The Bockhampton Road Murders

by Pat Herbert

  22

  Mary needn’t have worried. Reverend Bernard Paltoquet welcomed her warmly and instructed his housekeeper to bring them some tea. While she sipped the scalding brew, he went to his filing cabinet and withdrew a battered brown file, stuffed full of press cuttings and photocopies.

  “This is my research into your house’s history,” he told her. “I think you need to know all about it, Mrs Allardyce.”

  Mary looked puzzled and just a little scared.

  “Please, I can see I’m making you worry. I’m sorry,” he said. He paused before continuing. “This file contains detailed information about what happened to the family who lived there before you.”

  Mary replaced her teacup in the saucer with a shaky hand. “Please, Vicar, tell me all you know. Don’t hold anything back because you’re afraid it will upset or scare me. You see, I’m very worried about my husband. He thinks I’m making a fuss, but I know there’s something wrong with him, and I’m sure it’s connected to the house.”

  “How long have you lived there, Mrs Allardyce?”

  “Mary – please. Only a few weeks. Bert’s firm found him the accommodation in Bockhampton Road when he got offered promotion. Before that we lived in Stevenage.”

  “And how long has Bert been feeling depressed?”

  “He began feeling unhappy almost straightaway. But we put it down to the stress of the work he’s involved in. He’s been given more responsibility than he’s ever had before and he’s very tired when he comes home in the evenings. But he only seems to be moody and irritable when he’s at home. The minute he’s outside he feels all right again. It happened like that this morning. We went out to go to the doctor’s, and then he said there was nothing wrong with him. He felt fine.”

  “Could that just have been an excuse because he didn’t want to visit the doctor?” asked Bernard.

  “Oh, no, I’m sure it wasn’t. Anyway, he came with me to the doctors without complaining.”

  “And what did the doctor say?”

  “We didn’t stay to see him. His surgery was full to bursting, and Bert had to get to the site. There’s a scaffolding problem, apparently.”

  “Are you patients of Rob- er, Dr MacTavish? He’s a very popular doctor in these parts.” Bernard was smiling.

  “Yes, so I understand. We joined his panel when we moved here, but haven’t had cause to consult him until now, of course.”

  “Oh, quite. So, are you going to see him this evening instead?”

  “Yes, that’s the plan.”

  “Good idea. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I was telling you about the family who had the house before you. They were living there in the early fifties. I had just taken up my incumbency here at St Stephen’s about a year before they moved into Bockhampton Road. They were a nice couple. Mr and Mrs Freeman, and their son, Henry. He was about four or five at the time.

  “They were regular churchgoers which endeared me to them straightaway.” He smiled at Mary who looked embarrassed. “However, it soon became clear that all was not right with them. Mr Freeman was an extrovert character, hail-fellow-well-met type. The life and soul of the party, not to mention the local pub. He was at The Feathers most evenings, much to his wife’s annoyance. But, despite that, they were a very loving couple and doted on little Henry.

  “Then one Sunday they didn’t come to church. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but then I wondered if one of them was ill. They always attended, rain or shine, so I thought probably that was the case. Anyway, I decided to pay them a visit.”

  Bernard sat down opposite Mary and stirred his tea. “I’ll never forget that day,” he continued, munching a chocolate digestive. “It was cold and very wet. It was mid-November, and there was nothing to relieve the gloom. I knocked at the door and waited. It was eerily silent, so I thought that nobody was home. It then dawned on me that perhaps they had gone away for the weekend. I knew they sometimes visited their in-laws in Hoxton or Cambridge, but they usually told me the preceding Sunday if they wouldn’t be there the next week. I thought they must just have forgotten to tell me, so I didn’t feel worried then.

  “But I felt something was wrong, nevertheless. The rain was incessant, and it was pitch-dark at two in the afternoon. However, I decided to return to the vicarage and get Mrs Harper to make me some tea. I’d never felt so depressed.

