by Ellis, Kate
She lowered her eyes. ‘There’s been talk of it in the village, I believe,’ she said, taking a drag on her cigarette.
‘You haven’t seen any strangers hanging around the area?’
‘I have, as a matter of fact. I was walking back from church and I saw a man going into Pooley Woods.’
‘When was this?’
‘On Saturday. We ladies do the church flowers on Saturday so they’re fresh for the Sunday services. My husband’s been nagging me to do something – to make a contribution to the village, as he puts it. He says it’s expected of people in our social position,’ she added with a dismissive sniff, stubbing out her cigarette then taking another from the silver case before offering it again to Albert. This time he shook his head.
‘Turns out I’m quite good with flowers. I enjoy it.’
‘Was this before or after the body was found in the cave?’
‘Before.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was a big man. Full beard. Army greatcoat. I thought he was a tramp. And he was behaving like he was up to something. Furtive, that’s the word.’
From the description she’d given there was no way that the stranger she saw could have been the mystery man at the Devil’s Dancers, but Albert pressed her for more details.
‘It was getting dark so I hurried past as quickly as I could, but I could feel him watching me from the trees.’ She shuddered. ‘There was something … desperate about him. To tell you the truth, he scared the life out of me.’
Chapter 42
Rose
I know Sergeant Teague’s highly thought of in the village but I don’t like him. He spoke to me very roughly, almost as roughly as Bert used to. He said he’d read my letters and he kept asking me the name of my fancy man. I didn’t tell him anything, but I know he’ll be back later.
I hate this cell. It smells foul and the blanket they’ve given me is filthy and damp, but I mustn’t cry. I mustn’t let them get the better of me. Sergeant Teague says I’m a loose woman but that’s not what they call the women in my books who escape from their evil captors. They call them heroines. I wish I could have some books to read. I asked that nice young Constable Smith, but he said I wasn’t allowed. If this was a book, a lovely man would come and rescue me. I don’t like real life. Nothing’s ever fair in real life.
The door’s opening and Sergeant Teague’s looming in the doorway like an ogre in a fairy tale. He used to smile and touch his helmet when I met him in the street but now he’s looking at me as though I’m a piece of dirt he’s stepped in; something that’s just ruined his shiny big boots.
‘Are you ready to tell the truth yet?’
He stands over me so I have to look up at him. I want to hit out at him with my fists, but I know it would only make things worse. He grabs me by the elbow and hauls me to my feet.
‘You’re coming with me. Either you killed him yourself or someone did it for you. Nobody here likes murdering little sluts who go with other men behind their husbands’ backs.’
I can’t hold back the tears any more. They’ve been burning my eyes as I try to keep them in but now they tumble out and stream down my cheeks. And I’m ashamed of myself for giving in.
Chapter 43
Albert could hear sobbing; the forlorn sound of despair and lost hope.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Constable Smith, who was standing behind the station’s front desk making a great show of studying the register open in front of him.
‘The sergeant’s interviewing a suspect, sir. Mrs Pretting. Her that did in her old man.’ He looked sheepish, as though he was dismayed by the noises coming from the room behind him but was determined not to show it.
Albert removed his hat. ‘You know that for a fact, do you, Constable?’
‘Her fancy man wrote her those letters. They plotted to do away with her husband, then he was found dead. Stands to reason either he did it or she did, but she won’t say who he is.’
‘This isn’t London, Constable. It’s a village in Derbyshire. You’re not telling me there’s nobody around who hasn’t seen her with this so-called fancy man of hers.’
As he waited for Smith’s reply, it struck him that he himself had carried on an illicit relationship in that very village two years earlier without anybody being aware of what was going on. But he was a policeman, long skilled in the art of subterfuge. Rose Pretting, if his judgement was correct, was a naive woman to whom stories of adventure and romance had become more real than her daily existence.
It was possible, of course, that Rose’s lover, whoever he was, might prove more worldly and cunning. If Albert could discover his identity they might get at the truth. Even so, he suspected that Teague’s bullying wasn’t the best way to produce results.
He could hear Teague’s voice raised in anger as the woman’s sobs grew louder and more uncontrolled. He signalled to Smith to lift the counter flap to let him through to the back and marched towards the room where the interrogation was taking place. Without knocking, he burst in and saw Teague towering over the seated suspect, whose face was blotchy and soaked with tears.
‘I’ll take over now, Sergeant, thank you.’ The words were barked as an order and Albert saw a brief flash of defiance in Teague’s small brown eyes before the man straightened up and sloped from the room. If he’d been a dog he would have given a parting growl.
Albert took his place opposite Rose at the table as her shoulders heaved with sobs of despair. He handed her a handkerchief and gave her an encouraging smile as she wiped her eyes, giving a final shuddering sob.
‘The sergeant was wrong to speak to you like that,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve just lost your husband.’
She nodded vigorously, glad of a sympathetic ear at last.
‘I expect you want to get home.’
Another nod.
‘Is there anything you’d like? Books, perhaps? I know you’re a regular at the library.’
‘Thank you. I’d like some books. There are some in the house. I only took them out yesterday.’
