by Pat Herbert
“To tell the truth, yes,” said Elvira with a long sigh. She didn’t quite know why, but she had a feeling that Robbie would be sympathetic, even if he didn’t believe her. “It’s – it’s being haunted, you see. When Vessie was alive, she said she felt a presence the whole time. I never did – I only felt the cold.”
“A presence, you say? Do you know who or what that presence could be?”
“You – you believe me, Doctor? You don’t think I’m mad?”
“No, I don’t. I have had experience of psychic phenomena before. I’m a bit psychic, too. I could maybe come and try and contact this ‘presence’. Do you know who it is? Some dead relative that hasn’t been able to pass over? Something like that?”
Here was the crux of the matter. If she told him who it was, the whole thing would come out. She would have to tell Robbie the whole truth. Could she tell him about the murder? No, that was a step too far. Telling him the cottage was haunted was one thing; telling him why was quite another.
“I’ve no idea,” she said ruefully. “But thank you for believing me anyway. It’s my problem, and I’m the one who has to live with it.”
She knew that if Robbie was able to contact Rodney Purbright, the truth would come out and she couldn’t let that happen.
Robbie looked at her with sympathy. “You have friends, you know, dear,” he said. “I would like to help you, if I can.”
She felt like crying. Everyone was being so kind to her and she didn’t deserve it. It was almost better when they all believed she was a witch.
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll – I’ll bear it in mind,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“You’ve got to tell them, Henry. You’ll hang otherwise.”
Henry Carstairs had received another visitor, not his wife this time, and not Ernest Pickles either. This was a rather attractive, plump, middle-aged woman who had visited him just once before, shortly after he had been charged.
“What makes you think they’ll find me guilty?”
Henry pressed his fingers to his aching head and coughed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand these headaches; they were making him thoroughly miserable. And now, if it wasn’t enough, he had such constant pain and was about to stand trial for his very life, the one woman whom he thought he knew and who he thought understood him was adding to his problems.
“Have you got any aspirins?” he asked crossly.
Sylvia Knox rummaged in her capacious handbag. “Here,” she said, pushing a packet of Anadin under the grill. A warder rushed over.
“What’s that you’re giving him?” he asked gruffly.
“Just some headache pills,” said Sylvia meekly.
“Oh, right,” said the warder. “No funny stuff – okay?”
Henry Carstairs gave a hollow laugh. All he wanted was this pain in his head to go away. He was in no fit state for any ‘funny stuff’, whatever that meant.
“Could you get me a glass of water to wash these down, do you think?”
“Okay.” The warder grudgingly rose to his feet and tapped on the iron door. Another, much younger, warder appeared. “Glass of water for ’is nibs,” demanded the first warder.
When Henry had swallowed his pills, Sylvia Knox gave him a puzzled look. “Didn’t the stuff that Rowan woman gave you do any good?” she asked.
“A damn sight more good than these blessed Anadins. But I haven’t been able to get another supply – stuck in here.”
“You should have said, Henry. I’m sure I can get you some more. Did you know that Vesna Rowan was dead, by the way?”
“No, I didn’t.” As if he cared, he thought bitterly. He’d be joining her soon, he suspected.
“Henry,” Sylvia began again.
“I know what you’re going to say and I’m not going to tell.”
“Then you’re a fool,” said Sylvia sharply. “Stop being so chivalrous. I’m going to tell the police where you were on the night your daughter was killed. I’ll not see you hang. Even if you don’t care, I do!”
“Look, Sylv,” Henry leaned forward so that the tip of his nose was touching the grill. “I don’t want you getting involved. And, anyway, I’ve got my reputation to consider too, you know.”
Sylvia Knox stared at him crossly. “Your reputation! How can you think about that at a time like this? You haven’t got a reputation anymore, unless it’s as a pervert and a murderer.”
Henry shrugged. “I’ve got a good brief. He says he can get me off. Prove to the world how wrong they all are.”
