by Kate Ellis
‘Please think carefully. Did you see anybody there in the cemetery that night?’
‘No. Like I said, I only went outside ’cause I heard the baby crying late on.’ Then she thought for a few moments, and her next words were spoken almost dismissively, as though she saw nothing unusual in what she’d just told him. It was just something normal; something she saw most nights.
But Albert knew it might hold the answer to the whole case.
He knew Grace would make sure the sleeping baby came to no harm so he left him where he was. As Connie would be performing at the theatre he reasoned he had no choice. The matter could be sorted out in the morning.
He escorted Gwen back to Miss Fisher’s cottage and once he’d left her at the front door he returned to the police station, determined to say nothing about Grace Rudyard’s revelations until things were clearer in his mind. Sergeant Stark was off duty and Albert assumed he’d be home with Mrs Stark, enjoying an evening by the fireside, smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper, the picture of domestic bliss. In his absence Albert took Constable Mitchell to one side and made his request and, although Mitchell expressed surprise, he obeyed without question before putting on his helmet. The Rose and Crown would soon be chucking out and it was time for his evening patrol.
Albert sat at his desk poring over the information Mitchell had just provided, checking and double-checking. Then he found the file on Jimmy Rudyard’s murder and went through it again in detail, only to find that the same name kept cropping up again and again.
If his suspicions proved correct, the rigid certainties of Mabley Ridge’s society were about to be turned upside down. But first he needed proof.
Chapter 59
Peter
I heard someone at the front door so I got out of bed and stood at the top of the stairs ’cause nobody can see you up there in the dark. Miss Davies came in with the inspector from London and he talked to Mam for a long time but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Then I heard the parlour door open, which was funny ’cause Mam always puts the baby in there till she goes to bed so we don’t wake him up. I wondered why the inspector wanted to see the baby. Perhaps he just likes babies. Some people do but it’s usually ladies. Perhaps they’ve found out he’s a changeling like in the play but I’ve never heard of policemen arresting fairies who swap babies.
Now Miss Davies and the inspector have gone and Mam’s crying. She cries a lot these days. Sometimes I can’t sleep, what with that and Ernie’s snoring and Dad telling Mam to shut up.
I’m fed up of lying in bed so I get up and look out of the window but I can’t see nothing in the graveyard; only an owl and some bats. I wonder what it’s like to be a bat. Do their wings get tired flying around like that?
I took some paper home from school today. Miss Davies said it was all right so it’s not stealing. Last night I couldn’t sleep and when I closed my eyes I kept seeing our Jimmy and the others who were there on the Ridge. It all keeps flashing through my head like pictures so I drew what I remembered. I’m going to show my picture to Miss Davies. She won’t laugh at me.
Mam’s still crying and she won’t stop but I know if I go down and ask her what the matter is, I’ll get shouted at … or worse. But something’s wrong and Miss Davies was with the inspector so she might know what it is. If I ask her I know she’ll tell me what it is because she’s not like other grown-ups. It might be something to do with the murders so maybe I can help ’cause I’d like to be a detective like Sherlock Holmes when I grow up. Miss Davies gave me a book about him to read once and I liked it.
Dad’s not back from the Rose and Crown yet and Mam’s in the parlour crying her eyes out so she won’t hear me if I sneak out. Jack and Ernie are snoring so I get dressed as quiet as a mouse and creep downstairs and out of the back door.
I don’t know if Miss Davies’ll be home yet but I read in a comic once that if you don’t want to knock on someone’s door you can throw stones up at their window. Miss Davies lives with Miss Fisher but I don’t like her so I call her Miss FishFace.
I don’t know which room’s Miss Davies’s but if I get the wrong one, I can always hide behind the hedge if Miss FishFace comes out. And if she catches me I’ll say I know things about her and I’ll tell on her if she gives me a hiding.
They used to say I was a liar but if I can prove our Harry’s a changeling they’ll have to believe me, won’t they. I don’t tell lies. I just know things other people don’t.
