by Pat Herbert
Berthina was worried about her, and it was clear that she suspected Baldur was the murderer of the Dahl family. She had suspected it herself, and now she was sure it was true. How her employer knew about the tattoo was a mystery, but there was no doubt she had got the information from somewhere. And the reaction of her sister, Liv, to Baldur’s appearance couldn’t be easily brushed aside, either, even if the poor woman was suffering from dementia.
Gunda started to gather up her things, ready to depart for work. There was nothing else to be done. Soon, she hoped, Baldur Hanssen would be under lock and key. As she made to leave the kitchen, however, he barred her way. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, raising a dark, bushy eyebrow.
“To work, of course, where else?” She was now thoroughly frightened as she tried to ease past him.
He pushed her roughly back. “No, you’re not, missy. There’s no way I’m going to let you out of this flat now. What’s to stop you going to go to the police?”
“Why would I do that?” she bluffed, wondering if she was going to be able to hold on to her breakfast much longer. It was going to come out of her, one way or the other.
“You know, don’t you?” he challenged.
“Know what? What are you talking about?”
“About my killing Marianne Dahl and the children. You’ve known for a long time.”
“Well, if I didn’t know before, I do now,” she spat at him.
She felt a warm sensation run down her legs, as she realised she wasn’t going to get out of the flat alive.
Mrs Hardcastle was worried. It was well after ten o’clock, and there was no sign of Gunda. It was not like her to be so late. Ever since her cleaner had confided in her, she had been worried. It was the tattoo that had finally done it. Snake, dragon: there was very little difference, especially to the eyes of a small child. If Gunda had convinced herself they were different, then she was a fool.
Suddenly, there was a loud ring on the doorbell, as if somebody was leaning with the full force of their body upon it. “All right,” she called. “Don’t press so hard, you’ll break it.”
Opening the door, she saw a flustered-looking, red-faced Baldur Hanssen standing there.
“Oh, hello,” she said, squaring up to him. Even if she was intimidated by him, she wasn’t going to show it. “I was expecting Gunda today. Is she not coming? Is she ill?”
“No, Mrs Hardcastle,” he said softly. “She won’t be coming as she had to go home to her mother. She’s not well and the doctor’s told her it’s serious.”
“Oh, dear,” said Berthina, not believing one word of it. “I’m sorry to hear that. Give her my best wishes.”
“I will,” he said and turned to go. “Oh, by the way, she won’t be coming back to work here anymore.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because I’m working now and making enough money for both of us. I’ve told her she doesn’t need to work anymore. It’s a pittance, anyway,” he added accusingly.
“I’m sorry you feel I don’t pay her enough,” said Berthina with feeling. “She has never complained.”
“Well, she wouldn’t, she’s too soft,” declared Baldur. “Anyway, you won’t be seeing her again, so I’ll take what she’s owed now.”
“You won’t,” said Mrs Hardcastle determinedly. “I won’t accept her resignation either, until I hear it from her own lips.”
Baldur looked as if he was about to hit her, then he was all smiles. “Quite right, Mrs Hardcastle. I’ll get her to come and see you when she gets back.”
“You do that,” said Berthina, closing the door firmly on him. She leaned against it and realised she was sweating. She had never felt afraid of anybody in her life until now. Well, maybe a few Nazis, but not a single individual like that. He was an evil man, it oozed out of every pore.
Baldur stared at Mrs Hardcastle’s closed front door and grinned. He took the stairs, not waiting for the lift, realising he had a spring in his step and that a metaphorical weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was looking forward to work today. The weather was bright and dry, perfect for being outdoors, chopping trees.
That’s right, he told himself. Do everything as usual; that way no suspicions will be aroused. He congratulated himself on dealing with Mrs Hardcastle. He could have threatened her for the money but had stopped himself just in time. It wouldn’t do for her to get suspicious of him now. Now that things were looking up again. He had a job and a nice home. His home now. Gunda would have no need of it again.
