Brow of the Gallowgate

by Doris Davidson

  ‘Poor lassie. She must have been heartbroken. Martin said he’d to go to identify her body.’ Albert was silent for a few moments, then he said, quietly, ‘But what about Charlie, when he came back? What happened after that?’

  ‘I think he was beginning to accept things until I told him to go back to Aberdeen. He said his mother would never forgive him for what he’d done to Vena, and I had to tell him his mother was dead, too. I thought Flo would have told him, but she must have forgotten he didn’t know.’

  ‘Bathie would have forgiven Charlie for anything,’ Albert observed mournfully. ‘He was the apple of her eye.’

  ‘He thought the world of her, too, I know, and I believe that learning she was dead was what put him over the edge. When Flo and I went to bed, he seemed quiet enough. He said he wouldn’t sleep, but we thought he’d be resting anyway.’ Will halted again. ‘I shouldn’t have left him. I should have known what he had in his mind.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, lad. Whatever was in his mind, he’d have found a way, in spite of anything you did. If he hadn’t done it that day, he’d have waited, but I’m sure he’d have done it, sooner or later.’

  Albert’s firm low voice reassured his son-in-law. ‘He was gone in the morning and I knew where, though I didn’t tell Flo. I drove to Bella’s house and found her lying behind the front door. The back of her head was smashed in, and there was nothing I could do for her, but I wanted to do something about Charlie. I didn’t know if he’d still be there, but I searched the house and found him lying in the bathroom, with an empty bottle of sleeping tablets beside him.’

  Albert gave a soft groan, but Will carried on. ‘He was in a bad way, but I managed to get a little bit out of him. He’d left our house about three in the morning, and walked straight there, and banged on her door until she came down. He said she just laughed at him and went back upstairs, but he followed her, shouting that it was her fault that Vena and the baby were dead. When he was on the landing beside her, she . . .’ Will sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly through his teeth. ‘She told him she didn’t know he was so desperate to get into bed with her again. That’s when he hit her.’

  There was a prolonged silence, during which both men pictured the scene, then Will said, ‘She overbalanced and fell down the stairs. Charlie said that she struck her head on the metal umbrella stand at the door, and when he ran down, she was dead. He sat on the bottom step for a long time to think, he told me, then he felt sick and went to the bathroom. That’s where he found the sleeping tablets – nearly a full bottle.’

  Albert found his tongue again. ‘It was maybe the best thing he could have done. Given all the circumstances, nobody would have believed he didn’t mean to kill her.’

  Will’s head jerked up. ‘That’s what I thought. He lost consciousness after I got him in the car, so when I reached the hospital, I told them he’d been depressed about his wife’s death and had taken the tablets at my house. They couldn’t do anything for him and he died shortly afterwards.’ There was still much to be explained, and Albert waited.

  ‘I arranged for the funeral, and I told Flo, when I went home, that I’d found Charlie lying at the side of the road about ten miles away, in the opposite direction from Bella’s house. She believed that he’d gone to get his old job back, and that he’d had a heart attack after finding out about Vena and the baby, so I didn’t disillusion her.’

  ‘And you left Bella Wyness lying on the floor?’

  Will couldn’t tell what Albert was thinking, so he said, quickly, ‘She was dead anyway, and the longer it was till she was found, the less chance there was of anybody connecting it with Charlie.’

  ‘I see. It seems I owe you a lot, Will.’

  ‘Oh, no. I did it without thinking, and it was nine days before anybody went to her house, so it turned out better than I’d hoped. The coroner thought she’d only been dead for a week. She was lying in the shade, you see, and he couldn’t have taken that into consideration, and there was nothing to suggest to the police that her fall hadn’t been an accident.’

  He heaved a great sigh. ‘I was on tenterhooks that whole nine days, wondering if I’d missed something that would lead them to find out Charlie had been there, and I couldn’t relax until the verdict at the inquest was accidental death.’

  ‘Aye, it must have been a great strain on you, Will, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for what you did.’

