by Pat Herbert
He scribbled on his prescription pad. “Take a spoonful of this three times a day, and if you don’t feel better in a week or so, come and see me again.”
Bert took the prescription and looked hesitantly at him and then at Mary, who coughed and rose to leave. “Thank you doctor,” she said. “Come on Bert, we might just catch the chemists if we hurry.”
MacTavish watched the couple go out the back door of his surgery into the street. He had seen something strange in Bert’s eyes and it puzzled him. He was sure the man wanted to confide something to him, but it was obvious his wife didn’t want him to. Still, he was much too busy to wonder if Bert Allardyce had something more serious than just tiredness. His cursory examination hadn’t shown up anything of significance. He put Bert’s file to one side and buzzed in the next patient.
Bert turned to Mary as they left the surgery. “Why didn’t you let me tell him about the effect the house was having on me? He might have had some suggestions or advice to give.”
“He might and, then again, he might not. Honestly, Bert, do you think he would have had any sympathy with us if we’d told him all that? I only wanted you to see him so that we can eliminate anything physical.”
As they reached the front door of number 57, Mary noticed Bert was visibly shaking. “I don’t think I can go in there, Mary. Not yet. I feel terrible.”
“Oh Bert, this is awful! It’s your home, for God’s sake. Come on, gently does it.” With that, Mary took her husband’s trembling hand and led him into the hall. He leaned against the wall, sweat pouring from his forehead.
“What are you feeling now, Bert? Can you say?”
“No – no – I can’t! It’s too terrible to tell you. It’s much worse this evening. I’ve never felt this bad before.” He grabbed her by the throat, as if about to strangle her. Then he pushed her away from him and she landed on the floor. Ignoring the pain in her backside, she scrambled up quickly and ran into the kitchen, slamming the door after her.
She leaned against the door, breathing quickly. She could feel her heart pounding. At least the boys weren’t here. That was a blessing. She could hear Bert blundering about in the hall and then his feet on the stairs. He was going to bed. At least she hoped he was. What should she do? Call the police? No, that was ridiculous. Bert wouldn’t really harm her. No, of course he wouldn’t.
But then she remembered his dream, the dream he said seemed so real. Was it a premonition? Was something awful really going to happen to her? Something as awful as what happened here only a few years back? Suddenly, she felt unable to move. There was nothing to be done but wait.
24
When Dr Robert MacTavish finished his Friday evening surgery he found himself at a loose end. A bachelor from choice, he did very well being looked after by his efficient and doting housekeeper, Lucy Carter, although he sometimes felt the lack of other female company. But mostly he preferred the company of men, purely on a platonic basis, and liked nothing more than a companionable drink and smoke with his old friend, Bernie Paltoquet. He would just see if the good fellow was at home to callers this evening, after all it was only eight-thirty.
The vicar himself answered the door. “Hello, Robbie,” he greeted him, smiling. “Come on in and have a ‘wee dram’ with me, won’t you? I could do with a chat.”
“I’d be delighted,” said the doctor.
The living room looked cosy and inviting after the rain of the day. It had stopped, but a chill was definitely in the air. Robbie rubbed his hands before the blazing fire that the vicarage always seemed to have, rain or shine, summer or winter.
“Have you just finished surgery?” Bernard asked when they were both ensconced in comfy armchairs by the fire with their drinks of choice. Robbie’s was the Glenfiddich that Bernard kept hidden at the back of the sideboard away from the prying eyes of his housekeeper, Mrs Harper. She didn’t approve of strong liquor although she allowed Bernard, rather grudgingly, an occasional sweet sherry.
“Yes. It was the usual coughs, stomach aches, headaches and imagined illnesses,” sighed Robbie. “All except for one man.”
“Oh? You look puzzled.”
“Well, to tell you the truth I am a bit. The man came with his wife and he started to tell me what was wrong when she jumped in and said he’d been overworking and was tired all the time. But I think he was going to say something else.”