When I pass the Rose and Crown I can see shapes behind the funny glass in the windows and the voices inside sound like a buzz, like that swarm of bees I saw in the graveyard once. I run past ’cause Dad’s in there and I don’t want him to see me if he comes out. Mam says he likes his ale and some nights I hear them shouting. Sometimes he hits her. Perhaps that’s why she cries so much. And I know he’s the Body Snatcher ’cause I’ve seen him with the sack.
When I get to Miss FishFace’s house I stand outside for a bit. I can see lights on behind the curtains so I pick up a handful of soil from the front garden. Then I hear voices and at first I think it’s Miss FishFace shouting at Miss Davies. But one of the voices is a man’s.
I don’t recognise the voices so I wonder if Miss FishFace has got burglars. Or perhaps Miss Davies is arguing with that inspector ’cause he’s arrested her for something. I’ve seen her a lot at that Cottontot’s grave – George Sedding who had the fancy funeral. I’ve seen her crying there so maybe she killed him. That’s it. I’ve solved a crime … like Sherlock Holmes.
The front door opens and Miss FishFace rushes out like she’s heard a noise. Then she sees me and I drop the soil.
‘Is Miss Davies in please?’ I say, all polite like.
‘No. She isn’t. What do you want?’
‘I heard a man talking. Is it that inspector? Is he here?’
‘No,’ she says staring at me like I’m something nasty she’s trodden in.
‘Who is it then?’
She doesn’t answer the question. All she says is, ‘Miss Davies isn’t back yet.’
‘Can I wait for her? I’ve got something important to tell her.’
‘What about?’
‘My brother Jimmy. I’ve remembered something and I need to tell her.’
She looks cross and I think she’ll tell me to get lost or threaten to tell me dad then suddenly she turns all nice and tells me to come in. I’ve never been in her house before and it’s all posh with nice red carpets and furniture polished so hard you can see your face in it. Me mam would love it.
‘You can wait in the parlour,’ she says like she’s talking to a servant.
I do as she says and I think she’s going to leave me there but she follows me in and shuts the door behind her. She’s so close that I can smell her scent. It smells nice like flowers. Me mam never wears scent like that.
She tells me to sit on the settee. It’s velvet and it looks as if it should be in a Cottontot’s house, not that I’ve ever been in one. I wonder why she’s not telling me off for calling so late. Our Ernie’s been here and he says she’s a right tartar.
I’ve got the picture I drew in my pocket and I wanted to show it to Miss Davies but now I want to go home. I stand up and say to Miss FishFace that I won’t wait, thank you very much, ’cause me mam’ll want me home.
But as soon as I’m on my feet she pushes me down on to the settee, so hard it hurts my arm. I say I’ll tell me dad but she takes no notice and her eyes go all funny – hard like gobstoppers – and when I stand up again and try to run to the door she grabs my arm. I try to wriggle free and she loses her balance and falls against a glass cupboard full of books. The glass smashes and she gives a little scream, like owls do when they’re hunting, and there’s blood everywhere gushing out bright red. When she sees it she gives another scream, quieter this time, and clutches her arm.
I wonder if I should fetch Dr Michaels but I need to get away. If she dies everyone’ll call me a murderer but I didn’t
mean to do it and if I get home quick I can tell everyone I was in bed. Then it comes to me that if it was a burglar she was arguing with he’ll get the blame.
I run for the door but before I can get there it opens and he comes straight at me. He tries to grab me but I get past him and run for it.
Chapter 60
Gwen had the uneasy feeling that she’d let Peter down by sharing his words with the inspector. But she knew she’d had no choice.
Grace Rudyard had confessed to taking the murdered woman’s baby to replace her own little one who’d died. It had been the act of a desperate, grieving woman and no real harm had been done, Albert said as they walked away from the cemetery lodge. When he concluded that nothing would be gained by placing Grace Rudyard under arrest she felt a glow of satisfaction that he trusted her enough to take her into his confidence, although she did wonder whether others would agree with his decision to leave the baby in Grace’s care. Sergeant Stark had always struck her as a man who did things by the book and she hoped Albert wouldn’t get into any trouble over his merciful act.
