The Witches of Wandsworth

by Pat Herbert

  “But what about these files?”

  Craddock glanced over at the toppling pile. “What are you doing with all that? We’ve got a job to do. Come on.”

  Rathbone sighed with impatience. “But you told me to go through the door-to-door interviews, sir – just a moment ago. Remember?”

  Craddock tutted crossly. “Oh, pass them to that twit Jenkins, for God’s sake. Keep him out of mischief. Now, let’s get going.”

  There was no stopping Craddock now. He had the bit between his teeth and needed to find out if his instinct was right. He had heard varying reports from witnesses that Henry Carstairs wasn’t the most likeable of men. A rather stiff, formal, unbending kind of person, by all accounts. Very strict with his daughter which, on the face of it, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But then, he could have been too strict. Even if he had been strict for her own good, that hadn’t worked, seeing as she was now dead. There was something fishy about Henry Carstairs, he was sure.

  Rathbone, grabbing his coat, suggested with some temerity that maybe it was too soon to interrogate the grief-stricken parents.

  “Strike while the iron’s hot – that’s my motto,” said Craddock, pushing his subordinate out of the door. “We can’t afford sympathy in this job.”

  In the car, driving to the Carstairs’ home in Cherry Lane, Rathbone, who still couldn’t believe that Henry Carstairs could have murdered his daughter, tried a different tack. “Have you heard what people are saying about those Rowan sisters, Guv?” he asked.

  “Mrs Carstairs did mention it,” muttered the Inspector. “Something about them being witches and sacrificing her daughter in one of their rituals. Bollocks!”

  “Very probably, sir. But don’t you think we should at least make some enquiries? Go and talk to them, at least?”

  “All in good time,” said Craddock. “They’ll keep.”

  He didn’t believe in witches. He swung the steering wheel as the car screeched to a stop outside number fifteen Cherry Lane.

  

  But, unknown to Craddock and Rathbone, Bernard had got there a little before them. He had been putting off his visit to the Carstairs, unsure if it would be seen as a mere intrusion. His intention was to bring them comfort in his capacity as parish vicar, but how could he do that when he found it almost impossible to explain why God had let such an awful thing happen to their daughter in the first place?

  Ivy Carstairs came to the door, accompanied by the sound of a yapping dog, and gave him a weak smile. “Hello, Vicar,” she said. “Thank you for coming. Please, do come in.”

  He entered the stuffy parlour, closely followed by the little Jack Russell who was still yapping furiously at his heels, to find Henry Carstairs standing in front of the fire, rocking to and fro on the balls of his feet. His long face was pale and drawn, and he looked much older than his forty-five years.

  Now that he was here, Bernard found himself at a loss what to say to them. He shook Henry Carstairs by the hand and muttered his condolences. The older man mumbled his thanks as he gently nudged the little dog out of the way.

  “Shhh, Charlie,” he scolded, and Bernard could see tears standing in his eyes. He looked away in embarrassment.

  Ivy Carstairs busied herself in the kitchen making the tea that nobody really wanted. Bernard coughed politely as he sat in the chair proffered to him by the bereaved father.

  “I cannot say how sorry I am,” Bernard burbled on, realising that the bereaved father had no more words in him. The silence between them was broken only by the clatter of cups and saucers in the kitchen.

  “Wife’s making some tea,” Carstairs said at last, unnecessarily.

  “Please,” said Bernard, raising his hand gently. “Not on my account. I don’t want to outstay my welcome. I just came to say that my thoughts are with you both, and if I can be of any help or …”

  “Thank you,” Carstairs broke into Bernard’s speech abruptly, whether it was to save him from further embarrassment or simply to shut him up wasn’t clear. “Kind of you.”

  Suddenly, he put his hand on the side of his head. Bernard could see him wince in pain. “It’s not easy … as you can imagine.”

  “I cannot conceive how hard it must be for you,” said Bernard softly.

  “Not your fault.”

