by Pat Herbert
She sat down for the second time and smiled at everyone. Despite her innate wariness of the eccentric English, she found herself responding warmly to the assembled company. The half of her that was English seemed to relate to the Nancy Harpers and Colonel Powells of this world. She wasn’t quite sure, however, how to take the vicar or the doctor, nice enough gentleman though they appeared to be.
“I have some decent port tucked away,” announced Elvira. Now that the atmosphere had returned to its former conviviality, she became the generous host once again.
“Now that sounds like a plan,” said Colonel Powell, rubbing his hands. “Let’s forget all about murders for a while, shall we?”
“Er, there’s just one thing I don’t understand,” said Robbie, “just before we pass the port.”
Elvira’s look of bonhomie and relief vanished. “What’s that, Robbie?”
“What about the fingerprints on the knife?”
“Oh, yes. That’s easily explained.” Her face brightened.
“Yes?”
Everyone leaned forward.
“It was our carving knife, of course, as I finally realized. I never saw it at the time. I made Vesna sort that out herself. She said she buried it near the body, and I told her I didn’t want to know. Maybe if I’d known it was our carving knife all along – ”
“Yes, yes, Elvira. Carstairs’ prints? How would they have got on the knife?” Robbie’s eyebrows beetled.
“Because he helped carve our Sunday joint once,” said Elvira. “About a year ago, I think it was.”
“’Ang on a minute,” squeaked Nancy, “you mean to say you ain’t never washed it?”
“That’s a point,” muttered the Colonel.
“You don’t wash your dirty cutlery?” Jeanne was disgusted.
Elvira smiled. “I rinse the blade under the hot tap, that’s all it needs. And I don’t often have roast meat these days. I’ve only used it a couple of times since.”
That seemed to clear up the mystery. Both Jeanne and Nancy were satisfied with Elvira’s explanation (as well as her sense of hygiene), and everyone was looking forward to the port.
“Cheers!” they said in unison, when it was poured.
Elvira awoke the next morning with a headache. It was the port that had finished her off. Rising slowly, she drew her dressing gown around her and went to the window. It was a blustery Sunday morning in late September and, for the first time in over thirty years, she felt at peace with herself and the world around her. One of her headache remedies would soon take care of the pain, and she would be ready for anything.
Later that morning, she received a visitor. Jeanne Dupont stood on the doorstep, smiling, with a large bunch of flowers.
“Zank you so much for a very interesting evening,” she said.
Elvira, her headache now dispatched thanks to her grandmother’s old receipt, smiled back at her as she took the bouquet.
“Th-thank you, Jeanne,” she said. “I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“It was formidable,” said her visitor, who looked prettier than ever in a stylish two-piece. Elvira particularly admired the black stockings. She supposed they were what men would call sexy. There was no doubt about it, only the French could look this chic.
“Would you like a coffee?”
“No zank you, I won’t stop. I have much to do as I am returning to France tomorrow. I just wanted to say goodbye and to say that, if you ever plan a trip to France, I would be happy to see you.”
“That’s very kind,” said Elvira, touched. Everyone was being so kind to her. She should have told the truth a long time ago.
“I came to England to find my father, but I have found a friend instead,” said Jeanne. “Friends, I should say. You were all so kind to me last night, Robbie especially. He is – how you say – a ladies’ man?”
Elvira laughed. “Yes, you could say that, I suppose.”
“D’accord! I hope that the man who was wrongly accused of the murder will not be punished now?”
“Oh no, Jeanne. Our law doesn’t allow people to be retried for the same offence.”
“And you will not tell the police about the finger prints?”
Elvira looked down at her feet. “No, Jeanne. I don’t think so. If he were still on trial, then I would. But it would be the end for me if I told them now. Do you see?”
“I zink so,” smiled Jeanne. “And I know you are not a murderer. I am sorry about your sister. And about my father and how you both suffered because of him.”
