by Ellis, Kate
‘I know that, Mrs Bell. Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you and let me be the judge?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She gave him a weak smile, then took a deep breath before she spoke again. ‘I called at the vicarage last night in the hope of looking through my late husband’s correspondence for some clue as to who he might have met shortly before he died. I thought it a straightforward request.
‘As I said before, dear Horace’s death was so sudden and I was far too upset to spend hours trawling through his correspondence at the time. At Grace’s suggestion, I went to stay with my sister, and by the time I returned a few weeks later Simon had moved into the vicarage – which he had every right to do. I moved all my things to the cottage, but the study had been Horace’s domain so I left it as it was.’
‘You didn’t see whether there were any personal papers left in there?’
‘Simon said that if he found any he’d bring them round to the cottage, which he did. But …’ She hesitated. ‘My late husband was a very open man, Inspector. He had no secrets from me. But last night when I asked Simon Fellowes if I could take a look through the papers in the study he reacted very oddly. I told him I wanted to look for the letter with the photograph Horace received on the day he died, but Simon insisted there was no such letter and that all the correspondence in the study was private. He said he couldn’t allow just anybody in there.’
Albert sighed. ‘Mrs Bell, you have no proof that your husband was murdered. The doctor said—’
‘I think Dr Kelly made assumptions at the time and if I’m able to find new evidence then perhaps Horace’s body can be exhumed and his death can be investigated properly. Why didn’t he tell me where he was going that night? He always told me where he’d be, so it wasn’t like him at all.’
‘The police will need more evidence before we can order an exhumation. I’m sorry.’
He drained his teacup. The woman sitting on the other side of the table didn’t seem the type given to fanciful theories, and part of him was inclined to believe her. But he needed more before he could take action.
‘I haven’t finished telling you about last night,’ she said.
‘Well?’
‘When I pointed out to Simon that I’d lived at the vicarage for twenty years and was well aware of the need for discretion, he told me some cock and bull story about losing the study key. I knew he was lying and he wasn’t very good at it. He didn’t want me poking around in there. Why was that, do you think?’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘He came here as Horace’s curate just after the war, and when my husband died he took his place.’ There was a hint of bitterness in her words, as though she viewed the new man as a usurper.
‘Tell me about him.’ Albert glanced at his watch. It was eight fifteen but he would have to be a few minutes late. He was sure Sergeant Teague could cope until he arrived.
‘I told you he served as a padre during the war, didn’t I?’
Albert nodded.
‘He’s in his thirties and a bachelor. There’s never been any mention of a sweetheart, as far as I know. A man in his position needs the support of a wife. At least, that’s what my husband always used to say,’ she added with a sad smile.
‘You think Mr Fellowes is hiding something from you?’
‘I’m sure he is.’ The certainty in her statement was convincing. ‘And I thought that if a Scotland Yard detective asked him for access to the study he could hardly refuse.’
Albert considered her suggestion, unsure how to reply. Then a selfish thought crept into his head. It was possible that some record of his and Flora’s son’s whereabouts might be among the papers the Reverend Bell had left behind and a search might give him a chance to find his own child. And yet it was a matter that would require delicate handling. ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he heard himself saying. ‘I’m afraid I can’t make any promises.’
Mrs Bell stood up stiffly. ‘I’ve wasted enough of your valuable time, Inspector.’
Albert rose to his feet and took her hand in his. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Bell. And I will give your problem some thought. By the way, does the name Clara mean anything to you?’
‘I had an aunt Clara, but she died many years ago. And there’s a Clara Meadows who teaches at the village school. Apart from that …’
‘Thank you. It’s probably not important.’
As she left she stopped for a word with Mrs Jackson on the way out and he checked the time. Even though it was Sunday, the murder investigation carried on and he needed to be at the police station. The sooner the problem of Henry Billinge was cleared up, the sooner he could leave Wenfield for good.
Chapter 21
Sergeant Teague raised his eyebrows when Albert said he wanted to view the cave where the body believed to be that of Henry Billinge had been found.
‘It’s a fair walk,’ he said, as though he presumed a man from the capital whose leg had been injured in combat wouldn’t be up to such exertion.
‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Albert, quickly, wondering whether others who saw his injuries made assumptions about his capabilities, especially those like Teague who’d never faced the realities of war.
Teague grunted in reply and Albert suspected his reluctance was because he didn’t fancy the walk himself. The stunning, hilly landscape might be a novelty to visitors from the smoky streets of Manchester but to Teague, who had lived there all his life, it was probably as unremarkable as the grimy streets of Bermondsey were to Albert.
‘Mrs Billinge will be arriving on the five o’clock train,’ Albert said as they walked. ‘I’ll meet her at the station. I’ve had a word with Mrs Jackson and there’s a room for her at the Black Horse.’
‘I thought she’d be staying at Tarnhey Court.’
