The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  ‘Are you absolutely sure it’s not him?’ Albert asked her gently.

  ‘First of all, this man’s wound is to his left arm rather than his right, and the injuries are far more extensive than my husband’s.’ She nodded to Dr Kelly, who had folded the sheet back to reveal the upper body. ‘May I see his legs, please, Doctor?’

  Albert couldn’t help admiring her cool manner. Many women he knew would have found the sight of a corpse distasteful. Perhaps, he thought, she had nursed in the war like Flora and had become used to seeing horrors of this nature.

  Kelly hesitated before he drew back the sheet further to reveal the rest of the body. Anne Billinge stepped forward and studied the legs, then the groin. Albert was surprised to see her smile.

  ‘My husband has a birthmark just above his private parts. And he has a scar on his leg where a bullet was removed. This man has neither. Then there’s that large birthmark on the back of this man’s left hand. My husband has no such mark. It’s definitely not him.’

  ‘Then who is he?’ Teague asked nobody in particular.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, Sergeant,’ said Mrs Billinge before sweeping from the room. Albert told Teague to follow her and once he was alone with the doctor he asked another question.

  ‘How soon can you do the post-mortem on Bert Pretting?’

  ‘Will this afternoon suit you? I’ll fit it in after my rounds.’

  Albert paused before leaving the room. ‘Have you found any clues to this poor man’s identity?’ he said as the corpse was being covered again by the sheet. ‘Anything at all, however small?’

  ‘Sorry, but there’s nothing I haven’t already told you,’ said the doctor. ‘Has nobody else been reported missing around here?’

  Albert shook his head.

  So the missing Member of Parliament was still lost out there somewhere. And now, to further complicate matters, he had a body without a name.

  Chapter 26

  Rose

  It was definitely Bert. I said there was no doubt about it. Constable Wren had offered to ask one of the men he’d been drinking with to identify him, in case the sight of my husband lying dead on a slab proved too upsetting for me. I knew he was being thoughtful but I told him I could cope and when I said I needed to see him he seemed to understand. What I didn’t tell him was that I felt nothing but relief.

  Last night I slept better than I’ve done for a long time. It was good to know he wouldn’t expect me to do my wifely duty, the way he usually did when he’d had a skinful in the Carty Arms. ‘You’re my wife,’ he always said. ‘I’ve got rights.’ Well, not any more. A dead man has no rights. A dead man can’t hurt you.

  I changed the sheets because they smelled of him and I lay there in the fresh ones, stretching out in the big bed which is now mine and mine alone. My Darling Man says we have to be careful. Discreet, was how he put it. He always knows the right words.

  He says it’s best we don’t see each other for a while. I dread the thought of it, but I know he’s right. The time will pass quickly and then we’ll be together for ever. I’ll fill my lonely days with reading about the triumph of love, dreaming of the time when my own love will overcome everything. Amor vincit omnia, that’s what my Darling Man told me, although I don’t know what it means.

  Bert is dead and I am alive.

  I can hear a pounding on the door and the sound makes me jump. I don’t want to answer it but I know I must. Everything has to look normal. Everyone has to think I’m grieving.

  Chapter 27

  Anne Billinge decided not to stay in Wenfield for another night. There was no point in prolonging her visit, she told Albert when he saw her off at the railway station, especially as Sir William and Lady Cartwright had made no effort to offer her hospitality; something that still struck Albert as odd in the circumstances.

  He found it hard to gauge how she felt about her husband’s disappearance. She belonged to a class who’d been raised from childhood not to show their true emotions, so he guessed that she might be more worried than she seemed. In Anne’s world, appearances had to be maintained at all costs.

  He watched her train chug away from the platform in the direction of Manchester where she was to catch the London train. Despite their different positions on the social ladder, he’d liked her and he’d found her easy to talk to. He hadn’t revealed anything about his own private life over their drinks the previous night, although he suspected that if she’d stayed another night, that situation might have changed. It was probably a good thing that she’d returned to London.

  He found himself wondering why Sir William had failed to do what would surely be considered by many to be his social duty. Perhaps he was embarrassed that he’d let Billinge wander off into the countryside without taking steps to ensure his safety; perhaps he felt responsible, even guilty. Or was there a more sinister explanation? He needed to speak to Sir William again. It looked very much as though he’d lied about Clara and he knew exactly who she was. But why hadn’t he told Albert when he’d asked?

  Before escorting Mrs Billinge to the train he’d ordered one of the constables to telephone all the police stations within a hundred-mile radius. The man in the mortuary must have been missed by somebody; possibly somebody further afield. The young constable looked daunted by the task, but Albert gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder and told him that if they could establish the identity of the man in the cave, they would be one step closer to discovering who was responsible for his death.

  He left the railway station, wondering whether to take the road to Tarnhey Court or to return to the police station and see whether anything new had come in in his absence. He had to attend Bert Pretting’s post-mortem later, but hopefully it would be straightforward, although a knife in an alley was something he associated with his native London or a big city like Manchester rather than a quiet Derbyshire village.

