that prison, better than I know most people here. When your time is precious, you talk about what matters—and what mattered to Amelia was her daughter.' She held up her hands when she saw his face. ‘Yes, I know what you're thinking—the irony of that is quite remarkable when you consider her crimes, but Amelia would have made an excellent prison warder: her detachment from the reality of what she
had done never faltered. To this day, I don't know if she sensed that I was malleable and manipulated the situation or if she was simply desperate and poured her heart out—either way, I heard myself promising to look out for her child when she was gone.'

‘That was very generous.'

‘You mean very stupid.'

‘Perhaps naive would be fairer. That was why you were in touch with her husband?'

‘Yes. Amelia didn't trust him to look after Lizzie properly, although I don't think she ever dreamt that he'd give her up.'

‘And why
did
he?'

‘I can only guess, but I think she reminded him too much of Amelia. Lizzie was the spitting image of her mother.'

‘That seems very hard on the child.'

‘Perhaps, but I suppose there's precious little room in a fresh start for the mirror image of what you're running from. I never asked him why he did what he did—it wasn't my business and I was all too conscious of having overstepped the mark already.'

‘So what happened?'

‘I went to see him two days before the execution. It was entirely unofficial, of course—I would have been dismissed instantly for making any contact with a prisoner's family. But I'd promised Amelia that I'd talk to Jacob, offer him some help if he needed it, and I wanted to be able to look her in the eye before she died and tell her that I'd fulfilled my promise.' She got up and walked over to the window which looked out on to Henrietta Street. ‘It was snowing then, as I recall. Winter is always so exciting before Christmas, and so depressing afterwards. Anyway, I found the house and knocked before I
could change my mind. When Jacob came to the door, he didn't recognise me at first; he'd seen me often enough at the prison when he came to visit his wife, but people look different out of context, and he thought I'd been sent by a newspaper—he'd had several reporters hanging round the house from the moment Amelia was arrested. He let me in eventually, and there was a desolation about that place, a bleakness that I've never seen before or since. As we went through to the kitchen, I noticed that all the rooms had been stripped bare. Lizzie was nowhere to be seen, and Jacob had started drinking heavily by then. There was a box absolutely crammed with empty bottles in the yard.'