by Ellis, Kate
‘I’ve heard from the police station in Bowness, sir. A chap answering Mr Billinge’s description is renting a cottage near the town. And he’s driving a Ford.’
Albert absorbed the news for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you can drive, can you, Smith?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Before I joined the force I used to do odd jobs up at Tarnhey Court and Mr Pepper, the chauffeur, taught me how to drive. Said if I ever wanted a job at his new garage in Stockport I was to come to him. But I decided on the police instead. Me mam’s pleased I stayed in Wenfield.’
‘Of course she is,’ Albert smiled. ‘Is there a police car available?’
‘There’s one over at New Mills, sir.’
‘Ask if we can borrow it. Fancy a trip to the Lakes?’
Smith’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm. ‘Oh yes, sir.’ Then the smile disappeared. ‘But what will Sarge say? I’ll have to get his permission.’
‘Leave that to me,’ said Albert with a confidence he didn’t feel. Smith was under Teague’s supervision, not his.
He made for Teague’s office, resolving to tell, not ask. Teague didn’t look pleased, but Albert pressed home the point that his mission was in the national interest and in the end it was agreed that he and Smith would travel up to Bowness in the New Mills police car. Hopefully, they’d return with the missing Member of Parliament.
Smith was a good driver. He had learned on the country roads of Derbyshire so the winding lanes of the Lake District held no fear for him.
Albert had never experienced the beauty of that particular part of the world before so he sat in the passenger seat enjoying the passing scenery, awed by its wild magnificence.
They arrived in the small lakeside town of Bowness in the late afternoon. It was a fine spring day and Albert stood by Lake Windermere breathing in the pure air and watching a stately steam yacht chugging across the vast expanse of glistening water. There were other craft too; sailing yachts and rowing boats. Despite all this activity, the scene was peaceful and leisurely as the green mountains beyond the lake reared up to touch the pale blue sky. It was a world away from Bermondsey and Albert’s spirits soared. People had written poetry about this place and recorded its loveliness in watercolours and oils. It was a place that could heal the soul and he could have stayed there for ever if he hadn’t had a job to do.
Having located the police station, Smith went on ahead and Albert followed. A stiff breeze had begun to blow in from the lake and people were hurrying towards their homes, hotels or guest houses, ready for their evening meals. When they reached the stone-built police station that reminded Albert of Wenfield’s own, the sergeant, a large man with a good-humoured smile, invited them behind the front desk and shook Albert’s hand heartily. Here the man from Scotland Yard was a welcome guest rather than a usurping nuisance.
‘Well, we’re honoured. Scotland Yard,’ he said, as though he couldn’t quite believe it. ‘I’ll get one of the lads to take you up there, if you want.’
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you, Sergeant. I’d rather not alarm the gentleman. Discretion’s the watchword here.’
The sergeant looked disappointed, as though he’d been anticipating a bit of excitement and his plans had been thwarted. ‘I understand, sir. I’ll give you the directions.’
He was as good as his word and soon Albert and Smith were driving uphill, making for an isolated stone cottage with a ribbon of smoke rising from the chimney. The small Ford parked near the outhouse bore the correct registration, which told them they’d come to the right place.
‘You stay in the car, Smith. It’s best if I go in alone.’
As Albert got out of the car Smith wished him luck, although Albert was sure he wouldn’t need it – until he reached the front door and felt a tingle of nerves in his stomach.
He knocked on the door with the knuckles of his right hand, his maimed left hand tucked into the folds of his coat. No matter how many times he told himself that he should be proud of the scars earned in the service of his country, he tended to feel self-conscious when meeting people for the first time, especially individuals of Henry Billinge’s social standing.
There was no answer so he knocked again. This time the door opened a few inches, but he couldn’t see who was behind it.
‘Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for a gentleman called Henry Billinge.’
The door moved as though it was about to be shut in his face. Albert put his hand out to stop it.
‘It’s nothing to worry about. His family and friends are worried about him and I need to reassure them that he’s safe.’
The door opened a little wider. ‘Who are you? What’s your name?’
Though Albert still couldn’t see the man on the other side of the door, he could hear the anxiety in his well-spoken voice.
‘My name’s Albert Lincoln,’ he said. ‘Detective Inspector, Scotland Yard. I’ve spoken to Mr Billinge’s wife … and Clara.’
Now the door opened fully and Albert recognised the man he’d only seen before in a photograph, proudly posed, every inch the confident MP. The Henry Billinge who stood before him had lost his veneer of pride and prosperity and somehow this made him look more human.
‘Mr Billinge? May I come in?’
The man stood aside to allow Albert to enter. As he did so, he removed his hat and found himself in a cosy parlour with a fire glowing in the hearth. The ceiling was low and Albert had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the oak beams. The diamond-paned windows were too small to let in much light, so it took his eyes a while to adjust to the gloom. It was a few moments before he noticed the other person in the room; a slim, fair-haired man sitting on the edge of a chair beside an old gate-legged table. He was considerably younger than Billinge and dressed casually with his shirt open at the neck. Albert could see uncertainty in his eyes. And something else: fear.
‘This is my private secretary, Sydney Wade.’ Billinge seemed to be regaining his confidence.