Gwen held her door key at the ready as she walked up the front path to the cottage, the tall plants each side grabbing at her legs and dampening her stockings. The parlour light was still blazing so she assumed Miss Fisher was still up. She wondered if her landlady would mind if she made herself some cocoa – although she was sick of cocoa. She was sick of Mabley Ridge with its fathomless gulf between rich and poor and its mean minds. She’d come back to be with George and now he was dead there was no reason to stay. All she had were memories of their time together and the occasional glimpse of his widow to remind her of her guilt.
When she stepped into the hall she expected to hear the gramophone Miss Fisher often listened to before she retired for the night, her music of choice being the operas of Wagner. Instead there was a heavy silence.
Feeling uneasy, she stood in the hallway faced with three closed doors and when she pushed the first door open it hit the inside wall with a force that sounded like a gunshot. In the gaslight she could see something glinting on the floor: shards of glass from the broken door of the bookcase that stood against the wall to her right. The glass had broken into vicious daggers and there were brownish-red stains on Miss Fisher’s spotless rug.
Filled with dread, she rushed out and pushed open the door to the back parlour but the room was in darkness and appeared to be undisturbed. The third door led to the kitchen where, once again, the gaslight was burning. She called Miss Fisher’s name and when there was no reply she stepped into the room and saw a large, raw leg of lamb in a roasting tin on the kitchen table, dripping with blood, ready for the oven the next day, although a pair of flies circled and landed every now and then on the meat like children let loose in a sweetshop who weren’t sure where to begin.
She called Miss Fisher’s name again as she made her way upstairs but there was no response. Miss Fisher’s bedroom door was shut and Gwen hesitated; entering her landlady’s inner sanctum seemed an impertinence too far so she knocked and when there was no answer she walked downstairs again. It wasn’t like Miss Fisher to go out and leave the lights burning because she was a great one for thrift, although if she’d met with an accident she might have gone to find help, perhaps to Dr Michaels or to the Cottage Hospital. Miss Fisher seemed to have no qualms about walking out alone in the evenings.
Gwen reached the foot of the stairs where she noticed a scrunched-up piece of paper lying near the front door. Miss Fisher didn’t usually tolerate untidiness so she picked it up and as soon as she’d straightened it out she realised that it was one of Peter Rudyard’s drawings. It showed two people – a man dressed as a knight and a woman – who might have been locked in a struggle; or possibly an embrace. There was a small figure too, lying on the ground near the pair; and tooth-like shapes surrounding the little figure like the bars of a cage.
It was certainly Peter’s handiwork, which meant he must have called and perhaps been turned away by Miss Fisher who regarded anybody beneath the age of sixteen as little better than vermin.
She looked round and noticed some brown smears on the dark-green lincrusta that covered the lower part of the staircase wall. After stuffing the picture into her pocket, she retraced her steps, climbing the stairs on tiptoe. She picked up the paraffin lamp that was burning on the landing windowsill and pushed Miss Fisher’s bedroom door open with her free hand, holding her breath. When she held the lamp aloft she saw that the bed was neatly made and the items of the dressing table were arranged with military order. Then she saw Miss Fisher lying on the floor, her arm outstretched towards the wardrobe.
Gwen placed the lamp carefully on the dressing table to light the scene and bent to examine her landlady, relieved when she moved a little and let out a groan.
‘Miss Fisher. What happened?’
The answer was another groan. Then the woman managed to gasp one word. ‘Boy.’
Gwen’s eyes were drawn to the deep cut on her left arm, which was bleeding profusely, and she concluded that the woman must have fallen hard against the bookcase so that one of the shards of thin broken glass had penetrated her flesh, although she was puzzled as to why Miss Fisher had dragged herself up to her room instead of trying to get help.
‘I’ll fetch Dr Michaels.’
