“‘No!’ she protested, and stood in front of the corpse with her arms outspread, as if to protect him from me.
“‘The flesh is rotting, Gracie! The innards are expanding and bursting open!’
“‘No! He be lovely! Lovely!’
“‘He's dead, Gracie,’ I told her. ‘Rotting food for rats and maggots. He needs to be put in the ground.’
“‘No, he don't!’
“‘Aye, he does! He stinks. He's nowt but a nasty, rotting corpse and he must be got rid of. Why won't tha understand, tha silly bint?’
“‘No!’ Gracie said. She were crying now. And panicking. She ran out of the room and towards the kitchen, calling for Wilcox. ‘Mr Wilcox, please! Don't let her! Don't let her bury Master Roger!’
“Well, I followed her out of the room and I spoke to Wilcox and told him everything. And he agreed with me. ‘twas madness. Shameful. We had to bury that body decently, with no time to waste.
“So that afternoon, while we were up in Mrs Thornton’s room, trying to persuade her to let go of her son, Gracie took a wheelbarrow from the stables, lifted Master Roger’s body into it and ran off with the corpse. We searched for them all day. We went into every room, scoured the garden, the sheds, the stables, and when we hadn’t found them by nightfall we enlisted the help of Yeardley and some of the labourers. They discovered Gracie the following morn, in the old stable by the stream, cradling Master Roger’s corpse in her arms, singing and muttering like an idiot.”
Martha and Billings both fell quiet for a while. Then Martha heaved herself to her feet and picked up the bowl of uneaten gruel from the table.
“So there tha has it, Mr Billings. That’s what happened. Gracie Brickenborough, the mad bitch, stole Master Roger's body because she couldn't bear to see it buried! Tha can go back to London now, can’t tha?”
“Yes.”
“And leave us in peace.”
“Yes.”
“’Cos there won't be much love felt for us in the village when this story comes out. We'll be needing our peace then.”
Epilogue
Billings was sitting upright on his bed. His satchel was fully packed and standing on the floor at his feet. His face was clean-shaven, hair combed, and his jacket had been brushed and neatened. The bed had been stripped and the sheets and blankets folded. Billings had even troubled to sweep the floor and fireplace.
Hearing a carriage driving over the gravel outside, he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. It was six o’clock. Yeardley was early. Billings could hear the butler stepping out of the house and greeting him. Then hurried footsteps approached along the corridor.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
It opened and the butler stuck his head into the room.
“Yeardley has arrived, Mr Billings,” he said, looking relieved that the guest was ready to depart. “Do you need any help with your bag?”
“No, thank you, Mr Wilcox. I can manage.”
Billings rose, picked up his satchel and followed Wilcox out of the room.
They walked silently down the corridor towards the hallway. The old man was walking a few steps ahead. Billings had noticed a marked change in him since Martha’s revelations of the previous day. Gone was the chatty, over-friendly servant he had seen relaxing in his parlour. This was a cold, rigid, reserved man. Nothing of any significance had been said between them after Billings had mentioned to Wilcox that he had all the information he needed and was ready to depart. The butler had merely inclined his head and agreed to make arrangements for Yeardley to drive the detective to the nearest station. Did he know that Martha had spilled the beans? Of course he did. And could he have felt the faintest trace of relief at knowing that the truth was finally out? There were no signs of it.
Mrs Thornton was waiting for them on the great staircase as they appeared in the hallway.
“You’re finally leaving us then?” she called.
Billings turned to face her, a little surprised. He hadn’t expected to see her again.
“I am,” he replied, bowing his head.
“Got what you came for, did you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I did.”
“A lurid tale of the depraved north to scandalise your London colleagues with?”
“That's not what I came for.”
“Oh, stop being so sanctimonious!”
“Cases like this have to be investigated, Mrs Thornton. So that we may learn from them.”
“Learn? This isn't learning. This is gossiping. This is gloating. This is spite. I suppose the press will publish the story again.”
“I suppose they will.”
“The whole of the country will read about how my son's corpse was molested by that imbecile housemaid, and will enjoy shaking their heads in disgust and wincing and tutting!”
“You have a low of opinion of the public.”
“You have left us all exposed to their censure, Mr Billings, that's what you've done, with no means of covering up the truth and protecting ourselves. I could have pretended that my son had died differently. I'd have been able to handle it then. But the truth will be published now, won't it? So that the world and his dog can dwell on each last sordid detail.”
Billings didn’t know how to respond to this. It was true. The putrid wound had been exposed and reinfection was inevitable.
“Thank you on behalf of Scotland Yard for your generous hospitality,” he said as he took his hat from the stand and bowed to her in farewell.
“You are an old woman, Detective Sergeant! That's all you are to me!” she cried as Billings followed the butler out of the house. “An old woman sitting by the guillotine amusing herself by watching the heads of aristocrats tumble into the basket. I hope your mother is proud of you!”
Billings did not react. He walked towards the cart, put his satchel in it and climbed up to sit beside the driver without looking back.
*
“Back off to London then, art tha, Inspector?” said Yeardley as they rode over the moors to Grosmont.
