by Ellis, Kate
Albert wondered what Teague meant by ‘the other way round’. Then his overloaded brain began to make sense of the sergeant’s words. ‘You mean it wasn’t Mr Pretting who had the fancy woman – it was Mrs Pretting who was involved with someone else?’
‘I must say, I was surprised. I mean, Mrs Pretting’s always struck me as being such a nice lady. Regular at the library, she is. Wife’s always bumping into her there. According to the missus, she must spend most of her time reading.’
‘But she finds time for other pursuits.’ Albert noticed the sergeant’s eyes gleaming as though he was imagining what these other pursuits might be. ‘Is this just idle gossip or have you got evidence? And what about the money?’
‘That’s probably irrelevant, sir. He might have been saving up for something, for all we know.’
Teague had been standing to attention with his hands behind his back. Now he brought them forward and Albert saw that he was holding a box. He placed it on the desk in front of Albert with the satisfied look of a dog presenting a ball to its much-loved master. It was a chocolate box with a picture of a cottage on the front, thatched with roses around the door. Puppies were playing in its colourful front garden and a lady in a crinoline was watering flowers with an impractically small watering can. An idealised picture of village life that bore little resemblance to Wenfield.
‘Betty’s a sharp one. She says Mrs Pretting’s been getting billets-doux for a while. She thinks they must have been left somewhere for her to find because she’s seen her reading them but there’s been nothing through the door. She thinks they might have been left in the library. All sorts of things go on in libraries, so I’ve heard.’
Albert, who had never considered public libraries to be dens of iniquity, raised his eyebrows.
‘Betty found the box hidden under the bottom of Mrs Pretting’s wardrobe.’
‘Her search must have been more thorough than yours.’
Albert saw that Teague’s cheeks had turned an unattractive shade of red as he reached for the box and opened the lid. Inside he found a pile of letters fastened together with a pink shiny ribbon.
‘You’ve read them?’
Teague shook his head. ‘No, sir. I thought I’d bring them straight to you.’
‘Then how do you know they’re not from her husband? Keepsakes of their courtship?’
‘That’s not Bert Pretting’s handwriting, sir. He was senior clerk at the mill and his writing was very neat. This writing isn’t his, I’m sure of it.’
Albert raised his eyebrows. Teague was right. The writing on the envelopes was round and almost childlike. ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet, Sergeant.’
Teague stood there bristling with pride.
Albert pulled the end of the ribbon and it unravelled, flopping onto the desk like a dead pink worm. He took the first envelope from the pile. There was no address, only a name. Rose. As Betty claimed, it had obviously been delivered by hand – or left somewhere for the recipient to find. He slid out the contents and scanned them. First one envelope, then another until he had read them all as Teague watched, craning to see but unwilling to interrupt his superior’s concentration.
Once Albert had finished reading he looked up. ‘I think we need to speak to Mrs Pretting. Let’s bring her in.’
Teague hurried away, triumphant.
They didn’t find Rose Pretting at home. Perhaps, said Teague, he should have arrested her right away. Albert pointed out that they didn’t know about the letters at that stage, so he’d done the right thing. Seeing how crestfallen the sergeant looked, he told him he’d have done exactly the same himself.
‘We’ll bring her in for questioning as soon as she returns home,’ said Albert. ‘She won’t have gone far.’
‘If she’s found out the letters are missing she might be meeting her fancy man. Warning him off.’
‘In that case you should send someone to the railway station – make sure she doesn’t leave the village.’
‘The fancy man might have a motor car.’
Albert knew Teague could be right. ‘Very well. Tell your constables to be on the lookout. If she’s a passenger, they won’t be able to miss her.’
However, there was one place Albert thought they should look before he contacted all the other police stations in the area. And Wenfield public library was only a short walk away.
Chapter 37
Rose
The box has gone; the box containing my most precious secrets; my story of romance in this grey and loveless place. I feel sick and my heart’s beating so fast and hard that I’m sure everyone I pass can hear it.