  “But as I turned to walk back up the path, the door opened a crack and I saw little Henry hiding behind it. He was sobbing his heart out.

  “‘What’s wrong, Henry?’ I asked him. But he just cried even harder. I gently pushed past him and called out for his parents. But there was no answer. I walked into the living room and nearly passed out at what I saw. The bodies of Mr and Mrs Freeman were lying in front of the fireplace. Beside them was a blood-stained poker.”

  

  “When I finally got the boy to speak, all he said was: ‘it was the pretty lady’.”

  “‘The pretty lady’?” Mary repeated, puzzled.

  “That’s what he kept saying. Obviously, he was in deep shock, so I didn’t think a lot of it at the time. I took him back to the vicarage with me and left him with Mrs Harper. I thought it best to call the police from my study as I didn’t want to alarm the child any more than he already was. I suppose that was silly as the boy knew his parents were dead, although one never quite knows what goes on in a child’s head, does one?”

  “Certainly not in my boys’ heads, that’s for sure,” smiled Mary.

  “Ah, you have boys. How many?” asked Bernard.

  “Three. The twins, who’ve just started school and a two-year-old. We all plan to come to the Easter service next week, by the way.”

  “Jolly good,” said Bernard. “You will be most welcome. Anyway, I thought the boy might have thought his parents were pretending or something, so I called the police out of his earshot.”

  “Poor child,” Mary said, blinking back a tear. “What a thing to happen to a little boy. So, what happened when the police arrived?”

  “Well, apparently the only witness to the double slaying was Henry. I told the police that he was in no fit state to be interviewed then, but I relayed what he had told me about the ‘pretty lady’. This got them off on a false trail, of course, although no one knew that at the time. It became clearer when I talked to Henry later on.”

  “Did you look after Henry then?”

  “Yes. Mrs Harper and I refused to let him go with the social workers. As far as we were concerned, we were his foster parents until other members of his family had been informed.

  “Anyway, from what Henry had been saying, I knew the chances of finding his ‘pretty lady’ in this world were not high. I didn’t exactly believe in ghosts then, although I’ve always believed there are forces of evil as well as good at work everywhere, and always have been. Being a man of the cloth, you would expect me to believe that, wouldn’t you?”

  “So, did the police just give up in the end?”

  “Yes. Well, there was nothing else they could do. Without any other witness to the murders, only Henry, they were stuck.”

  “What a terrible story,” said Mary, shuddering.

  Bernard Paltoquet stood to refill her teacup. “Yes,” he said, “It is a terrible story, as you say. The double murder of Mr and Mrs John Freeman remains unsolved to this day.”

  Mary’s hand shook as she tried to take a sip from her freshly filled cup. She set it down, her hand visibly shaking, making the saucer clatter against the milk jug on the little table, and spilling some of its contents.

  “I – I’m sorry, Reverend,” she said, taking out her hanky to mop up the milk. “I seem to make a habit of spilling things lately.”

  “Don’t worry, Mary. Mrs Harper will see to it later.”

  “But what does it all mean?” she asked. “Did the little boy tell you all this? About his parents’ murder, I mean.”

  “Well, after a fashion. It wasn’t easy to work out what the child was saying, as I’m sure you c
an appreciate. He was in deep shock, and he was only about five at the time.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?” she asked.

  “He went to stay with his mother’s parents in Cambridge, where I understand he spent the rest of his childhood. He must be in his late teens now.”

  “Did you go and see him after?”

  “Yes, I went once. About three months after the murders. He was being well looked after by his grandparents, and I think he was in the best place to recover from such a terrible experience. If one could ever recover from it, that is.”

  “He must have nightmares about it all the time.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. But time is a great healer and he was very young. The young are more resilient than we think sometimes. And self-preservation also comes into play here. His mind would probably have blocked out the worst aspects of what he saw, I should think.”

  “I hope you’re right. But, Reverend, do you really think that the murders were as a result of supernatural causes? Are you telling me that you think my house is haunted?”