If Sir William was to be considered as a suspect it would hardly be appropriate for the victim’s widow to stay under the same roof, Albert thought, although this wasn’t something he felt he could share with Teague, who deemed the Cartwrights to be above all suspicion. ‘I think she’d be more comfortable at the Black Horse. Besides, I don’t expect she’ll want to stay in Wenfield more than a night or two. Mr Billinge is MP for a Liverpool constituency. Does he have a house there?’
‘I believe there’s a bachelor flat he uses when he has to stay on constituency business, but it would hardly be a suitable place for his lady wife. And I understand he owns a couple of other properties there as well and rents them out.’
‘Has anybody been to his flat?’
‘The local lads in Liverpool gave it the once-over but they found it empty. No clue to his whereabouts.’
Once beyond the confines of the village they soon reached the path leading to the Devil’s Dancers. The stone circle couldn’t be seen from where they were walking; there were a couple of small hills to climb first, with the land forming hollows in between. The path up the first hill was rough but well trodden. Farmers kept their sheep up there and this was their route into the village.
‘People don’t like coming this way, especially after dark,’ said Teague.
‘You mentioned a curse. What’s the story behind it?’
‘They say that hundreds of years ago a group of women from the village wanted to rid themselves of their husbands and take younger lovers so they turned to witchcraft and took to meeting up there to cast spells and dance. One night when they were up there a handsome young man turned up and offered to play the fiddle for their dance. They thanked him and when he started to play the music was so beautiful they found they couldn’t stop dancing. On and on they danced, and even when they grew tired their feet wouldn’t stop moving and the fiddler wouldn’t stop playing. The dance got faster and faster until the music suddenly stopped and the women found they were rooted to the spot. They couldn’t move and they saw that their handsome young man had turned into the Devil. They never returned home to their husbands because they’d been turned to stone. Ever sin
ce, people have said the place is cursed.’
This was the longest speech Albert had ever known Teague to make. It was obvious he knew the story well, as many others in the village probably would.
‘What form does this curse take?’
For the first time Teague looked unsure of himself. ‘Well, like I said, nobody goes up here in the dark.’
‘But it looks as though Henry Billinge might have done. Why would he do that, do you think?’
Teague fell silent. They had reached the crest of the hill and below Albert could see a dip before the land rose again to form another smaller hill. As they carried on the path became rougher and Albert’s injured leg began to ache, although he wasn’t going to admit this hint of weakness to Teague.
‘It’s quite a way from the village.’
‘About a mile,’ said Teague.
‘So who usually comes up here? Walkers? People who don’t know about the story – or don’t care?’
Teague shrugged.
‘Courting couples?’
‘Suppose so. But I’d never have brought my missus this way when we was courting. Wouldn’t have seemed right.’
‘If they knew it was a place people from Wenfield tend to avoid, it might attract couples with something to hide. Illicit liaisons.’
‘Married men meeting their fancy women, you mean.’
Teague’s suggestion, voiced with such obvious disapproval, made Albert smile.
‘If locals are frightened of the place they’d most likely have it all to themselves. The perfect way not to be caught.’
‘You can’t think Mr Billinge was meeting a fancy woman? He’s a respected man; a Member of Parliament.’
Albert was tempted to point out that the outwardly respectable often hide the worst sins, but he thought he’d allow Teague to live with his illusions until the truth became necessary.
‘It’s a possibility we have to bear in mind, Sergeant. Although it might be best not to mention it to Mrs Billinge when she arrives.’
They’d just reached the top of the second hill and below, in the small valley, he could see a circle of standing stones, harsh grey and weathered by time into strange, swirling shapes. He could see how the legend had started, because they did look as though they were dancing, caught in movement, frozen in their eternal dance while the Devil fiddled his diabolical tune in the centre of the ring. On one side of the dip a tall rock face rose up, grey to match the dancers. It looked as though it might have been a quarry in centuries past but now greenery sprouted from the stones here and there, relieving the brooding darkness of the rock.
‘The cave’s down here,’ Teague said, as he started along the path, his shiny boots setting fragments of loose stone skittering down the slope.
Albert followed. His leg felt more painful now but he was determined to keep up. He soon found himself by the stones, which seemed smaller now he was close to them. The dancers barely reached his shoulder, although the Devil himself, the master of the dance, was a good two feet taller.
Teague was making straight for a small gap in the rock at the base of the cliff. He stopped and looked round, waiting for Albert to catch up with him.
‘What would make Billinge come here?’ Albert asked once they were both in the cave. When he looked around, his eyes were drawn to a patch of dried vomit still visible on the ground near the entrance.
‘Curiosity? To meet somebody?’
‘Sir William said Billinge went out for a walk. He didn’t mention that he’d arranged to meet someone.’
‘If it was a …’ Teague cleared his throat. ‘A lady, he might not have wanted Sir William to know.’
‘Who else, apart from Sir William, did Mr Billinge know in these parts?’
‘I understand Sir William hosted a dinner in his honour, but—’
‘Perhaps he met someone that evening, a lady … ?’ Teague blushed. ‘I’m sure the type of people Sir William would invite wouldn’t behave like—’
‘You’d be surprised at how our so-called betters behave, Teague,’ said Albert, irritated at the sergeant’s assumptions.