  ‘I’d like to try to forget about it now, and I needn’t ask you not to tell anyone else.’

  ‘I’ll not do that. The fewer people that know about it, the better.’ Albert looked at Will with his eyebrows raised. ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you, though. Would it be too much to ask that you show me where Charlie and Vena and the bairn are buried?’

  ‘I’ll take you tomorrow night, if you like. That’s the last chance you’ll have, anyway.’

  Sitting back, Albert allowed himself to smile. ‘I’ll have that whisky now, if the offer still stands.’

  While he was waiting for it to be poured, he said, ‘You’ve told nobody else what you’ve just told me?’

  Will concentrated on filling the small glass. ‘Martin Potter wrote and asked me to tell him the truth, because he’d more or less guessed what had happened, so I wrote back, care of the University. All I said was that his suspicions were correct. Martin was Bella’s son, remember, and I felt I had to let him know.’

  ‘And Charlie was my son.’ Albert regarded him sadly. ‘Why didn’t you let me know?’

  ‘I should have.’ Will turned round to hand Albert his whisky. ‘I thought it would be too painful for you, on top of hearing about his death.’

  Twirling the glass thoughtfully in his fingers, Albert said, ‘Aye. I’m sorry. You had the best of intentions, and I know now. You took an awful risk, but it worked, thank God.’

  He said little when Will drove him to the little cemetery the following night, although his heart almost broke when he read the two inscriptions on the memorial stone.

  ‘In loving memory of Vena Bruce, born 1890, died 1921. Beloved wife of Charles Ogilvie of Aberdeen, Scotland.’

  This had been Hetty’s doing, but it had been Flo who had arranged for what was inscribed underneath.

  ‘Also the above Charles Ogilvie, born 1890, died 1923.’

  On the plinth were three words. ‘Together for ever.’

  Standing there, his felt hat in his hand, Albert’s heart filled with relief until a frightening memory came back to him. It returned with sickening clarity – the nightmare he’d had about Charlie, even before he’d known his son was dead.

  He could see him yet, standing by the bed, saying, ‘Bella Wyness can never hurt any of our family again’, and suddenly he doubted if it had been an accident at all. Charlie had gone to Bella’s house with the intention of killing her, and he had succeeded – by chance or design.

  Bowing his head, Albert put up a silent prayer that his eldest son had not been condemned to everlasting purgatory for what he’d done, but that he was, indeed, together again with Vena for ever, in a place where Bella Wyness would certainly never be accepted.

  He was aware of Will’s hand on his arm, and raised his head to smile at him. ‘I’m all right, lad. I’ve seen what I wanted to see, and I’m glad he’s at rest.’

  When they returned to the bungalow, Albert said that he’d better have an early night, and Flo was rather relieved. He’d been too calm when he came in, but no doubt he’d been grieving for Charlie, and a good night’s sleep should help him.

  Her father couldn’t sleep, however. It was just as well that he hadn’t learned the truth until his second last night, for he couldn’t have hidden his torment from Flo for any length of time.

  Charlie had sacrificed his own life to rid the Ogilvies of Bella Wyness, who must have nurtured a hatred for them so deep that it was bound to end in tragedy. Her death was the only good thing to come out of the whole sorry business, and Albert thanked God once agai
n for Will Dunbar’s quick thinking on that early morning.

  If he hadn’t been so perceptive, Charles Ogilvie would have been publicly branded a murderer, alive or dead.

  Chapter Forty-five

  It was a great wrench for Albert to leave Flo and Will and his small grandson, but at last the liner steamed out of Wellington harbour and he went down to his cabin.

  He knew he would probably never see them again, but cheered up at the thought that he could spend some time with Ellie in the not too distant future, and with Donnie, as well. Gracie and Joe deserved some time to themselves, that’s why Hetty had taken Ishbel to Rubislaw Den while he was away. Her youngest sister could be a bit wearing at times.