  “I can only tell you what happened, Mary. The police couldn’t find any motive for the murders, and no suspects either. They interviewed all the people the Freemans knew, but nothing of any use came to light.”

  Mary sat, stunned into silence. If, indeed, her house was haunted, would she or her husband, or even her children be safe? Could such a tragedy happen again? Bert was certainly acting very strangely and the reason for his behaviour could only be put down to the house. Of that much she was more certain than ever, after what Bernard had told her.

  “What happened to the house after the Freemans’ murder? Did it get sold on?”

  “Eventually, yes. It was sold to the Council for a very nominal sum, I understand. The reputation of a house where two unexplained murders had taken place would have made it unsalable. I think they had the idea of demolishing it and rebuilding a new house in its place. But somehow they never got round to it, probably through lack of funds. It’s been empty for about fourteen or fifteen years – until you and your family moved in, in fact.”

  “Did you find out anything about the history of the house?” asked Mary as she rose to leave.

  “Actually, I’ve more or less made it my life’s work. I’ve been researching the house’s history for some time now, and can trace it back to around the 1890s, when a doctor and his wife lived there.”

  “What did you find out about them?”

  “Oh, it’s all very patchy so far,” he said. “I hope to uncover some more information soon, though. If I’m right in my suspicions, I think the story of the doctor’s wife will reveal the key to the whole mystery.”

  “Do you think it’s safe to stay there, Reverend?”

  “Where else can you go, my dear Mary?”

  “Well, that’s the problem. I’m more worried about my children than anything else. Do you think they’re safe?”

  “I wish I knew,” sighed Bernard Paltoquet. “I really wish I knew.”

  23

  Mary was waiting for Bert at the front door when he returned that evening. She hadn’t long come back from visiting Bernard, and the idea of going to see the doctor didn’t seem such a good one now. What would be the point? MacTavish might be good at curing aches and pains, but he wasn’t equipped to banish ghosts. On the other hand, until Bert was convinced he wasn’t ill and that there was something wrong with the house, they might just as well go and see him.

  “Hello, Bert,” she greeted him. “Shall we just get straight round to MacTavish? Before you change your mind.”

  “But I’d like a cup of tea before we go, Mary love.”

  “Sorry, Bert. Not now. When we get back. I’ve got your favourite for supper – steak and kidney pudding.”

  “That’s nice,” he said. “But I’m spitting feathers. Surely a quick cup of tea’s okay?”

  “Look, Bert. I’ve got something to tell you, and I’d rather you didn’t go in the house yet.”

  Bert looked at her quizzically. “Why ever not? Oh, I suppose you think I’ll go all moody again. Well, I won’t. I feel fine. Now give us a kiss and then a cup of tea.”

  Mary could almost believe her Bert was his normal self again. And, of course, he was. But the minute he got inside the house, he’d be sure to go downhill again and, long before the supper was on the table, he’d be carping and moaning his head off as usual. She just couldn’t stand much more of it.

  “Where are the boys?” he asked, as Mary still barred his way inside the house.

  “Next door,” she told him. Mrs Franklin had been surprised when Mary had asked her to look after them again so soon after asking the same favour that morning. But she was a good-hearted soul, having two of her own, and agreed.

  “They’ll think they live there at this rate,” he laughed.

  “She knows I’d do the same for her,” said Mary. “Now, listen, Bert, I saw the vicar today. I told him about the effect the house was having on you.”

  “You did what? Why on earth did you tell the vicar? We don’t even know him! What’s it to do with him, anyway?”

  “Well, more than you think, Bert. He knows us, and he knows about our house.”

  “He does? What about our house?”

  “Well, I think you’ll find it very interesting. He basically thinks that there’s nothing wrong with you. That’s the good news.”

  “Okay. So, what’s the bad?”

  “Look, try not to be so sceptical.”

  “You’re going to tell me that he thinks our house is haunted, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am. He knows a bit about the history of this house and what’s happened here in the past.”

