Two for Sorrow (26 page)

It was a shot in the dark, based on nothing more than his interpretation of the mutilation to Marjorie's face, but Maria Baker glanced at him sharply and the guard which had begun to lift when she spoke of her husband returned more forcefully than ever. ‘If that's true,' she said coldly, ‘it's nothing to
do with anyone in this family. It's very difficult to have secrets when you live in each other's pockets.'

‘How long have you been here, Mrs Baker?' Fallowfield asked.

‘Fifteen years or so. An aunt of mine lived here and she took us in. She never married, so she had room and she was glad of someone to look out for her. When she died, we kept the rent on.'

‘What was her name?'

‘Edwards. Violet Edwards.'

‘And where were you before?'

‘Essex for a bit. Joe's got family in Southend, but it didn't work out for us there.' She smiled bitterly to herself. ‘In fact, I couldn't honestly say it worked out for us anywhere. We never really stood a chance.'

‘Can I ask why?' Penrose spoke gently. With so little to go on, he wanted to find out as much as he could about Marjorie's family background, if only to satisfy himself that her father was innocent—of her murder, at least, if not of bringing pain and misery into her life from the moment she was born.

‘Joe was married before him and me got together, but it was a disaster and it turned very bitter at the end. He never shook off the memory—it scarred him, in ways you couldn't imagine.'

‘Did Marjorie know about this?'

‘No, it was years ago, long before she was born, and he wouldn't have his first wife's name mentioned. As far as Marjorie knew, it'd been me and Joe from the beginning.'

‘Were there any children from that first marriage?'

‘Only one, but he lost touch with her when it ended. He made up for it with me, though—nothing short of a bleedin'
baby factory, we were. Eight in twelve years—it was like he had a duty to fill the place with kids.' She looked down at her hands. ‘God knows why, 'cause he didn't want anything to do with them once they were here.'

‘Where did Marjorie come in the family?'

‘Youngest of the ones that lived.'

‘And the rest of your children?'

‘Couldn't see 'em for dust when they were old enough to leave home.'

‘So who's this?' he asked, nodding towards the cot.

‘She's from next door. I look after other people's kids—well, the ones that aren't old enough to be put out to work or lent out for begging. We all do a bit to earn what we can—some of the women do housework, some lend money; me, I look after babies—God knows I've had enough practice.'

‘Did Marjorie sleep next door?'

She nodded. ‘Yeah, with a couple of girls from the family across the landing. They help out with the rent.'

‘Would you mind if Sergeant Fallowfield had a look around?'

‘Help yourself, but you won't find anything. Marjorie never left stuff lying around—prison taught her that.'

‘What did your husband do for a living?' Penrose asked when Fallowfield had left the room.

She scoffed. ‘Joe and work never really got on. It was always short-term stuff with him—digging trenches for the new stands at the Arsenal, driving vans for the coal dealer down the road, the odd building job here and there.' She looked round the room and added sarcastically: ‘It's not what you'd call a hearth and home worth working for, is it? And if you mention where you live to most of the employers round here,
you soon find yourself at the back of the queue. That's what Joe said, anyway, but he could always find an excuse for not pulling his weight—it was one of the things that Marjorie hated him for; letting the rest of us pick up the shortfall.'

‘And Marjorie's prison sentences—were they a result of her having to make up the shortfall?'

‘She'd been making her own way since she was a kid. Children's wages are important—why do you think we have them?' She laughed, but Penrose realised that the comment had not been a joke. He glanced up as Fallowfield came back in, but the sergeant shook his head. ‘And she was good at it, too,' Mrs Baker continued. ‘She'd beg for used first-house programmes up at the Empire, then sell them back to the second houses, or buy cheap white flowers and dye them for button-holes—she was always creative, was our Marjorie.'

How easily she had slipped into talking of her daughter in the past tense, Penrose thought. ‘But what did she do to end up in Holloway?'

‘The first time was three Christmases ago—she got a job sorting mail at Mount Pleasant and pinched whatever was worth having. Then she nicked a handbag, and the last stretch—well, that
was
her father's fault. She started running errands for one of the moneylenders down the street—Joe stopped her one day on her way back from a customer and made her hand over the cash, but she took the flak for it.'

‘Why didn't she just tell the truth?' Fallowfield's tone was incredulous. ‘There was no love lost between them.'

Maria Baker glared at him. ‘You don't shop your own, and anyway, mud sticks. No one had a problem believing it was Marjorie who was in the wrong.'

Penrose could see that his sergeant was having trouble
hiding what he thought of this honour-among-thieves principle. ‘I gather she kept in touch with one of the girls from prison,' he said. ‘Do you know who that was?'

‘You must mean Lucy—Lucy Peters. She brought her here a couple of times. Scared little thing, she was, but then Marjorie always did look out for the underdog.'

Fallowfield made a note of the name. ‘Tell me about Marjorie,' Penrose said. It was always so tempting to put a halo over a murder victim. People—particularly close relatives—were understandably reluctant to speak ill of the dead and, more often than not, he was given a picture of a person who had never existed, a person devoid of the very human weaknesses which had almost certainly got him or her killed. Already he could see how easy it would be to dismiss Marjorie Baker with a variety of stereotypes—the petty criminal with a heart of gold, the mouthy upstart who didn't know her place, the victim of poverty who never stood a chance—but he trusted his cousins' judgement and suspected that the true person was a complex blend of all these images. It was rare for a mother to be able to paint an accurate picture of her child, but Mrs Baker didn't come across as a subscriber to sentimentality. ‘What was she like?' he asked.

