by Pat Herbert
He strode into the cell marked ‘R. Fentiman’ and stood in the middle of the room. The man lay on the uncomfortable bed and just looked straight through him.
“Stand up!” thundered Ernie.
The man, who was chewing something, didn’t move.
“Stand up I say!”
Still the man didn’t move.
“Robespierre Fentiman, I am charging you with the murder of Dulcie Mortimer on the night of October 16th last. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence.You will be held in custody until your trial, whenever the hell that will be.”
“But I’m not Robespierre,” said the man with a malicious grin.
“I don’t care if you’re Attila the Hun, you’re booked. Now pick the bones out of that.”
“You can’t charge me. I’m not the one you want.” There was a noticeable whine in his voice now.
Ernie turned and walked out of the cell without another word. He walked straight into the adjacent cell marked ‘D. Fentiman’ and demanded that he stand too. This time he was obeyed.
“So, are you Danton Fentiman?” asked the inspector. The man looked like a frightened rabbit. He could tell, just by looking at him, that he was incapable of killing anyone.
“N-no. I’m not.”
“I see. Who are you then?”
“Er – I – I that is, I didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t ask you if you did it, Fentiman. Very well. You’re charged with the murder of Dulcie Mortimer as well.” He read him his rights. “You deserve to hang with your brother. You’re a complete fool, because I, for one, don’t believe you’re guilty. You’re Danton Fentiman, but if you won’t admit it, then I can do nothing more for you.”
Danton, for indeed that was who he was, looked thoroughly miserable. “I don’t care what happens to me. My wife’s left me, so I’ve nothing to live for anyway.”
Ernie felt sorry for him, although he would be rejoicing if his own wife had left him. But no doubt this man’s wife was someone to miss.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I expect she left you because you’ve got yourself in this jam and I don’t blame her. I said it before and I’ll say it again – you’re a fool!”
“She knew nothing about all this when she left me,” he said. “She was having a baby too. I never could find out where she went. I came home from work and she was gone. No note, nothing. Gone.”
Ernie Flagg didn’t like the sound of that. His policeman’s mind churned it over. If someone leaves you, don’t they at least leave a note? They don’t just vanish from the face of the earth. Still, it wasn’t any of his concern if the stupid woman upped and left him. None of his business at all.
Summer, 1956
Freda Lossways looked across at the little old lady sipping her port and lemon. She could see that Anbolin Amery-Judge was quite at home in the Feathers since her introduction to its delights just over a week ago with Bernard and Robbie. Freda had grown quite fond of the old biddy, and had become used to seeing her sitting at her favourite corner table knitting furiously.
The lunchtime crowds had gone back to work and as the place thinned out, Freda, from her station behind the bar could see the little old lady working away at the biggest piece of knitting she had ever seen. Must be making a jumper for a giant, she thought. Except there didn’t seem to be any shape to it, and it was a toss up whether it was a jumper, scarf or bedspread.
She approached Anbolin’s table in order to clear the empty glasses and plates. The old lady looked up as she did so.
“Thank you, dear,” she said sweetly. “Have you got a moment to chat?”
Freda looked around the pub, checking on how many punters were left. It was nearly closing time, but it often took a bit of coaxing to get the stragglers out. The landlord was behind the bar arranging the clean glasses. She called across to him.
“Are you all right for a moment, Bert?”
Bert Miller gave a cheery wave. “Yes, you carry on,” he said. “I can manage.”
She sat down at Anbolin’s table and drummed her well-manicured fingers on the surface. “Right, dear. I’m all yours. Did you have anything particular you wanted to say to me?” She was curious, because Robbie had told her all about Anbolin and her rather unusual gifts, and she had never met a genuine psychic medium before.
“Yes, dear,” said the old lady, pausing in her knitting, to take a swig at her third port and lemon. As she sat down at her table, Freda smiled as she saw the sad look on Anbolin’s face as Bert put the tea towel across the beer pumps. Sorry love, she thought, that’s your lot for now – until tonight at least.
