by Pat Herbert
“Please sit down,” he said politely, offering the most comfortable chair to the fussy old lady who reminded him of the actress Margaret Rutherford. Carl Fentiman and Bernard drew up two other chairs in front the Chief Inspector’s desk.
“I understand you believe there was a miscarriage of justice some twenty years ago?” he said when they were all seated. “You told my sergeant that you can provide proof, is that right?”
Carl Fentiman was the first of his visitors to speak. “That’s right. The man who was hanged was my father.”
“I see, so you would like to see justice done, sir?” Neverholme didn’t know why, but he didn’t much like this man.
“Naturally,” said Carl, fiddling with his hat. “I want him to have a decent Christian burial.”
“Well, we’d better not run before we can walk,” smiled Neverholme. “Now, what proof have you got? Maybe you could tell me about the case, first?”
“I think you may know it already,” said Carl. “I hired a private detective who, I believe, came to see you about it. Dulcie Mortimer, a barmaid, was the victim. My father, Robespierre Fentiman, was executed for killing her. He didn’t do it. This lady, here, says she has the proof.”
Anbolin stared at him. “You didn’t tell me you’d hired a private investigator,” she said crossly, her nose well and truly out of joint. “I suppose you thought I was just a batty old woman. Fine when I was talking to your ghost for you, but not up to solving a real-life crime.”
“Well, you were taking so long about it,” said Carl, a little sheepishly. “Anyway, I didn’t think it would do any harm, having someone else’s input.”
“I bet he didn’t see the ghost, though,” snorted Anbolin.
“Well, no, now that you come to mention it,” said Carl.”Anyway, Chief Inspector, his name’s Max Bucket.”
“Ah, I thought as much. Yes, he came to me and we had a chat about it. I got hold of the file and skimmed through it. It was possible that not enough work was done on the case but the man who was hanged – your father – was seen running away from the scene of the crime. It seemed like an open and shut case…”
“But there was her husband,” interrupted Bernard at last. He had been feeling like a spare part for most of the conversation so far. “Isn’t it usually the person closest to the victim that commits the murder?”
“Very often, yes,” said Neverholme thoughtfully. “And I admit that it seems that the police were a little lax at the time. There was the added complication of the twins element, as well. That really threw a spanner in the works for a time.”
Anbolin was getting rather impatient now. “Do you want to know who the real murderer was, Chief Inspector? I presume you haven’t got all day. We haven’t.”
“Yes, certainly. Please. Tell me.” He unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and prepared to write down the name.”
“His name is Reginald Hinchley. He was the serial killer who was responsible for the deaths of seven women in the South West London area back in the thirties. He was never caught. He died ten years ago.”
Neverholme had just started to write the ‘H’ of the surname when he heard this last comment. He looked up quickly. Not another ghost story! Of course, what else could he expect? There was that blasted vicar sitting there, smiling at him. He’d quite like to wipe that smile off his smug, puppy-dog face.
“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “If the man has been dead ten years, how on earth can you prove he was the murderer?”
“Because I was talking to him yesterday,” she said, completely straight faced.
Neverholme’s face began to turn red with anger. He flung down his pen, causing a blot to obliterate ‘Reginald H’ altogether. “I think you had all better leave – before I have you thrown out.”
“Now don’t you take that attitude with me, my man,” said Anbolin just as angrily. “He was the killer of Dulcie Mortimer, and six other women. I’m sure you will find they are all unsolved murders in your vaults. Reginald Hinchley told me where I could find the proof of his crimes. This is the address. There is a notebook detailing all his crimes under the floorboards in the bedroom of this house. He used to live there, by the way. Now, all you have to do is get a search warrant and find the book.”
Neverholme glared at her. “And just how do you think I’ll be able to get that? Excuse me, Home Secretary, but can you give me leave to enter a house to find a notebook that a ghost was telling this woman about the other day …”
“Come, Chief Inspector,” said Bernard, the news of the serial killer and the notebook being completely new to him, as it was to Carl. “I think there are ways around it if you really want to solve this crime – these crimes, I should say. It’d be a feather in your cap, wouldn’t it? I mean, to finally solve the murders of these women? It would be like finding out who Jack the Ripper was.”