  Henry Carstairs’ monosyllabic replies were getting on Bernard’s nerves now. “I – I just wanted to – to – come and tell you that you’re not alone … the church is always open to you, if you can find some comfort there …”

  “Hardly there,” said Carstairs, staring into space. Suddenly he became more animated. “Why should God want to take away my little girl? You answer me that.”

  Bernard didn’t know what to say. His throat had started to constrict, and he now very much needed the tea which Mrs Carstairs was taking an inordinately long time in making. He coughed in an effort to find his voice, and fidgeted in his seat.

  “It is indeed beyond any human understanding,” said Bernard carefully. “Sometimes we just have to accept that things happen for a reason – that there is a more powerful force at work than we mere mortals…”

  “Don’t give me that claptrap.” Carstairs’ pent-up grief and anger were getting the better of him. “All my life I’ve gone to church – attended every Sunday – rain or shine. And where has it got me? My poor, darling Helen is dead and she never did a wrong thing in her life. I want no more of your god – you shan’t see me in church ever again, I can tell you that!”

  “I completely understand,” said Bernard. “I probably wouldn’t want to come to church, myself, if what has happened to you happened to me.”

  “What would you know about it? You haven’t got any children, you can’t know how it feels – it’s like a pain deep – in here.” Carstairs thumped his chest violently.

  Before Bernard could think of something adequate to say in response, Ivy Carstairs returned with the tea tray. The atmosphere lightened a little as she busied herself pouring out and handing round.

  “How can you bother with tea, Ivy? Your daughter has just been murdered in cold blood!” Henry Carstairs’ earlier polite monosyllables had deserted him now as he gave full vent to his passion.

  Bernard felt the cruelty of the man’s remarks and could only imagine what they were doing to Ivy. He watched her hand shake as she handed him his tea.

  “Don’t, Henry. There’s nothing’ll bring her back.”

  Her husband watched her with a steely eye as her face crumpled and tears started to flow. She rushed from the room, her apron up to her streaming eyes. Bernard felt he had to say something.

  “Look, Mr Carstairs – I know you’re suffering – deeply – but did you have to say that? Your wife is suffering just as much as you.”

  The man just stared at him. “I think, Reverend, once you have finished your tea, you should leave.”

  Bernard thought so too and swallowed the scalding brew as quickly as he could. As he was leaving, he passed Craddock and Rathbone, who were just coming up the path to the front door. They tipped their hats to him and he responded in the same way. He secretly wished them luck as he closed the gate behind him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Craddock stared at Henry Carstairs, who was seated by the empty fireplace, a small Jack Russell at his feet, trying to get the measure of the man. He looked ill, which could mean he was heartbroken at losing his daughter or that he was consumed with guilt. He watched him rub his temples as if in pain. The strain was proving too much for his health, one way or another, he thought. Inspector Craddock decided he didn’t much like him, or his dog.

  Rathbone, who was particularly fond of Jack Russells, bent down and tickled the dog’s ear, causing the little creature to run round in excited circles until his master told him in no uncertain terms to ‘sit’.

  “First of all, may we say how sorry we are?” Craddock began, after more tea had been served by Ivy. “We know this is painful for you both, but we do need to ask you some questions.”
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  “Get on with it, Inspector,” said Henry Carstairs abruptly. “The sooner you start, the sooner we can get rid of you. Don’t mean to be rude, but…”

  “I understand,” said Craddock, secretly annoyed. No matter how hard he tried to sympathise with the man, he found he couldn’t. He almost relished the bombshell he was about to drop. He cleared his throat.

  “There’s no easy way of saying this, but did you know that your daughter was pregnant?”

  Both parents stared at him in horror. “Pregnant?” squeaked Ivy. “My little Helen was going to have a baby? It can’t be true!”

  “I’m sorry, but, I’m afraid it is.”

  “Oh, dear. That wicked boy!”

  Craddock assumed she meant Larkin. “Yes, I understand your daughter was seeing this young man, Tyrone Larkin. Can you confirm that?”

  “That’s right. Such a nice, polite boy. I can’t believe it.”