“How can I help?” said Freda, making herself comfortable. She wondered what on earth the old woman wanted to say to her, but she hoped it would involve the supernatural. An avid reader of ghost stories, a real live one would be even more exciting.
“I suppose dear old Robbie has told you who I am?”
“Robbie? Robbie MacTavish, the doctor, you mean?” Freda was immediately on her guard. After all, she was a married woman, and any hint of a scandal and Bert would sack her on the spot. Flirting with the customers was one thing, but anything beyond that was not on. There was a strict code to be followed in dealing with customers, particularly the more amorous ones, and Freda knew where to draw the line – usually.
“You know very well, dear,” grinned Anbolin, pressing her hand gently. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
“Secret? I don’t have any secrets,” said Freda, thoroughly ruffled now.
“Whatever you say, dear,” said Anbolin, removing her hand to start another row of knitting with it. “Can I assume you know who I am?”
“Yes, you can. I – I’m sorry to be rude,” said Freda contritely. “I have to be careful. Walls have ears.” She indicated with her eyes Bert at the bar.
“I understand. I just wanted to make sure you knew what I was capable of. You see, I think I know something about your past. Something shameful, something sad, something tragic.”
The poetic alliteration was lost on Freda. She was really angry now. “How dare you!” she stormed. “I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of – ever!”
Anbolin, never the most tactful of people, realised that she had overstepped the mark. But it was her practice to call a spade a shovel, so she pressed on. “I do apologise, but what I meant was in your past life, things have happened which have affected you deeply. Nothing you have done, my dear, you’re not to blame.”
Freda seemed slightly mollified. “Well, then, don’t say such things. I won’t have it, so there!”
Oh dear, thought Anbolin, here was a prickly woman if ever there was one. She must tread a little more carefully. She bit the bullet, and continued.
“Er, I know, dear. I didn’t mean to upset or offend you…”
“No, it’s all right. I’m a bit touchy, that’s all. Tell me, what are you knitting? I’ve been trying to work it out for days.”
“To tell you the truth, so have I.” They both laughed and the ice was broken.
Anbolin wiped her eyes. “Still, it keeps my fingers busy,” she said. “Otherwise I’d be eating even more.”
They laughed even louder, causing Bert to look over at them with curiosity.
Anbolin became serious suddenly. “Your mother did not meet a natural end,” she said bluntly. The laughter drained from Freda’s eyes and face.
“What did you say?”
“Your mother did not meet a natural end, my dear.”
“H- how on earth do you know that?”
Anbolin knew because Robbie had told her. She thought, however, that discretion was the better part of valour, and so decided to lie.
“My gifts are numerous, my dear. I can see the story in your eyes. You were motherless by the time you were two-years-old.”
Freda’s eyes filled with tears, long suppressed but never far from the surface. “I – I still m-miss her. I don’t remember much about her, apart from h
er scent. Whenever I smell that scent it makes me cry.”
“Oh my dear, I do sympathise,” said Anbolin, putting down her knitting and placing her hand on Freda’s shaking shoulder. “She was murdered, wasn’t she?”
“S-so my dad told me. The murderer was caught and hanged. But that didn’t bring my mum back, so what was the point of another life being sacrificed?”
“So you don’t believe in hanging, my child?”
“For some things I do. But not for killing my mother. She wasn’t very faithful or very nice, according to my dad. She was murdered by her lover, so you see she wasn’t entirely innocent.”
“But she didn’t deserve to die for taking a lover, surely?”
“She left my dad alone every night. Said she was working at the pub all the time. But he didn’t believe her. He had every right to kill her himself.”
“But he didn’t, I take it?”
“I don’t know. I sometimes think he did. He married again not long after my mum’s death. The next door neighbour – who happened to be a widow. My stepmother. Bitch!”