  Inclined to feel rather unsociable, Albert remained in his cabin all that first day, having his meals brought to him, but he awoke the next morning feeling that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Nothing else could happen to his family now, barring illnesses, and as he’d told Bathie often enough, they’d their own lives to lead.

  On his outward voyage, he’d spent most of his time in his cabin, content to wallow in his own morbid inner world. But what had happened two years ago couldn’t be altered, he thought now, and he had still some of his own life to lead.

  Making his way up to the promenade deck the next morning, he took a walk round in the bracing air, then went down to the dining room for breakfast.

  There were six people altogether at his table, and the other five had got to know each other the day before, but they welcomed him warmly into their company. Mr and Mrs Foster, from Kent, had been in New Zealand visiting their son, and the Smiths from Waverley, not very far from Wanganui, were on their way to the husband’s parents in Devon.

  Sitting next to Albert was a lady who introduced herself as Mrs Benton, a widow from Bristol, and when the meal was over, she accompanied him out.

  ‘My husband was in shipping,’ she told him as they walked up a flight of wide steps and came out into the open air. ‘We meant to take a world cruise when he retired, but, sadly, he died before that day ever came.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Albert thought that she wouldn’t remain a widow for very long, she was far too attractive.

  ‘I was heartbroken, but . . .’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Life has to go on, hasn’t it?’

  Albert nodded. ‘That’s true. My wife died four years ago, so I know how you must have felt. How long is it since . . . ?’

  ‘Almost eighteen months.’

  Her blue eyes were so like Bathie’s that his heart missed a beat, but she was completely unaware of his discomposure.

  ‘For over a year I refused to go out, then I realized how stupid I’d been. My sons thought I was mad when I decided to come to New Zealand to see my sister and her family.’

  Her tinkly laugh reminded Albert once again of Bathie, but this time, Mrs Benton did notice the quick flicker of pain which passed across his eyes. ‘Am I upsetting you by talking like this, Mr Ogilvie?’

  ‘No,’ he said, hastily. ‘It’s not that. You laugh exactly like my wife, and your eyes are the same as hers – deep blue, with sooty-black lashes – and it gave me a bit of a turn.’

  ‘Would you like to sit down and tell me about her?’

  They had reached a row of deckchairs, mostly unoccupied, and she sat down without waiting for his reply.

  Lowering himself on to the unfamiliar-shaped seat, Albert wondered if he could tell an absolute stranger about his wife, and began slowly. ‘I met Bathie when she was sixteen.’

  ‘Bathie? What an unusual name.’

  ‘It was really Bathia, but Bathie suited her better. She was lovely, full of life, and I loved her with all my heart.’

  Completely at ease with her now, he told her the story of his courtship, and she smiled encouragingly several times, although he wasn’t conscious of it, his eyes being fixed on the horizon as he recalled those far-off happy days.

  ‘She wasn’t even fifty when she died,’ he ended sadly, as he turned towards his companion. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Benton. I’ve been going on and on, and you can’t have been interested.’

  ‘I’ve been very interested, and my name is Rose.’

  ‘Rose? That describes you perfectly. Mine’s Albert.’

  She gave another little trill of laughter. ‘That’s quite a coincidence. My second name is Victoria.’

  Laughing with her, Albert felt as free as the seabirds wheeling overhead. It was an exhilarating sensation, and he made up his mind to enjoy this woman’s company as often as he could. ‘What about your husband?’ he asked, after a short, but quite comfortable silence.

  ‘Mine is not such a romantic story,’ she smiled. ‘John and I grew up together, and did everything together. Both our families took it for granted that we would marry, so we did. We had a great affection for each other, of course, and we were quite happy on our wedding day.’

  Her pause enabled Albert to study her. Her dark hair had, perhaps, a little less silver running through it, and was in a different style, but even the tilt of her head reminded him of Bathie. She was a few inches taller, nearly the same height as he was, but he felt the same sense of protection towards her as he’d often felt for his wife, and he was amazed at himself.