‘I expect you needed to get away from London to conduct some parliamentary business that couldn’t be done in Sir William’s house.’ Albert looked Billinge in the eye and gave a discreet nod, as if to let him know that he understood the true situation.
‘That’s it exactly, Inspector. I’m sorry you’ve been troubled.’ Albert could hear the relief in his voice. And gratitude too.
‘You really should have told someone your plans. As I said, people have been worried. They called in Scotland Yard to look for you.’
‘I realise that now. I’m sorry. There’s no telephone here, but if you could let people know I’m safe …’
‘Of course, sir.’ Albert caught a meaningful glance between Billinge and Wade.
There was a long silence before Billinge spoke again. ‘As you said, I needed to get away. The pressure of … You say you’ve spoken to Clara. How is she?’
‘Well, I think.’
‘I’m afraid I walked out of Tarnhey Court because I was furious with William for the way he treated her and I couldn’t keep up the pretence of civility any longer. I apologise for causing so much trouble. I only intended to be away overnight and return with some excuse about being called away urgently to my constituency, but …’ He glanced at Wade. ‘When I called Sydney to tell him what I’d done, he offered to come up North to join me. It was then I realised I couldn’t keep up the pretence. The life I was living was based on lies – my marriage, my career, everything. I did intend to go back, but in the end I couldn’t bear it any longer.’
His eyes widened in panic and Albert could see they were brimming with unshed tears.
‘You’re a policeman, so I shouldn’t be telling you this.’
‘I can keep confidences,’ said Albert quietly. ‘Unless you’ve committed murder or robbery, whatever you tell me will go no further, I promise.’
It was half a minute before Billinge spoke again. ‘I’ve been making plans,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Dreaming about disappearing for good – going to the South o
f France with Sydney. I even thought about leaving my clothes on a beach somewhere to make everyone believe I was dead.’
‘What about your wife?’
‘My marriage to Anne is one of convenience, Inspector. She has her own private life and neither of us ask too many questions. But I see now that faking my death was a stupid idea. It would have been the coward’s way out – and in the war I was never a coward. I realise I’ll have to go back and face the music.’
There was a vulnerability about Billinge that made Albert warm to him. ‘One of the reasons people were so worried about you is that the body of a man answering your description was found in countryside near Wenfield, not far from Tarnhey Court. The man had been stripped of his clothes and his face battered to a pulp. The post-mortem revealed that he’d been poisoned with laudanum.’
A look of horror passed across Billinge’s face. ‘And you thought it was me?’
‘At first. Until your wife provided us with certain information that confirmed the body wasn’t yours.’
‘He was like me, you say?’
‘The same height and build, although the face …’
‘Clearly someone didn’t want the poor blighter recognised.’ He shook his head. ‘Which rather suggests he was known in Wenfield, don’t you think?’
‘Nobody’s come forward to identify him or report him missing.’
The MP frowned, as though he was trying to retrieve some elusive memory.
‘I wonder … At the dinner at Tarnhey Court on the Saturday night we began discussing the plight of ex-servicemen; people who’d fought in the war and had come back injured or suffering from shell shock so were unable to resume the lives they’d had in civvy street. Some are homeless, begging in the streets. William and I agreed that something needed to be done. Then one of the ladies said she’d seen a tramp the previous week and she wondered whether he was one of those unfortunate men. One of the men said he’d seen a similar man walking on the road leading to Wenfield. He’d felt sorry for him, so he stopped his motor car to speak to him. Well spoken, he said he was. Possibly a former officer who’d fallen on hard times.’
‘Which guest are you talking about?’
‘I forget the name. He manages one of the mills in Wenfield. His wife was with him, but she spent much of the evening being lectured by that vicar chap.’
‘Mr Jones?’
‘That’s him. Wife’s a lot younger than he is; looked bored stiff.’
‘Did he say anything else about the man he spoke to?’
‘Afraid not. Soon after that the conversation turned to politics.’
‘Surely the problems faced by former soldiers should be the concern of politicians,’ Albert said sharply.
‘Of course,’ Billinge said smoothly. ‘That goes without saying.’
Albert wasn’t sure whether to believe in his sincerity. His initial humanity had gradually been replaced by the well-practised veneer of the professional politician. He noticed Wade was watching him warily, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do.
‘What are your immediate plans, Mr Billinge?’
The politician sighed. ‘I’ll return to Liverpool tomorrow,’ he said with a cold smile. ‘If you could let the relevant people know I’m safe and well, I’d be very grateful.’
‘I’m sorry to have intruded,’ said Albert, reaching for his hat, which he’d placed on a table near the door.
‘You were only doing your duty, Inspector.’ He hesitated and glanced at Wade. ‘And I’m sure I can rely on your discretion.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Albert was suddenly anxious to be out of there. He needed to get back to Wenfield as soon as possible. Henry Billinge would have to look after himself.
Chapter 63
Rose
I cry most of the night and the wardress tells me to shut up. She says if I didn’t like it in here I shouldn’t have murdered my husband. It’s no use telling her I didn’t, because she doesn’t believe me. Everyone in here swears they’re innocent, she says with a nasty smirk on her face.