“My goodness, you are bitter,” observed Anbolin. “So you hate your stepmother, do you? She’s wicked, I suppose, like in the fairy stories.”
Freda shrugged. “Not wicked, I suppose. But she’s never had any time for me, and once she got her hooks into my dad, neither had he.”
“What’s your maiden name, my dear?”
“My maiden name?” Freda was puzzled at the seeming change in conversation. “Why d’you want to know that?”
“Because, my dear, I know it already – it’s Mortimer, isn’t it? And your mother’s name was Dulcie. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Freda stared at her. “You are good. I supposed you knew your stuff, because Robbie told me that you did. But this beats everything.”
Anbolin smiled to herself. It was a calculated guess, of course. Too much of a coincidence, really. But coincidences do happen, and there was no harm in the poor child thinking she was some kind of genius. Freda gazed at her with undisguised admiration.
The old lady started to knit once more, their conversation at an end.
Autumn, 1936
“Oh, hello. I’ve a bone to pick with you Robey.”
Robespierre Fentiman didn’t look in the mood to pick a bone with anybody as he stood on the doorstep of his brother’s home on the morning after the murder of Dulcie Mortimer. His sister-in-law was pleased to see him, as always, but she could see by his whole demeanour that this visit was anything but a pleasant social call.
“Let me get in first,” he said roughly. “It’s blowing a gale out here.”
This was no exaggeration as his entry into Charmian’s cosy home was accompanied by a gust of autumn leaves that scurried ahead of them up the hall passage.
“Has he gone to work?”
“Yes, of course. Where did you expect him to be? And shouldn’t you be at work too?”
Robespierre turned and faced her as he entered the parlour. “I’ve other fish to fry today, my girl,” he said. “But first, perhaps you would enlighten me as to the bone you’ve got to pick.”
Charmian looked down at her toes, taking in her fecund stomach on the way. “I understand you visited Dan last evening and didn’t wait to see me.”
“Oh that,” said Robespierre dismissively. “That was man’s business – nothing to bother your pretty head with.”
“I see.” She didn’t like being kept in the dark, and her husband had been very cagey. “Are you going to tell me what it was about?”
“I may do. But, first, what is this I hear about you being pregnant?”
“He told you! I didn’t want anyone to know until – well, until it was sure.”
“You mean you’re not sure?”
“No, I mean I am. The doctor confirmed it last week.”
“I thought old Dan couldn’t manage it,” he sneered.
She blushed. “I think you know it’s very unlikely to be his, Robey.”
Fentiman looked daggers at her. “What are you insinuating?”
Charmian felt intimidated by his glowering mood. “What’s got into you, dear?” she said nervously. “You’re like a bear with a sore head this morning.”
“I have problems. I don’t need another one. Are you saying that the baby could be mine?”
“I think you know I am. After all, Dan and I have been trying ever since we got married with no success. I don’t think he’s got it in him. And then we – well, we shouldn’t have, of course, but I was so down – it was just comfort, I suppose.”
“So just by comforting you, sister, I got you up the stick. I don’t think so.”
“It wasn’t just comfort, was it? You took me by force… You know you did.”
“Well how was I supposed to stop? Do you know it can hurt a man very badly to have to stop? And anyway you enjoyed it, don’t deny it.”
“I didn’t!” she protested. “But it doesn’t matter now, because I have what I want. Dan won’t be any the wiser – at least, not if I don’t tell him.”
“And are you likely to tell him?” His tone was threatening. The last thing he needed was this complication. If she told Danton the truth, then he would no doubt tell Mildred, and then she would divorce him and he could say goodbye to all that lovely money. He wasn’t in love with Mildred, and never had been. But she was the mother of his children and as long as he didn’t bring his dirty linen home with him, she was content to let him draw on her considerable fortune whenever he wanted or needed to. His office job was little more than a sinecure, and one which required him to put in an appearance only once or, at most, twice a week. If he had to work there all the time, he’d go mad.
