The Witches of Wandsworth

by Pat Herbert

  After what seemed like a lifetime, two men entered the room, both with the same look on their faces as the desk sergeant. She felt she was going to faint.

  “What’s going on?” she cried. “Please tell me. Do you know where my daughter is?”

  Inspector Craddock smiled at her. “Please, Mrs – er Carstairs, isn’t it? Please sit down. Calm yourself. We just need to confirm a few details.”

  “Then why are you all looking so serious?” she asked, refusing to sit down.

  Sergeant Rathbone took her gently by the arm and led her to a chair. “Try not to worry, Mrs Carstairs. We don’t know anything about your daughter as yet. We just need a few more details.”

  “What do you mean? Do you know where she is?” she asked, finally sitting down.

  “We know nothing for sure at this stage,” said Craddock.

  Ivy Carstairs felt cold, practically numb. Would they never come to the point?

  “First of all, Mrs Carstairs, can you give us a detailed description of your daughter? Or, better still, do you have a recent photograph?”

  “Yes – yes, of course.”

  She fished in her handbag and pulled out her purse. In the front flap was a black and white photo of a charming young girl, long hair framing a heart-shaped, Madonna-like face.

  “Charming, charming,” muttered Craddock.

  His heart sank. There wasn’t any doubt. The photograph he was holding was that of the dead girl on the Common. This poor woman’s daughter had been brutally murdered, and he had to break the news to her. But he never chickened out of this unpleasant task, feeling it was the least he could do for the bereaved.

  Craddock handed back the picture with a trembling hand and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Mrs Carstairs,” he said.

  

  Dr Smythe-Bucket looked down his aquiline nose at the plump middle-aged woman being escorted by Sergeant Rathbone into his cold mortuary domain. He had finished his post mortem on the body of the unfortunate young girl found dead on Wandsworth Common and had come to the conclusion that she had been murdered by person or persons unknown. Inspector Craddock could have told him that without the benefit of cutting her up or spending a fortune on employing high-minded pathologists like Smythe-Bucket in the first place. But then that was only his opinion. No one else seemed to share it.

  “This is Mrs Ivy Carstairs, sir,” Rathbone informed him. “We have reason to believe that the – er – body is her daughter.” What was left of her, he thought sadly.

  “Ah, I see,” said Smythe-Bucket, wiping his wet, scrubbed hands. “Follow me.”

  Rathbone could feel the woman tremble as they followed him along a dark corridor. He opened a door at the far end. It was a small room, the space almost entirely taken up by a long table on which reposed the body of the young murder victim. She was covered by a sheet, her face the only part of her visible. She looked peaceful, almost serene, as if she was merely sleeping.

  “Is this your daughter, Mrs Carstairs?” Rathbone asked her softly.

  He could see by the sudden pallor in her cheeks that it was. If he needed any further corroborative proof, she fainted in his arms.

  

  “So, we now have a positive I.D.,” said Craddock with satisfaction. “We haven’t lost too much time, but we must hit the ground running if we’re to nail the bastard who did it. We have to interview anyone and everyone who knew her and try and establish a motive for her murder.”

  The inspector, his team of detectives surrounding him, was in his element now. “We need to speak to her parents, of course, and any friends, particularly boyfriends.”

  He paused to let this sink in. He hadn’t been surprised to learn Helen Carstairs had been pregnant, although he had been disappointed. There were too many teenage pregnancies these days. She had looked like an angel from heaven with that innocently beautiful face. But you never could tell. He just hoped she hadn’t been taken against her will.

  “Now,” he continued, once he had put everyone in the picture about the pregnancy, “it would appear the murder took place sometime between ten o’clock last Tuesday evening and five o’clock Wednesday morning. We can’t – or rather Bucket can’t – pinpoint it any more accurately than that. So, anyone who saw or talked to her before ten o’clock on Tuesday needs to be eliminated from our enquiries.”

  After the team had dispersed, Craddock turned to his oppo. “This never gets any easier, does it? She was so young.”

