The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  Last night I dreamed I was in the library at Wenfield, surrounded by the characters from my books. I was riding through the countryside on a white horse behind my Darling Man and we were on our way to a ball at a beautiful house – the grand house in The Duchess’s Secret with a handsome portico and rows of gleaming windows. I was dressed in a fine silk gown and I felt so happy as I clung to him in the sunshine. Then I woke up and I was in my cell lying on a hard mattress with the smell of the toilet in my nostrils.

  Chapter 54

  Albert had become sceptical about hunches. He knew they were a popular feature of detective novels but he’d learned from bitter experience that relying on solid police work was safer. Instinct had once let him down badly and, after what happened in Wenfield in 1919, he’d vowed never to trust it again.

  His trip to Liverpool to see Clara had temporarily taken his mind off Mary’s death but the enforced idleness of the return train journey gave him plenty of opportunity to think. Now the reality had sunk in, Vera’s ban on his presence at the funeral felt shocking; as he chugged towards Manchester on the train, gazing out of the window, the thought of ignoring his wife’s passing from this world became too much to bear. His eyes swollen with unshed tears, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pretended to blow his nose in the hope that his fellow passengers would assume he was suffering from a cold.

  He arrived in Wenfield at seven thirty but, in spite of the late hour, he called in at the police station, hoping Constable Smith would have news for him about the enquiries he’d been making in the Lake District.

  Smith had gone off duty, but Albert knew that he shared a small terraced house near the mill with his mother and younger brothers. After he’d called in at the Black Horse for something to eat, he left the inn and walked through the dark cobbled streets.

  It had started to drizzle and he could hear his footsteps on the glistening stone pavement – and a slight echo as though there was somebody following behind. But when he turned round there was nobody there. The attack he’d suffered in London had made him jumpy, but he told himself that nothing like that was likely to happen in Wenfield.

  It was Smith’s mother who opened the door. She was a small, round woman wearing a cross-over apron and a wary expression. ‘Not today, thank you,’ she said firmly, preparing to close the door in Albert’s face.

  Albert gave her his most sincere smile even though the effort hurt his bruised face. As soon as he’d introduced himself and reassured her that he wasn’t going from door to door selling things she didn’t want, he asked to see Daniel. Once his credentials had been established, the woman’s manner changed and she invited him in like an honoured guest, apologising that he’d found them unprepared for his visit.

  He was shown into the front parlour, the room kept for best, and a few moments later Daniel Smith joined him. The young man looked even younger out of his uniform with his shirt sleeves rolled up.

  ‘Sir, I wasn’t expecting … Is something the matter?’ There was a worried frown on his face as though he feared he’d done something wrong.

  Albert was swift to put his mind at rest. ‘I was wondering whether you’d had any luck with that Windermere lead.’

  Smith nodded eagerly. ‘There was something promising, sir. One of the hotels I telephoned said a gent stayed there last week. He only stopped for a couple of nights and he mentioned he was looking for a property to rent up there. He answered Mr Billinge’s description and he was using the name Cartwright.’

  Albert raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Thing is, this gentleman arrived in a motor car. Mr Billinge came to Wenfield by train. Didn’t have no motor car, according to Sir William.’

  Albert paused to mull this over while Smith watched him in silence, awaiting his verdict on this new discovery.

  When Albert eventually spoke, his question had nothing to do with the Lake District. ‘A couple of days ago I believe someone reported a missing bicycle. Where was that?’

  Smith looked surprised. ‘It was up at Tarnhey Court. Mrs Banks reported it. One of the lads who comes in to see to the garden asked if he could use it, but when she went to look for it in the stables it had gone. It was only an old bike that used to belong to the chauffeur and she was in two minds whether to report it. She thought it had probably been nicked by a tramp but then she thought of Mr Billinge. If he’d wanted to get somewhere, he might have borrowed it.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told about this right away?’

  ‘Sergeant Teague said not to bother you with it. He said it wasn’t important. People pinch bicycles all the time he said.’

  ‘Is there a garage anywhere round here where someone could hire a motor car?’

  Smith shook his head. ‘Not in Wenfield.’ He thought for a moment, brow furrowed. ‘But there’s one in New Mills that sells new motor cars. They might hire them out and all.’

  ‘Get on to them first thing tomorrow. Ask if Mr Billinge has been a customer of theirs. He might have been using a different name, so give them a full description.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘And keep this between ourselves, eh? Sergeant Teague doesn’t need to be told unless something comes of it.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ Smith gave him a conspiratorial grin.

  Albert made his way back to the Black Horse through the damp streets, hoping it wouldn’t be long before Henry Billinge was found. However, with that case solved, he wondered if his superiors at Scotland Yard would allow him to stay up there to deal with the other cases that he now felt had become his responsibility.

  Sergeant Teague seemed convinced that the man at the Devil’s Dancers had been a vagrant, fallen foul of one of his fellows who had stolen his clothes and any meagre possessions he might have been carrying. Now that the possibility of the victim being Billinge had been eliminated, the local police were hardly likely to deem this unsolved murder worthy of investigation by Scotland Yard. But, in Albert’s opinion, there were features of the case that told another story.

