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

by Kate Ellis

  She put a record on the gramophone – jazz because Sydney had told her it was the only thing to listen to – and paced the room, pausing at the window from time to time to look out, hoping to see Sydney walking up the drive even though she knew he was unlikely to appear. He never called for her at the house and she was beginning to wonder whether the excuses he made had any truth in them.

  Esme wondered if she should go down and ask her mother how she was feeling but she told herself that it was Daisy’s job to fetch and carry for her. Then she remembered it was Daisy’s afternoon off and Cook was out visiting her sister. The servants seemed to have a great deal of time off these days. Things had changed a lot since the war and she sometimes wondered if they were taking advantage.

  The record finished and once she’d put another on she moved around the room trying out a few dance steps, dreaming of when Sydney would take her to a nightclub in Manchester. She bit her lip. The boredom was stultifying and she longed for something to happen. She’d already tried to telephone Sydney’s house but there’d been no answer and now the jazz on the gramophone was getting on her nerves. She picked the needle off the record, then decided that music was better than silence so she replaced it carefully at the edge and waited for the trumpet to start again, turning up the volume to mask any noise she would make. There was something she’d been longing to do for a while and now was the perfect time.

  She left her room and stood on the landing for a while listening for any sound from the servants’ rooms upstairs, just to make sure that Daisy hadn’t returned to the house. Esme didn’t trust Daisy, although her father seemed to like her. She’d found them whispering together on more than one occasion and they’d sprung apart as soon as she’d walked in. Her father claimed that he’d been giving the maid instructions but she’d seen the smirk on Daisy’s face; recently she’d grown in confidence, almost to the point of insolence, as though she was privy to some secret which gave her power over her employer. If Esme had her way she’d dismiss her, but she had no say in the matter and her mother was too weak these days to do anything about it.

  She crossed the landing on tiptoe and crept down the stairs, shutting the front door behind her before walking round the house to the stable yard. Mallory Ghent had given strict instructions that the room by the stables was out of bounds, claiming that it was dangerous, although he hadn’t specified what the danger was. Esme hadn’t believed him for one moment. There was something in there he didn’t want her or her mother to see and she needed to know what it was.

  After unlocking the door she saw a narrow staircase ahead of her, lit only by a dusty skylight above. Her shoes clattered on the bare wood as she made for the door at the top and when she pushed the door open her hand was shaking. She wondered fleetingly whether it was the after-effects of the white powder Sydney had given her but she didn’t care because she was having fun and after the dark years of war, fun was what everyone needed.

  The door swung open noiselessly and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. In the feeble light trickling through the dusty window she could make out strange twisted shadows in the centre of the room.

  They were writhing as if in agony, creatures so realistic in their pain that she couldn’t help crying out. She could see badgers, cats, weasels and squirrels, all armed with guns and bayonets, slaughtering each other in what looked like trenches. Their desperate eyes were made of glass which glinted in the pale shards of light and some limbs had been separated from bodies, lying scattered while black crows hovered on outstretched wings over the scene, dangling from almost invisible wires like angels of darkness.

  She heard a sound behind her and swung round.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be up here.’ Daisy was addressing her as though she was a disobedient maidservant and Esme bristled with indignation.

  ‘I’ll tell my father of your impertinence.’

  A smug smile spread across Daisy’s face. ‘Why don’t you do that, Esme?’

  Chapter 48

  Albert had asked Mitchell to contact the Royal Hippodrome; he needed to get his facts straight before he made his visit.

  He was annoyed with himself for not spotting the resemblance between Dora Devereaux and Patience Bailey when he’d first interviewed her but the two women had led such different lives.

  Dora was at home when he called, although her maid was reluctant to admit him because she had company already. When Albert made it clear that he was there on police business, the girl backed down and scurried off to tell her mistress he wanted to see her.

  He was kept waiting in the hall for a few minutes before he was shown into her presence and as he entered the drawing room he saw a figure hurrying past the window; a figure he recognised as Leonard Parms, who’d chosen to leave discreetly by the back door.

  Dora greeted him, standing with her hand extended like a queen receiving the homage of her subject. If Albert hadn’t been watching her closely he would have thought she was confident. But he’d had a lot of experience of reading people, both the wrongdoer and the innocent victim, and he could tell she was frightened.

  Dora Devereaux – or rather Connie Jones – had played enough games with him so he came straight to the point. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Patience Bailey was your sister?’

  ‘You never asked.’ She pouted like a little girl and slumped down on to her velvet sofa.

  ‘I’ve spoken to your brother, Joseph.’

  ‘How is the old prig?’

  ‘I can’t say he sends his regards. He told me one or two interesting things about your past.’

  ‘You don’t want to believe everything he says. Did you know he got out of being conscripted because he said he had a bad heart? It was all lies. There’s nothing wrong with his heart. If you ask me, what he had was a bad attack of cowardice.’

  ‘He told me he’d fought.’

  ‘There you are, then. He’s a liar. What did he say about me?’

  Albert didn’t answer the question. He hadn’t liked Joseph Jones but he wasn’t going to discuss his statement with a suspect.

  ‘I want to talk about Patience.’