“It’s all right, Jeanne. I feel free at last. He is no longer here, and everyone knows the truth now.”
“You are very brave.”
Elvira didn’t feel very brave at that moment. She wanted to break down and cry in Jeanne’s arms. She could have had a daughter like Jeanne if life had been kinder to her and dealt her better cards.
Jeanne Dupont wasn’t Elvira’s only visitor that day, as it turned out. Not long after she had left, Colonel Powell turned up with a bunch of flowers too. Unlike Jeanne, however, he accepted a coffee and sat himself down on the sagging sofa, rubbing his aching foot.
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Elvira, putting the flowers in a vase. Jeanne’s superior blooms in the best vase were moved to make room. She would have to buy more vases at this rate, she thought. “You didn’t have to do this. In fact, it is I who owe you.”
“But why, dear lady?” The Colonel’s faded blue eyes were twinkling.
“For not giving me away in court.”
“Oh, that was nothing. I would have done anything to make sure your sister’s reputation wasn’t ruined.”
Not mine? Elvira suddenly felt angry. Why was it always Vesna? Even when she was dead!
“Well, that was good of you,” she said through gritted teeth.
“The meal was superb,” Colonel Powell said, unaware he had hurt her feelings. “And you make excellent coffee too.” He raised his bone china cup to her, as if in salute.
“I aim to please.” Her teeth were still gritted. “So, if that’s all, Colonel, I’ve got some things to be getting on with.”
“Er, well, there was one more thing,” he said. “The real purpose of my visit, actually.” He looked shifty as he cleared his throat. His eyes were darting everywhere.
“Yes?” Get on with it, you silly old goat, she thought.
“It’s just that, well, what I’m trying to say is we’re both lonely. Since my wife died, I’ve felt the loss, as I’m sure you can imagine. Without your dear sister, you must feel very lonely yourself.”
“Life hasn’t been easy,” agreed Elvira, not sure of what was coming, but beginning to get a good idea.
“So, why don’t we – why don’t we get hitched?”
“Get hitched?”
All her life, she had prayed for some man to get down on his bended knee and propose to her, and at last she had her wish. But, far from getting down on bended knee, the old duffer couldn’t even walk properly on that gouty foot. And ‘why don’t we get hitched’ was a far cry from ‘would you do me the honour’.
“Yes. We would be company for each other,” he encouraged.
“And I could look after you. Help you in and out of your armchair.” And anywhere else, she could imagine. “And cook your meals.”
“Yes, yes. What d’you say?”
“I say, Colonel, what’s in it for me?”
“For you?” He said this as if surprised she should want anything apart from the benefit of his company.
“Yes. For me. You’ll be getting good, solid meals and a housekeeper and a nurse and anything else you’d care to mention.” She hoped he wouldn’t mention that, of course. “But what about me?”
“Well, you wouldn’t be lonely, would you?”
“With you knocking around the place all day, d’you mean?”
The colonel wasn’t the most sensitive of men, but he could detect an icy note in her voice. “Well, yes.”<
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“Thank you, Colonel, for your offer, but I have to decline it, I’m afraid.”
The old man blustered and muttered his way out of the cottage a few minutes later, after remonstrating with her for as long as she could put up with it. She closed the door on him and leaned against it, grinning.
Silly old fool, she thought. If he hadn’t said that about looking after Vesna’s reputation, she might seriously have considered his proposal. There were positive aspects of his offer, she couldn’t deny it, but she wasn’t prepared to play second fiddle anymore.
She had other fish to fry.
AFTERMATH
Even though Henry Carstairs had been released from prison and was free to continue his life as before, his troubles were far from over. Things for him would never be the same again.
Ivy had welcomed him back and he had been grateful for that, especially knowing that she knew all about his dalliance with Sylvia Knox. His little Jack Russell had been ecstatic to see him again and was once more enjoying two vigorous walks a day. But, he noticed, even as he took Charlie across the Common, that people were staring at him with suspicion and dislike. Although he had been discharged, he hadn’t been completely exonerated. There was still the problem of the fingerprints, as Elvira was holding onto her secret, at least for the time being.
