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

by Kate Ellis

  ‘Your mother doesn’t look well.’

  ‘Dr Michaels is treating her. She’ll get better.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust Michaels to treat a cat.’

  ‘Then my father will call in a specialist from Manchester.’

  ‘Your father has other worries. The world’s changing and you need to get used to it.’

  Daisy stalked out and Esme listened to the sound of her retreating footsteps on the stairs. Esme had noticed the maid’s shoes were soft leather and fashionable; the sort of shoes she herself would wear.

  She stood in the gloom with the animals’ broken bodies and cried.

  Esme didn’t know how long she stayed in that terrible room, numbed by her discovery, trying not to look at the animals suspended in their dreadful moment of death. The place smelled of chemicals and the shelves at the side were filled with jars and bottles, all carefully labelled; substances her father used in the preservation process. One jar in particular contained a white powder, not unlike sugar in appearance. A skull and crossbones was prominently displayed on the label beside the word Arsenic.

  She wondered whether to telephone Dr Michaels but that would be tantamount to an accusation. If her father was poisoning her mother, the situation needed to be dealt with within the family because the consequences of involving the authorities would be dire. But Esme had to end it and she was sure that, once her father found out that she knew what he was up to, he’d stop.

  She had eyes and ears and she’d known about his actress, Dora Devereaux, for a while, although his relationship with Daisy had come as a shock. At that moment she hated him for his betrayal of her mother. Maybe it was even worse than betrayal.

  There was one person whose advice she could ask; someone who wouldn’t go running to Sergeant Stark crying attempted murder.

  Eventually she left, locking the door carefully behind her, and returned to the sanctuary of her bedroom. The gramophone sat on the chest of drawers by the window but this time she ignored it. She was in no mood for music.

  After a while she made her decision. She crept down to the hall, picked up the receiver and asked the operator for Sydney’s number.

  Chapter 50

  The Shadow Man was a troubled soul and it worried Gwen that she’d told Inspector Lincoln about him.

  Her aim had been to convince the inspector that the man wasn’t responsible for the recent murders, that he was an innocent, damaged by war and forced by circumstances into a wild and uncomfortable existence. But her revelation had only made things worse. Peter’s unfortunate friend had become a suspect and she felt responsible.

  Wanting to make amends in some small way for her indiscretion she’d bought food from the village shop at lunchtime and the large pork pie, the apple pie, the bread, ham and cheese had sat concealed under a tea cloth in her basket in the classroom store cupboard all afternoon.

  When school was over for the day, she asked Peter to stay behind on the pretext of asking him to clean the blackboard. In fact she wanted to visit the Ridge and she needed Peter to go up there with her.

  To her relief there were no policemen up on the Ridge searching for Peter’s friend, which meant that Inspector Lincoln hadn’t ordered an immediate manhunt, although she feared time was short.

  The basket weighed heavy on her arm as she walked towards the quarry with Peter. She wanted to make up to the man for betraying him. Being with the inspector had made her feel reckless with the result that her tongue had run away with her. She thought she’d abandoned that kind of recklessness when she’d left Mabley Ridge that first time to conceal the results of George’s infidelity. She knew the inspector was married because he’d mentioned his wife, so she knew she should leave well alone – just as she should have done when she’d first met George Sedding.

  As they neared the quarry she felt apprehensive at the prospect of another encounter with the Shadow Man. There was something disconcerting about speaking to someone who chose to hide their face and she couldn’t help wondering what hideous disfigurement his mask concealed, although she would never ask because it was none of her business. He was injured fighting for his country and that was all she needed to know.

  Once they’d reached their destination Peter called out and after a few moments the man appeared out of nowhere, standing like a statue on a ledge, framed by greenery. Then he leaped down and Gwen noted the grace of his movements. Whatever his injuries were, they hadn’t affected his agility. As he approached she held out the basket to him and he snatched it without a word of thanks, pulling the tea cloth aside and rummaging amongst the offerings of food as though he hadn’t eaten for days.

