by Pat Herbert
THE CORPSE WORE RED
Book 9 in The Reverend Bernard Paltoquet Mystery Series
by
Pat Herbert
OTHER NOVELS IN THE
REVEREND PALTOQUET MYSTERY SERIES:
The Bockhampton Road Murders
Haunted Christmas
The Possession of November Jones
The Witches of Wandsworth
So Long at the Fair
The Man Who Was Death
The Dark Side of the Mirror
Sleeping With the Dead
12th July 1957: Catford
Stanley House was the worse for drink and he knew it. He was weaving from side to side along the pavement, his movement not aided by his recently sprained ankle. A fall while under the influence a few days ago had caused it to swell up and throb painfully, but he continued to walk on it, determined not to let a little thing like that stop him from visiting his local.
Tonight was a special night too. He had been to visit his wife’s grave. It was the first anniversary of her death, and he had spent most of the evening after he left work at the cemetery. The ache he felt for her loss hadn’t diminished one iota, and he told her so in no uncertain terms. He flung the roses on her grave in an angry gesture. How dared she die and leave him on his own? The cancer had got hold of her fast. She was dead within three weeks of its diagnosis.
He was all alone in the world now; his sole companions were the beers and whiskies he had been putting inside him every night since her death. Their marriage had been childless: they had been all in all to each other. They would have loved children, but it was not to be. And sometimes he was glad, if his sister’s boy, Arthur, was anything to go by. A more selfish, spoiled brat he had yet to come across. He was always telling Doreen she should take him in hand, but would she listen?
It was gone ten o’clock when he found himself two streets away from his home. Catford wasn’t the best place to be at that time of night, especially when you were half-cut. But Stanley was used to it and generally sailed home on a sea of alcohol, oblivious to the Teddy Boys loitering on every corner. He had downed four pints and four whiskies in quick succession tonight, aware that he had less time than usual, having stayed longer at Nettie’s grave than he had intended. He stumbled along, holding onto the park railings as he went. He stopped after the park and tried to focus, but his head was reeling and he thought he was going to faint. Someone came up to him and he heard a voice ask if he was all right. He must have answered that he was, because he had gone away.
When he could focus again, he continued up the street and turned the corner into his road. As he tottered along, he thought about his darling Nettie, tears streaming down his face. It wasn’t fair, she was only forty-two; no age at all. He hadn’t set foot in his church for a whole year, and couldn’t forgive God for taking her from him. The vicar had tried to comfort him, telling him that God had a divine plan for each and every one, but Stanley had replied with a rude word and walked away. He and Nettie had been faithful churchgoers, but not anymore. It was all rubbish. He couldn’t believe in a God who would let a good woman like his Nettie suffer so much and then die. Stanley House was an angry man, angry with his wife for leaving him, angry with the vicar for seemingly condoning it and, most of all, with God for letting it happen. Where had He been the day she died?
Suddenly a body knocked against him. It happened so fast he couldn’t see who it was, whether it was male or female even. It had come from nowhere, just as he turned the corner into MaryRuth Street and was passing an old, rundown house that had been turned into a lot of crummy bedsits. As he tried to regain his balance, he thought he saw the word ‘Paradise’ out of the corner of his eye. So this was how it all ended, he thought, as he fell into the road and into the path of an oncoming car.
15th March 1957: Scarborough
There was a fug of smoke hanging over the crowded conference room. Alice Troy coughed as she closed the door, her tray now empty.
“Have they all got coffee now, love?”
She smiled at her boss who was setting the dining room for lunch.
“Yes, Pete,” said Alice. “It’s ever so stuffy in there. There’s not one window open and they’re all smoking like troopers.” She coughed again, as if to emphasise the point.
“What can you do?” Pete Farrell shrugged as he nearly dropped the glass he was polishing. “Anyway, can you help me lay the cutlery while you’re standing there doing nothing?”
Alice put down her tray and picked up the knives and forks laid out on a side table. She followed him round the dining tables, laying the cutlery carefully as she had been trained to do. She loved her job and she was good at it too. It meant she could travel all over the country, attending important business functions and sometimes, quite often in fact, meeting rich and eligible men. More often they were just rich, their eligibility long since dealt with by their wives. Sometimes, though, that didn’t matter. It was a perk of the job.
The man she had seen the night before at the pre-conference reception was a case in point. Tall, dark and handsome about covered it in the looks department and she could see by the cut of his suit and the expensive watch and ring he was wearing, that he wasn’t short of a bob or two. He hadn’t taken much notice of her at first, as she held out the tray of drinks towards him. He took the glass of wine without looking at her, not even breaking off his conversation with an obese, cigar-puffing individual who smelt strongly of nicotine and sweat.
He was definitely the best-looking of the delegates. He stood out in a room crammed full of fat, sweaty men talking too loudly and laughing inanely. Alice returned with a replenished tray the minute she saw him drain his glass. This time, as he took a refill, he caught her eye and winked. She blushed and scuttled back to her companion who was standing at the side of the room, waiting for Pete to finish pouring some more wine.
“May, have you seen that bloke over there?”
