The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  Then something on a lower shelf caught his eye. A blue bottle, the glass ribbed as a warning. When Albert took it out he saw that it was half full – and that it bore a skull and crossbones on the front below the word ‘poison’.

  Albert wrapped the bottle in his handkerchief and dropped it carefully into his pocket before making his way downstairs again. Sir William would be expecting him.

  He knocked on Tarnhey Court’s grand front door and waited, surprised when Sir William himself answered. He was a thin man with sparse hair and an amiable face and if it wasn’t for his natural air of confident authority he might have been mistaken for a country solicitor. But now, for a split second, he looked wary, almost as though he feared that Albert had come to arrest him. However, he invited Albert in with the cool confidence he had shown during their previous meetings.

  ‘Mrs Banks said you wanted to speak to me. I presume it’s about Henry Billinge. Terrible business. We were all very worried about him and now this body’s been found. It’s a tragedy. Terrible business,’ he repeated before leading Albert through to his study. Once Albert was seated he picked up a heavy cut-glass decanter and poured out two glasses of whisky. He handed one to Albert, then he drank his own down in one and poured himself another.

  ‘I did warn him to take care. What with old mineshafts and disused quarries, this landscape can be extremely hazardous to the unwary.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘I must say I never expected to see you back in these parts again, Inspector.’

  Albert ignored the comment, not wishing to be distracted from the matter in hand.

  ‘You and Mr Billinge had a disagreement, I believe.’

  Sir William’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’

  Albert didn’t answer the question. He had no wish to get Mrs Banks into trouble with her employer. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘We had a bit of a debate over policy,’ Sir William said smoothly. ‘Women’s votes and all that. Nothing personal, I assure you. I’ve already given a full statement to Sergeant Teague.’

  ‘I realise that, sir, but I would like to know more. What kind of man was Mr Billinge?’

  ‘Clever. Ambitious.’ He hesitated. ‘Before the war I would have said he was a little ruthless; the sort of man who liked to get his own way and usually did, if you get my meaning. But I had noticed a change in him recently.’

  ‘Since the war?’

  ‘He served with distinction, but I think his time at the front affected him as it did so many. That’s not to say he wasn’t an effective politician.’ He leaned forward. ‘Am I right to use the past tense? Do you think it’s him?’

  Albert decided not to answer the question. ‘He’s married, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. His wife’s the daughter of a baronet.’

  ‘Is the marriage happy?’

  ‘How should I know? It’s not the sort of thing gentlemen discuss.’

  ‘You must have formed an impression. You must have sensed whether he and his wife were close by the way he spoke about her.’ It suddenly hit Albert that the words might apply to himself. How did he talk about Mary? The answer was that he avoided the subject if at all possible.

  ‘If you want the truth, Inspector, I’d say the marriage was a socially advantageous one rather than a love match, if that’s the phrase.’

  ‘I believe it is, sir. You’ve been in touch with Mrs Billinge?’

  ‘Of course. Naturally she’s very distressed and I told Teague not to tell her about the body until the identity was certain. No point in upsetting the lady more than is necessary. I understand you need someone to identify the body.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. But …’ He searched for the right words. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that somebody battered the face with a blunt instrument.’

  Sir William looked shocked, although Albert wondered whether the emotion was genuine. ‘Who would do a thing like that?’

  ‘That’s what we want to find out, sir.’

  ‘If you’re saying someone hated Henry enough to want to destroy his face? I can assure you that I know of no one who—’

  ‘Did he have a mistress, one with a jealous husband, perhaps?’

  There was a brief moment of hesitation. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Albert fought the impulse to take the man by his expensively tailored lapels and tell him he knew he was lying. Instead he spoke calmly, inclining his head to one side. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that, sir?’

  ‘I dare say there will have been moments of temptation. But then we’re all men of the world, aren’t we, Inspector?’