  “I know, guv,” said Rathbone. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “Not that stuff from the canteen, thanks. Here, take half a crown and go and get some from Fred’s café, and a couple of bacon butties while you’re about it.”

  “Right you are,” said Rathbone. “Oh, by the way, your wife called. Wondered if you were coming home this evening.”

  Craddock glared at the younger man. “I wish she’d get off my case. Doesn’t she know I’m investigating a murder? She never gets her priorities right. Don’t get me wrong, Rathbone, I worship the ground on which she walks, but she does get on my threepennies sometimes.”

  Rathbone grinned. He knew of old the ups and downs in the lives of his senior colleague and his demanding wife, Doreen. She called him at least three times a day to find out what he was up to. He was sure she led him a dog’s life.

  “Did you find your pen, by the way?”

  “Oh, yes thanks,” muttered Craddock, already immersed in a pile of papers on his desk. “It was on the floor over by the radiator. Don’t know how it got there.”

  “Oh, well, never mind. Glad you found it. Perhaps you should call your wife, sir? She sounded pretty agitated.”

  Craddock gave him a withering look as if to say would you call her if you were in my shoes? Rathbone took the hint and went in search of the coffee.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What are you doing to that poor beast, Mrs Aitch?”

  Mrs Harper was poised with broom in hand, ready to strike a mangy-looking black cat who was climbing in through the kitchen window as Bernard entered the room. It was the morning after his birthday outing and he was in search of aspirin to ease his aching head. It wasn’t a hangover, he told himself. Just too much rich food, that’s all.

  “I’m just showing it it’s not welcome, Vicar. It keeps trying to get in ’ere and I’m not ’aving it. It’s covered in fleas!”

  Bernard bent down to try and entice the cat to come to him, but the poor creature was too scared to move.

  “Here, puss,” he said gently. “Take no notice of the frightening lady. Her bark’s worse than her bite.”

  This cut no ice with the feline, however, who continued to cower by the stove. The mention of the word ‘bark’ probably didn’t help either.

  “Don’t encourage it,” she ordered. “I’ve got enough to contend with without chasing cats all over the place.”

  “Do you know if it belongs to anyone, Mrs Aitch?”

  “I think it belongs to those weird sisters in Hallows Mead Crescent. It wouldn’t surprise me. After all, people say they’re witches. D’you know what Mrs Selfridge said to me the other day?”

  Bernard sighed. “No, Mrs Aitch. What did she say?”

  “That that body they found on the Common was sacrificed in one of their rituals. They’re a strange pair, they are. They say they put curses on people. Especially the older one. There’s an evil-looking woman, if you like. ’Ave you seen ’er?”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say,” said Bernard. “No one can help what they look like. And I don’t pay any attention to that sort of gossip, you know that. Now, let’s give this poor creature some milk, shall we?”

  “Hmmph!” muttered Mrs Harper with a world of meaning in it. “Shall I cook it a piece of steak while I’m at it?”

  “Don’t be silly, Mrs Aitch. A tin of Kit-e-Kat or a cod’s head will be all that’s required. Can you put them on your shopping list today, please?”

  “Are you seriously go
ing to keep this wretched thing?”

  “I am. At least I’m going to see it’s fed properly and then, if it doesn’t belong to anyone, I’m going to adopt it. I’ve always liked cats.”

  

  So, despite Nancy Harper’s objections, it seemed the vicarage had acquired a pet. Bernard had already decided to call it Beelzebub, and the housekeeper agreed the name was apt. As she observed, it looked like the very devil with its wild orange eyes staring out of its black face. The feline, himself, wasn’t objecting to his new name or his new home, both of which he had obviously decided would do for him. At least until a better prospect came along.

  Mrs Harper, although still unsure of it, had given in to Bernard’s wishes on the matter. Black cats were supposed to be lucky, she remembered. Anyway, she had more to concern herself with than stray moggies. The mystery of the body on the Common, for example.

