by Pat Herbert
The two friends left the pub together and sauntered up the sunny street. This June had turned out to be one of the hottest they could remember, with temperatures in the eighties and early nineties nearly every day. Bernard even had to remove his jacket, a thing he hardly ever did in a public street. Robbie was altogether more casual, with no jacket and even an open collar. His tie was stuffed in his trousers pocket, making a rather unsightly bulge. Bernard didn’t approve of unsightly bulges but refrained from saying so. It was too hot to argue anyway.
“By the way, I understand Carstairs’ trial is coming up soon,” said Robbie as they reached the doctor’s house. “They say it’s an open and shut case.”
Bernard shuddered despite the heat. “How can a parent murder a child? It’s beyond human understanding.”
“Tut, tut,” said Robbie, opening the gate. “You of all people shouldn’t jump to conclusions. A person is innocent until proved guilty, you know. I, for one, don’t think he did it.”
Bernard stared at him in disbelief. “You don’t? Even after what Minnie Knox said – you know, about him being the father of his daughter’s unborn child? A man capable of that is capable of anything.”
“We mustn’t assume that he’s a murderer, old boy,” said Robbie calmly. “He’s a very unfortunate man, whatever he’s done.”
Bernard remembered his dog collar and ran his finger around it. His neck was sticky with sweat. He realized he wasn’t being very Christian at the moment. Robbie was being much more sympathetic, but somehow, he couldn’t feel any compassion for Henry Carstairs; the man was evil.
Bernard carried on to the vicarage deep in thought. Robbie was right, of course. One shouldn’t condemn a man without incontrovertible proof. But the fact that he had defiled his daughter was something that he couldn’t get past. There was no reason to think that Minnie Knox would lie about such a thing, so Bernard couldn’t even think it might not be true. But if the man wasn’t a murderer, he had done something that was nearly as bad. And Bernard knew that he wasn’t alone in what he was thinking. The man wouldn’t stand a chance with a jury if they found out he had made his only daughter pregnant.
Chapter Thirty-One
Elvira Rowan had seamlessly taken over from Nancy Harper and was up at the crack of dawn on her first day to see to Bernard’s breakfast. She wanted to get off on the right foot and she prayed her cooking would be up to scratch. She needn’t have worried. Bernard cleared his plate of bacon, eggs and tomatoes with relish.
She breathed an inward sigh of relief. Now she was ensconced in the vicarage in Nancy’s room, she saw her ice-cold fridge of a cottage in unfavourable comparison. She dreaded going back to it when the fortnight was up. She’d heard of people being lost at sea, of boats capsizing. The Titanic, for instance. Still, she sighed, there wasn’t much likelihood of an iceberg in the Mediterranean, and it was wicked to wish poor Mrs Harper under one. She scrubbed at an obstinate egg stain on the table cloth, putting her heart and soul into it as penance.
Later that morning, Bernard asked her to come to his study. Oh dear, she thought. He’s not happy with me. He wants me to go.
“I – I hope I’ll give you every satisfaction, sir,” she mumbled, her heart beating nineteen to the dozen. Don’t send me away. Don’t send me away.
“Well, Elvira, if your breakfast is anything to go by, you’ll suit me fine,” smiled Bernard. “And don’t call me ‘sir’. Please – sit down a moment.”
Faint with relief, Elvira flopped into the chair opposite. “I- I’m so glad. I know I can’t hope to compete with your housekeeper’s cooking, but I usually manage to turn out good, wholesome food when it’s required.”
“Your cooking is just as good as Mrs Aitch’s,” grinned Bernard. “But don’t tell her I told you.” He gave her a friendly wink.
Elvira relaxed now. Bernard was a nice man. She was generally suspicious of vicars and their ilk; doing good works supposedly, but just as prone to human frailty as the layman. But Bernard, she realized, was a genuinely good person.
“Anyway, er – Vicar, if that’s all, I must get on. All the silver needs polishing and I’ve got the front room and the hall to clean.”
