The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  He rose from his bed and straightened the sheets and rough grey blankets – the habits of army life never leave you. After dressing, shaving and making himself a breakfast of bacon and fried bread he left the house and caught the tram to Scotland Yard. The air was cold and the streets still moist from overnight rain, so he buttoned his overcoat to the neck and pulled his hat down over his face. He could smell the horse manure mingled with fumes from the motor cars that trundled past, more now than there had been before the war. Some said they were a fad that would never catch on. He himself wasn’t so sure.

  Sam Poltimore had arrived in the office before him and he greeted him at the door. Albert could tell he was bursting with urgent news.

  ‘The superintendent wants to see you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Something to do with a missing Member of Parliament.’

  Albert raised his eyebrows. If Sam had got this right, and there was no reason to believe he hadn’t, this was bound to be a high-profile case. Unless it was to be treated as hush-hush to avoid some kind of scandal.

  ‘The Super says you’re to go up right away. He said he’ll have the commissioner with him.’

  Albert removed his hat and coat and deposited them on the stand in his office. He was aware that he’d been wearing the same shirt collar for two days on the run; if he’d known he’d have to appear before the top brass he’d have made more effort. As it was, he hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.

  He made his way upstairs to the superintendent’s office where he found his superior sitting stiffly almost at attention. Another man in a pristine uniform sat on the visitor’s side of the large oak desk. He turned his head when Albert entered but made no effort to acknowledge him.

  The superintendent stood nervously and told him to come in. Albert had never actually spoken to the commissioner before, although his face was familiar. Once the introductions had been made the man studied him as though he was assessing him for some important task.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir,’ said Albert.

  ‘Sit down, man,’ the commissioner said impatiently. He was a large, bald man whose forehead was furrowed with a worried frown, as though all the problems of the world were resting on his shoulders.

  Albert obeyed, perching himself uncomfortably on the edge of the only other chair. He looked expectantly at his superior officers, but neither spoke.

  Finally the commissioner broke the silence. ‘It’s a delicate matter, Lincoln.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Albert, hoping for enlightenment.

  ‘Henry Billinge, Member of Parliament for Liverpool East, travelled to Derbyshire last Thursday to stay with a colleague. He went out on the Saturday afternoon, saying he was going for a walk, and never returned. He completely disappeared.’

  ‘Surely the local police can deal with the matter.’

  ‘It seems they’ve made no progress and the Prime Minister …’

  ‘Wants him found.’

  ‘Precisely, Inspector. He thinks it’s high time Scotland Yard stepped in. The friend Billinge was visiting is Sir William Cartwright. His house, Tarnhey Court, is in a village called Wenfield. I understand you investigated a series of murders there in 1919. Since you know the place – and Sir William …’

  ‘Yes, sir, but—’

  ‘As you’re familiar with the lie of the land, so to speak, you’re the perfect man for the job. You’ll need to liaise with the local police, of course, but I expect they’re no strangers to you. Chance to renew old acquaintance and all that,’ the superintendent said with forced bonhomie as the commissioner nodded in approval. ‘I told the prime minister I’d be sending my best man. How soon can you get up there?’

  Albert attempted to smile but suspected it looked more like a grimace of pain. Although he’d once vowed that he’d never again set foot in Wenfield, he thought of Mrs Bell’s letter and knew the task he’d just been given might provide him with an opportunity to resume his quest for his lost, living son.

  Revisiting Wenfield would be painful but it seemed he had no choice. It was as though it was meant to be.

  Chapter 6

  Rose

  As soon as I got home yesterday morning I scrubbed my new boots clean of mud while Betty was busy elsewhere. I didn’t want her to start asking questions.

  I feel restless and I long to get out of the house. A pile of library books awaits my attention but I can’t concentrate on stories of love and triumph. Instead I need to find out whether the police have discovered the body in the cave. And if they have, do they know who he is? His lack of clothes and battered features suggests that someone doesn’t want him to be identified, although surely if he is from around here someone’s bound to miss him.

  Bert’s due back at half past twelve for his dinner, which means I have two hours of liberty. I leave the house without telling Betty where I am going; she pries too much into my business as it is. I carry my basket as though I am visiting the shops but instead I make for the library. As soon as I enter I pretend to look for a new book, glad that Miss Hubbard is busy behind the counter stamping the books of an elderly lady. I wouldn’t want her to know that I’m really there to see whether he’s left a letter in our secret place – his and mine. I look around before shifting the loose piece of wood at the end of the far shelves and my heart beats fast as I pull out the envelope he’s put there for me. How I love him.

  I place the letter in my basket and hurry out, as though I haven’t found any books I wish to borrow. Then I walk quickly through the village towards the lane leading to the Devil’s Dancers because I want to find out what’s happening. Once in the lane I look round to make sure I’m alone before tearing the envelope open and reading the precious words he has written.

  My darling Rose

  How I regret that we were so rudely disturbed by our friend yesterday. My every waking hour since then has been filled with thoughts of our next meeting, anticipating our kisses and our sweet union.

  How I wish you were with me living as my wife, sleeping in my bed – and not only sleeping, my love. How I long for us to be together, sweet Rose.