  “What a load of rubbish! I’m not falling for that one. And if I’m supposed to be being haunted, why not you too? Or the kids?”

  “I don’t know, Bert,” she sighed. That was something that had been puzzling her, too. “But, listen, he said that there’s a history of hauntings in this house dating back to the late 1890s.”

  “How does he know all this?”

  “Apparently, he got quite interested in the history of this house because of the people who lived here before us. He was quite close to them.”

  “What happened to them? Did he tell you?”

  “Yes, he did. And I think you need to know all about them before you go back into the house. I’ll tell you on the way to the doctors.”

  “But, according to you, I don’t need to see the doctor as I’m not ill after all. Just possessed.” He gave an ironic laugh.

  Mary put her arm through his as they set off down the path. “It’s best to make sure you’re not ill first, before we have to accept that it’s something more sinister,” she said.

  

  By the time they reached the doctor’s surgery, Bert was fully apprised of what Bernard had told Mary. It was a load of bunkum, wasn’t it? Not about the awful murders, of course, but how such events could be affecting him, which was what his wife, not to mention the vicar, was implying. Still, it would certainly explain why he felt so cold all the time and why he only felt depressed when in the house.

  The surgery wasn’t so full as earlier that day, but they would have at least a half-hour wait. Mary flicked through her favourite House and Garden magazine, while Bert paced impatiently up and down.

  “Please calm down, Bert. The doctor won’t be long,” said Mary, looking up from an 18th century-style bathroom on page 56 of the magazine. “Here, Bert, look at this. Wouldn’t you like to wallow in a bath like this?”

  “Not in our house, I wouldn’t. It’s cold enough without sitting for hours in a steel bath,” he grumbled.

  “Come on, Bert. Don’t think about the house now. We’ll beat it, don’t worry. After all, ghosts can’t physically harm you, can they?”

  “God knows, Mary. I wish you hadn’t told me all that about that poor little boy in our house. To think he saw his parents murdered in our very front room. And not so
long ago, either.”

  They were speaking in low tones, but they noticed that one or two of the waiting patients were eyeing them curiously.

  Mary pulled him down into the seat beside her. “Sit still, for God’s sake. We’re being stared at.”

  

  Dr MacTavish finally came out to usher them into his surgery. It was a comfortable, well-furnished room, designed to put people at their ease. There was a fire in the hearth and, above it, the mantelpiece was arrayed with empty miniature whisky bottles. The doctor himself was a tall, weather-beaten Scotsman in his early fifties, with sandy, slicked-down hair and spectacles perched precariously on a hawk-like nose. His naturally severe expression melted into a surprisingly pleasant welcoming smile as he greeted the Allardyces.

  “So, what brings you to my surgery today?” He spoke in a soft, vaguely Scots burr, designed to soothe. Although a Scotsman by birth, his family had left Edinburgh for London when he was six, so little of his native accent remained. Except when it was needed.

  Bert began to speak, but Mary took over. “My husband’s not been himself lately, Doctor. I think he’s suffering from depression. And his job is very taxing. He comes home every night really tired and irritable.”

  Bert wondered why Mary hadn’t mentioned what she felt was the real reason for his malaise, but then he supposed that doctors were men of science who probably wouldn’t take kindly to talk of things going bump in the night. His wife therefore, very sensibly, had decided not to divulge any of her real misgivings to MacTavish.

  It was ironic, however, that, if she had told the good doctor what was really on their minds, she would have found a sympathetic ear. Robert MacTavish was a regular attendee at séances and had read up on the supernatural in some detail. He would have relished the story of Mary’s ‘haunted house’ theory but, as it was, they were just another couple wasting his time. What could he do for Bert besides advising lots of rest and prescribing a fairly useless tonic?

  “Aye, I see,” he said as Mary finished speaking. Bert, meanwhile, had remained silent. The man looked tired, but not unduly. MacTavish went through the motions of taking his blood pressure, checking his pulse and examining his pupils. The man seemed healthy enough to him.