The Witches of Wandsworth

by Pat Herbert

  “You have it.” Henry continued to be monosyllabic.

  He was uncomfortable having to talk to someone he couldn’t relate to. All his life he had avoided men like the kind this Pickles seemed to be. They were an abomination in his eyes. He firmly believed that, as a Christian, he should revile such unnatural doings.

  Ernest Pickles was an astute and able barrister and an extremely intelligent man. He could see revulsion in his defendant’s eyes, but he was used to the suspicion his appearance and mannerisms provoked in so-called ‘normal’ men.

  “You need to open up to me. I need to have your side of the story. While you think about what you are going to tell me, I have to ring my wife. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  In the barrister’s absence, Henry visibly relaxed. Ring his wife! Well, he could have knocked him down with a feather. A family man, after all. Appearances can be so deceptive, he thought. On Pickles’ return, he even managed a weak smile which in no way endeared him to his defending counsel.

  He had deliberately misled Carstairs. He had simply left the man alone to gather his thoughts and get his temper under control. Telling the bigot he had a wife had taken the wind out of the prisoner’s sails, he could tell. He smiled inwardly with satisfaction. He didn’t like the man he was to defend, but that was nothing new. He never let his own personal feelings get in the way of justice, even though he was almost prepared to make an exception in Henry Carstairs’ case.

  “Right,” he said, studying his file again. “I am defending you on the count of murder. This trial is one of murder. We are not concerned with the – er,” he coughed and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief again. “We will not be going into the incest charge at this trial.”

  “But won’t it come up in the course of it?” asked Henry.

  “It will inevitably be touched upon. One of the witnesses for the prosecution was a close friend of your daughter’s. I believe it is she who told the police about the incest. This was according to your own daughter’s allegation. Even though it can be treated as hearsay, the prosecution counsel will no doubt make a meal of it. We have to minimise this as much as possible and stress to the court that the only charge is one of murder. I think we may be able to throw out this Minnie Knox altogether. After all, she has nothing to contribute as regards the murder charge. We must keep it simple. If you are acquitted – and with me defending you, you will be – then there will be a further trial on the incest charge. If you want me to defend you on that, I need to ask you again – are you guilty?”

  Henry looked down at the table, covered as it was with coffee and tea stains. He stared at a cigarette burn in the grain of the wood but remained silent. He seemed to be fighting some demon deep inside him.

  Ernest Pickles flicked through the file and waited patiently for him to answer. “Well?” he said finally as Henry didn’t speak.

  “I’m not guilty,” spat Henry Carstairs. “I find it an abomination in the eyes of God. I have never broken any of the Commandments….” He paused. Except one, he thought. “I could never bring myself to do anything so vile. I say again, I’m not guilty. I didn’t rape my daughter; I did not make her pregnant; and I didn’t murder her.”

  Ernest Pickles wrote something in the file. “I see. Well that’s categorical enough.”

  He narrowed his eyes and looked closely at his client. “Good. I believe you. I will defend you on both counts. Once you have been cleared of the murder charge, we will mount your defence on the incest charge. This Minnie Knox shouldn’t be that difficult to discredit.”

  Henry Carstairs, if he had been a different sort of man, might have been tempted to hug Ernest Pickles. Here was a ray of hope, at last. For days he had sat in his cell, wondering how on earth he could be accused of such evil. Why had Minnie told such a barefaced lie about him? He knew of only one reason, but he didn’t think she would lie so outrageously just because of that… But, then again, you never really knew people, what went on in their heads.

  “Now,” said Ernest, coughing into his voluminous hanky. Wiping his nose several times, more than seemed strictly necessary, he began again. “Back to the murder trial. We have one most important factor to deal with, Henry.”

  Henry was surprised at the sudden use of his Christian name and was fully prepared to resent it but found he really didn’t mind. “What’s that?”

  “The knife. The murder weapon that has your prints on it. I understand there are other prints on it, which is good. But, on the other hand, we need to know how your prints got on there in the first place. Do you have any explanation for that?”

