by Pat Herbert
“Look,” said Ernie, patiently. His teeth were chattering with the cold. “May I come in and I’ll explain to you properly. To both of you.”
Mrs Chambers seemed to be relenting slightly, but only slightly. Then Beryl appeared behind her mother at last.
His heart gave a leap; he would have been happy to know that Beryl’s heart had given a leap at almost exactly the same moment as his own. But her face remained fixed in a stern expression.
“What do you want, Inspector?” she asked in a low monotone.
“Can’t I please come in and explain?”
Beryl looked at her mother and then they both looked at Ernie. He looked pathetic, standing there with the icy wind whipping around him, nearly blowing his hat off.
“All right, I suppose so,” said Beryl after a moment. She couldn’t bear to look at him getting frozen to the spot a moment longer.
Inside the warm parlour, Ernie began to relax a little. Beryl asked him to sit down and whether he would like tea. Both questions were formally given, and he didn’t sense that either woman wanted him to stay longer than was absolutely necessary. He therefore assumed that the offer of tea was only for politeness’ sake, and wisely declined, even though he could have murdered for a cup of the brew that cheered right then.
Beryl sat down opposite him, and her mother took the sofa. She picked up her knitting as she did so and watched the pair with an eagle eye over her needles.
“I – I really came to apologise for my behaviour the other evening,” he said, twirling his hat in his hand. He still wore his outdoor coat which was dripping melting ice onto the hearthrug.
“Yes?” said Beryl, trying not to soften. He had really hurt her that evening. Never mind that he was so attractive, she knew he was married anyway. She hardened her heart and said nothing further.
“Yes, well,” said Ernie, flummoxed. He had never felt so ill at ease in his life. The way the two women were looking at him caused him to twirl his hat right out of his hands onto the floor, missing the fireplace by inches. He bent to pick it up.
“Is that all?” asked Beryl, ignoring him as he retrieved his hat.
“No – no. I had to make you genuinely upset so that one of the Robespierre twins would show his true colours and feel sorry for you. He’d then tell the truth, so that I’d stop bullying you. He’s a real gentleman who I’m sure wouldn’t hurt a fly. And, with your help, I was proved right. The real culprit is behind bars, thanks to you. Please say you understand and let me make it up to you by taking you for a fish and chip supper.” He was now once again in possession not only of his hat, but of his self-respect.
Beryl was thrilled. It would be like a date with him, going for a fish and chip supper. Mrs Chambers was on the alert at once.
“I think not, my man,” she said, putting the knitting pattern she had been studying down on the coffee table in front of her. “You upset my daughter – make her cry, even, and then expect to waltz her off into the night for fish and chips – and God knows what else.”
“I do assure you that I only want to make up for my behaviour. I don’t have any ulterior motive, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
On the contrary, Beryl was hoping that his motive was entirely ‘ulterior’ but said nothing.
Mrs Chambers sniffed. “I don’t think you have any right to take my daughter out after what you’ve done.”
Beryl interrupted at this point. “Mum, it’s all right. I can handle this. I’m a big girl now. Why don’t you go and put the kettle on?”
Mrs Chambers didn’t move.
“Go on, mum. Let me talk to him alone for a minute – please.”
Her mother stood up slowly, jamming her needles into the ball of wool, which Ernie thought she was envisaging as his head, and smoothing her skirt. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll go and make the tea.”
Ernie stood up politely as she left the room. He reseated himself and tried giving Beryl a half smile. She returned it with the other half.
“You really upset me, you know,” she said. “But – but now you’ve explained why, I – I think I understand.”
“Oh, I’m so pleased,” said Ernie, relief flooding through him. “You must have realised that it wasn’t my intention to upset you like that. I mean – it was, I suppose, but for a very good reason. I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world, Beryl.”
“I – I know it now,” she said softly. “I believe I knew it all the time.”