Then, of course, there was the alibi. This had damned him in most people’s eyes even more than the murder charge. Carstairs realized that, whichever way he looked at it, he couldn’t win. They all knew he hadn’t interfered with his daughter in any way, but people still crossed the street to avoid him. He couldn’t face going to church either, where the congregation would no doubt stare at him with revulsion. It was true what they said: mud stuck.
Sylvia Knox kept a low profile after he was released. So did Minnie. They both, for different reasons, felt it wise to avoid him, so even that avenue was closed off to him. Maybe it was just as well, he supposed, although he was missing the comfort of Sylvia’s soft flesh beneath the bedclothes.
He had gone back to work as soon as he felt up to it after his ordeal. His boss was a decent man, and he had kept his job as bookkeeper open for him. A man was innocent until proved guilty, he had said. But Carstairs’ workmates were of a different opinion. They shunned him whenever possible, only addressing him when it was necessary in the course of business. Lunch in the canteen was another trial. If he came to sit at a table occupied by any of his colleagues, they immediately gathered up their trays and sought another table.
Henry Carstairs’ life in Wandsworth was, in a word, untenable, and it wasn’t very long before he, Ivy and Charlie had removed themselves from the borough altogether. Nobody, he thought sadly, would miss him. He threw a stick for his happy dog as he walked him across Ilkley Moor. He still hadn’t had time to grieve for his daughter. Up until then, he had only been able to grieve for himself.
No one knew him here, the Wandsworth murder having made little impact in Yorkshire. He watched his excited little dog frolic with joy and smiled. It would be hard to start all over again, but he was determined to try and make a go of it now he had been given a second chance.
Inspector Craddock was still seething, having been robbed of his triumph in bringing the Wandsworth murderer to book, only to let him slip through his grasp in the end. The whole case had been a disaster, and the tired old copper felt like turning in his badge.
“Never mind, guv,” Rathbone had tried to comfort him. “You did your best. That Minnie Knox didn’t do us any favours, lying like that.”
“I’d like to wring the little minx’s bloody neck,” said Craddock, biting into his bacon sandwich with vehemence.
“I don’t think Carstairs did it, though, despite the prints,” said Rathbone, watching his boss devour his breakfast with distaste. A buttered croissant was all he could manage in the mornings.
“Why not? How do you think the prints got on the knife, then?”
“Well, guv, I’ve a theory about that. He could have borrowed it from someone.”
“Is that it? Is that your theory?” Craddock was incredulous. “That he could have borrowed the knife? And then given it back, I suppose, so that some unknown person could stick it into that poor girl’s stomach.”
“I know it sounds feeble, but, yes. I believe that’s what happened.”
Craddock laughed, spattering bacon and bread over his jacket and onto the table, narrowly missing his oppo by inches. “You’re a comedian, Rathbone.”
The inspector continued to laugh, and Rathbone reluctantly joined in. It was an unwritten rule at the station that, if Craddock found something amusing, then everyone else had to, as well.
“Silly me!” said the Sergeant.
“That blessed cat’s up the tree again.”
Bernard was seated in his warm study one December morning when Mrs Harper imparted this piece of news to him.
“Oh dear!”
“I ain’t going to call the fire brigade again,” asserted his housekeeper defiantly. “I got a mouthful from them the last time.”
“But how are we going to get him down? Poor Beelzebub. Why do you think he keeps going up there?”
Bernard followed Mrs Harper out into the back garden where he saw his precious cat mewing on the topmost branch of the oak tree that overlooked the next garden.
“He’s after that robin,” said Mrs Harper. “I’ve been watching the blighter from the kitchen window.”
“I’ll go and fetch a ladder,” said Bernard. “It won’t reach up that far, but maybe he’ll be able to reach the top of it.”
