The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  In a daze he watched the solemn undertaker place the lid on Mary’s coffin and experienced another pang of grief, so strong that it left him shaking. He felt Sam’s touch on his arm as, without a word being spoken, everyone left the house and followed the hearse on foot down the street as passers-by bowed their heads and doffed their caps in respect.

  Albert walked behind the hearse in a daze with Sam by his side. Before he knew it they’d reached the building that housed the League of Departed Spirits. At one time it had been the large house of a prosperous family and Albert couldn’t help wondering how Gillit had raised the necessary funds for its purchase – although he could hazard a guess. The main room with its high ceiling and elaborate cornice was furnished with rows of chairs for the congregation and an impressive table at the front where Gillit presided. Albert sat at the back while Gillit’s oily words washed over him. Mary had found happiness and contentment at last, he said. She had been a generous benefactor of the League – a sacrificial giver – and this wouldn’t be forgotten now she’d reached the Astral Plain. At the mention of money, he felt Sam nudge his arm.

  The strange ceremony involved no prayers or hymns, only a series of testimonials from Mary’s departed relatives saying what a good woman she was and how pleased they were to see her on the other side. Albert tried to suppress his anger. Mary deserved more.

  The service passed swiftly and soon they were out in the street again making their way to the municipal cemetery, walking in procession behind the hearse. As he watched her coffin being lowered into the grave, he felt strangely detached from what was happening, as though he was watching it in a dream. Perhaps it would take time for the reality to sink in. In the meantime, he was unable to cry, unable to speak. He’d never been so glad to have Sam Poltimore beside him.

  When it was finished, he walked away with Sam, not bothering to say his farewells to Vera, who was studiously ignoring him.

  ‘That file – you’ll make sure Gillit’s dealt with appropriately, won’t you?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir. I can’t guarantee you’ll get back any of the money your missus spent on him, but I’ll see to it he doesn’t operate in this manor again. He’ll be sent on his way.’

  Albert thanked him and, in spite of Sam’s insistence that he spend the night at his place, he told him he needed to get back to Wenfield that night. He had unfinished business to deal with.

  Chapter 61

  Albert had arrived back in Wenfield late on Saturday night, exhausted and hungry. Mrs Jackson had taken pity on him and heated up a meat pie which he washed down with a pint of ale before retiring to his room.

  Sunday was a day of rest when most of Wenfield attended church. Albert, however, still had work to do. As soon as he arrived at the police station, Teague greeted him smugly with the news that Dr Kelly had been arrested the previous day on suspicion of murdering Bert Pretting.

  It wasn’t just Edward Price who’d seen the doctor and Rose Pretting together. As a result of Teague’s investigations in the village several witnesses had come forward to say that Kelly and Rose seemed to be on closer terms than the usual polite distance between doctor and patient. They’d been seen whispering conspiratorially, which suggested to Teague that they hadn’t merely been passing the time of day. But the thing that clinched it in the sergeant’s opinion was the mention of the ground glass in the letters. Surely only a medical man would possess such knowledge.

  Albert’s hope that Kelly’s name could be kept out of it until he had solid proof had come to nothing. Teague had been happy for Scotland Yard to help out with the Pretting case until Albert’s theories began to contradict his own. From that point on he’d made it plain it was a local matter and he resented some smart alec from London creating complications when he should be looking for the missing Member of Parliament.

  Teague also favoured the theory that, if the Reverend Bell had indeed been murdered, then Rose and Kelly had to be suspects. Albert felt control of the case slipping from his grasp. He’d been distracted by Mary’s death and funeral, but now it was time to act.

  When he asked to speak to Dr Kelly he was told the doctor had already been charged and transported to Manchester. Dr Bone from New Mills was going to take his surgery for the time being. Albert remembered Dr Bone from his last stay in Wenfield. Bone had assaulted Flora while she’d been working as a nurse at Tarnhey Court during the war and left her traumatised. He despised the man.

