by Ellis, Kate
The following day he walked to the railway station and caught the train to Manchester. From there he caught another train to Liverpool, arriving at Lime Street station in the middle of the morning. He had the address George Yelland had found hidden at the back of Bert Pretting’s drawer, but before he went there he decided to visit the Dale Street offices of the insurance company who’d once employed Bert Pretting.
Fortunately their chief clerk had worked there for some years and he remembered Pretting well, although from the guarded way he spoke about him Albert guessed he hadn’t liked him very much. The chief clerk was a small, thin man, too old to have served in the war, who wore a stiff collar which looked as though it was biting into his neck. When Albert broke the news of Pretting’s murder, the man expressed shock and the customary willingness of the law-abiding citizen to help the police bring his killer to justice. Albert didn’t mention the fact that Rose had already been charged. In his opinion this would only prove a distraction.
When he asked for a list of the customers Pretting had dealt with, the chief clerk vanished into a back office and as soon as he’d gone the other clerks looked up from their desks and ledgers and stared like curious cattle. A visit from Scotland Yard was providing some welcome entertainment.
The chief clerk returned with a typewritten list on flimsy paper and presented it to Albert, who thanked him and left, reluctant to study it in front of an audience.
Once he was outside the building he began to read, oblivious to the passing traffic. He was looking for one address in particular, the one he’d found in the back of Bert Pretting’s notebook, and when he saw it on the list he experienced a thrill of triumph. In his excitement he was almost run over by a horse-drawn lorry as he crossed the street, but he carried on towards the station where he caught the train to Aigburth. The journey seemed frustratingly slow but Albert fought his impatience, wondering whether his destination – a place called Fulwood Park – was anywhere near Gwen Davies’s house.
As it turned out, the address wasn’t too far from Gwen’s. Only in contrast this house was a large Italianate stucco villa set in its own spacious gardens behind a pair of substantial gateposts. There were steps up to a grand front door with tall bay windows either side overlooking the entrance.
He climbed the flight of stone steps, ignoring the pain in his leg, and rang the doorbell. A maid wearing a starched cap and apron opened the door and gave him a wary look. She was thin and in her fifties, and when Albert introduced himself she looked alarmed and put her hand to her mouth.
‘Oh Lord, what’s happened? It’s not the master, is it?’
Albert interrupted before she could carry on. ‘Can you tell me who lives here?’
‘Mr and Mrs Bethel. Mr Bethel went to London on business this morning. Has there been an accident? As if losing the boys wasn’t bad enough for the poor lady—’
She had obviously jumped to the wrong conclusion and Albert felt obliged to put her out of her misery. ‘Mr Bethel’s quite safe as far as I’m aware. Can I speak to Mrs Bethel?’
The woman sniffed. ‘I’ll tell her you’re here.’
He waited in the wide hallway with its gracious mahogany staircase, wondering what Mr Bethel did for a living. Trading with the rest of the world had made many in the city wealthy while the not-so-fortunate still lived in poverty, just as they did in his native London.
He didn’t have to wait long before the maid returned and showed him into an elegant drawing room where a plump middle-aged woman rose to greet him with a worried frown on her face. She invited him to sit and ordered tea, for which Albert was grateful.
‘What can I do for you, Inspector? Mavis says it’s not about my husband, so I don’t really see …’
Mrs Bethel looked the sensible type so Albert decided on complete honesty. He explained about the address at the back of Bert Pretting’s notebook and the fact that her address had featured on the list of Pretting’s customers at the insurance company. He sat back and awaited her reaction.
Unexpectedly she smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I can’t help you. You see my husband and I only moved into this house two years ago. And before you ask, I’ve never had any dealings with that particular insurance company and I certainly haven’t heard of this Bertram Pretting.’
Albert did his best to hide his disappointment. ‘Who used to live here?’
‘The previous occupant was a widow who’d lost her husband in the war. Terribly sad. I believe her name was Jenkins and her husband was in shipping before he went away to do his bit. Such a tragedy.’ She looked at Albert’s maimed hand, her eyes full of sympathy. ‘You were lucky to get through it alive, I see.’
‘Yes. I was.’
‘Our two sons both died on the Somme,’ she said simply, glancing at the pair of silver-framed photographs on the mantelpiece; handsome young men in the prime of life. Beside the pictures were two bronze plaques; people called them ‘death pennies’, sent to the bereaved by the War Office to acknowledge their relatives’ sacrifice. Some people had discarded them in anger. But Mrs Bethel kept hers in pride of place – a permanent memorial to those she’d lost.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Albert, unable to think of any more suitable words.
She straightened her back and stared ahead. ‘You have to carry on, don’t you. You can’t give up.’
Albert nodded in reply. She was right. Life went on, even though things would never be the same. There was a lengthy pause before he asked his next question: ‘Do you know where Mrs Jenkins went?’
‘You’re the second person to ask that.’
Albert sat forward, suddenly alert. ‘Who else has been asking?’