It was after eleven when Ernie and Beryl emerged from Arkwright’s fish and chip emporium in Tooting High Road. Replete with battered cod, chips and gherkins, the pair sauntered along the street, side by side, not speaking. Gradually, Ernie’s arm found its way around her shoulders, and she was content to let it remain there. There was a vivid, pale moon, full and low in the sky, and a few snowflakes had started to fall.
“Are you cold, dear?” asked Ernie, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Beryl, who was well wrapped up in a warm coat, thick scarf, hat and gloves, grinned at him. “Not at all, Ernie. Are you?”
“No,” he lied. To tell the truth his old winter coat had seen better days, and was threadbare in places. His wife had been on at him for weeks to get it mended at the invisible menders on the corner of their road, but he had needed to wear it every day and so hadn’t been able to leave it for repair. His wife had also suggested he invest in a new one, but Ernie, who had never been fond of shopping or spending money unnecessarily, had put this idea off indefinitely.
They came to the park, but of course it was closed at that time of night. They continued to walk past and into Beryl’s road. They stood on the corner and gazed into each other’s eyes. Beryl knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was falling in love. No man had ever treated her the way Ernie had; he showed her respect, affection and kindness in equal measure. He looked at her as if she mattered more to him than anything else in the world; more, even, she imagined, than his wife. He hadn’t alluded directly to his wife during their meal, but she gathered from his throw away remarks that he didn’t care for her in the way a devoted husband should.
Ernie, for his part, was deeply in love now. He rather suspected he had been in love with Beryl Chambers from almost their very first meeting, but now he was sure. He knew he couldn’t go on living without her, but at the same time knew he had to.
Beryl broke the silence. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Ernie dear,” she said softly.
“The pleasure was all mine – as if you needed telling.”
“Oh dear,” she sighed.
“Why so sad, sweetheart?” He knew why, of course: they could never meet again.
A tear appeared in her eye, and started to trickle down her cheek. He gently brushed it away. “Come, come, none of that. I don’t want to be accused of making you cry again.”
“You’re the first man to make me feel like a real woman, like you really cared for me.”
“I do really care for you, Beryl. I think you know that. If only things were different. You deserve a man who will love and cherish you, not someone who’s already married who can’t do that.”
“I – I’ve had boyfriends who’ve been free and single, but they never lasted. There was one who asked me to marry him, but he jilted me at the last minute. I never could hold any man’s interest for long.”
“More fool them.” He kissed her gently on her brow. He tasted melted snow.
“They didn’t interest me either, actually. I suppose I just wanted to feel wanted. To tell the truth I’m glad I’m not married.”
“I would ask you like a shot, if I could,” said Ernie, hugging her closely to him.
“I know, I know. And I would accept you like a shot,” said Beryl. “But just to know you cared enough to want to spend the rest of your life with me, well, you don’t know just how much that means to me.”
“Beryl, you’re beautiful,” was all he said in reply.
At these words, she burst into tears, turned and ran up the
road to her house. Ernie watched her go out of his life forever.
Summer, 1956
Anbolin Amery-Judge was once more ensconced in the spare bedroom at St Stephen’s vicarage in Wandsworth. She had brought with her copious files, full of information from press reports of the Dulcie Mortimer murder, garnered from all the newspapers of the time. Also in her portfolio were press cuttings concerned with the murder of Charmian Fentiman. This, on the surface, was even more straightforward than the Dulcie Mortimer case: Mrs Fentiman’s body was found buried in her own garden – so the police didn’t have to look too far for the perpetrator of the crime. Danton Fentiman didn’t even offer an alibi. The trial was over in less than a week.
One late summer evening, she brought the files to Bernard in his study. Talk about bearding the lion in his den, thought Bernie, when she entered armed to the teeth with piles of paper notes and cuttings. Worse even than having to sit through someone’s holiday snaps: well, almost.