  Albert was furious at this fait accompli and he suspected that Teague had moved swiftly to arrest Kelly while he was away in London in order to spite him. Now all Albert could do was wait for Mrs Greenbaum’s verdict and hope her evidence would be enough to save two people from the gallows.

  ‘That Rose Pretting has sent you a message from prison but I’d ignore it if I were you. She’s where she belongs and she’ll be dangling from the end of a rope before too long.’

  To hear the death of a young woman mentioned so lightly and with such relish made him want to punch Teague’s grinning face with his good hand. But instead he took a deep, calming breath.

  ‘What did her message say?’

  Wren took a piece of paper from beneath the desk; a crumpled scrap that looked as though it had been screwed up in disgust. The man straightened it out before pushing it across the polished counter towards Albert.

  Albert picked it up and read.

  Dear Inspector Lincoln, it began,

  I need to see you urgently. I didn’t kill Bert but nobody will believe me. There are things you should know about Bert. He always had a lot of money and I didn’t dare ask him where he got it but he told me once that he knew people’s secrets and I think one of them must have killed him. I told Sergeant Teague but he wouldn’t listen. Please, Mr Lincoln, you’ve got to help me. I’m frightened they’ll hang me when I didn’t do nothing.

  Yours truly

  Rose Pretting (Mrs)

  Albert put the note in his pocket, resolving to make the necessary arrangements to see her at the first opportunity and hoping he would hear from Mrs Greenbaum in the next few days. In the meantime he hurried through the streets towards the church. Mrs Bell would be on her way to morning service and he needed to ask her some questions.

  As he left the station, struggling to keep his temper under control, he was surprised to see Mrs Bell in the company of Grace, the maid from the vicarage, hurrying towards him, dressed in their Sunday best.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector. Is there any news?’ There was a note of anxiety in Mrs Bell’s question.

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid, but I would like to ask you something. Do you keep laudanum at the vicarage?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘Why?’

  ‘The doctor thinks your husband consumed a fatal quantity before he died.’

  He’d expected Mrs Bell to be shocked but instead she nodded slowly. ‘Then it’s as I thought. He was poisoned. But who would do such a thing?’

  Grace, in contrast, looked flustered. ‘Oh dear, I don’t know whether I should … It seems like a betrayal …’

  Albert waited, knowing Grace couldn’t be hurried. His patience was rewarded when she continued:

  ‘It’s the Reverend Fellowes – I found two bottles of laudanum in his bathroom cabinet. He told me he takes it because he has difficulty sleeping.’

  ‘Lots of people take it,’ said Mrs Bell, as though she was trying to make excuses for her late husband’s successor. Albert saw Grace give a little shake of her head at her former employer’s naivety.

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Grace,’ said Albert, touching his hat. ‘And don’t worry, he won’t hear that I learned about it from you.’

  He watched the ladies scurry off towards the church, leaning on each other as if for support. The news had clearly confirmed what Mrs Bell had suspected and, whatever Teague might think, he felt it was up to him to clear the matter up once and for all. He began to walk through the streets without purpose, putting one foot in front of the other until he found h
imself in Pooley Woods, the scene of so many violent deaths back in 1919. He stood for a while, listening to the breeze rustling the tree branches, now green with new life.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there but eventually he left the dappled shelter of the woods and returned to the churchyard where he could hear the sound of singing coming from the ancient stone building. As he was walking down the path between the leaning, lichen-covered gravestones the church doors suddenly opened and the congregation began to flood out. Among the first to emerge were the Cartwrights, Sir William arm in arm with his delicate wife, who seemed to be barely aware of her surroundings. They passed Albert without acknowledging him and made straight for the Rolls-Royce parked by the gate that would take them the short distance home. Sir William opened the door for his wife to climb in, the perfect gentleman. But Albert had spoken to Clara, so he knew the truth.

