by Kate Ellis
On his way out of the hotel he dropped the letter into a waste-paper basket by the reception desk, eager to rid himself of any reminder of the most terrible mistake he’d made in his life.
Sergeant Stark was waiting for him at the police station and when he saw the dressing on Albert’s head he asked him what had happened.
‘I took a walk up on the Ridge. Slipped and hit my head.’ He didn’t want to discuss it but he feared Stark’s curiosity wouldn’t let the matter drop.
‘Whereabouts?’
‘In some sort of disused quarry. I just lost my footing. My fault for being so clumsy.’ Albert tried to smile but found it hurt so abandoned the effort. ‘Delicious lunch yesterday. Be sure to pass my thanks to Mrs Stark.’
‘I will.’ He hesitated. ‘Did you get to see Mrs Schuman yesterday afternoon?’
‘Yes. She was very helpful.’
He relayed the gist of everything Esther Schuman had told him and saw the sergeant raise his eyebrows at the mention of Patience Bailey’s connection with the Ghents’ late son, Monty.
‘So she got the job at Gramercy House through Mrs Schuman’s grandson?’
‘The grandson, David Cohen, was an old school friend of Monty’s, although I’m surprised the Ghents didn’t mention it. I really can’t understand why Patience left Mrs Schuman’s employment because she seemed more than happy to offer her and the baby a home for as long as she wanted it. Mind you, according to Dr Michaels, Patience wasn’t the baby’s real mother, which raises a lot of questions.’
Stark frowned. ‘It’s a mystery.’
‘I need to talk to Patience Bailey’s friend in Cheadle. Patience never told Mrs Schuman her name but I’m hoping David Cohen will know.’
‘Isn’t he in London?’
An idea was forming in Albert’s head though it wasn’t one he felt like mentioning yet. ‘I’m going to pay the Ghents another visit. I’m wondering why they didn’t say anything about their son’s connection with the victim.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t think it was important.’
Albert sensed Stark was reluctant to bother the Ghents again, but he had no such qualms. ‘I can see you’re busy, Sergeant, so I’ll go on my own,’ he said and marched out of the station door before Stark could raise any objection. He could do without some obsequious local officer treating the Ghent family with kid gloves.
It had rained overnight and the pavements glistened with damp but it promised to be a pleasant day. Even so, there was a sharp breeze that made him keep tight hold of the hat he’d put on that morning. He was glad he’d had the foresight to pack his fedora because his trilby was still somewhere out on the Ridge. He told himself he should go back and look for it as soon as he had the chance, although he felt a nag of apprehension whenever he thought of that quarry with its shadows and dank, creeper-hung walls.
The fresh air helped to clear his head as he walked to Gramercy House. His meeting with Esther Schuman had convinced him that the Ghents knew more about Patience Bailey’s history than they were admitting and he intended to get to the bottom of why the dead woman had relinquished her cosy situation in Didsbury for an unknown house in the middle of the countryside.
The door was answered by Daisy who looked at him suspiciously and said her mistress was indisposed and Dr Michaels was with her. Miss Esme was out and Mr Ghent had gone to his mill in Manchester.
‘In that case I’ll wait to see the doctor – ask him if your mistress is up to receiving visitors.’
As he stepped into the hall Dr Michaels emerged with perfect timing from the drawing room, carrying his bag. He didn’t look unduly concerned so Albert guessed the patient wasn’t in any danger.
The doctor’s thick lips twitched upwards in a smile of greeting. ‘Good morning, Inspector. Fine morning. Any nearer catching Mrs Bailey’s killer yet?’
‘I’m hoping to make an arrest soon.’ There was a self-satisfied smugness about Dr Michaels that Albert found irritating. He was too confident and Albert wasn’t sure whether this was a desirable trait in a medical man.
‘Good. I don’t like to think of the women in the village having to go about in fear of a madman. Mrs Michaels is refusing to leave the house unaccompanied. How’s the head this morning?’