  Rumours were circulating at a rate of knots and many people had their own pet theories about the person responsible for the murder. Top of the list were the two ‘witches’ in Hallows Mead Crescent, whom both Nancy and her friend, Gladys Selfridge, insisted were responsible. As the two women went about their daily chores, in and out of butcher’s, baker’s and greengrocers, they imparted to all those waiting to be served the benefit of their wisdom on the subject.

  Robbie was disgusted when he first heard of the rumour from his housekeeper, Lucy Carter.

  “That’s a wicked lie,” he declared. “To accuse those two poor old women of such a thing! Where do people get these ideas from? Reading too many trashy horror stories, I shouldn’t wonder. Not to mention the flicks.”

  “Well, you say that,” said Lucy, much put out by Robbie’s reaction to her news. She had been all agog to tell him and now he had put her firmly in her place. It didn’t deter her for long, however. “There’s no smoke without fire, you know,” she said huffily. “I bet those two are up to something. Only the other day young Wilf Frobisher’s wart dropped off, and it was because they’d given him some concoction to take.”

  “With all due respect, Lucy,” said Robbie, “Wilf Frobisher’s wart is neither here nor there.”

  “Not to Wilf it’s not…”

  “Please, listen. I want you to stop spreading these rumours about the Rowan sisters. By all accounts, they’ve had a hard life and I won’t have you adding to their troubles. I’m not in favour of them giving these so-called herbal remedies to people, but they’re not doing any real harm. They’re certainly not capable of murdering anybody.”

  “How do you know?”

  Robbie was losing his patience. “Just stop spreading this gossip. If you catch anybody saying these things, just you refer them to me.”

  “All right, keep your hair on,” said Lucy resignedly. “Did you know that the vicar’s taken in their cat, by the way?”

  “What are you talking about now?”

  “Those two old witch… er, women, had a cat but it now seems to be living at the vicarage. According to Nancy, anyway.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. Nancy Harper may be a bit gruff on the outside, but she’s as soft as butter inside,” he grinned.

  “No, it wasn’t Nancy’s idea to keep the cat. It was the vicar’s. She says it’s a nasty thing, covered in fleas.”

  “Bernie’s idea? I never knew he liked cats. Well I never.”

  “I don’t know whether the Rowans know about it yet. They’ll probably have something to say about it when they do.”

  “I don’t think Bernie would actually steal it from them. There must be some reason he’s taken it in. Maybe I’ll pay him a visit after lunch. Talking of lunch, is it ready yet?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Inspector Craddock was seated in the front room of one of the many terraced houses proliferating in Wandsworth, and indeed in many London boroughs, in the early 1950s. Number 58 Flamingo Drive was similar in size and design to hundreds of others, but the owners had stamped their own individual mark on it. The Larkin family had lived there for nearly twenty years and, during that time, it had been renovated three times. This was due to Gilbert Larkin’s keen interest in do-it-yourself, something in which he excelled. His son, Tyrone, was also keen so, as soon as he was old enough, he took on the role of ‘builder’s mate’ and much of the house’s newly painted façade was down to him.

  All this Inspector Craddock didn’t know and cared about even less. He was here on a very serious matter which had nothing to do with interior or exterior design. Mrs Alma Larkin had made him a cup of tea on his arrival and was now awaiting the purpose of his visit with some anxiety.

  “So, Mrs Larkin,” he said, after he had slurped down most of his tea in one go, “your son is at work, you say?”

  “That’s right. He’s got an important job in the city in a shipping company,” she announced with pride.

  “I see. I need to contact him. Do you have a phone number for his office?”

  Mrs Larkin went to the sideboard and picked up the address book by the big black Bakelite phone, which was a recent, and much heralded, addition to the household. After shuffling through the pages for a few moments, she finally arrived at the information Craddock was after.

  “Here you are,” she said. “It’s Museum 6401. I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Larkin. Could you also put the address?”