  The Reverend Simon Fellowes stood at the church door shaking hands with his departing flock, less relaxed than Horace Bell had looked when he’d performed the same duty.

  Albert watched as the people of Wenfield made their way down the path, all on their best Sunday behaviour. The Ogdens were making their way arm in arm to their motor car parked in the lane outside and he saw Mr Jones, the mill manager, deep in conversation with another man, while his wife trailed behind wearing a cloche hat and red bouclé coat that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a top London hotel. Some of the clerks from the mill office were trying to avoid their superiors. George Yelland was with his mother, who linked her arm through his protectively. The young man looked shaken and frail and Albert hoped he was having a better time of it at work without Bert Pretting there to bully and mock him.

  Once the congregation had dispersed, he saw Simon Fellowes coming towards him, his surplice billowing in the breeze.

  ‘Inspector, may I have a word? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you in private.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was hoping to speak to you myself.’

  Fellowes said nothing as they walked side by side towards the vicarage and it wasn’t until they were sitting in the study that the vicar broke his silence.

  ‘Since your visit last week I’ve been wrestling with my conscience, Inspector.’

  ‘You can rely on my complete discretion,’ said Albert quietly, wondering what was coming.

  The vicar took a deep, shuddering breath and stared out of the window, avoiding Albert’s eyes. ‘It might not be important, of course, but as there’s been an arrest …’

  ‘Are we talking about Bert Pretting?’

  Fellowes bowed his head. ‘Yes. Pretting. As a man of God I’m supposed to see the best in everybody, but some people are more easy to think well of than others.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to some of Pretting’s workmates. He sounded like a bully.’

  ‘He was. And if his unfortunate wife did away with him, I have some sympathy. Although I shouldn’t say that, should I?’

  Albert didn’t answer the question. ‘Did you have any dealings with him?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ There was a long pause before he spoke again, as though he was gathering his thoughts – or deciding how much to reveal. ‘From time to time I meet with a group of like-minded gentlemen in New Mills. We have a mutual interest in photography. The study of the human form.’

  ‘The female human form?’

  Fellowes’ face turned beetroot red. ‘There are certain ladies who are kind enough to pose for us. It’s artistic, you understand. Nothing untoward occurs at our meetings and everything is conducted with the height of propriety.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Albert, wishing the man would get to the point.

  ‘I’m afraid Bert Pretting found out about our meetings. I’ve no idea how.’

  ‘And he asked for money?’

  ‘He said that if I didn’t pay up everyone in Wenfield would get to know about my … pastime. I’ve done nothing wrong, but people are so swift to judge, aren’t they.’

  ‘Do you know who else was being blackmailed by Pretting?’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘What else would you call it?’

  ‘Pretting called it a contribution. Helping him out because he was a bit short, was how he put it.’

  ‘It was blackmail, Reverend. Do you know anybody else Pretting asked for money in this way?’ Albert had a sudden idea. ‘The Reverend Bell, for instance?’

  The vicar looked affronted. ‘Surely not. Although … I did wonder about the Cartwrights. I know there are certain family matters they’d prefer didn’t come to light. Sir William has a reputation as a ladies’ man. There was a young maidservant some time ago; an unfortunate girl who was murdered, I remember. Then there’s his son, Roderick …’

  ‘I know all about Roderick Cartwright’s private life, Reverend. But I agree. Others might not be so … slow to judge. Sergeant Teague would probably consider it a matter he couldn’t overlook.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Inspector. I saw Pretting talking to Sir William once. The gentleman looked quite upset, so I’m sure … And if Pretting was so bold as to approach Sir William, who knows what other upright citizens have fallen victim to his … requests.’

  ‘Thank you for being so frank with me, Reverend. You’ve clarified several things in my mind.’

  ‘You won’t tell anybody about my … ?’

  ‘You can rely on my discretion,’ said Albert, registering the relief on Fellowes’ face, as though a heavy weight had been lifted. ‘Are you in the habit of using laudanum, Mr Fellowes?’