Still, Bernard was interested in what she had unearthed, especially because of the ghostly apparitions in Carl Fentiman’s shed. He sometimes wondered why such things happened to him – a Church of England vicar. Surely he shouldn’t be involving himself in psychic phenomena when he had the wellbeing of his parish to attend to. But Robbie was also a keen ghost hunter, and he, unlike Bernard, had often been able to see ghosts and even speak to them. He had seen the ghosts of two small Norwegian children several years ago, which led eventually to their killer being caught. So, this current situation could also turn out to be a force for good by apprehending the true killer of Dulcie Mortimer. Bernard wasn’t sure that Robespierre Fentiman was innocent, though; but Anbolin seemed convinced.
“You see,” she was saying, showing Bernard cutting after cutting, “it all begins to make sense in a different way. The police should have looked deeper into the case. There are two other strong possible suspects, and even a third, which, in my opinion, is the right one.”
“Are you going to let me in on the secret?” asked Bernie, glancing over the mounds of paper in front of him. “Who do you think is the guilty party?”
“All in good time, young man,” she said, irritatingly. “You will know all when I have pursued my investigations to their conclusion.”
“I see. So you have some further lines of enquiry to follow?” He was intrigued. Surely, there wasn’t anything new to say about the case, apart from what she had gleaned from the ghost in the shed? And that would be useless as fresh evidence to put before the police. He voiced his concern on this point.
“Young man,” she said rather testily, “I am not an idiot. I know we can’t go to the police on the word of a ghost alone. I have several key witnesses in mind, and I have tracked them down, so there!”
“I – I’m sorry,” he said, patting her gnarled hand gently. “I didn’t mean to imply …. Er, shall I ask Mrs Aitch for some cocoa and biscuits?”
Anbolin was mollified at once. The word ‘biscuits’ probably had a lot to do with it, although she said she’d rather have cake.
Bernard thought she was an ungrateful old trout, but didn’t voice this opinion. Instead he stood up and went to the door.
“Can we have some cocoa, Mrs Aitch?” he called from the landing. “And some of your delicious Dundee cake?”
Mrs Harper issued from the parlour where she had been sitting listening to ‘Take It From Here’. Alma Cogan had just finished singing ‘Twenty Tiny Fingers’ and June Whitfield had uttered the immortal ‘Oh, Ron…’ when Bernard interrupted her listening pleasure with his requests.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms akimbo. “It’s not cocoa time yet,” she yelled up at him. “Can’t I ’ave at least five minutes peace to listen to my favourite programme?”
Bernard was stuck in the middle of two women who, between them, could easily have defeated Hitler. He gulped down his nerves. Just who was the boss around here, he wondered.
“Sorry, Mrs Aitch. When your programme’s over, then – please?”
Mrs Harper didn’t reply, but returned to the parlour and slammed the door.
However, the required drinks and comestibles appeared upon the last strains of the ‘TFH’ signature tune. Anbolin tucked in straightaway, leaving a sliver of the cake for Bernard. He glared daggers at her, but she didn’t notice. She swallowed the sweet, milky cocoa with relish.
“Now,” she said eventually, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Tomorrow I will go visiting. There are certain people who know more about what happened to Dulcie Mortimer than they’re letting on.”
“Really?” Bernard leaned forward, and gathered up the remaining crumbs on the plate left by his voracious companion. There weren’t many.
“For example, your doctor friend is a bit dense, isn’t he?”
Bernard was taken aback. Was she talking about Robbie? How dare she?
“What do you mean, dear?”
She grinned. She was thoroughly enjoying herself. She knew nearly all the answers, but she was going to keep some well back from the vicar at this stage. It didn’t hurt to keep him on tenterhooks.
“He’s been keeping company with the barmaid at the Feathers, hasn’t he?”
Bernard didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “I – I believe he’s a bit infatuated with her – yes.”
“Just so, just so. I admire your loyalty. But he hasn’t discovered that she is the daughter of Dulcie Mortimer, has he?”
