by Ellis, Kate
He tried to forget the incident. He was going to court in Manchester that morning, sure that the evidence he’d provided would alter the course of the trial. When he asked Smith to drive him, Teague didn’t look too happy about his constable taking orders from the man he considered to be an outsider. But Albert had more important things to worry about than the sergeant’s sensibilities.
By the time he made it to the court, the trial was about to resume. He had Mrs Greenbaum’s report with him and when he asked to see Rose Pretting’s defence counsel, the man pored over the file with a widening smile on his face.
‘This is pretty conclusive. The woman’s been living in a fantasy world. Too much reading, if you ask me. She keeps going on about wanting her books. Doesn’t seem to realise the gravity of her situation.’
The man shook Albert’s hand and said he’d see that the new evidence was presented to the court. He seemed confident, but Albert wondered if he always acted that way; keeping up the appearance of optimism even in the most hopeless cases.
Albert was tempted to stay for a while and watch the trial from the public gallery, but he had things to do back in Wenfield. He’d just have to trust Rose’s barrister to present the evidence properly. He’d done his bit and now things were out of his control.
Chapter 78
Rose
It seems like a miracle. My barrister read out the report, strutting proudly in front of the jury who, I must say, looked convinced. But my barrister says you can never tell for sure until the verdict comes back. Sometimes juries surprise you, he said.
A lady from London, a Mrs Greenbaum who’s a handwriting expert often consulted by Scotland Yard, examined the letters from my wardrobe. When she compared them with samples of my own writing and Ronald’s, she said it was obvious I’d written them myself. My barrister said this was evidence that I’d been playing out a romantic fantasy, fuelled by my love of novels. He even called Miss Hubbard from the library to say what sort of books I liked to read and how often I went there. He made me sound quite mad. But escaping from reality is never mad when reality is so terrible. Even being in prison is better than putting up with Bert. A lot of people would call that a wicked thing to think, and say that he was my husband till death did us part. But his death came as such a relief. I’ve been told to act like a grieving widow in front of the jury and I keep dabbing my eyes with my handkerchief. I hope it does the trick. Sometimes I catch Ronald glancing at me. His glance is cold, as though he hates me for all the trouble I’ve caused him. But I know that’s a pretence as well.
My barrister tells me the police have arrested someone for the murder of that man we found in the cave. He says they killed the old vicar too, which came as a shock. He says Bert was a blackmailer and that’s why they killed him, and he says their arrest, coupled with the handwriting evidence, is good for me. The more doubt we can put in the minds of the jury, the better.
When the judge says it’s time for lunch and I’m taken down to the cells again, I notice the manner of one of the wardresses has softened. She even gives me a smile before leaving me alone and locking the door. It’s as though she knows I’m innocent and I’ll soon be a free woman.
Chapter 79
Albert hadn’t heard from Henry Billinge MP since their meeting in the Lake District and he’d had little time to wonder when the man would return to public life. However, when he arrived at the Black Horse that evening and picked up the newspaper lying on the sideboard in Mrs Jackson’s saloon bar, a headline caught his eye. Billinge had resigned from his seat for personal reasons. There was to be a by-election in Liverpool East.
Albert smiled to himself, thinking of Anne Billinge. He’d liked the woman and he knew she’d ensure the situation was treated with discretion to avoid a public scandal. He wondered whether Sir William Cartwright would do his bit to support his erstwhile friend, or whether Sir William’s shabby treatment of Clara would continue to come between them. Whatever the case, it was none of Albert’s business. He’d established Billinge was alive and well, so he’d done his duty as far as Scotland Yard was concerned. What the various parties decided to do in the future was up to them, although it did worry him that, should the truth emerge about the nature of his relationship with his private secretary, Henry Billinge might face imprisonment for a crime that Albert didn’t think warranted the name.
Before leaving Wenfield police station that evening he’d received a telephone call to say that the jury in Rose’s and Kelly’s trial had retired to consider their verdict. He felt unusually nervous about it, even though he was convinced of their innocence. In his opinion, Alastair Ogden had disposed of Bert Pretting because he was the victim of blackmail. Pretting hadn’t realised he was dealing with people who’d killed before. That had been his grave mistake.
He was about to make for his room when, to his horror, Jerry Buckle walked through the hotel entrance, his small eyes lighting up as soon as he saw his prey.
‘I saw you at the trial this morning.’
‘I didn’t see you,’ said Albert, as he put the newspaper back where he’d found it.
‘Jury’s out.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘I understand you arrested the little tart and her fancy man, is that true? The village doctor! Who’d have thought it? And that doctor’s daughter lived in the same house back in 1919. Wonder if that house is cursed. The House of the Hanged Woman, eh? Just like she wrote in those letters that were read out in court. Like the painting – The House of the Hanged Man – the letter said. Who’d have thought Mrs Pretting would know about something like that – in French and all. Mind you, she did spend a lot of time in that library – when she wasn’t up to other things.’ The reporter’s eyes were glowing with what looked like lust, no doubt picturing Rose Pretting’s alleged sins and the headlines he’d be able to write about them if the jury’s verdict went against her.
