by Kate Ellis
‘Lovely. I’m starving. Been working on that brewery robbery today. We think we’ve got the right men – it’s just a question of persuading Tommy Helston to give evidence against his mates.’
He always tried his best to interest her in his day and always made a point of asking her about her own. But it was like talking to a statue. He turned away, fighting the frustration welling up inside.
The silence of the house was shattered by the sound of hammering on the front door. They had a visitor and he hoped it wasn’t Vera because he didn’t feel up to being polite to his mother-in-law just at that moment.
He rushed to answer and was relieved when he found Sam Poltimore standing on the doorstep. Sam was a wiry man nearing retirement, a full six inches smaller than Albert. He had been too old to serve in the war and he’d witnessed those of his younger colleagues who had survived returning with horrific scars, mental and physical. Albert sensed the sadness he’d felt at the sight of so much damaged young flesh but Sam had rarely spoken on the matter, except to observe that it was better than them not returning at all.
‘What is it, Sam?’ Albert tried to sound annoyed about this interruption to his evening of ‘domestic bliss’ but he failed because the truth was he was glad of the distraction, and curious to find out what was so urgent that it had brought Sam Poltimore to his door so soon after the working day had ended.
Poltimore looked sheepish. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. But there’s been a telephone call. From up North.’ He said it as if ‘up North’ was some distant exotic land. ‘Do you remember that case in ’fourteen? That little lad who was murdered up in Cheshire?’
Albert remembered the case all right. His rare failure had eaten away at him for years.
A few weeks before his fifth birthday little Jimmy Rudyard had last been seen playing with his twin, Peter, and their two elder brothers one sunny Thursday evening in early July 1914; a dream time of heat and sunshine just before the clouds of war gathered on the horizon. Jimmy’s mother had told the older boys, Jack and Ernie, to bring the young twins home in time for bed but they’d been distracted by some school friends playing nearby and the twins had wandered off. Eventually the older boys found Peter but Jimmy had vanished, and all Peter would say was that a knight on horseback had taken him. According to a well-known local legend, King Arthur’s knights were asleep in a hidden cavern up on the Ridge where the twins had been playing, ready to reawaken and come to England’s aid in her hour of need, so Ernie and Jack had assumed Peter had made up a story as he so often did.
Unwisely, the boys had left, trusting Jimmy would find his way back home. But when they arrived at the cemetery lodge there was no sign of him and when the boys’ irate father alerted the village, a search was conducted and Jimmy was found dead, lying in the centre of a stone circle, near the place he’d last been seen. At first it was assumed he’d met an unfortunate accident – until the local doctor broke the news the following day that the boy had been murdered. Somebody had smothered him; held their hand over his mouth until he stopped breathing.
It soon became clear it wasn’t a case the local police were capable of dealing with alone so the call was made to Scotland Yard and it fell to Albert to take charge of the investigation.
When Peter Rudyard had been questioned about that day he’d said nothing so Albert had no way of knowing whether that boy hadn’t seen what happened … or whether the shock of witnessing his twin’s death had buried the memory deep in his mind. Jimmy had been just a year older than Albert’s own son Freddy had been at the time, and the man from Scotland Yard had wondered whether he’d failed because he’d been unable to look at the case dispassionately; whether he’d tried too hard.
‘I remember. What about it?’
‘There’s been a report of another murder in the same village. Mabley Ridge.’
Albert didn’t have to be told the name. The location was forever imprinted on his memory.
Back in 1914 it hadn’t taken Albert long to discover that Mabley Ridge wasn’t a typical Cheshire village. It had been his first time up North and he’d been pleasantly surprised by the gentle green landscape of cattle-filled fields and, as he neared Manchester, the conspicuous wealth generated by the textile trade. The owners of the mills and those who traded in their products had built their fine houses in Mabley Ridge and made their own little community, as select as any Albert had encountered in the wealthy squares of London.