‘I’ll get someone to bring them over for you,’ he said, remembering he still had Rose’s key in his pocket. ‘There’s one I believe you’ve borrowed several times. The Garden of Secrets.’
She blushed. ‘So?’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘I like it, that’s all.’
‘Sergeant Teague thinks you’re guilty. He wants to know the name of your lover.’
She raised her chin, suddenly defiant, but said nothing.
‘Those letters we found – I expect the man who wrote them is everything Bert wasn’t. Kind. Clever. Gentle. Someone everyone respects.’
She gave a secretive smile as though she was reliving happy private memories.
Albert quickly ran through some of the likely candidates in his head. The factory manager and Sir William seemed too mature for the role. The schoolmaster too, he recalled, had been too old to fight in the war. That left a number of possibilities, including one that he was reluctant to consider because he’d met young George Yelland from the mill and taken a liking to him.
‘Thank you, Mrs Pretting. I’ll ask someone to bring your books over.’
Albert rose to his feet. He had other things to attend to; promises to keep. There was a visit he needed to make. It would be an awkward encounter but, because of what he already knew, he was certain he’d get the truth out of the Reverend Fellowes this time.
He instructed Constable Smith to return Mrs Pretting to her cell and told him to go over to her house to fetch her books without letting Teague know what he was doing. As he handed over the key to Rose Pretting’s house, the constable looked uncertain but he didn’t argue.
A fine veil of drizzle was starting to fall as Albert left the station and hurried down the cobbled street towards the vicarage, hoping he’d find the vicar at home.
He walked in the direction of the tall church tower; God’s acre where the dead of the village were l
aid to rest after their earthly toil in the mill or the farms round about. Sir William’s late relatives lay inside the church; a social divide in death as in life.
When he reached the path that led to the vicarage door all he could hear was the wind stirring the fresh green tree branches nearby. He looked around and caught sight of a figure standing some distance away beneath a tall yew in the churchyard that stood beside the low drystone wall separating the vicarage garden from the land of the dead. The man was too far away to see clearly but he could tell he was large and bearded, and he wondered if it was the same man who’d frightened Mrs Jones. There was something familiar about him, although Albert couldn’t think what it was, and when the figure hurried away in the direction of Pooley Wood he told himself it was probably someone visiting the churchyard to pay their respects to a dead relative. Perhaps his past experiences in that village were making him see villainy around every corner.
When he knocked on the vicarage door it was answered by Grace, who greeted him with a smile.
‘Is the reverend at home?’ he asked as he took off his hat.
‘He’s in the study. Said he found the key in the vestry, but he still says there’s no need for me to clean in there. Says he doesn’t want his things disturbed,’ she added with a knowing wink.
‘Does he suspect we were in there?’
‘He’s mentioned nothing to me, sir.’
‘Looks as though we’ve got away with it, then.’ Their eyes met and she gave him a conspiratorial grin. Grace had clearly relished the excitement of her first venture into breaking and entering.
Before he could say anything else, the Reverend Fellowes appeared in the hallway. He was a tall, stooped man in his thirties with a thin, anxious face, fine fair hair and a habit of fidgeting with the lapels of his jacket. Albert introduced himself and shook hands.
‘I heard about that poor man at the Devil’s Dancers. If his family can’t be found, I’m happy to allow him to be buried in the churchyard here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s my Christian duty,’ said Fellowes piously. ‘I’m not sure when the police will allow the burial but … Perhaps you would be good enough to find out for me.’
‘Of course.’ Albert decided to come straight to the point. ‘Are you aware that Mrs Bell thinks her husband’s death might not have been natural?’
‘She has mentioned it to me, yes. But I served under the Reverend Bell as curate for a short time before his death and I can assure you he was well loved. He had no enemies who might wish him harm, Inspector.’
Albert considered his next move. If possible, he wanted to keep Grace and Mrs Bell well away from any suspicion of snooping.
‘I’m told Mr Bell received a letter on the day he died – possibly a letter with a photograph enclosed. Mrs Bell hadn’t the heart to look for it just after his death and by the time she returned to Wenfield you’d moved into the vicarage. Have you come across any such letter and photograph?’
‘No.’
‘Would you mind if I looked for myself?’
‘I thought you were in Wenfield to find Mr Billinge.’
‘The two things might be connected.’
Albert saw panic in Fellowes’ eyes.
‘I promise you I’m only interested in one particular letter. Nothing else.’ He looked straight into the vicar’s eyes. ‘Most of us have things we’d rather others didn’t know about and in my job I’ve learned to be discreet.’
Fellowes swallowed hard and Albert saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He was a cornered man. Albert knew the signs.
‘If you must.’ He nodded towards the study door.
Albert made a show of searching through the files of correspondence in the hope there would be something he’d missed last time he was there. But again he found nothing. He ignored the desk, making the excuse that he was sure, if there’d been anything of interest there, the Reverend Fellowes would have found it and reported it. The vicar couldn’t conceal his relief.
‘You must have known the Reverend Bell well,’ he said, looking Fellowes in the eye.