Neverholme was about to tell the Reverend Paltoquet to be quiet. Then he thought for a moment. It could well be a feather in his cap if what the old lady was saying was true. But she looked as nutty as a fruitcake to him.
“Very well,” he said, rewriting Reginald Hinchley’s name on his pad. “Maybe I could just go to this address and ask to have a look under the floorboards. Off the record, as it were?”
“Exactly,” smiled Bernard. “Exactly. Make out you’re a rodent exterminator or something.”
Summer, 1956
Carl Fentiman was a satisfied man as he left the police station with Bernard and Anbolin. Soon the whole world would know his father was innocent. Why on earth he thought the whole world would be that interested, especially after twenty years, he didn’t begin to analyse. It was for his twin brother, too. Basil would be happy to know he didn’t have a murderer for a father. Then there was his mother – their mother – who had died almost literally of shame ten months after her husband was hanged. She would be able to rest in peace now. The aunt who had brought them up, their mother’s sister, would be pleased to hear the news, also. She had found the shame hard to deal with, and the loss of Mildred had been a major blow to her. The Fentiman family skeletons had cast shadows over all their lives.
Carl carried on walking back home, leaving Bernard and Anbolin to take the opposite direction. As he continued on his way, he thought about his uncle, Danton. The Fentiman family skeletons were still around, of course. One may have been laid to rest, but the murder of Charmian Fentiman by his uncle was still hanging over them. If only he could prove that Danton was innocent of that as well. That would really make his day. He would visit the shed when he got home and see if he could contact him again. He presumed that his father was now happy where he was and wouldn’t be bothering him anymore now that his innocence was about to be proved. Of course, it all depended on that policeman, Neverholme. He seemed to be cooperative, but you could never tell. And what if the present occupants of Hinchley’s house refused to let him look under the floorboards for the notebook? That was always a possibility.
Chief Inspector Neverholme had never been one to let the grass grow under his size eleven feet. After a quick snack in the police station canteen, he set off for thirty Half Moon Street, Tooting, the last known address of Reginald Hinchley, according to Anbolin Amery-Judge, at any rate. Could this man be the killer who had eluded the police for so long all those years ago? It had been a source of deep disappointment to Ernie Flagg, he knew. He remembered listening to him reminisce about his past cases one winter’s afternoon when no villains were claiming their attention; the weather had been too cold for much activity on the criminal front and they were at a loose end. Six women had been brutally stabbed and murdered on their patch, he told him, and had eluded capture. Suddenly the murders stopped so Flagg had assumed the perpetrator had, hopefully, got his just desserts and met some grisly end. His end had been grisly at last, according to Anbolin, and he had suffered for years with multiple sclerosis before finally succumbing to the disease ten years ago. That was some satisfaction, to know that a man as evil as this Regi
nald Hinchley undoubtedly was, got what he deserved in the end.
Arriving in Half Moon Street at half-past three in the afternoon he wondered if anyone would be at home at that time of day. He hadn’t thought of that. He should have come in the evening, but he was too curious to wait. He wanted to get his hands on that notebook. It wouldn’t be just a feather in his cap, it would be a whole eiderdown if he could solve all those horrible murders that took place in South London in the late twenties and thirties. It would not be so good to discover that the murder of Dulcie Mortimer was among them, of course, as it would show up the police for incompetence, not to mention the taking of an innocent life in the process.
He found number thirty and pushed open the gate. It looked like a family home so the wife would probably be there, if she hadn’t gone shopping or to pick up the children from school. He rang the bell and surveyed the little terraced house. It didn’t look like the domicile of a mass murderer, but then what would a place like that look like, he wondered. There was the John Christie murders not so long ago: they had taken place in a house such as this.
