by Ellis, Kate
When he reached the police station he hesitated at the entrance, standing beneath the blue lamp suspended above the door. Sergeant Teague wouldn’t know what time the post-mortem had ended so if he turned round now he could visit Mrs Bell. Her letter intrigued him, but he needed to know more before he took any action.
He had kept the letter with him in the inside pocket of his overcoat and, once he was out of sight of the police station he took it out. The address was in a small street near the church, on the way to Pooley Wood where most of the victims had died two years before. The woods were a popular spot with courting couples back then but he wondered whether what had happened there had put a stop to all that.
His route took him past the entrance to Tarnhey Court. Sooner or later he’d have to return and question Sir William, and perhaps ask him to view the body in the mortuary in the hope he could identify it. But, according to Mrs Banks, he wasn’t expected home until that evening, so Albert’s second visit would have to wait.
When he reached Mrs Bell’s address, he was surprised at how small the cottage was. It must have felt cramped after Wenfield’s spacious vicarage but nowadays she would have no need of a large house in which to entertain and conduct parish business.
The cottage was stone-built like the rest of the village, with small-paned windows and a budding rambling rose by the green front door. It was attached to another, identical cottage and separated from its neighbour by a low wooden fence. The square front garden was neatly planted. When summer came it would be a riot of cheerful colour. It was every city dweller’s vision of an English country dwelling; the sort of place they’d been told they were fighting for back in 1914.
He raised the lion-head knocker and it fell with a crash. As he waited, shuffling his feet, he felt a sudden rush of anxiety. If Mrs Bell hadn’t seen fit to share her suspicions about her husband’s death with the local constabulary, how much proof did she have? He feared this might prove to be an unwelcome distraction from a politically sensitive case. Then there was his other problem: if it turned out that Mrs Bell knew the whereabouts of his lost son and could be persuaded to share that information with him, what was he going to do about it?
When the front door opened his first thought was that the vicar’s widow looked older than when he’d last seen her. Thinner and more strained. Her grey hair was scraped back into an untidy bun and her shapeless dress was black, the colour of mourning. Albert took off his hat.
‘Inspector Lincoln. When I wrote to you I wasn’t expecting you to come in person. Thank you so much. Please come in. Don’t stand there on the doorstep.’
She stood aside to let him pass. The little hallway was decorated with pictures; watercolours of local scenes and a few dark oils. He recognised some of them from his last visit to the vicarage. He was shown into a front parlour crammed with furniture, including a large upright piano. At Mrs Bell’s invitation he took a seat near the cast-iron fireplace.
‘I received your letter,’ he began after she’d rung a small brass bell to order tea from a spotty girl who hurried in from the kitchen.
‘That’s Joan,’ she said quietly when the girl had gone. ‘She started at the vicarage shortly before the reverend passed away and I felt obliged to keep her in gainful employment. She’s not the brightest candle in the box,’ she said with what looked like a wink. ‘Grace has stayed on to look after the new vicar. I do miss her, but she’s a regular visitor.’
Albert smiled, feeling foolish that he’d been so apprehensive about their meeting. ‘I was surprised when I read your letter,’ he said after the girl had come in with the tea tray and scurried out again like a frightened mouse.
‘I’m very grateful that you’ve come all this way.’
‘Your letter isn’t the main reason I’m here. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m just glad to see you. I did hear about that body being found at the Devil’s Dancers but I thought it was some sort of accident or …’
She clearly wasn’t aware of the Henry Billinge connection and Albert didn’t feel it was his place to enlighten her. ‘I’m afraid the death is being treated as suspicious and it was thought that as I was familiar with the area …’
‘Of course.’ She hesitated. ‘These two years have passed so quickly, don’t you think?’
‘Indeed.’ He wondered how much she knew about his relationship with Flora. In her letter, she had mentioned their friendship, but had she known the whole truth? The keeping of confidences had been part of her late husband’s calling so Albert was sure he wouldn’t have let even his wife in on the secret. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your husband. He was a fine man. And much loved in the village.’
‘Yes, he is greatly missed. The Reverend Fellowes has replaced him, but in my opinion he lacks Horace’s warmth.’ She raised her hand to her mouth, as though she feared she’d been indiscreet. ‘Oh, please don’t tell him that if you see him. He’s a good man, really, and I’m sure he does his best. He served as a padre in the Somme, you know, and I think he’s still troubled by what he saw there.’
‘That’s to be expected,’ said Albert, glancing down at his own maimed hand. ‘You wrote that you thought your husband’s death wasn’t altogether … straightforward.’
She put down her teacup and gave a long sigh. ‘Horace died quite suddenly, you see, and before that he’d been a picture of health, rarely darkened the doctor’s door. He used to say the Lord had blessed him with a good constitution. He hadn’t been ill at all before his death. Not even a cold. When I wrote to you, it had been preying on my mind for months.’
‘People do die suddenly. It’s a tragic fact, I’m afraid.’
‘Dr Kelly said it was his heart, but Dr Winsmore always said he had the heart of an ox.’ At the mention of Winsmore’s name she lowered her eyes.