‘A man came to the door. Poor chap looked very confused when he saw me, and I assumed he was a tramp. We have them coming to the back door from time to time asking for food and money, but they’re not usually bold enough to use the front. He demanded to know what I was doing here and where his wife was, and I had to tell him that I didn’t know his wife. Then it dawned on me that he might be looking for the last tenant, Mrs Jenkins, and his eyes lit up as soon as I’d said the name, as though he recognised it. He was fairly polite – unlike some of them. Mavis has had trouble with some who won’t take no for an answer.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘He asked where Mrs Jenkins was and I told him she’d moved to Derbyshire. High Peak. A village near New Mills beginning with a W. That’s all I remembered. Mavis might have known, but it was her day off.’
‘She worked for the Jenkins?’
‘That’s right. I inherited her, as it were.’
Albert felt a prickle of excitement. ‘Would you mind if I spoke to her?’
Mrs Bethel rang the bell at the side of the fireplace.
When Mavis hurried in he asked her to sit down and she glanced at her mistress for permission. Mrs Bethel gave her a gracious nod. ‘The inspector wants to ask you about Mrs Jenkins who used to live here,’ she explained.
Albert asked his questions and by the time he left the house he thought he had most of the answers he needed. But as Mavis showed him out he had one last question to ask her in private.
‘After her husband died, did Mrs Jenkins have a gentleman friend?’
Mavis gave a conspiratorial nod. ‘Very soon after she got the telegram this gentleman started to call. She said he was a colleague of Mr Jenkins, but they used to closet themselves away – told me not to disturb them.’ She gave him a knowing look. ‘Good job Mr Jenkins’ old father had passed away a few weeks earlier, so he never knew about his son being killed.’ She paused and leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘He never liked the mistress, you know. I overheard a terrific row once – called her a gold-digger, he did.’
‘The gentleman who visited Mrs Jenkins after her husband was killed – what was his name?’
‘I don’t think she ever told me.’
‘Can you describe Mrs Jenkins and this gentleman.’
She gave a description tha
t could have fitted a hundred people in early middle age but in spite of this Albert had the feeling that he was on the right track at last.
On the way back to the station he passed the end of Gwen’s road. She would be finishing work around now so he lingered, keeping her house in sight. He wanted to speak to her; to tell her about Mary. But she didn’t appear so he caught the train back, thinking that it might have been for the best that he hadn’t seen her. Besides, he needed to return to Wenfield. And, with any luck, he’d soon be able to make an arrest.
Chapter 68
When Albert reached the police station, Smith rushed out to greet him before he’d even had a chance to remove his hat.
‘I’ve been looking through the local papers from around six months ago, like you asked, and I found a photograph of Mrs Jones in the High Peak Clarion. She was at a dinner in New Mills with her husband. The local Business Circle. Very grand do, by the look of it.’
‘Anybody else?’
‘Sir William and Lady Cartwright were there too. And Mr and Mrs Ogden. And Mr Perkins, the chief clerk from the mill, with his good lady. Of course it could have been a lady from New Mills – there were a lot of them there. Then there was an article about that writer woman – Miss Derwent. It was about her new book. Big photograph of her, there was.’
Albert raised his eyebrows. ‘Any other pictures of ladies from around here in the newspapers from that time – apart from the Business Circle and Miss Derwent, that is?’
‘None who’d be the right age, sir. Unless you count a woman who was sent down for pinching from her employer. She got a job as a maid in some big house in Whaley Bridge but her new employer never checked her references so she didn’t know she was an old customer of ours. Pinched a load of jewellery she did – and her old man’s in Strangeways and all so it runs in the family.’
‘Probably not her then.’
‘Well, she might have led a double life in the past. Who knows?’
Albert smiled. Smith’s suppositions reminded him of Rose Pretting’s fantasies. Sometimes, as in Rose’s case, an overactive imagination can be a curse rather than a blessing.
‘I’ve got a job for you, Smith. Can you contact all the vicars in the area and ask them if they received a letter from a nurse enclosing a woman’s photograph. This would have been about six months ago.’
‘All the vicars?’
‘All of them in, say, a thirty-mile radius.’
Although Smith nodded, Albert could tell he felt daunted by the task he’d been given. And when Albert said he was going out he saw a look of disappointment pass across the young man’s face when he said he wanted to make his next visit alone. Walking to the cottage where he and Flora had once met and made love was bound to bring back memories and he hadn’t wanted anyone else to share the journey.
He found Peggy Derwent at home, although he could tell she was irritated at being disturbed.
‘I’ve just got back from London,’ she said peevishly as she walked ahead of him into the parlour.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you again,’ he said as she lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She didn’t offer him one; clearly she didn’t want to encourage him to stay longer than necessary.
‘Were you working?’
‘I’m always working. That’s what writers do. Even when I’m out walking, I’m working. People don’t realise that.’
She sat down but Albert remained standing.
‘Why don’t you sit down. You’re making me uneasy, looming over me like that.’
Albert did as he was told. ‘About six months ago your picture appeared in a local newspaper.’
‘I seem to recall that I gave a talk at a literary society around that time.’
‘Somebody saw your picture and recognised you.’ He paused. ‘Your husband.’
She froze, cigarette in hand, unaware when a worm of ash dropped onto her skirt.
