by Ellis, Kate
A look of disappointment passed across Betty’s face. ‘Can’t say I did. She must have been careful. But everyone in the village talked about how she always dressed in the latest fashions. She couldn’t be bothered mending her husband’s shirts or darning his socks – she left all that to me – but when she wasn’t reading those books of hers she’d be working away on that sewing machine, making clothes for herself. She got the patterns from Manchester; I know that for a fact.’ She sniffed. ‘Village shop wasn’t good enough for her. Always giving herself airs and graces, she was. Reckoned she was better than everyone else.’
‘I believe the letters you found were well hidden. How did you know they were there?’
‘She left the bedroom door open once and, as I was passing, I saw her putting the plank back in the bottom of her wardrobe. She had no idea I was watching her,’ she added with a smug smile.
‘You read the letters before you told the police about them?’
‘Might have done.’
‘So you could have told someone about them and maybe saved Mr Pretting’s life.’
‘I didn’t know she’d actually do it. I thought it was a joke.’
He was running out of patience with Betty. Her spite towards her mistress was plain to see and he wondered why she’d kept silent about the letters. She could have made no end of trouble for Rose if she’d chosen to tell Bert Pretting about them. Unless she was well aware of Pretting’s violent nature and drew the line at condemning Rose to a beating at best – or death at worst. Or perhaps she had her own reasons for keeping Rose’s secret – those letters would have given her a perfect opportunity for blackmail.
‘Where are Mrs Pretting’s library books?’
When Betty showed him into the parlour he saw a pile of books on the sideboard. All novels. Mostly romances, along with a few detective stories. Albert picked them up one by one and studied the titles. ‘I’ll take them,’ he said.
Betty stared at the titles and pointed to one at the top of the pile. ‘That one – The Garden of Secrets – I reckon that’s her favourite. She’s read that a few times that I know of. Keeps renewing it from that library.’
‘It must be good,’ said Albert casually, curious to know what was so special about that particular book.
Without being asked, Betty hurried off to fetch a length of string to keep the books together and then tied them with practised efficiency.
When he returned to the police station he gave Constable Smith the pile of books to take to the prisoner. However, he kept one back. The Garden of Secrets by Cecilia Yarmouth.
He flicked through the pages and found it was a romance with a smattering of crime thrown in. A young woman, sold into a loveless marriage to an older man by her heartless parents, falls in love with the young doctor who’s treating her husband for a riding injury and they plot together to kill him, first by putting glass in his food then later with poison. They exchange letters and as Albert scanned the page he was struck by the similarity to the letters hidden in Rose Pretting’s wardrobe.
It was as though Rose had used The Garden of Secrets as a template. A guide to murder.
Chapter 45
Albert wanted to see Rose’s reaction when he produced The Garden of Secrets and placed it on the table in front of her. But that would have to wait. First he wanted to head back to the Black Horse to find out whether there had been another letter from Vera; a fresh bulletin on Mary’s condition.
As he walked into the hotel he half expected Mrs Jackson to hurry up to him with an envelope in her outstretched hand but, as it turned out, nothing had arrived for him in the later post. Albert felt relieved. If Vera hadn’t put pen to paper, perhaps the situation wasn’t as grim as she’d made out. He had the train times and he intended to travel down the following evening. Unless he could find Henry Billinge in the meantime, his visit might have to be a short one, but he was determined to see Mary.
He hated eating alone. Anne Billinge’s company had provided a much appreciated respite, but that evening he sat at his solitary table as usual, eating his braised liver and mashed potato, casting envious glances at the two businessmen seated at the next table, deep in conversation. He heard them discussing the price of cloth and raw materials and caught the name Jones a couple of times. He wondered if they’d ever encountered Mr Jones’s senior clerk Bert Pretting on their previous visits – and whether they were aware of the nature of his death. He supposed it wasn’t something Jones would want to become common knowledge among his customers and suppliers.
