had to lean closer to hear her above the bustle. ‘So many people who just couldn’t let the dust settle and turn their back on the evil.
Arthur would have been horrified to know what he and I set in motion all those years ago. We’ve all magnified Elliott’s violence in our own way. If I’d refused to help Rafe or if Aubrey had been strong enough to let it go, Elspeth would still be alive.’
‘He couldn’t let it go – he wasn’t that sort of man. Bernard had a very clear sense of right and wrong, and it wouldn’t have occurred to him that bringing Elliott Vintner to justice would open more wounds than it healed. He always felt responsible for Arthur’s death, and he loved his sister and her son. According to his wife, Bernard planted irises in his memory all year round.’
Marta had, Josephine thought, remained remarkably composed throughout the exchange but this simple act of homage broke her in a way that more shocking revelations had failed to do. Josephine waited, unable to do anything but hold her until the tears had sub-sided. ‘It was the first flower he planted for me,’ Marta explained, turning her face away in embarrassment as she noticed a porter further down the platform staring at the two women in astonishment.
‘He put it all round the summer house because its name meant “eye of heaven” and it was supposed to be the Egyptian symbol of elo-quence; it was to help me with my writing, he said. And he made me promise to include a flower with the letter whenever I wrote to him in France, because Iris was Zeus’ messenger and he was sure she’d get it there safely.’ She smiled sadly. ‘She failed me with The White Heart, though. It was my love letter to him, and I don’t even know if he read it or not. It’s silly, but sometimes that makes me more miserable than anything.’
‘Then take this. At least it will answer one of your questions.’
Josephine took a sheaf of papers out of her bag and handed them to Marta, who looked down in astonishment. ‘While I was waiting for the police, I looked through the holdall that Rafe was carrying and found this. He must have got them from his father. It’s not the whole manuscript, but most of it’s there and there are some notes in the margins. I’m afraid I was curious enough to read some of them – only a few, but enough to know that whoever wrote them 270
was very much in love with the author.’ Marta was lost for a moment in the pages. ‘That is Arthur’s handwriting?’
Marta nodded, then looked gratefully at Josephine. ‘I think you know how much this means to me,’ she said, ‘so there’s no point in trying to thank you – it could never be enough. I can’t believe what I’ve done, you know. I shouldn’t have trusted Rafe. I should have known what growing up with that man would have done to him.
I knew how wrong I’d been when I listened to you and Lydia talking about Aubrey last night – that wasn’t the man Rafe described to me at all, just as you’re not the woman he said you must be.’ She sat up and looked back towards the main station building. ‘It’s time to put an end to all this. I take it you didn’t come here on your own?’
‘No. Archie’s here with his sergeant and I expect there’ll be re-inforcements outside by now. He promised to give me time to talk to you, although I don’t know how much longer he’ll wait. But he’ll be fair, Marta, and so will the courts. You’ve suffered so much – they won’t ignore that.’
‘You mean they won’t hang me?’ Her wry smile softened the harshness of the words which Josephine had been trying to avoid.
‘The trouble is, the last thing I want is to live. That would be the brave way, to carry this through the years, but I’m not brave, Josephine. I want to die, but I need to do it my way, in a place that’s special to me. And I want to say goodbye to Arthur first. I’m afraid I have no faith in the idea that I might be about to see him again. I’m begging you – please let me get on a train and simply disappear.’
‘It doesn’t have to come to that, Marta. Rafe will live and be made to face what he’s done in court. Let that be the end to it, not this. You haven’t killed anyone, after all.’
‘Haven’t I? You of all people don’t think I could live with what’s happened, do you? There was a rope around my neck from the moment that Elliott sat down to write that letter to Rafe. What does it matter if I do it myself? If they take me in now, I shall plead guilty to Aubrey’s murder. I picked up the decanter to do it, so my prints will be all over it, and Rafe’s hardly going to argue, is he?
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We both have to face what we deserve, but this way is kinder and not just to me – surely you can see that. I don’t want Lydia to go through a trial and an execution. As it is, I’ll never forgive myself for allowing her to find Aubrey’s body. Because I couldn’t bring myself to kill him, though, I didn’t expect there to be a body to find.’
‘Isn’t Lydia worth living for?’
‘Do you really believe I’d come first over her work?’ Josephine could not honestly give the answer that Marta wanted, so she stayed quiet. ‘You have to come first with each other, Josephine.
Do you remember what you said about having someone to make the work less lonely? I know exactly what you meant, but Lydia’s never lonely when she’s at work. She’d be happy to be cast as
“woman with vegetables” for the rest of her life as long as she could be on that stage.’ They both smiled, acknowledging the truth of Marta’s words. ‘Look after Lydia for me, won’t you?
She’ll have to know what I’ve done, but I want her to understand why and you’re the only person who can explain.’
‘Does she know anything about what happened to you before you met her?’
‘We scratched the surface, but that’s all and she obviously doesn’t know who else was involved. It’s funny what ends up being important, isn’t it? I don’t mind her knowing I’m a potential murderer, but I do need her to understand that I wasn’t just using her. It started out like that: we needed access to the theatre and she was close to you.
And she had a certain reputation, of course. But I genuinely loved her. Please make her understand that.’
‘Isn’t there anything I can say to change your mind?’
Marta smiled sadly and Josephine wondered what she was thinking. She seemed about to speak, but changed her mind and instead took Josephine’s hand. ‘There might have been once, but too much has happened now, even for that.’ She stood up.