  Albert took a sip of whisky, trying his best not to show that Sir William’s last statement had made him squirm with guilt. ‘Was there anyone in particular?’

  ‘I believe there was a certain lady in Kensington, although I heard that all finished over a year ago.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he said, avoiding Albert’s gaze.

  ‘Was he in possession of any important papers when he vanished?’

  ‘Confidential papers, you mean? None as far as I know. And certainly nothing worth killing for.’ Sir William shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘Not unless his killer was interested in the government’s policy on fisheries. The matters Henry dealt with had absolutely no connection to the country’s security, I assure you.’

  ‘Did he receive any letters or telephone calls while he was here?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Mrs Banks. If there were any letters, she would have given them directly to him.’

  Sir William poured himself another glass of whisky, his third, and waved the decanter in Albert’s direction. ‘More, Inspector?’

  Albert held out his half-full glass for a top-up. He knew he wasn’t meant to drink on duty but it was the evening. Besides, he felt he needed the warm, hazy comfort the amber liquid gave him.

  ‘I understand the Reverend Bell made frequent visits here shortly before his death.’

  ‘That’s right. He came to see my wife. A family matter concerning her niece.’

  ‘How is Lady Cartwright?’

  ‘Well enough, thank you.’

  ‘Having a guest in the house must have been a strain for her.’

  ‘She understands that a man in my position is expected to entertain from time to time.’

  ‘You had people to dinner while Mr Billinge was here.’

  ‘We gave a small dinner for neighbours on the Friday night, yes. Dr Kelly was here and the vicar, the Reverend Fellowes, although the man’s not really one for conversation. Mrs Bell, the late vicar’s widow and Mr Jones, the manager of Gem Mill, together with his good lady. And the Ogdens, who have a place between here and New Mills, were there too; Ogden’s a decent sort and his wife makes an effort to speak to Lady Cartwright, which is much appreciated. There was also a lady called Peggy Derwent who writes novels. She took the Eames’s place outside the village when they left.’

  ‘The Eames have moved away?’ Albert remembered David Eames, the artist, and his sister well from his last visit.

  ‘They left shortly after Flora Winsmore’s trial. Eames was friendly with the woman, I believe.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Yorkshire, or so I heard.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to everyone who was at your dinner that night,’ said Albert.

  ‘It was the first time they’d met Henry, so I’m sure they won’t be able to tell you anything. It was an amiable evening, I assure you. Nothing controversial and certainly nothing that might provoke murder.’

  Albert took a deep breath. This agreed with what Mrs Bell had told him but he still wanted to speak to the other guests. ‘Dr Kelly suspects the person we’re assuming is Mr Billinge might have been poisoned.’ He watched Sir William’s reaction and saw only mild surprise.

  ‘You said he’d been battered to death with a blunt instrument.’

  ‘I said someone disfigured him so he couldn’t be ide
ntified. They also took his clothes.’

  Sir William’s mouth fell open. ‘Sergeant Teague never mentioned that.’

  ‘Was Mr Billinge wounded in action, sir?’

  ‘I believe he was, yes,’ Sir William replied, staring at Albert’s own scars.

  ‘How?’

  ‘He never spoke about it.’

  ‘Shrapnel in his arm?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Albert stood up. ‘Can you come to the mortuary tomorrow morning? First thing.’

  Sir William drained his glass again and nodded. ‘As long as you contact Mrs Billinge. I don’t think I can face …’

  ‘Of course, sir. That’s a job the police are accustomed to. Although it might be wise to delay breaking the news until his identity has been firmly established. We wouldn’t want to distress the lady without good cause. Would nine o’clock sharp at the cottage hospital suit you?’

  Sir William made a show of consulting the diary on his desk. ‘Yes, that will be convenient. I will meet you there.’

  Albert stood to leave but when he reached the study door he turned. ‘I believe the Reverend Bell visited you here on the night he died.’

  ‘You’ve been wrongly informed, Inspector. I never saw Bell that night.’