  “There is no way on God’s earth that my daughter could have been pregnant,” stated Henry Carstairs. He faced Craddock with a challenge in his hard grey eyes.

  “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it,” Craddock said as smoothly as he could. “Young people today have more freedom than we did when we were growing up. We can’t watch them every minute, can we?”

  “You’re not saying my daughter was promiscuous, are you? She has only just died – she’s not even been buried yet!”

  Carstairs balled his fists but kept them at his side. Craddock glanced at Rathbone and raised his eyes heavenwards.

  “I’ve spoken to young Larkin,” said Craddock, keeping his gaze on Mrs Carstairs, not daring to challenge her husband further. “He assured me he wasn’t the father.”

  “That’s what he says!” Ivy was almost hysterical. Tears rolled unchecked down her sallow cheeks.

  “I’m sorry to add to your troubles with this distressing information,” Craddock said, pausing while she collected herself a little. “But we do need to ask if you know of any other boys who were interested in Helen. Anyone she went out with apart from Larkin?”

  “She didn’t have a string of them, if that’s what you’re implying,” said Carstairs, rubbing his forehead ferociously. “You’ll be accusing her of being a prostitute next!”

  He sat slumped in his chair, holding his head as if it was too heavy for his shoulders. “My poor girl!” he muttered. “She never would have done anything like that willingly. She knew right from wrong. I’ll kill the blighter when I find out who’s responsible.”

  For the first time, Craddock began to feel sorry for him. He couldn’t blame the man for his anger. He’d be exactly the same in his shoes.

  Ivy sat down on the arm of her husband’s chair and stretched out her hand to stroke his hair. He flinched as she did so.

  “Henry suffers from blinding headaches, you know,” she said. “I keep telling him to go to the doctor about them.”

  “Maybe he should,” said Rathbone, not unkindly. “Maybe you both should. I think, in the circumstances, he would prescribe sedatives for you while you’re going through this.”

  “Doctors! Bah! What do they know?” spat Henry, ignoring the seven or so years of study needed to become one. “Now, if you’ve nothing else to say, no more ‘good’ news to tell us, would you mind leaving?”

  It was a relief to get out into the warm spring evening and breathe in the fresh, blossom-scented air.

  “Well, Rathbone, what do you make of Henry Carstairs now?”

  “Rather unpleasant, I must say. But the man’s not himself. How could he be? You have to feel sorry for him.”

  Craddock unlocked the door of his ancient Ford. “Against my better judgement,” he agreed grudgingly. “But I still don’t like him. He’s not an easy man, is he?”

  “No. I wonder how Mrs Carstairs puts up with him. Still, whatever the man’s faults, I don’t think he murdered his daughter. He seemed genuinely devoted to her. I think he was even more upset than his wife.”

  Rathbone seated himself as comfortably as he could in the rickety, broken passenger seat and fidgeted uncomfortably as something sharp dug into his back.

  “When are you going to trade in this pile of junk?” he asked irritably.

  “For what?”

  “A car, for example?”

  Craddock let that pass and revved up his protesting engine.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “There’s a Colonel Powell downstairs wanting to see you, Vicar,” announced Mrs Harper one bright spring morning, not many days after the murder of Helen Carstairs.

  Bernard was, as usual, struggling with the wording of his next sermon, made especially difficult because he had to find a way to introduce the subject of false accusations of witchery and devil worship. He had no doubt the Rowan sisters would be in church to ensure he made some sort of reference to what they saw as persecution. He just didn’t know how to frame the words so they wouldn’t offend his entire congregation, so it was a relief to be interrupted by this unexpected visit.

  “Bring up another cup with my elevenses, please, Mrs Aitch,” he said, as he shook the colonel by the hand.

  He didn’t recognise him as one of his parishioners. The man had definitely never appeared in his congregation before. He would certainly have remembered someone so distinctive-looking, with that large handlebar moustache obscuring most of the bottom half of his face.