The vicar nodded warily. ‘I suppose …’
‘I wonder whether he discovered things about you – things you’d rather keep private.’
The vicar’s face reddened. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘We all have our little secrets, Reverend,’ Albert said with a smile. ‘Even a Scotland Yard detective has things he’d rather keep to himself. What is it you have to hide, Mr Fellowes? A weakness for drink? A love of gambling? A liking for the ladies – real or imagined?’
A look of sheer horror passed across the vicar’s face, as though Albert had seen into his very soul and found it stained and filthy. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said weakly.
‘I’m just thinking that if Mr Bell found out about your … weakness, you might consider it best if he wasn’t around to betray your secrets.’
‘That’s absolute nonsense, Inspector. Even if Horace Bell had known things about me, he was a kind and discreet man. I would have trusted him with my life.’
The words were said with honesty and somehow Albert believed them. But he had to be sure. ‘Where were you on the night Mr Bell died?’
‘At home – the curate occupies a small house at the other side of the churchyard. Currently empty, awaiting its new incumbent. I was working on my sermon and reading that night. I saw and heard nothing.’
‘You didn’t go out at all?’
‘No.’ Fellowes was a hopeless liar.
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded, avoiding Albert’s gaze.
Albert decided on a change of subject. ‘I believe you attended a dinner at Tarnhey Court while Mr Billinge was staying there?’
‘There were a number of people there.’
‘The great and the good of Wenfield.’
‘If you want to put it that way. Mr and Mrs Jones were present, as were Dr Kelly, Mrs Bell and Mr and Mrs Ogden. And a lady novelist who’s recently moved to the area.’
‘What happened that evening?’
‘Nothing happened. It was a dinner, that’s all. And before you ask, Mr Billinge gave no indication that he was planning to disappear or that he’d arranged to meet anybody. Although I admit he did seem rather distracted.’
‘You spoke to him during the evening?’
‘We began to discuss the spiritual state of the nation since the war, but I don’t think the subject appealed to him overmuch. He spent more time talking with Mrs Ogden. A charming woman.’
‘I haven’t met the Ogdens yet. What can you tell me about them?’
‘They live about a mile outside the village. They seem to be a very nice couple, although they’re not regulars in my congregation.’
Albert suspected that Mrs Odgen was favoured with the MP’s attention because the alternative was being interrogated by the earnest Reverend Fellowes about spiritual matters. ‘If Mr Billinge spent some time talking with Mrs Ogden, I’d like to speak to her.’ Albert took out his pocket watch and checked the time. ‘By the way, do you know a lady called Charlotte Day? She’s Lady Cartwright’s niece?’
The vicar didn’t answer but Albert saw the colour drain from his cheeks. The name Charlotte Day meant something to him. And the memories the name brought back probably weren’t pleasant.
Chapter 44
It was three o’clock and Rose Pretting was still weighing heavily on Albert’s mind. Since their earlier meeting he’d been picturing what would happen to her. She would inevitably face a trial – a diminutive figure standing in the dock with the full force of the law ranged against her; men in dusty black peering at her like predatory beasts. Then, if she was found guilty, she would be incarcerated in a prison cell before facing the ultimate penalty. He pictured her being led into the execution chamber, the rough hood thrust over her head and the noose placed around her slender neck while the chaplain intoned his prayers. He felt her terror as she waited for the last drop. He’d love
d a woman who’d met the same fate and the memory made him shudder.
As he walked towards Wenfield’s main street he wondered whether Constable Smith had fetched Rose’s library books as he’d asked. He wasn’t far from her house, so on impulse he decided to check. As a police officer it wasn’t his place to provide comfort to a woman accused of conspiring to commit a brutal murder but his past experiences in that very village had softened his heart. Although he wondered if what he planned to do was an act of simple kindness – or a sign of weakness.
As soon as he reached Rose’s front door he realised that Smith was still in possession of the key so he was relieved to find the maid, Betty, at home. She opened the door and greeted him with a broad smile. She looked happy, almost triumphant.
‘Has the constable been to pick up Mrs Pretting’s books?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t know what she needs books for. She’s for the hangman.’
‘You think she killed Mr Pretting?’
Suddenly Betty didn’t look so sure of herself. ‘She couldn’t stand him. You could tell.’
‘That doesn’t mean she killed him.’
She folded her arms, ready for gossip. ‘She had a fancy man, so I reckon they did it together. Stands to reason, doesn’t it.’ She looked round as though she feared she’d be overheard. ‘I think they met at that library. Always there, she was. Dolled up to the nines.’ She spoke of the library as though it was a house of ill repute.
Albert decided on flattery. In his experience, it normally worked a treat. ‘A bright girl like you must know what goes on in this village.’
She blushed. ‘I suppose … I grew up in Disley and I only started working here a year ago, so I missed all the excitement with those terrible dove murders.’
Albert had been doing his best to concentrate on the present, but Betty’s words plunged him back into that terrible time; a time of secrets, betrayal and pain. He took a deep breath.
‘Did you ever see Mrs Pretting with a man other than her husband?’