  She smiled and carried on. ‘We went to Paris for our honeymoon, lovely romantic Paris, and it was there that we discovered how much we really did care for each other. Love had crept up on us without our knowing, until it exploded in our hearts one wonderful, wonderful night.’

  She turned her head, her eyes dreamy. ‘Oh, Albert, I was wrong. Mine was a romantic story, too, wasn’t it?’

  Albert and Rose spent all their time together from then on. Her cheery good humour made him forget, for a time, the terrible things Will Dunbar had told him, and which he’d been agonizing over in his cabin that first day. And when he was with her, he could think of Bathie without the old dull pain gnawing at his innards.

  Rose encouraged him to try the deck quoits, and to take part in all the other games and entertainments which the crew laid on for them, and even when they had lifeboat drill, she took his mind off the true purpose of the practice by joking.

  ‘I feel like a whale with this life-jacket on. I’m far too well built for anything like this.’

  ‘No, no,’ Albert protested. ‘You have a perfect figure. You’re a full-blown rose, not overblown.’ His face reddened at his unplanned familiarity, but she chuckled with delight.

  ‘You’re so gallant, Albert, I wish . . .’

  Her eyes, which had seemed so wistful a moment before, filled with merriment again as she tucked her arm through his and pulled him to watch a game of tennis. Standing beside her, he wondered if she’d been about to wish, like he did, that the voyage would never end, that they could be together always.

  Every morning now, he looked forward to the day ahead, and laughed at himself for acting like a young lad again. He could hardly wait until it was time to meet Rose on deck.

  They spent all their days together, separating only when it was time to dress for dinner in the evenings. Then they danced until the ballroom emptied, and he saw her to the door of her cabin before making for his. Their enjoyment of each other’s company was literally that, innocent enjoyment.

  It was almost the last night of the voyage before Albert admitted to himself that he had begun to think very fondly of Rose Benton, but there was no harm in that. They were only shipboard acquaintances, and he’d have their friendship to look back on as the crowning glory of his first-ever holiday.

  She was perhaps a year or two older than Bathie, it was difficult to tell, but with the same zest for life and the same appealing quality about her. Such a woman was meant to have a man, but if she ever married again, it would be to some wealthy aristocrat, not anyone like Albert Ogilvie.

  After the dancing was over on the last evening, he saw her to the door of her cabin as usual, and sensed that she was every bit as reluctant to say goodnight as he was.

  ‘Won’t you c
ome in for a few minutes?’

  Her voice was husky, inviting, so he followed her inside – they were both free agents, after all. She melted against him with a gentle sigh as soon as he put his arms round her, and responded to his kisses so eagerly that desire for her almost swamped him, and he stepped back hastily in dismay. He hadn’t foreseen such a reaction.

  Her eyes, deep pools of blue in her flushed face, changed to hurt surprise, then to guilty shame, before she moved away from him, and he murmured, ‘I’m sorry, Rose. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that.’

  She kept her eyes lowered now. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s made me want to . . .’ Albert hesitated.

  ‘I wanted you to.’ Her colour deepened.

  He was about to take a step towards her when a picture of Bathie flashed into his mind. Bathie, lying limp in his arms, four years ago, as he carried her to their bedroom, not knowing that she was already lifeless.

  He couldn’t desecrate her memory, not with Rose or any other woman. In his whole life, he’d been unfaithful to his wife only once, and every time he thought about it, he was bitterly ashamed. He’d found out, much later, that Jean Rust was a whore, as Bathie had said, and that a number of other men had shared her bed in Queen’s Road. But Rose Benton wasn’t a woman like that. She was a decent person, just lonely, like he was. Would it be so wrong for them to find solace together?

  He’d almost convinced himself that he should give way to his emotions, when Rose broke the silence.

  ‘It would have been a mistake, without love . . . although I came nearer to loving you than any man I’ve known, except John. Your wife was a very lucky woman. Goodnight, Albert.’