London, April 1949
Robbie told Bernard he was mad. He told him that several times a day, ever since his friend had confessed to him that he was unsure of his feelings for Dorothy.
“You might as well be dead, man,” declared Robbie that Sunday after dinner.
It had been a particularly tasty roast beef that day, courtesy of Mrs Harper. The Yorkshire pudding had melted in their mouths and the jam roly poly that followed had seemingly been sent from heaven, not Mrs Harper’s kitchen. Bernard and Robbie had been swapping Sunday dinners now for several months – one week it was Lucy Carter’s turn to feed the two of them, the next Nancy Harper’s. They both knew whose cooking they preferred, though.
“But you don’t understand, Robbie,” Bernard protested, lighting his pipe. “I know I should welcome her with open arms, but it’s not that easy for me. You see, I’ve been hurt before. Sophie ...”
“Oh yes, yes,” said Robbie impatiently. “I know all about that. But you can’t go on living in the past. Why let one unhappy love affair taint you for the rest of your life?”
“It’s easy for you to say. Besides, even if I wanted to be with her, she’s not here, is she?”
“So what? Exeter’s hardly Outer Mongolia, is it? You don’t need a sled and a team of huskies to get there.”
“I know, Robbie, I know. It’s just that …”
“Here we go! Excuses, excuses. Don’t you want to be happy?”
“But I am happy,” said Bernard, “very happy. I’ve got all I need here. And you yourself envy me Mrs Harper. What more does a man need?”
“But don’t you ever feel the need of a woman?”
Bernard reddened with embarrassment. He knew what Robbie was getting at. The lure of the flesh hadn’t really been an issue with him since Sophie, and he still didn’t feel that way about Dorothy. Perhaps he never would feel that way again about any woman.
“I – I can’t say I miss that side of things, Robbie,” he confessed. “I don’t think I need a woman in the same way most men do.”
Robbie sighed. “Perhaps you don’t,” he smiled. “You know your own mind best, old boy. But it does seem a shame when a lovely lady like Dorothy is pining for you and you can’t reciprocate. I’d give anything to be in your shoes.”
“It’s a conundrum,” said Bernard. “I wish there was something I could say or do, Robbie. I wish Dorothy preferred you. It would be best all round.”
Robbie didn’t reply, and the pair remained silent for a while, sucking their pipes, each deep in their own private thoughts. After a while, Robbie broke the silence with a sigh.
“Changing the subject, Bernie, I suppose we’ll never be able to get that man convicted. It looks like the children will go on haunting that blasted tree forever.”
“We tried our best,” said Bernard. “You, especially, couldn’t have done more. You mustn’t blame yourself if that man gets away with it.”
Just then Mrs Harper knocked on the study door and, as was her wont, entered without waiting for permission.
“Is it too much to ask you to knock?” asked Bernard.
“Sorry, I’m sure,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.
“Well, what is it?”
“I’ve just ’ad Gilbert on the phone and ’e asked me to pass on a message to you. But, if you don’t want to ’ear it…” Mrs Harper sounded offended.
“Of course we want to hear it, Mrs
Aitch. Just tell us,” Bernard wasn’t in a placatory mood.
“’E said ’e’d had a telephone call from his mum last night, which must ’ave cost a pretty penny all the way from Norway. Mind you, she can afford it. ‘Er ’usband left ’er well off, so Marjorie told me. Did you know, she...”
Robbie interrupted her impatiently. “Mrs Harper, as much as the state of Mrs Hardcastle’s finances may be of interest to you, they aren’t to me or Bernard. What did Gilbert say she told him?”
“Oh, er – yes, let me think. Something about ’er cleaner ’aving gone to look after ’er sick mother, and that she wouldn’t be coming back to work for ’er anymore. Mrs ’Ardcastle, that is, not ’er mother.”
“Well, what of it? Her cleaner’s private life is no concern of ours, is it?” snapped Robbie.
“Well, that’s what I said. But apparently she remembered afterwards that ’er cleaner’s mum ’ad died a year ago.”
