The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  He left the police station without telling Teague where he was going.

  Chapter 12

  At first it seemed that Tarnhey Court had been frozen in time since Albert’s last visit. Then he began to spot some subtle changes. The house looked a little more neglected, so perhaps times were hard … even for the Cartwrights. Or maybe they’d simply lost the will to keep up the standards expected of people of their social class. In addition, one member of the family would be missing; Sir William’s son, Roderick, no longer lived there, having chosen the world of the theatre in Manchester over the life of a rural son and heir and the career in government or the law that would have been his father’s choice for him.

  Albert recalled that Roderick had had secrets of his own; secrets that would have seen him arrested if the truth about his sexual preference had ever come to light. Albert had kept the secret to himself because, as far as he was concerned, it was Roderick’s business and his alone. Although if Teague and Wren had got wind of it they wouldn’t have been so understanding. Roderick had been devastated when the truth about the murders there in 1919 came to light. The young heir to Tarnhey Court and Flora Winsmore had grown up together, they’d been friends. Albert suspected that Roderick had felt almost as betrayed by what happened as he had.

  He passed through the gateposts topped by their moss-covered stone eagles, and as he walked up the drive he noticed that the crocuses were in bloom beneath the overgrown laurels, providing some welcome spring colour. Here and there rotting autumn leaves lay in drifts and weeds protruded through the gravel of the path. Before the war the Cartwrights had employed an army of gardeners but since 1918 their staff had dwindled in number. These days, men – those who had survived – preferred jobs in factories where they could call their free time their own.

  He knocked on the front door and waited. After a while it opened to reveal Mrs Banks, the Cartwrights’ housekeeper, a stout, grey-haired woman dressed in black with an intelligent face and kind eyes. Last time he was there the door had been answered by the maid, Sarah, who had later met her death in a terrible way. Albert suspected that the Cartwrights hadn’t bothered to employ a replacement.

  Mrs Banks recognised him at once. ‘Mr Lincoln. My word, I didn’t expect to see you up these parts again!’

  ‘How are you, Mrs Banks?’

  ‘Well enough. Although with Sarah not being replaced … Girls don’t want to go into service these days, but the work’s still there to be done.’

  Albert gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Is Sir William at home?’

  ‘He’s at a meeting in Manchester this morning. I expect you’ve come about Mr Billinge?’

  ‘Would I be keeping you from your work if I asked for a cup of tea?’

  Mrs Banks caught his meaning at once and led the way past a row of silent servants’ bells to her sitting room next to the kitchens. It was a cosy room, cosier than the family’s grander accommodation. Albert felt comfortable there. It reminded him of his own home, before the war and Frederick’s death had destroyed his and Mary’s brief domestic idyll. His eyes were drawn to the motto hanging above the glowing fireplace: God sees all our sins. Albert hoped this wasn’t true.

  ‘I can send Martha to see to Her Ladyship if she rings,’ Mrs Banks said after placing the kettle on the gas ring in the corner of the room. ‘In a place this size it’s not easy making do with one maid and a couple of women from the village who come in to do the heavy cleaning and sort the laundry. But you don’t want to listen to me moaning on about my problems. You’ll want to talk about Mr Billinge.’

  ‘I could do with you at Scotland Yard, Mrs Banks.’

  Her face was suddenly solemn. ‘I was shocked about … I heard you and Flora Winsmore were friends.’

  ‘We were all shocked.’

  ‘They say it’s a good thing she was hanged before she could kill any more. Mind you, Master Roderick took it bad.’ She turned her head away. ‘I heard talk that she had a baby before she … Wonder who the father was.’

  Her words almost made Albert gasp. ‘Perhaps it’s best not to speculate,’ he said quickly. If Mrs Banks had been looking closely at his face, he feared she might have guessed the truth.

  ‘There were some who thought it might have been Master Roderick but … I can’t see it myself.’

