by Pat Herbert
And there was that time she had come upon Danny giving Alice a hug. He’d told her it had meant nothing, that he just felt sorry for her, nothing more. She believed him in the end, but she had never really been able to see him as anything other than a bonny Yorkshire lad with a roving eye. When she was at her lowest ebb, she suspected he was amusing himself with her until something better came along. Even when she knew she was looking and feeling her best, she was never completely sure of his love. Not until he put the ring on her finger would she be sure. And maybe not even then.
She opened the drawer in the sideboard with difficulty. It was an ill-fitting drawer, badly made out of what looked like banana boxes. The whole flat was furnished for no more than tenpence she suspected. She took out the well-thumbed scrapbook and sat at the table with it. It was full of cuttings from newspapers about Alice’s murder, and her photographs were liberally spread among them. They made her look like some glamorous film star, much to her annoyance. She wondered when she could have had them taken. The ones she’d seen of Alice were very informal and made her look like a normal, healthy girl, not like Hedy Lamarr, as in the newspaper ones. There were also photographs of handsome Howard Drake, her equally handsome boss, Pete Farrell, and one or two of her, looking sullen and unappealing, not like a film star at all.
She turned to the reports of Drake’s arrest, and studied the accompanying photos of him. It was the same one in all the papers, and a very nice one. A studio portrait, by the look of it, which made him look a bit like Tony Curtis, although not quite so over-the-top. How did Alice ever think he’d marry her? Must have been mad. She didn’t deserve to die, though, said a voice not entirely in her own head. The thought seemed to come from outside of it, somehow.
She closed the scrapbook and put it away. She’d make sure the jury knew all about butter-wouldn’t-melt Howard Drake when she was standing in the witness box. She would tell them how he had seduced her poor friend and then abandoned her when she told him she was going to have his baby. She would also tell them how he made out he wasn’t married just to get his evil way with her. He wouldn’t stand a chance. She was hoping to be a key witness for the prosecution, even though Danny had told her it was unlikely she’d be called at all. Who was he to deny her her moment of fame?
She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. A quarter to five. Still nearly two hours before he got home. It was much too early to start cooking his tea. There wasn’t anything in the larder, anyway. She wouldn’t be able to stock up again until he brought home his week’s wages the following night. It would have to be beans on toast again. That only took five minutes.
She sat down in the threadbare armchair, carefully avoiding the exposed spring as she did so. She picked up the Woman’s Realm that Danny had brought home for her and flicked through it. She had already read it from cover to cover, but maybe there was a nice knitting pattern or an unusual recipe for baked beans in it, although she knew there wasn’t. She yawned.
There was a sudden crash as the clock fell off the mantelpiece and smashed into bits at her feet. She looked up, startled. There was no way that could have just fallen off like that. She leapt from the chair and stepped back from the grate where the clock lay in pieces. It made a pathetic whirring sound.
Oh dear, she thought, continuing to wait to see if anything else was going to fly off the shelf. She turned as a couple of books fell out of the bookcase. She was really scared now. She bent down slowly and turned over the first book. The title page flicked open. Famous Miscarriages of Justice it was called.
***
Danny came home that evening to a quivering wreck. May flew into his arms as he entered the room. “There, there, pet. What’s wrong?” As he embraced her, he caught sight of the broken clock on the floor. “What happened to my clock? It was my grandda’s….”
“Bother your silly clock,” she said when she had regained her composure. “It wasn’t my fault. The thing just fell off the mantelpiece of its own accord. I was nowhere near it.”
He bent down and picked up the now empty clock case. “Don’t be silly, things just don’t fall off of their own accord.” He stared at the broken innards of his precious heirloom. “I’m not angry with you. Accidents happen. But why haven’t you at least cleared it up? Got too much else to do?” He gave her a steely glare. He suspected there was only baked beans for supper again, and now his favourite timepiece, the one his grandfather had bequeathed him, would never tell the time again. And she wasn’t even prepared to admit that she broke it. He felt like strangling her.