“You mean he was going to tell you something that his wife obviously didn’t want him to tell you?”
“Yes, that’s what it seemed like to me. Of course, it could just have been my imagination, or simply an embarrassing ‘man’s complaint’. But I don’t think that was really at the bottom of it.”
“Why?” asked Bernard.
“Oh, nothing specific. But you know me, Bernie, I always try to find a more interesting explanation when a more mundane one is much more likely.”
“I don’t think you do that. If you felt something was wrong, I’m sure there was some foundation for it. And, I mean this in the kindest possible way, Robbie, you’re not exactly the most imaginative person in the world, are you?”
Robbie laughed. It was hard to take offence at anything his friend the vicar said. It was something in the inflection of his tone or maybe just his innocent baby face. “Well, no, I suppose not. Anyway, there’s nothing much I can do about it unless he comes to see me on his own.”
“No, that’s right, you can’t. Mind you, I had a strange visit this afternoon myself. It would have interested you, Robbie, I think. She’s new to the district and hasn’t been to my services before, although she said she and her family would be coming to the Easter service. I hope so.”
Robbie raised a bushy eyebrow at him. “And you could do with a few more ‘bums on seats’ in your congregation, couldn’t you?”
Bernard sighed. “Yes. But it’s the same everywhere. People seem more interested in worshipping those Beatles than God.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, there, Bernie. Anyway, go on. Tell me all about your ‘strange’ visitor.”
“Well, she wasn’t strange herself, but she certainly had something strange to tell me. She said she was very worried about her husband’s state of mind. They live in that house in Bockhampton Road, you know, the one where that awful double murder took place about fourteen years ago.”
“That’s it!” Robbie jumped up and hit his forehead in sudden enlightenment. “No wonder I was concerned. That’s where the couple live! 57 Bockhampton Road! I remember glancing at their address after I’d showed them in, but it didn’t hit me then.”
“Of course!” Bernard looked animated now. “Mrs Allardyce told me she and her husband were going to see you this evening.”
“No wonder I sensed something was wrong,” said Robbie. “So, what did Mrs Allardyce have to say?”
“Well, she just told me how moody her husband was when he got home at night, but that these moods only seemed to affect him at home. Not at work, the pub, or anywhere else.”
“So then you told her about what had happened to the people who occupied the house before them?”
“Exactly,” said Bernard.
“So it looks as if that bloody place is up to its old tricks again,” said Robbie, thoughtfully. “I wish they’d confided in me. I prescribed Allardyce a tonic, can you believe that? Much good it’ll do him.”
“Oh dear,” said Bernard. “I think they’re in real danger – at least one of them is, although it could be all of them. Hopefully not the children.”
“Children?” Robbie finished off his whisky, smacking his lips.
“Yes. They’ve got three boys. All five or under. Poor things.”
“Good God! Do you think we should go and see them now? As you say, they could be in danger.” Robbie was more a man of action than Bernard, and he was already on his feet.
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Bernard, more cautiously. “Except, they may resent our interference. Besides, Mrs Allardyce will know I
’ve confided in you, and that I’d betrayed her confidence. And it was obvious she didn’t want you to know, by what you’ve just told me.”
“Oh, hang all that,” said Robbie with impatience. “It could be a matter of life and death, Bernie.
“Yes, you’re right, of course.” Bernard tapped his pipe out on the mantelpiece in preparation for leaving. “I hope you’re wrong, though, because.…”
Robbie pushed him roughly out of the door. “Because what?”
“Because, if you’re not, I believe Bert Allardyce is about to murder his wife.”
25
“I’ve been meaning to do this for ages. These privets don’t half creep up on you, don’t they?” The man was leaning over the incalcitrant hedge, shears in his hand.
Bernard smiled. He recognised one of his regular churchgoers, Brian Franklin. “Hello, Brian, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you, Vicar. You looking for Bert? Or Mary?”
