The Dark Side of the Mirror

by Pat Herbert

  Danton, deeply religious from boyhood, had attended Sunday school regularly as well as the evening service on that day too. His parents had given him a Bible for his fifth birthday, which he treasured forever after. They had given Robespierre a Bible at the same time, the exact replica of that given to Danton, except in colour: Danton’s was blue and Robespierre’s red. The next day a red Bible could be seen lying abandoned in a neighbour’s dustbin.

  Throughout their formative years, it was the same story. Danton was polite, sweet-tempered and loved by everyone who came into contact with him. Robespierre, as sweet-featured as his brother, was the naughtiest boy, not only in his class, but in the whole of his school. He did unspeakable things to stray cats and once to old Mrs Milligan’s ginger tom, for which she never forgave him. As he grew older he was often seen climbing neighbours’ trees and stealing eggs from birds’ nests, as well as helping himself to the fruit hanging there. He was always in trouble of one sort or another, but his one saving grace was his charm. This was something that Danton lacked. They were both handsome with fine grey-green eyes, chiselled features and generous wavy brown hair, exact mirror images of each other to look at. But the women always fell for Robespierre: the danger lurking in his eyes was irresistible to them.

  Robespierre liked to visit his brother when he had a free moment: when he wasn’t out with some woman or other, of course. His wife rarely saw him, but she had learned to like it that way. She had enough to do looking after their young twins. Truth to tell, it wasn’t Danton’s company that Robespierre craved on these occasions; the comely Mrs Charmian Fentiman was the main attraction. And, it must be said, Charmian found him much more fascinating than her staid, solid, dependable husband. She looked forward to his visits just as much as he looked forward to visiting.

  It was one evening in early spring when Robespierre turned up on his brother’s doorstep looking unusually dishevelled. A closer look revealed some blood stains on the front of his shirt. Charmian was in her bedroom combing her hair and studying her complexion. She noted that it was even clearer than usual; she had been told that pregnancy often did that. Her hair felt more luxurious than usual, too. She liked being pregnant very much indeed. She felt her stomach and smiled. It was good to be a real woman at last. She smiled again when she heard the sound of her brother-in-law’s voice wafting up from the parlour. But then she frowned as she listened. He sounded agitated, which wasn’t like him. She decided to remain where she was until he calmed down.

  But Robespierre was very far from calming down. He was pacing up and down the room, trying to wipe the blood from his shirt and making it worse. Danton stood by in horror.

  “What on earth’s happened, Robey?” he said at last. “Please try to calm yourself. Here, let me pour you a brandy. You’ve had some sort of a shock by the look of you …”

  Robespierre stopped pacing for a moment, and began swaying instead. Danton feared he was about to faint. “Careful,” he said, “you look all in. Sit down before you fall down.”

  He did as he was bid and took the proffered brandy with an unsteady hand. “Y-you’ll never believe what’s h-happened, Dan,” he said, after a few grateful sips.

  “Take your time. Tell me from the beginning. Shall I call Charmian?”

  “No!” he cried. “Please don’t call her. What I’m about to tell you is too shocking … She mustn’t know, whatever happens.”

  “It’s as bad as that, is it?”

  Robespierre finished off his drink and Danton poured him another. “It’s not a pretty tale. You know me, Dan, you know the kind of man I am. Wherever I go trouble follows.”

  Danton felt that any trouble his brother encountered was brought on himself. There was no love lost between them, but blood was thicker than water. And if ever the thickness of blood mattered, it obviously mattered now.

  “You shouldn’t encourage trouble to follow you, Robey,” was all he said, putting the stopper back in the brandy decanter.

  “Oh you. It’s all right for you with your nice, cosy life and nice little wife. Now you’re going to be a father yourself. You’ve got it all.”

  “You sound jealous,” said Danton, almost flattered that his brother seemed to be envying him for a change. “But you’ve got everything too. It’s your own fault if you neglect your wife and sons to go off with floosies all the time. Mildred must have the patience of a saint. Mark my words, you’ll come to no good in the end. You’ll swing from a hangman’s rope if you’re not careful.”

