‘So, what happened?’ Jane persisted.
Jason put down his glass and moved from the arm of the sofa to sit closer to his mother, reaching out for her clasped hands.
‘You don’t have to put yourself through this, Mother, you really don’t. Unless Detective Tennison can give you some kind of promise that what you are saying will never be disclosed. I cannot, at this time, afford to have any bad press. As it is, no one here knows that we are even associated with the Lanark family, and we need assurance that this will never be made public.’
Jane gave a small shrug of her shoulders. ‘I obviously can’t give you one hundred per cent assurance, but if you tell us the truth about what happened, we may simply be able to close the case.’
Beatrice unclasped her hands and patted her son’s knee.
‘This has been a very long time coming — I cannot tell you for how many years I have been forced into silence. My sister put me in a humiliating position, having to beg her to help me financially here in Australia.’
Beatrice now reached out to clasp her son’s hand and gave him a wretchedly sad look. Jane knew instinctively that she was about to begin one of her lengthy sagas.
‘Mrs Thorpe, on the night your sister gave birth, could you please tell me exactly what happened?’
Beatrice took a deep breath. ‘We were all in the shelter and poor Marjorie was so afraid to cry out, because even our mother didn’t know — not that she would have cared. She would have just said “So what?” as she would’ve been the same age when she gave birth to Helena. You know she locked our father out of their bedroom...’
Jane interrupted again. ‘Mrs Thorpe, I need to know what happened in the shelter.’
Beatrice glared. ‘That is all you care about... what happened in the shelter?’ Beatrice seemed to be mimicking Jane. ‘You never asked me what happened to Marjorie.’
‘I know what happened to Marjorie.’
Beatrice was hardly able to contain her rage.
‘No, you don’t. I even tried to tell you... but I just couldn’t... I was too ashamed.’
Jane frowned, convinced that Beatrice was going to change her story. Beatrice stood up and began to pace the room.
‘We would hear him come in — the sound of his keys in the silver bowl in the hall and his footsteps along the corridor terrified us. He wore heavy brown brogue shoes with steel heel caps. We would hear the click-click-click on the marble floor, praying that his footsteps would go down into the basement and to his darkroom.’
Jane interrupted. ‘So, were you in the shelter with Helena and Marjorie?’
Beatrice was still pacing up and down behind the sofa, whilst Jason sat straight-backed, his hands clenched.
‘I think this has gone far enough. You are clearly distressing my mother.’
Beatrice suddenly shrieked. ‘Distressing? You don’t even know the meaning of the word! Yes... yes, I was in the shelter. Marjorie had started to feel labour pains and we were trying to calm her... but most of all we were desperate to keep her quiet. Helena put a flannel into her mouth and told her to bite on it. She laid towels out on one of the shelf beds in there... and then we heard him.’ Beatrice was physically shaking. ‘Dear God... we heard him calling her, he was shouting Marjorie’s name... and the baby started coming, and Marjorie was moaning in agony and Helena shouted at me to get out of the shelter and into the tunnel. I had to stop Father from finding out what was happening. I was midway through the tunnel and he was shouting so loudly for Marjorie that I thought he was coming to find us. Then I heard the baby crying and I ran into the basement, shutting the door just as my father came out of his darkroom.’
Beatrice started crying.
‘I told him that Marjorie was sick in bed and that Helena was concerned she might catch pneumonia, so I had come down in her place.’ Beatrice reached into the sleeve of her jacket and took out a small lace handkerchief to wipe her tears. ‘That is what happened in the shelter.’
‘What happened next... after the child was born?’ Jane asked.
‘Marjorie came back into the house and went up to her room. Helena came in shortly after, as Father was in such a rage, shouting that he needed Helena in the darkroom.’
Jane had been making notes throughout and now closed her notebook. ‘Thank you very much for your honesty, Mrs Thorpe. I understand why you have tried to protect your sister. Can I just ask you just a couple more questions?’ she asked hesitantly.
Jason stood up abruptly. ‘Jesus Christ! Haven’t you heard enough? Surely, you’ve got what you came for? Can’t you see the distress you are causing my mother?’
‘Actually, Jason, I’m relieved that at long last I’ve been able to speak about what happened in that bloody, stinking shelter; now I hope to God I will be left in peace.’
Jane knew she had to choose her words very carefully. ‘Mrs Thorpe, did you ever confront Helena? From what you just told us, the baby was born alive.’
Beatrice shook her head. ‘No, Helena chose not to speak about it again. She just said she had taken care of it. And then, as if it was some kind of sign, my father discovered that part of one of the walls in the tunnel had buckled. Obviously by this time the war was long over, so he bolted the basement door to prevent anyone else from going into the tunnel, or into the shelter, as he said it was dangerous.’
Jane flicked from one page to another in her notebook. ‘Did Helena leave the towels in the shelter? They must have been bloodstained. And what about the afterbirth?’
‘Oh, she put those things into the furnace that heated the house. We used to have a lorry delivering coal every week, down a shoot into the furnace.’
Jane knew she had to stop Beatrice from going off the subject. ‘How long after this happened did Marjorie commit suicide?’
‘Maybe a week later?’
Jane was shocked. ‘A week?’
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. ‘Yes, something like that, I think. I know it wasn’t too long after the birth.’
‘Did your father ever wonder why Marjorie would have done such an awful thing?’
Beatrice pursed her lips, then shrugged, as if she didn’t want to think about it. Jane concentrated on her notebook, underlining the word ‘photographs’ and biting her lip. She was certain there would be serious repercussions if she showed Beatrice the photographs they had found in the boat house. She turned back a page.
‘Mrs Thorpe, can I just go back to something you said earlier? Your father was calling for Marjorie, then you said you told your father that you had come down in her place, because she was ill. Is that right?’
Beatrice wouldn’t meet Jane’s eyes. Instead, she stared at the lace handkerchief, twisting it in her hands. ‘I made it clear to you that my father was a keen photographer, and we would often be called into his darkroom separately to have our photographs taken. He chose Marjorie more often because she was exceptionally beautiful... he really didn’t like to photograph Helena as she was not so pretty. He used her to help him pin them up, you know, on a wire with pegs.’
Jane knew very well the kind of photographs their father had been taking of the girls and was in two minds whether or not to let Beatrice know. But then Beatrice gave a strange laugh. ‘I was even jealous at one time... can you imagine that? Jealous! But when he found out that our mother had been having an affair with the young music teacher, Mikhail, and he suspected that Marjorie was not his child...’
Jane leaned forward. ‘How long before Marjorie committed suicide had your father started suspecting?’
Beatrice looked up and Jane caught the tightening of her lips again as she gave a sidelong glance at her son. ‘A long time before.’