  Colonel Clevedon Powell was a man in his middle seventies, in rude health apart from a tendency to gout brought on by too much port, something he was well-known for in the neighbourhood. However, he was generally liked, and Bernard decided, as he shook the man’s hand, that he liked him too.

  “Now, Colonel,” said Bernard, “what can I do for you? I don’t think you’re one of my flock, are you?”

  “What are you talking about, man?” demanded the bluff old man. “I’m not a ruddy sheep.”

  Bernard laughed. “No offence intended. Just a pastoral term. Is the tea to your liking?”

  Mrs Harper’s refreshments were obviously going down well, as the colonel had finished his first cup and was holding it out for a second. Meanwhile, he had polished off two scones and was buttering his third. Bernard began to wonder if he got enough to eat at home.

  “It’s all right,” mumbled the colonel between mouthfuls. “To answer your question, no, I’m not one of your ‘flock’, as you call it. I don’t believe in any of that mumbo jumbo. Seen too much of life for that. I remember when I was in Peking at the time of the Boxer Rebellion – saw it all then. No caring God would have put up with what went on then, I can tell you.”

  Bernard began to fear the old soldier was about to drift off into a series of bloodthirsty reminiscences, so he coughed politely. “Er, Colonel?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” said the Colonel, coming back to the present. “Where was I?”

  “In Peking,” smiled Bernard.

  “I know people say I’m an old soak and I’ll say and do anything when I’m in my cups, but what I’m about to tell you is the absolute truth. I might have had a glass or two that night, but I was far from drunk.”

  “I see,” said Bernard after a moment. “I have no idea about your reputation, having only just met you and I always speak as I find. So, please tell me what you came to tell me.”

  The colonel leaned forward, and Bernard detected a strong smell of alcohol on his breath.

  “The night of the murder of that poor, unfortunate child,” said the colonel, “I saw something that I still, to this day, can’t quite believe. I mean, I always thought the Rowans were a bit dotty, but really! It was a bit much, even for them. But it wasn’t even what they were up to that was the strangest thing …”

  “Colonel,” said Bernard, an unaccustomed note of authority in his tone, “I would appreciate it if you would come to the point. Firstly, you say you do not believe in all that ‘mumbo jumbo’, as you put it. Yet to come to me, as a minister of God, obviously concerned about the recent tragic events. I would have thought that
, if you saw anything that could assist the police in their enquiries, you should go to them and not to me.”

  Colonel Powell seemed thrown for a moment, then he coughed and collected himself. “Point taken, good man,” he said. “Except, I don’t know if what I saw will be believed by the police. I’m not sure I believe it myself. And, if I imagined it, the last thing I want to do is get those poor women into trouble.”

  “So, what you’re saying – not that you’ve said anything yet – is you’re not sure what you saw, but you want to run it past me before you go to the police?”

  “Something like that. You see, they were young women when they first moved into the Crescent – I only live a few doors from them. They were – well, not to put too fine a point on it, attractive then. Well, Vesna was. A right bobby dazzler, if you get my drift. If I hadn’t been happily married at the time, I’d have been after her like a shot.” He coughed again.

  “This is all very interesting, Colonel,” sighed Bernard, his patience wearing thin. “But if you have something to tell me about what happened to that poor girl, then, please, tell me.”

  “Of course. Apologies. Not so young as I was and all that. Go off on tangents all the time.”

  “I understand,” smiled Bernard,

  “Good man,” repeated the colonel. “Now, this is what I saw that night. I could have been drunk or half asleep, but I swear to you, I believe I saw what I saw…”

  “And that was?”

  

  “Mrs Aitch …?”

  Mrs Harper looked up from rolling out some pastry as Bernard entered the kitchen.

  “Yes, Vicar?” She rubbed her nose with a floury hand, leaving a white spot on the end of it. “Can you be quick? I’ve got the dinner to get. This mutton pie won’t jump in the oven and cook itself.”

  “Er, what time will it be ready? I promised Robbie I’d meet him for a drink at one o’clock.”

  “Oh, you did, did you?” Mrs Harper stopped rolling the pastry and put her floury hands on her hips.