The Witches of Wandsworth

by Pat Herbert

  “Yes, of course,” said Tyrone impatiently. “However, I’m definitely not the father. We never had – er – relations. I had too much respect for her and she was much too young. Not just in years, she was – innocent somehow, do you know what I mean?”

  The chief inspector smiled. Yes, he knew exactly. Both young people were barely out of nappies in his eyes. Babes in the wood.

  “I had no intention of taking advantage of her in that way,” Tyrone pressed his point. “She always seemed so innocent and unworldly. I never dreamed that … I must say this news has shocked me very much. Whenever I tried to touch her – you know – in a more intimate way, she always recoiled. Maybe she just didn’t fancy me. I always thought it was just because she was afraid I would go too far. But I would never have done that, honestly, Inspector.”

  “Very well,” said Craddock, putting the cap back on his fountain pen which, for once, he hadn’t managed to lose. “Thank you.”

  “Is that all, then?” Larkin watched Craddock carefully, as if trying to gauge his reaction. “I’d like to help, I really would,” he continued. “You see, Helen was the first girl who really meant anything to me. I can’t believe she was seeing someone else behind my back.”

  “So, you had no idea?”

  “No, of course not. I wouldn’t have thought her capable of deceit. Still, you live and learn, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I suppose you do,” agreed the inspector.

  Visibly relaxing, he put his pen and notepad back in his jacket pocket. He often found he got more out of his suspects if he chatted to them in an informal way.

  “By the way, when did you last see Miss Carstairs?”

  “Er, Saturday night. We went to the pictures.”

  “What did you see?”

  “The Big Heat with Glenn Ford. Brilliant! I don’t think Helen liked it much, though. Too violent for her taste.”

  The Inspector smiled. “I saw that film,” he said. “I tend to agree with Miss Carstairs. Too violent.”

  “But you must see things like that every day of the week.” Tyrone smiled sardonically.

  “Not as often as you might think,” he replied. “So, what time did you leave her on Saturday night?”

  Tyrone thought for a moment. “Let me see. The film finished at ten-thirty and I walked her straight home. Her parents don’t – er, didn’t – like her to be out after eleven.”

  “Did she seem preoccupied, nervous, upset?”

  “Not especially. She seemed her normal self to me. She was always moaning about her parents keeping such strict tabs on her, though. Oh, wait a minute, I’ve just remembered something.”

  “Yes?” Craddock leaned forward.

  “She said she was going to an all-night party the next evening, but she wasn’t going to tell her parents.”

  “I see. Did you advise her not to go, or to tell her parents at least?”

  “Of course I did. I didn’t like the idea of her staying out all night. She’d never done anything like that before. And she didn’t even ask me to go with her.”

  “Did you ask her why she didn’t want you to go, too?”

  “Yes, but she just laughed. Said she thought I was a bit too prim and proper for such things. That really upset me.”

  Craddock was beginning to see a side to Helen Carstairs he hadn’t suspected. Perhaps she wasn’t as lilywhite as she had at first seemed. If young Larkin’s testimony was to be believed, of course. And, like all good policemen, the Inspector was keeping an open mind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What’s this I hear about you having got yourself a cat, Bernie?”

  Robbie was sitting in the vicarage study, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey and one of Mrs Harper’s delicious rock cakes, while Bernard was adding the final touches to his next sermon before joining him by the fire. Although it was April, there was still a chill in the air, and the roaring flames added a cosy glow to the vicar’s eyrie which Robbie never failed to appreciate on his many visits.

  “Yes, a little black moggy,” Bernard smiled. “He’s taken quite a fancy to me.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I think Mrs Aitch’s feeding him. She makes out she doesn’t like him, but she’s always giving him tit bits. Beelzebub’s got round her, all right, although she’d never admit it.”

  “Beelzebub? You call the cat Beelzebub?” asked Robbie in astonishment.

  “Yes. I think it suits him.”

  “Hardly a suitable name for the inhabitant of a vicarage, old boy,” laughed Robbie.