Robbie looked at Bernard at hearing this. “Did her cleaner tell Mrs Hardcastle that she was going away?” asked Bernard.
“That’s just it. It was this Baldur told ’er, apparently.”
“Oh,” said Robbie. “That casts a completely different light on matters. So, when did Gilbert’s mother say this happened?”
“It would ’ave been only the day before yesterday. She was so worried, though, she decided to call Gilbert, rather than write to ’im, what with ’ow long it takes these days and what with Charlie losing things all the time.”
“Anything else?” asked Robbie.
“No, that’s all, I think. Gilbert said ’e’d pop round later, if you like.”
“No need to bother him,” said Robbie. “But thank him for me, won’t you?”
“Yes, Doc. I’ll do that.”
Mrs Harper slipped quietly out of the room and left the two men staring at each other in dismay.
“How about a telegram to the Bergen police?” suggested Bernard.
“I’m sure Mrs Hardcastle would have contacted the police herself,” Robbie pointed out.
“Oh, yes, of course she would,” replied Bernard.
Just then, there was a polite tap on the door. Both men were surprised when Mrs Harper did not enter straightaway.
“Come in, Mrs Aitch,” called Bernard, trying not to laugh.
She remained outside, however.
“Mrs Aitch? Come in.”
“Is it all right if I come in?” came her disembodied voice.
Bernard sighed, annoyed now. “Okay, Mrs Aitch, you’ve made your point. Please do come in.”
She obeyed at last, and stood before him, quietly waiting.
“Yes, Mrs Aitch? What is it?”
“I was just waiting, like. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“What is it, Mrs Aitch?” yelled Bernard, exasperated.
“Just that I forgot to tell you, Gilbert said ’is mum ’ad called the police and they’d gone round to question this bloke ...”
“Good, good,” beamed Robbie. “Did Gilbert say what came of it?”
“Er, well, let me think,” said Mrs Harper, obviously enjoying herself. She could see the two men were desperate to hear the rest of Gilbert’s news, but she wasn’t in any hurry to dispense it. “Oh yes,” she continued slowly. “The police said they were perfectly satisfied that Gilbert’s mum’s cleaner ’ad gone visiting, and they ’ad no reason to probe any further.”
“Idiots! What about the fact that she had gone to look after her sick mother – so sick, in fact, she’d been dead for a year!” Robbie was pacing up and down now.
“Well, that’s what Gilbert said. Apparently, this Baldur bloke, or whatever ’is name is, told them ’e’d made a mistake. It was ’er aunt, not ’er mother, she’d gone to see.”
“And they just took his word for it? What a shower the Bergen police are,” declared Robbie. “They obviously don’t like work! They’re going to let him get away with it.”
“I suppose it’s difficult to prove anything,” said Bernard, trying to calm him down. Unsuccessfully.
“Nuts!” said Robbie succinctly. “They could at least get a name and address of where she’s supposed to have gone. They could follow that up, at least.”
“Maybe Baldur doesn’t know himself. It wouldn’t be that unusual,” said Bernard. “Or maybe he told the police that she’d left him, and he’d just told Mrs Hardcastle that she was looking after a sick relative to save face. It’s hard to prove, you have to admit.”
“It’s time the police took this seriously,” growled Robbie. “A woman and two children – possibly two women – have met their deaths at his hands and they’re not lifting a finger.”
“I know it looks that way, Robbie, but look at it from their point of view. It’s not much to go on, is it?”
“Poppycock! The murders only happened last year. What difference does it make anyway? Our police never stopped looking for Jack the Ripper, even though they had little to go on.”
“They never found him, though, did they?” Bernard pointed out.
The weather had turned unseasonably warm during the last week of April. Sick of sitting at his study desk writing sermons, condolence letters and other parish correspondence, Bernard decided to take advantage of the pleasant sunshine and set off for the park. He meandered along its winding paths, lost in thought. Robbie was still hassling him to get in touch with Dorothy again, but he hadn’t done so, and wondered now if he ever would. He wanted to see her again more than anything in the world, but every time he’d picked up the phone to call her or a pen to write to her, he’d bottled it. Just what was stopping him? Fear of rejection, he supposed. After Sophie, he knew he couldn’t take it.