  The expression of relief instantly vanished. ‘I … I do take a dose now and then when I find it difficult to sleep.’

  ‘The Reverend Bell died from an overdose of laudanum. I think somebody gave it to him.’

  Fellowes’ eyes widened in alarm. ‘You surely can’t think … I assure you that if he did consume any laudanum, it didn’t come from me. I admired the reverend greatly. I would never have done him any harm.’

  ‘Even if he found out about your … pastime?’

  ‘Even then.’

  Albert studied his face for a while, thinking that his look of injured innocence, the look he’d seen so often on the falsely accused, was unlikely to be faked. Then again, he’d been wrong before.

  ‘Just how much did you want to be vicar of Wenfield, Mr Fellowes?’

  The man looked hurt. ‘Not enough to poison a good man like Horace Bell, I assure you.’

  ‘So he didn’t visit you on the night he died?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ He hesitated. ‘In fact I wasn’t even in Wenfield that night. I was at my … photography club.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say this earlier?’

  His face reddened. ‘I think you know why, Inspector.’ Albert stood up. ‘One last thing before I leave. I asked you about a letter the Reverend Bell received in the late post on the day he died. There was a photograph enclosed in the letter. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘You asked me that before and I’m afraid the answer’s still no.’

  ‘That man who was found in the cave by the Devil’s Dancers. Someone went to a lot of trouble to conceal his identity. Did you ever see a stranger who fitted his description around the village? He didn’t call at the vicarage asking for help?’

  ‘I would have told you if he had. I never saw him. And in Wenfield a stranger would usually be noticed by someone, don’t you think?’

  It was a few seconds before Albert summoned the courage to ask the next question. ‘When I spoke to you the other day I mentioned the name Charlotte Day. I had the impression it meant something to you.’

  Fellowes remained seated, turning a pen over and over in his fingers while he stared at it with fascination. Albert resumed his seat and waited.

  ‘Charlotte is Lady Cartwright’s niece and before the war we were … we had an understanding. But while I was away in France she married somebody else. She had a child, but I heard it died. Influenza.’

  The words made Alb
ert’s heart lurch as it brought back memories of Frederick. Another child lost to the terrible epidemic. Could it be that the child Charlotte Day lost was his and Flora’s – adopted then snatched from her by death? The thought was too painful to bear. Perhaps it was a good thing that he hadn’t summoned the courage to seek her out. The quest would have ended in more pain than he felt he could endure at that moment.

  ‘She lives in a village called Mabley Ridge now,’ Fellowes continued. ‘It’s near Wilmslow in Cheshire.’

  ‘I know where it is. I investigated a case there last year.’

  ‘The man she married is a cotton manufacturer. And a war hero.’ He looked directly at Albert, who could see the sadness in his eyes. ‘What chance did I have? A humble clergyman who hasn’t been the same since he witnessed the horror of the trenches. Those horrors are still with me, Inspector. Often I can’t sleep without the roar of gunfire and the cries of the wounded ringing in my ears. What did I have to offer Charlotte when she could have a wealthy hero instead?’

  The vicar’s hands were shaking but Albert couldn’t think of any fitting words to say. Nothing that would reassure or comfort. He reached out and touched the man’s sleeve. ‘There are a lot like us, Simon. It’ll get better with time,’ he told him, not quite believing his own words.

  Albert left the vicarage with a feeling of heavy sadness. It was Sunday so he had the choice of spending the day of rest brooding on recent events or dropping into the police station in the hope that there was some new development.

  He chose the latter option.

  Chapter 62

  As soon as he arrived at the police station Constable Smith looked up from his paperwork with a conspiratorial smile. As Albert took off his hat, he suspected that the young man was beginning to regard him as his guardian angel in the force. But he’d soon be back in London and Smith would be left to answer to Teague, so he didn’t want him to become too reliant on having the man from Scotland Yard to protect him.