The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  ‘I bloody hope so. I wrote them.’ She smiled at the look of surprise on Albert’s face. ‘It’s one of the noms de plume I use. Different names for different kinds of book. Cecilia Yarmouth tends towards the Gothic romance, whereas Peggy Derwent sticks to detective stories – although I don’t suppose you’d consider them very realistic.’

  Albert looked her in the eye. ‘Do you know a woman called Rose Pretting?’

  She shook her head. ‘Never heard of her. Who is she?’

  ‘They’re saying she murdered her husband and I think she took one of your books as her inspiration.’

  ‘Every author’s nightmare. I don’t know the woman, so you can’t possibly blame me.’

  ‘I’m not blaming anyone.’ He paused. ‘You said you had secrets. What secrets are you keeping, Miss Derwent?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘As long as you haven’t done anything illegal, I can promise that anything you tell me won’t go further than these four walls.’

  She hesitated as though she was tempted to confide in him. Then the moment passed and she stubbed her cigarette out with a violence that surprised him.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry but I can’t help you. I don’t know where Mr Billinge is. Why should I?’

  The conversation was over. As he made his way out, Albert had an uneasy feeling about the woman – but then again, it might just have been the memories conjured by the house.

  Chapter 47

  Rose

  They’re keeping me in this cell which is more a cage than a room. It has a barred window so high up that I can’t see anything apart from the sky. I watch the grey clouds moving. The weather is as miserable as I am.

  If it weren’t for that nice inspector from London I wouldn’t even have my books. I’m making them last, eking out every precious page because I don’t know if I’ll be allowed any more. But I need my books. I need something to take my mind off what’s happening. I wish they’d let me have The Garden of Secrets which is my favourite. It tells my story like no other book I’ve ever read. It is almost as though Cecilia Yarmouth, the author, knows the ordeal I’ve been through. Although if the police get to read it they might guess the truth. Maybe it’s for the best that the inspector didn’t bring it here.

  Why won’t they believe that I didn’t kill Bert? I told them I’d thought about it but I said dreaming isn’t the same as doing it. The police say I should name my accomplice and they won’t believe me when I tell them I haven’t got an accomplice. Perhaps I should make up a name. Someone from one of my books.

  If they want me to betray my Darling Man, they’re going to be disappointed. I’ll never give him away. Never.

  I’ve had no word from him and I cannot send a message to him in my current situation. I wonder whether he’s heard of my troubles. If anybody can rescue me, ride to my aid like a perfect knight, it will be my Darling Man.

  The cell door opens with a loud clatter and I know it’s Sergeant Teague again. I know he’s not going to give up bullying me until I confess, but I’ve got to be like one of the women in my books. Determined. Defiant. I’ll tell them nothing. I must keep faith with my Darling Man.

  Chapter 48

  Albert returned to the police station to find Constable Smith standing proudly behind the front desk. As soon as he spotted Albert, he reached beneath the counter and took out an envelope which he waved in the newcomer’s direction.

  ‘Telegram for you, sir. Marked urgent. It was delivered to the Black Horse and Mrs Jackson brought it over. Thought you should see it right away.’

  Albert took the telegram, hardly daring to look at the thing, fearing it would contain bad news.

  ‘Anything come in while I’ve been out?’ he said, trying his best to sound casual.

  ‘A report of a missing bicycle. I said I’d make sure someone went up there to see what was going on.’

  Albert gave the young man a weak smile. ‘I’m sure I can leave that in your capable hands.’ There was nothing wrong with a bit of encouragement every now and then.

  Smith was hovering, eager to discover what the telegram contained. But Albert hurried into his office and tore the envelope open. As he expected, the message was from Vera and his hands were shaking as he read.

  ‘Come home now,’ was all it said. But the meaning was clear. Mary had been right. She was near death and he needed to be with her.

