The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

Chapter 51

  Desperate to get away from the house, Albert caught the tram to Scotland Yard. He needed to talk to Sam – one of the few people he trusted in this world – and he hoped he’d still be there.

  But when he reached his office Sam was nowhere to be seen. He’d been called out on a case – a robbery, one of the constables told him.

  Albert went into his office, shut the door and slumped down on his chair, head in hands, fighting back tears. Past experience had taught him that work was the best distraction from his grief, so he raised his head and looked about him for some task to occupy his mind. Through the mist of tears he saw a note on the desk in Sam’s handwriting. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and read: Please call Mrs Anne Billinge, followed by a Mayfair telephone number. The message had been received two hours ago and Albert took a deep shuddering breath before asking the operator to get the number for him, hoping Mrs Billinge would still be there.

  He was in luck. Anne Billinge answered almost immediately.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me, Mrs Billinge.’

  ‘I did. The policeman who answered told me that you were expected in later, so I left a message. I have some information for you.’

  ‘News of your husband?’ Albert suddenly felt hopeful that one of his cases was about to be brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve been in touch with everyone we know and nobody’s heard from him.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m beginning to fear the worst.’ For the first time he detected some emotion in her voice.

  ‘You said you had some information,’ he said gently.

  ‘You asked about Clara, my former maid. An acquaintance of mine says she saw her in Liverpool. She was in a tea room in Bold Street with another girl. My acquaintance recognised the other girl as the lady’s maid to a shipping family. I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Do you know how I can contact the lady’s maid?’ Albert suddenly felt a surge of optimism. He’d been wanting to speak to Clara and now the possibility was opening up in front of him.

  Mrs Billinge provided the name of Clara’s friend’s employer and Albert asked one of the constables to trace a telephone number for them, hoping a call from Scotland Yard wouldn’t get the lady’s maid into trouble.

  An hour later a constable knocked on Albert’s door. He’d spoken to the young woman, who’d been fairly easy to find because the family she worked for was prominent in the city. Big noises, was how he put it. Clara, she’d said, had a place of her own now – a rather swish place, the girl had told him with a hint of envy.

  Clara wasn’t in service any more. And her new forwarding address was in a very desirable area of Liverpool.

  Clara’s friend provided them with an address. However, the constable who’d spoken to her had had the distinct impression she was hiding something.

  Albert thanked him and said he’d done well. He was always a believer in giving praise where it was due. He sat at his desk, paralysed by indecision and numb from the shock of Mary’s death. There was no way he’d be able to spend the night at home. Vera would, no doubt, be keeping vigil over Mary’s body and she had made it quite clear he wasn’t wanted. It was his own house and, if he’d felt so inclined, he could have made a fuss and insisted on his rights, but that was the last thing he felt like doing. Right now all he wanted was to escape from London and the memories it held. Wenfield held bad memories too, but he had a job to do up there. Only when that job was finished would he be able to make a decision about his future.

  As soon as Sam Poltimore returned Albert called him into his office and told him to close the door. Sam looked solemn as Albert broke the news of Mary’s death, and disbelieving when he told him about Vera’s outburst.

  ‘You can stay with us. It’s getting late and the missus won’t mind.’

  The offer was automatic, made without thinking, and Albert felt his eyes prick with tears.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Sam. It really is. But I couldn’t put you to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. And I reckon after the day you’ve had, you’ll need the company. The missus wouldn’t hear of you being on your own at a time like this. I’ve got some brown ale in. We can have a drink and a smoke like old times, eh?’ He looked at him intently. ‘What have you done to your face? Been in a fight?’

  ‘Someone jumped me when I was on my way home. Punched me and made the usual threats. Probably an old customer of ours.’

  ‘Any idea who?’

  Albert shook his head. ‘Hopefully he’ll have got it out of his system and he won’t bother you no more,’ said Sam firmly. ‘Any sign of that MP yet?’