  Robespierre almost dropped his glass. “Why should you say that? That’s an awful thing to say!”

  Danton shrugged, unperturbed. “Well, just look at you. Where did that blood come from? Is it yours? Have you been in a fight?”

  “If you’d let me get a word in, I’ll tell you. I haven’t been in a fight and – before you ask – no, I haven’t killed anyone. But I think I might be implicated in a murder.”

  He waited for this announcement to sink in. His brother gulped. He hadn’t really been serious about the hangman’s rope, but what was it they said? Many a true word was spoken in jest …

  “What! Who? Who’s been murdered? One of your floosies, don’t tell me.”

  “It – it’s that Dulcie Mortimer. She- she’s dead, Dan. But I swear I didn’t kill her.”

  Autumn, 1936

  On her nights off, Dulcie Mortimer usually met Robespierre Fentiman in the alley next to the Plaza cinema in Tooting high road. They then either went in to see the film if it was to their taste or, more often than not, into the pub just a little way down from the picture house. As Dulcie sometimes pointed out, going into a pub was a ‘busman’s holiday’ for her, but she didn’t mind as long as she was with ‘her Robey’. She realised that he wasn’t spending lots of money on her now, like he did the first time he took her out. That was a nice evening, she recalled. He had wined and dined her like a proper lady, but she supposed she couldn’t have that kind of treatment every time.

  Robespierre had begun to tire of her lately. It usually took him about six weeks to get bored and move on to the next likely female, and it was coming up to that point now. He already had his eye on one of the usherettes in the Plaza. Dulcie was getting a bit too clingy, for his liking. All right, he thought, she can have her last flick on him tonight. It was some bilge called ‘Red Dust’ starring Clark Gable and Jean Harlow. No doubt she would be picking up some more tips on how to make herself look like that sex goddess, he thought sardonically. He didn’t particularly like Jean Harlow himself; he was more of a Greta Garbo fan.

  The usherette shone her torch on their tickets and showed them to two seats in the back row. Robespierre, however, objected to this, ignoring the look of surprise and displeasure on Dulcie’s face. He just wasn’t in the mood for necking her in the back row tonight.

  “Can we have a seat nearer the front, please?” he said to the usherette, a cute brunette, who he could see by the light of her torch had soft brown eyes and a dimple in her chin.

  It was obvious the girl was surprised by Robespierre’s request as she had always shown this particular couple to the back row before. He knew what she was thinking, aware of the favourable impression he had made on her over the last few times he and Dulcie had visited the cinema. He had even noticed her watching them as they kissed and cuddled. She was certainly a good prospect for when he moved on from Dulcie, maybe in a week’s time.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “There are two empty seats down here. Follow me.”

  The cinema was very full, but there were two seats in the middle of the fourth row from the front. “They’ll do nicely, thank you, dear,” said Robespierre. He could hear Dulcie mutter ‘no they bloody well won’t’ but he was oblivious. She would soon realise that he was distancing himself from her and that he was smitten by that usherette. All well and good, but he hoped it wasn’t going to be too difficult to get rid of her. Women could be so clingy at times.

  When they came out two hours later, she turned and face
d him. “What’s wrong, Robey?” she said. “You seem changed. You’re growing tired of me, aren’t you? You didn’t even put your arm round me in the flicks.”

  “Look, Dulcie, I – “ he began. He was tired, not just of her, but of himself tonight. Suddenly all his philandering seemed a waste of time. After all, what did he get out of it really? Snatched moments in the dark, that’s all. A kiss, a cuddle, a fiddle with a bra strap. It just didn’t seem worth it anymore. Yes, he was tired of Dulcie, and he couldn’t even work up any enthusiasm for that nice usherette. It would be just the same with her in a few weeks, he knew. These brief relationships, which couldn’t even really be called relationships, just didn’t satisfy him anymore. He wanted someone like that Jean Harlow up on the screen: full of passion and oozing sex from every pore. That’s what he wanted, not this hole-in-the-corner stuff – not anymore.