“And them books fell out of the case,” she said, sobbing quietly, as he stood up and pushed her to one side to walk over to them.
“For goodness sake, May, why couldn’t you even pick them up and put them back? Why leave them there like that? They were my grandda’s too.” He picked up the heavy tomes and returned them to their rightful place.
“You don’t understand,” said May pathetically, “there’s something here that’s doing this. I think this place is haunted.”
He stared at her. This was all he needed after a hard day at work, dealing with rather more awkward customers than usual. The evening papers were sold out too soon, and he had taken abuse from quite a few people when he tried to explain that he hadn’t been given enough copies that evening. One old man had threatened to take his custom elsewhere. His boss wouldn’t be happy with him after this.
And now here was May mithering on about ghosts or something. It was more than flesh and blood could stand. Why had they taken this dark, poky flat together? Why had he left Yorkshire to be with her? He didn’t know anymore. As he looked at her, he began to wonder why he thought her attractive even. Where was the unaffected, pretty girl he had fallen for? Where had she gone?
1st February 1958: Lewisham
Bernard opened the front door of his vicarage home and shook the ice particles from his shoes. The gales of late January had given way to some more sleet, and the pavements were treacherous. He had nearly fallen over twice on his journey to and from old Mr Taylor’s house just two streets away. It had been a false alarm as the old man wasn’t dying after all. It wasn’t the first time his anxious wife had called on Bernard that winter. Still, he had given the usual words of comfort, had a cup of tea, and was now once more in the comparative warmth of the vicarage hall. Mrs Harper was there to greet him.
“’Ow was ’e, this time?” she asked. “Still not dying?”
“That’s right, Mrs Aitch. Another false alarm. Looked quite perky to me. Had eaten a big breakfast and was listening to the wireless, humming away to it. Mrs Taylor looked more ill than him.”
“Typical!” she said. “Wear the wife out first. She’ll be long in ’er grave before ’e snuffs it, you mark my words.”
“Now, Mrs Aitch. That’s not very Christian, is it? Mr Taylor had that nasty operation only last year and he almost died.”
“‘Almost’ being the word, vic,” said Mrs Harper with a sniff. She could down a man at twenty paces with that sniff. People, when they heard it, usually had cause to be afraid. Her bark was worse than her bite, of course, but most people didn’t like to argue with her when she was in full flood. “To call you out on a day like this too, and then listen to the wireless. Whatever next? He’ll get a piece of my mind next time I see ’im. Lazy so-and-so.”
Bernard couldn’t help laughing. Never one to hold back when speaking her mind, he knew it was pointless trying to change her. Besides, he didn’t really want to; he liked her just the way she was.
“Did Annie get off all right, by the way?” he asked, as he started to make his way up the stairs to his study.
“Not so’s you’d notice it,” she replied.
He stopped on the third stair and turned round. “You mean she’s decided to stay, after all?”
“Let’s put it this way – the decision was made for ’er.”
“You’re not making a lot of sense, Mrs Aitch. What do you mean? I said goodbye to her just before I we
nt to see Mr Taylor and she had her hat and coat on, waiting for the taxi.”
“Well, that was then. When the taxi came, late as usual, she was worried she’d miss ’er train and rushed onto the path and wallop, she came a cropper, good and proper.”
“Oh dear! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? How is she?”
“Oh, she’ll live, never fear. I’ve sent for the doc. She’s sprained ’er ankle, that’s all. But it looks like she’ll ’ave to stay ’ere a bit longer.”
***
Robbie examined Anbolin’s swollen ankle carefully. “No bones broken,” he said, “but it’s a nasty sprain. The swelling should go down in a few days. I’ll bandage it up for you.”
“Thanks, doc,” said Anbolin. Her ankle was throbbing painfully, but she managed a smile. Being looked after by a handsome doctor helped to take the pain away a bit.
