by Ellis, Kate
The smoke from the engine dispersed and Sergeant Teague loomed out of the mist, a tall figure in helmet and serge cape. Two years ago the scene had been identical, the local sergeant greeting the man from Scotland Yard on the station platform. Back then, however, Albert had had the advantage of being an unknown quantity.
Teague hurried up to him, hand outstretched. ‘Sir. Good to see you again,’ he said, although his manner belied his words. Albert guessed that he resented the man from London descending again on his little kingdom. ‘You’ll be staying at the Black Horse?’
‘If Mrs Jackson has room.’
‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem, sir. Do you want to go straight there, or do you want to call in at the station first?’
Normally Albert would be keen to learn the details of the case as soon as he arrived, but on this occasion he wanted to gather his thoughts. All he knew were the barest facts – a missing Member of Parliament and an unidentified body. He wanted more information before he faced the assembled officers at the village police station.
‘Tell me what happened. Who found the body and where?’
‘The doctor was going for a walk, something he likes to do after his afternoon surgery, he says.’
Albert caught his breath. ‘Dr Winsmore’s replacement?’
Teague nodded. ‘That’s right, sir. Dr Winsmore left the area after his daughter’s trial. Couldn’t stay … not under the circumstances.’
Albert had never enquired what had become of Flora’s father. He hadn’t wanted to pick at that particular wound. Now the mention of the man made the next question stick in his throat.
Eventually he summoned the strength to carry on. ‘What’s the new doctor’s name?’
‘When Dr Winsmore left, Dr Bone from New Mills took over for a while. Then a year ago Dr Kelly arrived. He’s young. Well liked.’
‘You believe his story about how he found the body?’
‘No reason not to, sir. He’s going to do the post-mortem once you’ve settled in. Is tomorrow morning convenient?’
‘Yes. I understand the body matches Henry Billinge’s description?’
‘He’s around the same age and build. But the face … It wouldn’t be right to ask his wife to identify him, would it?’
‘I can see that. I believe he was found without any clothes?’
Teague cleared his throat. ‘That’s right, sir. He was … naked.’
‘No sign of his clothing nearby? The area has been searched?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Teague pressed his lips together as though he suspected Albert of questioning his professional abilities. ‘No sign of it. Bit of a mystery.’
‘Wasn’t Mr Billinge staying at Tarnhey Court? Perhaps Sir William would be able to identify him.’
‘I’m reluctant to ask him. The body’s not a pretty sight.’
‘I’m sure Sir William would be prepared to do his civic duty.’ Albert had met Sir William Cartwright and thought Teague’s consideration of his finer feelings was misplaced. Cartwright had a well-developed ruthless streak and he guessed Teague’s motive was a desire not to offend his social superiors. There were some things the war hadn’t changed.
‘If you say so, sir.’ Teague didn’t sound happy.
‘I’ll ask him, if you wish.’
‘Would you, sir? Thank you, sir.’
‘I need to speak to him anyway about Mr Billinge’s last-known movements.’
‘I’ve already asked him, sir.’
‘Even so, I want to ask him myself. Is … er, Lady Cartwright well?’
‘As well as she ever was, sir. She’s never been a healthy lady as you’ll remember.’
‘Do you see much of Roderick?’
‘Master Roderick’s moved to Manchester, sir. Since Flora Winsmore … went we haven’t seen much of him. They were friends, I understand, and I heard he was upset about what happened so he upped and left. Working in some theatre.’ The word ‘theatre’ was said with distaste.
‘That’s right. His name cropped up in an investigation I was called to in Cheshire last September. Just a loose connection. I didn’t actually get to see him again.’
Teague nodded. They had reached the Black Horse. It was a solid old inn midway down the High Street with an archway to one side that had once allowed coaches access to the cobbled courtyard at the rear. The paint-work was fresh and, under the management of Norman Jackson and his capable wife, it was the best place to stay in Wenfield.