‘Remember the dead lad’s family lived in the cemetery lodge?’ Poltimore continued. ‘Well, a body’s been found not far from his house … in a newly dug grave.’
Albert knew that if they’d been in the office, some wag would be unable to resist joking about a body being found in a cemetery but he wasn’t tempted to make light of it. Little Jimmy Rudyard’s death had been no laughing matter.
‘Not another child?’ Albert asked, praying the answer would be no.
To his relief Sam shook his head. ‘No. A woman.’ He paused. ‘According to the local sergeant who rang us, the murdered kiddy’s twin brother found the body and told his teacher. There are no obvious suspects so he felt obliged to call in Scotland Yard and the superintendent thought with your connection to the Rudyard murder … and as you know the area so to speak … ’
Albert understood. Rural forces didn’t have the expertise to conduct complex murder investigations and he was used to being called to all corners of the country. These days he was sometimes glad of it, although the thought of returning to Mabley Ridge filled him with dread.
‘Do we know who the victim is?’ he said.
‘She’s been provisionally identified as a Mrs Patience Bailey, a war widow with a young baby. She was working as a paid companion to a Mrs Ghent whose husband owns a cotton mill in Manchester. Mrs Bailey went missing on Tuesday night and was found yesterday afternoon.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘The sergeant I spoke to –’ Sam took his notebook from his pocket and examined it – ‘name of Stark, says it looks as though she was rendered unconscious with a blow to the head then pushed into the grave and buried alive. The local doctor’ll conduct the post-mortem when you get there.’
Albert remembered Sergeant Stark as a big man of few words; he might have been lacking in imagination but was hard-working and always ready to share local knowledge. He’d shown none of the resentment some local officers displayed when a man from Scotland Yard intruded on their patch; not that their combined efforts had done much good in the case of Jimmy Rudyard.
‘Did you say the victim had a child?’
Poltimore paused for a few moments before answering. ‘Er … yes, sir. A baby boy about six months old.’
Albert made a swift calculation. ‘I thought you said she was a war widow.’
‘That’s what I was told, sir. I don’t know any more. Only that the baby’s missing.’
‘Missing?’
‘That’s right. They found his pram in the cemetery but it was empty. The superintendent suggested you go up there as soon as possible, sir.’
‘Telephone Sergeant Stark and tell him I’ll set off first thing tomorrow morning.’ As soon as the words had left his lips he wondered whether he should have asked for the case to be given to somebody else. But it was too late now.
Albert returned to the cabbage-scented kitchen, dreading the return to Mabley Ridge with its bitter memories of failure.
He sat down at the table and closed his eyes. Once again his mind conjured Flora’s face, and this time she was laughing at him.
Chapter 7
Mary said nothing when Albert told her he was going up North and wasn’t sure when he’d be back. Sometimes he suspected that she had no more need of him; that her mother, her mediums and the ghostly company of their dead son were enough for her.
First thing the next morning he packed a suitcase and left the house for the station, giving his wife a tentative kiss on the cheek. He saw her wipe the cheek with her hand as though she couldn’t bear for any trace of him to
remain on her flesh. He noted the gesture and felt a jolt of anguish.
He sat in the smoky second-class compartment of the Manchester train and once it reached Cheshire he gazed out of the window at the passing countryside with its hedged fields and magpie half-timbered villages, all too aware that during the long hot summer of 1914 that green paradise had harboured something evil, something he’d failed to root out. Lulled by the rhythm of the train, his mind kept wandering back to the last time he’d journeyed in the same direction in the spring of the previous year; to Flora Winsmore and those terrible events in Wenfield. She’d given birth to his son in prison before her execution and now the child was out there somewhere, as distant and inaccessible to him as dead Frederick. He’d asked himself so often how it was that he hadn’t been able to see her true nature. When he lay in his lonely, narrow bed at night listening to Mary breathing through the paper-thin wall between him and the adjoining bedroom, the hurt he felt was almost physical as he realised he could no longer trust his own judgement.