“All that can wait, dear,” said Bernard kindly. “I just wanted to talk to you about what you told me when you came to see me a while ago. You know – about the visit you had from Helen Carstairs on the day she was – er – the day she died.”
Elvira tensed up immediately. She wished with all her heart that she hadn’t confided in him. Apart from anything else, he now knew about her special receipt for bringing on a miscarriage, something that was strictly illegal.
“I don’t really think there’s much point in going over that again,” she said, a little more abruptly than she intended. “I mean, nothing will bring her back, will it? And, anyway, they’ve got the man who did it, haven’t they? The father, I mean. It was him, wasn’t it?”
Bernard felt in his very bones that Henry Carstairs was the murderer of Helen Carstairs, but he remembered his conversation with Robbie only a couple of days ago and thought carefully before replying.
“They’ve charged him, certainly, but he hasn’t been found guilty yet. I think we should wait for the outcome of the trial, don’t you?”
Elvira nodded. “I suppose you’re right. But, you see…”
“Yes?”
“I’ve already been interviewed by the police about Helen’s visit…”
“You have? Well, why didn’t you say?”
Bernard was relieved at hearing this news. He had been worrying about what he should do if Elvira didn’t confide in the police. But what she said next wasn’t at all what he needed to hear.
“…and I told them that she never came to see us.”
“You mean – you lied? To the police?” Bernard was shocked.
“I’m afraid so. You see, they said that they’d been told by someone that they saw Helen at our door the day she was murdered. I just denied it – said that the witness must have been mistaken. It wasn’t her. I said it could have been another young lady. They seemed to believe me.”
“But why on earth did you lie to them?” Bernard was still shocked.
Elvira glared at him. She was on the point of packing up her rubber gloves and leaving him in the lurch. “Because if the police knew that I dispensed something that could bring on a miscarriage they’d have arrested me. And I couldn’t leave Vessie on her own if I went to prison. Or they would probably have arrested both of us and she was in no fit state for all of that.”
“But, don’t you realize that you were obstructing the police? The fact that Helen came to you for help will have to come out at the trial. They’ll call that witness and cross-examine whoever it was – as well as you. You’ll be in a right pickle then, won’t you?”
“I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it,” said Elvira with more confidence than she felt.
“Look – it’s not too late to put matters right, dear. You must go to the police and tell them the truth now.”
“Oh dear,” said Elvira.
Bernard was being so persistent. This nice, kind vicar was expecting her to give herself up to the police.
“I know it’s hard for you,” Bernard was saying. “But I’ll come with you and speak for you. I’ll tell the police that you lied to them because you were afraid they would arrest you for performing illegal abortions. You can then say that you rarely, if ever, give out these preparations and that you only gave Helen the powder because you felt so sorry for her. I’m sure they’ll take that into consideration.”
Elvira stood up suddenly. “I’ve got the silver to clean. You go to the police and tell them, if you must. But I won’t. They’ll put me in prison. If you want that on your conscience, go ahead.”
With that, she left the room with a sweeping gesture that left Bernard in no doubt where he stood. If he went to the police and told them what he knew, she would never speak to him again and, far from never cooking him a
nother meal, she’d probably poison it instead.
He sat there, wondering desperately what to do. In the end he decided to do nothing. For the time being, at least.
It was in the second week of Elvira’s stay at the vicarage when Minnie Knox paid another visit to Bernard. He felt immediately nervous, knowing what she knew and what he hadn’t done about it.
“It’s about Mr Carstairs’ trial,” she began.
“Ah, right. I see.” He rather supposed it had to be, or why else was she here?
“I’ve been called as a witness for the prosecution,” she explained. “And I’m dreading it.”
“That’s quite understandable. Courts can be daunting places, especially if someone is on trial for murder and, consequently, their life.”
At that moment Elvira knocked and entered with a tray. Bernard took it from her. There was a steaming pot of tea and two cups.
