by Kate Ellis
‘Go and fetch Dr Michaels,’ he said quietly to Gwen who had backed away at the smell. She obeyed at once, running fast out of the cemetery as though Patience Bailey’s killer was after her.
Chapter 35
Tears pricked Albert’s eyes as he gazed down into the little grave. He had hoped, prayed, that Patience Bailey’s baby had somehow survived and now he despaired at the heartlessness of the killer. To kill the mother was one thing but to slaughter an innocent baby and bury its body was nothing short of evil. And the fact that his own unknown son would be around the same age as the dead infant made him turn away, unable to bear the sight.
It seemed an age before Gwen returned with the doctor. Michaels’ manner was businesslike, but Albert wondered whether he was hiding his emotions behind a professional façade. Perhaps it was the only way to deal with such an event, he told himself as he wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. A breeze had got up and was blowing the dry soil around so he pretended he had some grit in them, although he was sure the doctor could see through this minor deception.
Gwen joined Albert as Dr Michaels performed his examination.
‘It looks as if this little one was buried with some reverence, unlike his mother,’ she said.
‘That’s true. Look, if you want to go … ’
She said nothing for a few seconds. Then, ‘Would you like me to tell the Rudyards?’
‘Thank you but that’s a job for the police.’ Albert glanced towards the doctor. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you went, Miss Davies. Besides, I wouldn’t like you to be late for your pupils. Thank you for your help.’ He knew his words sounded formal but that was his intention. As he watched her walk off towards the gate, he sighed with relief. The emotion of finding the tiny corpse had left him drained and he couldn’t summon the energy for conversation.
Arrangements were made to transport the baby’s body to the mortuary at the Cottage Hospital to join that of Joan Pearce, and Albert waited until it was taken away because if he’d left while the child was still lying in the cold earth he would somehow have felt as though he was abandoning it. Constable Mitchell was barely able to keep his emotions in check and when Sergeant Stark arrived Albert saw him give the young man’s shoulder a comforting pat. Albert suspected that this was the first time Mitchell had encountered the death of a child in the course of his duties and he couldn’t help remembering how he’d felt when he’d seen the lifeless body of Jimmy Rudyard in the mortuary; overcome with a father’s grief even though the child was no relation of his.
Albert asked Mitchell to visit the cemetery lodge to tell the Rudyards what had happened – if they hadn’t already observed the activity from their windows. There was relief on Mitchell’s face as he hurried off and Albert felt as though he’d done his good deed for the day.
‘I can’t understand why the killer buried mother and child separately. Why not throw them both into the newly dug grave? It was convenient and burying the little one would have meant more work,’ he said to Stark as they walked back to the police station. His leg was aching from standing so long and his limp was worsening. He suspected that he’d been unwise to scale Joan Pearce’s backyard wall the previous night, but he tried to ignore the pain and carry on.
‘Who knows what goes through someone’s mind when they do something like that,’ Stark replied, almost in a whisper.
They walked the rest of the way in silence and it wasn’t until they were standing beneath the blue lamp which hung above the entrance that Albert spoke the words that had been forming in his mind since he’d left the cemetery. ‘The trouble with monsters, Stark, is that they look exactly like everybody else. You’d have trouble picking one out in an identity parade because they could look like the man you walk past in the street every day without a second thought – or the woman.’
‘Surely a woman couldn’t do something like this?’ Stark sounded shocked at the suggestion.
Albert was on the verge of saying that the most disturbed killer he’d ever met had been a woman, and he’d fallen in love with her, before he stopped himself just in time. Flora had bobbed into his thoughts again like a cork on water, impossible to submerge for long.
‘Women kill, Stark, take my word for it.’
‘I’ll give you the odd one poisons her husband but this sort of thing … ’
‘I’m keeping an open mind, and so should you. You’re a local man so you know the people around here better than I do. Can you think of anyone who’s capable of this?’
Albert could see Stark’s mind working, turning over each possibility. ‘It’s got to be someone who knows how to conduct a burial, sir.’
‘John Rudyard?’
‘He’s fond of his drink. And he hasn’t been the same since he came back from the war. People have seen him walking up Ridge Lane carrying something in an old sack … ’
‘Suspicious?’
‘I’ve often thought we should keep a weather eye on him.’
Albert listened carefully. The Ghents’ cook had mentioned Rudyard sneaking about with a sack. Perhaps he should have brought him in for questioning but he suspected he’d avoided the confrontation because of the guilt he felt at not being able to bring Jimmy’s killer to justice.
‘Then there’s that lad of his – Jack,’ Stark continued. ‘He’s taking after his dad, so I’ve heard. Beat up another lad, he did. Waited for him down an alley in the dark – not that we got involved. It was all settled between themselves, like.’
This was a possibility Albert hadn’t considered. He’d been thinking of Jimmy Rudyard’s siblings as children – as they had been when he’d last been there in 1914. ‘Being a hot-headed young man who gets into fights when he’s had a pint or two doesn’t make him a murderer. He wasn’t old enough to go to war, was he?’