  “I’m not too sure of the exact address. I think it’s in Fish Street Hill, near to the Monument.”

  “That’ll do. Do you know the company name?”

  “James Lane Shipping Lines.” She said this without hesitation and wrote the details down.

  “Thank you, Mrs Larkin,” he said, taking the piece of paper from her. “You have been most helpful.”

  “Can’t you tell me why you want to talk to my son?” she asked, pouring him a fresh cup of tea. “Is it – is it about Helen?”

  “We need to speak to him, Mrs Larkin, as I understand he was – er – walking out with her. Is that right?”

  “Well, he’s been seeing a couple of girls, as far as I’m aware. Nothing serious,” she stressed.

  “We just need to eliminate him from our enquiries,” Craddock explained as he rose to leave. “Thank you for the tea.”

  “Be kind to him,” she said as she opened the front door. “It’s been a bit of a shock – for us all, of course, but especially for him.”

  Craddock guessed the doting mother knew nothing about poor Helen’s pregnancy and, if she did, would probably never believe her son responsible for her predicament. Mothers and sons! There had been many cases in his own experience of such unswerving devotion. It didn’t matter how heinous the crime, the guilty man’s mother would defend him to the last. He was a parent himself, but he never let sentiment blind him to his son’s faults. Terry Craddock was proving a handful now that he had entered his young teenage years. He sighed.

  He never liked to prejudge anybody, but he had to admit that he was already prejudiced towards young Tyrone Larkin. If, as he supposed, the young man had got Helen in the family way, then he had every reason to dislike him. However, despite this, he didn’t think he was her murderer, even though he had yet to meet him. The photograph on the sideboard had showed a fresh-faced youth with a sunny smile and an innocence almost as palpable as that of Helen Carstairs.

  He climbed into his battered Ford and pointed it towards the City.

  

  Half-an-hour later, he sat impatiently in the lavish reception area of James Lane Shipping Lines, waiting to speak to his number one suspect. The blonde receptionist (why were they always blonde, he wondered) had stared at his warrant card in awe and immediately buzzed through to the post room. He smiled as he overheard her say: “When you’ve finished dishing out the teas, Ty, there’s a police inspector here to see you. What have you been up to eh?”

  Important job? He supposed so. Tea was always important, but Mrs Larkin had led him to believe her son was something more than just a mere tea boy. He got up and paced
the room, beginning to think that Tyrone Larkin was never going to make an appearance. Had the receptionist frightened him? Had he made a quick getaway through a rear exit? Was he sitting, quaking in his boots, in the toilet?

  As he was wondering this, however, a rather attractive, dark-haired young man appeared meekly before him. The inspector’s instincts rarely let him down and they hadn’t let him down now. He had doubted Larkin was a murderer just by looking at his photo and, now that he saw him in the flesh, he was even more convinced of his innocence.

  “Hello, sir,” said the young man pleasantly, holding out his hand. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “Not at all,” said Craddock, shaking his hand. The young man’s grip was firm and reassuring. “Is there somewhere private we can talk? Where we won’t be disturbed?”

  “Is the boardroom free, Sally?” Tyrone called across to the receptionist.

  “For the moment. There’s a meeting due to start after lunch, so you’ve got about three-quarters of an hour.”

  Once settled in the pleasant, sun-filled boardroom, Craddock studied the young man carefully.

  Tyrone Larkin smiled at him, showing no trace of nerves.

  “Would you like a tea or coffee, Inspector?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” he replied. He cleared his throat and adopted the formal manner he always used when interviewing suspects. He found it kept them on their toes. “You know why I’m here, I suppose?”

  “Yes. My mother called me and said you were on your way. Poor Helen. She was a sweet kid. I wonder who would do such a wicked thing? She wouldn’t have harmed a fly.”

  “Did you know she was pregnant?” Craddock asked bluntly.

  The young man blanched. “Pregnant? But how?”

  Phil Craddock eyed him quizzically. “My dear young man,” he began, “surely you know…”