  He told Smith to let Sergeant Teague know that he was returning to London. He was sure they could manage without him for a few days. Then he called Sam Poltimore to tell him he was returning to London for a while. Sam said he’d be working late so he might be there if he called in at the office. Albert didn’t mention Mary – or that he might not be in a position to make it to Scotland Yard that evening.

  He was about to leave the station to pick up some things from the Black Horse for the journey south when he heard raised voices. One of them was Teague’s, the other a woman’s, and they were coming from the small room used to interview suspects. As soon as he recognised the voice of Rose Pretting, and registered how distressed she sounded, he made for the room and threw open the door.

  Teague was towering over the woman, who had shrunk back into her seat, sobbing. Her face was wet with tears and there was a shiny trail of mucus between her nose and her lips. Even though she was obviously distraught, Teague wasn’t letting up. He was banging his fist on the table and shouting.

  ‘That’s enough, Sergeant!’ Albert barked the words.

  Teague backed off, like a dog who had been prevented from savaging a rabbit. He trailed out of the room after Albert, his resentment palpable.

  ‘I was about to get the truth out of the murdering bitch,’ Teague hissed once the door was closed.

  ‘She’s clearly distressed.’

  ‘So she should be.’

  Albert checked his pocket watch. His train departed in an hour. ‘We’ll discuss this when I get back from London. In the meantime, go easy on her. She’ll be far more likely to talk if you don’t frighten her out of her wits.’ He looked Teague in the eye. ‘Is that understood, Sergeant?’

  Teague grunted and Albert feared his words hadn’t got through. But he had no time to reiterate his instructions. He’d made a written list of lines of enquiry to be followed up and he handed it to Teague, adding that he would be back in a couple of days. He tried to make the words sound like a warning.

  Two hours later he was on the London train, staring out of the window and thinking about Rose Pretting. The case against her seemed straightforward, and yet Albert had his doubts. Rose lived in a fantasy world, seeing herself as a romantic heroine. It seemed strange that the author of the book that inspired her murderous plot had turned up to live in the same village. But coincidences happen, and he couldn’t think of any link between the two women.

  His mind turned to the search for Henry Billinge. There was still no sign of him, alive or dead, even though men had been out combing the surrounding countryside. Neither had they managed to discover anything about the elusive Clara. The police in Liverpool had promised to keep an eye on Billinge’s flat, just in case he returned to his constituency, and Scotland Yard were checking regularly on his London pied-à-terre, but his whereabouts remained a mystery.

  As for the problem of the man found in the cave near the Devil’s Dancers, the investigation was no further forward. Albert told himself that as soon as he returned to Wenfield he’d concentrate on giving the victim back his identity and bringing whoever ended his life to justice. But he feared it would not be easy.

  When he arrived in London he left the train at Euston and caught the tram and a bus home to Bermondsey. It was dusk by the time he turned the corner onto his street. It had been a long journey and he felt exhausted as he dragged his aching body towards home, dreading what he would find in the house that had once been his refuge from the world. He wasn’t aware of the man following him, keeping to the shadows, darting into the shelter of the alleyways they passed.

&nb
sp; It wasn’t until he was fifty yards from his address that he felt a blow to his back that sent him flying forward. He landed on his knees and the pain shot through his body, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  Helpless, he floundered on the pavement, his tired brain trying to work out what was going on. When he twisted his head to look up he saw a dark shadow looming over him, outlined against the moonlit clouds that scurried across the sky. It was a man but he couldn’t see the face and for a second both of them froze as though time itself had been suspended.

  Then the blow came. A fist in his face. Once. Twice. Followed by a rough shout: ‘Eh. What you doing?’ Then his attacker was gone in an instant, vanished into a nearby alleyway. But not before he’d bent to whisper in Albert’s ear.

  ‘That’s just for starters. You’re a dead man.’

  Chapter 49

  Albert thanked his rescuer, a builder who’d been on his way to the pub when he’d seen Albert being attacked and had been brave enough to intervene. However, the man had no idea where the attacker had fled to and he’d been unable to provide a description.