When he told Teague to return to the police station the man took his leave reluctantly, as though he didn’t want to let Albert out of his sight. Albert watched him walk off down the street and took a deep breath before opening the front door of the Black Horse and ringing the bell in the entrance hall. Mrs Jackson came hurrying through from the back and when she saw her new guest a look of surprise passed across her face, swiftly replaced with a welcoming smile.
‘Mr Lincoln. Well I never. I didn’t expect to see you around these parts again.’
‘Neither did I, Mrs Jackson.’ He smiled. ‘I know I should have telephoned from London, but I came up in rather a hurry. I hope you have a room for me.’
‘You’re lucky, sir. Two gentlemen left this morning. They had business at one of the mills. Would you like a room at the front? I know you get the noise from the street but …’
‘That would be most satisfactory, thank you.’ A room at the front of the building would give him a good view of the comings and goings on the High Street, which might be to his advantage.
The room was clean and neat, just what he needed. The last time he’d stayed there he’d been along the corridor and he was glad of the change of location. The original room would have brought back too many memories of that spring two years ago. He walked over to the window and looked out. The High Street was busy. There were women hurrying in and out of the shops, tiny children in prams and pushchairs and old men in flat caps watching the world go by while they waited for the pubs to open. A public library stood almost opposite the inn, its red-brick frontage jarring with its stone-built neighbours. It was a grand building for Wenfield, a symbol of civic pride. Learning brought to the masses; Wenfield as a bastion of culture and education.
Down the street he could see the tearoom where a spinster called Miss Forrest had once presided like a queen; the empress of gossip and vinegar words. It was still a tearoom but under its new management it had acquired a new coat of blue and white paint and had been renamed ‘The Willow Pattern Tearooms’.
Albert wondered whether Mrs Bell still frequented the establishment. He recalled that she had never liked Miss Forrest and her poisonous talk, although she’d been as shocked as the rest of Wenfield at the woman’s violent death. For a brief moment he was tempted to go down and see if she was there. But Teague would be expecting him to put in an appearance at the police station.
On his way to the station he slowed down as he passed the teashop but he couldn’t see Mrs Bell at any of the neat tables with their crisp white cloths. He needed to speak to her but in the meantime his priority was to discover who might have killed a Member of Parliament and left him battered and naked in a Derbyshire cave.
He was greeted at the station’s front desk by Sergeant Teague and Constable Wren, who shook his good hand earnestly while trying hard not to look at the left hand hanging by his side, a reddened stump with only the thumb and forefinger remaining.
‘Good to see you back, sir,’ said Wren. It had always seemed incongruous to Albert that such a large man should bear the name of Britain’s tiniest bird.
Albert nodded in reply. If he’d given the conventional response that it was good to be back he’d have been lying.
‘I’ve given you the office you had last time, sir,’ said Teague. ‘I hope that’s satisfactory.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
As he settled into the familiar office that held so many memories, he hoped his stay in Wenfield would be short. The sooner he was out of there, the better.<
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Chapter 10
Rose
I put a small piece of glass in the stew we had for tea but he found it at once and called me a stupid slut. He said anyone with half a brain would have noticed and I told him I’d broken a glass earlier and some must have fallen into the stew. He was angry and slapped me across the face. At least he didn’t realise I’d done it on purpose.
I don’t think I’ll make a good murderer. I’m too easily frightened, but my Darling Man says that’s a nice thing about me. He says he wouldn’t like to love a Messalina. Only I don’t know who Messalina is. Perhaps she was very wicked. I’d ask him to tell me about her, but I don’t want to appear ignorant. My Darling Man is so clever. Whenever I visit the library I try to read some books on history and science but I don’t find them as gripping as my novels. Learned volumes don’t take me away from Wenfield and Bert like my love stories do.