  Perhaps Pretting had gambling debts or he’d been involved in some sort of dispute he’d kept from his wife. If he was one of those men who led a secret life unbeknown to his wife and colleagues, it was possible he had acquired enemies no one knew about. Albert resolved to raise the possibility with Teague later, if the culprit wasn’t swiftly apprehended.

  He almost turned into Tarnhey Lane, but then decided to delay his visit to Sir William until he’d had more time to consider the questions he needed to ask. Besides, the longer he left it, the less prepared Sir William would be. He knew from experience that suspects made mistakes when they didn’t know what was coming. And Sir William now had to be treated as a suspect, whatever Teague and his deferential Wenfield colleagues might think.

  As Albert arrived at the door of the police station he saw a familiar figure walking down the street towards him. Mrs Bell was carrying a wicker shopping basket, as yet unfilled, and as soon as she spotted him she gave an enthusiastic wave, her footsteps speeding up almost to a trot.

  He stopped to wait until she caught up, breathless and holding on to her hat.

  ‘Inspector, just the man I wanted to see. Can we talk in private?’

  ‘Of course. Please come into my office.’

  She hesitated for a moment, glancing up at the blue lamp above their heads. He guessed she’d never crossed the threshold of the police station before.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he offered.

  ‘That would be most welcome.’

  As she followed Albert through to his office behind the front desk, Constable Wren shot him a quizzical look but Albert responded by asking for tea. This was between him and Mrs Bell; it wasn’t a police matter yet.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked after inviting her to take a seat. Though her suspicions continued to intrigue him, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He leaned forward, hoping she was about to give him something solid at last.

  ‘I visited the vicarage again yesterday and repeated my request, but Simon Fellowes stuck to his story about losing the study key. He says he’s been preparing hi
s sermons on the table in the parlour.’

  ‘So the situation hasn’t changed since our last meeting?’ he said, disappointed.

  She leaned towards him, lowering her voice. ‘I had a word with Grace. You remember she used to work for me and my husband,’ she added with a knowing smile which told Albert that the maid’s loyalty remained with her former mistress. ‘She says Simon’s lying. He is using the study. Goes in and locks the door behind him, she says. And she’s not allowed in there to clean, which I think is rather peculiar. She always cleaned in there in Horace’s day. She was very careful not to disturb his things.’

  ‘Does she think there’s something in there he doesn’t want anyone to see?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  There was a long silence before Albert asked his next question. ‘You think Mr Fellowes might have had something to do with your husband’s death?’

  Mrs Bell sighed. ‘It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that. And if it was poison that killed Horace it seems so calculating, doesn’t it. But I must say, when he was the parish curate, Horace always found him …’ She searched for the right word. ‘Difficult. And I know they had words shortly before Horace died.’

  ‘What about?’ This was something she hadn’t mentioned before.

  ‘Horace thought Simon wasn’t sufficiently sympathetic to the problems of his parishioners. He told him he wasn’t there to sit in judgement on them as sinners and tell them they were damned to burn in hell without the mercy of God. He said he should understand their struggles like Our Lord did. I’ve spoken to people who knew Simon before the war and they said he wasn’t like that then. The war changed him. Hardened him.’

  ‘It changed a lot of people, Mrs Bell. But I can’t see it as a motive for murder.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he want me to look for evidence of where my husband went that night?’

  ‘Could Horace have had a meeting with Fellowes?’

  ‘The curate’s house is just a short distance from the vicarage. Perhaps that’s why Horace didn’t bother telling me where he was going. Because he didn’t think he’d be long.’

  ‘But he was?’

  ‘A good two hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bell, but at the moment I have no legal reason to order Fellowes to let me into that study, you do realise that? We don’t even know for sure that your husband was poisoned.’

  For a moment she looked crestfallen. She’d been so convinced that the man she’d devoted her life to hadn’t been taken from her by the God she trusted. ‘Of course. You’re right, Inspector. All I have is suspicions. I need proof.’

  Albert picked up the fountain pen that was lying in front of him on the desk and turned it over and over in the fingers of his good hand. This situation required further thought – and tact. ‘Leave it with me, Mrs Bell. I’ll think of something. What time is the Reverend Fellowes likely to be out of the vicarage?’

  Mrs Bell gave Albert a knowing smile. ‘I’m not sure, but I can find out from Grace.’

  Albert had had an idea. It was something he was used to deploying against London’s criminal fraternity rather than in a northern vicarage, but it might be the only way of finding the answers he needed.

  She stood up to go. ‘I’ll be in touch, Inspector. And thank you. I feel so much better now I’ve shared my suspicions with you.’

  Albert watched her leave, Constable Wren acknowledging her with a little salute as she passed him. What he was planning was irregular. But if the Reverend Horace Bell’s death hadn’t been natural, he needed to get to the truth.

  The telephone on his desk rang. Bert Pretting’s post-mortem was about to begin. And he had to be there.

  But before he could leave, Constable Smith knocked on his door. He looked as though he had news.

  ‘I didn’t like to disturb you while the lady was here, sir.’

  ‘What is it, Smith?’

  ‘A woman came in while you were out, sir. Betty Legge. She’s the Prettings’ maid. She said Mr and Mrs Pretting weren’t on good terms and that she thinks Mrs Pretting has a fancy man.’