He poured out the tea and handed her a cup. “So, Minnie, do you want me to come with you to the trial? Give you some support? I’ll be happy to do so, if I’m free.”
“Well, that would be kind,” said Minnie. “But, really, I came to ask your advice.”
“Go on,” said Bernard, intrigued.
“It’s just that what I’ll be telling the court will be very damning to Mr Carstairs’ case, won’t it? After all, it doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s a killer, the fact that he had – er – relations with his daughter. That’s a completely different crime.”
Bernard steepled his fingers under his chin and frowned in concentration. “Well, Minnie,” he said slowly. “All you can do is tell the truth. If it’s damning to him, it’s unfortunate, but you will be in no way to blame. Besides, the courts don’t take kindly to people who commit perjury…”
“Perjury?” Minnie’s complexion turned even paler than its usual hue.
“Yes – telling lies. You must only tell the truth to the court; otherwise, you could be looking at a prison sentence yourself, or a fine at the very least.”
Bernard watched Minnie’s sweet face carefully. “I see,” she said, mulling over what he had just told her. “You see, Vicar,” she said, “I used to like him. I would often go to tea with the Carstairs in the old days – after school. When Mr Carstairs came home from work, he seemed always pleased to see me. He used to tell me and Helen jokes. He was a lot of fun then.”
Bernard was taken aback at this. The Henry Carstairs he knew had never struck him as ‘a lot of fun’. He had always seemed so straitlaced and serious. He couldn’t imagine the man having a joke with two schoolgirls. Or, given what he now knew about him, maybe he could.
“So, Henry Carstairs was quite a jolly chap in those days, was he? Well, he hasn’t any cause to be jolly now, has he?” It was an unkind remark, he knew, and immediately regretted saying it.
“No. Not now,” agreed Minnie sadly. “But he was always friendly towards me, although he seemed to be rather bitter lately. I think someone was promoted over him at work – that’s what started it. And Mrs Carstairs told me that he suffers from bad headaches, although he won’t see the doctor about them. I was so shocked when Helen told me what he had done to her. I would never have believed it of him.”
“You don’t think she was lying, do you? Covering up for somebody else? A boyfriend, perhaps?”
“Oh no!” Minnie was shocked at such a suggestion. “She would never do that. But I found it hard to believe it, all the same. D’you know…” She stopped suddenly.
“Go on – do I know what?”
“Oh nothing.”
Bernard leaned towards her. “Come, my dear,” he cajoled, rather like a music hall villain only minus the moustache twiddling. “Please tell me – you do want me to help you, don’t you?”
Minnie sighed. “Yes, of course. It wasn’t really important, but I think you might take it the wrong way.”
“Why don’t you try me?”
“Well, it was one afternoon. Helen was helping her mum with the washing up and Mr Carstairs and I were in the front room. I think he’d been drinking before he came home that day, because he was in a particularly jokey mood – not offensive or anything. He came up to me and took out a ten shilling note. He said he would give it to me if I gave him a kiss…”
“Oh, my dear,” said Bernard, shocked. “You don’t think that’s important? It sheds even more light on the man’s dubious character.”
“Yes, I suppose you would see it that way. So would most people. But it was all very innocent. The thought of that ten shilling note was too much for me, and I pecked him on the cheek and grabbed the money. I was just as much in the wrong as he was. I found out much later that that ten shillings was the housekeeping money for the week. I felt terrible.”
Bernard almost laughed. Poor Ivy Carstairs would have had to scrimp and save that week. But the story didn’t do her husband any favours, that was for sure. The fact that he had been the worse for drink didn’t excuse him either. It made it worse, if anything.
“I won’t tell anyone,” said Minnie adamantly. “It was a private moment. Nobody else will ever know about it and I hope you’ll treat what I’ve told you in confidence.”
“Of course,” said Bernard. “Anyway, dear,” he continued. “I will come with you when it’s your turn to be a witness at the trial. Do you know the exact date?”
