The Boy Who Lived with the Dead (Albert Lincoln Book 2)

by Kate Ellis

  In Dora’s company he felt like a romantic hero who could conquer the world and he longed to shout his love for her from the well-heeled rooftops of Mabley Ridge. And once Patience Bailey had been installed in his household things had taken a turn for the better. With a paid companion his wife had become less dependent on his company, which meant he could see Dora whenever he liked with a clear conscience. He tried to convince himself that although Patience had gone his wife still had Esme around, ignoring the fact that Esme wasn’t the sort of girl who’d enjoy sitting with a mother who’d never recovered from the loss of her son. He hadn’t recovered from Monty’s death either but that was a secret he kept well hidden from the world.

  Without telling anybody where he was going, Mallory left the house and, after walking through the centre of the village, he made his way down the main road towards the open countryside. When he reached Dora’s cottage near the cemetery he smoothed his hair and adjusted his tie. He’d bought some pomade from a chemist’s shop in King Street and he could smell it as he walked. He wondered whether he’d applied the pomade a little too liberally and whether the scent would arouse Jane’s suspicions on his return. Whenever he saw Dora he was in the habit of telling Jane he was at his club in Manchester, but as she’d been upset by the inspector’s visit earlier he felt obliged to be home at a reasonable time that evening. With only a couple of hours to spend with Dora, he was determined to make the most of it.

  He rang her doorbell, feeling like a teenage suitor as his heart raced and his palms sweated. He held his stomach in and raised his head slightly in an attempt to hide the roll of fat that had accumulated round his chin, the result of too many business lunches.

  It was a while before the door opened. She always kept him waiting a little and he couldn’t help wondering whether she did the same with Leonard Parms. There were times when the thought of sharing her was almost unbearable – although she always assured him he was the only one and she kept her liaison with Leonard going because she felt she owed him something for paying her rent. Besides, according to Dora, she said it didn’t matter because she had enough love for two. He suspected she said exactly the same to Leonard on the nights she saw him but it was easier to believe her.

  She stood in the doorway, the light behind her creating a halo around her blonde curls. Her generous lips formed a slow smile and her wide eyes held an invitation that made Mallory’s heart leap.

  ‘Mally, don’t stand there on the doorstep,’ she said, dragging him into the hall. ‘I’ve got some champers in the front room.’ She gave him a coquettish smile. ‘To tell the truth I could do with some. The matinee audience was an absolute nightmare. I’m glad Dolores is doing my spot this evening.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Mallory, his voice thick with desire. He took her in his arms and her body seemed to melt into his as he kissed her.

  ‘Lenny gave me a lovely present yesterday,’ she said, breaking away to dangle a diamond bracelet in front of his face. He caught her meaning immediately.

  ‘Meet me in St Ann’s Square tomorrow lunchtime. We’ll go shopping.’

  If she’d been a cat she would have purred.

  Sydney had used the search for the child as an excuse. The Ridge had a bad reputation and the locals tended to stay away, so they had the wild place all to themselves … which Sydney said was perfect.

  He and Esme had walked to Oak Tree Edge where they’d sat on a rug drinking champagne and enjoying the spectacular view over the countryside to the distant chimneys of Manchester. Esme had giggled as she neared the precipitous drop, standing on the boulders and daring herself to look down before retreating to safety. Then they’d called out the child’s name a few times, shouting ‘Lancelot!’ as though a seven-month-old baby could answer back, before making love on the car rug and opening a second bottle.

  By the time Sydney drove her back home it was dark and when he dropped her off he watched as she stumbled down the drive in the moonlight, her feet crunching on the gravel as loud as a platoon on the march. In spite of the amount of champagne she’d consumed she moved fast, making for the light of the windows like a moth to a street light, and Sydney wondered whether the murder of Patience Bailey had made her nervous.

  He sat in the driver’s seat of the Alvis and lit a cigarette. Then when that was finished he lit another to allow her time to get safely indoors because he couldn’t risk her seeing him hanging around. She asked far too many questions as it was – just like her mother once had.

  Ten minutes passed before he climbed out of the motor car, shutting the door quietly behind him. Then he began to walk towards the house, keeping to the sparse grass at the edge of the drive that struggled to grow in the shadow of the rhododendrons, avoiding the gravel because the last thing he wanted was to announce his arrival.

  He crept nearer the house, his eyes fixed on the bay window which was lit like a stage set. The light, he noted, was electric. Only the best would do for the Ghents. He stood there like a hungry orphan gazing at the opulent interior, confident that the darkness rendered him invisible. He could see Esme’s mother Jane sitting on a brocade sofa near the unlit fire, perched on the edge as if poised for flight.

  He watched her for a while, wishing he was close enough to see her face, although that would have been too risky. Then he saw her shoulders shaking slightly. She was either laughing or crying but he would have put money on the latter.

  And if she ever discovered the identity of her daughter’s lover, she’d have even more to cry about.