Albert felt his heart rate quicken. ‘Until the trial’s over I can’t discuss it. You’ll have to attend court like everyone else.’
‘But then I’d have exactly the same story as my rivals. I’m looking for background; the story behind the story.’ He paused. ‘If you don’t say anything, I’ll make it up.’
‘You do that.’
He climbed the stairs to his room. Since his arrival in Wenfield the Black Horse had seemed like a haven. But Buckle’s appearance on the scene had changed that. He kicked off his shoes and lay on his bed, wondering how he could avoid the man at dinner.
Exhausted, he closed his eyes and a phrase began to echo through his head. Jerry Buckle’s words had triggered a faint memory; something about the letters Rose Pretting had written to herself. But the more he tried to remember what it was the more it eluded him. In the end, hunger got the better of him. Despite the risk of running into the reporter, he decided to go downstairs for dinner and then retire for an early night.
Luckily there was no sign of Buckle in the dining room. When Mrs Jackson put his plate in front of him, he asked where his fellow guest was. He’d eaten early, she said. Then he’d gone to the Cartwright Arms to look for someone who knew Bert Pretting, eager to get a new angle for his story. It was clear from her face she shared Albert’s distaste for the man, but he said nothing.
He didn’t sleep well that night. His work in Wenfield was almost done and yet he felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the thought that he’d soon have to return to London to get on with his life. A life without Mary, living alone in the house they’d once shared. At least he’d set eyes on his son at last; he had to find some consolation in that.
The following morning he arrived at the station, having avoided Buckle at breakfast. When he asked for another word with the Ogdens, Sergeant Teague didn’t look pleased but he raised no objection.
‘Jury’ll be back in the Pretting case soon,’ he said to Albert’s disappearing back. ‘The bitch’ll hang. No doubt about it.’
Albert didn’t reply. He waited in the interview room for the Ogdens to be broug
ht to him. He would speak to them together; easier to see how they reacted to the other’s words.
‘Bert Pretting,’ he began as soon as they were seated in front of him. ‘Who made the decision to kill him?’
‘Neither of us,’ Alastair Ogden replied swiftly. ‘We’ve already told you. We didn’t do it.’
‘You killed the Reverend Bell and Geoffrey Jenkins.’
‘We panicked.’ Margaret Jenkins bowed her head. ‘We could see no other way. The vicar was an honest man. He’d never have kept silent.’
‘What about your husband, Geoffrey? Was that a spur of the moment thing too?’
‘He could have ruined us,’ said Alastair.
‘So could Bert Pretting.’
‘Pretting was greedy. Money would have dealt with him.’
Albert sat back in his seat, his eyes fixed on Ogden’s face. ‘I don’t think you want to admit to such a sordid murder, do you, Mr Ogden? A knife in an alley. Hardly the sort of crime a person of your class commits, am I right?’
‘Quite right,’ the woman said quickly.
Albert resisted the urge to smile at the discovery that there was snobbery even in murder.
There was a knock and Smith poked his head round the door. Albert told the constable who’d been standing in the interview room to return the prisoners to their cells, and hurried out to hear what Smith had to say.
‘The jury, sir. They haven’t come back yet.’
Albert thought for a moment. ‘Can you drive me to the court? Best you don’t let Sergeant Teague know where you’re going.’
Smith nodded eagerly and Albert wondered whether he was eager to get away from Teague. He’d felt an atmosphere between the two men, but he’d put it down to Teague’s resentment towards the up-and-coming youngster.
It took them an hour to get to court and take their places in the public gallery. Jerry Buckle was in the front row, leaning over to get the best view, his pencil poised over his notebook. Albert suspected the reporter was longing for a guilty verdict because it would make a better story. He knew from experience how much the public relished the hanging of an attractive young woman.
It wasn’t long before the jury filed in, their faces serious, and Albert began to wonder whether the male jury’s disapproval of an unfaithful wife would trump Mrs Greenbaum’s evidence.
He saw Rose Pretting and Ronald Kelly being brought up from the cells and watched them standing in the dock, both looking ahead as though they were pretending the other wasn’t there. Kelly’s expression was blank and devoid of emotion. Rose, in contrast, looked terrified.
The courtroom was filled with hushed expectation as the jury took their seats, leaving only their foreman standing.
‘Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’ The question was asked in sepulchral tones.
The foreman of the jury replied in a reedy voice that belied his stern appearance. ‘We have.’
‘Do you find the defendant Rose Pretting guilty or not guilty?’
The answer caused a gasp from the public gallery. ‘Do you find the defendant Ronald Kelly guilty or not guilty?’
When the words ‘not guilty’ were pronounced again there was another gasp which sounded like relief. The pair, the judge said, were free to go. Albert wondered if he was fingering the unseen black cap with disappointment.
Kelly and Rose stood as still as the waxworks of murderers Albert had seen in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussauds. After a few seconds the verdict sank in and Rose slumped onto the chair that had been placed behind her, apparently in a faint. Kelly immediately came to her aid, his hand on her wrist to feel her pulse. The gesture was tender, even loving, and Albert watched with fascination until Smith nudged his arm.
‘Better be off, sir. Beat the rush.’
