by Pat Herbert
Danny had noticed Alice of course. She had been the object of his desire before he met May. But since meeting her, he hadn’t been bothered about Alice. He knew Alice’s type anyhow. Thought too much of herself, that was for sure. She’d give him the runaround, no doubt, and she wasn’t that attractive. He thought so at first but, on closer inspection, had decided she wasn’t so hot. From a distance he had seen her throw herself at one of the delegates, and he hadn’t liked the way she flaunted herself. May was a much nicer person, he thought. She would do for him.
He found he had an empathy with May Stubbs. And she intrigued him. She hadn’t fallen into his arms like most girls did; she had a dignity about her he admired. For the first time in his young irresponsible life, he had seen something beyond mere outward appearance. She was no beauty, he had to admit, but her eyes, surrounded by those long, dark lashes, were large, alluring and soulful. He had never seen eyes like that, and he could feel himself melt into them every time she looked at him.
He had put May on the saddle of his motorbike and ridden with her into the Yorkshire countryside. It was the middle of the night and it felt right to be with her. She clung to his waist and giggled and screamed with glee as he opened up his trusty Harley and sped along the deserted country lanes.
After he pulled up and they dismounted, he found himself taking her hand, like a lovesick schoolboy. They had walked along together for a while, not speaking. Then he turned to her, tipped up her chin and kissed her gently on the lips. There was no doubt about it, he was going soft in his old age.
27th January 1958: Lewisham
Beattie Driver was astonished to see Anbolin, accompanied by a man in a dog collar, on her front doorstep. She had only sent the letter to her a couple of days ago and she certainly hadn’t expected the woman herself to turn up so quickly. But it was a nice surprise, anyway.
“Hello, Beattie,” said Anbolin, “I got your letter. Can we come in?”
“Of course, please do,” said Beattie eagerly, as she stood to one side to let them pass. Bernard took off his hat and held out his hand. “How d’you do? I’m Reverend Paltoquet. Anbolin is staying with me at the moment, and I have an interest in the Alice Troy murder case. I hope you don’t mind me coming along?”
“No, of course not, Reverend Pal – Palt – .” She gave up.
“Just call him Rev or Bernie, everyone else does,” said Anbolin, grinning.
It was a bitterly cold day, the pavements slippery with ice, window frames decorated in white. Beattie’s parlour was warm and inviting in contrast. Starveling was sprawled before a blazing fire, and a lamp cast a glow across his sleeping figure. The wireless was playing soft music and Bernard could see they had interrupted Beattie in her reading, judging by the book placed open-face down on the table by the fireside chair, spectacles resting on top. It was a thriller of some sort, as he could see the word ‘murder’ in the title.
“Now, dear,” said Anbolin, when they were seated around the fire, much to Starveling’s chagrin as he had to move a few inches to accommodate them. “Tell us all about it.”
Beattie explained her dog’s reaction to Alice Troy’s grave, and Anbolin listened with interest. “They say dogs are psychic, don’t they?” said Bernard.
“Indeed they are. But cats even more so,” said Anbolin, keen to promote the virtues of her favourite animal.
“Do you think this poor dead girl is trying to tell us something?” asked Beattie.
“It would seem likely,” said Anbolin.
“Would it mean there’s been a miscarriage of justice?” asked Beattie. “That an innocent man is about to be hanged?”
“Exactly so,” replied the old medium. “We must try and find the truth from this restless spirit, although I have to warn you my powers aren’t what they were.”
“But you are going to try?”
“Of course I am. You must take us to Alice Troy’s grave right away.” As she said this, she eyed the warm fire and then looked out of the window at the sleet that was beginning to fall again. It wasn’t a day for going anywhere, let alone to a depressing cemetery, but time wasn’t on their side if they were to save Howard Drake from the hangman’s rope.
“Shall I bring Starveling?”
“Yes, that’s essential. I want to see his reaction for myself.”
***
Starveling, who for once wasn’t keen on walking, seemed reluctant to enter the cemetery when they arrived.
“He usually doesn’t mind coming here,” Beattie explained. “It’s only when we get to Alice’s grave that he starts to act up. I don’t think he was very pleased at being disturbed this afternoon.”
Bernard bent down to the little dog and gave him a friendly pat. “Come on, old chap,” he said. “We need to see what you do. You’re being very brave.”
Starveling stared uncomprehendingly at the man in the round white collar. What was he on about? he wondered. All he wanted to do was get back to the fireside and that nice dream he’d been having about chasing next door’s cat.
They began walking through the cemetery, keeping to the narrow path that led eventually to the grave of Alice Troy. The sleet had turned to snow and had already begun to settle thickly. The sky lowered threateningly as they approached and, though it wasn’t yet midday, it was as dark as midnight. The whole scene looked like something out of an old black and white ‘Frankenstein’ movie. Any minute now they expected the bolt-necked, flat-headed monster to loom from behind one of the headstones.
True to form, Starveling began to whimper as they neared Alice Troy’s grave. He pulled on his lead, managing to turn his mistress around the other way. He howled pitifully as all three stood still, staring at the spot.
“Can you sense or see anything, Annie?” asked Bernard tentatively.