  When he lifted his mask a little to take a bite of pork pie Gwen caught a glimpse of his chin but she could see no scars on his flesh.

  As soon as he’d satisfied his immediate hunger he turned towards her and said thank you with a formality that surprised her.

  ‘I was grateful to the old woman,’ he said unexpectedly, his voice slightly muffled by the handkerchief. ‘She must have thought it was her son who was taking the food and I feel bad about raising her hopes like that but … ’

  ‘The needs of the living outweigh those of the dead,’ Gwen said.

  The answer was a sad nod.

  ‘Perhaps you should speak to the inspector about the murders,’ she said. ‘You might have seen something.’

  ‘No. No police.’

  ‘They need to speak to you. Please.’

  ‘They don’t even know I’m here.’

  She knew it was time to make her confession. ‘They do. I told the inspector I’d seen you.’

  Up until then he’d been calm, almost meek, but suddenly his anger erupted like a volcano. With a wild roar he threw down her basket and ran off, vanishing through the gap in the rocks into the dense woodland.

  ‘You shouldn’t have told on him, Miss. Why did you do that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could think of to say as tears burned her eyes. She felt like a Judas, a betrayer. Then she started to wonder why he was so frightened of the police. Perhaps her first impressions had been wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t just an innocent man fallen on hard times because of the war. Perhaps Peter had been in danger from him all along.

  She was about to follow the man when she heard the sound of voices raised in anger some distance away. She put a protective hand on Peter’s shoulder but the look he gave her wasn’t one of trust; it was disappointment.

  She ordered him to stay where he was and dashed towards the quarry entrance. She’d recognised one of the voices and her worst fears were realised when she saw the Shadow Man struggling with a man she recognised at once as Albert Lincoln. The inspector was forcing the Shadow Man’s arm up his back and the mask had been ripped off and lay like a dead dove on the ground alongside the trilby he’d been wearing. At last the face that had been hidden was revealed; Gwen was surprised to see that it appeared to be unblemished by violence and war. He was a good-looking young man with fair hair, an open freckled face and a generous mouth and her first thought was that it wasn’t the face of a murderer, although she was sure looks could deceive.

  ‘Who are you?’ she heard the inspector ask as he clung to the man to prevent his escape.

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  The inspector relaxed his grip and Gwen saw him hesitate, torn between his duty and sympathy for his captive. ‘Is your name Pearce? Was it your mother who left food for you in the cemetery?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Let me go. I don’t know anything.’

  Gwen could hear the terror in his voice.

  ‘Do they know you in the village? Is that why you’ve been wearing that mask?’ The question was out before Gwen had time to wonder whether it was wise to interfere.

  The inspector looked at her as though the same thought had occurred to him.

  ‘You’re known here, aren’t you?’ she heard him say. ‘You lived in Mabley Ridge before the war and you knew you’d be recognised. I’ll find out wh
o you are sooner or later so you might as well tell me.’

  The man collapsed on the ground like a puppet whose strings had been severed. Peter had joined her and she could feel his small hand in hers as they waited for the answer.

  ‘My name’s Ghent. Monty Ghent.’

  Chapter 51

  Albert had been passing the village school just as Gwen Davies emerged from the door carrying a basket with Peter Rudyard by her side. They’d looked like a pair of conspirators and curiosity had made him follow at a distance.

  When he saw they were heading straight for the Ridge he hung back hoping they wouldn’t spot him, grateful that the bends in the road provided some cover. Then he loitered in the shelter of the tearoom and watched them walk down the footpath towards the woodland. It was only when they reached the trees that he emerged from his hiding place and followed.

  They were making for the quarry where he had been attacked and he closed in on them slowly, pressing himself against the damp rocks when Peter called out. Then as the man appeared on the ledge he rushed forward, shouting a challenge. To Albert’s surprise the man only put up a half-hearted fight and soon gave up the struggle, surrendering himself to the inevitable.