They still won’t let me have any books and I’ve stopped asking. It was because of a book that I’m in here in the first place. The Garden of Secrets. I sometimes wonder what Cecilia Yarmouth is like; whether she actually murdered her husband like in her book. I doubt it. The thought that my dream of being with my Darling Man might one day come true was the only thing that made my horrible existence bearable, but I don’t think anyone will believe me. And now Ronald’s been arrested, accused of stabbing Bert in an alleyway so he could be with me. I must find a way to convince them that they’ve got it wrong.
I’ve asked to see Inspector Lincoln, but they say he won’t come. I’m not important enough for a detective from Scotland Yard. I’m just a murdering bitch who did away with her innocent husband.
But there are things I’ve got to tell him. I need to see him.
Chapter 64
The return journey to Wenfield seemed to take longer than the drive up to Bowness but Smith assured Albert that it was just his imagination. Albert knew he was right. His impatience to speak to Jones made every minute seem like five.
Smith asked about Billinge, but Albert was discreet. Mr Billinge, he said, had wanted to get away to think over a problem in his political life and make a decision about his future. He’d been so preoccupied that he’d forgotten to inform anybody of his whereabouts. Now that he’d been found safe and well, the matter was closed. It was the truth, so far as it went, and Smith seemed satisfied with the explanation.
When Albert asked Smith to take him straight to Jones’s house, the young man looked uncertain. ‘Shouldn’t you make an appointment, sir? He might not like being disturbed at this time on a Sunday night.’
‘I’m investigating a murder, Smith. He might be in charge at the mill, but I need to ask him some questions.’
On the way back from Bowness he’d told Smith about the stranger Jones had encountered a week before the Tarnhey Court dinner. And the constable had put into words what Albert had been thinking. Why hadn’t Mr Jones said anything about the incident before?
It was almost eleven by the time they reached Wenfield and Albert reluctantly agreed with Smith that a late visit to Jones’s home might not be welcome. He’d have to curb his impatience and catch the man first thing the next morning.
After a restless night at the Black Horse he rose early but instead of heading for the police station he arrived at Jones’s front door at eight thirty precisely. The maid who answered looked flustered by his arrival and told him the master had already gone to the mill. He always liked to make a prompt start. Albert thanked her and set off, arriving ten minutes later at the offices where Bert Pretting’s colleagues were working away at their desks. He was surprised when George Yelland rose to his feet and hurried over to him.
‘Can I have a word, Inspector?’
‘Of course. But it’ll have to wait until I’ve seen Mr Jones. Hopefully I won’t be long.’
The young man looked anxious, but then that seemed to be his default expression. Albert gave him a reassuring smile and saw Yelland return to his seat, fidgeting with his shirt cuffs.
He knew Janet Reynolds was at her post from the clatter of her typewriter and when he entered her office she looked up and smiled. ‘Morning, Inspector. What can I do for you this time?’
When he told her, she showed no surprise. Instead she made straight for the door which bore the name A Jones Esq in gold letters and knocked. When she opened the door, Jones was sitting behind his grand oak desk on a chair that resembled a throne; as he rose to his feet, Albert could tell he was trying to control his irritation.
‘I assure you, Inspector, I’ve already told you everything I know about Pretting’s death and Mr Billinge’s disappearance.’
‘Mr Billinge has been found. I’ve spoken to him.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Now if that’s all you’ve come to tell me, I’m a busy man.’
‘Mr Billinge to
ld me you spoke to a man about a week before Sir William’s dinner. A tramp – possibly an old soldier, he said. Is that true?’
Jones hesitated, as though he wanted to choose his words carefully. ‘I saw the chap by the side of the road and stopped the motor. He was a tramp; shabby clothes, haversack. I asked him if he’d fought in the war and he said he had, so I asked him if he wanted a lift anywhere. I felt sorry for him. Not right for a man to serve his country only to end up like that.’
‘Did he tell you anything about himself?’
‘I asked him what he did before the war. It was at the back of my mind that I might find some employment for him in the mill, you see. Trouble is, he couldn’t remember, poor chap. All he knew was that he’d been injured by a shell blast and he’d lost his memory completely, to the point he couldn’t recall anything that might help identify him. Didn’t even know where it happened, only that it was somewhere in France. He told me he’d been in a hospital in Buxton for a while, then he’d left once he started to remember bits and pieces about his life before the war.’
‘Did he say what he was doing here in Wenfield?’
‘Looking for his wife, he said. When he was in hospital he saw her picture in a newspaper. This was a while ago, but he hadn’t been well enough to try and find her at the time.’
‘Did he say which paper it was?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Do you remember anything else he said?’
‘He told me that when he left hospital he went to the place where he used to live but he found strangers living there. The lady there had been kind, he said, and she’d told him the last tenant moved out without leaving a forwarding address. But she thought the person had moved to this area. High Peak.’
‘Did he say where he used to live?’
‘No. It was all rather vague, I’m afraid.’
‘Did he tell you his name?’
‘The people at the hospital had called him Tommy. He couldn’t remember his real name, but he kept saying he was sure he would, given time.’