This latest murder had taken place in the same village that had seen little Jimmy Rudyard’s murder six years before and he clung on to the hope that, even after all this time, he would find some new clue that would lead him to the child’s killer. Perhaps this new case would allow him to redeem himself and he hoped with all his heart he wouldn’t fail again.
On his last visit he’d thought Mabley Ridge was a peculiar place. Originally a small settlement, its nature had altered drastically with the coming of the railway when wealthy cotton manufacturers and traders from Manchester migrated there to escape the filth and chaos of the town. Many of their mansions stood on the road leading to the Ridge itself, a dramatic wooded sandstone escarpment half a mile outside the village which afforded a magnificent view over the surrounding countryside with the chimneys and grime of Manchester safely in the distance.
The centre of the village with its shops and streets of terraced houses was home to those who worked for the big houses roundabout but although the classes rarely mixed, in his experience the people of the village knew more about the inhabitants of the big houses than their so-called betters ever suspected.
And it was in the village that he planned to start asking questions.
Chapter 8
Mallory Ghent saw no reason to break his routine just because his wife’s paid companion had got herself murdered. Someone had to run the mill; someone had to restore prosperity and normality after those four lost years of conflict.
Besides, earlier that morning Sergeant Stark had asked him to call in at the Cottage Hospital on his way to catch the train to make a formal identification of the dead woman. He’d kept this from his wife because he hadn’t wanted to upset her, although he’d confided in Daisy as he so often did these days. The maid always seemed to understand.
Mallory’s daughter, Esme, had overheard her father’s hushed conversation with Daisy and she suspected the police request wasn’t the only thing he was keeping from her mother. Esme had eyes and ears and she knew more about her father’s secrets than he imagined. As soon as Mallory left the house Esme emerged from her room. She never breakfasted with her father if she could help it. They’d had little to say to each other since the telegram had arrived at the end of October 1918 informing them that her brother, Monty, had been killed in action. To her disgust her father had carried on as normal, acting as though he didn’t care. Her aunt, his sister, had assured her this was his way of hiding his grief but Esme hadn’t believe this for one moment. She was sure he had another woman and she’d even seen Daisy making eyes at him, although as yet she’d never caught them together.
Esme found her mother annoying too. Throughout her childhood Jane Ghent had been the life and soul of every party thrown by the Ridge’s prosperous residents. But since Monty’s death she had retreated into mourning and now seemed so distant that Esme was convinced that she no longer cared what her daughter felt or did.
But what did that matter? The war had proved that life was all too short and, now it was over, pleasure was the only thing worth living for and it was there for the taking. As she descended the stairs she caught sight of herself in a mirror and smiled. She’d bobbed her straight dark hair, bound her small breasts until they were fashionably flat and her dress was as short as she could get away with. She was nineteen years old and the future held the promise of excitement – especially now she’d met Sydney.
She pushed open the heavy mahogany door between the hall and the dining room, sending up a silent prayer that her mother would be taking her breakfast in bed so she could eat undisturbed, but when the door swung open she saw Jane seated at the head of the table, picking at the food in front of her. She looked up as Esme walked in but there was no smile of greeting.
‘Have you heard about Mrs Bailey?’ she asked as Esme helped herself to the devilled kidneys on the sideboard. Her voice was unsteady as though she was on the verge of tears.
‘What about her?’ Esme chose a seat at right angles to her mother’s so she wouldn’t have to look her in the face.
‘She’s been found … dead.’
‘Dead? How?’
‘Sergeant Stark said the circumstances were suspicious, whatever that means.’
‘It means she was murdered.’ Esme’s eyes shone. At last Patience Bailey had done something interesting.
Jane shook her head. ‘That can’t be right. Who would want to kill Patience? I can’t help wondering whether … ’ She lowered her voice, as though she was about to voice the unspeakable. ‘She took her own life.’
‘Why should you think that?’
Jane looked flustered. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What about the brat?’
‘He has a name,’ Jane snapped.