‘Healing nicely, thank you,’ Albert said, his hand travelling upwards automatically to touch his dressing. ‘Is Mrs Ghent able to receive visitors? I’d like to have a word with her. Nothing arduous, I promise.’
Michaels slapped him on the back. ‘Help yourself, old chap. She was up all night with a bad stomach, that’s all.’
‘What caused it?’
‘Could be a chill; could be a touch of food poisoning. These things happen in the best-run households. She’ll be right as rain by teatime.’
Daisy was holding the doctor’s hat and when she handed it to him Albert saw him give her a wink, at which she blushed. As soon as Michaels walked out of the front door Albert spoke to her.
‘If you’d tell Mrs Ghent I’m here.’
For a moment Daisy looked as though she was about to refuse. Then she disappeared into the drawing room, emerging a few moments later.
‘The mistress’ll see you but she says not to be long. She’s not feeling too good.’
Albert found Jane Ghent stretched out on the chaise longue. Her flesh was pale and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked exhausted and Albert suddenly regretted the intrusion.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Ghent, but the doctor said you were well enough to speak to me.’
She gave a loud sniff. ‘I sometimes think that man has no sympathy. He worked at a military hospital during the war, you know, and I think he saw so many terrible injuries there that he considers the rest of us to be malingerers.’ She turned her head away and winced as though she was still in pain.
Albert took a seat opposite the chaise longue where he had a good view of the woman’s face. ‘I visited Esther Schuman yesterday – Patience Bailey’s former employer. You were kind enough to give me her address.’
‘I remember.’
‘Mrs Schuman told me her grandson, David, was a close friend of your late son, Monty.’
She nodded.
‘Did Mrs Bailey come here because of the connection?’ ‘I interviewed a number of candidates, none of whom seemed particularly … right. Then my late son’s friend said he knew of a lady who might be interested in the post – a war widow with a child. She seemed most suitable.’ ‘You employed her on David Cohen’s recommendation?’
‘I’ve known David for some years and consider him entirely trustworthy. Monty was very fond of him.’
‘Did you know the child wasn’t Mrs Bailey’s?’
Albert saw a look of disbelief on her face that couldn’t have been faked.
‘That’s ridiculous. Why would she say somebody else’s baby was her own? And if she was looking after it for a relative, why wouldn’t she have said so?’
‘Did David Cohen say anything to you about the baby?’ ‘No, he didn’t. I haven’t seen him since he recommended Mrs Bailey for the post. He’s in London I understand.’ She paused and looked up as though she’d suddenly had a brilliant idea. ‘You don’t think David could be the father, do you? If he’d formed an alliance with some girl and saw getting a respectable widow to take on the baby as the best way out of his predicament … ’
It was a possibility Albert was beginning to favour and now Jane Ghent had put it into words it sounded perfectly feasible.
‘Perhaps your husband might know more.’
‘No.’ She snapped the word, as though the idea of her husband’s involvement horrified her. ‘He barely knew David and he rarely spoke to Patience.’ Her hand fluttered to her chest. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d leave now. I don’t feel well.’
Albert stood up. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mrs Ghent. Thank you for your time.’
When he left the room he found Daisy hovering at the foot of the staircase. He wondered if she�
��d been eavesdropping and he was surprised when she hurried away without bothering to show him out. Then there was a cockiness about Daisy that suggested she wasn’t the most deferential of servants. He took his hat from the stand by the front door and was about to let himself out when he heard a voice.
‘Sir. Can I speak to you?’
He turned and saw a plump woman wiping her hands on her food-stained apron. Her cheeks were red with broken veins and her sleeves were rolled up to expose her chubby arms. She introduced herself as Mrs Foster, the cook.
She looked worried; more than worried, frightened, and he allowed her to lead him towards the back of the house, to a small, shabby room with faded chintz armchairs and battered pine furniture that she obviously used as her sitting room. She sat down, glancing at the door nervously, as though she feared being interrupted … or overheard.