“’Course I have,” sniffed May, balancing her full tray carefully. “Only decent one in the room. You after him then, Ali?”
“What d’you think?”
“I think you’re daft, that’s what I think,” said May, moving away to mingle in the crowd.
Alice Troy smiled. Yes, well she would say that, wouldn’t she? Alice was a pretty girl, tall and slim, with dark, shoulder-length hair and almond eyes. May, on the other hand, was rather dumpy and prone to spots. Not that she was bad-looking, but Alice knew she was no competition.
She wandered off around the corner of the room, ignoring Pete’s order to take another tray with her. Okay, okay, she thought. They won’t die of thirst for five minutes.
Alice watched the man of her choice, moving as close to him as she could without making it too obvious. Yes, he was very good-looking indeed. He suddenly looked straight across at her, causing her to blush again. He held up his empty glass and pointed at it.
She made her way back to Pete and swept up the tray. “So I should think,” he said huffily.
***
Later that evening, as Alice was clearing up the empty glasses, May appeared beside her with a note. “Here, he gave me this to give to you,” she said. “Have you started the washing up yet? I need my beauty sleep, even if you don’t.”
Alice took the note and thanked her. Yes, it was quite true. May needed all the beauty sleep she could get, she thought bitchily. Her heart was aflutter as she unfolded the piece of paper. She had seen the name on his identity badge: Howard Drake. It had a nice ring to it. Very sophisticated.
The note was from Pete. Did she fancy joining him for a nightcap? Leave May to do the washing up. Pig! If he thought she would leave poor May to deal with all the washing on her own, he had another think coming.
Th
e next day, Howard Drake gave her a smile as she gave him his mid-morning coffee. Things were looking up.
23rd January 1958: Lewisham
“Come here, Starveling! What are you doing?”
In the middle of Ladywell cemetery, a small dog of indeterminate breed and even more indeterminate age was snuffling and whining at a gravestone that looked relatively new compared with many of the others surrounding it. Most of them had a neglected, abandoned look, as if the dead were no longer mourned. Judging by the age of some of the graves it was hardly surprising, as the mourners too would be long-dead themselves. At least that was what Beattie Driver thought as she watched her dog continue to whine and snuffle around the newish-looking plot.
“Come here! Leave it alone, can’t you?”
She was becoming exasperated. She didn’t usually walk her pet through the cemetery, preferring the park most days. But she had only just recovered from a bout of flu and didn’t feel strong enough to walk that far.
There had been an overnight frost which was still in evidence as the weak sun was making little impression on it. She huddled into her thick, woolly coat and stamped her fur-lined booted feet. I’ll have the brute put down if he doesn’t behave himself, she thought. But she knew she never would; he was her sole companion now since her daughter had emigrated to New Zealand with her husband and the kids.
The dog, named for some unaccountable reason after one of the mechanicals in A Midsummer Night’s Dream by his previous owner, seemed very upset. Beattie stamped her feet again and blew on her hands which were in danger of turning blue, having stupidly forgotten her gloves.
“What’s the matter, boy?” she said, now beginning to be concerned. He hadn’t turned a single hair at any of the other graves, just this one. She went up to the small marble headstone and read the words:
Alice Troy: born 15th June 1939; died 9th September 1957.
Cruelly taken before her time.
23rd January 1958: Wandsworth
Celia Pargeter drove along the quiet, suburban streets of South London in her ‘brand new’ second-hand Morris Minor. Her destination wasn’t too far from St Stephen’s church which she could see coming up on her right. The building was rather imposing, even if it looked like it needed shoring up. Standing in the grounds of a picturesque churchyard, it was just the way she had imagined when Bernard had first told her about it. The trees were bare at this time of the year, of course, but their stark branches didn’t detract in any way from the scene. In her mind’s eye she could see him standing in the pulpit, the stained glass window shining at the back of his venerable head like a halo. She smiled as she passed the vicarage next door to the church and turned the corner into Palmer Drive.
She had met Bernard Paltoquet, the vicar of St Stephen’s church in the borough of Wandsworth when she was on holiday in Blackpool the previous year and she had taken an immediate fancy to him. Newly-divorced, she had fallen for his quiet charm and soulful, Bambi-like eyes. But it wasn’t the vicar who had taken a shine to her: it had been his friend, Dr Robbie MacTavish, who had done that, Bernard seemingly impervious to her charms. She had found Robbie less appealing, put off by his rather unsubtle approach. But he had certainly redeemed himself when he saved her from the clutches of a knife-wielding murderess towards the end of what had turned out to be a very eventful holiday, indeed. When she and Robbie had said goodbye on their return to London, she had promised to keep in touch and now, several months later and at a loose end, she was keeping that promise.
She braked as she arrived outside Robbie’s surgery, which was also his home. She noticed the curtain move in an upstairs window as she switched off the ignition. He must be eager to see her, she thought, not impressed. She knew she was a beauty and was used to men’s fawning admiration: they were two a penny. She found men like Bernard, who apparently could take her or leave her, more fascinating. They were a challenge.
She rang the doorbell and waited for Robbie to appear. However, a woman answered the door instead.