  “No,” agreed Bernard, laughing. “But it was Mrs Aitch’s idea, really. She said he looked like the ‘very devil’, so the name’s stuck.”

  “I see.” Robbie finished his rock cake, and wiped the crumbs from his waistcoat. “Er, Bernie, are you sure you should be keeping him? I mean, I understand he doesn’t actually belong to you.”

  “Oh, you’ve heard the talk going around that I’ve stolen him from those Rowan sisters, I suppose.”

  “Well, yes. I mean, did you bother to check if it belonged to anyone before you took it in?”

  “The state he was in, I thought it very unlikely it had a home,” said Bernard. “The poor thing looked half-starved. He was always coming round for scraps anyway, so I decided to feed him up and keep him. He’s free to go whenever he wants to, but he doesn’t want to.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t. It knows where he’s well off. Cats are like that. But what if it does belong to the Rowans? It wouldn’t look very good, would it? The headline in the local rag, I mean. ‘Local vicar steals cat from lonely old women.”

  “Oh, shut up, Robbie. The cat’s been here a few days now and they’ve not come round yet. If he was theirs, they’re probably glad I’ve taken him off their hands.”

  “You’re probably right,” smiled Robbie. “These cakes are smashing. Mrs Aitch has excelled herself. I wish Lucy could cook as well.”

  Bernard gave him a wry smile. “I’m sure she’s got other compensations,” he said knowingly. His friend’s relationship with his housekeeper wasn’t purely platonic, he was sure.

  “Have you heard about that dreadful murder, Bernie?” asked Robbie, quickly changing the subject.

  “Yes, isn’t it terrible? Poor Mrs Carstairs! She’s completely distraught.

  “And Mr Carstairs has taken to drink. According to Mrs Aitch, that is. But from what I know of Henry Carstairs, I find that very hard to believe.”

  “Well the shock of his daughter’s murder could have tipped him over the edge.”

  “I’m planning to pay the grieving parents a visit later,” said Bernard. “I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “Did you know that Helen was pregnant?”

  “No!”

  “Yes. I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you but, as the poor child is dead, I don’t see it will do her any harm now. She came to see me a while ago and I advised her to tell her parents, but she was afraid of their reaction. I think she was more worried about her father than her mother.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me,” said Bernard seriously. “Although I respect Henry for being such a staunch attendee at my services, he comes across as a bit like a Victorian father to me. I don’t know how he’d react to his precious daughter getting pregnant out of wedlock. Poor Helen. She was a sweet, pretty girl. I wonder who would want to kill her?”

  “Haven’t you heard the rumour going round?”

  “What rumour?”

  “Apparently people are saying the Rowan sisters sacrificed her in one of their rituals. They think they’re witches.”

  “Balderdash!” exploded Bernard. “I’ve told Mrs Aitch in no uncertain terms to stop spreading this tittle tattle. Some people have nothing better to do than listen to it. They’re just two unfortunate, lonely women who should be pitied, not vilified.”

  “I agree,” said Robbie thoughtfully. “I told Lucy not to be taken in by such rubbish, but you know how these women like to gossip.”

 
Just then, the door of the study creaked open a fraction and then it creaked open a little more. They looked up as a small black paw appeared, gradually followed by the rest of the animal. Beelzebub crept over to Bernard and jumped onto his lap, mewing softly.

  “You’re a pushover,” observed Robbie, smiling.

  

  Not blessed with a natural charm, Mrs Harper was nothing if not blunt and to the point. If she liked you, she might let you know eventually by giving you an extra biscuit with your tea. For the likes of Mrs Harper, this was tantamount to a declaration of undying love. Bernard had been blessed many times over with extra biscuits, both real and metaphorical. If, on the other hand, the vicarage housekeeper didn’t like you, then she had no compunction in making it clear from the outset. However, it was sometimes difficult to distinguish the two reactions, and people had often been under the impression, perhaps for many years, that Nancy Harper harboured a deep dislike of them when, in fact, the opposite was true.