  Chapter 16

  The Station Hotel was more comfortable than Albert Lincoln was used to. He knew from his last visit in 1914 that it catered for businessmen visiting the homes of the local cotton barons, men who had high expectations and a low tolerance of bad service. As he sat at breakfast the next day he felt a little out of place as he noted the expensive tailoring and conspicuous gold watches of his fellow guests.

  It was Saturday, a working day in industrial Manchester where time was money. Sunday was the sole day of leisure for most – that was after a morning in church and a heavy roast dinner. Stark had invited him to Sunday dinner and, although on reflection he would have preferred to spend the day alone with his own thoughts, manners dictated that the sergeant’s invitation had been accepted gratefully.

  The previous day a constable had called at the home of Mrs Pearce, the woman who, according to the Rudyards, left offerings of food at her family grave each night in the hope that her missing son would one day return, visit his dead relatives’ last resting place and find sustenance waiting for him there. Grief, Albert knew, came in many forms and this denial was Mrs Pearce’s way of dealing with it. The fact that the food was usually gone in the morning intrigued him. Perhaps it was taken by wild animals as Grace Rudyard suggested, but Peter Rudyard’s sighting of the so-called Shadow Man opened up other possibilities if the boy was to be believed.

  Mrs Pearce lived in a close of small terraced houses just off the main village street. There had been no answer when the constable called and her neighbours hadn’t seen her, although one said she sometimes visited her sister in Northwich.

  ‘Poor soul,’ the neighbour had said. ‘She hardly says a word to anyone now – nothing that makes sense any road. Her lass passed away before the war then her son went missing in action, then some months back her husband passed on too. Some people attract bad luck, don’t they? Goes out shopping once a day, she does, and then she’s off out again once it’s dark carrying that old basket of hers. She’s never been the same since she got the telegram saying her Harry was missing in France. Talks as though she’s expecting him back any time. Such a shame.’

  Albert had asked Stark to check the cemetery to see if any food parcels had been left since the night of Patience Bailey’s murder but the answer had been no. Stark suggested that the police presence had frightened her off, or maybe what had happened to Patience Bailey had terrified her into seeking refuge with the sister whose name they didn’t yet know.


  Whatever the truth was Albert needed to speak to Mrs Pearce because there was a chance she’d witnessed something on the night of Patience Bailey’s murder. He’d asked for her sister in Northwich to be traced as a matter of urgency.

  A letter with a London postmark had been waiting for him at reception when he’d come down first thing that morning, the address written in Mary’s neat, almost childlike hand. She was in the habit of writing to him whenever he was away but he was never sure how to reply. She’d written to him when he’d been in Wenfield and back then the very sight of her letters had brought on pangs of guilt. Thanks to his infatuation with Flora Winsmore, he’d chosen to ignore those small paper reminders that he had a wife back in London. When Flora betrayed him in the most horrifying way it had seemed like a judgement on him for his disloyalty.

  He opened Mary’s letter at the breakfast table and spread it out in front of him, dropping a globule of marmalade on it in the process.

  All is well here and Mother is feeling a lot better. We went to see the Reverend Gillit last night but he said Freddy was only coming through faintly. He said he was busy playing with some little friends and had become engrossed in his game. It sometimes happens with children, he said. I’m going back on Sunday and I have high hopes of making contact with our little one then. It’s so wonderful when I hear his voice. I wish you would share it with me. The house is empty without you, Albert.

  Yours, Mary

  He’d often thought it strange that she always managed to say more in a letter than she ever said to his face, as though she found it easier to put her thoughts on to paper than into words.

  He stared at the letter for a while, then wiped the marmalade off with his napkin before folding it and stuffing it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of somebody clearing their throat politely. Albert looked up and saw Sergeant Stark standing there in his uniform looking slightly embarrassed. When he glanced round at his fellow guests Albert noticed some curious stares. Others studied their newspapers intently; perhaps those with guilty consciences, Albert thought.

  ‘The post-mortem’s been arranged for this morning,’ Stark said in a discreet whisper. ‘If you remember I promised to pick you up and … ’

  ‘Of course, Stark. Thank you.’

  Albert followed Stark out of the hotel and allowed him to lead the way to the Cottage Hospital.

  ‘Any developments overnight?’ Albert asked, knowing the answer would be no. If Stark had had news he would have shared it by now.

  ‘Sorry, sir. No. But I’ve arranged for some lads to come over from Macclesfield on Monday to extend the search for the little mite.’

  Albert pressed his lips together. ‘That should have been done as soon as you found out the child was missing.’

  If Stark had been one of his underlings at Scotland Yard his words might have been harsher but he knew it was wise to keep the local officers on his side when he was working in an unfamiliar location. He saw Stark’s face redden, as though he imagined the criticism was personal.

  ‘What about the Ridge?’

  ‘When we found the mother we’d no reason to suppose the little one was anywhere but the village. There was certainly no suggestion that the Ridge … ’

  Albert knew he was right. The murder of Patience Bailey bore no resemblance to that of Jimmy Rudyard, who’d been found on the Ridge lying like a broken doll on the bare earth in the centre of the ring of tall stones. He took a deep breath and forced himself to continue.

  ‘If the child was taken by anyone with a motor car he could be miles away from Mabley Ridge by now.’