  Albert had been so sure he was either Mrs Pearce’s missing son or Patience Bailey’s husband that when his name was revealed he couldn’t hide his amazement. Monty Ghent, the young man everybody, including his own family, knew for certain was dead, lying beneath French soil for eternity, was very much alive and he couldn’t help wondering whether David Cohen and Barbara Nevin had been in on the secret. If they were, Patience was bound to have known too. But had she died to prevent that secret coming out?

  Albert had no choice but to take his new prisoner down to the village police station. Even if he was cleared of any connection with the recent murders, he was presumably a deserter. He’d known men accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy whose minds had been too damaged to continue fighting, although their bodies still appeared unscathed, so he was reluctant to judge Monty Ghent until he knew all the facts.

  Albert took his handcuffs from his pocket and locked them on Monty Ghent’s thin wrists, imagining how he must have suffered while he’d been hiding out tantalisingly close to home yet unable to enjoy the lavish comforts of Gramercy House.

  As they walked back to the village Gwen Davies and Peter Rudyard formed a little procession behind. When they reached the gates of Gramercy House Gwen drew level with Albert and whispered in his ear.

  ‘He might be guilty of desertion but I know he didn’t murder those women.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because he told me and I believe him. Look, if he tells you everything he knows, will you promise me you won’t hand him over to the authorities? Please.’

  ‘You should know I can’t promise anything. Besides, once he gets inside that police station it won’t just be me who knows he’s here.’

  He saw despair on Gwen’s face – and disappointment as though he wasn’t the man she’d judged him to be.

  Chapter 52

  Sergeant Stark loomed behind the station’s front desk as they walked in.

  ‘Now that face definitely rings a bell.’ He stared at Monty, frowning in an effort to place him. After a while the frown vanished, to be replaced by a look of triumph. ‘It can’t be. He’s dead. Killed in action.’

  ‘This is Monty Ghent,’ said Albert, putting the sergeant out of his misery. ‘And he’s alive … obviously.’ He removed the handcuffs and his prisoner stood with his head bowed. He looked dirty, defeated and disorientated and Albert’s instinct was to take him back to Gramercy House to be reunited with his family and take a hot bath and a good meal. But he was a police officer so he wasn’t in the business of allowing law-breakers to go free – and Monty Ghent had undoubtedly broken at least one law, possibly more.

  ‘I’m sorry I stole food from those farms,’ was the first thing Monty said once he was sitting opposite Albert and Stark in one of the station’s back rooms. ‘But when Mrs Pearce stopped leaving that food I was starving. Of course I’ll pay the farmer for it if … ’ He paused and looked straight at Albert. ‘And I’m sorry I hit you that day at the quarry. I panicked.’

  ‘Apology accepted but you didn’t have to hit me so hard – and steal my hat.’

  Monty mumbled another apology, head bowed so his words were barely audible.

  ‘Did you wonder why Mrs Pearce stopped leaving the food?’ Albert asked gently.

  ‘Peter told me she’d been murdered but I didn’t believe him because I couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to kill her. I thought he was lying because he makes things up. Comes out with all sorts of nonsense about ghosts and monsters and knights in armour. He lives in a world of his own.’

  ‘He wasn’t lying about Mrs Pearce. She was found dead in her house. Her throat had been cut.’

  Albert could tell Monty’s look of horrified disbelief wasn’t faked.

  ‘You were at the cemetery on the night Patience Bailey was murdered. Buried alive.’ He let the last words sink in, watching Monty’s face closely. But all he saw was revulsion when the manner of her death was mentioned.

  ‘I didn’t see anything … as God is my witness. I can’t tell you anything.’ His body was starting to shake.

  ‘Tell me everything you remember about that night.’