  “Well, Robey?” Dulcie was tapping her foot impatiently. He looked down at that foot which was encased in a very pretty shoe. She was dolled up tonight, he could see. Her hair and make-up immaculate; especially as he hadn’t even attempted to muss them up like he usually did.

  He sighed and walked on ahead, hands in his pockets. She trotted up behind him and punched him on the arm. He hardly felt it. “Stop, Robey! Don’t walk away from me. Tell me to my face what you really think. You’ve finished with me, haven’t you?”

  He stopped and sighed again. “Oh, give it a rest, Dulcie, for goodness sake. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  Dulcie grabbed hold of this lifeline. “Really? You’re just tired – not tired of me?”

  Robespierre was all manner of bad things, but there was still a tiny spark of humanity in him somewhere. He could see she was on the brink of tears and couldn’t bring himself to hurt her anymore than he had to, especially as he never could deal with feminine tears.

  “No, of course not, love,” he said as convincingly as he could. It was hard work, but he made the effort. After tonight he wouldn’t have to see her again anyway. “Now, come on, let me take you to the bottom of your road as usual, your husband will be worried.”

  “Since when do you care what Colin thinks?” she demanded, her little steps hardly a match for his long stride, as she trotted beside him. “Can’t you slow down a bit, Robey? Can’t you at least give me your arm?”

  “Of course,” he said, slowing down. “Of course. Here.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “That better?”

  She sniffed back a tear. “You’re being very cruel tonight,” she said. “You shouldn’t treat a poor girl so.” She sniffed back another tear. He pulled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and passed it to her.

  “Here, come on blow your nose like a good girl,” he said in his best Dutch uncle manner. “Let’s get you home. You’ll soon be tucked up in bed and then you’ll soon forget your troubles.” Please God, he said to himself. He really hoped she wasn’t going to make his life difficult.

  They reached the corner of Sidney Street where she lived, and stopped. “Don’t I get a goodnight kiss then?” he said, playful now. He was relieved at reaching the parting of the ways without anymore protestations or tears. He could afford to be magnanimous at this point, and a consolatory kiss wouldn’t hurt him at all. He owed her that at least.

  She put her arms around him and the smell of her cheap, Woolworths scent invaded his nostrils. He certainly hoped that a real ‘Evening in Paris’ didn’t smell like that. He’d never visit that city if it did. Her kiss was warm and wet and it was all he could do not to recoil at the touch of her lips. But then her kiss became more urgent.

  “You want more from me, Robey, don’t you?” she whispered hotly into his ear. Suddenly, he felt the blood rush to where it was most uncomfortable. He realised, despite his earlier feelings, that he wanted her now. She was being Jean Harlow and it was only right that he should be Clark Gable.

  “Yes, yes. But where?” he groaned.

  “Up here,” she said, grasping him close to her as she started to move to a small alley a little way along the street. She pulled him into it.

  Fifteen minutes later they were back in Sidney Street again. “Goodnight, Robey darling,” she said, making an attempt at tidying her hair. “Better not go near the house in case old face ache’s looking out the window. Same time next week?”

  “Same time next week,” he echoed groggily.

  Summer, 1956

  Bernard was, despite his initial dislike of Anbolin Amery-Judge, impressed by her skills as a medium. This transpired when he accompanied her to Carl Fentiman’s shed to discover why the ghost of his father was haunting him there. They had set off shortly before five o’clock that evening, but not before the old lady had feasted on a substantial tea of buttered scones, ham sandwiches and fruit cake, all courtesy of Mrs Harper. The latter lady, although she disapproved of Anbolin’s greed, couldn’t help but admire the way she managed to put the food away. Bernard, at his hungriest, never managed a quarter of what Anbolin could demolish at one sitting. Nancy Harper hoped and prayed the daft old trout wouldn’t be staying much longer at the vicarage, because if she did, there wouldn’t be enough in the housekeeping kitty to go round. The butcher had assumed that the vicar was entertaining a party of schoolchildren at the very least.