  ‘Does the name Clara mean anything to you?’

  Sir William hesitated for a moment. ‘No.’

  Albert was sure he was lying.

  As he made his way down the drive once again he had an uncomfortable feeling he was being watched from the shadow of the bushes. As he neared the gates he heard a rustling to his right and he stopped, taking out his torch and shining the beam into the undergrowth.

  Though the dim light revealed nothing, he was sure something was lurking, possibly an animal – or maybe a human being, the most dangerous of all nature’s predators.

  Chapter 18

  The following morning Albert found a letter from Vera lying on the breakfast table between his knife and fork where Mrs Jackson had placed it. Even when Mary was too sick to write, Vera took it upon herself to make sure she wasn’t forgotten.

  His fellow guests in the dining room made no attempt at conversation, each apparently fascinated by their own breakfast, so Albert calculated that he could safely open the letter without being watched. He picked up the butter knife on his side plate and slit the envelope open, letting the cheap lined paper inside flutter down onto the table.

  I hope you are well, began the stiff schoolgirlish greeting:

  The Reverend Gillit visited Mary in the sanatorium yesterday and something wonderful happened. I know you are not a believer but if you had seen it with your own eyes you would have changed your mind. When the reverend and I arrived Mary was asleep and she looked poorly. Then she woke up and the reverend held a special séance, just for the three of us. Frederick was there in the room talking to us. There was no trickery. It was his own sweet voice.

  He said Mummy was going to get better and she should go home because he liked to be near his bedroom and his toys. Afterwards Mary seemed so much improved. She even had some colour in her cheeks. She hardly coughed at all and I’m sure she’s on the mend. I’m going back there today to bring her home. She doesn’t like it at the sanatorium and she says she’s missing Bermondsey. When you come back she’ll be home again. I told her you’d be pleased.

  I will write again soon.

  Yours truly,

  Vera Benton (Mrs)

  Vera’s strangely formal way of signing a letter used to make Albert laugh, but there was no smile today. The contents of the letter made him uneasy. Against all medical advice and on the dubious say-so of the Reverend Gillit, Mary’s mother was taking her out of the sanatorium. Gillit’s growing power was no longer merely annoying – at worst, it might eventually prove dangerous. Still, there wasn’t much he could do about it because he had lost all influence over Mary a long time ago. Even if he’d been on the spot, he doubted whether his advice would trump that of Gillit.

  He returned the letter to its envelope and stuffed it into his jacket pocket before starting on the breakfast Mrs Jackson had just placed in front of him. He ate hungrily and washed the meal down with Mrs Jackson’s strong tea, the tannin setting his teeth on edge. He had an appointment with Sir William at the cottage hospital and he didn’t want to be late.

  Sir William was waiting for him at the hospital entrance, studying his gold pocket watch to make the point that Albert had kept him waiting five whole minutes. Once inside the mortuary, a gnarled man in brown overalls led them to the room where the corpse lay beneath a white sheet. At Albert’s signal he folded back the sheet to reveal the top half of the body and Sir William gasped.

  ‘He doesn’t smell too good, I’m afraid, sir,’ said the man, still holding the edge of the sheet. He turned to Albert. ‘Does the gentleman need some smelling salts?’ he asked in a low voice, nodding towards Sir William.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you, my man,’ said Sir William, taking a snowy handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose. He stared at the body, frowning.

  ‘Is this Henry Billinge?’ Albert asked, anxious to get the ordeal over and done with.

  Sir William shook his head. ‘Hard to say. He’s a similar height, but this man’s hair looks greyer and not as neatly cut. Billinge was very particular – used a lot of pomade. I always thought him vain, to tell you the truth. And this man appears to be plumper, although his body’s swollen so … It’s difficult to tell.’

  ‘He stayed at your home. You must know.’

  ‘It’s impossible to be certain with his face like that.’ He paused, deep in thought, then said, ‘His ring. Billinge wore a signet ring on the middle finger of his right hand.’