Stark shook his head. ‘No. But he’s seen lads coming back changed and that’s upsetting enough for some. Sent some wild, it has. And not only the lads. “Live for today” – that’s what some say nowadays. Enjoy yourself while you can and damn the consequences, if you’ll pardon my language.’
Albert could hear a disapproval verging on bitterness in Stark’s voice and knew he might have a point. However, he doubted if this new permissiveness went as far as wanting to commit murder.
When they entered the station Stark took up his usual post behind the front desk, the reassuring face of the police station, while Albert retired to his office at the back. Dr Michaels had agreed to perform the postmortem in an hour’s time which meant his hopes of travelling to London that day had been dashed. David Cohen would have to wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 36
Albert walked the short distance to the hospital with Stark at his side, solemn as an undertaker’s mute. Dr Michaels had promised to conduct the baby’s post-mortem first and then Joan Pearce’s immediately afterwards. It was the baby’s he was dreading most. As the doctor worked on the small discoloured corpse, Albert averted his eyes for most of the procedure but he judged from the length of time the doctor took that he’d been thorough. When it was over the doctor covered the little body as though he could no longer bear the sight of it.
‘Well?’ Albert prompted.
‘I’m pretty sure it’s not murder, gentlemen. I might ask for a second opinion but as far as I can see this poor child died of natural causes. There are definite signs of pneumonia and no indication of violence.’
‘Are you sure?’ The question was out before Albert could stop himself.
‘As sure as I can be.’ The doctor sounded irritated at having his judgement questioned. ‘But, as I said, if you want a second opinion I know a very good man at Manchester Royal Infirmary who—’
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Doctor,’ said Stark quickly.
‘On the contrary, I would like the doctor’s findings confirmed if that’s all right with you, Doctor.’
Dr Michaels nodded graciously. ‘Of course.’ He hesitated. ‘Is there any suggestion the murdered woman’s baby was sic
k? She lived with the Ghents, I believe.’
‘I’ll send someone to ask but nobody’s mentioned it.’ ‘In which case it’s strange. Somebody in the household would have noticed if the child was so unwell, surely.’ Albert knew the doctor was right. And if Patience Bailey’s child had been ill, what would have made her take it out at night into a cold cemetery wearing nothing but a thin nightgown? No blanket or shawl had been found in the grave, or in the pram that had been abandoned by the cemetery wall, yet there had been no suggestion from the Ghents or Mrs Schuman that Patience had been a neglectful mother.
Whatever had drawn Patience Bailey to the scene of her death must have been urgent if she’d taken such a risk with the baby’s health; or perhaps he’d died at Gramercy House and she’d gone there to bury him before anybody asked any questions. She might have been planning to explain his absence away, saying he’d gone to relatives.
Whatever the explanation, Albert needed to know.
Chapter 37
The results of Joan Pearce’s post-mortem were much as Albert had expected. The woman’s throat had been cut with some violence, most likely on the same night that Patience Bailey had been buried alive. As Albert looked down on her corpse, he wondered about the manner of her death. If she had been attacked from behind as the doctor claimed, then either the killer had been lying in wait for her and she was taken by surprise, or she’d known and trusted him enough to turn her back on him.
According to the doctor she had been killed with a sharp knife, possibly a kitchen knife of some kind, but no such bloodstained weapon had been found at the scene so it looked as if the killer had taken it away with him.
Albert was certain Joan Pearce’s murder and that of Patience Bailey were linked but at that moment he had no idea how. Besides, for the next couple of days he’d be forced to leave the investigation to Stark and the locals because he felt some of the answers he was seeking were to be found in London.
The following day he rose early to be at Exchange Station in time to catch the London train. But first he called in at the police station to ask Constable Mitchell to telephone his colleagues at Withington to check whether they’d managed to trace any members of Patience Bailey’s family as he’d requested.
As he waited for the local train into Manchester he studied his fellow passengers on the platform. Most had the prosperous, well-fed look he’d come to associate with the so-called Cottontots.
Near him stood a man in his forties wearing a smartly tailored suit and carrying a neatly rolled umbrella – an essential accessory in the Manchester climate. He had receding hair and a chin to match and he kept consulting the watch dangling on a thick gold chain from his waistcoat. After a while the man was joined by Mallory Ghent, who nodded nervously in Albert’s direction before turning his back as though he had no wish to be associated with him. Albert shuffled nearer to the pair, straining to overhear their conversation.
‘Morning, Ghent. Theatre tonight?’
‘Sorry, Parms, love to but I’ve got something arranged. Business. You know how it is.’
As the train pulled up the two men moved out of earshot, heading for the first-class carriage, and Albert began mining his memory. He’d heard the name Parms before and it took him half the journey to remember that, according to the Ghents’ maid Daisy, Mr Parms had been seen visiting Dora Devereaux’s house near the cemetery. Like everyone else in the village he’d been interviewed as a matter of routine, but he’d claimed to know nothing so he hadn’t been questioned further. However, Albert had stored the tenuous connection at the back of his mind. Sergeant Stark might be reluctant to bother the wealthier citizens of Mabley Ridge but he had no such qualms.