  ‘No, but I think I might have a new lead. Unfortunately, I’m no nearer to discovering the identity of the victim we thought might be him.’

  ‘Is that the one they found in a cave with no clothes on and his face bashed in?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve got my work cut out up there, Sam.’ He wondered whether to mention Mrs Bell’s suspicions about her husband’s death, but decided against it for the moment. Until Dr Kelly received the results from the lab, all he had were the widow’s suspicions.

  Sam looked at him, concerned. ‘Wenfield. You’re all right about staying up there after what happened the last time?’

  Albert took a deep breath. ‘Flora’s gone, Sam. And her father’s left the village. I’ve met the new doctor – nice young chap. Nobody else in Wenfield knew about me and … Although I have come across some of the people I met back then, the man Henry Billinge was staying with being one of them.’

  ‘Sir William Cartwright. I’ve heard he’s a bit of a one for the ladies.’

  Albert raised his eyebrows. There had been an incident with a maid – one of the murder victims – back in 1919, but he was surprised that news of Sir William’s amorous activities had spread to the capital. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’

  ‘My son-in-law’s brother works in the House of Commons. He knows all the gossip.’

  ‘Has your son-in-law’s brother heard anything about Henry Billinge?’

  ‘Only that he’s quite a secretive gent. Keeps himself to himself.’

  Albert examined his pocket watch, then gratefully accepted Sam’s offer of a bed for the night. He had no desire to travel back to Wenfield through the darkness. And besides, he needed company.

  He stayed the night in Sam’s spare room. Even though the bed was comfortable he didn’t sleep well and the next morning he found himself dozing off on the train back up North, soothed by the rhythm of the wheels on the track. He changed trains at Manchester and arrived in Wenfield at ten thirty. It had begun to rain and as he walked through the streets towards the Black Horse the pavements glistened and people scurried to and fro with umbrellas. They were used to rain up there.

  When he reached the Black Horse he hesitated at the door, feeling lost. He’d known for a while that Mary was unlikely to recover – in some ways she’d been dead inside since Frederick went – but as the reality dawned on him he was suddenly engulfed in a pall of heavy sadness.

  He made his way to his room, glad that Mrs Jackson hadn’t been there to greet him on his arrival. He was in no mood for small talk.

  After rinsing his face with water in the basin in the corner of his room, he left the inn. His sense of duty told him that he should look in at the police station to see whether there had been any developments in his absence. The prospect of facing Sergeant Teague at that moment made his spirits sink even lower but it was something that had to be done. After that he would go to Liverpool to find Clara. He had the feeling she was the key to finding Henry Billinge, dead or alive.

  When he reached the station he found Teague standing behind the front desk looking pleased with himself. Albert was soon to discover why.

  ‘Morning, sir. Good news. We’ve charged Rose Pretting with her husband’s murder and she’s been taken to Manchester to await trial. The stubborn bitch still won’t name her fancy man, but we’ll get him, don’
t you worry.’

  ‘You can’t possibly think Mrs Pretting knifed her husband in a back alley. The doctor said the attacker was someone a lot taller.’

  ‘That will have been the fancy man. But, mark my words, they planned it together and any decent jury will make sure she hangs with him.’

  Albert said nothing but he feared Teague was right. Any jury of men would be bound to convict her. Scarlet women were rarely forgiven. And yet he wasn’t altogether convinced of her guilt.

  When he told Teague he was going to Liverpool to follow up a lead in the Henry Billinge case, the sergeant asked if he wanted him to come too. Albert said no. The last thing he wanted was Teague to be with him when he spoke to Clara.

  Chapter 52

  It was the middle of the afternoon by the time Albert arrived at Lime Street station. Stepping outside, he was faced with a magnificent, soot-blackened, classical building on the opposite side of the road with pillars that would grace any Greek temple. To his right he could see an array of buildings – galleries and law courts – as fine as any in his native London, reminding him that this was a prosperous city that had made its fortune from the sea. As he left the station he recalled that Henry Billinge served as the Member of Parliament for a nearby constituency, and there was a local connection in another of his cases too: Bert Pretting had lived over the river on the Wirral and it was likely he’d worked in the city. His policeman’s instinct made him wonder whether there could be a connection between the two men, one missing and one dead. But Liverpool was a big place.