“Hmmph! And you really think he can get you off without my help?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” smiled Henry Carstairs wearily. “So, let’s have no more talk of going to the police, eh?”
She wasn’t convinced. “I don’t think you should rely on your barrister to get you off, Henry. What about the fingerprints on the knife? How do you explain that to a jury?”
“There are ways to twist things – lawyers know all the tricks.”
He had to admit his heart had skipped a beat when he had been shown the knife. It was identical to the one he used to carve the roast meat every Sunday. But it was an ordinary, common-or-garden carving knife that could be found in every kitchen the length and breadth of Britain. It didn’t belong to him, not that one. Not the one that had murdered his precious daughter.
Sylvia Knox realized Henry meant what he said. He would, on no account, let her tell the police he had been with her on the night his daughter died, even though it would probably save his neck.
His wife had been away that night, visiting her sister in Stoke Newington. And it hadn’t been the first time he had shared Sylvia’s bed, although it was the first time he had stayed all night. He usually only visited her when he left work early, keeping Ivy Carstairs in blissful ignorance.
He had wrestled with his conscience about his adultery, something that had happened so easily and naturally. When Sylvia Knox’s husband had died of cancer several years before, he had taken to looking in on her to make sure she and Minnie were all right. It wasn’t long before he had slipped into the role of ‘man of the house’, seeing to various odd jobs that needed doing with Ted Knox no longer there to do them. When he had first slept with Sylvia it had started as a comforting hug. He hadn’t intended it to happen, but nature had a way of taking over free will, as he had found out. Once the irrevocable step had been taken, it was easy to make a habit of it.
“Look, Sylv, if you want to help me, you can do two things for me…”
“Of course, Henry.”
“First, go to that Elvira woman and get her to make up a supply of those headache powders she gave me. These Anadins don’t touch it.” His hand shot to his head again as a violent pain jolted all other thoughts out of it.
“Okay. What’s the second thing?”
“Will you look after Charlie for me?”
“Charlie? Oh, your dog, you mean?”
“Yes. Ivy’s not keen and I don’t think she’s looking after him properly. He needs regular exercise. Can you do that for me – just until I get out, that is?”
“Well – I – I suppose so. But what if you don’t get out? What shall I do with Charlie then?”
Henry’s nose scraped the grill and the warder watched suspiciously, as if he expected him to transfer something to his visitor via his nostrils.
“Don’t let’s think about that, Sylv. Just look after him. I’ll think of something.”
“If you say so, Henry. But what will Ivy think when I ask her for the dog?”
“She’ll be relieved, that’s what.”
“But won’t she wonder why you’ve asked me to look after it? Me of all people?”
“You can just say that Minnie asked about the dog. She used to play with Charlie when she and Helen were younger.”
“All right. Minnie’s not talking to me, by the way,” she told him, getting up to leave. “She hasn’t spoken to me for months – not properly, like. She always used
to be such a loving daughter, especially after Ted died. But I suppose she’s at a difficult age. I remember I wasn’t the nicest person in the world when I was seventeen.”
“Yes – Helen…” he began, a sob stuck somewhere in his throat as he uttered her name. “ Er – she could be difficult too. Minnie’ll come round, you’ll see.”
Mrs Knox walked out of the prison into the bright afternoon sun which was blazing down as usual. June had turned into July and still there was no break in the fine weather. She had never known such a summer. Why hadn’t it been as fine as this last year when the young Queen was crowned? It had been raining all day, she recalled. So unfair. She was such a pretty thing. Sylvia had a scrapbook full of pictures of the Royal Family: handsome Prince Philip, as well as the cute children, Prince Charles and lovely, golden-curled Princess Anne. The perfect family. Not like her own, or poor Henry’s either.
She walked down the street, making a mental note to visit Elvira Rowan first thing in the morning. The sooner she got Henry those headache cures the better.