  And the investigation into Bert Pretting’s murder had taken on a new urgency since Rose’s arrest. He’d hoped he’d be able to leave the matter to the locals but, now that a young woman was in danger of facing the hangman for a murder she might not have committed, he felt it was up to him to do something about it.

  Then there was Mrs Bell’s certainty that her husband’s death was suspicious. The letter with the enclosed photograph she claimed the reverend received on the day of his death hadn’t been found. And the only people who’d had access to his correspondence were Mrs Bell herself and the new vicar, Fellowes. But was Fellowes’ secretive behaviour due to his penchant for risqué photographs, or was there a more sinister reason? He had no alibi for the night of Bell’s death. And if Bell had decided to nip down the road to have words with his curate, he might not have bothered mentioning it to his wife. Perhaps the letter he’d received that day had contained some disturbing information about Simon Fellowes; something worth killing for.

  With all this unfinished business still to deal with, Albert was reluctant to leave Wenfield. Besides, apart from saying his final farewell to Mary at her funeral, he had little to return to London for.

  As he neared the Black Horse the rain turned from a light drizzle to a downpour and Albert raised his collar against the cold.

  But the sound of the rain dancing on the grey pavements masked the footsteps of the man who’d followed him from Constable Smith’s house at a safe distance, keeping to the shadows, determined not to be seen.

  Chapter 55

  Constable Smith couldn’t conceal his excitement as he went about his work the next morning. He’d been given a special task by an inspector from Scotland Yard and when he’d shared the news with his mother she’d glowed with maternal pride.

  As promised, he’d said nothing to Sergeant Teague about the matter and he’d waited until the sergeant was out on patrol before making the telephone call to Riston’s Garage in New Mills. He spoke to Mr Risto
n himself and he almost felt like dancing around the office when he learned that a motor car had been hired out late on the Saturday afternoon Billinge had vanished to a well-spoken gentleman who’d given a London address. The gentleman had matched Mr Billinge’s description exactly, although he gave his name as Brown and said he was up North on business. The car was a small Ford, nothing fancy, and he’d told Mr Riston he had some business up in Lancashire and would bring the car back in due course. Mr Brown had arrived on an old bicycle he said he’d borrowed from the bed and breakfast establishment where he was staying just outside New Mills, and he’d paid for the hire of the motorcar in cash without quibbling over the quoted price. The bicycle was still there in the corner of the workshop awaiting his return.

  As the disappearance of Henry Billinge had been kept out of the papers, Mr Riston hadn’t been aware of it. If he had been, he might have made the connection.

  Once Smith had checked the London address ‘Mr Brown’ had provided and found it to be false, he rushed to Albert’s office to tell him the news.

  ‘It’s a Ford. Black. And he told me the registration of the vehicle as well.’

  ‘Then you know what to do, Smith. Call the place up in Windermere and ask if the guest’s vehicle matched that description.’

  Smith blushed. ‘I was just about to do that, sir.’ He paused. ‘If it does, will you have to go up there, sir?’

  ‘I’ve heard Windermere is lovely in the spring, so maybe I will,’ said Albert with a smile, watching the young man’s face. It was easy to guess what was on his mind. He fancied a jaunt up to the Lakes as well. ‘But it’s probably better if I go alone. It’s a delicate matter and we don’t want to alarm the gentleman, do we.’

  The constable’s face was a picture of disappointment. ‘I’ll go and make that telephone call now, sir,’ he said. He was about to leave the office when he turned in the doorway as though he’d remembered something.

  ‘My mam was talking to Tess Pollard who helps Miss Hubbard at the library. Tess lives on our street and she went to the grammar school. Always been a bit of a brain box has Tess.’

  Albert suspected he hadn’t stopped in his tracks merely to share news of Tess Pollard’s academic prowess. He waited for the constable to come to the point.

  ‘Tess said she’d seen that Mrs Pretting talking to Edward Price at the library. She said it looked like they were friendly. Very friendly, if you know what I mean.’

  Albert straightened his back, giving Smith his full attention. ‘Who’s Edward Price?’

  ‘He works at the library – part-time. I’ll go and make that phone call now, sir.’

  Chapter 56

  Smith had been waylaid by Sergeant Teague to carry out some mundane task, so Albert was still waiting for him to telephone the Lake District. Albert knew it would be wise to tread carefully because if the sergeant found out he was commandeering Smith’s help to pursue his own lines of investigation, Teague was quite capable of making life uncomfortable for him, even though Albert was superior in rank. As an outsider he was reliant on the men with local knowledge. And there was always the nagging fear at the back of Albert’s mind that the sergeant might one day discover the truth about his relationship with Flora Winsmore if he cared to dig into the matter more deeply. And that was something Albert could never allow to happen.

  He’d told Smith to say nothing about Edward Price to anyone else for the time being. If Teague got wind of any rumours he would no doubt bring the young man in for questioning and maybe even charge him. Before that happened, Albert wanted to talk to the man himself and hear his side of the story. He was quite confident that he’d know if Price was lying to him.