‘What can I do for you, Mrs Foster?’
For a while she didn’t speak as though she was choosing her words carefully. Albert knew he had to be patient. If he rushed her she might change her mind.
‘I think Mrs Ghent’s being poisoned,’ she said eventually, the words emerging in a breathless rush. ‘She ate exactly the same as everyone else yesterday and they were all as right as rain.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am. And nobody’s ever made any complaints about my cooking.’ Albert could tell she was indignant about the imagined slur on her professional ability. ‘The only thing she had that the others didn’t was her usual beef tea. I’ve thrown the packet away … just in case. I don’t want to get the blame.’
‘Of course not.’ Albert wasn’t sure whether the supposed poisoning was in the cook’s imagination but something must have triggered her suspicion and he wanted to know what it was. ‘What makes you think she might have been poisoned?’
She glanced at the door. The top half consisted of glass panes so anybody outside in the passage could be seen. ‘It’s Mr Ghent,’ she whispered. ‘I think something’s going on.’
‘You think he’s trying to poison his wife?’
The woman lowered her voice. ‘There’s a door off the stable yard – used to be a storeroom but it hasn’t been used since the chauffeur left. Mr Ghent had a new lock fitted a few months ago and nobody’s allowed to go near it. I’ve seen him go in there and not come out for hours. And I’m sure he has a lady friend. A maid who works in one of the houses at the other end of the village has seen him going into a cottage near the cemetery and—’
Albert willed her to carry on. He’d learned as much from gossip in the course of his career as he had during formal interviews. But her words dried up so he had to prompt. ‘Do you know who lives there?’
Mrs Foster’s eyes flickered towards the closed door again. ‘I’ve heard an actress has taken the place.’ The word actress was said with a mixture of awe and disapproval. ‘Although I’ve never seen her. I’ve heard she has other gentleman callers too … including Mr Parms who my friend works for.’
‘So you’re suggesting that Mr Ghent is in the habit of visiting an actress?’
Mrs Foster’s mouth opened but she shut it again before she could say anything. Albert guessed she had no real evidence for her allegations and that she was beginning to regret being so candid. It was up to him to persuade her to keep on talking.
‘Sometimes servants hear things that make all the difference to an investigation. You want to help me catch Mrs Bailey’s killer, don’t you?’
‘Of course but … ’
‘It can be the smallest thing – something you don’t think important. How did Mr Ghent get on with Mrs Bailey? Did you ever hear them talking?’
She shook her head. ‘I never had much to do with Mrs Bailey or her little one but as far as I know her and Mr Ghent hardly said a word to each other.’
Albert smiled. ‘Will you show me the locked door you told me about?’
Mrs Foster hesitated. ‘I don’t know if I should. Mr Ghent wouldn’t like it.’
‘Mr Ghent’s not here. You don’t know where he keeps the key by any chance?’
The cook shook her head. Then she stood up and, after checking there was nobody about, she led the way to the back door and Albert followed her into a cobbled courtyard. She led him to a solid door a few feet away from the wide stable doors that stood half open to reveal a large and shiny vehicle parked in the shadows.
Albert tried the door. When it failed to budge he pushed harder but, despite his best efforts, it didn’t give way under his weight. He examined the lock, which looked new and strong.
‘Please, Inspector. Come away. You might be seen.’ He heard panic in the cook’s voice so, not wishing to alarm her, he did as she asked.
‘What do you think is in there?’ he asked as they made their way back into the house.
She stopped and looked him in the eye, a steady, fearful gaze. ‘I’ve seen John Rudyard, the gardener, sneaking about in the yard with a sack. Now he’s not a man to cross.’ She clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘And that Daisy was hanging round there the other day. I know that silly girl’s no better than she ought to be but I fear for her, I really do.’