Henry’s worries would have been eased a little that afternoon if he had known that Ernest Pickles had been as good as his word. He had managed to get Minnie Knox’s testimony thrown out, much to the chagrin of Inspector Craddock.
“Would you Adam-and-Eve it, Rathbone?” he muttered. “That slimy git Pickles has managed to prevent that girl giving evidence. Said it was inadmissible, hearsay, whatever. Bastard!”
“Well, guv, strictly, he’s right.” Rathbone had meant this to be placatory, but it only served to rile his boss even further. “Er – I mean, didn’t you know that?” This remark didn’t help either.
“I’m not a bleedin’ lawyer, am I?” he screamed at him.
“Don’t worry, guv. If he gets off the murder charge, we’ll have him on incest. Minnie Knox will be called to testify then.”
“It won’t wash,” said Craddock, calming down a little. “It’s still bloody hearsay, isn’t it?”
Rathbone couldn’t argue with that, of course.
“Make yourself useful,” said the inspector after a moment. “Go and get me a bacon butty from the canteen.”
Looking on the bright side, there wasn’t much in life that couldn’t be improved by a bacon butty, he thought.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Elvira stared around her at all the things that reminded her of her beloved sister. She had never felt so alone. What was she going to do? She couldn’t stay there, not anymore. She shivered as the first blast of cold air wrapped around her.
“All right, Rodney Purbright,” she said out loud, “you win.”
She would pack a bag tonight and go and stay in a B&B until she could think of something else. Right now, she would make a cup of tea and try and warm herself up. As she was about to put the kettle on, the doorbell rang.
Who could that be, she wondered. No one ever called on her, callers only ever wanted her sister. Well, she thought, if someone wanted to see Vesna today they were out of luck. She opened the door and stared at the beautiful woman standing there. She had chestnut hair tied up in a fashionable chignon and wore a floral print dress that accentuated her shape in the all the right places.
“Hello?” she said enquiringly. Obviously, this vision of loveliness had come to the wrong address.
“Bonjour,” replied the woman. “Are you Mrs Purbright?”
Mrs Purbright? What was she talking about? And bonjour? What kind of a word was that? French, of course. She knew that. Just like the woman’s hairstyle.
“Mrs Vesna Purbright?” The young woman was looking at a crumpled postcard.
“Er – no. I’m not. She is – was my sister.”
Elvira was taken aback. Somehow, this young woman with a rather attractive accent thought that Rodney Purbright had married Vesna. Why should she think that? And, more to the point, who was she?
“You – you’d better come in,” said Elvira.
As she ushered her visitor into the parlour, she noticed the woman shiver. “I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?”
“Zank you,” said the woman. “Why is it so cold in here?”
“It’s a long story. Do sit down.”
When the tea had been poured, the woman introduced herself. “My name is Jeanne Dupont and I’ve come here to –” She broke off.
“Yes?”
“Well, it is another long story, but the short one is I believe this man is my father.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a battered, sepia photograph. She passed it to Elvira.
There was no doubt who it was. Private Rodney Purbright in his soldier’s uniform, looking as arrogant as she always remembered him.
“This man is – is your father?” Elvira handed it back to her.
“Yes. You see, my mother died recently, but before she died, she told me all about him. How they’d met in the War – the first one, I mean – and, well you know how it is in wartime. I was the result. She never told him, and he left her after the War ended and went back to England. Maman gave me his photograph and this letter. Here.”
Jeanne showed Elvira the letter, still in its envelope. “Ma mère – mother – she found it in the jacket of his uniform and kept it. It is a letter to his fiancée, the one my mother thought he must have gone back to. Ze address led me to a place in Bottle – er, no Boo-ootle.”
Elvira smiled. “Yes, Bootle was where my sister and I were born.”
“Well, I found an old woman there. A Mrs Rowan.”
“So, she’s still alive, is she?” Her stepmother must be a hundred if she was a day.