  In the case of Miss Elvira Rowan, there was certainly no love lost. Bernard’s housekeeper had heard many strange stories about her and her equally dotty sister, Vesna. She had no concrete proof that the stories were true, however, only the word of such founts of knowledge as Mrs Gladys Selfridge; word which she took as gospel.

  “I’ve come about my cat,” Elvira Rowan stood on the vicarage front doorstep, looking daggers. Her tall, dark, looming figure overshadowed the shorter, dumpier Mrs Harper who was determined not to be intimidated.

  “Your cat?” she queried, all innocence.

  “Yes, don’t look as if you don’t know what I’m talking about,” said Elvira, folding her arms in a threatening manner. “Is the vicar in?”

  “’E’s busy. I don’t know nothing about no cat. Now buzz off!”

  “Not until I’ve seen the vicar,” said Elvira doggedly. “I must speak to him.”

  Mrs Harper sniffed. People who knew her of old, knew what one of those sniffs implied, and they didn’t relish being the cause of it. But Elvira Rowan was in ignorance on this point and continued to stand her ground.

  “Well?” queried Elvira impatiently. “I haven’t got all day. Are you going to let me in? I just want a word. I won’t keep him long.”

  “You want to ask ’im about the cat?”

  “The cat?” Elvira hesitated. “Well, yes, that and … other things. I need his advice.”

  The housekeeper seemed to relent slightly. “You want ’is advice, you say?”

  “Yes. I’ve not just come about the cat. To tell you the truth I can’t stand the mangy thing. But my sister is upset at losing it, so I said I’d come and ask for it back.”

  “For someone who likes cats, she didn’t look after it like she should ’ave,” observed Mrs Harper, not without justification. “The poor thing was always on the ear’ole for food until ’is nibs took pity on it. She should ’ave cared for it better, then it wouldn’t be round ’ere all the time.”

  “Vessie’s a bit absent-minded these days,” said Elvira, a faraway look in her eyes. “I know she always means to feed it, but she sometimes forgets.”

  “Only sometimes? It didn’t look as if it’d been fed for a month. Look,” said Mrs Harper finally, heaving a sigh. “All right. I’ll see if ’e’ll see you. You’d better come in.”

  Elvira squeezed around the housekeeper’s bulky frame and stood waiting obediently inside the hallway.

  

  If Nancy’s welcome hadn’t been all it should be, Bernard made up for it by his friendly greeting and offer of afternoon tea.

  “Now, Miss – er – Rowan, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

  Bernard smiled at the plain-faced old lady who stood stiffly before him, her back as straight as a ramrod.

  “I’ve come about the cat,” she said bluntly.

  “Do sit down,” said Bernard affably. “No need to stand on ceremony. I’ll just remove Beelzebub…”

  As he lifted the protesting feline out of the chair, he realised this was the cat that Elvira Rowan had come about.

  “Oh, I see … this cat?”

  The cat wasn’t happy at being manhandled. It had been having a lovely dream about a fully stocked fish pond and an overcrowded bird table.

  “Yes. I must say it looks much healthier since the last time I saw him. I wouldn’t have recognised it.”

  “Well, he was in a bit of a state when he came to us. I thought he was a stray.”

  “Yes, well, as I explained to your housekeeper, he’s my sister’s cat, really. I don’t like him, myself. I’m not a cat person. They make me sneeze.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Miss Rowan, but she can’t have him back if she can’t look after him properly.”

  “No, well, I see that. I’ll tell her… Actually, I really came to see you on an entirely different matter …”

  At that moment Mrs Harper barged in with the tea tray and made an opera out of putting it down, pouring out and handing round plates and cups. Bernard and Elvira waited in silence while she clattered about. Finally, she left the room when it was obvious her duties had been thoroughly discharged and she was no longer required.

  But, eaten up with curiosity as to why they had both fallen silent on her entrance, she remained outside the study door with her ear pressed up close to the wood panelling. However, the solid oak panelling prevented her hearing anything clearly. What could that batty old woman have to say to Bernard that was so private? She couldn’t wait to tell Gladys about Elvira’s visit. Something was up, and she was sure it wasn’t anything to do with the cat.