I was so distracted that I barely remember putting on my coat and placing my hat on my head in front of the hall mirror, securing it with the hatpin that looks so lethal. How many times have I dreamed about plunging that hatpin into Bert’s sleeping body so I could be free? A hundred times, maybe a thousand. There were nights when I lay awake thinking of little else.
I pick up my basket. It is heavy, filled with books. The Countess’s Lover, The Secret Arbour, Love in the First-Class Carriage. All written by authors with glamorous names like Lavinia Lovelace and Bettina Devereux. I imagine what those women must be like; tall and willowy smoking expensive cigarettes in ivory holders and sipping champagne at their literary soirees. Their lives must be so different from mine and I wish I could be them for just a day, just to see what it’s like.
The front door slams behind me and I wonder where Betty has got to. She said she was going to the butcher’s, but she was wearing her best coat. Was she the one who took my letters? Perhaps she’s a blackmailer like the wicked butler in The Duchess’s Valentine. How long before she starts asking me for money to guarantee her silence like he did?
I try not to think about it as I hurry down the street to the library. As soon as I see the building my spirits lift. It is my place of refuge and I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t there, standing on the High Street like a fortress. I think I might die of sorrow.
I enter the beloved portal with my basket of books over my arm. And something else. My urgent message. The letters have gone. What shall I do?
I arrive at the counter and smile at Miss Hubbard, the librarian, hoping that she’s put some new books on the shelves – fresh treats for me to enjoy. Miss Hubbard gives me a faint smile in return. I am one of her most loyal customers, so it is as much as I deserve. She takes the books and after a brief check of the stamps to make sure they’re not overdue, she returns my tickets. As I walk away I can hear my heels clicking in the library hush as I approach the shelves. I make for Fiction, licking my lips as I see the volumes lined up like soldiers on parade, waiting for me to make my choice.
But first I locate my hiding place, the narrow gap between the shelves and the wall in the corner. After looking around to make sure nobody’s watching, I take the note from my pocket and slip it inside the gap. As I entered the building I placed a small pebble beneath the green railings by the library steps, our agreed signal, and I know he will come soon to collect my message. I need to see him more than ever.
I select three books and carry them to the counter under Miss Hubbard’s watchful eye. ‘More romance today, Mrs Pretting?’ she whispers.
I nod and smile. She has no idea about the hiding place between the shelf and the wall and all of a sudden I feel guilty about the deception.
Once she has stamped the books and taken my tickets, I fill my basket with the new delights and make for the door. But as I’m about to leave my way is blocked by Sergeant Teague.
‘I’d like you to come with me,’ he says in a loud whisper that echoes through the hushed building. Then he takes hold of my elbow, his grip so tight that it hurts.
I drop my basket and my books spill onto the floor with a clatter, shattering the silence.
Chapter 38
Rose Pretting had been arrested on suspicion of involvement in her husband’s murder and the letters found by the maid, Betty, were sitting in
their box on Albert’s desk. They had, presumably, been written to Rose by her lover. Some mentioned potential methods of ridding her of her husband. It was beginning to look as though one of the cases at least had a simple solution.
However, the body of the unknown man was still lying, unclaimed, at the mortuary. Then there was the reason he’d been called up to Derbyshire in the first place – the disappearance of Henry Billinge MP.
Since Anne Billinge’s brief visit to Wenfield he’d learned that her husband had failed to turn up for an important meeting in his Liverpool constituency. And the sole clue Albert had to his whereabouts was the name Clara, possibly the Billinges’ former maid and the missing man’s mistress.
The telephone on his desk began to ring and he pushed the box of letters to one side to pick up the heavy black receiver. It was Constable Smith saying there was a call for him from a lady who wouldn’t give her name. Curious, Albert told Smith to put her through.
The faint voice he heard a few seconds later was high-pitched and girlish with a slight lisp. It sounded familiar although he couldn’t quite place it.
‘This is Jane Cartwright,’ the voice said. ‘We met a couple of years ago – when you came here to investigate that unpleasant series of deaths in 1919.’