The woman’s eyes snapped open and she grasped Gwen’s arm with her right hand. ‘No.’
Gwen was surprised by the strength of her grip and she suddenly felt a stab of fear. The word ‘boy’ echoed in her head as she remembered the discarded picture. There was a possibility she didn’t want to consider; but she needed to know. ‘Was Peter Rudyard here? Did he do this to you?’
Miss Fisher answered in a hoarse whisper. ‘He’ll pay for what he’s done. Get towels. Stop the bleeding. Quickly.’ The words were cold, like an order to a prisoner.
Chapter 61
Monty Ghent lay in the bed he’d slept in since childhood, his body trembling as the sounds in his head grew louder: the noise of gunfire and the roar of cannon; the whistle to signal they were going over the top. In the cave there’d been nobody to hear him crying out in desperation but now he was home his family were there to witness his distress. He opened his eyes and saw his anguished father kneeling by his bedside.
‘You’re safe now, son,’ his father whispered. Monty could feel the weight of his protecting arm on the blankets. ‘You were having a bad dream, that’s all.’
‘It wasn’t a dream.’ Monty turned over to face the wall, his eyes stinging with tears for all the comrades he’d seen blown to pieces. He could see their severed limbs hanging from the barbed wire and smell their blood and the sight of his father’s strange animal tableau had revived the memories, causing him to relive it again and again.
‘I’ll call the police in the morning … about Daisy. Dr Michaels says your mother’s symptoms are consistent with arsenic poisoning. I blame myself for not seeing it before,’ said Mallory as if his failure was preying on his mind.
Monty shut his eyes. At that moment he couldn’t face the thought of Daisy. What he needed to do was more important than the sins of a ruthless and overambitious servant.
‘Why don’t you go, Father?’ Monty mumbled. ‘I want to sleep.’
After his father had crept from the room Monty waited a while before sliding out of bed and pulling back the curtains to let in the moonlight. Then he stumbled over to the huge mahogany wardrobe where his mother had preserved his neatly hung clothes like the precious relics of a saint and grabbed the most convenient trousers and shirt. On his insistence his tattered and malodorous greatcoat had been draped across a chair in the corner and he put it on again before sneaking down the stairs. After everything that had happened, Monty longed for peace and there was only one place he was guaranteed to find it.
The maid, Daisy, had been locked in her attic room by his father and the next morning she’d be turned over to the police. The Ghents would have to face the scandal just as Esme would have to come to ter
ms with the revelation that she’d been duped by the most heartless man Monty had ever come across. It seemed as though, in his absence, Gramercy House had fallen under a curse and he regretted that he hadn’t been there to prevent the disasters that had befallen his family.
During the war, cowards and deserters had been shot and when he deserted he’d gone to ground, assuming the authorities’ desire for vengeance on those who had, in their eyes, shirked their duty, would continue into peacetime. But escaping unsympathetic justice wasn’t the only reason he’d hidden from the world; his mind had needed time to heal and, strangely enough, the presence of little Peter Rudyard had helped that healing.
He stood in the hall and listened, hoping the household was asleep, and after sneaking out of the front door he made his way to the cemetery. It was peaceful there with the dead, and besides he wanted to visit his grandmother’s grave again. He’d loved her when he was small; she’d been so much more loving than his mother who’d lived only for pleasure back then, barely noticing her children. He’d been paying his respects at the old lady’s grave when he’d seen Mrs Pearce leaving the food that had sustained him since his arrival in Mabley Ridge, so it had felt as though his grandmother had still been watching over him from the hereafter, bringing him good fortune.
When he reached the cemetery he walked around for a while before stopping at the grave where Patience had been found, now eternal home to somebody else. He bowed his head for a few moments, trying to get things straight in his mind. Had Jimmy Rudyard’s killer also been responsible for Patience’s death – and that of Mrs Pearce? He remembered Charles Woodbead being there in Mabley Ridge at the time Jimmy Rudyard died, hanging around his mother, turning her head so she no longer had time for her own family. But would he really have killed an innocent child?