‘Even oxen are obliged to meet their Maker one day,’ said Albert before draining his teacup. As soon as the words had left his mouth he wondered if they’d sounded flippant, but to his relief Mrs Bell smiled.
‘You’re quite right, Inspector. But he’d gone out the evening before he passed away without telling me where he was going, which wasn’t like him at all. He always let me know where he was and who he would be visiting – just in case I needed to contact him urgently.’
‘He didn’t mention where he’d been when he returned?’
‘No. He went straight into his study and when he came to bed I was already asleep. In the early hours of the morning he woke me up and told me he hadn’t felt well since he’d arrived home, but he hadn’t wanted to worry me. He said he felt dizzy and he was finding it hard to breathe. Then he was very sick and he died shortly after.’
Albert could see tears glistening in her eyes and he knew it pained her to recall that terrible night when she had lost her dear husband and her life had been changed for ever.
‘You didn’t believe it was his heart at the time?’
She shook her head and took a clean white handkerchief from her sleeve. After dabbing her eyes she spoke again. ‘I couldn’t contradict the doctor, could I? He seemed convinced, although he did ask me whether Horace could have eaten something that disagreed with him. I told him that we’d dined together and we’d both eaten exactly the same things – as had our maid and our cook.’
‘Unless he ate something while he was out on this mysterious evening visit of his?’
‘That’s possible, of course, but he never mentioned anything. Dr Kelly said there was no need for a post-mortem. I think he wanted to save me from more distress. He’s a very thoughtful young man.’
‘Your husband was buried?’
‘Here in the churchyard, yes. The bishop himself took the service. It was a beautiful day and the whole village turned out. It was a comfort to me to know how much he was loved.’
‘But you still think he was poisoned?’
She straightened her back. ‘I fear so.’
‘And you said in your letter that you have a suspicion as to who might be
responsible.’
She said nothing for a few moments and Albert sat on the edge of his seat and waited. In the silence he went through everyone he’d met in Wenfield, searching his memory for anyone who struck him as a potential murderer. However, he knew that, given the right circumstances, anybody is capable of the ultimate sin. Two years ago he’d discovered that the girl he’d fallen in love with had been responsible for a series of cruel deaths, yet he hadn’t harboured the slightest suspicion until the very end.
‘Maybe I was too hasty when I wrote that letter. I don’t think it’s right to accuse anybody without evidence.’
‘It’s up to the police to find the evidence, Mrs Bell. If you tell me where we should be looking.’
‘I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
He sat watching as the emotions passed across her face, changing like the Derbyshire weather, cloud and mist one minute, brightness the next. Eventually she looked him in the eye. ‘Will you be discreet?’
‘You can rely on me.’
‘And tactful?’
Albert nodded.
‘I think he might have gone to Tarnhey Court that night. I think he might have called on Sir William.’
‘You’re not suggesting Sir William poisoned him?’ Albert said with disbelief.
‘When you put it into words, it sounds ridiculous. But Horace had been visiting Tarnhey rather a lot around that time and he never said why. At first I thought Lady Cartwright might have been ill but word has it in the village that she’s as well as she usually is.’
Albert caught her meaning. Lady Cartwright was known to be ‘delicate’, but such women often outlived their healthier contemporaries.
‘I’ve absolutely no proof. As far as I know, Horace and Sir William were on good terms. He even read a lesson at the funeral. I’m probably being foolish.’
‘Sometimes our instincts are right, however unlikely they may seem. I’ll make enquiries.’ He saw a worried frown pass across her face. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll be the soul of discretion. Sir William will never learn of your suspicions from me.’
‘Thank you. I knew I could trust you. Horace always spoke well of you.’
‘Did he receive any telephone calls that night? Or perhaps a letter that arrived earlier in the day?’
‘He did receive a letter. He opened it in front of me and I saw that it contained a photograph but before I could ask him about it he’d put it in his pocket.’
‘Did you ever find it after … ?’
She shook her head. ‘He might have put it away in his study when he got in, but I didn’t have the heart to go through his things after his death. And by the time I returned to Wenfield the Reverend Fellowes – Simon – had moved into the vicarage.’
‘Did you ask him about it?’
‘Yes, but he said there was no letter of the right date – and certainly no letter with a photograph enclosed.’
Albert glanced at the carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece. He knew he should leave but he had another question, one he’d been longing to ask since he entered the house.
‘Your husband arranged for an orphaned child to be found a home. The mother was Flora Winsmore and I understand the child was a boy. Do you know what became of him?’
He thought he’d succeeded in making the enquiry sound casual, as if he’d only asked out of mild curiosity, but Mrs Bell was staring at him as though she could read his thoughts. He took a deep breath and awaited her reply.
‘Horace said he’d found the unfortunate child a good home and that he was sure he’d always be kept in ignorance of his unhappy origins.’
‘Somebody adopted him?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
It was the most difficult question Albert had ever been asked. Aware that Mrs Bell was watching him closely, he paused to consider his answer.