“You should be more careful at your age, love,” said Robbie, carefully strapping up her ankle and resting it on a pouffe. “You’re no spring chicken, you know. There, that should make you more comfortable. Ah, here’s Mrs Aitch with some tea.”
Nancy placed the cup and saucer on the table beside her. “There, ducks. You drink that up, then you’ll feel better.”
“Thanks, Nance. Anything to eat?”
Nancy Harper smiled. “I’ll get you something. Now just you take it easy. Would you like a cuppa, doc?”
“Not for me, thanks,” he said, closing his medical bag. “I must be going. I’ve got quite a few patients laid up with this cold weather, so I need to get round to them before surgery this afternoon.”
Anbolin struggled to sit up, and Robbie placed a cushion behind her back. “Now, don’t try to move about so much,” he instructed her firmly. “You’ll do yourself another mischief.”
“What’s wrong, doc?”
Robbie was taken aback by the suddenness of the question. “Nothing, why do you ask?”
“You’re not your usual chipper self today. I can tell. Something up?”
Robbie sighed and sat down again. His patients would have to wait a bit longer. “Just feeling a bit under the weather, that’s all.”
“It’s more than that. It’s the lovely Celia, isn’t it?”
Mrs Harper returned with a plate of sandwiches. Her interest was piqued at once, as Robbie and Anbolin stopped their conversation while she arranged the plate carefully, much too carefully, on the table.
“Thanks, Nance. They look good.”
“There’s ham and tomato and egg and cress,” said Nancy. “You look nice and comfy now, Annie. Can I get you anything else? Magazines? A nice juicy detective story?”
“Not now. Maybe later. Thanks, Nance.”
Robbie and Anbolin waited while Mrs Harper shambled slowly out of the room. She closed the door with a parting sniff.
“Now then, doc,” said Anbolin, “tell me all about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he insisted. “Anyway, it’s not Celia that’s the trouble. It’s this man they’re going to hang.”
“Yes, it’s very worrying. I’m sure he’s innocent.”
“Why do you say that? Celia thinks so, too.”
“Alice Troy’s an unquiet spirit, doc. Unquiet spirits have a story to tell. You mark my words, Howard Drake did not kill her.”
“I still don’t see why you can be so sure of that. Just because her spirit is restless, doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her. She was brutally murdered, so that would be enough to make her spirit restless, surely?”
Anbolin munched on a sandwich before she spoke again. “Nance should give that butcher a piece of her mind,” she said. “There’s too much fat on this ham.”
Robbie smiled. He certainly wasn’t feeling happy these days. But he wasn’t sure why. Celia was still talking to him; in fact they had made up their differences at a posh French restaurant in the West End the previous evening. But there was something not quite right in his life, and he didn’t know what it was.
“Now, Robbie, tell me what the real trouble is,” said Anbolin. Another ham sandwich had followed the first fatty one. This time she didn’t complain.
“The real trouble? That’s the trouble, I don’t know what the real trouble is.”
“Come on, you must have some idea.”
“It sounds ridiculous,” he said after a moment. “You see, I think someone’s following me. Not all the time, mind, just sometimes. I can feel a presence when I’m at home or in the surgery, or when I’m walking down the street, or in the car even. I felt someone there the other night at the restaurant. But every time I look round, I can’t see anyone. Not a soul. I mean, I would know if anyone was in the house, wouldn’t I?”
Anbolin looked serious. “And how long has this been going on, doc?”
“Ever since – well, ever since the first time I visited Alice Troy’s grave.”
“As I thought. It’s her, all right. She followed me about after I’d visited the grave as well, but since she’s got her hooks into you, she seems to have left me alone.”
“I didn’t want it to be her, you know. But I suppose I knew all along.”
“Have you told Bernie?” she asked.
“Goodness me, no. He’d think I’d flipped my lid at last.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. You and I, doc, are psychics, but your powers are stronger than mine. It looks like it’s down to you to find out what Alice wants.”