  “I was just wondering if you knew anything about this awful murder, Vicar,” said Elvira when she was sure they were quite alone. “I don’t know whether you have seen the bereaved family or anything?”

  “Not as yet, Miss Rowan,” said Bernard, eyeing her suspiciously. “I will, of course, offer what comfort I can in due course.”

  “And I’m sure they’d be grateful,” she replied. “Er – ” She hesitated.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  Bernard didn’t like this woman very much, but he knew a little about her past and how she and her sister had been generally viewed with suspicion by the locals. Unjustifiably, in his opinion, although he supposed he couldn’t really blame them. The Rowans didn’t go out of their way to be sociable.

  “It’s just that – er, do you know what they’re saying, Vicar?”

  “Saying? Who?”

  “People. Around here.”

  “No, I don’t listen to idle gossip.”

  “Well, of course. I know that. But I believe lots of people are blaming us for the murder. They’re saying we sacrificed the girl on the Common in some sort of Black Mass ritual.”

  “Take no notice,” advised Bernard. “People can be very unthinking and ignorant at times. It’ll soon blow over.”

  “Well, I hope so as it’s affecting our business.”

  “Your business?”

  “Yes, our ancient herbal cures. People aren’t buying them at the moment and it’s our only source of income these days. We’ve got some savings, but they won’t last long at this rate.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll say something in my sermon on Sunday. I’ll tell them it’s unchristian to make insinuations without any proof. They’ll listen to me.”

  Elvira seemed to relax as she listened to his words. Bernard could see a slight bend in her spine now. “Thanks so much, Vicar. You’re very kind.”

  “Not at all. That’s what I’m here for,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. “But, if you want to show your gratitude in a more tangible way, you can do something for me.”

  Elvira looked at him, a nervous smile playing on her lips. “Do something for you? Er, well, if I can …”

  “Let me keep the cat?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “One thing’s certain, Rathbone, Tyrone Larkin is no murderer.”

  “What makes you so sure, sir?”

  “Instinct, my lad. My copper’s nose.
When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you’ll know. I’ve not got it wrong yet. I think we need to look even closer to home.”

  Sergeant Rathbone stared at him. “Closer to home? The family, you mean?”

  “Yep. It’s a well-known fact that most murders are committed by people closest to the victims. Husbands, lovers, er, parents…”

  “Parents!” Sergeant Rathbone scratched his head in astonishment. “You’re not suggesting that that sweet little Mrs Carstairs killed her own daughter, are you?”

  Craddock gave him an old-fashioned look. “Helen did have a father, too, Rathbone,” he pointed out.

  Brian Rathbone, who had a small daughter himself, couldn’t even conceive of such a possibility. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, there, guv,” he said. “He must be as heartbroken as his wife.”

  “Come on, Rathbone. It happens. Unfortunately.” Craddock rummaged through his in-tray. “Okay, someone’s nicked my pen again,” he grumbled.

  “Why don’t you attach it on a bit of string round your neck?” suggested Rathbone, not entirely joking.

  “Get out! Go and make yourself useful. Those door-to-door interviews need going through again. Go and help with that.”

  “Okay, okay.” Rathbone hated paperwork, but knew it was no use protesting when Craddock was in this mood.

  Returning ten minutes later with several fat files under his arm, he found his boss scribbling furiously. He saw he was using that elusive fountain pen.

  “Found it then, guv?” He placed the files on his desk with a heavy thump.

  “No thanks to you,” Craddock muttered. “It was on the floor, under the desk. Didn’t you see it?”

  “No. You sent me for these files, remember?”

  “Hmmph!” was the only response.

  “Anyway, sir, what did you make of this Tyrone Larkin, then? You didn’t think he’s the murderer, you said.”

  “We need to question Mr and Mrs Carstairs pronto. Like that mean’s yesterday. Get your skates on. That’s where we’re headed next.”