The old woman shivered. “No, nothing. I’m feeling very cold, but it’s just the weather, I’m sure. I can’t seem to sense any presence at all.” She bent down as low as her old bones would let her. She patted the fresh earth and sniffed the air all around. “No,” she said, rising slowly. “I’m getting nothing, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps Robbie will have better luck,” suggested Bernard. His friend was the one with the psychic gift. He should have asked him to accompany them in the first place.
Anbolin sniffed crossly. “If I can’t sense anything, I don’t see why the doc’ll be any the wiser.”
“You never know. He might sense something. You said yourself he was a ‘sensitive’, didn’t you?” said Bernard, as tactfully as he could.
“All right. Get the doc along, if you like,” she replied, barely able to conceal her frustration at being so useless. She knew Robbie had the gift and would be of more help than herself. She hated to feel her powers desert her like this.
Bernard saw the sad look on her face and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I think we should, Annie dear. I mean, we must try and help the Drakes, if we can,” he said. He wondered how interested Robbie would be in this matter, given his obsession with all things Celia. But he would have to help, that’s all there was to it.
14th April 1957: City of London
Alice Troy was a worried young woman. Something that should have happened hadn’t. As she sat on the bench in the small London Square chomping her way through a packet of crisps, she thought about the situation in which she now found herself. It was one that had happened to many women before her and, no doubt, many more to come. It had been four weeks since she had been in Scarborough; her catering assignments since had all been at London venues. One of the conferences had even been organised by the bank for which Howard Drake worked. That had been last week. She had looked for him, but he hadn’t been among the delegates this time.
But she needed to see him. She had no idea where he lived, but at least she knew where he worked. From her vantage point on the bench, she could see the imposing building that belonged, for the most part, to the Anglia-Cornish Bank. The phrase ‘something in the city’ had been aptly applied to Howa
rd Drake, and the building was certainly ‘something in the city’ too. It was a large concrete and glass edifice towering over its companion buildings on either side. The numerous window panels glinted in the early spring sunshine, and Alice shielded her eyes as she continued to stare at it. She wondered idly how much a building like that would cost to run. Millions, she guessed, but the bank wasn’t strapped for cash, that was evident.
It was almost one o’clock, and many city employees were on the streets, glad to be away from their desks for a while. The public house on the other side of the square was very busy, she could see. But there was no sign of Howard Drake, and she had been at her post since ten o’clock to make sure she didn’t miss him.
She looked at her watch. It was five minutes past one now. Surely he would be coming out soon, unless, of course, he had brought sandwiches to work. As he wasn’t married, she thought it unlikely he would bother to make them himself, especially if he was earning lots of money, which she was sure he was. She remembered the expensive suit he’d worn. Savile Row, if she was any judge.
She was very hungry now, the crisps having little effect, but she didn’t dare nip across to the sandwich bar in case Howard came out and she missed him. Another quarter of an hour passed and there was still no sign of him. She began to wonder if he was at work today at all? He might be on leave. It was the week after Easter, so she thought it unlikely. But, then, you never knew with people. Maybe he was taking an extended holiday this year.
She looked at her watch again. It now showed twenty-five past the hour. Where was he? Then, just as she was about to give up, she saw him. He was walking with another man. Bother, she thought, but at least it wasn’t a woman. Then, luckily, they parted at the bottom of the steps. She was about to run across the road and accost him, but thought better of it. Instead, she followed him at a safe distance. He sauntered casually along in the spring sunshine, hands in his trouser pockets as if he hadn’t a care in the world. All that was about to change now, thought Alice grimly. She watched as he turned the corner and entered a small, busy café about five yards up the road.
She stood outside and peered in surreptitiously. It wouldn’t do for him to see her before she was ready.
***
“Hello, Harry. My usual, please, and a cup of tea.”
“Right you are, Mr D, egg, lettuce and tomato?”
“Yes, please.”
“You’re late today, thought you weren’t coming.”
“I had to finish something off for a meeting at two.”
Harry handed Howard Drake a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea. Howard thanked him and looked around the crowded café for a free table. He spied one in the corner and made his way to it. It was already twenty-five to two, according to Harry’s wall clock. He didn’t have much time before the meeting, which was a crucial one for the bank. He was rather anxious about the outcome, which could result in some redundancies. His job was safe, he knew, but he was concerned for some of his colleagues, people he had worked with for years, and grown fond of. He had prepared a business plan that could obviate the need for staff losses, but he wasn’t hopeful that it would be accepted by the board. The takeover was more or less a formality.
A shadow fell across the Financial Times he was scanning. He needed to keep abreast of the news, and he hadn’t had time that morning to check the markets. He looked up and saw a young woman staring down at him. She seemed familiar, but for a moment he couldn’t remember where he had seen her before. Then his stomach fell to the bottom of his boots. It was that girl he had met at the conference in Scarborough a few weeks ago. He had made a big mistake, one he hoped he’d put behind him. If his wife ever found out, she would never forgive him. He couldn’t even forgive himself for the lapse in his morals.
“Hello,” said Alice woodenly.
