by Pat Herbert
“Sorry, love,” said Nancy, chastened. “Never meant no ’arm by asking, I just didn’t want Lucy being led up the garden path. She’s enough to contend with as it is.”
Anbolin put her arm through hers and they continued trudging along the slippery pavement. “I know. I would never mislead her, Nancy. Now, let’s get home out of this bloody awful weather.”
20th April 1957: Wandsworth
Flora Howard was a house-proud woman. She had a lovely house and a lovely husband to go with it. They had been married for two blissful years and it didn’t, in the words of the old song, ‘seem a day too much’. She sang as she did her household chores. She felt like someone in a Disney cartoon, whistling while she worked. There were no seven dwarfs or fluttering bluebirds to help her, but she was happy for all that.
She flicked a feather duster over the framed photograph of her husband, Howard. What a handsome portrait. She remembered when he had had it taken. It was the day after they got back from honeymoon. She’d had one done at the same time, but he carried it with him in his wallet. She flicked off every speck of dust that had dared to land on the glass and silver frame since yesterday. No matter how often she wiped it clean, it always seemed dusty to her. She sighed as she gazed at his portrait, happy in the thought that she would be gazing at the real thing in a few hours’ time, when he came home from work.
She turned on the wireless in time to hear the signature tune of ‘Music While You Work’. This made her almost dance around the pretty parlour as the strains of ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ filled the air. She stopped to look out of the open window at the sunny afternoon. She pushed it open even further and breathed in the sweet scent of blossoms. It was a glorious spring, presaging an even more glorious summer.
Although she was always happy these days, especially since marrying Howard Drake, she had reason to be even happier today. She had a little secret inside her. Her hand went instinctively to her stomach as she stood gazing out into the front garden. She watched as a young woman appeared at the gate and stopped, her hand on the latch.
Flora wondered who she could be. She didn’t look like a saleswoman, not like any saleswoman she’d ever met, anyway. Besides, they were mostly men. They came to her door regularly hoping to sell her a brush or an encyclopaedia. They had the gift of the gab, all right, but she never let them past the threshold, and she never bought anything either. Howard had stressed the importance of not letting these people into the house. You never knew what they would get up to once inside, he said.
The young woman made her way up the garden path. She only had a small handbag, so Flora was sure she wasn’t selling anything. Unless it was an invisible mending kit, she thought with a smile.
She answered the door cautiously, making sure she blocked the entrance. “Hello?” she said sweetly, but with a slight edge to her voice. The first rule was to make it clear to any stranger that you weren’t going to be taken for a ride.
“Hello, Mrs Drake,” said Alice Troy.
“How do you know my name? I don’t know you, do I?”
“Not yet, but if you let me come in, I’ll explain.”
Flora eyed Alice suspiciously. She looked respectable enough, and was very good-looking in an obvious kind of way, but you could never tell.
“I don’t think I should do that, not until I know what it is you want.”
“If you want the whole street to know your business, that’s fine with me,” said Alice, raising her voice and looking to the right and left at the twitching curtains in the windows of the neighbouring houses. It was always the same. Housewives with too much time on their hands.
“Well, what is it you want then?” Flora was getting impatient now, and vaguely worried.
“Your husband’s name is Howard,” stated Alice, as if she were telling her something she didn’t know.
“How do you know our names? Who are you?”
“As I said, if you’ll let me come in, then I’ll tell you.”
Flora saw there was no help for it. Reluctantly she stood to one side to let Alice enter. “Go through to the parlour on your right,” she instructed.
Alice walked into the room that, only a few moments before, Flora had been dusting happily. “What a pleasant room,” she said. She saw Howard’s photograph at once and picked it up. “Yes, it’s a good likeness,” she said.
“How d’do you know my husband? Do you work with him?” Flora snatched the precious photograph from Alice and clutched it to her bosom.
“No, not exactly. But I met him in a business capacity, you might say.”
“Why don’t you come to the point? Miss – er, I don’t know your name.”
“No, you don’t, do you?”
“What is this?” She switched off the wireless. The jolly music was getting on her nerves now. A few moments ago she was Snow White. Now she felt like one of the Ugly Sisters in Cinderella.
“I’m sorry to have come to see you like this, but your husband has left me no choice.”
Oh God, thought Flora. What has he done? Her world was about to come tumbling down around her delicate little pink ears.
“I think you’d better sit down,” said Alice, seeing Flora’s complexion fade from rosy pink to pallid white. “Before you fall down.”
“What do you have to do with my husband?” Flora slumped onto the sofa. Her head was spinning. She was trying not to think the unthinkable, but she knew. The girl had no need to say anything further. Her mother had warned her that all men were the same, but she hadn’t believed it of Howard. Not until this moment.
“He’s the father of my unborn child,” said Alice.
Flora slumped even further into the sofa at these words. For a moment, Alice thought she had fainted or, more helpfully, died. Then her better nature took over and she ran in search of the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.
“How did you find our address?” asked Flora, sipping the water.