  I read on, his loving words warming me, giving me the strength to face Bert over the silent dinner table. I hate mealtimes, the fear that saying anything wrong might bring on a tirade of bitter words – or worse. But as I read on my spirits soar with new hope.

  My darling, ground glass might not work. It would take very sharp pieces of glass to do enough damage to kill. But I beg you to do nothing hasty, even though we both fear it might be the only way to win your freedom from the torment you endure so bravely, my sweet one.

  I kiss his letter and hold it to my heart, tucking it into my bodice before I carry on walking towards the Devil’s Dancers. When I reach the top of the hill that overlooks the stones and the rock face I stop. Below me I can see policemen, five in all, two bearing a stretcher. On the stretcher is a blanket and I know that the shape beneath that blanket is my dead man, about to be borne off to the mortuary at the cottage hospital.

  The other three policemen are milling around the cave entrance. I wonder if they found the dried vomit. And I wonder what it means. Was the man ill? But if he was, why did he die in that lonely cave and not seek help in the village? Why was his face destroyed like that and why wasn’t he wearing any clothes? Suddenly I long to find out what happened to him. And who he was.

  Perhaps the police will discover the truth and the news will eventually reach the ears of the village gossips. As long as nobody learns that my Darling Man and I were the first to find the body.

  When I arrive home I hurry upstairs and hide my letter with the others in my secret place. I know I should destroy it at once, but it would feel like destroying part of him.

  Chapter 7

  Albert had no idea how long he’d be up North. The missing MP might be found before his train journey was over, alive or dead, or the search could take weeks. He recalled that the area around Wenfield held hidden perils; ancient mine workings and potholes that could devour the u
nwary. Farmers lost sheep that way so the landscape could easily lose a Member of Parliament.

  There was a call he knew he ought to make before he set off. Mary was his wife and he owed it to her, whatever difficulties they’d had to endure. He was tidying his desk, preparing to leave the office early to prepare for his journey to Derbyshire first thing the following morning, when the telephone on Sam Poltimore’s desk began to ring. Albert stood in his hat and coat watching Sam’s face as he spoke into the instrument, wondering if it was news he needed to know.

  After a few moments Sam beckoned him over. ‘It’s a Sergeant Teague from Wenfield,’ he whispered, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Isn’t that the … ?’

  Albert nodded and took the telephone from Sam’s hand.

  ‘Sergeant Teague. What can I do for you?’ He could visualise the officer on the other end of the line: a man with a long thin face and an officious manner.

  When Teague replied, Albert remembered something else about him – his voice was unusually loud. He held the telephone receiver away from his ear.

  ‘You’ve been told there’s a man gone missing up our way?’ Teague began. ‘A Member of Parliament? Well, a body’s been found. It matches our man’s description but … his clothes have been removed and his face has been bashed in.’

  Albert was momentarily lost for words. He quickly gathered his thoughts and replied, ‘You mean someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to try to conceal his identity?’

  ‘That does seem the most likely explanation, sir. The doctor says he’ll do the post-mortem in due course, but our Super thought—’

  ‘My superiors have already spoken to me about it, Sergeant. I’ll be coming up first thing tomorrow.’

  Teague made a noise that sounded like a grunt before clearing his throat. ‘Well, at least you know the lie of the land, sir,’ he said as though he was glad someone was about to relieve him of the responsibility.

  After speaking to Teague, Albert suspected he’d be up North for some time – unless the doctor found the unfortunate Henry Billinge had died of natural causes or as a result of some tragic accident which, in view of the strange circumstances, seemed highly unlikely. And while he was in Wenfield he would be able to speak to Mrs Bell. The idea of anybody wanting to kill the harmless Reverend Bell seemed ludicrous, but he knew from bitter experience that human wickedness knows no limits.

  He told Sam he was going home to pack for his journey, but as he left Scotland Yard it occurred to him that, since he would be unable to pay his usual visit to Mary on Sunday, perhaps he ought to head for the railway station and catch a train to Margate tonight. But the journey would take over an hour and a half, so by the time he arrived there it would be dark and the nurses would be settling their charges for the night. It looked as though he would have to leave it to Vera to explain the situation and ask her to pass on his regrets to Mary. Knowing his mother-in-law, there was every likelihood she would twist his words and tell her daughter he hadn’t come because he couldn’t be bothered making the effort.

  Vera’s house stood in the next street to his own and when he arrived he found that she already had a visitor. He’d met the Reverend Thomas Gillit before; a plump man with a small moustache and an oily manner, dressed in a suit that looked more expensive than anything a policeman could afford. Albert had to fight the urge to drag him to Scotland Yard and demand to know what became of the donations his congregation, mostly ladies, bestowed on him for his words of comfort. Before she’d been admitted to the sanatorium, Mary had been one of those generous benefactors – using his hard-earned money. She’d insisted it was worth paying any price to speak to their little Frederick once more.

  ‘Good to see you again, Mr Lincoln.’ The words slithered from Gillit’s mouth as he gave Albert a smile that didn’t spread to his eyes.

  Albert didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to Vera. In honour of Gillit’s visit she had shed the crossover apron she usually wore and kept smoothing her shapeless brown dress with nervous hands.