“Well, the trial itself starts on the fifth of September.” Minnie got up to leave. “Thanks for listening to me, Vicar. I’m really grateful. As you advise, I can only tell the truth.” She flushed again. “And it is the truth,” she iterated firmly.
“That’s all any of us can do, dear – tell the truth. Except not enough people do.”
Bernard opened his study door for her and accompanied her down the stairs, showing her out the front door. Was it his imagination, or did she seem a little flustered? Was there something she wasn’t telling him?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Henry Carstairs hadn’t received many visits while being held in prison, pending his trial. Ivy came as often as she could, continuing to believe in his innocence. She didn’t bring him any cheer on these visits, however, as all she did was sit on the other side of the grill, dabbing her tear-stained eyes and complaining about Charlie. Carstairs was extremely fond of his pet Jack Russell and couldn’t bear to listen to her.
“He keeps on whining and looking for you, Henry,” she told him. “I can’t keep him under control, and I don’t have the time to take him for walks.”
“Why? What else do you have to do?” he demanded, worried that his poor little pet wasn’t getting enough exercise. “You must find the time – until I get out of here.”
“But …” It was all Ivy could do to get herself up in the morning, let alone go out of the house with a boisterous dog.
“But what?”
He wished she wouldn’t bother to visit him if all she could do was complain. He’d rather she kept away. He would have much preferred a visit from his pet Charlie, but the prison didn’t allow it.
“Well, Henry love, we have to face the possibility that you – you may be found guilty.” She dabbed her streaming eyes again. “I can’t look after Charlie indefinitely. He’s started to mess around the house.”
“That’s because you don’t take him out,” said Henry crossly. “And don’t you fret, Ivy, I’ll get out of here. I’m innocent. I never murdered our lovely daughter. You know I didn’t.”
“Of course I do, love, but it’s the jury that has to be convinced. And what about the other – other charge.”
Ivy couldn’t bear to think about this. She never, for one minute, believed her husband capable of such a heinous crime as incest. She had lived with him for long enough to know he couldn’t be guilty of such a charge. And as for murder; she knew he worshipped the very ground Helen had walked on.
“I’m a respectable churchgoer, and I’ve been hard working all my life. Never put a foot wrong and look where it’s got me.”
“Oh, Hen
ry!”
Seeing Ivy burst into tears, a prison warder took pity on her and brought her a cup of tea.
Later that day, Henry received another visit. Two visits in one day was something he hadn’t experienced in a long while. The only visitor he really wanted to see had only come once; he’d told her not to come again in case questions were asked. However, he was comforted when she told him she believed in him completely. He couldn’t have murdered his only daughter; it was unthinkable.
But this visitor was someone he’d never seen before. He was accompanied by the friendly prison warder who sometimes brought him cigarettes or pills for his headaches. A middle-aged, greying-round-the-temples individual sporting a pink bow tie and a carnation in his buttonhole introduced himself to Henry as Ernest Pickles, his barrister.
When the warder had left the visiting room, Ernest Pickles coughed, took out a large handkerchief and wiped his mouth.
“I will be conducting your defence, Mr Carstairs.”
Pickles sat down at the table in Henry’s cell and opened a large file. He wiped his mouth again, this time more thoroughly. As he riffled through the pages, the prisoner stared at the man’s well-manicured hands in fascination. He could almost see his reflection in the polished nails.
“Mr Carstairs, you have been accused of murdering your seventeen-year-old daughter. Did you do it?”
Henry was shocked at the man’s bluntness.
“No, I did not.”
Ernest Pickles studied Henry’s haggard features thoughtfully. He took in the watery grey eyes under which were heavy dark rings, his hollow cheeks and unshaven chin. He searched for a sign of some humanity in the man, but he looked so miserable, almost other worldly, that he could see no trace of natural emotion. He looked down at his file.
“Right. I need to believe you, Carstairs. I need to have your assurance that you are speaking the truth when you say you didn’t kill your daughter. Do I have it?”