He sighed as he seated himself on an empty park bench and watched the ducks splashing about in the pond. They were content, at least. Their fluffy, feathery lives were all mapped out for them and they were just happy to quack and fight for the breadcrumbs that people threw to them. It must be great to be a duck, he thought. They didn’t even mind when it rained. In fact, they enjoyed it.
He was worried about Robbie’s obsession with the Dahl murder case; he had become too involved. He had done everything humanly possible, but it hadn’t been enough. His friend would just have to come to terms with it, sooner or later. He couldn’t go on knocking his head against a brick wall. If only little Halle Dahl hadn’t been a ghost, or Gilbert’s Aunt Liv hadn’t been gaga.
The sun was pouring down now. The bitter cold of only the previous week was a distant memory. It was even hotter than he’d known it in June. The world seemed topsy-turvy these days. Suddenly he felt a presence beside him and, without turning his head, knew just exactly who it was.
“Hello again,” said Diabol. “I expect you thought you’d seen the last of me, eh?”
“Not really. All bad pennies turn up again in the end,” said Bernard philosophically. “Who are you after this time?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Diabol grinned impishly. “Do you notice anything different about me?”
Bernard studied him carefully. Same little weird coloured eyes and tufted hair. “No,” he replied. “You look just as repellent as ever.”
This was obviously taken as a compliment. “Nice of you to say so,” he said. “But look closely at my head.”
Bernard didn’t really want to look closely at any part of him; the sight turned his stomach, but he did as he was bid. “Er – there seems to be a couple of little lumps just above your ears,” he remarked. “I don’t remember seeing them before.”
“You’ve got it! They’re my horns – I’ve got them at last. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
“Congratulations,” said Bernard unenthusiastically. “I’m very happy for you. Now, please, can you go away and leave me alone? I want to think.”
“They’re only tiny now,” said Diabol, ignoring Bernard’s request. “But as I get more experience, they’ll grow. I can’t wait.”
“Good for you. N
ow, goodbye.”
“Don’t you want to know what I can do, now I’ve got my horns?”
“Not particularly.” Bernard sighed. The little red-eyed, jerky-elbowed, tufty-haired runt wasn’t going to leave him alone; in fact, he seemed very much attached to him. He closed his eyes in exasperation.
Suddenly a warm, soft female voice spoke into his ear. “Hello Bernard. How are you? Long time no see.”
Could it be? How come Dorothy was there? He opened his eyes and there she was. There was no sign of Diabol, just this beautiful woman, dressed in pale green, smiling sweetly at him. “Dorothy! It’s lovely to see you. I didn’t know you were in London. You should have telephoned to let me know.”
“No, Bernard. I’m not here – I’m still in Devon, but I would love to come and see you sometime – if you want me too.”
“Of course I do, Dorothy. I’d love to see you, anytime.” He turned to kiss her on the cheek but felt the rough parchment skin of Diabol instead. Dorothy had gone. She had never been there in the first place.
“See? That’s what I can do.”
Bernard glared at him. “Do what?”
“Summon up the people you love most in all the world – even if they’re dead – as long as they went down below, of course. I’ve no power getting people from upstairs, I’m afraid.”
Bernard wondered why he was having this conversation at all. “How do you know about Dorothy?” he asked, curious in spite of himself.
Diabol tapped the side of his weird, pointy nose. “I have my methods. My powers are much greater now I’ve got my horns. Besides, you made quite a fuss when I told you last time that I was about to take her from you, remember?”
Bernard smiled. He didn’t know why, but he almost liked him, even though he was so repugnant.
“Hello, Bernard. Remember me?”
Bernard swallowed and went hot all over. Sophie? He’d never forget the sound of her voice. She was sitting beside him now. “How are you keeping?”