  Anbolin said that she needed constant refueling to enable her psychic powers to be honed to perfection. That, as Mrs Harper said to Bernard, was all her eye and Betty Martin. It came to something when you had to find an excuse like that to commit one of the seven deadly sins. She was sure God wouldn’t accept that as a valid excuse, anyhow.

  Whether or not Anbolin believed this herself was also open to doubt. But nevertheless it was apparent that her psychic powers were well up to scratch when she came face to feet with the hanging ghost of Robespierre Fentiman.

  Bernard, close behind her, couldn’t see anything. The shed, as far as he could tell, was an ordinary shed, filled with the accoutrements that all garden sheds generally held. Rakes, shears, shovels, lawn mower, planks of wood, potting compost, everything except the ghost of a hanging man. Carl Fentiman was standing behind Bernard. He, however, saw him quite clearly for he said ‘Hello, father. Here again? This is – er – Miss – Mrs…”

  Anbolin interrupted him. “Never mind the introductions, young man. I need to be alone with this fellow. Just step outside, please.”

  The two men reluctantly moved outside.

  “And shut the door, if you please,” she added.

  Bernard did so, but pressed his ear to it. He could hear her voice quite clearly. Carl looked in through the little window around the side. He could see Anbolin talking to his father’s feet, but couldn’t hear what was being said.

  After the interview, Anbolin filled in the gaps in their knowledge, and Bernard conveyed all this to Robbie that same evening.

  “Now, young man, what exactly do you think you’re doing swinging about up there?” Anbolin sat herself down on the rickety chair and folded her arms. “Come on, I haven’t got all night.”

  Robespierre Fentiman swung himself round to face her. “Who the devil are you?” How did this busybody get in on the act, he wondered to himself.

  “I am somebody you should be jolly grateful to meet,” was the reply. As she said this, she removed some knitting from her bag and began to click the needles furiously. “Now. Come on, I’m waiting. What exactly do you want?”

  “Justice,” he replied, staring at the knitting that was getting longer and longer with each row she completed.

  “Right. And do you think you deserve justice? You are a cold-blooded killer.”

  “I’m not. I never killed that girl. I went out with Dulcie Mortimer a few times, that’s all. Nothing serious. She was a married woman, anyway. It just so happened that I had to be the one to discover her body, that’s all. Someone else killed her – not me. I swear that’s the truth.”

  “I see. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.” There was a note of scepticism in her tone which wasn’t los
t on Robespierre.

  “All right. I suppose it did look bad for me. But it was all circumstantial. She was stabbed, but the weapon was never found. The police couldn’t pin that on me, at least. They searched my home from top to bottom, and Dan’s too…”

  “Dan?”

  “My twin brother – Danton. We had a pact. As I was seen running away from the scene of the crime I asked him to back me up. No one could tell us apart, you see, so when Dan appeared at the police station after I was arrested, it threw them into confusion. The witness, a friend of the murdered woman, couldn’t swear which one of us she’d seen. Well, not at first.”

  Anbolin paused in her knitting to study the pattern. It seemed she was engrossed in making sure she didn’t purl when she should plain, but actually she was thinking furiously. She had read up on the murder case and what the ghost told her all tied in with what she had read. It was an open and shut case, seemingly, but the look-alike brothers managed to throw a very large spanner in the works for a while. The witness hadn’t been able to identify Robespierre definitely as the man she saw running away from the scene of the crime. It was only later she managed to do that.

  “It was very wicked of you – both. But it all came out at the trial, didn’t it? About how you had tried to inveigle your twin brother to lie for you. Character witnesses helped to prove that Danton wasn’t capable of murder; the material witness also had already identified you before the trial.”

  “Not capable of murder? Danton? Didn’t you know?” he said enigmatically.

  “What exactly are you getting at?” Anbolin pointed one of her knitting needles at him.