by Ellis, Kate
‘No, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t a place I knew. I said it was Bridge but it could have been Ridge. The master said it was in Cheshire.’
‘Mabley Ridge?’ The question was tentative, as though Albert couldn’t quite bring himself to say the name.
The maid’s eyes lit up in recognition. ‘That could be it. Mabley Ridge.’
‘Have they left anything here?’
The maid shook her head. ‘The place was let furnished so the big stuff’s still here. But apart from that they’ve taken the lot.’ She frowned. ‘Unusual, that. People normally leave something behind, don’t they? Something they’ve forgotten or they don’t want. Anyway, I won’t have to worry about other people’s mess no more. I’ve got a job at the mill. Regular hours and better pay. I’ve had enough of being at people’s beck and call.’
‘Did you know the last vicar, the Reverend Bell?’
Her expression softened. ‘Oh yes. He was such a nice man, the old reverend. So sad about him passing away like that.’
‘Do you remember him visiting this house around the time he died?’
She gave the question some thought and when she answered, Albert knew his theory had been proved right.
‘Did anyone visit this house about two to three weeks ago. A middle-aged man. A stranger?’
She frowned, trying to remember. ‘A man did arrive with the master in his motor car, but he wasn’t dressed like a gentleman, although he did speak proper. Looked like a tramp, he did.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not as tall as you. Worn clothes, worn shoes. Straggly grey hair. Beard. Smelled a bit. Like I said, I thought he was a tramp – someone who’d fallen on hard times.’
‘What happened?’
‘The master took him in the drawing room – which was strange, ’cause usually people like that are given something to eat in the kitchen. I hoped they weren’t going to offer him a bed for the night. I mean, I wouldn’t have fancied washing them clothes. Anyway, later the master came out and told me he was an old soldier from his regiment and he was going to give him some money and send him on his way.’
‘Did he?’
‘I suppose so, but I didn’t see him go. The mistress said I’d been working hard and why didn’t I take the week off to go and see my sister. Said I was to go right away. I wasn’t going to argue, was I?’
‘Was she usually so thoughtful?’
The maid shrugged. ‘Known worse.’
Albert thanked her, raising his hat in salute and wishing her luck before he and Smith returned to the police station in silence, Albert anticipating the smirk on Teague’s face when he broke the news that their birds had flown. But he wasn’t giving up. There was a constable he remembered at Mabley Ridge police station, Constable Mitchell, a young man who had proved his worth when he’d conducted the investigation there the previous year. Like Smith, he’d been too young to experience the horrors of war and, like Smith, he hadn’t acquired the cynicism and arrogance that the likes of Teague sometimes develop as the arbiters of law and order in a small community. As soon as they entered the police station he told Smith he had a telephone call to make.
To his relief, Constable Mitchell was still stationed at Mabley Ridge and the young man seemed delighted to hear Albert’s voice. His eagerness when Albert outlined what he wanted him to do reminded Albert of an enthusiastic sheepdog, waiting with pricked ears for his master’s next instruction.
When Albert told Mitchell he’d better inform his sergeant, Mitchell replied that he’d received promotion and was now in charge, his pride at the news almost palpable. Albert congratulated him and said the promotion was well deserved. He was pleased for the young man.
Now it was just a matter of waiting for Albert’s quarry to be found.
Chapter 70
Rose
It begins today. When I was growing up my parents used to say that all you can do is tell the truth and you’ll be all right, but now I fear that won’t be enough. They’ve made up their minds that I’m guilty. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
The wardresses tell me to wash and dress. They’ve brought me my own clothes – my best blue dress and the hat I bought in a sale in Stockport just after Christmas. That’s blue too and Bert told me off for buying it, saying I had too many hats already. Then he hit me across my back so hard I fell over. Bert said it was all my fault. That’s what he always said.
My barrister is shabby with a black gown that’s faded to dark grey. He barely listens to a word I say and he smells of stale cigars. I can’t afford an expensive one from London. The wardresses say that will go against me. They say the prosecution will get a King’s Counsel who’s very clever and will run rings round my man. They say I’m bound to hang.
It’s time to go now. There are steep steps up to the dock and when I stand at the bottom and look up at them I feel dizzy.
I’m scared. I don’t want to hang.
Chapter 71
The next morning Albert was taking off his hat and coat when he was interrupted by Sergeant Teague, who burst in with a grin of triumph on his face, as though he’d been awarded some sort of prize.
‘The trial starts today.’
Albert sank into his chair. During the past few days he’d been so busy pursuing his enquiries that the imminent legal process that could well end the lives of Rose Pretting and her alleged lover had been pushed to the back of his mind.
‘Don’t suppose it’ll take long. Open-and-shut case, if you ask me.’
Albert decided not to contradict the man. He was still waiting for Mrs Greenbaum’s report from London. Until then he had no solid evidence that Teague was wrong.
The sergeant left him alone with his feeling of helplessness. He was convinced of Rose Pretting’s innocence but he knew those letters found in her wardrobe were bound to damn her and Kelly in the eyes of any jury.