Since the war he’d sensed deference slipping away, being shed like a restricting garment. Working men and gentlemen had shared the same trenches and ordeals, and they’d seen the best and worst of each other. One man, they’d discovered, was as vulnerable as the next. It was impossible to unlearn those lessons and go back to how things used to be.
He turned to Teague. ‘Why don’t you go back to the station, Sergeant. I’d like to stay here for a while.’
Teague looked mildly alarmed. ‘Are you sure, sir? I wouldn’t fancy being here alone, I really wouldn’t.’
‘I’m sure I can take care of myself. You must have duties to attend to.’
‘If you’re sure, sir.’
‘I am.’
Teague left Albert in the cave, glancing back once he reached the entrance as though he was reluctant to go. Teague’s presence had been getting on Albert’s nerves and he wanted some time by himself to consider what he’d learned.
He felt he knew very little about Henry Billinge but, with luck, he’d learn more from his widow. Then there was Mrs Bell’s dilemma. If Billinge had been poisoned, as the doctor suspected, then maybe she was right and Horace Bell had been as well. Which would mean there was a poisoner at large in Wenfield. They said poison was a woman’s weapon, but he knew this wasn’t necessarily true. Anybody might resort to it if they wanted to kill at arm’s length.
He emerged from the cave into the weak spring sunlight and walked around the stone circle, stopping in the middle, face to face with the Devil. The first thing that struck him was the silence. There was no birdsong here, not even the raucous cries of the crows who populated the countryside round about. The silence unnerved him. It was the kind of silence he’d experienced before going over the top. There had been no birdsong in the trenches either.
Unusually for that part of the world, it hadn’t rained much since the body was discovered. Albert’s eyes were drawn to the ground, which had been disturbed near one of the stones: the tallest of the dancers, nearest to the cave. It looked as though there’d been some sort of scuffle. Or perhaps the scuffs in the rough grass had been caused by the dying man’s death throes as he was led, struggling, towards the shelter of the cave to vomit out the contents of his stomach before dying his painful death.
Albert suspected the man had been taken there to die. Somebody had guided him away from all possible help and left him naked and disfigured with nothing to betray his identity. He could imagine the killer leading Billinge there, offering him a swig from a hip flask on the way, a drink of poison. Then waiting for it to take effect. Watching the man suffer and die.
Albert had hoped that the killer would have left some trace. But he’d seen nothing and he felt despondent. He retraced his steps towards the village and when he reached the summit of the second hill he could see Wenfield laid out below; the stone cottages and the three mill chimneys to his left. With the church bells ringing in the distance the scene looked so innocent. But this had once been a killing ground. And it seemed it might have assumed that role again.
He stopped and when he turned he saw a movement to his right, something that had suddenly crouched down in the shelter of the wall. He was about to investigate when a large sheep emerged from the hiding place, leaving Albert feeling foolish. His time in the company of the Devil’s Dancers was making him see things that weren’t there.
Chapter 22
Rose
‘I don’t know where Bert is.’ That’s what George Yelland told me earlier when I caught him passing the house in his Sunday best.
I saw him from the front window and ran outside to ask him if he’d seen my husband but I should have known he wouldn’t have been with Bert in the Carty Arms last night. He’s not the type to be one of his drinking cronies. George is the youngest of the clerks, a nervy creature who looks as though he’s frightened of his own shadow.
George lo
oked really nervous as he stood on the doorstep twisting his hat in his hands like a frightened orphan in a play. As if he was scared that Bert might appear and be angry at being disturbed. I often wonder what Bert is like at work. Is he a bully, the way he is at home? Maybe people are scared of him there too. My Darling Man insists that I’m not to do anything. If I keep calm everything will be all right. He tells me I’m not to worry, but I can’t help it.
There’s a knock at the door. A heavy knock like a portent of doom. My heart begins to pound so loudly that I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. It can’t be Bert because he has a key. Unless he’s been drinking all night and lost it. I straighten my apron and when I walk into the hall I see a large shadow behind the stained glass in the front door. Then the knocking starts up again and I have no choice. My hand is shaking as I open the door and when I see Constable Wren standing there as solemn as an undertaker’s mute, I know the worst has happened.
Or perhaps it’s not the worst. Perhaps it’s the best.
Chapter 23
‘Who is he?’
‘A clerk at Gem Mill, name of Bertram Pretting, known to everyone as Bert. He’s a regular in the Cartwright Arms. Likes his drink, by all accounts.’
Albert leaned back in his chair, studying the young constable standing in front of him. He didn’t look more than eighteen and still possessed an aura of innocence. In his job, any residual naivety was unlikely to last long.
‘Where was he found?’
‘In an alley near the Cartwright Arms. He’d been stabbed. Just once in the heart.’
Albert raised his eyebrows. Somehow he’d been expecting – or perhaps hoping for – a drunken fight that had got out of hand; an ill-judged punch; a fall against a wall.