He retired to his room early, there being little else for a lone stranger to do in Wenfield. And as he lay beneath Mrs Jackson’s heavy blankets, longing for sleep, the cases kept running through his mind. Albert was starting to wonder whether the popular theory that Billinge had met with an accident in the treacherous countryside round about would turn out to be right after all.
Hopefully Dr Kelly would soon be able to confirm whether the naked man in the cave had been poisoned, but he still needed to establish why someone had gone to such lengths to conceal the dead man’s identity. Albert’s instincts told him that the unidentified corpse was somehow linked to Billinge’s disappearance, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of any possible connection between the two.
The death of the Reverend Bell also nagged away at him, especially as he felt duty-bound to provide Mrs Bell with a definitive answer. Until Dr Kelly received the results from the samples he’d taken, there was no evidence to support Mrs Bell’s belief that foul play was involved. He hoped that it would turn out to be a case of a grieving widow, unable to accept that God had claimed her beloved husband before ‘his time’. Because, if it was murder, he was at a loss as to what the motive might be. Even if the late reverend had been aware of Simon Fellowes’ sexual peccadilloes, Albert thought it unlikely the curate would have killed him over some risqué photographs. The only other avenue of investigation was the visit the vicar made on the night of his death; but had he called on Sir William Cartwright or someone else entirely?
His fourth problem was the murder of Bert Pretting, which seemed on the face of it to be the most straightforward of the lot. The stabbing of a man whose wife had plotted with her lover to kill him should be a simple matter to clear up. But Albert wasn’t satisfied with the obvious solution. Or perhaps he just had a weakness for a pretty face. It was a weakness that had led him into trouble before. When he closed his eyes he saw Flora’s face and he tried his best to put her out of his mind by thinking of Mary. But as soon as he’d replaced Flora’s face with his wife’s, he felt a wave of misery so strong that, combined with a throbbing pain in his injured leg, it robbed him of sleep until the early hours.
Eventually he drifted into a fitful slumber and when he awoke the next morning his head was pounding and his leg ached but he forced himself to go down for breakfast.
The two visitors to the mill he’d seen the previous night were leaving as he walked in, which meant he ate his breakfast alone that morning. Mrs Jackson bustled in and out with his food, chatting cheerfully while he made polite replies, his mind on the day ahead.
He hadn’t yet spoken to the Ogdens about Henry Billinge’s disappearance, so that would be his first port of call after he’d dropped by the police station to see whether anything had come in overnight. As far as he knew, the couple had met the MP for the first and only time at Sir William’s dinner party, but there was always a chance that Billinge mentioned something to them that evening; a throwaway comment perhaps that might provide some clue to his intentions.
As soon as he reached the station he asked Constable Smith for directions to the Ogdens’ residence. The young man was eager to help. ‘Turn right out of the station, walk past the mill towards the road to New Mills, then turn right. The Ogdens live in a big house at the end of a long drive, but you can see it from the main road. Do you want someone to go with you?’ he added hopefully.
Albert declined the offer. He fancied walking there alone, without
the need to make small talk. Though it wasn’t far, his injured leg hurt more with each step; he carried on, trying to ignore the throbbing pain, telling himself that many had things worse than he did. In London he saw them every day.
Smith had been right about the Ogdens’ long driveway. When Albert reached the fine stone gateposts the house seemed some distance away. He stopped to gather his thoughts and get his breath back after the walk. The wrought-iron gates were firmly shut and when Albert pushed them they swung open silently. The drive was straight and if the occupants of the house were to look out of the front windows, they’d be able to watch their visitor’s approach. The thought of being observed made Albert feel vulnerable. He preferred the element of surprise.
The house itself was built of local stone; a handsome gentleman’s residence with freshly painted sash windows and a glossy black front door, sheltered beneath a stone portico supported by two grand columns. He knocked and the door was opened by a maid in a clean, starched apron.