  He took a taxi cab to Clara’s address, hoping she’d be at home. After a short journey the cab pulled up outside a grand Georgian terrace near the centre of town. At one time it would have been the residence of a prosperous family but now it was divided into apartments, although, judging by the pristine stucco and the fresh paintwork, these were apartments of the highly respectable kind.

  He had been told that Clara lived in flat number two, so he pressed the doorbell. To his surprise, the young woman who answered the door looked nothing like a maidservant. She was wearing a figure-enhancing black dress and her auburn hair was expensively bobbed. With her cigarette in an ebony holder, she had the look of a film star.

  ‘I’m looking for Clara.’

  ‘You’ve found her.’ There was a hint of insolence in her reply; insolence and boredom.

  When Albert introduced himself and explained the reason for his visit, she merely raised her eyebrows and invited him in. He followed her up the graceful staircase to the first floor where the drawing room of her apartment occupied the entire front of the house. A row of tall sash windows overlooked the elegant square below and the furnishings were in the latest modern style, the sort of thing Albert associated with the fashionable London homes of the wealthy.

  ‘I know why you’ve come,’ she said, knocking the ash from her cigarette into an onyx ashtray. ‘I knew it would only be a matter of time before you got round to me.’ Clara might be dressed like a society girl but the cockney twang in her voice betrayed her roots.

  ‘Really?’ Albert was intrigued.

  ‘Who put you on to me?’

  ‘Mrs Billinge. She heard her husband and Sir William Cartwright arguing about you.’

  A smile played on her lips. ‘Henry’s always looked out for me. He’s a gent.’ She cast an appraising eye over Albert. ‘You’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, glancing down at his maimed hand.

  ‘No, I meant all those bruises on your face. Someone resisted arrest, did they?’

  Albert had almost forgotten about the attack in London, but Clara’s words reminded him of his vulnerability. ‘You were telling me about how Mr Billinge looks out for you.’

  ‘He was furious with William when he said he wasn’t going to pay for my flat in Manchester no more. I told Henry I could fight my own battles but, like I said, he’s a gent. Thought William was doing me wrong.’

  Albert took a seat opposite her. ‘William? I thought you and Mr Billinge were …’

  ‘No. You’ve got it all wrong. It was me and William …’

  ‘You were having an affair with Sir William, not Henry Billinge?’

  She giggled. ‘I don’t think I’m Henry’s type – although he is a sweetie and he’s been very good to me.’ She hesitated. ‘Will you promise me that this won’t go beyond these four walls? Henry could get into terrible trouble if anyone found out.’

  ‘That depends. If it’s anything illegal …’

  She snorted. ‘Why won’t you bobbies live and let live?’

  ‘I promise you that if it isn’t something that hurts others, like robbery, fraud, assault or murder, I’ll say nothing.’

  She gave him an uncertain smile. ‘Henry might be married but he’s not the marrying kind, if you get my meaning. William’s son, Roderick, is of the same persuasion, so he’s been … sympathetic. Now you see why I asked you to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry. All I want to know is whether Mr Billinge is safe and well. Tell me about your relationship with Sir William.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette angrily and Albert waited. In his experience, people could never resist the urge to fill a silence.

  ‘Me and William met in London when he came to see Henry. I was working for Mrs Billinge back then. Lady’s maid. Anyway, William said that if I came up North he’d look after me; promised to set me up in a nice flat in Manchester.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I went up there to be near him, hoping for the nice gaff, but he kept making bloody excuses while I was stuck living in a fleapit in some godforsaken suburb. Typical of men. Full of hot air and empty promises.’ She lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Anyway, Henry took pity on me and said I could stay in one of his properties in Liverpool. His constituency’s nearby and he owns a few places in town.’ She gave a grunt of disgust. ‘Haven’t seen William since I moved over here.’

