Two for Sorrow (42 page)

Downstairs, he met Fallowfield just coming up from the
kitchens. ‘Anything interesting your end?' he asked, after telling him about Miriam Sharpe and Celia Bannerman.

‘No, Sir. Nobody saw what happened—only Miss Bannerman trying to help the girl, and then the business of getting her moved upstairs.'

‘I wonder how hard she really
was
trying to help Lucy?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We're missing something, Bill. Think about it: the only motive we've got at the moment for Marjorie's murder—
and
her father's—is what they knew about the Sach family history. Put Edwards to one side for a minute. There are three people in this club who freely admit a connection with that story—Geraldine Ashby, Miriam Sharpe and Celia Bannerman—but none of them has a reason to kill because of it. To our knowledge, though, only one of them's lying; Bannerman lied to Josephine about Ethel Stuke's death, and to me about going to see Jacob Sach; now she's first on the scene at Lucy's accident. I can't help feeling I made a terrible mistake in sticking with Edwards rather than coming straight here when we heard Lucy was back.'

‘I'm not sure about that, Sir. What if Edwards was more involved in the baby farming than anyone realised, and lied in court to save her own neck? She told us herself—Sach loved his wife; if he found out later that Amelia had been made a scapegoat, he'd have been more resentful of Edwards than ever. He might have told Marjorie, maybe even threatened to go to the police—that would give her a powerful motive to shut them both up.'

‘You think Edwards did it?'

‘I wouldn't rule it out. She lied, too, remember—she's been lying for years.'

‘Yes, but I can understand why. I bet what she told us about the backlash they had to put up with after the trial only scratches the surface. On the other hand, Bannerman's lies seem senseless—that's what makes them interesting. There's a significance in them that we haven't seen yet.'

Fallowfield looked doubtful. ‘I spoke to the kitchen girls just now, Sir. Lucy was telling them how kind Miss Bannerman had been to her this evening. Said they'd had a long talk.'

‘Does Bannerman honestly strike you as the kind of woman who has cosy chats with her staff?' Penrose asked impatiently. ‘Patronise or discipline—those are her codes, and there's nothing in between.'

‘You don't like her, do you?'

‘No, but that's not the point,' he said, a little more emphatically than was necessary. ‘Surely you don't, either?'

‘Not especially, but I admire what she did as a prison warder. There's obviously more to her than posh clubs and committees. And I do think she's got more sense than to try to kill a girl in the middle of the Cowdray Club on a Saturday night. It's a bit risky.'

Fallowfield's defence of Celia Bannerman was beginning to grate on Penrose, not least because it made sense. ‘It didn't have to
be
risky—that staircase is effectively a separate room, and it can't be seen from the foyer or the public rooms above. And perhaps she had no choice—perhaps that little chat you mentioned was about establishing what had to be done. If Lucy had been to see Ethel Stuke with Marjorie—those postcards aren't a coincidence—and learned something about Bannerman, then Bannerman would have been forced to act before we got to her.' Fallowfield remained unconvinced, but Penrose pressed on. ‘Try this for a scenario—Sach sees that
picture in
Tatler
and tells Marjorie something about Celia Bannerman that he thinks he might be able to make some money from, something she might pay to keep quiet. He wants Marjorie to do the dirty work because of her connections with Bannerman through Motley, but she doesn't believe him. Why should she? He's got her into trouble in the past, and this time she's got more to lose. So she verifies it for herself. Remember what she said to Lady Ashby—her father told her something that turned out to be true; we assumed that was about his own history, but perhaps it wasn't.'

‘What would Jacob Sach have on Celia Bannerman? She's freely admitted that she interfered in his daughter's adoption when she shouldn't have done, so she's hardly likely to bother to keep that quiet, and I don't see what else he could have known?'