  ‘No,’ Albert leapt in. Sensing that, if he didn’t change the subject he’d give himself away, he added a prompt: ‘You were going to tell me about Mr Billinge.’

  ‘Fine gentleman he is. He and Sir William stayed up till all hours smoking cigars and drinking brandy in the billiard room. Discussing matters of state, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Albert could tell Henry Billinge had made an impression on the housekeeper. She smoothed her dress and leaned towards him as though she was preparing to share a confidence.

  ‘Although I did hear them having words on the night before Mr Billinge left.’

  ‘Words?’

  ‘Raised voices. Almost midnight it was. Her Ladyship had gone to bed and I was afraid they’d wake her. She needs her sleep, does Her Ladyship. She hasn’t been too good since Master Roderick left. I think she misses him. They say his theatre in Manchester is doing well. He’s showing moving pictures now, so I’ve heard,’ she said proudly.

  ‘Did you hear what Sir William and Mr Billinge were arguing about?’ Albert asked, not wanting to be distracted by talk of Roderick’s career.

  She hesitated, torn between sharing her knowledge and being revealed as a listener at keyholes. ‘I think it was something to do with votes for women. Whether the voting age for women should be lowered to the same as for men.’

  ‘What’s Sir William’s opinion?’

  ‘He’s all for keeping it at thirty, but I don’t think Mr Billinge agreed with him.’

  ‘Are you sure their argument was just about lowering the voting age for women? There was nothing more … personal?’

  Mrs Banks inclined her head to one side, considering the question. ‘When they were arguing, I’m sure I heard the name Clara. “Don’t bring Clara into this,” I think he said – Sir William, that is.’

  ‘Who’s Clara?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps it’s somebody they both know in London. Sir William spends a lot of time down there, him being a Member of Parliament.’

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened on the day Mr Billinge went off?’

  Mrs Banks took a deep breath. ‘There wasn’t much talk over breakfast, I can tell you that. Her Ladyship tried her best to make conversation and Mr Billinge answered politely enough. But I sensed bad feeling between Sir William and Mr B. Not that they said anything, but there was definitely an atmosphere.’

  ‘And later in the day?’

  ‘The two men went into Sir William’s study and stayed there until luncheon was served.’

  ‘And the conversation over luncheon was … strained?’

  She nodded. ‘Although Mr B did his best to be charming to Her Ladyship. Like I said, he’s a real gentleman. Then at three o’clock he said he was going for a walk. He was dressed for the countryside in tweeds and sturdy brogues and he was wearing a good overcoat, so we thought nothing of it. Some gentlemen like to walk in the countryside, don’t they, especially if they live in the town.’

  ‘Of course. And you expected him back?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you ever hear him mention that he knew anybody round these parts?’

  ‘Not in my hearing. Maybe you should ask Sir William.’

  ‘Did he have anything with him? A suitcase or … ?’

  ‘I didn’t see him go out, but he left some things in his room. I’m not sure what he brought with him because he saw to his own luggage and unpacking. Not like the old days.’

  ‘Where was Sir William while Mr Billinge was out?’

  ‘He went out shortly afterwards, took the motor car to Stockport. He said he had someone to visit.’

  ‘Did the chauffeur drive him there? Is Pepper sti
ll with you?’

  ‘Oh no, sir, Mr Pepper left us a year ago to set up his own garage in Stockport. Sir William drives himself now.’

  ‘Could it have been Pepper he was visiting?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve no idea, sir. He doesn’t confide in me.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have a word with Her Ladyship. Is she at home?’

  ‘She’s lying down at the moment. If you want to talk to her you’ll have to come back another time.’ Mrs Banks seemed protective of her mistress. Albert remembered Lady Cartwright as a frail, almost fey woman, so it was possible the housekeeper’s concern was justified.

  ‘What time did Sir William return home that day?’

  ‘Around six o’clock. His shoes were dirty. Took me ages to clean them, it did. And he seemed rather … distracted.’

  ‘Was he worried when Mr Billinge didn’t come back?’