‘Shouldn’t you go and find your policeman? The train will be leaving in a few minutes.’
Josephine tried desperately to think of something that would make Marta change her mind. She had honestly believed that she 272
would be able to stop her, either with reason or by resorting to emotional arguments, but what could you say to someone who was so determined to die? Would Archie and the courts have more success after all? Perhaps if Marta were forced to live long enough, she would feel differently.
Marta sensed her dilemma. ‘While you decide what’s best, can I ask you to do something else? Will you go to Elspeth’s funeral? Say goodbye to her for me. Hello and goodbye.’
With mixed feelings, Josephine agreed. She wanted to pay her own respects, too, of course, but she had always hated the trappings of professional mourning and resented having to say goodbye to those she loved in such an atmosphere.
‘And make sure the new book gets published – under my name this time. Give the money to a charity that cares for women. Cares for them in this life, I mean, not one that just redeems their souls for the next. That’s if it sells, of course.’
‘Of course it will sell. You don’t need me to tell you how good it is.’ She paused, then gave it her final shot. ‘The third novel would be even better, though.’
It was a straw, she knew, but in spite of everything Marta seemed gratified by Josephine’s regard for her work. ‘At least I know the manuscript’s in good hands this time,’ she said. ‘And I’ve always hankered after a foreword by someone famous if you have time on your hands.’ She held up the papers in her hand, the manuscript of the book that had started so much trouble.
‘Seriously, Josephine, whatever happens to me I want you to put the record straight about this. Write a foreword that explains everything, and make sure people get to read it.’
A crowd of well-wishers was gathering to see loved ones safely on their various journeys, and Marta looked back at the carriages.
As a trail of steam from the engine signalled the promise of departure, Josephine finally made up her mind. ‘No, Marta, write it yourself and send it to me from wherever you are,’ she said, pushing her quickly towards the train. ‘I’ll make sure it’s read, but promise me you’ll do that before you even think of doing anything else.’
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Marta turned and looked at her for a long time. ‘I promise,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Josephine.’
‘And think about what you do after that. Please.’ They kissed as if the journey heralded nothing more than a week at the seaside, then Marta got on board without looking back and Josephine lost sight of her. She waited until the train was pulling out, then turned back to face Archie’s fury. In the end, it was she who had broken her promise, not him, and there was also the small matter of tampering with evidence to own up to. Before she had taken half a dozen steps, however, she heard her name called and looked up in surprise to find Fallowfield coming towards her. He was alone and she looked questioningly at him, wondering where Archie had gone. Shrugging as apologetically as a policeman could, Fallowfield nodded towards the train, which by now had almost disappeared from view.
So Archie had been one step ahead of her after all. She should have known. Her anger and frustration threatened to get the better of her and, on the verge of tears, she brushed aside Fallowfield’s arm and walked back up the platform, desperate for a few moments alone. It was the other train’s turn to depart now, and she had to move several yards further on to get some peace from the hustle and bustle. Shivering from the cold, she looked sadly back at the carriages, remembering the journey down with Elspeth and wondering what would happen when Archie caught up with Marta. Her attention was caught by the lamps going on in the final compartment, and she watched as a mother and daughter settled themselves by the window. How different things could have been, she thought, and was about to turn away when another woman slid back the carriage door and settled into one of the vacant seats.
She stared in astonishment, but Marta simply put her finger to her lips. From a distance, it was difficult to be sure but Josephine could have sworn she was smiling as the train moved slowly out into the evening.
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Sixteen
In the early hours of Monday morning, St Martin’s Lane was still reluctant to engage with a new day. Lydia slipped quietly from the Motleys’ studio and out into the deserted street, confident that the soft click of the front door would not be noticed: everyone inside was exhausted, and unlikely to stir for at least another hour or two. Unable to face going back to her digs the night before, she had been glad of company – but sleep was out of the question. In fact, feeling as she did now, she wondered if she would ever manage to sleep again.
Across the road, the New Theatre seemed strangely untouched by the violence: its walls were as solid as ever; its steps as polished; and the photographs on the boards outside – apart from being half-covered with a ‘Final Week’ announcement – promised the familiar glimpse of romance and excitement. How extraordinary that this glamorous world of make-believe should still exist in the face of such horror, she thought, but exist it did – and the play would indeed go on. Archie had confirmed that performances could begin again as normal on Tuesday and, although Johnny had offered to put an understudy on for Lydia or to cancel the rest of the week as a mark of respect, she had refused both options, knowing that work would get her through as nothing else could and that Bernard would not want Terry’s first week in charge to be dark. She had little doubt that Johnny would make a success of what had been left to him, but what his reign would mean for her she could not say.
She crossed the street and sat down outside the theatre, watching as the light grew stronger over the city. Was Marta somewhere 275
waiting for the day to start, or had she already taken that last, terrible step? Lydia had been furious with Josephine for letting her go, but she knew in her heart that it was a selfish reaction which stemmed in part from jealousy: those vital moments had created a bond between her lover and her friend from which she was excluded and, in her grief, she found that hard to accept. She wanted to believe that she could have succeeded where Josephine had failed, but was too honest to ignore the truth for long. Now, her anger replaced by helplessness and regret, she was left to reflect on what she could have done to make Marta want to live. Could she have put work second for Marta’s sake? Smiling sadly, she was brave enough to acknowledge both the answer and the guilt that came with it. She had loved her, certainly, but that had not been enough – for either of them.