by Pat Herbert
Anbolin smiled. “The crystal never lies, my dear.”
Lucy was unconvinced. The crystal had probably lied its silly head off, but she didn’t want to upset Anbolin. Where in the world do men where white? Greek soldiers, of course, but then they wore skirts. She couldn’t see herself marrying a man in a skirt. The only other man in white she could think of was Alec Guinness in that comedy film she had seen some time ago. It would be nice, of course, but she was pretty sure that charming Alec wasn’t to be her destined partner in life.
“I shall have to be a bit more patient, I suppose,” she sighed.
“That’s right. Patience is a virtue, and one day, your Prince Charming will come along, I have no doubt.”
“On a white horse? Maybe that’s what you saw that was white.” They both laughed.
“Tell me, dear, how’s Robbie doing with that Celia of his?”
“Bit up and down. She’s giving him the runaround. Mind you, it’s no more than he deserves.” She smiled with glum satisfaction.
Anbolin could see she was trying to put on a brave face. “Tell me, Lucy love, do you think I should knit this cardigan? Will it suit me?” she said, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
They were studying the knitting pattern in the latest edition of Woman’s Weekly when Nancy came in to take their tray away. She was pleased Anbolin had a visitor. Kept her off her back for a while, at least.
She closed the door quietly and returned to the kitchen to do the washing up.
18th October 1957: Wandsworth
The news of Alice Troy’s death had brought about a reconciliation between Howard Drake and his wife. It had brought them together like nothing else had done since Flora learned of her husband’s infidelity. The papers and wireless news broadcasts had been concerned with nothing much else for weeks: the lifeless body of a young and pretty girl discovered in a small Catford bedsit. It was the kind of sensational story that was the lifeblood of the press. It had happened three months ago, and Howard remembered clearly the moment he had read it in the news for the first time.
It had been a fine morning in July when the face of Alice Troy appeared on the front pages of the national newspapers, including his own Daily Express. She had been found with her head ‘caved in’, lying on the floor by the fireplace. The police, so said the paper, ‘suspected foul play’. Howard had almost laughed at this statement. It didn’t take an Inspector Maigret to work that one out.
He had held out the newspaper to his wife, who was in the process of buttering his toast in the usual strained silence. He remembered wondering how much longer he would be able to stand it. It was just as well he could escape to his job in the City for five days a week. It didn’t seem anything could be done to save their marriage, if the prospect of a baby couldn’t bring them back together.
Licking her fingers where the butter had slipped off the knife, she had taken the paper from him and read the awful news. She stifled a scream.
“They ‘suspect foul play’,” she said in a hoarse voice. “The police are treating it as murder.”
Howard nodded. “So it would seem. The girl didn’t deserve that.”
Flora looked at him strangely. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Well, she wasn’t exactly a saint, was she? I mean, she’s wrecked both our lives, hasn’t she?”
“Maybe she has, but it takes two to tango.”
“Don’t you think I regret sleeping with that girl every day of my life?” he said, almost in tears.
Flora felt like crying too. She wanted to put her arms around him and tell him everything was going to be all right, but somehow she couldn’t. Not yet. Not quite yet.
***
It was Pete Farrell who had first pointed the police in Howard’s direction.
“You need to question him,” he said with conviction. “He was the father of her unborn child. He didn’t want to know. She had been threatening him with all sorts, and I think she probably told his wife or was going to anyway. He would have had to fork out for the kid for years.”
It was enough, more than enough, even without a witness statement.
***
Howard had arrived home that early autumn evening, feeling content with his lot now that Flora had at last forgiven him. She was blooming now, and their baby was due to be born at Christmas. What a Christmas present that was going to be after all the unhappiness they had suffered. There were no worries for him now that Alice Troy had been brutally put out of the way and, although he felt sorry for the way she died, he couldn’t quite regret the actual fact of her death. He could now concentrate on healing his marriage and look forward to the birth of his child.
Flora smiled at him through the window and waved. She looked forward to seeing her husband every evening now. Although he had been unfaithful to her, somehow it didn’t seem to matter anymore. She wondered if she could love her child as much as she loved him. People assured her it would be a different kind of love, but just as deep and immovable. Unconditional love, they called it. She stroked her swollen belly with pride and affection.
Supper was ready and waiting. Salmon salad, with peaches and cream to follow. They had barely started when there was an urgent ring on the doorbell.
“I wonder who that can be?” said Howard, unaware of the police car parked outside. Flora stepped out of the dining room into the front parlour and looked out of the window. She saw the police car before her husband did. Her first thought was that one of their relatives had died. Her mother hadn’t been well for several weeks, but she was on the mend now. Howard’s parents were in fine fettle, as far as she knew. She went to the door slowly, as the urgent ring came again, this time of longer duration.
“All right,” she said with impatience. “I’m coming.”
Howard stepped into the hall and watched as his wife opened the door to two uniformed policemen and one man in plain clothes.