He stared at the telephone, wondering whether to call Sam Poltimore to see whether there’d been any word from Mrs Greenbaum, but he knew Sam would let him know if there was any news.
Then there was the other call he was expecting. Sergeant Mitchell had promised to make enquiries, although he knew the maid could have been wrong about Mabley Ridge and Mitchell’s efforts might come to nothing.
He was sure Bert Pretting’s murder was linked to his blackmailing activities and the fact that he’d kept the secret notebook that appeared to contain details of his victims’ payments seemed to be evidence of the connection. There had been no full names; just a single initial beside the sums of money, so the identity of most of Pretting’s victims remained a mystery. But Mrs Jenkins was the exception. The fact that her old address in Liverpool was there in full must be significant. And it was up to Albert to discover why.
After losing her husband in the war the woman had moved away from her large and comfortable home in Fulwood Park without leaving a forwarding address – like the people who may or may not have moved to Mabley Ridge. Soon after the telegram had arrived to tell Mrs Jenkins she was a widow, a man had started to visit her; a man the maid, Mavis, thought was a colleague of the late Mr Jenkins, although she’d never been told his name. Albert’s instincts, honed by his years at Scotland Yard, told him he was on the right track, especially with Peggy Derwent’s statement to back up his suspicions.
He was deep in thought when the telephone on his desk rang. The sudden sound made him jump and he snatched the receiver, his heart pounding.
‘Inspector Lincoln speaking.’
It was Sam Poltimore and Albert pressed the receiver closer to his ear, hoping for news.
‘Mrs Greenbaum called in first thing. I put her report in the post as soon as she left, so with any luck it should be with you later today.’
Albert sat up straight. ‘What does it say? Was I right?’
‘You were.’
‘I’ll wait for it to arrive then. Two people’s lives depend on it.’
‘And I thought you might be interested to know th
at Thomas Gillit – alias Tommy Gillingham – has been arrested on a charge of fraud. Found rather a lot of cash in the flat he occupied behind his so-called church. Gifts from well-wishers, he said. When I challenged him about his contact with the “spirits”, he said he was only telling people what they wanted to hear. He was in the business of keeping people happy and they paid for the privilege. I couldn’t believe he was so brazen about it. He claims he’s done nothing against the law, but I’m sure I can find a few charges that’ll stick if I put my mind to it.’ There was a long pause before Sam spoke again. ‘I called on your mother-in-law to break the good news, but she wasn’t in. Do you want to tell her yourself?’
Albert pondered the question. Did he really want to witness Vera’s reaction when she discovered she’d been duped? The answer to that question was no. No amount of anger or revenge would bring Mary back – or their little Frederick.
‘No, Sam. I think I’ll leave it. She’s just lost Mary so there’s no need to make things worse for her than they already are, eh.’
As soon as Sam rang off another call came through. This time it was from Sergeant Mitchell at Mabley Ridge. And it was good news.
Chapter 72
Constable Smith’s eyes lit up when Albert told him to commandeer the motor car again. The young man had taken to driving, something Albert had never felt inclined to master. For one thing his injured leg would make it difficult. For another, he was uncomfortable with the speed of motor cars, the potential loss of control.
Albert sat back in the passenger seat while Smith crunched the gears, making the engine roar louder as they drove down a series of country lanes until they reached Mabley Ridge, the village that was home to Charlotte Day. Although if – as he suspected from his conversation with Simon Fellowes – the child she’d adopted was dead, then making contact with her would cause both of them immeasurable pain.
Approaching the centre of the village they passed the gate that led to the Ridge itself, an expanse of thick woodland sheltering ancient mine workings and quarries, ending in a dramatic sandstone escarpment; a high place affording a view over Manchester’s vast huddle of belching mill chimneys. It was from this place, Oak Tree Edge, that a murderer had fallen to his death all those months before, although his body had never been recovered. It was a brooding, sinister place and Albert had hoped never to set foot there again.
Mabley Ridge itself wasn’t a typical Cheshire village. The small terraces clustered behind the shops in the centre mainly housed the staff who worked in the big houses that had become the village’s raison d’être. With the coming of the railway, Manchester’s wealthy cotton barons had built their grand houses there and when the people in the village centre called them the ‘Cottontots’, the title had stuck. It was there the previous September that Albert had brought a pair of killers to justice. He’d also managed to rescue a damaged young man and he’d met Gwen Davies, who’d been teaching at the village school. Mabley Ridge was filled with memories. Not all of them good.
Smith parked the motor car outside the police station and when they entered the building Albert was delighted to see Mitchell behind the polished front desk, standing proudly with his sergeant’s stripes on his arm.
His open face broke into a smile as soon as he spotted Albert.
‘Sir. It’s good to see you again,’ he said, taking Albert’s offered right hand.
‘And you, Mitchell. How are things in Mabley Ridge?’
‘Quiet since you were here last.’
Albert hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about Abraham Stark? Have they found the body?’ The question brought back the memory of how Mitchell’s predecessor, the man who’d presided over the police station for many years, had been unmasked as a ruthless killer. Together with his female accomplice he’d killed anybody, including innocent children, who’d threatened to uncover their hidden obsession. The very thought of the case still chilled his heart.