  Albert sank down into his chair again. He’d nursed a hope that he wouldn’t have to become involved in the Pretting investigation. But it seemed it might be hard to avoid it.

  ‘Sergeant Teague’s gone round there, sir. Just thought you should know.’

  Chapter 28

  Rose

  When Sergeant Teague and Constable Wren turned up at the door and asked if they could come in, I had no choice. If I’d said they couldn’t, it would have looked suspicious and that was the last thing I wanted. I was feeling so pleased with my performance at the cottage hospital but now I don’t know where to turn because my Darling Man and I have agreed not to see each other for a while.

  I need a drink, something stronger than tea. My heart’s beating so fast I think it’ll burst out of my chest, but I have to stay calm. I have to convince them I had nothing to do with Bert’s murder.

  The policemen took off their helmets and when I showed them into the parlour the sergeant asked if they could take a look in the bureau. I said they could if they could get it open. I told them I don’t have a key because Bert said he kept confidential things in there. I keep my private things in one of the bedroom drawers. I’ve got all my old school reports in there and I get them out to look at sometimes. A for English and A for Arithmetic. I used to be quite clever once, before I married Bert.

  To my surprise, the sergeant produced the key – said he’d found it in Bert’s jacket pocket – so I left them to search because they told me it was just routine; something that had to be done when someone’s murdered. I pretended to start crying again and he said why didn’t I put the kettle on. Betty was in the kitchen. I don’t know what she has to be so smug about. And insolent. I told her to fetch the milk jug and she smirked at me and banged the jug down on the table. Perhaps I’ll get rid of her now Bert’s gone.

  When I went back into the parlour, Constable Wren was stuffing things from the bureau into a brown paper bag and he told me he’d have to take it back to the police station. I could hear the kettle whistling so I dashed back into the kitchen and when I came back with the tea I found the constable on his own and Sergeant Teague was nowhere to be seen. I thought he must have left, but then I heard footsteps upstairs.

  I didn’t panic at first. He was hardly likely to start rooting around in my wardrobe. Even Bert never looked in there. That’s why he never discovered my hiding place.

  I climbed the stairs, calling out Sergeant Teague’s name. When there was no answer I began to feel nervous. I thought of the loose board at the bottom of my wardrobe, but I knew he’d never find it because it’s so well hidden and my shoes were lined up on top of it.

  When I reached the bedroom I found him looking through Bert’s wardrobe. He said it was just routine but I could tell he was lying. It takes one to know one, as my dad used to say.

  I told him his tea was ready and if he didn’t come down it’d get cold, hoping he wouldn’t bother with my wardrobe. He said he’d come when he was finished, and started on the chest of drawers by the window, taking out the contents of each drawer and laying them on top of the eiderdown. I watched as he handled my smalls and stockings, trying not to blush. Then he started on Bert’s shirts and underwear. Once each drawer was empty he slid it out and looked behind and underneath. His thoroughness made me nervous.

  Once he’d finished with the drawers he opened my wardrobe, pushing back my dresses and taking my hat boxes from the top shelf and opening them one by one.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said. ‘Those weren’t cheap.’

  He turned to me and smiled. ‘I know. Mrs Teague’s always after new hats. Costs me a fortune.’

  ‘How is Mrs Teague?’ I hoped the question would distract him. ‘I saw her at the library the other day.’

  ‘She’s very well, thank you.’ His answer was formal and I knew he wasn’t going to be put off, although my presence must have made him uneasy
because instead of taking my dresses out and laying them on the bed he pushed them to one side and then the other and as the hangers screeched against the rail I could see his face was flushed with embarrassment. Then he looked down at my neatly arranged shoes and shuffled them around before shutting the wardrobe door. His fingers hadn’t searched for the little knothole in the wardrobe floor as mine had done so often. In my mind’s eye I could see the plank coming loose and the letters lying there, ready for him to pluck out as I watched, frozen to the spot, turned to stone like the Devil’s Dancers.

  My heart had been thumping so loudly that I was afraid he’d hear it, but as soon as he shut my wardrobe door I knew the danger was over and my secret was safe.

  Then I heard Constable Wren’s voice from downstairs.

  ‘Sarge! Come and see what I’ve found.’

  Chapter 29

  Albert didn’t have time to wait for Teague’s return. He was due at the mortuary and, as Kelly was Wenfield’s only doctor and therefore a busy man, it would be unfair to keep him waiting. He told Constable Smith he’d speak to Teague when he got back, and set off for his second mortuary visit of the day.

  Albert thought Dr Kelly seemed tired as they shook hands on his arrival. His youthful face looked strained, but he imagined that doctors – the good ones – often worried about their patients’ problems.

  Kelly began the post-mortem with a visual examination of Bert Pretting’s corpse. Healthy male in his thirties. Five feet nine. Heavily built. Well nourished and showing excess weight around the middle, possibly a result of heavy drinking. There was no emotion in the doctor’s voice as he recited his observations and when the post-mortem began in earnest he said nothing while he conducted the procedure under Albert’s watchful gaze.