  ‘When did you last see Mr Billinge?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago. He called in to check I was all right before going to stay with William for the weekend. He promised to have words with him – shame him into doing the right thing by me, he said. Told you he was a sweetie,’ she added fondly. She suddenly frowned. ‘I hope nothing’s happened to him.’

  ‘Everyone’s worried about him. Including Sir William.’ He paused, wondering how much to reveal about the circumstances of Henry Billinge’s disappearance. ‘It appears that Mr Billinge and Sir William had a disagreement before he left. It was thought it might have been about women’s suffrage, but from what you’ve just told me, they might have been arguing about you.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You seem to know Mr Billinge well. Where do you think he is?’

  She gave the question a few moments’ consideration before answering. ‘He often talks about how much he loves the Lake District, especially Windermere. He says there’s nothing better than walking in the hills and getting lost in nature without anyone knowing where to find you.’ She pulled a face. ‘Can’t see it myself. I prefer the city.’

  ‘Is it possible he’s gone there?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘He told me he’s been under a lot of strain recently. A young man he was … friendly with killed himself about eighteen months ago and Henry hasn’t been the same since it happened. It can’t be easy for him. Lying to everyone. Parading round with his wife on his arm. Keeping up the act.’

  Albert nodded and their eyes met in understanding. As he stood up to leave he noticed a silver-framed photograph of Sir William Cartwright on the marble mantelpiece, suggesting that Clara hadn’t altogether given up hope of Sir William resuming their relationship. He wondered whether Lady Cartwright knew of her existence. Probably not. Lady Cartwright struck him as a woman who preferred to ignore inconvenient truths.

  Outside Clara’s flat he hailed a passing taxi cab, but instead of telling the driver to take him to Lime Street station, he pulled Gwe
n Davies’s address from his pocket and asked to be taken there. It was an act of impulse, possibly a reaction to the shock of Mary’s death; a desire for comfort; for someone who might understand.

  Soon the handsome terraces of the town gave way to parkland and leafy outlying suburbs. When they eventually reached Gwen’s address the driver stopped and told him the fare.

  For a while Albert gazed out of the window at the neat semi-detached red-brick house in the tree-lined road. This was her parents’ address and she’d returned there after leaving her post in Mabley Ridge. She was a school teacher, so she could well be home by now, sitting in that house quite unaware that he was so near. His heart began to pound as he realised the idea was foolish. Wrong.

  He told the driver to take him to Lime Street where he caught the five-thirty train. First, however, he saw a public telephone box and made a call to the police station in Wenfield, relieved when Constable Smith answered. The young man sounded surprised when Albert asked him to telephone every hotel and guest house in the Windermere area to ask whether they had any guests answering Henry Billinge’s description.

  And under no circumstances was he to let Sergeant Teague or Constable Wren know what he was doing.

  Chapter 53

  Rose

  This is a terrible place. It smells of fear and dirty bodies. Worse still, they won’t let me have any books. I’m to stand trial, they say. According to them, I’m a murdering whore. An unfaithful wife. A woman of the worst kind imaginable.

  They keep on saying I must name my Darling Man. I was tempted to tell them it was Sergeant Teague and see what they made of that. Not that I’d ever have anything to do with that horrible man, but it would have been worth lying to see the looks on their faces.

  I kept reminding the sergeant that Bert always had a lot of money but he’d never say where he got it, even though I knew it was far more than his wages. I told him he used to talk about knowing people’s secrets, but he’d never tell me what those secrets were because he said I was a blabbermouth and I couldn’t be trusted. He was always saying horrible things to me and calling me dreadful names. The sergeant said Bert’s money probably wasn’t important, but I said he should at least tell the man from Scotland Yard about it. He told me he wouldn’t think of bothering him with the ravings of a wicked murderess.