‘I was the officer who arrested her. It might seem foolish to you, but I can’t help feeling responsible for the poor mite. I had a son myself. He died of influenza shortly after the war. So you see …’
She bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Inspector. There are few things worse than losing a little one. As for Flora’s baby, I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
The flame of hope that had flickered inside Albert ever since he’d discovered the previous September that the Reverend Bell might know what had happened to the child was suddenly snuffed out. Anxious not to betray his disappointment to Mrs Bell, he took a deep breath and changed the subject.
‘Have you heard that Sir William’s guest, Mr Billinge, is missing?’
‘Yes. Poor man. You don’t think it’s him they found … ?’
‘We can’t be sure yet. I believe you dined with Sir William and Mr Billinge the night before he disappeared.’
‘There were a number of people there.’ She smiled. ‘Prominent members of the community, I suppose you could call them. I found Mr Billinge a pleasant man and I assure you that I recall nothing about that evening that could have led to murder. It was a convivial dinner and I left early, along with Dr Kelly, who was called to see a patient. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.’
Albert thanked her and took his leave.
Sir William was due back that evening so he’d pay him a visit. If Mrs Bell’s suspicions about her husband’s death were founded in fact, he needed to know.
Chapter 16
Rose
Bert is due home from work any time. I have made a pie with the steak and kidney I got from the butcher’s today. Steak and kidney’s his favourite. There’s no ground glass in it today because I don’t think it works. My Darling Man was right – and I suppose he should know, what with all his learning. I haven’t been able to see him for a while and I really miss him. But I must be patient. I have to think of the future. Our future.
I hear the front door open and close with a bang. Bert is home and my heart is beating like a drum. My book’s lying on the sideboard and I rush to hide it because he hates to see me reading. Filling my head with nonsense, he calls it. My Darling Man would never speak to me like that. Never.
He’s standing in the parlour now, sniffing the air. ‘What’s for tea?’ he says. No greeting. No kiss hello.
‘Steak and kidney pie,’ I say, trying to smile. ‘Your favourite.’
‘I can’t smell nothing.’
I rush into the kitchen and look at the oven. It isn’t lit. I put the pie in earlier but I forgot to light it and now I feel like crying.
I turn and see him looming like a monster in the doorway. I want to scream because I know what’s coming but it would only make him more angry. I back away. ‘Sorry. We can have fish and chips instead. I’ll go and get ’em. We can have the pie tomorrow. It won’t spoil.’ I try to sound cheerful, as though it doesn’t matter. But he’s taken a step towards me. Then another. I can see his fists are clenched and I close my eyes.
‘Stupid bitch. Stupid useless cow,’ he shouts as the fist meets my stomach and I fall to the floor.
‘I’m off out to the Carty Arms,’ he shouts as he lumbers from the room, leaving me sobbing and winded.
It takes me half an hour to gather the strength to stagger out of the house and over to the telephone box on the corner of the street. The door is heavy and the inside smells of sweat and tobacco. I dial the number before pressing my coins into the slot. It has to stop before he kills me.
Chapter 17
Albert telephoned Tarnhey Court from the Black Horse. Mrs Jackson was very proud of her telephone and the fact that businessmen visiting the mills only had to make a call from their offices in distant parts of the country to secure a respectable room for the night when the demands of commerce kept them from their own beds.
It was Mrs Banks who answered, formal now as though their meeting earlier that day had never happened. Albert had noticed that speaking on the telephone often had that effect on people. She confirmed that Sir William had now returned home
but Albert declined her offer to fetch him. He would call on him in person. His business wasn’t something that could be conducted over the telephone wires with the operator listening in.
He knew that he ought to tell Sergeant Teague what he was planning to do but he couldn’t face the sergeant’s inevitable attempts to interfere. To Teague the Cartwrights were untouchable; his social superiors who had to be treated with the respect they’d enjoyed for centuries. So far as Albert was concerned, those days were gone.
By the time he reached Tarnhey Court it was dusk and the archway of laurels seemed to press in on him as he made his way down the drive. He could see the old stables, once home to the Cartwrights’ chauffeur, standing in darkness, and he made a short detour. Sir William’s Rolls-
Royce was there and when Albert put his hand on the bonnet he felt a slight warmth. Sir William hadn’t been home long.
The Rolls was the only vehicle in there and it looked small and insignificant in that large dim space designed for a selection of horse-drawn carriages. Albert looked around before climbing the stairs in the corner that led to the chauffeur’s quarters. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open. Last time he’d been there Sydney Pepper had been in residence, a former soldier who had suffered his own losses. Now the place was empty, although some basic furniture remained – an iron bed, stripped to the stained mattress, and a couple of chairs standing beside a shabby wooden table. The light was fading so Albert took his torch from the pocket of his overcoat as he crossed the room. He opened the door of a built-in cupboard only to find that it contained nothing but junk, the unwanted possessions Pepper had left behind when he quit Sir William’s employment for a new, and hopefully better, life. Albert pushed the things to one side; old newspapers, half-empty containers of hair oil, a pair of driving gloves with holes at the fingertips.