‘Not like me, that's for sure. It's a different world for girls now, they can afford to be cocky.' It was the same word that Hilda Reader had used to describe Marjorie but without the affection, and Penrose sensed a rivalry between mother and daughter. ‘I'm Fonthill Road rag shop, she's Islington market—or at least she thought she was. She was too good for this life, and almost clever enough to pull it off. She'd look at me sometimes with such pity in her eyes, and I'd know what she was thinking—anything but a life of scrubbing doorsteps and
charring. I tell you—there's plenty round here who'd take a charring job from under your nose as soon as look at you, but not Marjorie. Oh no, she was far too proud to go knocking on doors for work, although there's been times when I could have begged her to.'

‘She seemed to have settled into her new job well, though; her employers tell me she was making a success of it.'

‘Well, it suited her idea of who she was, didn't it?' Mrs Baker bit her lip, and appeared to regret her words. ‘You must think I'm a wicked cow,' she said, ‘and perhaps there
are
women out there who are better than me, who don't grudge their daughters the chances they never had—but I'm not like that. Marjorie was lucky to get that job after being in prison. I used to say to her when she told me about all these new skills she'd learned inside—what's the point of that? Prison teaches you how to do something and makes damn sure that no one'll ever employ you to do it. But I was wrong, and someone gave her another chance. Now you walk in here and tell me she's got herself killed because of something she said and I'm so angry with her for wasting it—not for her sake, but for mine, because if things had been different, that could've been me and I wouldn't have chucked it away.'

Penrose gave her a moment before continuing, then asked: ‘Did Marjorie ever talk about the people she worked with? Did she seem happy?'

‘Yeah, she was happy, although Joe did his best to spoil it for her.'

‘By bothering her at work and embarrassing her in front of the other girls?'

She looked surprised. ‘You know more about that than I do. No—by putting her down, telling her it wouldn't last. That's
what he was good at—bringing us all down to his level. Marjorie brought this picture home in one of them magazines that people read who have more time than sense. She was in it, you see, her and the other girls at the factory. They were with the ladies who were having the clothes made. Ever so proud of it, she was, but that just started Joe off worse than ever. He said something to her about it that obviously upset her.'

‘What, exactly?'

‘I don't know—she wouldn't say. But I got the impression that he was trying to persuade her to get more out of her new job than her wage packet.'

‘Do you still have the picture, Mrs Baker?'

‘I suppose it's somewhere about.' She stood up and rummaged through a pile of newspapers which sat by the grate, waiting to be burned. ‘Here, this is it.'

Penrose took the piece of paper and looked down at the photograph. It had been taken in the Motley workroom and Marjorie stood on the left of the group, poignantly close to the spot where she had been killed. She was holding a glamorous evening gown, draped over her arm to show the material off to its best advantage, and he was struck by the contrast between the world of the picture and the world she had been born to—and by how comfortable she seemed in the former. She was exceptionally attractive, with a smile like a young Gwen Farrar and, as he gazed at this carefree image, he felt again the full horror of her final moments.

He passed the photograph to Fallowfield, who copied down the captioned names and returned it to Marjorie's mother. ‘Did she associate with anyone in particular from work?' he asked.

The woman shrugged. ‘Not especially, as far as I know.'

‘What about men? Was she walking out with anyone?'

The genteel phrase seemed to amuse her. ‘If she was, she never told me about him, but then she wouldn't. She kept her secrets close to her, and I didn't watch her every move—we didn't have that kind of relationship.'

‘So you weren't worried when she didn't come home last night? When neither of them did?'

‘No, I was glad of the peace. I'm always glad if Joe stays out all night, and, like I said, Marjorie had other places to go. I don't blame them—I wish I could get away.'

‘Where did your husband go, Mrs Baker? Who did he associate with?'

‘Any man who'd buy him a drink, and any woman who'd give him a bed for the night.'

‘Can you give us names?'

She shook her head. ‘He drank in the Feathers or the Green Man—they might be able to tell you there who he kept company with. The women weren't from round here, I'll give him that—he didn't mess around on his own doorstep.'

‘Were you here all night, Mrs Baker?' Fallowfield asked.

She laughed at him. ‘No. Actually, Sergeant, I took a long hot bath and went out to see some friends for supper. Then we went to the theatre.' Her laughter had an edge of hysteria about it and, when it stopped, there were tears in her eyes. ‘Of course I was here all night. I'm always here—you can rely on that.'

Penrose stood up to go; there was no more to be learned here for the present. ‘Once again, I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs Baker, and thank you for your time. If you think of anything that might help us, I'd be grateful if you'd get in touch immediately. We will, of course, keep you informed of any developments.'

‘I know what you're both thinking,' she said as they walked to the door. ‘I'm not as upset as I should be. Not as shocked. But grief's a luxury I can't afford—not with Marjorie's wages to replace somehow. I don't even know how I'm going to bury them.'

Penrose knew it was futile, but he said it anyway. ‘If there's anything we can do to be of assistance, you know where to find us.'

As they went back downstairs, Fallowfield said: ‘Lucy Peters is at the Cowdray Club, Sir. Works there as a maid.'

‘Does she? Then perhaps that's how Marjorie got hold of the photo frame we found on her body—that might have been the arrangement: Peters stole the stuff, and Marjorie sold it on. And some of the women in that picture …'

‘Are the ones who've had the letters, the ones who saw Marjorie the day she died. Yes, I noticed that. Do you think there's a link? Perhaps it was Marjorie who sent them.'

‘That crossed my mind. It's time we paid the Cowdray Club a visit, Bill, but I want to go back to the Yard first and try to get hold of Spilsbury. He might have something for us by now, and at least then we'll know exactly what we're dealing with.'