‘What do you know about my husband?’ she whispered after a long silence.
‘That he came here looking for you. That he ended up dead in a cave with his face battered beyond recognition. You were seen with him.’
‘Who by?’
‘Mr Jones. The manager of Gem Mill.’
There was another long silence before she spoke again. ‘Mr Jones can’t possibly have seen me with my husband because my husband’s dead. All I have left of him is a photograph.’
She rose, walked to the sideboard and opened a drawer. The photograph she took out and handed to Albert was of a man in uniform – only it wasn’t the sort of uniform Albert had expected to see. The soldier in the picture was German.
‘Now you know why I value my privacy and never talk about my past. I heard that some local women banded together to torment men they considered too cowardly to fight. Can you imagine the reaction if they found out I’d married the enemy?’
‘Your husband’s dead?’
‘Werner was killed at Passchendaele. One of his friends was kind enough to let me know.’
‘Mr Jones saw you talking to a tramp about a week before the man was found in the cave by the Devil’s Dancers.’
For a moment she looked puzzled. ‘Oh, that man. He just said good morning. He looked rather confused, then as I walked on a motor car drew up and he spoke to the driver. I saw him get in and I remember hoping he was being taken somewhere … safe. I felt sorry for him.’
‘Did you recognise the driver who picked him up?’
She lit another cigarette. ‘Oh yes.’
Albert returned to the station wondering whether there was sufficient evidence to make an arrest. After asking Smith to bring him a cup of tea he closed the office door and sat with the files open in front of him on the desk. After Peggy Derwent’s revelation the picture was gradually becoming clearer. But he wanted to keep Peggy’s name out of it if possible. If Wenfield found out about her past, life might become uncomfortable for her.
When Smith finally brought in his tea some of it had slopped in the saucer, but Albert said nothing about the constable’s domestic failure. Instead he asked him how his enquiries with the clergy of the area were going. Smith said he’d struck lucky with the first vicar he contacted; a vicar whose church was two miles away. He’d kept the letter and the photograph he’d received. Did Albert want him to go and fetch it? The answer was yes. And it would help if he hurried. But before he left he told Smith to ask Teague to join him. He had something to say.
Teague’s first reaction was one of disbelief with a hint of defiance. Bert Pretting’s killer and his accomplice were already in jail awaiting trial so there was no reason to look elsewhere. As for the man at the Devil’s Dancers, he was a vagrant. Probably got into a fight with one of his fellows and the rogue had pinched his clothes. Some people were desperate and the chances of tracking down his killer were slim.
Albert was angered by the man’s stubborn disregard for the facts, in his opinion bordering on stupidity. In the end he stood up, no longer able to control his temper.
‘I’ve told you about the latest developments, Teague. It’s about time you started to use your brains. I want one of your men to go there with me at midday to bring the suspect in for questioning. Smith will do. He’s a bright lad. And nobody’s to breathe a word of this before then. That’s an order.’
It wasn’t often that Albert pulled rank but on this occasion it was necessary. He was almost certain he now knew the killer’s identity. All he needed was the photograph. Once he was holding that, he’d have the proof.
‘You can’t barge in and arrest someone of his standing. It’s not right.’
‘You were quick enough to arrest Dr Kelly.’
‘That’s different. We had lots of evidence against him.’
‘That evidence is unreliable and I’ll prove it. Just do as you’re asked, Sergeant.’ Albert checked his pocket watch.
Teague struggled to disguise his fury at this challenge to his authority. He was used to the station being his kingdom and Albert was usurping his throne
. In the end he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself any longer.
‘You’re wrong. You were wrong back in 1919 and you’re wrong now. If my superiors get to hear you’ve been bothering people of that sort …’
The mention of the events of 1919 made Albert freeze. What if Teague was right? What if he was making a terrible mistake? For a brief moment he began to doubt his own judgement.
‘As soon as Smith returns we’re going. I don’t expect you’ll want to come with us.’
‘I’d rather slit my own throat,’ Teague muttered under his breath, slamming the door as he left the room.
Chapter 69
Albert approached the front door, suddenly nervous even though he knew Constable Smith was standing behind him. Despite his youth, Smith was a comforting presence.
It was a long time before the door was opened by a tired-looking maid who recognised Albert from his last visit and gave him a wary half smile.
‘Sorry, Inspector, they’ve gone away. Paid the rent that was owing, packed up all their things and moved out. The van came yesterday afternoon. They said an elderly relative of the master’s had fallen ill and they wanted to be on hand.’
‘You’ll be going with them?’ Albert asked, looking the girl in the eye.
‘I’m just stopping for a couple of days to clean up. Not that there’s much to do,’ she added with pride as though she didn’t want Albert to think she had neglected her duties while she’d been working there.
‘Do you have their new address?’
‘Sorry, sir, they didn’t leave no forwarding address. They said they’d found somewhere temporary to rent but they might not stay there long.’
‘Did they say where it was?’
She shook her head. ‘I overheard the master talking on the telephone and he mentioned a place. Something Bridge?’
‘Whaley Bridge? That’s not far away,’ Smith piped up. Albert had almost forgotten he was standing behind him. Listening.