  ‘If I could have a word in private …’

  Gillit seemed to take the hint. He took his hat and overcoat from the hook on the wall and said he had to be going. He had other needy souls to visit. Albert watched him take both Vera’s hands in his while she gazed at him in adoration.

  ‘Be strong, dear lady. And I promise to visit dear Mary this week. Please tell her she’s always in my thoughts and prayers. I’ll see you at the meeting on Sunday.’

  ‘Of course, Reverend.’

  If the king himself had summoned her to Buckingham Palace, Vera’s manner couldn’t have been more obsequious … and grateful. Once Gillit had gone, Vera donned her apron again and stood with her arms folded.

  ‘What do you want? You haven’t been to see Mary for over a week.’

  ‘I’ve been busy at the Yard and Margate’s a long way—’

  ‘You’ll be there on Sunday.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to go up North. Suspicious death and a missing Member of Parliament. Tell her I’m really sorry.’

  ‘I don’t know what the attraction is. They say the North is a horrible place.’

  ‘It’s work, Vera. Not my choice.’ He knew his words sounded defensive, but unwittingly she’d spoken the truth. There had been two occasions when he’d been tempted to stray from his marriage vows, and both times he’d been up North – far from home. In 1919 in Wenfield he’d been unfaithful to Mary with Flora Winsmore. The second time, the previous September in the Cheshire village of Mabley Ridge, the adultery had been only in his thoughts. Although some would say that was almost as bad.

  ‘Mary needs to see you. She wants to tell you what Frederick’s been doing.’

  ‘Frederick’s dead.’ As soon as he’d uttered the brutal words he felt as though he’d been hit by some unstoppable force. The grief for his son he’d tried to suppress bubbled up without warning and he felt his eyes stinging with tears.

  ‘Mary knows otherwise and so do I. I’ve heard his voice at the reverend’s meetings. I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Gillit or one of his tricksters.’

  Vera stepped forward, challenging. ‘Do you think Mary doesn’t recognise her own child’s voice? You’re a cruel man, Albert Lincoln. I warned Mary against you, but she wouldn’t listen. Go up North. Go to hell for all I care.’

  She turned her back on him.

  ‘Tell Mary I’ll see her as soon as I get back,’ Albert said before letting himself out of the front door and shutting it behind him. As he stepped out into the street he thought he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, there for a second then gone. He looked towards the alleyway that ran beside Vera’s house. Had someone been there, waiting, watching? He peered into the unlit alley. Nothing there. His imagination had been playing tricks again. Or was it the sign of an uneasy conscience?

  As he walked home the smoke hanging in the damp yellow air hit his lungs and made him cough. When he let himself into his house he found the place in darkness and, with no fire in the grate, it was as cold as a tomb.

  He thought of Wenfield and the comforts of the Black Horse where he’d stayed on his previous visit. Suddenly he couldn’t wait for morning to come.

  Chapter 8

  Rose

  The book I’m reading at the moment is so wonderful that I’m trying to get through it as slowly as I can because I don’t want it to come to an end. It’s sometimes like that with books, I find.

  It’s about a poor servant girl who’s working for a heartless master. The girl’s father is in grievous debt to the master, so he has the power to ruin her family, thus keeping her enslaved. She meets a handsome young blacksmith who truly loves her but the wicked master wishes to make her his mistress, although she keeps resisting him. The story reminds me a little of my own situation. But soon that will be resolved and I will have my happy ending. I know I will. The library is full of happy endings. How I wish I could live there.

  News of the body in the cave
has spread through the village. Nobody speaks in the library, of course, because it’s a place of blessed silence, but I heard a woman in the butcher’s say the police think it’s murder. Someone else said they’re calling in Scotland Yard but I don’t know whether that’s true.

  I do worry in case someone saw me there that morning. What if the police find out and me and my Darling Man come under suspicion? What if Bert finds out about our meeting? I don’t know who I fear most – my husband or the police. But I’ve got to stay calm and behave as normal. There’s no other way.

  My Darling Man thinks ground glass might not work so tonight I might put some larger pieces in Bert’s stew. Is that very wicked of me?

  Chapter 9

  Vivid memories flashed through Albert’s mind as the train chugged into Wenfield station. He had made the same journey in the spring of 1919, wondering what he would find in that Derbyshire village. All he had been told was that it stood in the High Peak, which had conjured visions of Swiss mountains, snow-capped and treacherous. There were hills there all right, some almost mountains, green-grey with granite outcrops. At this time of year the snows of winter had mostly vanished, leaving a few stubborn patches near the peaks. The lower slopes were laced with drystone walls and dotted with sheep but there were no Alpine passes or flower-decked chalets; only grey stone villages like Wenfield that looked as though they’d been carved from the rugged landscape itself.

  In 1919 he had been called up there to investigate a series of bizarre murders; the female victims had been stabbed through the heart and dead white doves had been stuffed into their mouths. Bringing the killer to justice had come at great personal cost and as he alighted from the carriage with his small brown suitcase, he felt a wave of nausea, wishing he could have passed the job to one of his colleagues. But it was too late to turn back now.