“Yes.”
“Completed tha sniffing about, has tha? Got all the facts?”
“Yes, I have the facts.”
“There's many in t’village who're wondering just what went on in that house. I expect they’ll be able to read about it in the papers soon.”
“I expect they will.”
“I won’t be reading it, though.”
“Will you not, Mr Yeardley?”
“I'm not one to stick my nose into other folk's business, Mr Billings.”
“Well, it’s my job.”
“Proud of that, art tha?”
Billings was well aware of the accusation in the other man’s tone and paused momentarily before replying.
“Sometimes, Mr Yeardley, people need others to poke their noses in.”
“How’s that, then?”
“This is an isolated place and isolation can do queer things to the mind. Sometimes we need other people to anchor us. Stop us from straying too far into the byways of our own minds and fancies. To prevent our inner demons from taking over and running riot.”
“Inner demons, is it? Well, I’m sure tha knows more about them than I does.”
“I do,” said Billings as he pulled up his collar and sank deep into the welcoming warmth of his coat. “I most certainly do.”
DS Billings Victorian Mysteries
Other books in this series
‘The Ornamental Hermit’
‘Something Sinister’
http://www.olivierbosman.com/
Gay Noir Series
The Gay Noir Series
Inspired by the pulp fiction novels of the 1940's and 50's, the Gay Noir series emulates the dark, thrilling, sensational and taboo breaking stories of the post war era and gives them a gay twist.
The following books in this series are available
The Deluded
Estranged
https://www.olivierbo
sman.com/
The Deluded - sample chapter
PROLOGUE
Amsterdam - January 13, 1941
Agnes Braitman was sitting, fully dressed, on her bed. She was wearing her fur coat and hat, but she had taken off her gloves which she had cast beside her on the mattress. The bed had been stripped. All the chests and closets were empty. Everything that fitted into the two suitcases had been packed, the rest had been thrown away. One of the suitcases was on the floor. The other one lay beside her on the bed. She was about to close it, but before doing so she wanted to take one last look at her jewels. She took the jewellery case out from beneath the pile of blouses and negligees and put it on her lap. As she opened the lid her eyes were met by the shine and sparkle of the case's contents. There was the diamond bracelet; her grandmother's two gold rings; the pearl earrings her mother had bought for her bat-mitzvah (a few months before she died); the snake-shaped brooch encrusted with emeralds which her mother told her used to belong to an Egyptian princess, although Agnes knew this to be a lie. That same feeling of awe and wonder she felt when opening the case as a little girl was still with her. She picked each item of jewellery out of the case and held it to the light, gently caressing it as she examined it. Then she polished off her fingerprints with the edge of her fur coat and replaced it in the case.
"You're trying to kill me!"
The voice came from the room next door. It was the old man. Esther was trying to feed him, but he was being awkward again.
"I'm not trying to kill you,” Agnes heard Esther say. "Please, Mr Braitman, Just a few more spoonfuls." She sounded exasperated.
Agnes frowned and slammed the case shut. "What's the matter?" she called out.
"He won't eat it," Esther responded from the other room.
Agnes shook her head impatiently, replaced the jewellery case in her suitcase then jumped off the bed and marched angrily to the room next door.
As she stood in the doorway, peeping into the room, she saw her father sitting up in bed. His hair was dishevelled, his face unshaven, and the drool from his mouth had stained the collar of his pyjama shirt. He had an angry, stubborn look in his eyes. Esther was sitting on a chair beside him, holding a bowl of soup in her hands. A streak of hair had come undone from the back of her head and hung loose over her tired, worried face. Her dress was covered in soup splatters.
"Come on, Papa, you must eat!" Agnes said.
The old man looked at her and scanned her up and down. There was an angry and bitter expression in his eyes. "What are you wearing your coat for?" he asked her. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
"I know what you're up to! You're trying to poison me!"
"For heaven's sake!" Agnes mumbled, then walked up to Esther, took the bowl of soup off her hands and pushed her off the chair. "I'll do it!" she said. "You'd better leave us."
Esther nodded submissively, got up from the chair and left the room.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Papa," Agnes said, stirring the soup.
The old man ignored her. "I will not let you do this!" he yelled. "You've been a burden to me all your life, now it's my turn!"
"Just three more spoonfuls and it'll all be over."
She finished stirring the soup and held the spoon out before him, but the old man had grabbed one of the pillows from behind his back and flung it at her. The pillow hit her in the face and knocked the soup bowl out of her hands.
"You stupid old man!" Agnes yelled. She jumped up from the chair and wiped the morsels of the spilled soup off her fur coat.
"I won't have it!" the old man screamed. "I will not be killed off like an old dog! I brought you to this country from Germany and I won't let you leave it without me!"
Agnes looked at her father and sighed. "Alright, Papa," she said and picked the pillow up from the floor. "I tried doing it the nice way, but if you won't cooperate..." Holding the pillow before her she walked slowly towards the bed.
The old man suddenly looked worried. "What are you doing!" he asked.