Chapter 28
The cottage on the road to the cemetery looked an innocent sort of place: pretty, half-timbered and slightly crooked with a rose bearing late pink blooms climbing up a trellis to the left of the front door. The diamond-pane windows sparkled in the sunlight. It looked like a cottage from a fairy tale, although Albert knew fairy-tale cottages could harbour child-eating witches.
After Patience Bailey’s body was found the cottage would have been visited in the course of routine door-to-door enquiries. But now Albert had discovered the connection between the woman who lived there and the dead woman’s employer the occupant needed to be spoken to again.
The cottage was home to Dora Devereaux and Albert wondered if this was her real name or some glamorous-sounding pseudonym adopted for the stage. He’d met a few actresses in the course of his Scotland Yard career and found them a mixed bunch. Some were respectable married ladies while others, at the lower end of the market as it were, were the sort of women his mother used to warn him against. He was looking forward to finding out which category Miss Devereaux fell into.
She answered the door wearing a flowing silk frock, cut low at the neck to reveal a good deal of décolletage, and when Albert took off his hat and introduced himself her expression changed from one of polite interest to resignation.
‘I suppose you want to come in,’ she said, turning her back and walking ahead into the low-beamed drawing room. Albert followed, trying to take his eyes off her wiggling walk and focus instead on the bottle-blonde curls which suited her delicate features. He sensed she was conscious of the impression she was making as she sat back on a velvet sofa and patted the space beside her. Albert sat down in the armchair opposite.
‘I’ve already had a visit from a very nice young constable. He asked me if I’d seen anything on the night that poor woman was murdered but I hadn’t.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s awful. You’re not safe anywhere nowadays.’ Her accent was upper-crust but every now and then Albert could detect some Northern vowels.
‘Where were you that night?’
‘At the theatre. Where else would I be?’
‘Which theatre?’
‘The Royal Hippodrome in Manchester. I’m in Fielding’s Follies. It’s a review.’
‘You sing?’
She gave him a coquettish look. ‘You have to have a lot of strings to your bow in my job.’
There was no mistaking the invitation in her last reply but Albert remained resolutely businesslike. ‘What time did you get home from the theatre?’
‘Around midnight, but I didn’t see anything or I’d have told the constable.’ She widened her eyes, the picture of innocence.
‘Are you acquainted with a man called Mallory Ghent? The woman who died worked for his wife.’
She studied her painted fingernails. ‘Can’t say the na
me’s familiar. Still, I meet a lot of people.’
‘He was seen calling here.’
‘Whoever told you that needs spectacles.’ The answer came instantly and Albert almost found himself believing her.
‘Did you ever meet Patience Bailey, the woman who died?’
‘No.’
‘She had a baby with her. It’s missing.’
She looked up, her face expressionless. ‘There’s no baby here, I promise you. You can search the place if you like.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Albert stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Devereaux.’
‘Will you call again? I’d like to know if you find that baby. Do you think it’s all right?’ There was a hint of anxiety in her voice now as the mask of nonchalance slipped for a moment, showing a more human side. ‘Not that it’s any of my business, of course,’ she added casually. ‘But it’d be nice to know.’
Albert allowed her to show him out and as she walked ahead his instinct told him she wouldn’t admit to any connection with Mallory Ghent unless she was confronted with more evidence, which he didn’t have. Besides, he couldn’t be sure it was relevant anyway.
He walked back to the police station, his mind on Mallory Ghent’s locked room. It clearly worried the cook but perhaps she was allowing her imagination to run away with her. However, Mallory Ghent had gone to the trouble of fitting a new lock, which suggested there was something in there he didn’t want the world to see. Albert was curious to look inside yet he could hardly order a search of the home of a man of Ghent’s standing without a very good reason. Besides, any local magistrate who was asked to approve a warrant would probably be Ghent’s friend or business acquaintance, which meant Albert would have to tread carefully for the time being.