Albert nodded and followed the young man out, deep in thought.
They drove back to Wenfield in silence until they reached the outskirts of the village.
‘Think the jury got it right, sir?’ Smith said.
‘The handwriting evidence seemed conclusive. Mrs Greenbaum’s an acknowledged expert. Scotland Yard’s consulted her many times.’
‘Doctors’ handwriting’s always unreadable anyway. They’re known for it, aren’t they?’
Albert didn’t reply.
Chapter 80
Rose
It is over. And we are victorious.
When the foreman of the jury was standing there looking so solemn I thought it had all gone wrong. I didn’t dare to look at my darling Ronald in case I betrayed the truth. Only after the verdict did I succumb to my emotions and it was so wonderful to feel his touch once more, knowing we were safe at last.
I’m so glad my darling insisted that I copy out his letters and destroy the originals. He knew everyone would recognise his terrible doctor’s writing if they were ever found. But I didn’t mind; his spidery scrawl was so hard to make out that copying them made it easy for me to read them over and over again.
I have the inspector from Scotland Yard to thank for our freedom. If he hadn’t decided to send the letters to that lady expert in London, we might have been done for.
Now that I’m safe I can be like the heroines in my books, living happily ever after with the man I love; the man who had killed for me as a knight would slay a dragon for his lady. He waited for Bert and thrust a kitchen knife between his ribs when Bert went down an alley to relieve himself after a night drinking at the Carty Arms. He knew the best way to make sure the knife hit its mark. He is a doctor, after all.
We will both leave Wenfield after a suitable interval, of course. Ronald – I must get used to calling him that – says it would be foolish to parade our love in front of the village gossips even though the law cannot touch us now. He told me that once you have been acquitted of a crime you cannot be tried for it again, so we are perfectly safe – provided we commit no other murders and I don’t think that is at all likely.
He says I must play the devoted widow for a while and he is certain the Ogdens, who have so shocked the village with their wickedness, will get the blame for Bert’s death.
I will go to the library now and take out more books to read. My books will have to suffice until Ronald and I can be together. The library is my castle of stories. Where else would I have found the perfect answer to all my problems?
Chapter 81
Albert stood in front of the doctor’s house, staring at the front door. He knew he should have guessed the truth a long time ago, as soon as he’d read those words in the letter Rose Pretting had, allegedly, written to herself – certainly when Buckle mentioned it. Would Rose have known about Cezanne’s painting and its title if Kelly hadn’t told her? She might have done, of course, being a regular at the library, but he thought it unlikely.
The print hung in Ronald Kelly’s drawing room, a room Rose would never have entered as a patient. It was a favourite image of his, so he’d shared it with the woman who’d become his lover, telling her the variation of the title that he’d given to his own house. The House of the Hanged Woman. The house of Flora Winsmore.
For the second time in his life Albert had failed and both failures had taken place in that very village. Perhaps it would be best if he returned to London as soon as possible. According to the legal principle of Double Jeopardy, Kelly and Rose could never be brought to justice now they’d been acquitted of the crime of murder. And Margaret Jenkins and Alastair Ogden had been taken to Manchester to face trial for the two murders they’d committed – although there hadn’t been enough evidence to add Bert Pretting’s murder to the charges.
But he still had unfinished business in Wenfield. He hadn’t spoken to Mrs Bell since the arrest of her husband’s killers and he owed the lady a visit.
He walked slowly to the cottage, glancing back once at the doctor’s house, committing it to memory before moving on. When he knocked on Mrs Bell’s front door it was answered almost immediately by Grace, who gave him a reproachful look.
/> ‘Better late than never,’ she said with a sniff. ‘We were wondering when you’d get around to paying us a visit.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been busy,’ he said meekly.
‘You’d best come in. I’ll put the kettle on.’
The maid opened the drawing-room door and ushered him in before disappearing into the back of the cottage. When Albert stepped into the room he saw Mrs Bell sitting on a faded chintz armchair by the unlit fire. She greeted him with a smile before inviting him to sit in the armchair opposite hers. It was a worn chair and Albert recognised it as the one her husband used to sit in when he was alive.
‘I heard about the Ogdens,’ she said. ‘They seemed such a nice couple. Respectable.’
‘Appearances can often be deceptive, Mrs Bell. You find that out in my job.’
‘I can’t believe anybody could do anything so wicked. My dear, gentle Horace never harmed a soul.’
‘Because of his honest nature they couldn’t trust him to keep their secret. Their deception meant they could have gone to prison, so they knew Horace was a danger to them. That’s why he died. You’re right, it was a particularly wicked thing to do. But they’ll face the full force of the law, don’t worry about that.’
‘That letter Horace received – it was from the real husband?’
‘It was from a nurse at the hospital where he was being treated. It said one of her patients had lost his memory and he was trying to find his wife. A copy of a photograph of the woman you knew as Mrs Ogden was enclosed and your husband recognised her at once. He called on the couple the same evening to ask them what was going on.’
‘If only he’d confided in me.’
‘The Ogdens knew your husband’s reputation for discretion. But once he knew they’d broken the law they assumed he’d feel obliged to inform the authorities.’