‘No, he was never found,’ said Mitchell. ‘Probably crawled off somewhere to die. Bones’ll turn up eventually, I dare say.’
‘Expect so,’ said Albert, before going on to enquire about some of the people he’d encountered in the course of his last investigation, starting with Peter, the boy who lived in the cemetery lodge. Peter had found the body of a woman and later he’d been rescued from certain death at Stark’s hands. Albert was pleased to hear that the boy was doing well and that the new schoolteacher, Gwen’s replacement, had taken him under her wing.
Once he’d caught up with the news, it was time to come to the reason for his visit.
‘You said you’d tracked down my suspect.’
Mitchell nodded. ‘A house near the Ridge has been lying empty for a while but it’s just been let furnished to new people. A couple answering the description you gave me.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I can give you some men as back-up, if you need any.’
Albert thanked him and said he’d go himself with Smith – although he might need help later if it came to an arrest.
Pleasantries over, Albert told Smith to drive to the address Mitchell had provided and ten minutes later the constable brought the motor car to a halt outside a pretty brick cottage with dusty diamond-paned windows and low gables. The small cottage garden was overgrown with weeds and the privet hedge needed trimming. Roses grew around the door but the leaves were spotted with black and the blooms dying. A motor car was parked at the side of the house in front of a tumbledown wooden shed. If this was the right place it certainly wasn’t as well appointed as the occupants’ last accommodation.
‘Fallen on hard times?’ Smith suggested as they waited at the door.
‘Or they wanted to get out of Wenfield fast, which suggests they know we’re on to them.’
There was no sign of life in the cottage but as Albert turned to leave a young woman appeared at the gate. She wore a cheap felt hat and a shabby grey coat and she was carrying a wicker basket over her arm. The basket looked full and heavy and when she spotted them she put it down on the ground, her eyes alight with curiosity.
‘Can I help you?’ she said, eyeing Smith warily. To most people a call from a policeman signified trouble.
‘We’re looking for the people who’ve taken this property. I believe they moved in yesterday.’ He said the name and the girl shook her head.
‘The people who’ve moved in are called Johnson. Mr and Mrs Johnson from Manchester – renting this place while they look for something bigger, they said.’
‘You work for them?’
The girl sniffed. ‘I worked for the last people and the new ones asked me to come in to help out,’ she said, as though the thought of being in service was beneath her. ‘Why?’
‘Can you describe them?’
The thorough description she gave hinted at an observant mind. Albert thought she was a loss to the police force.
‘Do you know where they are now?’
‘When I saw them first thing they said they were going for a walk on the Ridge. People from town seem to like walking there, not that I can understand it – place gives me the creeps. They like the view from Oak Tree Edge, I’m told. I said to be careful,’ she added with another sniff.
‘What time will they be back?’
‘No idea,’ she said as though to emphasise that she wasn’t their servant.
Albert thanked the young woman and headed back to the road as she disappeared into the house.
‘I know the Ridge quite well,’ he said to Smith, who was trailing behind him. ‘If they’ve gone to Oak Tree Edge I can find the way.’
‘Very well, sir.’
From Smith’s tone, Albert suspected that the woman’s warnings about the Ridge were making him nervous.
‘On second thoughts, maybe we should wait for them here.’ Albert had fought bravely in the war and his sudden attack of cowardice took him by surprise. Why should he fear a place so much when he had faced a determined enemy on the battlefield? Ashamed of his own foolishness
, he began to make for the road but as soon as he reached the gate he saw two figures in the distance; a man and a woman emerging from the gate on the opposite side of the road; the gate that led to the woodland around the Ridge.
He touched Smith’s sleeve and nodded towards the cottage. Concealing themselves behind the hedge would give them the advantage of surprise.
The wait seemed interminable and Albert stood silently, trying to ignore the cramp in his injured leg. He began to flex it to relieve the pain and saw Smith watching him with sympathy in his eyes. Albert stopped moving. He didn’t want the young man’s pity.
He could hear voices approaching, tense and argumentative. The pair were having a row.
Albert caught the words ‘It’s your fault’ followed by ‘They hadn’t a clue and now we’re stuck in this dump for nothing. We should have stayed put.’
The reply came swiftly and angrily. ‘That inspector was sniffing around. We couldn’t take the risk.’
He and Smith flattened themselves against the hedge as the gate opened with a loud creak. The couple Albert had once known as Mr and Mrs Ogden were making for the front door, too preoccupied to notice Albert and Smith standing behind them.
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mrs Jenkins. It is Mrs Jenkins, isn’t it?’
The woman swung round, a look of horror on her face. Albert saw the man take her hand, gripping it tightly.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You used the name Ogden in Wenfield and now you’re calling yourselves Mr and Mrs Johnson. Why is that?’
The man who spoke gave Albert the honest smile of a practised liar. ‘If you want the truth, we’re in debt, old chap. On the run from our creditors. Made some bad investments and the bloody war put paid to my business.’ The statement was smooth and confident. If Albert didn’t possess the policeman’s naturally suspicious mind, he’d probably have believed him.