“I saw you coming,” said the woman, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Morning surgery finished over an hour ago.”
Celia suddenly felt better. So it hadn’t been Robbie at the window after all. Just a nosy busybody in his employ. She remembered that he had mentioned a housekeeper, though she had expected someone much older and plainer.
“Hello,” said Celia, smiling ingratiatingly. “Dr MacTavish is expecting me. I’m not a patient, I’m a friend. Is he in?”
“He’s still doing his morning house calls,” said Lucy Carter. She eyed the visitor up and down and didn’t like what she saw. It looked as if Robbie had a new woman in his life again. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and probably wouldn’t be the last.
“Is it all right if I come in and wait? He’s taking me out to lunch.”
“Lunch?” sniffed Lucy. “D’you mean dinner?”
“Dinner? Er, well – no, I mean yes, I suppose so.” Celia realised that this woman used the term ‘dinner’ to describe the meal taken between the hours of twelve and two. Rather common, in her opinion.
“You’d better wait in here,” said Lucy, opening the door to the waiting room. She wasn’t about to let her go upstairs into the private part of the house. She would leave that for Robbie to do, which no doubt he would, given half the chance.
Celia sat in the empty waiting room and looked around her. It was a pleasant room, if rather chilly. There was a two-bar electric fire which had recently been turned off. She switched it back on and picked up a magazine from the pile on the table in the corner. She flicked through the pages, her mind elsewhere.
Why was that woman so hostile, she wondered. There was some history there, she had no doubt. Probably hopelessly in love with the doctor. He was handsome and very eligible, so it was only to be expected.
***
It was about fifteen minutes later that Robbie put in an appearance. He opened the door to the waiting room and a shaft of icy air followed him in. “Dear, dear,” he said, rubbing his cold hands. “Why on Earth did Lucy put you in here? Does she want you to freeze to death?”
Probably, thought Celia, but didn’t say so.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said instead, smiling at him. “It’s good to see you again Robbie.”
“You too,” he replied, kissing her chastely on the cheek. “The drive all right?”
“Oh yes, the journey was fine. There’s not much snow left now.”
“I saw your car parked outside. Nice little job.”
“Yes, isn’t she? Her name’s Mabel,” said Celia with pride.
“You call your car Mabel?” His eyebrows shot up. This was a new one on Robbie. If he called his old, unreliable Ford Anglia anything at all, it was usually something rude.
“Yes. Silly, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re rather lovely,” Robbie couldn’t resist saying.
She only smiled. “Did you have a good Christmas? You and Bernie?”
“Not bad, not bad. Quiet, you know.”
“Me too. I went to stay with my parents,” Celia told him.
“I spent it at the vicarage. Bernie’s housekeeper’s cooking is wonderful. Anbolin was there too. In fact, she’s still there.”
“Anbolin? Oh, that’s nice,” she said, remembering the old clairvoyant she had met in Blackpool. “I think Bernie’s very fond of her.”
“I don’t think Mrs Aitch is though.” Robbie laughed.
“Mrs Aitch?”
“Bernie’s housekeeper. She can’t keep up with the old girl’s appetite. And talking of appetite, I’m hungry. Shall we go? I’ve booked a little place in the High Street. It’s only been open a couple of weeks but I’ve heard good reports about it. Do you like Italian food?”
“Love it,” said Celia, picking up her handbag.
***
Bernard Paltoquet looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Half-past twelve. Robbie and Celia would be at that new restaurant now, he thought. Robbie had been dron
ing on about this date for weeks, ever since Christmas. His friend thought the sun shone out of Celia Pargeter, but Bernard felt rather differently. He thought she was a manipulative little minx, using her good looks to get her own way where men were concerned. Maybe she really cared about Robbie, but only time would tell. Why he couldn’t stick to Lucy Carter, he would never understand. He wondered how Lucy was feeling today, seeing him acting foolishly over this woman. Bernard smiled when he thought what his mother would have called her: ‘Nothing but a painted Jezebel’ she would have said.
As he was deep in thought, Mrs Harper burst in. He had long ago given up asking her to knock at his study door before entering. She was a woman who had little time for such niceties; besides, she didn’t think Bernard warranted such courtesy. He was only a humble vicar after all, and she had known him too long. There was some truth in the old adage ‘familiarity breeds contempt’.
“What is it, Mrs Aitch?” he sighed.
“There’s a woman to see you. A Mrs Drake.”
“Mrs Drake?”
“Yes. She looks like she’s lost a pound and found ninepence.”
“I – I see. Well, I suppose you’d better ask her to come up.”
***
He knew Mrs Drake well. She and her husband were two of his most regular churchgoers. At least they were until all the troubled started, culminating in Howard Drake being convicted of murder and sentenced to death. He had read nothing else in the paper for weeks.
Flora Drake looked, as Mrs Harper had aptly put it, like someone who had lost much more than a pound. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes looked red from crying and her youthful bloom had deserted her. She was only in her mid-twenties but looking at her now, Bernard took her for much older. It wasn’t to be wondered at, of course, after what she had been through lately.