‘Maybe that's what Ethel Stuke will tell us. I'm going to Suffolk first thing in the morning to talk to her, while you clear the decks on everything else. Go back to Campbell Road and try to establish once and for all if Edwards was at home last night—that house is so crowded that I refuse to believe we can't find out for sure, no matter how hard they try to fob us off. Mary Size will need to be told what's happened to Lucy, and she may have more to say about Celia Bannerman—but be careful there; don't alert her to anything. I'll brief Wyles and tell Ronnie and Lettice to come up with something that will keep her here round the clock. Did you find them, by the way?'

‘Yes, Sir, in the drawing room upstairs. They're all right—shocked, of course, but to be honest, they both still seem so numb after what happened this morning that I don't think this has touched them like it might have done otherwise. Anything else?'

Penrose thought about it. ‘Yes. It might be worth trying to find out a bit more about Lizzie Sach's death—get on to the boys in Birmingham in the morning and ask them to look up a suicide at Anstey Physical Training College in 1916.'

‘Right-o. And Miss Tey should be able to help us with that.'

‘Is she still up?'

‘Yes, Sir—with your cousins.'

‘Good. I thought I might ask her along tomorrow. I want to know everything she can tell me about Bannerman, and I'm not happy about her being here at the moment anyway.'

Fallowfield nodded at the camera in Penrose's hand. ‘Do you want me to get that developed?'

‘Yes. Was the girl who confirmed Bannerman's alibi for last night down there when you talked to the staff just now?'

‘Tilly Jenkins? Yes, Sir.'

‘Good. Nip back down and double-check with her to make sure, and tell them they can get that staircase cleaned up. I'm going to talk to Josephine, and I'll find out how Lucy is before we leave. I want to look through those prison files again when we're back at the Yard, just in case I missed something. We'll leave Edwards until tomorrow, when you've been back to the Bunk and I've seen Ethel Stuke.'

He found Josephine in the drawing room with Lettice, Ronnie and Geraldine Ashby. Like the other public areas of the club, this room struck a peculiarly feminine note; even if it had been empty, he would have known somehow, through the refinement of detail, that it was a place where women assembled, one in which he would not, as a matter of course, be welcomed. Unusually for Penrose, who was egalitarian by nature and comfortable in the company of either sex, he felt a small stab of resentment at the female solidarity which the
building proclaimed in its every feature. It struck him all the more strongly for coming at a time when Josephine's friendship with Marta Fox had created a part of her life from which he was similarly excluded, and he wondered if he would feel the same if she became close to another man. Probably not: as much as he hated the way in which his emotions were suddenly reduced to an antiquated stereotype, he realised that his resentment stemmed from the fact that, with Marta, there was simply no level on which he could compete.

Josephine smiled when she saw him, and he beckoned her over to the door. ‘Aren't you coming to say hello to the girls?' she asked.

‘In a minute, but I wanted a quick word with you first. Will you do me a favour?'

‘Of course, if I can.'

‘Will you come to Suffolk with me tomorrow morning? I'm going to see Ethel Stuke.'

‘Isn't that you doing me a favour?'

He looked sheepish. ‘I can't let you sit in on an interview like that, I'm afraid. I can't even promise you'll get to meet her. It depends on what she's like and how much time we have. Sorry.'

‘It's all right—I understand. But why do you want me to come with you? As nice as a day out in Suffolk sounds, I can't see a favour—unless it's purely the pleasure of my company.' She smiled self-mockingly. ‘That's understandable, I suppose.'

‘It goes without saying. But I need to speak to you about the past—the Sach and Walters case and Anstey, and I don't know when else I'll have time to do it. If we can talk on the way, it'll kill two birds with one stone.'

‘Two jail birds, you mean?' she said, but it wasn't meant as a joke and she added, concerned: ‘How is Lucy?'

‘Not good. I gather the next few hours are crucial, but even if she pulls through, it'll be a long haul to recovery. So you'll come?'

‘Of course I will. I could do with a change of scene and a bit of sea air. It might clear my head.'

He refrained from asking why that was necessary. ‘It'll mean an early start.'