Bernard and Robbie had been relieved to find both Allardyces out when they arrived at 57 Bockhampton Road just after eight o’clock that evening. They had probably gone to the pictures.
“Well, both, actually. We didn’t say we were coming, so no harm done. We’ll catch up with them later,” said Bernard.
“Do you know where they’ve gone?” Robbie asked Mr Franklin.
“Well, I know Bert’s gone to the Bricklayer’s. Mary wasn’t with him, though. Not sure where she is. My wife still has the kids, you know.”
“Oh,” said Bernard. “Are you looking after them this evening?” This corroborated his theory that the Allardyces were at the pictures.
“Yes. Well, actually my wife’s a bit cross,” he said, leaning further forward and crushing his privet into submission in the process. “Mary left them with Jean while she and Bert went to the docs – oh, they were coming to see you, Doc.” The light of recognition was in Brian’s eyes. The evening was overcast, but there was still enough light to see Robbie’s face, as well as the privet, apparently.
“Yes. Well, didn’t they come back?”
“That’s just it. We heard them come in and my Jean was getting the kids ready to return them when Bert came out again.”
“So?” Robbie recognised Brian Franklin now. One of the worst hypochondriacs on his panel. “Why didn’t she return them?”
“She tried. But when she took them round, the place was in darkness and Mary didn’t answer. She must’ve gone with Bert, although I can’t say I saw her go. And it’s a bit rich, going to the pub and saddling us with their kids all night. We’ve got two of our own, which is enough.”
Bernard and Robbie thanked the man and, leaving him muttering to himself, they hurried as one man to the Bricklayer’s Arms.
“Let’s hope that’s where they are,” said Robbie, distinctly alarmed.
“Oh, I’m sure they are,” said Bernard, a little out of breath in his attempt to keep pace with his friend’s longer strides. “He just didn’t see her go, that’s all.”
“That man wouldn’t miss anything,” said Robbie grimly. “Why would he be trimming his hedge at this time of night, if he wasn’t being nosy?”
Bernard, too out of breath to speak now, just nodded, as they arrived at the door of the Bricklayer’s Arms.
The pub was packed which wasn’t unusual at the end of the working week. Robbie grinned at his friend. “I bet you wish all the regulars here attended your church, eh Bernie?”
Bernard sighed. “In a perfect world, dear friend. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen you at my Sunday services very much lately.”
MacTavish gave an embarrassed cough. “You know what it’s like, Bernie. I’m often called out to see patients on Sundays – I can’t always get there in time.”
“Don’t worry, Robbie. I was only teasing. You do a great job, and I’m sure your patients are very grateful. It seems that more and more doctors are employing locums these days. At least you only use them when you go on holiday.”
“I don’t believe in letting other people do my job for me,” said Robbie, elbowing his way through the crowd towards the bar. At first it was impossible to distinguish anyone amongst the dense mob, but as their eyes adjusted, they caught sight of Bert. He was propping up the bar, chatting to one of the pretty barmaids, obviously enjoying himself immensely. There was no sign of his wife, which was just as well, as it was flirting outrageously.
As they reached him, they could hear him telling her about his daring feats of scaffold climbing. Bernard looked at Robbie, and they both smiled knowingly. What man didn’t like to impress a pretty girl with his tales of derring-do? They tapped him on the shoulder, and Bert turned to see both his vicar and his doctor eyeing him with some amusement.
“Hello,” he said, surprised at the interruption from so unexpected a quarter and splashing his beer over his hand as he clumsily put his pint down on the bar.
“Hello, Mr Allardyce,” said Bernard. “Do you know me? Reverend Paltoquet?”
“Er yes, Vicar,” said Bert, clumsily mopping his hand with his hanky. “We – we’ll be coming to church next week. We’ve not been before as we’ve not been in Wandsworth long.”