“N-no, of course not,” said Charmian, growing more alarmed by the minute as she returned his unflinching stare. What was going on behind those hard, grey eyes, she wondered. She had never seen him so angry. The fact that his anger was controlled, only frightened her the more.
“I think you need to make sure of that, dear sister-in-law,” he grimaced. “I’m about to be arrested for murder, so I don’t want to have to deal with this side issue.”
“Murder! What on earth are you saying?”
“That’s what I came to tell Dan last night. I need his help. I was seen, you see, running away from the body. But the witness won’t be able to tell us apart if he cooperates. That’ll muddy the waters good and proper so I’ll get off on a technicality. As long as Dan comes up with the goods.”
“He won’t lie for you, Robey. He’s about to become a father. How could he possibly take the blame for something you’ve done? You’re evil!” She started to back away from him.
“I didn’t murder that girl, I tell you,” he said, looming over her as her back touched the wall. “She was becoming a nuisance, granted, but I never would have killed her – I would never kill anyone – at least, not unless they became too much of a nuisance.” Charmian wondered if this was a veiled threat to her, and rather feared it was.
“S-so who did kill her then? Do you know?”
“I neither know, nor care. All I know is the police will soon be on my trail and I need Dan to back me up or else I’ll hang.”
“I won’t let Dan do it. I’ll tell him you’re the father of my baby and then he won’t.”
“You mean you’d risk everything by telling him that? He’ll disown you, chuck you out on your ear. You’ll end up in the workhouse, you silly woman!”
“I don’t care if I do. Rather that than poor Dan gets hung for your sake. He doesn’t deserve that. He’s always been a good husband to me, if a dull one. You know I’ve always preferred you, but not anymore.”
“So you really would tell him?”
“Yes, I would. Besides, I don’t think he’ll turn me out as you suggest. He’s too kind-hearted for that. He’ll be upset and sad, but he’ll forgive me in the end. The baby will be ours – his and mine and we will love it together. You will play no part in our lives from this day on. And when you
’re hanging at the end of a rope, I will rejoice – unless it makes Dan sad, but then I’ll only have sympathy for him. So there!”
Robespierre was smiling now, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. There was murder in it and in his eyes too.
Summer, 1956
Bernard often enjoyed a stroll around the churchyard, especially on balmy days, such as this fine August afternoon. He loved the quiet atmosphere as he sauntered past the gravestones with their occupants all lying peacefully below. The only noises to be heard were the chirping of the birds and the fluttering of the leaves by a playful breeze.
As he strolled, taking in the pleasant air, he noticed a tallish woman standing by a freshly dug grave. He was always pleased to see people visit the graves of their loved ones; it didn’t happen often enough, in his experience. He had officiated at more funerals than he cared to think about, and they all upset him. But he could tell when the relatives or friends of the deceased were only going through the motions, impatient to say their last farewells and get away. They would no doubt be returning to a spread of sandwiches and sherry, where they would speak lovingly of the dear departed. And then forget about them altogether, unless there was a will to be read.
As he approached, he saw that the woman, whom he had never seen before, was standing at the graveside of a gentleman he had buried only the week before. He remembered how well-attended that funeral had been, which either meant the man had been popular and well-loved, or else filthy rich and everyone in the church was hoping for some small, or probably not so small, inheritance. He sincerely hoped it was the former, but Bernard knew a lot about human nature, and the more he found out about it, the less he liked it. He recalled to mind the deceased’s widow; he hadn’t taken to her at all. She had come up to him after the service bewailing her lot. There seemed to be no sadness for her dead husband; no sign of any emotion at all. She just complained that there would be nobody to look after her now that he was gone. Bernard could certainly understand why that might be, but refrained from passing any such remark. He tried to dole out sympathy equally to all at funerals, but often it was difficult. He imagined that the man must have had a miserable life saddled with such a wife.