  As if on cue she produced a delicate handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. The performance wasn’t convincing. ‘I felt awful that I couldn’t tell anyone she was my sister but we’d agreed to keep it secret, you see.’

  ‘I don’t understand why.’

  ‘I’ve renounced my old life, Inspector. Besides, I didn’t know anything about her murder because I was at the theatre that night so why dig up the past? Connie Jones is dead. I’m a new person now.’

  ‘Patience was still your sister.’

  ‘We weren’t close.’

  He could tell she was putting on an act for his benefit and he found it hard to believe that underneath it all she wasn’t grieving; although she was determined not to show it.

  ‘I’ve checked with the theatre. You told the police you were there on the night your sister was murdered but you weren’t. You’d done the matinee and it was your night off.’

  A brief flicker of panic passed across her perfect features. ‘Sorry, of course. I remember now. I was … er … seeing a friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s return to your sister, shall we. Did she come to Mabley Ridge because you were here?’

  When she didn’t answer the question he spoke again. It was time to get to the truth.

  ‘The baby was yours, wasn’t it?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because it’s the only thing that makes sense. You found you were in trouble and asked your widowed sister to help out by saying the baby was hers. I think she left Didsbury to come here to be near you – and to be a mother to your child.’

  Albert heard a wail of raw grief as Connie flung herself forward, sobbing. It must have taken a considerable effort to keep up the act but now the mask had cracked and she was giving full vent to her feelings.
Her body shook and she howled out her rage while Albert waited for her tears to subside. He’d seen grief like that before when his own son had died. Mary had been inconsolable. In a way she still was.

  After a while she gave a great shuddering sigh and looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot and her make-up smudged. ‘I want to see him,’ she whispered.

  ‘That might not be a good idea.’

  ‘I need to say goodbye to him. Please.’

  Albert nodded and sat down beside her, touching her hand. It might not have been a wise gesture but it seemed the right thing to do. ‘Tell me what happened. I need to understand.’

  ‘I was working in London and I found I was in the family way. The father was married so … Anyway, I wrote to Patience and she had an idea. The lady she was working for, Mrs Schuman, has a grandson who knew Monty, her friend Barbara’s sweetheart who died in the war. Monty’s mother lived in Mabley Ridge and she needed a companion. Somebody in London had already put me in touch with the man who runs the Royal Hippodrome and I was offered a season so this village seemed an ideal base. Roderick, who owns the theatre, found me this cottage and a … friend’s paying the rent so … ’

  ‘Roderick?’ A memory stirred in Albert’s head. ‘Roderick Cartwright. He’s a lovely boy but not the marrying kind if you know what I mean.’ She slapped her hand over her mouth, realising she’d been indiscreet. After all, if Roderick’s sexual preferences were discovered he could go to jail.

  ‘I know Mr Cartwright. I met him last year when I was up this way on a case.’

  She looked horrified. ‘Please say you’re not going to arrest him. It’d be too unfair.’

  Albert shook his head. ‘As far as I’m concerned Roderick Carter’s private life is no business of mine.’

  She sniffed and fanned herself theatrically with a fluttering hand. ‘That’s a relief.’

  A short silence followed then her face clouded. The subject of Roderick Cartwright had momentarily distracted her from her grief but now her face crumpled again. ‘I want to see my baby now,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Albert asked if he could use her telephone and went into the hall to call the hospital, shutting the door carefully behind him. He didn’t want her to overhear.

  Half an hour later they were walking side by side into the mortuary at the rear of the Cottage Hospital. Connie had washed her face and without her heavy make-up she looked as pale as a ghost.

  As the sheet was lifted from the little body he heard her gasp and fought his inclination to put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Then, unexpectedly, he heard her laugh.

  Dr Michaels, who was standing to one side holding the sheet that had been draped over the baby’s corpse, gave a puzzled frown when Dora kissed Albert on the cheek. He’d seen lots of different reactions to grief in his time but never this sort of jubilation.

  ‘It’s not him,’ she said breathlessly. ‘That’s not my Lancelot. He’s nothing like him.’

  ‘If the baby isn’t yours, whose is it?’

  Connie lowered her gaze, fingering the silk of her dress; a mauve dress, the height of fashion that seemed to Albert inappropriate for the occasion. ‘I don’t know. But it isn’t my Lance. He has a good head of hair.’

  Albert said nothing for a few moments while he took this in. If Connie was telling the truth – and having seen the relief on her face when the little body was uncovered, he had no reason to doubt her – perhaps the dead baby had no connection with Patience Bailey’s murder. Perhaps it was a secret child, born out of wedlock and hidden because of its mother’s shame. Shame was a powerful force in small communities like Mabley Ridge.

  They left the mortuary and once they’d reached the hospital gate Connie stopped walking, cleared her throat and looked straight at him. She wore an expression of complete honesty but he reminded himself that she was an actress. She made her living by pretence.

  ‘I haven’t told you the whole truth, Inspector.’ She gave a nervous smile. ‘I can’t go on calling you Inspector. What’s your name?’

  ‘Albert.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’d arranged to meet Patience that evening.’