  Henry Carstairs racked his brains. He couldn’t, for the life of him, think how it could be possible. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Very well, that is a difficulty, but not the end of the world. I think that, for now, I have everything I need. I’ll be back in a few days and, in the meantime, I want you to think long and hard about the knife. Also think about Minnie Knox and why you think she may be out to discredit you. You mustn’t, and I stress this, mustn’t leave anything out. You must tell me everything. If you lie or duck the issue, I will be unable to help you. Do you understand?”

  Henry nodded. He knew only too well that he had to be frank with this man but knew that he couldn’t – not in every detail. Other people – well, one other person, was involved. He couldn’t speak the whole truth – not to Ernest Pickles – not to anyone.

  The barrister stood up and closed the file. “Well, I think we understand each other, Henry. Rest assured that I will do everything in my power to get you acquitted.”

  Pickles shook Henry’s hand without looking him in the eye and left.

  After his lawyer’s departure, he felt more alone than ever. It seemed ironic now, especially as the fussy little barrister was on his side and was going to help him get off. But would he succeed? Without knowing all the facts, would it be possible?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Robbie had been to dinner at the vicarage during Elvira’s reign a couple of times, telling Bernard that he thought her cooking well up to the standard of Nancy Harper’s. In fact, he would go so far as to say her steak and kidney pie was even better! Bernard had to agree. He began to wish that Elvira was there to stay, and that his faithful and long-standing housekeeper was being wafted out to a remote desert island right at that moment. Although, on the other hand, he couldn’t imagine his life without her wise maxims, curmudgeonly temper or drop scones. It was unthinkable.

  The day after Minnie Knox’s second visit, Robbie was at the vicarage again, enjoying another meal courtesy of Elvira Rowan.

  “Oh dear,” said Bernard when the dinner things had been cleared away and he and his friend were seated in the vicarage study smoking their pipes. “I feel so disloyal to Mrs Aitch, but I wish she wasn’t coming back quite so soon. I never thought anyone could cook as good as her, let alone surpass her.”

  Robbie laughed. “No, dear boy, it’s a bit of a facer, isn’t it? I wish I could take Elvira on myself, but I’m sure Lucy would have something to say about that.”

  Then Bernard had an idea. “Why don’t you just take her on as a cook? You can tell Lucy that it will lift the burden off her as she has so much else to do.”

  Robbie sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. “By Jove, Bernie, that’s an idea. Do you think she’ll wear it?”

  “Who? Elvira or Lucy?”

  “Well – both, I suppose.”

  “Well, my betting is that Elvira will jump at it. And I’m sure if you put it to Lucy properly, she will be fine about it. From what you tell me, she doesn’t enjoy cooking that much anyway.”

  “True, true,” laughed Robbie. “I’ll see what she says. I’ll clear it with Lucy first before I say anything to Elvira, though.”

  “Quite right. Changing the subject, I had another visit from Minnie Knox yesterday.”

  Robbie became serious at once. “Ah, poor Helen’s young friend. What did she want this time?”

  “Oh, she wa
s worried about the trial. It’s quite soon now. In September. She wants me to go with her and hold her hand. She dreads giving evidence against Mr Carstairs.”

  “I don’t see why. She only has to answer questions and tell the truth. Shouldn’t be nervous about that.”

  “Well, I think she doesn’t want to be the one to put him on the end of a rope. And she is rather young. Must be daunting for her.”

  “I don’t think she should be called at all,” said Robbie thoughtfully. “Not to the murder trial. It will prejudice the case. I bet they don’t call Minnie in the end.”

  “You think so?” Bernard felt relieved. “Yes, you’re probably right. If Carstairs didn’t kill his daughter, then he doesn’t deserve to hang. Having sex with her is one thing, murdering her is quite another.”

  “Absolutely. Any whisky going, old boy?”

  “Well, the sun’s over the yard arm, I suppose,” laughed Bernard, and he went to the cupboard where he kept his secret bottle of Glenfiddich away from the disapproving eyes of Mrs Harper.