  ‘Surely it wouldn’t be anybody with a motor car, sir.’ Stark sounded shocked at the suggestion that someone of a higher social standing might be responsible.

  ‘Any news of Mrs Pearce?’

  The sergeant looked crestfallen as he shook his head. ‘Nothing and we’ve not been able to get an address for the sister yet. Neighbours say she’s hardly said a word to anyone since her lad went. Keeps herself to herself.’

  ‘We need to find her. She could be a vital witness.’ They walked the rest of the way to the hospital in silence and when they were about to pass the gates of Gramercy House Albert came to an abrupt halt. A mass of rhododendrons formed a tunnel over the drive, framing a view of the house at the end, white stucco like an Italianate mansion. He was about to carry on walking when he looked down at his feet and saw the stubs of several cigarettes. Somebody had stood there for a considerable amount of time; watching the house maybe. When he pointed this out to Stark the sergeant shrugged his shoulders and said it was probably the postman or the gardener – or perhaps a delivery boy. Albert couldn’t share his certainty and as Stark began to walk on he picked up one of the stubs and studied it. No delivery boy, in his experience, had ever smoked such an expensive brand.

  He took Mary’s letter from his pocket and placed the stub carefully inside the envelope before catching up with Stark.

  The Cottage Hospital stood down a side road, about two hundred yards away from Gramercy House, looking very much like a large villa, with an expanse of lawn to the front and large bay windows which gave the place a light and airy look. The mortuary was hidden tactfully around the back of the building and it was the local doctor who greeted them at the door. Dr Michaels was a well-built, hairy man in his forties who reminded Albert of a benevolent gorilla. But the doctor’s hands, in contrast to the rest of him, were small with long, sensitive fingers that worked deftly as he made his incisions into Patience Bailey’s naked body.

  Albert focused his gaze on the woman’s face. She had now been washed clean of the soil that had covered her and he saw that her hair was dark, almost black, and cut into a neat bob, the height of fashion. Her mouth was wide and there was a trio of small brown moles on her face: one on her chin, one on her cheek and the largest on her forehead. But these blemishes wouldn’t have marred her attractiveness in life. She was a pretty woman, small and slim, and it was Albert’s job to find out who was responsible for her death.

  When the post-mortem was over Dr Michaels announced that he’d found nothing to contradict his initial conclusion. Patience Bailey had been rendered unconscious by a blow, probably from the spade which was later used to bury her; the spade that had been left there by John Rudyard who’d dug the grave earlier that day. As well as the head injury, there was bruising sustained around the time of death, probably from her tumble into the open grave. The doctor supposed that she’d been unconscious when her killer began to shovel the earth on top of her, although she’d managed to push one arm through the soil before she lost her fight for life so that it had protruded from the earth at the bottom of the grave. She must have suffered as she fought for breath but if she hadn’t come round for that short time and the intended funeral of Mrs Potts had gone ahead as planned, her body would never have been found, which had probably been the killer’s intention. Dr Michaels concluded that there was no evidence she’d been interfered with – which, he said, was a mercy.

  ‘There is one unusual thing.’ The doctor paused like a magician preparing to stun his audience with the culmination of his most spectacular trick. ‘I keep being told she had a baby. Well she didn’t. This woman –’ he gestured towards the corpse – ‘has never given birth.’

  Albert frowned. ‘Are you certain of that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t,’ Michaels replied with a hint of irritation.

  Albert exchanged a look with Stark who was standing open-mouthed; as lost for words as he was.

  ‘So the baby she had with her wasn’t hers,’ Albert said, trying to make sense of the doctor’s revelation.

  ‘Perhaps she’d adopted it,’ Stark suggested. ‘Or she was looking after it for a friend.’

  Albert gave the sergeant a nod of appreciation. His suggestion had opened up several new possibilities.

  However there was one possibility Stark hadn’t mentioned and it wasn
’t until they were almost back at the police station that Albert decided to share the theory that was bubbling through his head.

  ‘What if Patience Bailey stole the baby for some reason? Perhaps she thought it wasn’t being cared for properly and she could give it a better home. The real mother tracks her down and they arrange to meet in the cemetery. When Patience refuses to hand the child back, the mother kills her and takes the child.’

  Now he’d put his new theory into words Albert felt rather pleased with himself. ‘What we need to do now,’ he continued, ‘is to ask the station master whether he noticed a woman travelling to and from the station on the night in question – particularly one who came without a baby and left with one. And I need to speak to Patience Bailey’s former employer in Didsbury – Mrs Esther Schuman. If anybody knows the truth about the baby, it’s bound to be her.’

  Chapter 17

  Peter

  I’m fed up of that baby crying all night. Me mam said we were all the same at that age but I don’t believe her. I’m sure I didn’t make that racket and neither did our Jimmy.

  Jack went out with Dad first thing to do the garden at that big house on Ridge Lane. It’s the house where the dead lady used to live, he says. The cook there says our Jack needs fattening up so she gives him cake. I said why didn’t he bring some cake back for me and he told me to get lost.