“Mr Howard Drake?” said the one in civvies. He passed into the hall, brushing against Flora as he did so. It was as if he expected the man of the house to make a run for it.
Howard stared at him. How dare he barge into his home like this? He had nearly pushed Flora over. Couldn’t he see the condition she was in? “Yes. What do you want?”
“Mr Howard Drake?” asked the man again, point blank.
“Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?”
“Mr Drake, we would like you to come with us to the police station to answer some questions about the murder of Alice Troy,” said the plain clothes man. There was no emotion in his voice.
“Am I under arrest?” asked Howard, stunned.
“No, sir. Why, do you think you should be?”
“Of course not. But why does it take three of you to come and ask me some questions?”
“Are you willing to come to the station with us, sir?” asked the man again, ignoring him.
“No. I don’t need to answer any questions. Anyway, I hardly knew the girl. I can’t be of any help to you. Now, if you don’t mind, my wife and I were just having our supper.”
“In that case, I have no option, sir.”
“No option? What do you mean?”
“Howard Drake, you are under arrest for the suspected murder of Alice Troy. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
Flora let out a gasp and nearly fainted. Howard felt like doing the same. The two policemen had slapped handcuffs on him before he knew what was happening.
“I can’t leave my wife like this,” he protested.
“Don’t worry, sir,” said the detective, “We will see she is looked after. Does she have a neighbour who can come and sit with her?”
“I suppose Mrs Meadowes will, she lives at number 53 across the road. Flora is quite friendly with her. But I don’t want to leave her. I haven’t murdered anyone, I swear.” He bent down to his wife who was now stirring.
“Darling, it’s a terrible mistake. I’
m sure it will be all right,” he said.
The uniformed policemen gently helped her to her feet and took her through to the sitting room. She sank down into the soft arms of the velveteen sofa, and covered her ashen face with her hands. It couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t.
***
Sitting in the cold, grey-walled interview room, Howard’s head was throbbing. He also felt dizzy. How had his life come to this?
The man who had arrested him entered the room, bearing a cup of tea. He placed it before him.
“Name’s Detective Inspector Bill Myers,” he told him. “I’m in charge of the Alice Troy case.”
“Thanks for the tea,” said Howard. He sipped it carefully. His hand was shaking and he couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t spill most of it down his shirt.
“Not at all, Mr Drake,” said Bill Myers. “Now, I need to ask you some questions.”
“Of course. Do you know if my wife is being looked after? She’s going to have a baby. I can’t bear to think of her alone.” What must she be going through, he thought.
Bill Myers coughed. He didn’t know what to say to this seemingly nice young man. Could he be a cold-blooded killer? It was difficult to imagine. But he did have a strong motive, if Pete Farrell was to be believed.
“She is being looked after, don’t worry. Her neighbour is with her.”
“That’s good.”
“Now, Mr Drake, can you state your full name and address for the record, please?”
Howard did so.
“Thank you. I will be taking down a full statement from you, or rather PC Mackintosh will in a minute. Firstly, can I ask you directly, did you kill Alice Troy?”
Howard glared at him. He gulped down the rest of his tea before replying. Then he slowly and deliberately said: “No, I did not.”
A young policeman entered the room. He was one of the two uniformed police who had accompanied Bill Myers. He sat next to his superior, and opened up a writing pad.
“Mr Drake, I want you to tell us exactly what your connection is with Alice Troy, and every detail about your liaisons with her. Leave nothing out. If you forget something that you later rely on in court, you will find life very hard, I can promise you.”
Howard heeded the warning, but he found revealing his intimate involvement with the dead girl difficult. Still, he thought, the sooner he told the inspector what he wanted to know, the sooner he could get home to Flora. It was a misunderstanding, of course, but it could soon be cleared up.
He cleared his throat and began.
***
Inspector Myers looked closely at Howard’s completed statement, as taken verbatim by his young colleague. He stared at the pages and then at Howard several times. Howard stared back at him. He had nothing to hide; nothing, indeed, to fear. Every word in the statement was true. But Myers continued to scrutinise the words and his face in turn. At last he spoke. “Are you prepared to sign this as a true statement, Mr Drake?” he asked, shuffling the pages.
“Yes, of course I am. It’s all true, and I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“You see, I have a little problem with what you’ve said.”
Howard opened his mouth to protest, but the inspector put up his hand to stop him. “I should think very carefully before you speak,” he said.
This was too much. To be accused of murder was one thing, and was bad enough in itself. But then to be disbelieved when a true statement is given to counteract the allegation was quite another. If he wasn’t going to be believed anyway, Howard began to wonder how he was going to extract himself from his predicament.
“I don’t know what you mean, Inspector. I am astonished and deeply affronted by your suspicions. I’m a law-abiding citizen, and have been all my life. I am only guilty of one rash act that I’m paying penance for every day of my life. I don’t deserve to be here, being accused of cold-blooded murder, and now, seemingly, compounding that with lies.”
“You can get on your high horse if it pleases you, Mr Drake, but I just want to clear up one particular point, if I may.”