‘That's fine. Just tell me what time I need to be ready, and if you're going to grill me too thoroughly, you'd better get the Snipe to send breakfast. I'll tell you anything you want to hear for a flask of tea and a sausage sandwich.'

He laughed. ‘I'm sure she'll do you proud.'

‘I don't doubt it. Is Bill coming with us?'

‘No, there's too much for him to do here, but he's downstairs now if you want to see him.'

She shook her head. ‘No, it's not that. I was just wondering if I'll have you to myself.'

As Penrose had requested, a car was waiting at Ipswich Railway Station, courtesy of the Suffolk police. Provincial train connections were few and far between on a Sunday, and, in any case, he had wanted to speak to the local force to establish that Ethel Stuke was still living at the address he'd been given, and that she was at home and happy to see him; it was a long way to go on a hunch, and even further if the hunch had decided to visit her sister in Bournemouth for the weekend. He and Josephine had used the train journey to go through everything she knew of the Sach and Walters case, but nothing fresh had come to light and he wondered now how much to tell her about his
suspicions. There had been nothing in Celia Bannerman's prison file except a record of exemplary conduct and a copy of her resignation letter prior to her taking an administrative post in a hospital in Leeds. Her alibi for the night of Marjorie's death was solid, although, if the earlier end of Spilsbury's estimate for time of death proved to be the correct one, she would still have had time to carry out the murder and get back to the club. If he was wrong, he didn't want to compromise Josephine's relationship with her former teacher; and if Bannerman did have something to hide, the last thing he needed was for Josephine to put herself and his case in danger by finding it impossible to behave normally around her.

He collected the keys from the station master as arranged, and they drove away from the town and out into open countryside. The East Anglian landscape was already scarred by the starkness of winter. With no leaves on the trees or crops in the fields, it appeared as a negative image of its fertile summer self, a world governed by absence, bracing itself for the long, dark months ahead.

‘Tell me about Anstey and what you remember of Lizzie Sach's suicide,' Archie said, handing her the map on which he had marked their route.

‘What do you want to know?'

‘Who found her?'

‘The games mistress, I think. Her body was in the gymnasium. She'd used one of the ropes to hang herself.'

‘And were there any signs leading up to it? How long had she known about her mother?'

‘I don't know, Archie. You'd have to ask Geraldine when she sent the letter. My impression at the time was that Lizzie killed herself as soon as she found out, but I don't know that to be
true. And as for tell-tale signs, I didn't know her well enough to notice. I know it happened in the summer term, because we were all preparing for exams, so she'd have been at the college for nearly a year, but she'd never settled in from what I could see—and that makes sense now I've heard what Gerry had to say about it. But I doubt there was any warning of what she intended to do. The teachers at Anstey were very good, on the whole, and they genuinely seemed to care about our welfare. I think they'd have noticed and done something about it if she'd shown any sign of depression.'

‘How did Celia Bannerman react?'

Josephine thought before she answered, careful to distinguish between Celia's reaction at the time and what she had said about the incident more recently. ‘She was shocked, obviously. I think she felt guilty because it happened while she was in charge, and because she brought Lizzie to Anstey in the first place.'

‘But it was professional sorrow rather than a personal sense of loss for a particular girl?'

‘You make it sound rather self-centred but yes, I suppose it
was
.' She looked out of the window at a mill, admiring the way the light reflected off the sails. ‘It was so strange for us all—I've never known an atmosphere like it. Anstey was such a noisy place, you know, at every hour of the day—with so many girls crowded into it, it was bound to be. Yet the next morning the whole school seemed to be populated by ghosts. It didn't last long, although it shames me to say it: I look back on her death now and I see the tragedy of it, particularly since I've talked to Gerry about it, but I think that's an age thing. I hate to admit it, but there was a scandalous fascination about it for us girls. The teachers really felt it, though. I imagine there was an awful
lot of black coffee drunk in the staff room that day, and a few recriminations handed round.'