“Wasn’t difficult,” said Alice, “I followed him home the other night.”
“But why come to me? Haven’t you told him?”
“Of course I have, he denies it’s his. But it is. I know it.”
“You want him to…. well, what do you want? How far are you along? You’re not going to have the baby, surely?”
“Oh, yes, I’m going to have it. And, what’s more, Howard Drake is going to marry me. You don’t have any kids, do you?”
Flora shook her head. Not yet, not quite yet.
“Well, there you are, then. I have the prior claim,” said Alice in triumph. This interview was easier than she had expected. The woman was a pushover. Probably couldn’t conceive. Howard would eventually come round to the idea of divorce. No man likes to think he can’t be a father, she thought. She could give him the child that his wife couldn’t.
Flora stared at her. How could she be hearing this? Only that morning she had been sick twice, and the day before too. Perhaps she was just ill, but she didn’t think so, because she always felt fine afterwards.
Alice stood up. “Just you tell that husband of yours that I expect him to do the right thing. I’ll be in touch again soon.”
Stunned, Flora nodded. She couldn’t think of any words to say.
“Don’t bother to throw me out,” said Alice as she quietly left.
30th January 1958: Wandsworth
“I think you’re being very unreasonable, Robbie.”
It was another cold evening. The chess board was set up in the vicarage study, but play hadn’t started. Whisky and sherry were poured and pipes were lit. The fire was banked up, and Beelzebub was stretching himself in front of it.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Robbie sucked furiously on his pipe.
“Yes, you do. About this Howard Drake business,” said Bernard.
“Oh that. I’ve got something to tell you about that….”
“I went to see him in prison today,” Bernard interrupted. “I didn’t know what to say to him. We went over everything that happened
, and I believe he was telling the truth. But there doesn’t seem to be any solid evidence of his innocence, that’s what’s so frustrating. The prosecution’s case looks pretty watertight whichever way you look at it.”
“There you are, then. Guilty as charged,” said Robbie.
Bernard glared at him. The air was icy inside as well as outside now. “But you didn’t see what Annie and I saw. That dog….”
“All right, all right. But you’ve got me all wrong, old boy.”
“How come?”
“I went to Ladywell cemetery to see for myself, like you wanted me to.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” grumbled Bernard.
“You didn’t give me much chance. The minute I sat down you told me I was being unreasonable.”
“Sorry, but you seemed determined to believe Drake guilty. It wasn’t like you. I thought it was because you’re jealous of him.”
“Jealous? How do you mean?”
Bernard smiled. “Maybe that’s the wrong word. But weren’t you upset? I mean about Celia going to see this man and taking up the cudgels on his behalf. She wasn’t giving you as much attention as you’d like, presumably?”
Robbie tutted impatiently. “That’s poppycock! I just don’t see why she has to go prison visiting in the first place. That’s all.”
“I think it’s a noble thing she’s doing. I mean, she doesn’t have to work, does she? And I can’t see her taking up some little hobby like tapestry or water colour painting. She doesn’t strike me as that kind of woman at all.”
“With due respect, Bernie, you don’t know her as well as I do.”
Bernard tapped the bowl of his pipe on the mantelpiece. “No, I suppose I don’t. But I think she has the right to decide for herself what she wants to do with her life. If she wants to offer some sort of comfort to those less fortunate than herself, then I, for one, applaud it.”
“They’re prisoners, Bernie! They don’t deserve to be visited by someone like her.”
“Even if they didn’t commit a crime, but are wrongfully imprisoned?”
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” said Robbie.
There was a pregnant pause. Neither man could think of anything to say to smooth over the rift that was beginning to open up between them. Finally Bernard spoke. “Anyway, you said you visited the cemetery? Well, did you find anything?”
“I don’t know,” said Robbie, relaxing slightly and sipping his whisky. “Nothing you could put your finger on.”
“But you think you could have seen or heard something? Felt something, maybe? Like the dog?”
Robbie shrugged. “Not exactly. There was something not quite right. I found the grave quickly enough, but I had to hold back as there was a middle-aged couple there, probably her parents. I didn’t want to intrude.”
“No, of course not. But you waited till they were gone?”
“I left the cemetery and found a café. It was perishing cold so I had a cup of Bovril, then went back. They had gone by then.”
“Right. So then what?”
Robbie didn’t reply straight away but busied himself tamping more tobacco into his pipe.
“Come on, Robbie. Don’t keep me in suspense. Something must have happened?”
“Yes and no. When I got back, although the couple had left, there was a young woman standing there all by herself.”
“So you had to go and have another Bovril?”
“I thought so and I turned to go. But, when I turned back….”
“Yes? Robbie, get on with it.”
“The girl had vanished. I only turned my back for a second. But she had completely disappeared.”
Bernard was excited now, and he jumped right in. “So you think she was a ghost, then? The ghost of the murder victim?”
“Hold your horses. I didn’t say that, but I don’t know. She could have just moved very fast. Maybe I misjudged how long my back was turned. I can’t say for sure.”
