Thirty-Three

Katrin had slept too heavily, but at least her night had been unbroken. She’d not jerked awake suddenly at 2 a.m., that most dismal of times for insomniacs, with her limbs aching, or, worse, been forced to sprint for the bathroom, assailed once more by nausea. She squinted at her alarm clock and saw that it was almost 8 a.m. She thought she was well enough to travel to work today, but she wouldn’t attempt to arrive at her usual time. That would mean rushing her shower and skipping breakfast, a regimen that she’d frequently adopted in the past but acknowledged would be foolish now. ‘You must learn to take care of yourself,’ Tim had said. It was an over-worn phrase that she’d heard many times – ‘Take care’ was even a form of farewell – but now she began to understand that the platitude concealed some good advice for those who cared to listen. She’d call the office in a few minutes, tell them that she’d work from ten until six. It would be the first time she’d taken advantage of the flexi-hour system that had been introduced some time before. She’d probably be making use of all sorts of other working concessions that she’d previously scorned when she returned to work as a mother. Perhaps it was no bad thing. ‘Work-life balance’ – wasn’t that what people called it? – when you still fulfilled your work commitments conscientiously but without letting them claim time that should be spent with your family. Tim, especially, could do with a little more of that. It was the first time it had occurred to her that the baby could be a positive influence on their working lives. She determined to keep hold of the idea. It would be much more helpful than that pained word ‘juggling’ that she’d heard working mothers use to describe their days full of tasks. Hard work had never frightened her, whereas her own expectations of herself tended towards the unreasonable.

She stretched out in the bed and wiggled her toes luxuriously. She would lie here, resting, for another fifteen minutes and she would not feel guilty. She resolved not even to think about work, but her thoughts were already straying to Florence Jacobs’ journal. But that wasn’t proper work, she told herself defensively: reading it had been a useful diversion from the nausea, though she could hardly claim that it had gripped her like a novel. It provided a disheartening insight into the mind of an average woman a century or so ago. As she’d read deeper into the journal, however – if the experience of absorbing such a banal document could be said to count as ‘deep’ – she’d become increasingly suspicious of its naiveté. The earlier entries that Florence had made before her marriage, when she could be seen to be struggling with their composition, struck a genuine note, but as Florence’s social standing, and with it her grasp of writing, improved, the sentiments that she expressed seemed to become ever more jejune. Florence had been a pretty servant. Katrin imagined that she’d been quick and nimble at her work, probably with a ready smile, and anxious to please. She was uneducated, of course, but it was hard to believe that she could have been ‘slow’. The dowager Mrs Jacobs was unlikely to have chosen a half-witted girl for her future daughter-in-law.

Katrin sat bolt upright in the bed. The dowager Mrs Jacobs had arranged Frederick’s marriage to Florence. Reading between the lines, she had probably insisted upon it. Although this was implicit in the journal entries, it was the first time Katrin had thought properly about its significance. Florence had stopped writing the journal immediately after Mrs Jacobs’ death. Was it possible that Mrs Jacobs, not Florence herself, was the author of the journal? Katrin discounted this idea immediately. The cover of the journal bore a sample of Lucinda Jacobs’ fine copperplate hand, so different from Florence’s childishly laborious script. Lucinda could have influenced what Florence wrote, though. When trying to build up a picture of Florence’s domestic situation, Katrin had never quite been able to envisage Frederick and his role in her daily life. Lucinda, on the other hand, featured in all her activities and was consulted – or made her view known – on practically every aspect of them, including when and whether Florence should pay visits to her own family. Had Florence’s almost total deference to her mother-in-law’s wishes been willing, or had she been coerced? If the latter, the diary could merely be a faked record of her actions, feelings and thoughts. Was it Lucinda Jacobs’ attempt to leave a sanitised account for posterity?

She was sorry that Tim had left before she’d woken up that morning, because even before she’d had these thoughts she’d wanted to talk to him about the journal. He’d come in quite early the night before and she’d planned to discuss it then, but she’d felt shivery and sickly and he’d insisted that they should not talk shop, so they’d watched an old film until Katrin had fallen asleep on the sofa and Tim had persuaded her to go to bed. She’d intended to wake early enough today to ask him if she could send the journal to Juliet Armstrong. Katrin didn’t know whether Juliet would be well enough to look at the journal, or indeed whether she’d want to be bothered with it, but guessed that she of all people might be able to unravel its mystery. Tim would know the answer, or could at least tell Katrin how to contact Juliet to find out.

Katrin always hesitated before she rang Tim at work. It was partly because she also worked for the police, partly because it was her instinct not to claim privilege as his wife. However, this was police business – sort of, at any rate. She picked up the phone and dialled his office number.

“DI Yates.”

“Tim, it’s me. I’ve finished reading Florence Jacobs’ journal.”

“What, this morning?”

“No, I’d finished it before you came home yesterday. I just didn’t feel up to talking about it.”

“You’re OK now, though?”

“Yes, I slept better than for a long time.”

“Good. What did you make of the journal?”

“I’m not sure. I think there may be more to it than appears. That it was written for a purpose that I can’t quite see, perhaps.”

“That’s interesting, but if you can’t tell what it is, it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to, especially as I haven’t read it.”

“No, but two heads are better than one and I haven’t been able to do as much background research as I intended. I was thinking about showing it to Juliet. Do you think she’d mind? You said she was getting better.”

“Well, you certainly can’t go to see her. They don’t know what’s wrong with her yet. It might be infectious.”

“I know that, but you could ask her. Or give me her number if it’s possible to ring her.”

There was an unexpectedly long silence.

“Tim?”

“I’m not sure. There’s been a new development in the Norfolk murder. And Thornton’s told me to concentrate on the passport case, to get de Vries off his back.”

“I’m not asking you to commit time to this yourself and the work I’ve done on it so far has been in my own time. The same would go for Juliet, if she feels up to it. Officially, she’s not allowed to work.”

There was another, shorter, silence.

“OK, I’ll see what she says,” said Tim, speaking more slowly than usual. “But I’m going to have to ask her to keep quiet about it – which she may not be happy about. You, too.”

“I’m not sure that I understand why.”

“We’re very short-staffed and Thornton doesn’t see the old case as a priority. He never has done. As you know, I disagreed with him and succeeded in making him let me carry on with it for a while, but it was against his better judgment. Now he says that pressure of work no longer allows us to focus on it, at least for the time being, and for once I’m inclined to agree with him.”

“As I’ve said, you’d only be agreeing to help from two people who’d be working on it in their own time. I don’t see what harm that can do. You’re suggesting that you might come back to the case later – I know you’re interested in it – but by then I’ll have forgotten the detail of the journals and the work will have been wasted. I hardly ever see Superintendent Thornton, so that won’t be a problem. Will he visit Juliet in hospital?”

Tim gave a short laugh. “I think that’s unlikely.”

“Well, then, she’s not going to be actively deceiving him, is she? But of course you must mention the need for secrecy, as you say.”

“I expect you’re right. I wouldn’t want to be less than above board with her, but provided she knows that Thornton would disapprove – I can just see him asking her to follow up on some of the passport queries from hospital if she feels well enough to work – and is still happy to do it, that’s fine. Good idea, in fact. When you send her the journal, could you include some rough notes on your thoughts?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. Are you going to work today?”

“Yes. I’ll aim to get there for ten. You’ve just reminded me: I need to call in.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Take care.”

“You, too,” said Katrin, slightly irritated at having that phrase crop up again. She put the phone down.