I’ve heard that a writer’s moved into a cottage just outside the village. A lady, someone said. I wonder if I’ve read any of her books. If she comes into the village, I might meet her, although I don’t know what she looks like. I expect she’s glamorous like a film star, but I haven’t seen anyone like that in Wenfield. It’s possible she looks quite ordinary, which would be a little disappointing.
Ground glass might not be as effective, but I think I’ll try it anyway. I have a pestle and mortar in the kitchen and at least Bert won’t realise because it will be as fine as salt. And he likes salt with everything.
The villain in the book I’m reading at the moment reminds me of Bert. He’s good-looking and charming to the world but underneath all that he’s cruel to the beautiful wife he keeps locked up in the attic so that he can get his hands on her fortune. How I hate Bert. How I wish he was dead.
Chapter 11
Albert left the police station at eight o’clock and returned to the Black Horse for his evening meal. Mrs Jackson had made something specially – meat pie and mashed potatoes – because the hour was late. In Wenfield most people ate their tea at six o’clock.
He had Mrs Bell’s new address and it was just a matter of finding the time to speak to her. But after he’d finished eating he decided that it was far too late to call on the vicar’s widow. He’d have to curb his impatience and save his visit for another day.
He didn’t sleep well. Being back in Wenfield with its echoes of past sins unnerved him. He’d endured the horrors of war; he’d seen his comrades blown to pieces in the trench beside him, as well as suffering pain and injury himself, and there were times in the silence of the small hours when mortar fire still echoed through his head. And yet these things seemed almost bearable compared to the agony of betrayal he’d experienced two years before in that very village.
The following morning he climbed out of bed, his head aching, knowing he had to attend the post-mortem of the man from the cave. Long ago he’d learned to detach himself from the procedure; to view the body on the mortuary table as a specimen to be studied rather than a human being. But it was still something he dreaded. Strangely it had been the doctor himself who had come across the body while taking a walk near a place called the Devil’s Dancers; an ancient circle of stones whose purpose and origins had been lost in the mists of time and legend.
When he went down for breakfast he found Mrs Jackson scurrying around, clearing dirty crockery from the tables. Albert nodded to his fellow breakfasters – two men in cheap suits sitting at separate tables, probably there to visit one of Wenfield’s three mills, whose tall, smoke-belching chimneys dominated the far end of the village. They nodded back warily and turned their attention to their bacon and eggs, the deep concentration on their faces suggesting that they wanted to avoid conversation at all costs.
He remembered Mrs Jackson’s breakfasts from his last stay and all of a sudden he felt hungry. After so long having to cater for himself in Mary’s absence, he savoured each mouthful of the perfectly cooked meal as he tried not to think too hard about the day ahead.
As he was leaving the inn, Norman Jackson, the landlord, emerged from the back carrying a crate of beer bottles. When he saw Albert he came to an abrupt halt, a look of alarm on his face. Two years ago he’d been treated as a murder suspect. Albert had questioned him at length and the memory had clearly left a lasting and unpleasant impression.
‘Good morning, Mr Jackson,’ Albert said, attempting a reassuring smile.
Jackson grunted in reply and vanished back through the door. Perhaps Albert hadn’t been forgiven. But he’d only been doing his duty.
He walked through the cobbled streets towards the police station, aware of curious looks from the people he passed. He’d become a well-known figure in the village back in 1919; the man from Scotland Yard who’d come to sort out their difficulties. Now all he wished for was anonymity.
When he arrived at the police station Wren was waiting for him, standing to attention behind the front desk. Sergeant Teague joined him and, after the good mornings had been said, Albert asked what time the post-mortem had been arranged for.
‘Dr Kelly says half past eleven, sir. He has patients to see first.’
‘I wouldn’t want to keep Dr Kelly from his patients. I’ll bring myself up to date with the details of the case while we’re waiting.’
Wren lumbered off, leaving Albert with Teague, who followed him into the office that had once been so familiar. Albert hesitated before taking the seat behind the desk like a king assuming his throne. He was in charge now and he noted a fleeting look of resentment on Teague’s face.