“Yes, although she looked rather vieux – er, frail. She told me Vesna was no longer living there.”
“No, we moved from there many years ago,” said Elvira, pouring her another cup of tea. “Go on.”
“Well, to – how you say? – cut a long story short, she found an old postcard – I have it here – from Vesna to her father, asking him to send her some money and giving zis address. So here I am.”
Here she was, thought Elvira, but to what purpose? “I see,” was all she could think of to say.
“Yes, you see, I just wanted to meet my father. I was brought up by my mère and grandmère, and I was very lucky to have them. But I always wondered about my père. He was zo handsome, no?”
Elvira sniffed. “Handsome is as handsome does,” she commented.
“Comment?”
“It’s a saying. Means he might look like an angel, but what he does is the important thing.”
Jeanne Dupont looked sad for a moment. Elvira watched her face, which was the most charming she had ever seen outside of the cinema screen. The only thing that spoiled it was the resemblance she could see to Rodney Purbright. However, as his looks were the only good thing she could say about him, Jeanne was lucky to have inherited just them and, hopefully, not his nature. Her mother and grandmother must have been good people, Elvira reckoned, judging by the woman’s polite and friendly demeanour.
“Do you mean to imply zat he wasn’t very nice?”
Elvira thought for a moment. She didn’t know this woman from Adam, but she instinctively liked her and didn’t want to hurt her. On the other hand, she didn’t want to give her the false impression that Rodney Purbright was some kind of a saint.
“Well, let me put it this way,” she said, “he left your mother in the lurch, didn’t he? With a baby. What kind of a man does that?”
“Oh, but he never knew! My mother only found out she was pregnant after he had gone. Back to his fiancée, she expected. She said it was only right he should go back to her. She had told him he should.”
“What, even after they’d – they’d – ” Elvira couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Still a virgin at sixty-two and likely to remain so, she couldn’t think of how to say it, let alone how to do it.
“Even after that,” smiled Jeanne, sensing the older woman’s discomfiture. “People were drawn together in wartime. They found com
fort in each other. Zey did not know if they would still be alive tomorrow. They took happiness where they could find it.”
Elvira hadn’t managed to grab any happiness, either in wartime or in peacetime. She wondered now what she had missed. She could have had a beautiful daughter like this if she had been luckier. So could poor Vesna.
“Anyway, from what you tell me, Vesna is dead?”
“Yes, dear. She passed on a few weeks ago.” Elvira waited for the obvious next question.
“And – my père?”
“I’m sorry, he’s dead, too.” There didn’t seem to be any other way to say it.
The woman was shivering violently now. “Zut alors! It is so cold!” she cried.
Elvira immediately apologized. “I’ll fetch you a shawl.”
“Zank you,” said Jeanne. “I haven’t brought any warm clothing with me because it is so warm. I don’t understand why it is so cold in here.”
Elvira ran up the stairs to her bedroom and rummaged in the ottoman for the warmest shawl she could find.
“Here we are,” she said, draping it around Jeanne’s shoulders. She saw that she had been crying a little. “I’m sorry I had to tell you this bad news, dear. After you have come all this way, too. From France, I take it?”
“Yes. From Fécamp.”
Elvira had never heard of the place. “He – he, well, I can’t say I liked him very much. I think you were better off not knowing him.” Was she being heartless, she wondered.
“Maybe you are right,” said Jeanne, hugging the shawl about her. “But you must get something done about the cold in here.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Elvira.
“Pour quoi?”
“Eh? Oh, why, you mean?”
“Sorry, yes. Why is it not that simple?”
“I don’t know where to start…”
“It is always best to start at the beginning,” smiled Jeanne, still shivering.
But where was the beginning, wondered Elvira. When Rodney Purbright came back to stay or when her sister murdered him? Or even before that, when Vesna had first become engaged to him? From the moment Purbright had entered their lives, everything had started to go wrong.