  When it was poured out, with a small sherry for himself, Bernard became thoughtful again. “You know, Robbie, I got the impression that Minnie was holding out on me. There was something she wasn’t saying. She seemed very nervous when I told her that all she could do was tell the truth.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s only natural,” observed Robbie. “As you said yourself, she’s very young to be put through this sort of thing. And poor Minnie would hardly want to be the one to sway the jury to find him guilty. Not on her evidence alone, and certainly not if he’s innocent.”

  “But do you think he is? Innocent, I mean. If he’s been fiddling with his daughter, he’s more than likely the one who killed her. To keep her quiet.”

  “There is that, but I really can’t see him as a murderer. Not of his own flesh and blood, anyway.”

  “It’s hard for you and me to understand, I suppose. But we don’t know what the provocation was. Maybe Helen taunted him – threatened to tell her mother – or the police…That would be grounds enough for murder, surely?”

  “Yes. Could be. But I don’t think so. Another theory of mine concerns his state of health.”

  “State of health?”

  “That’s right. When Mrs Carstairs came to see me recently, she mentioned her husband was getting these awful headaches. Now these could be caused by all sorts of things, but one could be a brain tumour. If a mass is pressing on a part of the brain this could cause the person concerned to undergo a change of personality.”

  “Ah!” Bernard took in this new piece of information. “He could be suffering from a brain tumour, you say? Make him act abnormally?”

  “It’s possible – yes.”

  “Well, you may have something there, but it would depend when these headaches began as to whether they have been making him act differently. You see, Minnie told me something else about him that shows that he could well be a pervert.”

  Bernard told his friend what she had told him about the ten shilling note. As he expected, Robbie was appalled.

  “If he did that, then that clinches it for me. The man must be an absolute cad and a bounder,” declared Robbie. “Hanging’s too good for him.”

  “Well, you’ve changed your tune,” observed Bernard wryly. “You were the one who told me not to jump the gun – a man’s innocent until proved guilty and all that.”

  “Oh well, there’s a limit to what you can believe about people. If what Minnie says is true, there is no excuse for him. How could he rob his wife of the week’s housekeeping just to get a kiss from a schoolgirl! The man’s capable of anything.”

  Robbie fumed while Bernard just smiled to himself and sipped his dry sherry.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Elvira Rowan watched as Mrs Harper bustled about her bedroom unpacking her suitcase. “I ’ear you did a great job while I was away,” she said with a sniff. Elvira didn’t know the vicar’s housekeeper well enough to realize that sniff meant she wasn’t entirely pleased by that.

  “How was your holiday?” Elvira asked politely. “You look very brown. Was the weather good?”

  “Good? It was wonderful,” sighed Mrs Harper, remembering the warm Mediterranean sun and how it had eased her arthritis, which had been getting worse before her holiday. Now she was back in England, she dreaded its return. It was almost as hot as Greece at the moment but, come the autumn and the damp weather, she knew she would suffer again.

  “I’m so glad. It looks like it’s done you the world of good, anyhow.”

  “You can say that again,” grinned Nancy. She was holding a Spanish doll in a crimson frilled dress and mantilla. “Do you like it?” she asked.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Elvira, reaching out and touching the lace of the doll’s frock.

  “It’s for you,” said Mrs Harper.

  Elvira’s features lit up with pleasure. “For me? You can’t possibly give me this. It must have cost a fortune.”

  “No dear,” said Mrs Harper graciously. “They are quite common in Spain. All the tourists buy them. Don’t give it another thought.”

  Elvira took the doll in her arms and started to cradle it like a baby. “Thank you so much,” she said, tears starting in her eyes. She wasn’t used to such kindness.

  Nancy sat down on the bed and patted the eiderdown beside her. “Come and sit down a minute, ducks,” she said kindly. Elvira did as she was bid, still cradling the precious doll.

  “Have you thought what you’re going to do – now I’m back, I mean?”