Robbie knew that too, of course. But just how was he to communicate with her when she never uttered a word? And when he tried to pin her down, she was gone.
1st February 1958: Wandsworth
Bernard pressed the bell on the door to Robbie’s surgery and waited, stamping his feet to try and keep warm. Lucy Carter opened it, and prepared to tell whoever it was that morning surgery had finished and to come back at six. She was not prepared to see the vicar of St Stephen’s standing there.
Ever since Anbolin had conjured up a man in white for her in the crystal, Lucy had eyed every likely male that came her way with due care and attention. She eyed them in the shops and in cafes. Standing at bus stops, seated on buses, waiting for trains, every new man she met was potentially the one to change her life. But so far there hadn’t been any likely contenders; very few men, she was beginning to realise, wore white, especially in the winter. In fact, Bernard’s dog collar was the nearest she had come thus far. It couldn’t be Bernard, could it? The one who would change her life for good? No, she thought. There had never been any spark between them. She might as well cross him off her hypothetical list, not that he was on it in the first place.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “It’s you, vicar. Robbie’s on his rounds. Did you want to come in and wait for him? He shouldn’t be long.”
“It’s you I’ve come to see, actually.”
Lucy’s hand went automatically to her hair. Did it look all right, she wondered? The white collar danced before her eyes. Perhaps Bernard had been hiding a secret passion for her, after all.
“Oh,” she said. “Come in, please.”
She showed him into the warm parlour and offered him tea, which he gratefully accepted. There was something about the way she asked him if he wanted a bourbon biscuit that worried him slightly. Was there a hint of flirtation in the way she said ‘bourbon’?
Seating herself opposite, having removed her apron and powdered her nose, she wriggled coquettishly. “Bourbon biscuits are my favourite,” she said, biting into one suggestively.
“Er – are they?” said Bernard, not quite sure what she was trying to say. Whatever it was, it was making him nervous.
“Now, vicar – or may I call you Bernard?”
“Y-yes, Bernard’s fine, if you’d rather,” he said somewhat doubtfully.
“Well, now, Bernard, what can I do for you?”
He looked at the plate of bourbons longingly, but felt reluctant to help himself, unsure why. “I came to talk to you for two reasons,” he said.
“Please, Bernard, do help yourself, before I
eat them all.”
“Thank you,” he said, reaching out tentatively to the proffered plate.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, you naughty man,” she said, tapping him lightly on his tweed-trousered knee. She was surprised at her own boldness, but he had said he’d come especially to see her. On her own. Hadn’t he?
You naughty man? Bernard was stunned. And that tap on his knee, what was that all about? He made a mental note to ask Mrs Harper as soon as he got back to the vicarage.
“I won’t keep you, Mrs Carter,” he said, stressing her name, hoping she would get the message and return their meeting to a semi-formal one. “I just wanted to tell you about Anbolin. I don’t know if Robbie has told you, but she’s sprained her ankle badly and has had to stay on at the vicarage.”
“Oh dear, no, I didn’t know. When did that happen?”
“Just this morning. As you can appreciate, the poor woman can’t get about much and would really appreciate a visit. To help to pass the time. I’m asking as many people as possible. So maybe you would look in on her some time?”
“Of course I will,” she said. “Besides I think I might have something to tell her.”
“Good, well, that’s settled then.”
Bernard stood up, ready to leave. He felt more and more uncomfortable, the longer he sat there. He never realised that Lucy Carter wore lipstick, or at least not that particular shade of bright red. It didn’t suit her at all.
Lucy stood up quickly, disappointment showing on her face. She obviously hadn’t expected the vicar’s visit to be such a short one. Maybe she had got hold of the wrong end of the stick, after all. “Didn’t you say there were two reasons you came to see me?” she asked.
“Oh – yes, well, I don’t suppose it’s anything, really,” he said, going out into the hall to retrieve his coat and scarf. He put on his hat.