"Don't fight it, Papa." She arrived by her father’s side, then suddenly thrust the pillow into the old man's face. The old man struggled, but Agnes continued to push the pillow forcefully until her father stopped moving. She then let go of the pillow and, panting with exhaustion, looked coldly into the old man’s eyes. She held her hand over her father's mouth. He was not breathing. She touched up her hair, readjusted the collar of her blouse and calmly walked out of the room.
Esther was sitting in the hallway. She had put on her coat and hat. The two suitcases had been placed by the front door. She looked up at Agnes as she appeared from the bedroom.
"It's done," Agnes told her. "Let's go."
*
CHAPTER ONE
It was a hot summer's day in London in the year 1949. Fitz was strolling down the street where he lived. He had taken off his jacket and was carrying it over his shoulder. His sleeves were rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. He was staring at some builders restoring a ruined house. There were still so many bomb wrecks in the East End four years after the war. One particular builder caught his eye. A young man with sandy-coloured hair who was standing on the scaffold, passing on tiles to the roofer. He was stripped from the waist up. His shirt was tied around his waist and the sun was beating down on his back. Fitz was admiring the golden-bronze hue of the builder’s skin, when suddenly he bumped into a lady walking in the opposite direction. The lady lost her balance, stumbled over her high heels and eventually hit the ground.
"You idiot!" she shouted, pushing herself back to her feet. "Why don't you look where you're going?"
"I'm so sorry," said Fitz, embarrassed. He held out a helping hand to the lady, but she slapped it away.
"I can help myself up, thank you very much!” she said. “What were you looking at anyway?" She lifted her head to look at the builders. They had all stopped working and had gathered on the scaffold to watch the spectacle. They were laughing and pointing at them. The woman was quick to clock the good-looking builder with the bare torso and realized immediately that this had been Fitz's distraction. "Well!" she said, turning back towards Fitz with a look of shocked disapproval. "I suggest you keep your eyes in front of you, young man!"
Fitz blushed and walked on. He could feel the builders' mocking stares on him as he rushed on. He desperately avoided the temptation to turn his head back for one last glance at the builder as he made his way back home.
Mrs O'Sullivan was standing outside a small, terraced house on Alexandra Street. She had just rung the doorbell and was impatiently looking up at the second floor window for someone to answer. Her face was made up and she was dressed elegantly. She looked quite out of place in this working-class neighbourhood. She was wearing a two-piece suit - a beige skirt and a green jacket with padded shoulders and a mink collar (she always wore mink, despite the weather). The peacock plumes in her hat showed that she was not a working woman, but rather a lady of leisure wearing her practical clothes.
Finally one of the upstairs windows opened and an elderly lady with rosy cheeks stuck out her head. "Yes?" she asked.
Mrs O'Sullivan took a few steps back. "I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Mrs O'Sullivan. I'm looking for my son."
"Mr O'Sullivan is not in."
"Will he be long, do you know?"
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Oh, isn't it typical!" Mrs O'Sullivan slapped her thigh with frustration. "I've come all the way from Surrey!"
"They fished a dead woman out of the sea!"
"I'm sorry?"
The landlady picked up a newspaper and waved it at her through the open window. "A Jewess. She was found in a fisherman's net! The papers are reporting on it every day!"
Mrs O'Sullivan screwed up her face. "How very gruesome!"
"There was nothing left of her but rotting skin and bones. But they found a gold chain hanging around her neck. It had the Star of David on it. That's how they know she was Jewish."
"Well, that's all very interesting, I'm sure," Mrs O'Sullivan replied, "but what I really want to know is, where is my son."
"That'll be him," the landlady suddenly replied, looking in the distance.
Mrs O'Sullivan turned around and saw Fitz hurrying down the road. "Fritz, for God's sake! You're late!" she cried.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Fitz rushed towards the front door, took a key out of his pocket and unlocked it. "Come in, Ma," he said. "I have some wine." He opened the door and stepped aside to let his mother through.
Mrs O'Sullivan walked cautiously towards the threshold and looked in before entering. A bare light bulb was dangling from the ceiling. The wallpaper was peeling in places and there were damp patches on the wall.
"Oh Fritz, this is horrible!" she said, screwing up her face.
"It's not that bad, Ma. Come on, my rooms are through here."
He pushed past his mother and led her towards his rooms on the ground floor. Fitz occupied two rooms which were separated by a sliding door. The front room overlooked the street and the back room overlooked the garden. The rooms were unfurnished, apart from an old mattress on the floor, a desk with a missing leg (a pile of books was used to prop it up) and a chair.
"It's still unfurnished, but that's the reason why it was so cheap," Fitz said proudly.
Mrs O'Sullivan followed her son into the rooms and looked around her with disgust. "Oh Fritz!"
"Sit down, Mother," Fitz said, pointing at the mattress. "I'll get us some wine." He disappeared through the back room and out into the garden.
Mrs O'Sullivan did not sit down. Instead she wandered around the room, frowning at its decrepit state. She made her way into the back room and looked out through the French windows. There was an old Anderson shelter in the back of the garden. Suddenly she saw her son emerging from it with a bottle of wine in his hands. She looked confused.
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