Bernard was thunderstruck. “What – the – the woman who was murdered?”
“Exactly. Freda Lossways was two years old at the time. But she is the daughter, no question about it. I believe she thinks her father murdered her mother.”
This was news to Bernard naturally. But the likelihood of a husband killing his wife wasn’t so far-fetched. It was often the person closest to the victim that perpetrated the crime, or so he was led to believe.
“I don’t.”
“You – you don’t what?”
Anbolin tutted with impatience. “Keep up, lad. I don’t believe Colin Mortimer murdered his wife. And I intend to prove it.”
“So you think it was Robespierre Fentiman, after all?”
“No, I certainly don’t. I know, for a fact, he didn’t do it.”
“So, all you seem to have accomplished is to eliminate two suspects. Do you have a third I don’t know about?”
“Yes, vicar. I do.”
Anbolin gathered up her knitting and shoved it into her bag. “Now I must get to bed. I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”
Autumn 1936
Reggie Hinchley was a disappointed and bitter man. His lot was the same as many others in those dark days between the two world wars, but he was bitter and disappointed nonetheless. He remembered his father before he left for the trenches in 1916. Couldn’t wait to take the King’s shilling and spill his guts on a foreign field. When the news came that Aubrey Hinchley had been killed in action, his mother had broken down and cried. She went on crying, day after day, and never recovered from the loss. She had neglected him while she went out charring for mere pennies to keep a roof over their heads. How could she leave him – a boy of ten – to fend for himself? He didn’t even have any toys to play with because his mother couldn’t afford to buy them.
Instead of being grateful to his hard-working mother for managing to bring him up despite the hardships she underwent, he was resentful and bitter. He never had a kind word to say to her, but then she didn’t have one for him either. One day, she sat down with him and told him she was sorry for not being the best mother in the world. She told him that he had been a twin, but Gerald had died when he was only eight hours old. He had been a good baby, she told him, not like him. He had cried all the time; Gerald had slept peacefully and was content to slip away unnoticed. While her back was turned, attending to the wailing Reggie, he departed this world without a murmur. The little mite had done no harm to the world, but then he hadn’t really had the time. That was Reggie�
�s take on the matter anyway.
So he knew that his mother resented his very existence, probably wishing every day of his life that he was her darling Gerald. Then, to add insult to injury, she went and died on him. Worn out and ill, she still struggled to work each day, cleaning the homes of those more fortunate than herself, and finally collapsing in the kitchen for Reggie to find when he came home from work. Her heart had just given out on her. It was broken long before that, from the loss of her husband in battle, and from the ingratitude of her only son. If ever a person could be said to have died from a broken heart, Vera Hinchley was that person.
Reggie was nineteen when that happened just over seven years ago. Today, as a man of twenty-six, he looked back over those years and blamed his mother for leaving him to face them alone. A solitary tear trickled down his slightly crooked nose as he thought about her. Women were all the same, he thought, they always let you down in the end. He was doing the world a good turn by ridding it of them, slowly, one at a time. He had managed to remove six, so far.
He was now contemplating his seventh. He had seen her on several occasions, waiting in the alley next to the Plaza cinema. Done up to the nines, thinking she looked like Jean Harlow. Then that man turned up and they went into the cinema. It could all be very innocent: a young couple dating, going to the pictures. But they always looked furtive, the woman especially. She was up to no good, he was sure. Leading the poor blighter a merry dance.
Well, he thought grimly, drawing on the last stub of cigarette in his possession, he’d settle her hash, once and for all.
Summer, 1956
Anbolin arose early that late summer morning and surprised Mrs Harper in the kitchen.
“Blimey!” said the vicar’s housekeeper, in the act of pouring hot water into the teapot. “You’re up early, ducks. I was about to bring your tea up.”
“Thanks, Nancy,” said Anbolin, sitting down at the table. “I’ll have it here. Got to go visiting today. Lots to do.”