That was why he’d recognised the voice. He’d spoken to Lady Cartwright, Sir William’s delicate wife, during his last stay in Wenfield. He remembered her as a fey woman with an other-worldly manner.
‘What can I do for you, Your Ladyship?’
‘I need to speak with you. In private. My husband will be at his constituency office for the next two hours.’
Lady Cartwright’s request sounded like an order. A steely command wrapped in soft silk. The Cartwrights ruled the village, so the summons wasn’t something he could ignore. Besides, it was possible she knew something about the fate of Henry Billinge. Women like Jane Cartwright often knew more than people realised.
When he arrived at Tarnhey Court the door was opened at once by Mrs Banks, who wore a conspiratorial expression that suggested she was in on the secret, whatever it was. She led him to the drawing room, which hadn’t changed one iota since his visit two years before. At that time the Cartwrights had made efforts to eliminate any evidence that Tarnhey Court had been used as a military hospital during the war, but some telltale clues remained: scuff marks on the walls where the iron beds had stood and paintwork chipped as the young heroes were moved in and out of the room on trolleys and in wheelchairs. Some might not have noticed, but Albert, who had been treated in a similar establishment himself, recognised the signs.
Lady Cartwright was reclining on a chaise longue and at first Albert thought she was wearing a nightgown. Then he realised she was wearing a long day dress, the kind that had been fashionable ten years before. She waved a languid hand in the direction of a velvet-covered sofa a few feet away. Albert took his seat as Mrs Banks left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
‘You wanted to see me, my lady.’
The eyes that focused on him were sharper than first impressions would suggest. ‘I believe you’ve been questioning my husband about our missing guest.’
‘That’s right. In view of Mr Billinge’s position, my superiors at Scotland Yard have sent me up here to investigate his disappearance.’
‘I would have thought the events of two years ago would have put you off coming to Wenfield ever again. Those dreadful murders.’ She shuddered. ‘My son, Roderick, was most upset about what happened. He’d known the … young woman responsible since he was a child and it affected him badly.’ She looked down, studying the handkerchief she was twisting in her fingers. ‘I see little of Roderick these days, I’m afraid. He’s busy with his own life in Manchester. The theatre and his moving pictures take up all his time.’ She paused. ‘The village still hasn’t recovered from the shock of so many senseless deaths, you know.’
For a moment Albert wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the murders that had occurred there in 1919 or the death toll of the war itself. ‘I don’t suppose it has. But duty is duty and Mr Billinge must be found.’
She let out a long sigh. ‘Yes, he’s an important man, just like my husband. If he was a farm labourer, I doubt Sergeant Teague would have gone to the trouble of calling in Scotland Yard.’
Albert knew there was truth in her words, but he said nothing and waited for her to continue.
‘I suppose you want to know whether I can tell you anything about his disappearance.’
‘Can you?’ He was beginning to suspect she was playing a game with him, maybe to relieve her boredom.
‘Not really. Mr Billinge was very charming, you know. And very entertaining at dinner. And he had impeccable manners – I like that in a man.’
‘You invited a number of guests to dinner while Mr Billinge was here, I believe.’
‘We don’t entertain often these days but, as leading members of local society, my husband said it was expected of us.’
Her words made Albert wonder how long it would be before she realised how much the world had changed since the war ended. The old social order was dying but the Cartwrights seemed determined to carry on as though nothing had happened. ‘I trust it was a pleasant evening?’
‘Tolerable. The new vicar lacks the social graces of his predecessor, I’m afraid. Then there was the new doctor – so young but so clever. And Mr and Mrs Jones. He runs the mill, but his wife seems somewhat out of her depth – socially, I mean. Her husband claims she’s delicate but I suspect she’s as fragile as an old army boot.’
Albert raised his eyebrows at this harsh judgement.