  Albert drew closer to the corpse on the slab and studied the right hand. There was no ring there but whoever killed him might have taken it, along with his clothes. More significantly, he could see no mark where a ring had been, although this might be explained by the swelling and discoloration of the body. However, without a positive identification from Sir William, he felt he was still working in the dark.

  The likelihood was that the remains in front of him were those of Henry Billinge MP, but he had to know for certain. The one course of action left to him now was to invite Billinge’s wife up from London to view the body. It was something he would have preferred to avoid, but only a wife would possess the required intimate knowledge to confirm it one way or another. He would ask his colleagues at Scotland Yard to undertake the unpleasant duty of breaking the news.

  It wasn’t until later that day, after several hours spent bringing himself up to date with the details of the case and speaking to Teague and Wren about possible lines of enquiry, that he heard back from Scotland Yard. Mrs Billinge was travelling up from London the following day and would arrive around five o’clock in the afternoon. But she was refusing to believe that the dead man was her husband.

  Chapter 19

  Rose

  It’s seven o’clock on Sunday morning and I spent the night wide awake listening to the clock on the bedside table. Tick tock, tick tock. Ticking away the hours until the light started to creep through the curtains and the birds began their dawn chorus. You’d think I’d have slept better without him snoring there beside me. But I didn’t.

  Bert went to the Cartwright Arms last night but he never came home and I don’t know what to do. Maybe he stayed out because he’s angry with me. Maybe he’s got another woman – I wouldn’t mind if he has. Or maybe something’s happened to him.

  I thought I’d be pleased not to have him here but instead I’m worried. What if the ground glass has worked at last and he’s lying dead somewhere? What if I get the blame?

  Once I’m up and dressed I’m going to go to the telephone box to call my Darling Man. He’ll know what to do.

  Chapter 20

  The last thing Albert expected during his breakfast on Sunday morning was an interruption from a lady. He hadn’t been aware of her arrival and when
he looked up from his plate of egg and bacon she was standing beside his table wearing a smart hat and a black bouclé coat whose length had been fashionable before the war. Albert guessed it was her best outfit, reserved for church on Sunday, but the widows of vicars aren’t usually renowned for keeping up to date with the latest modes.

  Mrs Bell looked nervous as Albert invited her to take a seat. It was only eight o’clock and he couldn’t help wondering what had brought her to the Black Horse at such an early hour. He put down his knife and fork, looking regretfully at the fried egg congealing on his plate.

  ‘Oh, please carry on with your breakfast, Inspector. I’d feel guilty if I stopped you eating. A man needs a hearty meal at the start of the day. I know my dear late husband always did.’

  He shot her a grateful look and resumed eating. Many, in his experience, wouldn’t have shown so much consideration. She sat patiently, watching him as he ate. A comforting presence, almost like a mother. No wonder she’d been a popular figure in her husband’s parish; the person people went to with their problems when confiding in a man of the cloth seemed too daunting.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he said, once he’d pushed his plate to one side. At that moment Mrs Jackson appeared to clear the table and he asked for tea and a second cup.

  Mrs Bell waited for the tea to be poured before she began, lowering her voice so they wouldn’t be overheard by Mrs Jackson or her other guests who were taking their breakfast nearby.

  ‘Something rather odd occurred yesterday evening and I wanted to ask your opinion.’

  Albert sipped his tea and waited for her to continue. He was tempted to sneak a surreptitious glance at his watch because he’d promised Sergeant Teague he’d be at the police station by half past, but he resisted, suspecting that what Mrs Bell was about to tell him might be important.

  ‘I visited the vicarage, my old home, and I didn’t expect …’ She didn’t finish the sentence, as though she was trying to make sense of what happened and needed time to think. ‘You know I never like to speak ill of anybody and I wouldn’t want to throw suspicion on someone without good reason.’