  ‘Not at first. But he was later. And the next morning Her Ladyship insisted on calling the police when we found Mr B’s bed hadn’t been slept in.’

  ‘Why weren’t the police notified at once?’

  ‘I told Sir William they should be, in case the gentleman had got into difficulties. What if he was stranded somewhere? Or even injured? Sir William said he was a grown man and he didn’t want to cause him embarrassment by sending the police on a wild goose chase.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Sir William. What time is he expected home?’

  ‘Not till this evening, sir. He said he wouldn’t be home for luncheon. Her Ladyship will have something on a tray in her room.’

  He thanked Mrs Banks. She had been helpful; had perhaps told him more than she’d intended about her employer and his dealings with the missing man. He took his leave with a feeling of dread. Shortly he’d have to witness the post-mortem on the as yet unidentified man. And he needed Sir William to confirm whether or not the body was indeed that of Henry Billinge MP.

  As he walked down the drive he could hear his feet crunching on the sparse gravel but when he stopped he thought he heard another set of footsteps, following some way behind.

  He turned but there was nothing to see, only a pair of doves flapping towards the dovecot in the walled garden. His wife would have said it was a ghost. And, for him, Wenfield was a place of ghosts; the sort he could never lay to rest.

  Chapter 13

  Rose

  I cannot see him today and I’m worried. What if the police discover that we were there together in the cave that morning? But my Darling Man assured me that they’ll only be interested in finding the truth about the dead man. They’ll just want to know who he was, how he died and why. And so do I. Whenever I shut my eyes I see that face reduced to nothing but blood and bone, and that body, dark purple like a massive bruise, naked and glistening in the flame of my darling’s lighter.

  It’s horrible to think that someone hated that man enough to do that to him. I imagine that whoever killed him didn’t want anybody to find out who he was. The police have been searching to see if the murderer hid the clothes nearby. I wish my Darling Man had a way of finding out, then he could share his knowledge with me. We have no secrets from each other. It is as though we are one person.

  I tried the ground glass in Bert’s dinner last night but it seems to have had no effect. Perhaps I have to wait longer for it to work. Bert wanted me to do my duty as a wife last night and I had no choice. I lay there as he grunted like a pig on top of me, closing my eyes tight and trying to imagine it was my Darling Man. I failed because he is so different – so gentle and thoughtful. Just like the heroes in my books.

  I’m going to meet him tomorrow. I cannot wait. I am counting the moments.

  Chapter 14

  Albert had vivid memories of the cottage hospital and as he entered he glanced upwards at the sign above the door: Endowed by Sir William Cartwright MP.

  He remembered the way to the mortuary where he had witnessed the post-mortems on the victims back in 1919 all too well. It was there that he’d watched Dr Winsmore extract the bedraggled, bloodstained doves from the women’s mouths and slice into their prone bodies. Dr Winsmore had had no inkling of the truth and Albert wondered whether he could have proceeded so calmly if he had.

  This time Dr Kelly was in charge, dressed in his surgical gown with his scalpel at the ready to make the initial incision. First, however, he stood back to make a visual examination of the corpse.

  ‘Late thirties or early forties at a guess,’ he began. ‘Fairly well nourished. Hair appears to be neatly cut and washed. Dirt beneath his fingernails and on his hands, but that’s to be expected if he crawled to the cave where he was found. He’s not a man who’s been living rough. I’d say that in the period before his death he’d been well cared for – which means that someone’s bound to miss him.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There’s a shrapnel wound to his left arm. Some of it’s still in there, by the look of it. And there’s scarring on his scalp – probably the result of a head injury.’

  ‘War wounds?’

  ‘I’d say this man served his king and country, yes.’

  Kelly fell silent and as he began to cut the body open Albert’s eyes were drawn to the mutilated face.

  ‘What about the face? What kind of weapon was used?’

  ‘Our old friend the blunt instrument. There are fragments of stone in the wounds, so in my opinion his killer used a rock – there are a lot of them about up there. But although it made a hell of a mess I don’t think he was bludgeoned to death. I think the damage was done post-mortem.’