  ‘After your wallet most likely, mate,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Lot of it about these days.’

  Albert didn’t feel inclined to contradict his good Samaritan, but he suspected robbery hadn’t been his assailant’s motive. As he watched the man walk off, he looked around in case his attacker was still lurking in the shadows. But there were more people around now so he began to limp home, every muscle aching while his grazed hands smarted as though they’d been stung by a thousand wasps. He was in no state to comfort a dying wife. He was in need of comfort himself.

  He tried to place his assailant’s voice, certain that he’d heard it before. That’s just for starters. You’re a dead man. The man hadn’t sounded local but his accent had been difficult to place. Had someone tailed him from Wenfield? More than once he’d had a feeling that he was being followed while he was up there. However, he thought it far more likely that it was someone he’d arrested in London – a villain with a grudge. It was an occupational hazard.

  When he reached his front door he saw a light on in the front parlour – a gaslight. Mary had never wanted electricity, even though he’d offered to have it installed; she’d been afraid it would crawl out of the wall sockets during the night and kill her. He took out his key and put it in the lock, hesitating for a moment before pushing the door open.

  The heavy silence in the house was broken from time to time by a hushed male voice, muttering what sounded like a prayer. The door to the front parlour was shut. It was a room kept for best so whoever was in there was a visitor – and Albert was sure he knew who that visitor would be.

  When he opened the door the scene that greeted him reminded him of a painting – The Deathbed, or Her Last Words. The tableau looked as though it had been carefully posed. Mary was lying on the shabby chaise longue she’d inherited from an old aunt and Vera was kneeling beside her, clasping her hand in her own. At the end of the couch stood the Reverend Thomas Gillit, a prayer book in his hands and his eyes raised to heaven. The founder of the League of Departed Spirits was looking every inch the clergyman Albert knew he wasn’t.

  As soon as he entered the room, Vera and Gillit turned to look at him. Mary, on the other hand, lay perfectly still, her face ash pale and her eyes closed; a picture of peace.

  Vera rose to her feet painfully, clinging to the edge of the chaise longue for support. ‘You’re too bloody late. She passed over to the other side half an hour ago.’

  Her words hit Albert like a physical blow, more devastating than anything his attacker had meted out. He knew he hadn’t been the best of husbands. He had abandoned Mary in her grief for their son and had fallen in love with another woman – a transgression that had ended in disaster. His failings weighed heavily on him and he stood gaping at his wife’s dead body, trying to find the words that wouldn’t come. As Vera glared at him like an avenging angel he experienced an overwhelming feeling of shame. He’d betrayed her daughter. What she didn’t know was that he’d already been punished for his wrong-doing with the loss of Flora and the son she’d borne him. That was a secret he’d never shared with anybody but Sam Poltimore.

  An unctuous voice broke the silence. ‘I’ve already spoken to dear Mary on the other side. She’s very happy and she’s playing with little Frederick. He was so pleased to see his mother again. Overjoyed.’

  Albert turned to face the man and saw a smug smile on his lips.

  ‘I think your work here is done, Mr Gillit.’ He couldn’t bring himself to address the man as ‘Reverend’. ‘You can go now.’

  But Vera had other ideas. ‘No, Reverend. You must stay. There’s the funeral to arrange and—’

  ‘Of course, dear lady. Whatever you wish.’ He gave Albert a sideways look as if to say that Vera was head of the household now. The husband who’d neglected Mary in life had forfeited the right to dictate what happened now she was dead.

  ‘If you would be good enough to conduct the service, Reverend,’ Vera simpered. ‘It’s what Mary would have wanted.’

  No matter how much he disapproved, Albert found it hard to contradict Vera’s last statement. It would indeed have been Mary’s wish for her final farewell to take place at the League of Departed Spirits, the place where she’d found so much comfort in her final years.