‘I’ll tell them you’re here, sir,’ she said flatly before hurrying off, leaving him in the spacious hallway. There were portraits on the wall – Georgian military officers; regency beauties; haughty Victorian gentlemen and their richly dressed wives. Albert wondered whether they’d been purchased to give visitors the impression that this was the home of a family with a long and distinguished lineage. Art to impress and maybe to intimidate. Or maybe they’d come with the house.
It seemed an age before the maid appeared again, adjusting her linen cap. ‘If you’d like to come this way, sir.’
Albert followed her into a generously proportioned drawing room which made Sir William’s accommodation seem shabby in comparison. The furniture looked new, as did the carpet, and Mrs Ogden sat on a blue brocade sofa while her husband occupied a chintz armchair next to the marble fireplace. Ogden rose to greet him. He was a tall man in his forties, straight-backed with an athletic figure and dark hair peppered with grey.
‘Alastair Ogden,’ he said, shaking his hand. ‘And this is my wife, Margaret. I presume this is about Henry Billinge.’ He formed his features into a puzzled frown. ‘We’ve already told the constable everything we know, so I don’t see how I can help you any further.’
Albert smiled. He could see Mrs Ogden watching him. She was a handsome woman, slightly younger than her husband, with flawless skin and fair hair swept back into a neat bun. Her gaze was focused on the red shiny scars that had marred Albert’s face ever since the shell had exploded in his trench. He’d noticed how people’s eyes were drawn to his acquired imperfections, a subconscious reaction. He saw her look away.
‘I appreciate that, Mr Ogden, but I was hoping one of you might have remembered something more about that night. Something Mr Billinge said, perhaps. What about you, Mrs Ogden?’
‘It was a pleasant evening, Inspector,’ she said. ‘If there was any bad feeling it certainly wasn’t obvious.’
‘But might there have been an undercurrent, a tension in the air, something that came to a head after you’d left?’ Albert tilted his head to one side and awaited her reply.
She glanced at her husband. ‘I did sense a coolness between Sir William and Mr Billinge. It’s possible they’d disagreed about something.’
‘Mr Ogden, was anything said after the ladies retired to the drawing room?’
‘Not really,’ said Ogden. ‘If there was an argument brewing between Billinge and Sir William I’d guess it would have been about lowering the voting age for women.’ Ogden sounded bored, as though he was longing for the interview to be over. ‘That seemed the only bone of contention between them. There were one or two pointed remarks about Sir William’s outdated attitude to the fair sex, and I overheard Billinge telling Sir William he was a fool where women were concerned. It was said lightly but, with hindsight, there could have been some animosity there, I suppose.’
‘You didn’t mention this to the officer who spoke to you.’
‘I didn’t think it was important. People tend to have different opinions about these things.’
‘Was that the first time you’d met Mr Billinge?’
‘That’s right. Our paths never crossed before Sir William invited myself and Mrs Ogden to dinner.’
‘You know Sir William well?’
‘Not well. But there are few people of substance in Wenfield.’
‘And you seek out each other’s society. I understand. You have a profession, Mr Ogden?’
‘I was in the import–export trade, but now I’ve passed on my business concerns to others.’
‘A well-deserved retirement, I’m sure,’ Albert said, watching the man’s face as he nodded, his expression impossible to read.
‘Indeed.’
‘You must have had a lot to talk to Mr Jones about.’
‘Not really. I decided to sell up my business interests after the war.’
‘Mr Billinge’s constituency is in Liverpool. Have you ever been there?’
‘I’ve been there on business numerous times. But, as I told you, I never encountered Mr Billinge.’
In the awkward silence that followed, Albert’s mind started to stray. The mention of Liverpool reminded him of Gwen Davies, who had given him her parents’ address the previous September, saying she intended to leave Mabley Ridge and move back to her native city to seek employment. He saw the Ogdens watching him, bracing themselves for further questioning. But he couldn’t think of anything else to ask so he thanked them and took his leave.