“It’s all right,” laughed Bernard, “I’ve not come to strong-arm you to a service tonight.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t think – you meant, er, I just thought I’d mention it, that’s all. My wife told me she’d been to see you. What’s up? Is something wrong? Has Mary sent you to find me? Is she all right? Is it one of the boys?”
“Mary’s fine, as far as we know. The boys, too,” Robbie informed him. “Are you feeling a bit better now, Bert? Did you manage to catch the chemist’s?”
“Er, no, it was shut,” said Bert, a guilty look on his face.
“Well you seem happy enough now, I must say,” said Robbie with a sly wink at Bernard. “Where is your lovely wife, by the way? Is she not joining you?” He tried to make this enquiry sound casual, but there was an anxious edge to his voice that didn’t escape Bert.
“I left her clearing up the supper things. She was going to collect the boys and then I think she planned to watch the play on the telly after. Why?” he asked.
“So, she’s definitely at home, then?” said Bernard, giving Robbie a quick look.
Bert nodded. “Of course, where else would she be?”
“We went round to your house before coming on here and – ”
“I assumed Mary had told you I was here?”
“Well, actually no. We got no answer. It was your neighbour, Brian Franklin, who told us he’d seen you head off here.”
“He’s a nosy old sod, that one. But he doesn’t mean any harm. You say Mary didn’t answer?” Bert looked worried now.
“No. And your neighbour seemed annoyed that you hadn’t collected the boys.”
“Not collected them?” Bert finished his pint in one swallow. “I’m going home right now. Are you coming?” He looked from one to the other of them. “Please?” His worried expression had changed to one of fear.
They didn’t need asking twice. Bernard and Robbie followed the doctor out of the pub.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Bert was saying as they rushed along.
“Of course, she is,” agreed Bernard. Robbie, hands thrust deep into his pockets, said nothing.
It had started to rain again, as they approached 57 Bockhampton Road. It was still in total darkness. There was no sign, either, of Brian Franklin who had either finished pruning for the evening or had been sent indoors by the rain.
They walked slowly up the path, each man deep in his own thoughts. Now they were there, they weren’t anxious to have their fears proved right. After hesitating for a moment, Bert turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. He called out to his wife, his voice echoing eerily in the darkness of the hall. There was a faint smell of brussel sprouts and something unnameable. If fear had a smell, that was it.
The three men remained standing in the hall for a few minutes, no
t speaking. Finally, Bert turned on the light and in the sudden glare they saw that the door on the right was firmly closed.
He cleared his throat. “That’s funny,” he said. “Mary never shuts that door, in case one of the boys wakes up and wants something.”
Gingerly, he moved towards the room and paused with his hand on the door knob. “I don’t want to go in there,” he said. “I know what we’re going to find.”
Bernard put his hand on his shoulder. “Come now, Bert. It’s just an empty room. Mary must be out. She’s probably gone to fetch the boys.”
Bert didn’t reply but continued to dither outside the living room door.
Robbie broke in. “Let’s get it over with. We’re three silly sods. What on earth could have happened to her, really? As Bernie said, she’s probably at your neighbours.”
Bert smiled wanly. “I don’t think either of you really believe that.” But he hesitated no longer. He turned the handle and opened the door. Although the room was in darkness, there was a glow from the fireplace that wasn’t coming from the dying embers in the grate. Bert reached for the switch and a hundred-watt light bulb lit up the scene more clearly.
In front of the fireplace was Mary Allardyce’s lifeless body, a blood-stained poker by her side. She was lying in exactly the same position as Bert had seen in his premonition.
26
It wasn’t long before Bert was charged with his wife’s murder, with Bernard and Robbie unable to bear witness to where he was between six-thirty and eight o’clock, the time when the pathologist estimated the death had occurred. Robbie could, of course, vouch for Mary being alive at six o’clock when he had seen her with Bert at his surgery. Both men could also account for Bert after eight o’clock when they met him in the Bricklayer’s Arms. But, no matter how many times they asserted that Bert wasn’t a wife murderer, it had made no difference.