Howard realised his hands were shaking uncontrollably as the inspector passed him the statement to sign. “I just want to sign this and go home,” he said, taking the pen from him.
“I’m sure you do, but I’m afraid returning home isn’t an option at the moment. You see, your statement contradicts another statement we took from a witness just this morning.
“A witness?” Howard put down the pen. Just what was being cooked up against him, he wondered. “What witness?”
“Let me just clarify what you say in your statement,” said Myers calmly. He looked at the policeman beside him and Howard saw a strange look pass between them. What did that mean?
“Yes, please do.”
“You say you visited Miss Troy at her home on only one occasion. That would have been about three months ago, on the twenty-first of June, to be precise. Have I got that right?”
Howard paused. “Yes, that’s correct. As I said, I went to see her to try and sort something out with her about the baby. I wanted to do right by her. Mr Farrell had given me her address in Catford in order that I could go and see her for just such a purpose.”
“I see.”
Howard thought the inspector didn’t see at all. He was looking puzzled. “Well, Inspector, what seems to be the problem?”
“A witness in another flat where Alice Troy lived says she saw someone fitting your description leaving the building on the evening she was murdered. Can you shed any light on that?”
Howard thought fast. He had omitted to tell the police, on purpose, that he had paid a second visit to Alice on the night of her murder. He began to see what a major error that had been. He remembered passing some old biddy on the stairs but he hadn’t paid her any attention, there had been no reason to. But whatever happened, he couldn’t go back on his original statement; that would be signing his death warrant. There was nothing for it, but to persist in his story. After all, she had been quite old, and probably her eyesight wasn’t that good. The witness couldn’t positively identify him, he was sure. Well, almost sure.
“I can’t possibly say, Inspector,” he said, his nerves almost in shreds now. “I only went to see Alice on the twenty-first of June. The one and only time. As I told you and said in my statement.”
“Very good,” said the inspector. “Then we just need your signature.”
He watched as Howard picked up the pen and scratched his name at the bottom of the two pages of his statement. He couldn’t think straight anymore.
“I take it, Mr Drake, you’ll have no objection to taking part in an identity parade?” said the inspector, a smile creeping scarily across his face.
Howard had no alternative but to brazen it out. “None at all,” he said, with as much conviction as he could muster.
“You are entitled to a solicitor,” said Myers, standing up. “And I would highly recommend that you engage one.”
Howard was thoroughly scared now. “Can you recommend one?”
“Of course, if you do not have a preference of your own.”
Howard’s only preference was for the floor of the interview room to open and swallow him up. However, he tried to pull himself together.
“Thank you. I’d be grateful if you would arrange one for me.”
The inspector nodded and gave him a sympathetic glance. The man was as guilty as hell, but somehow he felt sorry for him.
1st September 1957: Catford
Arthur Pettigrew looked at the man lying in the hospital bed, wired up to the machine that showed only too clearly that he was still alive. This irritated Arthur. He was longing to see the machine go into a long line and an equally long buzz. The resuscitation team would rush down the corridor and pound the man’s chest but, thought Arthur happily, to no avail. He looked again at his uncle. No, the machine was still showing him that life was extant.
It made no difference that the man at death’s door was his uncle. He had been hoveri
ng at that particular door for nearly two months and Arthur was getting impatient. With the death of his mother just a week ago from a second heart attack, the legacy that had been coming to her from her brother would now be coming straight to him. Except that Stanley House stubbornly refused to die.
Dr Carmichael appeared at the bedside as he was thinking these thoughts. “Hello,” he said. “Where’s your mother? I haven’t seen her for a few days.”
Arthur gave him a wry smile. “That’s because she’s dead, doctor,” he said bluntly.
“Dead? How? When did that happen?”
“Just popped off one morning while she was making toast. The strain of all this was too much for her. She had a dicky heart, doc.”
“You don’t sound too upset about it,” said Carmichael, giving him a look of disapproval. “Is that why you’re here instead?”
“Something like that,” said Arthur, trying to look mournful. “I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, you know. She was my mother, after all.” He did his best to look suitably sad.
“Point taken,” said Dr Carmichael, but he still didn’t like the man. “I need to talk to you about the patient. You, I assume, are his next of kin now?”
“That’s right, doc. He’s been hanging about for two months. What’s the chances of his recovering?”
The doctor looked at the younger man carefully. He could guess there was money in it somewhere. “There are still vital signs. What he needs is for you to keep talking to him, let him know he’s loved and wanted back in the world. That sometimes brings people out of comas. I’ve seen it happen.”
“You mean he can hear what you say, even though he can’t speak or anything?”
“It is possible. You speak kind words to him, and keep encouraging him. That’ll really help.”
“What if it doesn’t, doc?”
“We must keep trying. He’s a reasonably fit man in his mid-forties. He should be able to fight back. We’ve done all we can surgically and medically, it’s up to him now. There shouldn’t be any barrier to him regaining consciousness.”