  Elvira’s face fell. “Go back to the cottage, I suppose.” She shuddered at the thought of returning to that cold, uninviting place she called home. “This will have pride of place on the mantelpiece,” she said softly, smoothing the doll’s dress.

  “I suppose you’re not looking forward to living there on your own?”

  “Not really. I shall miss Vessie.”

  Just then, they heard Bernard call up to them. “Elvira! Mrs Aitch!”

  Mrs Harper stepped out onto the landing and looked down at Bernard who was standing in the hall with Robbie beside him.

  “What d’you want?” she yelled. “Me and Elvira are ’aving a chat.”

  “Robbie is here to speak to Elvira. Can you send her down?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Mrs Harper grudgingly.

  It hadn’t taken the vicar long to start ordering her about. She had got used to being her own boss these last two weeks on the high seas. Gladys had admonished her on more than one occasion to ‘keep that pesky vicar in his place’. She had as much right to a life as he had, she told her. Let him fend for himself sometimes and put your feet up occasionally, she advised.

  Elvira was puzzled as to why Robbie wanted to see her. She only hoped he wasn’t going to try to persuade her to go to the police like Bernard.

  “Hello, Elvira,” smiled Robbie, shaking her warmly by the hand. “Please come into the front room for a minute. I would like a word with you.”

  Elvira was pleased at his politeness. He was very handsome, too. No one had ever bothered to treat her so kindly before. First there was the vicar. He had been kindness itself. Then Mrs Harper had given her that lovely doll. Now this. Dr Robbie MacTavish wanted to talk to her. To her! Not to Vesna. Although she missed her sister terribly, she had played second fiddle to her all her life. Maybe it was time she came out from her shadow.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said meekly, following Robbie into the room. Bernard closed the door after them. She turned to look at the closed door. The vicar had left them alone to talk in private. It must be something important. Again, she feared she was going to be advised to go to the police. This was a telling off, she suspected. A polite one, but a telling-off, nevertheless. She felt deflated all of a sudden.

  “Bernard and I are very pleased with your work – especially your cooking,” he began, once they were seated in the cool parlour.

  Evidence of Elvira’s housekeeping skills was all around the
m. The windows and table surfaces sparkled in the sunlight. There was a vase of roses on display, their scent filling the air.

  “I’m glad I gave satisfaction,” she said. He couldn’t have asked to see her privately just to compliment her on her housekeeping skills, surely?

  “I was wondering, Elvira dear,” said Robbie, clearing his throat. “Whether you would consider coming to work for me – as cook only. I have Lucy to do all the other chores.”

  “Be your cook?” said Elvira in wonderment. She hadn’t expected that. “But doesn’t Lucy do the cooking?”

  “She does … but, er – between you and me, she’s not up to your standards. I’d pay you well.”

  “It’s – er, it’s very good of you, Doctor, but I don’t think I can,” she said.

  Robbie’s eyebrows shot up. “But why ever not? You mustn’t worry about Lucy, dear. She’s quite happy to let you do the cooking – she doesn’t enjoy it at all.”

  “It’s not that,” said Elvira, feeling close to tears. In any other circumstances she would have loved to work for him. “It’s the cottage. I’m thinking of moving away. Now that Vessie’s gone, I don’t think I can live there anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. I wish I could put you up, but I don’t have a spare room.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Elvira. “Please don’t think I’m not grateful for the offer.”

  “Please don’t worry about it,” said Robbie. “But, tell me, is it just because of Vesna that you don’t want to stay at the cottage? Or is there another reason?”

  Elvira remained silent for a moment. Should she tell him? Should she tell him about Private Rodney Purbright? Should she tell him all about what happened all those years ago? Not about the murder itself. She could never tell anyone about that. But she needed to explain about the curse. The curse that was Rodney Purbright’s legacy for what they had done to him.

  Robbie broke the silence. “Is it – is it anything to do with the cold? I noticed how cold it was when I came to see your sister.”