He waited several moments but there was no sound from within. Oh bother, he thought. He supposed he would have to curb his impatience for a few more hours now. He rang the bell again, this time more urgently, without any real hope of getting an answer. He started back down the path and then heard a window open behind him. He looked around and saw the head of a female of a questionable age staring down at him from the upper storey.
“Yes?” said the head querulously. “What d’you want? I was sleeping.”
Neverholme smiled up at the head which he could see belonged to a rather angry pensioner with ruffled white hair done up in a bun and a pair of pince-nez which caught the light from the sun, blinding the chief inspector for a moment.
“I – I’m sorry,” said Neverholme. It was the middle of the afternoon, for God’s sake. Still, she looked very old and frail, and no doubt needed all the sleep she could get. Ignoring Bernard’s not altogether serious suggestion that he posed as a rodent exterminator, he called up to her: “I – I’m from the Wandsworth Police – Chief Inspector Neverholme. Here’s my warrant card.” He held it up.
The old lady squinted down at him from behind her pince-nez. “I don’t know how you expect me to read that from here, young man,” she said, not unreasonably.
“No, no, of course not,” said Neverholme, beginning to feel more than just a little frustrated. “Er, maybe if you came down and opened the door you’d be able to see it better.”
“Are you being cheeky, young man?” she snapped.
“N-not at all, madam, I – I just need to speak to you for a moment.”
The head disappeared from the window, leaving the Chief Inspector wondering if she was going to let him in or if, in fact, she had returned to bed. He was sure Hercule Poirot never had this trouble – well, not in any of the books he’d read.
He remained where he was, tapping his feet impatiently, hoping against hope that she would be on her tottery way down the stairs. Finally, he was rewarded by the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and then another, and then another. This woman was obviously very serious about security. Eventually, the door opened a crack and a nose could be seen poking through the gap.
“Let me have a look at your warrant card,” she said.
He handed it to her. Snatching it, the door closed again. Neverholme wondered if that was the last he was going to see of it. Then the door opened slowly to reveal a bent old woman leaning on a stick. Contrary to his first impression, he liked what he saw. She was everyone’s idea of a granny – the kind of granny who the big bad wolf would enjoy eating up.
“You’d better come in, I suppose,” she said grudgingly. “Wipe your feet.”
He did so obediently and for longer than was absolutely necessary, as the day was dry and he hadn’t walked across any grass or gravel to get there.
When Neverholme explained what he wanted, the old woman let out a cry that was almost triumphant. “A notebook, you say? Belonging to some villain years ago? A villain that once lived here?”
Neverholme coughed. He hoped he hadn’t alarmed the poor old soul. She had lived in the house for some while, he presumed, and had never been aware of its dark history – until now.
“Th-that’s right,” he said hesitantly. “Of course, it may just be a rumour, but I must check it out. And anyway, if what I have been told is true, the man who lived here died some years ago and can in no way come back and harm you.”
“Tut, tut, young man,” she exclaimed happily. “I’m not scared of that. What you’ve just told me is no surprise. I knew there was something evil about this place.”
Neverholme raised his eyebrows. “You did? I mean, you did?”
“Yes, I did. Nothing you could put your finger on or a name to, just atmosphere. I never liked this place and I’ve been thinking about getting a priest in to exorcise it.”
“Really?” Right up Bernie Paltoquet’s street, he thought.
“But aren’t you afraid living here? I mean, now that you know about this man, surely you’ll want to move? I’m so sorry to have had to tell you all about this, but I don’t suppose you’d have let me pull up your floorboards for nothing.”
The old lady laughed. “I probably would, young man, I don’t get much excitement these days. Having a man in my bedroom would be a pleasant change, whatever the reason.”
Neverholme echoed her laughter. She was a game old girl, and no mistake. He must tell Bernard about her.
A quarter of an hour later, he had managed to prise up the floorboards underneath Madge Prenderbury’s bed. Dipping his hand into the hollow created, he scrabbled around, feeling something crawl over it as he did so. He pulled it out quickly. He was squeamish about creepy crawlies. Madge was standing behind him, leaning on her stick.