“Er – hello. What do you want? I’m due back in work once I’ve finished this sandwich.” He couldn’t bring himself to be polite to her.
Alice wasn’t deterred by his surly manner, it was something she had expected. She sat down in the chair opposite and continued to stare at him. “I waited all morning to see you,” she told him.
“How did you find me?” he asked, pushing his half-finished sandwich away.
“Wasn’t difficult. I knew where you worked.”
“Of course you did.” Howard sighed. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence could have found him. His name and company had been imprinted on his delegate badge.
“What do you want?”
“I’m sorry to bother you as I know you’re a busy man,” she said, keeping her voice neutral and her features deadpan.
Howard studied her face. She was pretty, he had to admit. It hadn’t been difficult to succumb to her charms after a few glasses of wine. But that was no excuse, he knew.
“Well, out with it.”
“You told me you weren’t married,” she said. “You weren’t lying, were you?”
Howard looked down at his tea. It was stewed and he had no wish to drink it. “Look, things were said then – I’m sorry – I am married. I shouldn’t have lied to you…”
Alice glared at him. “My fault, I suppose I shouldn’t have been so naïve.”
Howard didn’t reply. The silence made it clear that he agreed with her, though.
“I’m paying for my stupidity now, all right,” she said.
Howard looked at the wall clock once more. It was five to two. “I must go,” he said, standing and folding his FT. “I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other. I’m – sorry I misled you about not being married, but – ”
“I’d sit down, if I were you,” said Alice, her tone softly threatening. “unless you want the whole café to know your business.”
“I’ve got an important meeting to attend. Many people’s livelihoods depend on this meeting. You can’t have anything to say to me that would be more important than that.”
“Oh, can’t I?” she said grimly. “Well, try this one for size. I’m pregnant and you’re the father.”
27th January 1958: Wandsworth
Robbie and Celia strolled out of the cinema into the cold winter night. He seized the opportunity to put his arm around her shoulders, hugging her close to him for warmth. She didn’t resist his embrace, neither did she exactly snuggle up close to him. If he noticed this, he didn’t mention it.
As they stepped into the fish and chip shop a few doors down the road, the snow was still trying to fall, as it had been doing for the best part of three weeks. The smell of vinegary chips wafted towards them, beckoning them enter. The brightly lit interior was full of people queueing for their cod and two-penn’orth. Those who had been served were either seated at Formica-top tables, devouring their food greedily or standing at the counter, pouring vinegar and salt into their newspaper wrapped takeaways. The steam from the frying fish and chips had coated the windows, shutting out the cold, antagonistic night.
“Take a seat over there, dear,” said Robbie, as he spied an empty table. “What would you like?”
Celia was very hungry, having sat through a depressing war film in which the British heroine had ended up being shot by the Nazis. She ordered a double portion of chips with her haddock.
“Here you are, lassie,” said Robbie in his best mock Edinburgh accent. He placed the food in front of her, wrapped in newspaper on a white china plate.
“Thanks,” she said, pouring vinegar onto her fish. “Not our usual dining arrangements, but I don’t mind when the food looks as good as this.”
“Aye, lassie, it does that.”
“Come off it, Robbie,” she laughed as she tucked in. “Stop talking like that. You’re no more Scotch than I am.”
“Scottish,” he corrected her.
“You told me yourself your family left Edinburgh when you were six months old, and have never lived there since.”
“My family’s Scottish, and I was born in Scotland,” said Robbie, a little peeved.
“So what? You wer
e brought up in England and you speak English. This phony Scotch gets on my nerves, if you want the truth.”
Robbie was really hurt now. “Most ladies like it.”
“I’m not ‘most ladies’.” She smiled at him and placed her hand on his in a placatory gesture. “Sorry, Robbie, but it had to be said, you old smoothie!”
He tried to laugh it off, but it rankled. He was growing very fond of her, more fond, in fact, than he cared to admit. He had started looking in jewellers’ shop windows at engagement rings, wondering what kind she would like and, what was more to the point, what he could actually afford. She was a woman with expensive tastes, even if she didn’t mind eating in the fish and chip shop.
“By the way, I’ve got something exciting to tell you,” she said, as the meal progressed.
“Have you?” he replied absently, still not entirely happy.
“Yes, I’ve become a prison visitor.”
“A prison visitor?” Robbie was astounded. She seemed the last person who would willingly enter a police cell that contained a convicted felon.
“Yes, I volunteered. Pentonville.”
“Pentonville?” It got worse. “That’s a maximum security prison, isn’t it? For male prisoners, isn’t it? Don’t they lock up murderers there?”
“Yes, but they’re not necessarily guilty as charged, you know.”
“But I mean, isn’t it dangerous? I hate to think of you mixing with those sort of men, I really do.”
“Don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Robbie,” she said, wiping her greasy hands on a serviette. “I can’t come to any harm. I’m well-protected.”
The thought of those prison warders, let alone the prisoners themselves, didn’t ease Robbie’s mind one bit. Celia Pargeter surrounded by men: he didn’t like that scenario at all. The only man he wanted surrounding her was himself.
“Well, I think you should be careful,” he said. “It’s no job for someone as refined as you. What made you decide to do it?”