  ‘Someone wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be recognised. Which suggests he’s known in these parts.’

  ‘Or someone hated him enough to want to obliterate his face,’ Kelly said, before resuming his exploration of the man’s internal organs. After a couple of minutes he looked up from his work. ‘It’s been suggested that he could be that missing Member of Parliament?’

  ‘That’s one possibility, Doctor.’

  ‘I met him, you know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I was invited to dinner at Tarnhey Court along with what passes for the great and the good in Wenfield.’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘The vicar and Mrs Bell, the last vicar’s widow. Then there was a couple who have a big place outside the village … and the manager of Gem Mill and his wife. And another lady was invited to even up the numbers – a novelist.’

  ‘Do you think this is Henry Billinge?’

  Kelly stood back from the corpse, staring at it intently. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘I can’t be sure. I hardly said a word to him all evening and I was called away to see a patient before the gentlemen had their brandy and cigars.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But, you know, it could be him. Similar hair, similar build. As for the shrapnel wound, we weren’t on such intimate terms. Sir William knew him best, of course.’

  ‘If he wasn’t bludgeoned, what was the cause of death?’

  ‘There was a pool of dried vomit in the cave, which makes me think of poison. Perhaps he went to the stone circle with his killer, who tricked him into taking the noxious substance – from a hip flask – or it might have been something slow-acting he’d ingested earlier and he and his killer made their way up there for some reason.’

  ‘But why go to the trouble of disfiguring him like that?’ said Albert, thinking aloud.

  ‘Fortunately, Inspector, that’s your problem not mine.’ He paused. ‘There’s one thing that might interest you. From the dried-out contents of his stomach, I’d hazard a guess that his last meal contained steak, potatoes and peas eaten an hour or two before death and washed down with a generous helping of whisky. One thing I do recall about Billinge is that he enjoyed his drink. I’ll send the vomit off for analysis and we’ll have to keep our fingers crossed that the laboratory comes up with an answer. There are reliable tests for some poisons, but others …’ The doctor shrugged his shoulders helplessly, which made Albert
fear that they might never learn the precise cause of death.

  When the post-mortem was over he left the mortuary alone, looking back at the building that held so many bad memories. Then he set off at a brisk pace for the police station. There were things he needed to do.

  Chapter 15

  Albert’s route back to the police station took him past the doctor’s house, a building which had become so familiar on his previous visit to Wenfield. The brass plate next to the front door that had once borne the name of Dr Winsmore now said Dr Ronald Kelly MD but the house looked the same. The same front door; the same ivy growing up the rough stone wall; the same wrought-iron gate that Albert had pushed open so many times, his heart pounding with anticipation. He slowed down, peering at the house, half hoping to see the housekeeper, Sybil, who had run Dr Winsmore’s household, cooking and cleaning for the doctor and his daughter, Flora.

  After what had happened there in 1919 he wondered whether Sybil had stayed on to work for Dr Kelly – or if she’d left to seek employment elsewhere, away from the scandal and the memories. He remembered that she and Flora had been fond of one another, but that fondness had probably vanished as soon as the truth emerged.

  If it hadn’t been the doctor’s house, where the village went to be cured of their ills, he knew it would have become known as the murderer’s house, tainted forever by its history. But the association obviously hadn’t bothered Dr Kelly too much. He had taken over the practice from Dr Winsmore and, presumably, enjoyed the same trust and success. Although he wondered whether the new doctor lay awake in the early hours and thought about the traumatic events that had occurred under that very roof.

  He carried on walking, trying to put the doctor’s house out of his mind. With any luck he’d never have to enter that front door again. As he walked his leg began to ache. In an effort to take his mind off the pain, he lifted his eyes to the surrounding hills, newly green as they recovered from their winter coating of snow, just as they’d been two years before. The eternal circle of nature carried on oblivious to man’s problems.