There was a file in the middle of the desk and Albert opened it before inviting Teague to sit. The file would probably contain everything he needed to know, but he preferred to hear it from Teague’s lips. In his experience, you could learn a lot from the observations of the local force.
‘You’ve already told me the bare bones of what happened. Now I want to hear the whole story.’
Teague cleared his throat. ‘As I said, Mr Billinge was staying with Sir William at Tarnhey Court. He’d been there a couple of days when he told Sir William he was going for a walk. Sir William warned him not to stray too far. There are grouse moors up beyond the village and the gamekeepers up there have had trouble with ruffians from Manchester trespassing and having to be chased off. If Mr Billinge had been mistaken for one of them …’
‘It might have caused some embarrassment, but I’m sure Mr Billinge would have told them that he was a guest at Tarnhey Court.’
Teague grunted. ‘Some of those fellows shoot first and ask questions later, if you know what I mean. Like I said, they’ve had a lot of trouble with folk who think they have the right to wander anywhere they please, and with the young birds—’
‘You were telling me about the day Mr Billinge was last seen.’
‘Right you are, sir. Mr Billinge left Tarnhey Court around three o’clock and was expected back for dinner. Only he never returned and nothing more was heard of him.’
‘Did he have a motor car?’
‘He came up by train. Sir William met him at the station in the Rolls.’
‘And you think it was him who ended up in that cave?’
‘Well, no one else has been reported missing around here so I don’t see who else it could be. Sir William sent out a search party, but I don’t know if they got as far as the Devil’s Dancers. Some people are superstitious about that place.’
‘Why?’
‘All sorts of rum things have been reported there over the years. There’s talk of a curse.’
‘Do you believe that?’
Albert saw Teague’s cheeks redden a little. He was local. He’d been brought up to be wary of that particular place and old habits die hard.
‘There are potholes and old mine workings round about. Sir William thinks Mr Billinge might have … He was a city gentleman, not used to walking in the hills.’
‘I need to speak to Sir William. Telephone Tarnhey Court to make an appointment, will you.’ Then Albert suddenly realised that i
t might work to his advantage if Sir William was unprepared for the interview. ‘On second thoughts, forget that last order.’
‘But surely, sir …’
‘That will be all, Sergeant. Let me know when it’s time to set off for the cottage hospital.’ As Teague turned to go, Albert spoke again. ‘Have you seen anything of Mrs Bell, the Reverend Bell’s widow?’
‘Not much, sir. Since the reverend died she’s kept herself to herself, although I hear she still arranges the flowers in church. Nice lady. Her mother passed away a couple of months after the reverend and her children are grown up and making their way in the world so she’s all on her own.’
‘I might pay her a call if I have time.’ Albert hesitated. ‘Has she said anything to you about the reverend’s death not being …’ He searched for the right words. ‘Not altogether straightforward?’
Teague raised his eyebrows. ‘No, sir. Nothing like that.’
‘Was there a post-mortem?’
‘I don’t think Dr Kelly thought it necessary, sir.’
Teague left the room reluctantly and Albert started to study the file. He took out the photograph of the missing MP. He was a handsome man, probably in his late thirties or early forties, straight-backed and distinguished, with hair that showed signs of turning grey at the temples. In the photograph, carefully posed in an exclusive photographer’s studio, he wore a well-cut dark suit and his hand was resting on a pile of books, a signal that he was a serious-minded, learned man. The name of the studio was on the reverse of the photograph, the address Bold Street, Liverpool. It was a portrait taken to impress, but then a Member of Parliament has to look important and learned in front of his supporters and constituents. Appearances have to be kept up.
Albert studied the file for a further ten minutes before rising from his seat and plucking his hat and coat from the stand in the corner. Before he witnessed the examination of the unfortunate victim’s body, he wanted to know more about him.