“Hmm,” said Bernard. “I bet she was a ghost.”
“You mean you wish she was.”
“I suppose so. But you should have seen how the dog reacted. I was convinced it’d seen a ghost or sensed one, at least.”
“There was definitely a strange atmosphere around that grave, that’s all I know,” said Robbie.
“What did the woman look like?”
“I didn’t really get much chance to take her in, but the interesting thing was she didn’t have a coat on. On a day like this, I thought that was very odd. Just a nice red dress and black stockings.”
“There you are then! No coat, what more proof do you need? She was probably dressed in the clothes she’s wearing in her coffin.”
Robbie shuddered. “Stop it, Bernie, you’re giving me the creeps.”
“I think we need to go back to the cemetery and see if she appears again.”
“All right. But can’t we wait until it’s a bit warmer?”
“We haven’t got time to wait. Drake’s being hanged in two weeks!”
14th June 1957: Margate
“So, have you got something to tell me, Ali?”
Alice Troy was in the act of putting freshly washed wine glasses back in their box as Pete Farrell entered the hotel kitchen. She didn’t look up or reply, but simply continued with her task in an unhurried, methodical fashion.
“Ali? Did you hear what I said?”
The last glass put away, she closed the box carefully. She turned slowly to face him. “I heard you. And the answer is ‘no, I haven’t got anything to tell you’.”
“Oh haven’t you? Well, I think you have.” He came towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. They felt delicate and frail beneath his grip, the bones digging into his fingers.
“Let go of me!” she said, wriggling free.
“Look, what’s happened to us lately, Ali?” Pete dropped his hands to his side and looked like a puppy that had just been kicked. “You and me, we’re good together, aren’t we?”
Alice shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. But that was then. I’ve moved on now and so should you.”
“When did all this happen? I wasn’t aware we’d split up. Surely I’d know about it, wouldn’t I?”
“Don’t make out you care. You’ve taken out other girls while you’ve been seeing me.” Pete opened his mouth to speak, but Alice raised her hand to stop him. “Don’t bother to deny it, ’cos I know. We were hardly the romance of the century. I don’t mind, it’s no skin off my nose. Just let’s call it a day.”
“I don’t know where you get your information from, but I haven’t been seeing anyone but you. Not since that first night, remember?”
Alice didn’t reply, but she remembered that night all right. They had made love in the back of his car. She had been frightened at first, and she was uncomfortable in the cramped interior, but he had been a considerate lover. It had been her first time. She bent to pick up the box of glasses.
“Don’t be silly! You’ll do yourself a mischief. A girl in your condition.”
“My condition? And what condition would that be?”
“Don’t be stupid, I know.”
“Someone opened her big mouth, I suppose.”
“I asked May what the matter was, that’s all. I care about you and you wouldn’t tell me. You’re so miserable these days, Ali. I need to have my staff cheerful and smiling when greeting and serving the guests. Didn’t you wonder why I promoted May instead of you?”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I’m not bothered about that. I couldn’t care less.”
Pete could see by her face that was untrue, but he knew he had made the right decision. “I’m sorry, but I’ll promote you soon, I promise, as soon as another vacancy pops up. And you cheer yourself up a bit.”
Alice shrugged. “In the meantime I’m going to have a baby, which may hinder my chances. Still, that’s nothing to concern yourself with.”
“How can you say that? It’s my baby.”
“No
, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“But how do you know?” Pete was beside himself. How could she stand there and tell him the baby wasn’t his? Even if she had slept with someone else, that man at Scarborough or anyone, that didn’t make it any less likely to be his baby she was carrying. He knew enough biology to know that.
Alice made to move out of the kitchen, but he restrained her. “Don’t just ignore me, Ali. Why are you so sure it’s not mine? I’m prepared to support you – marry you, even. I was going to ask you even if this hadn’t happened.”
“I don’t suppose you will now, will you? You’re hardly likely to want to bring up another man’s kid, are you?”
“But I don’t know that it’s not mine, do I?” Pete persisted.
“Well, I do. So just walk away and think yourself lucky.”
Pete was beginning to hate her. “So who is the father, then? That guy you kept ogling at Scarborough? Come off it. He won’t marry you, not in a month of Sundays. I bet he’s married already. You’re being really silly, Ali.”
“You’re well rid of me then, aren’t you?”
“You know how fond I am of you,” he said, a note of desperation in his voice. “I don’t want to lose you. Even if the baby’s not mine, I’m prepared to marry you and bring it up as my own.”
“That’s very noble of you,” she said, not without a hint of sarcasm. “But you needn’t bother because he’s going to get a divorce and marry me!”
“If you think that, then you’re living in cloud cuckoo land, my girl.”
Cloud cuckoo land or not, that’s where Alice Troy wanted to be. As she left the kitchen, she heard him mutter “silly cow” under his breath.
31st January 1958: Lewisham
A bitter easterly wind flapped furiously around the thick overcoats of the two men standing by the graveside of Alice Troy. They huddled closer into their collars, pressing their hats firmly down on their heads.