  She paused and he waited for her to continue. Eventually she lowered her voice as though she didn’t want to be overheard. ‘I’d asked her to meet me on my night off ’cause I wanted to see little Lance. She sent a message back telling me to get lost because she was angry about me and Mal – Mr Ghent. I’ve been seeing him as well, you see. It’s hardly my fault if gentlemen find me attractive, is it?’

  She looked at Albert as though she was hoping for agreement, an absolution from her sins. But his expression stayed neutral; he wasn’t one to judge.

  ‘I was getting a bit worried about Mal,’ she continued. ‘I thought he was getting obsessed with me. I mean, I had Leonard to consider, didn’t I. He pays the rent for my cottage and I’ve been scared that if Mal kept badgering me Lenny’d find out and get hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘Would it be the wrong end?’

  She didn’t answer the question but Albert saw her blush.

  ‘Let’s get back to Patience. You asked to see her and she refused.’

  ‘She agreed eventually.’

  ‘Why?’

  Connie gave a theatrical shrug. ‘How should I know? Fit of conscience? I am his mother after all.’

  ‘Who’s Lance’s father?’

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ was the quick reply. ‘He’s in the Cabinet and it might be embarrassing for him.’ She lowered her lashes and gave Albert a sly smile.

  ‘I take it he knows about Lance.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And he pays towards his upkeep?’

  ‘He’s a gentleman.’

  Albert understood. Little Lance was a source of income for Connie Jones, that and the rent paid for by Leonard Parms.

  ‘Does the father know he’s missing?’

  The answer was another blush and a shake of the head. Albert saw that it had been a foolish question; why would Connie cut off a Cabinet minister’s guilt money like that before it became absolutely necessary?

  ‘Tell me what happened on the night you were supposed to meet your sister.’

  ‘She telephoned me about ten o’clock that morning to say she’d meet me after all. I suggested the graveyard ’cause it’s handy for me and I thought there’d be no one about. I mean, who’d go to a graveyard after dark?’ She paused for a moment. ‘She did say something odd.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said she knew a secret that would turn the village upside down. And before you ask, she never told me what it was.’

  ‘Did she telephone from Gramercy House?’

  ‘I suppose so. The Ghents have a telephone, although I’ve never called it … for obvious reasons.’

  Albert’s mind was working overtime. Anybody at Gramercy House could have overheard the conversation – with the possible exception of Mallory Ghent who would, presumably, have been hard at work at his Manchester mill.

  ‘Can you remember her exact words?’

  Connie closed her eyes tight in an effort to recall the conversation. ‘She said she wanted to ask my advice – she said I’d know what to do.’

  ‘Did you go and meet her?’

  ‘I intended to but Lenny arrived just as I was getting ready to go out. I couldn’t turn him away, could I?’

  ‘So you didn’t see her at all?’

  ‘No. Lenny stayed all evening. I could hardly chuck him out,’ she added with a hint of defiance.

  ‘Will he back up your story?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t bother him. He’s got a wife and … ’

  ‘I’ll be discreet. I promise.’

  Connie touched Albert’s arm and he flinched at the unexpected sensation as though she’d struck him.

  ‘What are you going to do to find my Lance? That kiddy’s not him so he must be somewhere. Someone must have him.’

 
Albert couldn’t answer her question because he had no idea.

  Chapter 49

  It took Esme some time to take it in. Somebody, most likely her father, had taken dead and broken wild creatures and preserved them to form a hideous tableau. A badger skewered a fox with a bayonet while a rat lay bleeding, caught for eternity on vicious barbed wire. There was a small deer too, dismembered by the blast from a grenade, its limbs lying scattered in a hideous pattern. More badgers lay limbless as if they had died in agony and a pheasant, its neck broken at a cruel angle, dangled over the edge of the recreated trench as if it had been caught by a sniper’s bullet. She thought she knew where Mallory Ghent had obtained the corpses because she’d seen John Rudyard, the gardener, hanging around the stable yard with bulging sacks, although she guessed there were many folk in the countryside who’d be happy to provide such horrible things.

  Taxidermy had been her grandfather’s hobby and as a young child she’d hated visiting his house with all the dead creatures posed beneath dusty glass domes. Her father had been taught the techniques as a boy and now he’d put this knowledge to use again – his way of resurrecting the dead and giving them eternal life. As for the origin of the weapons, since the war ended there were a lot around, brought home as souvenirs to be hidden in trunks in forgotten attics.

  ‘He says it’s his tribute to your Monty. A sort of memorial,’ said Daisy behind her.

  Esme had almost forgotten the maid was there and she spun round to face her. There was no deference in Daisy’s manner now. They were equals. ‘You knew about this?’

  ‘I know everything that goes on around here. Like I know about that man of yours – the one with the Alvis.’

  ‘I could have you dismissed.’

  To Esme’s surprise the girl began to laugh and all of a sudden she realised the balance of power in the household had shifted – and it had shifted in Daisy’s favour. Sly Daisy was behaving more like the mistress of the house with each day that passed, growing in stature while Esme’s mother shrank and diminished on her chaise longue in the drawing room.