Esme snorted. ‘Lancelot. What kind of a name is that?’ Her mother looked away for a few moments. Then she turned to face her daughter. ‘She must have taken him with her when she went out. She often takes him walking in the evenings to get him off to sleep but the police say there’s no sign of him.’
‘Have you looked in her room?’
Jane hesitated. ‘Yes, I looked in before I heard she’d been found, just to check if her things were still there. Your father thought she might have decided to go away for a few days but I couldn’t believe she’d leave without letting me know. She’s always been so reliable.’
‘She didn’t leave a note?’
‘Not that I could see. Your father said we should try to contact her family but I don’t know anything about them. Whenever I asked her about them she always changed the subject.’ She rose from her seat, folding the white linen napkin in her hand absent-mindedly and placing it back in its monogrammed silver ring. ‘I’m sure Sergeant Stark will know what to do.’
‘I expect we’re going to have a load of coppers with their size twelve boots tramping all over the house and asking all sorts of questions.’
All of a sudden Jane’s timidity vanished. ‘I’m well aware of that, Esme, but it’s our duty to help the police. We have to do the right thing.’ She rushed from the room, almost colliding with Daisy who was entering with a tray.
Esme stayed where she was, helping herself to tea from the pot in front of her. It was stewed but she couldn’t be bothered asking Daisy for fresh because her mind was on Patience Bailey. She’d been surprised when her father had suggested that her mother should employ a companion. He had even placed the advertisement in the Lady himself, as though Jane was incapable of making her own decision on the matter. After that she’d been vaguely aware of a procession of shabby women in rusty black traipsing through the house to be interviewed and in the end, when Patience Bailey took up residence, she’d avoided her whenever possible. Patience was a war widow with a young baby and Esme convinced herself that she’d have nothing in common with her – although she did wonder how a woman whose husband had died in the last months of the war could have given birth to a baby sixteen months later. But everybody has their secrets; Esme had quite a f
ew herself.
She hadn’t allowed Patience to touch her life because she represented a world of sadness and loss. Now, in death, the woman had suddenly become more interesting. If she had taken her own life, what was the reason? And what had become of the child? If someone had killed her, it meant the dull, quiet companion had aroused the sort of violent passions Esme had only read about in cheap novels, unless there was a madman on the loose in Mabley Ridge. She’d heard it said that the war had had a disturbing effect on some men.
Sergeant Stark would soon be there and she didn’t want to be around when he arrived. After pushing her half-finished breakfast away she walked into the large square hall where the telephone sat on a side table and spoke to the operator, asking for a local number. If Sydney answered then her problem would be solved.
Chapter 9
Esme arranged to meet Sydney Rich at the end of the drive, just out of sight of Gramercy House because the last thing she wanted was to be seen, either by her mother or by nosy Daisy. In her opinion Daisy was becoming too cocky by half and Esme wondered if this had something to do with her father. But as soon as she saw Sydney leaning against his car waiting for her, all thoughts of the maid vanished from her mind.
She watched as he lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke, enjoying the hit of nicotine.
When she’d told him about Patience Bailey during their brief telephone conversation he’d muttered sympathetic platitudes. ‘How beastly it must be for you, darling,’ he’d said. ‘Such a bore having all those bobbies trampling around the house like a herd of elephants.’ Then, to her delight, he’d invited her over to the house he’d been renting since his arrival in the village a few weeks before.
Ridgeside Lodge reminded her of a doll’s house she’d once owned, long banished to the attics of Gramercy House. It stood down a small lane near the path leading to the Ridge and although it was a pretty place, an overgrown cottage with climbing roses growing round the door, the furnishings – the fussy chintz and heavy furniture from the previous century – were definitely not to her taste. According to Sydney the furniture had come with the house and he said he planned to replace it with something more up to date as soon as he could. She imagined herself in some swish Manchester shop helping him choose some sleek modern pieces. Perhaps one day, she thought hopefully, they might even make a home together.