  As he set off to walk to the library, the hills surrounding the village were veiled in low cloud and the only sound he could hear was the distant bleating of sheep in the fields round about. The belching mill chimneys at the far end of the village looked incongruous in the rural scene but he supposed the march of progress couldn’t be stopped. Even so, it would be a shame if one day all the green were to vanish beneath factories and houses.

  Albert entered the library, aware of the solemn hush. He removed his hat and approached Miss Hubbard, who was stamping books behind the counter.

  ‘Does a man called Edward Price work here?’

  ‘Yes. He’s in the stacks if you want to speak to him.’

  ‘In a minute. Tell me about him.’

  ‘He was at Oxford until the war interrupted his studies.’ She smiled fondly. ‘He’s a nice young man. He was badly wounded in the war and he suffers with his nerves, so the quiet of the library suits him.’

  ‘Does he have much to do with Mrs Pretting?’

  ‘I’ve seen them talking—’ She stopped as though she’d suddenly realised the implications of her statement. ‘Not that there was anything improper, of course. Edward’s a gentle soul. Hardly the murdering type, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell him you’re here?’

  When Albert nodded she vanished through a door behind the counter, returning a couple of minutes later with a young man. His face was badly disfigured, the scarring worse than Albert’s own. Before the war he must have been a good-looking lad but now his flesh had burned away and one of his eyes was missing, thick scar tissue grown in its place to cover the empty socket.

  ‘Are you Edward Price?’ Albert asked in a whisper.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to you about Rose Pretting.’

  For a moment Edward looked flustered. Then, after a brief word with Miss Hubbard, he led Albert to a small, cluttered office off the main library.

  ‘I heard about Rose – Mrs Pretting. I can’t believe she’d do anything like that.’

  ‘Has Sergeant Teague spoken to you?’

  Edward shook his head stiffly as though the effort hurt him.

  ‘What was your relationship with Rose Pretting?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Albert could hear the alarm in his voice.

  ‘Did you write letters to her?’

  Albert saw Edward clench his fists before he turned his head away. ‘What good would it have done? Why would a woman like that look at someone like me? Even if I’d wanted to …’ His shoulders had started to shake.

  ‘She was seen talking to you.’

  ‘She was kind. Do you think I don’t look in the mirror? Do you think I could ever be with a woman like her?’

  ‘Did you want to be with her?’

  Edward hesitated before giving a small nod. ‘Like I said, she was kind. We talked about books. Beauty and the Beast we would have been if …’

  ‘You’re not a beast, Edward. Never think that.’

  ‘They called us heroes. I wasn’t a hero. I was scared out of my wits most of the time. It came as a relief when I was sent back to Blighty.’

  ‘You’re not alone there.’ Albert would have liked to let Edward talk but time was pressing. ‘So you weren’t Rose’s lover?’

  ‘Fat chance.’

  ‘Any idea who was?’

  He slumped down into a nearby chair, shaking his head. ‘No. The only person I’ve seen her talking to was Dr Kelly; deep in conversation, they were. I thought she might have been asking him about some medical problem – trying to get his opinion on the sly without having to pay his fees. On one occasion they seemed to be having words, so maybe he got fed up with it.’

  ‘You’ve seen them talking more than once?’

  Edward shrugged. ‘I suppose so. And he often comes into the library just after her, but he never takes any books out. I sometimes wondered if they were hoping to bump into each other but …’

  Albert thanked him and left. He had a call to make.

  He wanted to speak to Kelly. If nothing else, there was always a chance the doctor could give him the results of the tests on the stomach contents of the man in the cave and the Reverend Bell.

  Chapter 57

>   Albert arrived at Kelly’s house shortly after morning surgery had finished. He walked up the front path of the handsome stone house where Flora and her father had once lived and rang the bell, suddenly nervous as the memories flooded back – good and bad.

  The door was answered by Kelly himself, who greeted Albert like an old friend, which made Albert feel awkward as he followed the doctor into the parlour – a room that had changed a great deal since Dr Winsmore’s day. There were two modern sofas and a low coffee table in the latest style and the pictures adorning the wall were no longer the dark Victorian landscapes that once hung there.

  One picture in particular caught Albert’s attention. At first he thought it was a local scene; an impressionist’s view of a stone-built Derbyshire village. But on closer inspection Albert realised that its origins were more exotic.

  ‘It’s by Cezanne. Only a print, I’m afraid. I picked it up in Paris.’

  ‘Reminds me of the houses around here.’

  Kelly came and stood beside him and both men studied the picture as though they were visitors in an art gallery.

  ‘It’s called La Maison du Pendu, usually translated as The House of the Hanged Man, although it was said to be the home of a Breton called Penn’Du. They got it wrong.’

  Albert nodded, his eyes still fixed on the picture.

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard people call this house. The House of the Hanged Woman.’ He paused. ‘I’ve heard it was you who arrested Flora Winsmore.’

  ‘That’s right. Have you had those results back from Liverpool yet?’ Albert asked, anxious to change the subject.