As he struggled with the ladder, a young man, armed with a large bunch of white lilies, came sauntering along the alley which backed onto the vicarage garden.
“Hello, Vicar,” Tyrone Larkin called to him. “Do you need any help?”
Bernard looked gratefully at the pleasant young man. He wasn’t a regular attendee at his services, but he was always there for the big ones – Christmas, Easter, Harvest Festival.
“Well, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said. “You see, my cat’s got himself stuck up that oak tree and I don’t think I can reach him, not even from the top of this ladder.”
Tyrone smiled. “No problem,” he said, leaping with agility over the fence.
Taking the ladder from Bernard, he placed it up against the tree and began to climb. As he did so, the cat leapt from the branch onto the neighbouring tree and climbed down it with facile ease.
“Oh dear,” said Bernard as he grabbed his precious feline. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”
Tyrone laughed. “Cats are always doing that. Make you feel sorry for them and, when you try to help, they make you look a fool and snub you.”
“Do you have a cat, then?”
“Yes. We’ve got two, actually. Regular comedians, they are.”
“We called the fire brigade last time he got stuck up there,” smiled Bernard. “They weren’t amused.”
Tyrone laughed again. “No, they wouldn’t be. Anyway, I’d better get on. I’m on my way to take these to Helen’s grave.”
The young man looked serious now, and Bernard’s heart went out to him. In all this trouble, the young victim’s boyfriend had been more or less overlooked, but he must have suffered just as much as her parents, losing her like that.
“I hate graveyards, but I must say my goodbyes,” he said, holding the lilies close to his chest.
Bernard watched him go, a tear poised in his eye. It wasn’t fair that such awful things should happen to the young, he thought. He looked heavenwards, but he saw no enlightenment from that quarter. God, it seemed, was on another tea break.
Sighing, he returned to the vicarage study, holding Beelzebub firmly by the scruff of the neck, supporting his nether region with his other hand. “Naughty boy!” he admonished him.
Moments later, Mrs Harper brought him his mid-morning coffee and biscuits. She set the tray down on the table by his armchair and tur
ned to leave the room. As she reached the door, she turned round.
“Oh, by the way, Vicar, I’ve just been to the shops and guess who I met coming back?”
“No idea, Mrs Aitch. Do tell,” he said, tickling Beelzebub behind the ear.
“Elvira.”
“Oh, how is she? I must go and see her again soon.”
“She’s fine, Vicar,” said Mrs Harper, hoisting up her ample bosom. “She was carrying a suitcase.”
“Oh? Going on holiday?”
“She didn’t say.” Mrs Harper sniffed. “She was very cagey about it.”
“We haven’t seen much of her recently, have we? I hope she’s all right.”
“She looked more than all right to me. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, she was.”
Bernard smiled. Elvira Rowan was no fool. He recalled with pleasure her splendid dinner party with that excellent off-the-ration leg of lamb, and her confession, if that was what it was, after they had all eaten. Everything she had told them had been believed. They had all been taken in, even Robbie. But, when he came to think about it, her story was a little far-fetched.
“But we believed her because we believe in the supernatural,” he had argued with Robbie the day after. “But should we have swallowed it all?”
“Well, there was the colonel’s story which seemed to back her up,” Robbie had pointed out. But he had looked doubtful as well.
“You know, Robbie,” Bernard had said, “I’m not so sure. Now that she isn’t here, talking to us, I don’t know. She could have killed Helen. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe the powder they gave her had been too strong or something.”
“But what about the colonel? He said he saw Purbright’s ghost following them. What about that?”
“He could have been lying. Or drunk. Maybe he wanted to get on her good side, probably with an eye to marriage. With cooking like that, wouldn’t you? Men have killed for less.”
Robbie had laughed. “You know, Bernie, maybe we all fell for a pack of lies. Maybe Elvira Rowan is a witch after all.”