  ‘I … I went out later than usual that night. I have … flashbacks sometimes and I think I’m at the front coming under fire.’ He shuddered, pulling his coat around him for protection even though the room was warm. ‘I stayed in the cave till it was over and then I felt hungry so I went to get the food. Then when I got to the cemetery the noises in my head started up again so I took cover behind one of the big memorials for a while. Afterwards I just took the food as usual and went back to the Ridge. I didn’t see anyone. Honestly. It must have been late when I left because some men were coming out of the Rose and Crown but no one saw me.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you saw nobody in the cemetery?’

  ‘No. I told you.’

  Albert sat back, knowing he could be telling the truth. By then Mrs Pearce would have gone home and Patience Bailey would be lying in the newly dug grave, invisible to the casual observer.

  ‘Did Patience know you were still alive?’

  Monty shook his head. ‘Nobody knows. I wanted to tell David … and Barbara, but I didn’t want to get them into trouble.’

  ‘But you were going to tell your family?’

  ‘Eventually – when I’d worked out how to do it. That’s why I came back. I sometimes went to the house and stood outside in the dark, watching them through the windows. You don’t know what it was like knowing they thought I was dead.’ He put his head in his hands for a few seconds then looked up at Albert. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Peter told me Patience had been murdered.’

  ‘Did you know she was at Gramercy House working for your mother?’

  He nodded. ‘I saw her through the windows. It came as a surprise to see her there but David knew her through her late husband and he knows my parents so I suppose … If I’d gone to the cemetery earlier that night I might have been able to save her.’

  ‘You mustn’t think that,’ Albert said on impulse. This thought must have been churning in the young man’s mind since he learned of Patience’s death but Albert knew regrets were futile. There were times he thought ‘if only’ were the two most painful words in the English language. ‘She went to the cemetery to meet her sister, Constance, the real mother of the baby she had with her.’

  ‘Do you think her sister killed her?’

  Stark had been sitting in silence but now he spoke. ‘If she was desperate to get hold of that child and Mrs Bailey refused to hand it over … ’

  Albert gave him a look which silenced him but he didn’t answer Monty’s question.

  ‘You say your family have no idea you’re alive?’

  Monty’s
eyes suddenly glistened with tears. ‘I swapped my identity with some poor chap from my regiment who’d been blown to smithereens and I knew it’d mean they’d be told I was dead but I was desperate. I couldn’t take it any more.’

  Albert offered him a cigarette which he accepted gratefully. When Albert had lit it for him he inhaled the smoke deeply.

  ‘I saw my mother through the window. She doesn’t look well.’

  ‘I heard Dr Michaels has been called,’ said Stark, earning himself another look from Albert.

  ‘And I really need to talk to my sister.’ His expression hardened. ‘If you’re looking for a killer, that’s where you should start.’

  ‘Your sister? Esme?’ Albert didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

  ‘Not Esme … the man she’s been seeing. I don’t know what name he’s using here but his real name’s Charles Woodbead. Lieutenant Charles Woodbead. I’ve seen him going into a house near the Ridge. He drives an Alvis.’

  ‘You think we should speak to him?’ Albert glanced at Stark and saw the sergeant was sitting forward, eagerly awaiting the answer.

  There was a long silence before Monty replied. ‘You should be arresting him. Charles Woodbead murdered two of his own men and I saw him do it.’

  Chapter 53

  Esme couldn’t bear to be cooped up in the house any more. She couldn’t bear to see her mother retching into the bowl, growing thinner and paler by the day. Dr Michaels called it a bilious attack but Esme knew it was more than that. Her father was poisoning her mother with the arsenic she’d seen in that terrible room. She’d even visited the village library and consulted a book about poisons, just to be sure the symptoms fitted.

  She also couldn’t bear Daisy’s increasing insolence and she’d told her mother to dismiss her. However Jane Ghent was far too weak to contemplate anything that might cause conflict; besides, servants had been hard to come by since the end of the war. Women wanted well-paid work in factories and offices, not a life of sleeping in someone else’s house and being at another woman’s beck and call. Times were changing and Esme wasn’t sure if they were changing for the better.