  He stood in silence, staring at the woman who had been his wife, events from the past running through his brain like a moving picture. Their first meeting, in a park; he’d been a young constable on patrol when he’d seen a pretty girl trip on the path. He’d helped her up, playing the chivalrous gentleman, and asked her to go for a walk with him the following Sunday.

  He’d fallen in love with her and in the early days of their marriage they’d been happy. When Frederick was born, that happiness had seemed complete. Until Albert went away to war and came back maimed, a man with a scarred face, half a hand and an injured leg. They would have overcome all that if Frederick hadn’t died of influenza. Mary’s appetite for life and love had evaporated the moment Frederick breathed his last. After that she was no longer the girl he’d fallen for, she was a mother in mourning. She’d never recovered from her loss, seeking comfort from any charlatan who promised to bring Frederick back to her. He’d felt Frederick’s death too but his life hadn’t been ended by it as Mary’s had been.

  When he looked at her now he felt a wave of anguish; of regret for those lost years. When he’d met Flora Winsmore back in 1919 she’d reminded him so much of the Mary he’d once known. But he banished this inappropriate thought from his mind. He needed to concentrate on mourning Mary. He owed her that at least.

  The sound of Vera’s voice roused him from his reverie. ‘The reverend and I don’t think it would be appropriate for you to attend the funeral – seeing as you’re not a believer.’

  Albert looked round and his temper simmered when he saw Gillit wearing the same smug look on his face as Vera gazed at him adoringly.

  ‘I’m not an unbeliever. I go to church like everyone else,’ Albert said. Vera’s words had shocked him and he felt he had to defend himself.

  ‘I mean a believer in the League of Departed Spirits. The reverend says the parish church is full of those who reject his work. The mockers and scoffers.’ She looked to Gillit for support and he nodded sagely.

  Albert felt his fists clench. ‘Mary was my wife. I’ve every right to come to her funeral. I refuse to stay away, and you can’t make me.’

  ‘You were no husband to her,’ said Gillit smoothly. ‘You abandoned her in her hour of need. I was there for her – which was more than you were.’

  Albert’s anger boiled within him and before he knew it he’d lost control and was punching Gillit in the face. The fact that the man’s words had been uncomfortably accurate only made things worse. It was as though Gillit had seen into his soul.

  Gillit sprawled on the floor and while Albert was nursing his sore fist Vera knelt beside the self-proclaimed cle
rgyman, asking if he was all right. Albert could see blood streaming from Gillit’s nose and Vera took a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe it away.

  She looked up at Albert, furious. ‘Get out. Just get out and don’t bother coming back. The reverend’s right. You’re not welcome when we lay Mary to rest. I never want to see you again. Never.’

  Her words shocked Albert into silence and he couldn’t think of a suitable response. There was only one thing to do and that was to leave; to get away from his mother-in-law and the oily charlatan who called himself ‘reverend’. He left the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 50

  Rose

  They say the inspector has gone back to London, which is a pity because he was the only one who seemed to believe me. Sergeant Teague thinks I’m a scarlet woman. A murdering bitch, he called me.

  He asked me about that money they found in the bureau. He wanted to know where Bert got it and I told him I didn’t know, but I think I can guess. When he’d had a few beers in the Carty Arms he sometimes boasted that he knew secrets about people – things they’d rather no one else knew. I never took much notice because he was always coming out with stuff like that. He used to say how he knew things about Mr Jones – secret things – and that meant he was bound to be promoted to chief clerk when Mr Perkins retired. He was going to make himself a fortune, he said. But even if he’d been the richest man in the world I couldn’t have loved him – not like I love my Darling Man.

  Teague still has no idea of my Darling Man’s identity. He said he’ll be able to find out from the handwriting on the letters, which made me laugh. He didn’t like that at all.

  He says I’m going to be charged with Bert’s murder. But they can’t charge me for something I didn’t do, can they?