“You don’t like spiders, eh? And you a big, strapping policeman.” She giggled.
He looked around at her, giving her an unfriendly glare. “It- it’s just – well, no, I don’t like them really. I have to ask my wife to remove them from the bath for me.”
“Do you want me to get down on my knees and search in there for you?” she said, half-seriously.
“Of course not! I – I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute.”
He steeled himself and once again put his hand into the space revealed by the loose floorboard. This time he was rewarded. His hand closed on what felt like a small notebook and indeed that’s what it was. A red, soft-covered book, the kind sold in Woolworth’s for sixpence or, most probably, back then only a penny.
So Anbolin was right. She had spoken to the ghost of this man and he had told her where to find the book. He flicked through it quickly and his eye caught sight of names he remembered from his conversations with Ernie Flagg: Eleanor Farmer, Mary Truelove and – yes – there she was – Dulcie Mortimer. The book was going to make interesting, if no doubt very gruesome, reading.
Anbolin and Bernard meanwhile were sauntering back to the vicarage when they passed the local picture house. The Roxy in Wandsworth High Street was showing the same film that Anbolin had seen at the Plaza in Tooting the day before. Trapeze starring her favourite actor, Burt Lancaster. Such a fine figure of a man in those tights.
She stopped to look at the colourful stills outside the cinema and Bernard stood patiently waiting for her. She continued to stare at the stills one by one, oohing and aahing as she did so. He smiled as he watched her.
“Would you like to see this film, dear?” he asked eventually, as she showed no signs of moving away.
“Ooh, yes,” she said. “I’d love to. Shall we go in? The film’s about to start.”
Bernard’s heart sank. The last thing he felt like doing was sitting through a picture with poncey men in tights. Then he noticed the picture of Gina Lollobrigida standing between Lancaster and Tony Curtis on a trapeze. He suddenly thought he might enjoy it after all.
Two hours later they came out, blinking
in the fading sunlight. It was then they spotted a couple just ahead of them. It was Robbie arm in arm with Freda Lossways.
“Shall we go and say hello?” said Anbolin, giving him a wink. “Or should we leave the lovebirds alone?”
“I think we’ll leave them alone,” said Bernard through gritted teeth. “I’ll see him later.”
“Did you know that he’s going out with the daughter of Dulcie Mortimer?”
Bernard stopped and stared at her. “No! Really? How do you know? Does he know?”
“Questions, questions,” she said. “Wasn’t it Sherlock Holmes who said ‘I have my methods’?”
“I believe so.”
“Well that applies equally to me young man,” she said. And she winked again.
Summer, 1956
Anbolin Amery-Judge let herself into Carl Fentiman’s back garden on the afternoon following her trip to the police station with Bernard. Confident now that she would find no ghosts in the shed, she slipped down the side path and grappled with its rusted lock as she had seen Carl do on several earlier occasions. There was no sign of the man himself or, indeed, Mrs Fentiman. She had rung the bell on her arrival, but had received no reply. It didn’t matter, of course. She knew where the shed was. Her mission now was to make sure that she had successfully laid to rest the ghost of Robespierre Fentiman for good and all.
Once inside the stuffy shed, she took several moments to adjust to the dark interior. There were signs that Carl had been working on some kind of bookcase, although it didn’t look finished or even remotely strong enough to house heavy tomes. She sniffed. Probably only reads gory paperbacks, she thought dismissively. No doubt the shelf would be strong enough for them.
She took the weight off her feet and removed her knitting from her bag. She would give Robespierre enough time to make his presence felt – just in case he wasn’t completely satisfied. There was no telling with a man as unpleasant as Robespierre Fentiman obviously was – not only when he was alive either. She had no desire to talk to his ghost again; he gave her the willies. Just as she was becoming reassured that his ghost had departed forever, a shape began to form in front of her eyes. There he was, swinging from the end of the rope, just as before.