He decided to buy an early lunch in the buffet car of the London train, eating so quickly that he was troubled by indigestion for the rest of the journey. When he arrived at Euston Station he tried his best to ignore the discomfort as he crossed busy Euston Road which teemed with taxis, trams and delivery lorries, some powered by horses and others by motors. After the fresh air of Cheshire he was conscious of the petrol fumes mingling with the smell of horse dung and the smoke from the capital’s chimneys. He was home again.
Bloomsbury was convenient for the station and he wondered how often David Cohen made the journey up North to visit his grandmother. Since he was a student Albert wasn’t sure of finding him in, but he thought it worth calling in on his way to Scotland Yard, just in case.
Cohen lived in a small side street, not far from St Pancras church with its strange caryatids and classical portico, and when Albert arrived at the address he found it to be a run-down Georgian terraced house that had seen better days. The stucco was flaking off and the sash windows were in dire need of a coat of paint. He knocked at the door and waited.
It was a while before the door opened to reveal a blowzy-looking woman in a dirty kimono of embroidered red silk. Her dark hair was carefully coiffed and a cigarette holder dangled between her lips, although the cigarette protruding from the end was unlit. Albert raised his hat politely, introduced himself and asked whether Mr David Cohen was at home.
The woman looked him up and down appraisingly before asking if he had a light. Albert took his lighter from his pocket and when the woman’s cigarette was lit she inhaled the smoke deeply with a sly half-smile on her lips.
‘What’s he done?’
‘Nothing as far as I’m aware. I’m hoping he might be able to help me, that’s all.’
The woman didn’t look convinced. ‘I’ve had trouble with lodgers before and if he’s been a bad boy … ’
‘It’s nothing like that, I promise,’ said Albert, suddenly fearing that his visit might be about to lose David his digs. ‘His grandmother told me he served in the war with someone I’m trying to trace, that’s all. I assure you Mr Cohen’s done nothing wrong. Is he at home?’
The woman inhaled again and blew the smoke out between her pursed scarlet lips before replying. Albert noticed fine lines around her lips and eyes; she was older than she wanted to appear. ‘He’s a student so he don’t keep working hours like some of my gentlemen. Top floor. Wipe your feet before you come in.’
Albert did as he was told and he was aware of the landlady watching him as he climbed the uncarpeted stairs. At first the banisters were mahogany, a relic of the house’s former status, but when he neared the top of the house they became plainer as they led to what had once been servants’ quarters. It was here in the attic that David Cohen had his lodgings and when Albert reached the very top landing and knocked on the door it was opened by a dark-haired young man of medium height with intelligent brown eyes and a mouth that smiled readily.
‘Mr Cohen?’
The young man nodded nervously, as though he feared Albert was some kind of official come to make life awkward for him.
‘It’s nothing to worry about. My name’s Inspector Lincoln and I’m investigating the murder of Patience Bailey up in Cheshire.’
Albert had expected the news to come as a bombshell but Cohen nodded sadly. ‘My grandmother wrote to tell me. It’s been a terrible shock. Patience was such a nice girl. Wouldn’t harm anybody. Have you any idea who … ?’
‘That’s something we’re still working on, I’m afraid. May I … ?’
David Cohen had been standing in the doorway blocking Albert’s view of the room beyond but now he stepped back to let Albert in, murmuring his apologies as though the thought of Patience Bailey’s death had made him forget his manners.
David hastily moved some books off the worn sofa in the middle of the room to allow his visitor to sit down before settling in the armchair opposite and sitting forward, like a child waiting to be told a story.
‘I’ve spoken to your grandmother. She told me that you persuaded her to take Mrs Bailey on as her companion.’
‘That’s right. Vic Bailey, her husband, served under me and I felt obliged to do all I could to help his widow. She had no job when the war ended, you see, and I felt I couldn’t leave her in straite
ned circumstances.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Her husband saved my life; spotted an enemy sniper and tackled me to the ground out of harm’s way. I owed him my life so giving Patience employment as Grandmother’s companion seemed the least I could do. The old girl fusses terribly but her heart’s in the right place. I can’t see her as a harsh employer somehow.’
‘Me neither.’ The two men exchanged a smile and for the first time Albert saw a resemblance between grandmother and grandson. ‘Just for the record, where were you last Tuesday evening?’ It was a question that had to be asked.
‘I was out with friends at the local pub.’ He looked around the room. ‘A man needs to play as well as work and an evening in this place isn’t exactly a cheerful prospect. I have a gramophone but even so … You met my landlady?’
‘I did.’
‘She sleeps directly below me and she entertains gentleman callers. Some of the noises coming from her room can be rather … embarrassing, if you know what I mean, so I prefer the company of my fellow students to staying in all night – studies permitting of course.’
‘You haven’t asked about the baby.’
David frowned. ‘Grandmother says he’s missing. Is there any sign … ?’
‘I’m afraid a baby boy’s body was found buried near where Patience Bailey was discovered. According to the post-mortem the infant died of natural causes.’
There was no mistaking the shock on David Cohen’s face. ‘But if Patience was murdered then surely the baby … ’
‘The investigation isn’t over, not by any means. No doubt everything will begin to make sense in due course but in the meantime I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me.’