Albert walked back to Wenfield in a trance. He felt as though the cares of the world were weighing him down, pressing on his heart with no hope of relief. He knew his duty was to Mary, but whenever he thought about her, he experienced an overwhelming feeling of guilt and regret.
He walked on, barely aware of the hilly landscape around him or the stares he received once he reached the village. People knew who he was; in such a small community the man from Scotland Yard was easily recognisable. But nobody greeted him as they passed.
He had one more visit to make, the only person at Sir William’s dinner he hadn’t yet spoken to. The house that had once belonged to David Eames and his sister, Helen, held a lot of memories but it was now the home of Peggy Derwent, the novelist. Albert wondered fleetingly whether she was one of Rose Pretting’s favoured authors. Miss Derwent wrote detective novels, but did this mean she knew more about murder than the average person? He wouldn’t find out unless he spoke to her.
Chapter 46
Albert knew the way to Peggy Derwent’s house. He had been there with Flora.
The place looked different now. The outbuilding that had once been David Eames’s studio looked empty and abandoned. Last time Albert had seen it, it had been filled with paintings, both finished and works in progress. David had been injured in the war but he’d continued to serve in his own way by using his skills to create portrait masks to conceal the hideous facial injuries suffered by some of the men being treated at Tarnhey Court when it was a military hospital.
There was no sign of life when Albert knocked on the front door. He and Flora had come to this house in David’s absence. They’d met in secret and they’d made love in one of the upstairs rooms. The memory bubbled to the surface of Albert’s mind but he suppressed it when the door was opened by a thin, nervous-looking woman with unfashionably curly hair and large green eyes. She was in her thirties, or possibly her early forties. Albert wasn’t sure why he’d been expecting someone older.
Once he’d introduced himself he was invited into a living room that had changed a great deal since his last visit. David Eames’s bright pictures had gone from the walls and the furniture was sparse and the rug threadbare. The desk in the window bore evidence of Miss Derwent’s profession. A typewriter and a stack of paper as well as a glass which Albert suspected contained something alcoholic.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Derwent, but I need to ask you some questions. You met Henry Billinge at a dinner given by Sir William Cartwright at Tarnhey Cou
rt.’
‘Yes. What about it?’ Her hands were shaking as she lit a cigarette, neglecting to offer one to her visitor.
‘You’re aware he’s disappeared?’
‘I don’t know what that has to do with me.’ Her words sounded defensive.
‘You’re a writer.’
‘There’s no law against that, is there?’ she said, avoiding his gaze.
‘No, there isn’t, I’m glad to say. What kind of books do you write?’
‘Detective stories,’ she said with a sigh, as though she’d been asked the same question countless times before. ‘And romantic mysteries.’
‘Your books are in the library here?’
‘I presume so.’
‘Did you speak to Mr Billinge at Sir William’s dinner?’
‘We exchanged pleasantries, but the dinner wasn’t really my thing, though the food wasn’t bad. I left as soon as I could. I was surprised to be invited, to be honest.’
‘Why did you move to Wenfield?’ He asked the question out of curiosity.
‘I lived in a big city. I needed to escape to somewhere quieter.’
‘Escape from what?’
There was an awkward silence. ‘The past,’ she said eventually.
‘You lost someone in the war?’
She looked away. ‘You’re not a detective for nothing.’ She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
His eyes were drawn to the books on the shelves. To one book in particular.
‘You have a book by Cecilia Yarmouth, I see.’
A secretive smile appeared on her lips.
‘Do you know her?’
‘Oh yes, I know her well. Intimately, you could say.’
‘What’s she like?’ He couldn’t resist asking.
She took a long drag on her cigarette, looking as though she was enjoying a private joke. ‘Bitter. Lonely. Scared people will find out things about her she’d rather they didn’t know.’
‘Are her books any good?’