‘The Ogdens are charming though. She comes from a good family, although I believe he was in trade. Then there was dear Mrs Bell and the lady novelist who’s moved into David Eames’s old place. Peggy Derwent she’s called. She seemed rather restless and I wondered whether our dull provincial conversation was boring her.’
‘Did Mr Billinge talk to any of your guests in particular?’
‘He divided his attentions fairly equally, I think. He’s used to moving in society … unlike the new vicar, who was lecturing the poor Jones woman most of the evening. But Mr Fellowes is a prominent man in the village, so Sir William was obliged to invite him.’
‘What about the lady novelist?’
‘She drank a lot of wine and said very little. I expected her to be more … interesting.’
‘And the Ogdens?’
‘They’ve taken a large property outside the village – been in the district for two years. They’re a very nice couple.’
Albert had heard enough about Wenfield’s social hierarchy. It was time to steer the conversation back to her missing house guest. ‘I believe Mr Billinge was overheard arguing with your husband.’
She hesitated before answering. ‘Oh, William enjoys arguing for arguing’s sake. It was most likely something to do with women’s suffrage. A policy matter.’ She looked Albert in the eye. ‘I hope you don’t suspect Sir William of any wrongdoing. I assure you …’
‘Does the name Clara mean anything to you?’
She froze. ‘No, it doesn’t.’
The woman in front of him wasn’t a good liar. Albert couldn’t imagine she’d ever had much need to use subterfuge, so she lacked practice.
‘The name’s come up in the course of my enquiries, that’s all. Mrs Billinge thinks she was a former employee of theirs who began a relationship with her husband. Sir William was overheard talking about her to Mr Billinge.’
‘My husband is hardly likely to share gossip about his colleague’s infidelities with me, Mr Lincoln. He knows I wouldn’t approve.’
‘Of course.’ He paused, watching her as she stared out of the window at the garden, apparently deep in thought. ‘Why exactly did you ask me to call?’
She sighed and turned her head to look at him. ‘Because I wanted to make it clear that my husband has absolutely nothing to do with Mr Billinge’s disappearance. We’re both quite sure
that Mr Billinge has met with an unfortunate accident. There are so many old mine workings and potholes around here; places where people and animals can vanish and never be found. Sir William feels very guilty that he neglected to warn him of the hazards. If something has happened, I know he’ll feel responsible and find it hard to forgive himself, but I can assure you he has no idea what has befallen Mr Billinge. If he knew anything he would have told the police straight away. That goes without saying.’
Albert stood up. ‘Thank you, my lady. I’m sure you’re right.’ Jane Cartwright wasn’t the only one who could lie. Her unconvincing protestations had just moved Sir William a little higher up his list of suspects.
As he left the room he spotted a photograph in an elaborate silver frame sitting on the grand piano that dominated the bay window. It was a picture of an attractive young woman with a handsome child – a fair-haired boy about a year old.
Jane Cartwright saw him looking at it. ‘My niece and her son. A blessing from God,’ she added wistfully.
Albert left by the front door but he made a quick detour to the back of the house to seek out Mrs Banks. He found her in her sitting room and she offered tea.
They drank in amicable silence for a while before Albert asked the question that had been on his mind since he left the drawing room. ‘Her Ladyship has a niece with a baby. Do you know her name?’
‘Yes. It’s Charlotte. Mrs Charlotte Day.’
Chapter 39
The silver pocket watch had been a wedding present from Mary, so Albert was reminded of her whenever he checked the time. Their wedding had been a happy occasion. Neither of them could have known how things would turn out. Perhaps that was a blessing.
He checked the watch now and realised time was moving on. The mention of Charlotte Day’s name had shaken him. Though he would have liked to glean more information from Mrs Banks or even Lady Cartwright, he didn’t see how he could do so without arousing suspicion. When he let his imagination wander he convinced himself that it all fitted: an infant whose mother had died by hanging, another woman who longed for a child, and a kindly clergyman who’d arranged an adoption. But he had no proof and he was reluctant to take the matter any further and seek the woman out. The situation was far too delicate to go barging in.