by Pat Herbert
“About time,” muttered Nigel Soames, who had been waiting a mere five minutes. But, to give him his due, he had been waiting in a downpour and was now thoroughly wet.
“You should have gone in ahead of us,” said Bernard, puffed out with running to keep up with old Anbolin, whose legs, though shorter, fatter and older than Bernard’s, were in much better condition than his own. Robbie, being the tallest among them, had matched her strides comfortably, and looked completely relaxed, hands in pockets, whistling. The whistling was to hide his nerves. He knew he had a psychic gift, but didn’t like using it. His encounters with ghosts had been few, but they had always scared the life out of him. When Bernard had suggested he accompanied them on this mission to solve the mystery of Danton Robespierre’s wife’s murder, he had at first thought of declining.
“You don’t need me there if Anbolin’s going,” he had said, not a little sulkily. He still hadn’t really forgiven his friend for interfering in his burgeoning romance with the Freda.
Bernard had clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Robbie. We always have these adventures together. Besides, you may be able to contact the ghost better than Anbolin. I want you to be there.”
Robbie had then made a great show of consulting his diary. Every page was blank, apart from patients’ scheduled visits, but he made sure he hid this fact from Bernard by shielding the writing with his hand.
Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure why. Anbolin was ringing the bell vigorously now and he took the opportunity to look at the façade of the house. There were the obligatory lace curtains at every window, and flowers in window boxes on every sill. It looked like a home that was loved.
An attractive blonde answered the door. “Hello,” she said with a smile. “You must be …”
Bernard did the introductions, although he presumed she knew her own vicar. They all proceeded to enter the hall, Nigel Soames bending his head and turning sideways to achieve this aim.
Roger Squires issued from the sitting room to greet them. “Thank you all for coming,” he said shaking each one by the hand. “I do hope you can do something to rid this house of this poor lady.”
“Hear hear,” said Valerie, his charming wife. “But not before you’ve all had tea. Let me take your wet coat, vicar,” she said to the Reverend Soames, who was dripping all over her shag pile.
When tea had been taken and biscuits eaten, mainly by Anbolin, and Bernard when he had the opportunity, they all proceeded to the room where the ghost usually appeared. It was the back parlour that was only used in the evenings. There was a brand new television in pride of place with a vase of flowers on top of it. There were two hardly worn armchairs and a highly polished coffee table. It looked the sort of room where you would lay out a dead body to await the day of the funeral. It didn’t seem to belong to the rest of the house, there was something cold and forbidding about it.
They all felt this as they entered, ushered through by Roger Squires. As Nigel Soames was the equivalent of at least three average sized people, it seemed a little overcrowded when they were all inside.
“I thought I’d just come along as an observer,” explained Nigel quickly. “I don’t believe in any of this nonsense, as you know, but as you are my parishioners, I thought I owed it to you to give this visit my blessing.”
“Pompous arse,” thought Bernard and Robbie in unison. Roger Squires used an even less polite term in his thoughts, and Anbolin just snorted. What she was thinking was anyone’s guess.
As they all stood in the room, the atmosphere turned even colder. “What’s that woman doing in here?” said Nigel suddenly.
“What woman?” said Anbolin.
“That woman. Over there. By the television set.”
They all looked but could see nothing. Roger spoke up. “That’s where the ghost usually appears,” he said. “But I can’t see her today.”
“Neither can I,” said Anbolin crossly.
“Nor me,” said Bernard.
“Nor me,” echoed Robbie.
Nigel stared around at them all. “D-do you mean to say none of you can see her? She’s there – large as life. Stop mucking about.”
They just shrugged at him.
“Tell them all to leave the room, sir,” said the woman. But only Nigel heard her.
“Good God!” He slumped all his weight into the chair nearest to him. It gave a protesting groan. “D-did you hear what she said?”
“Look, Nigel,” said Bernard calmly. “We can’t see her, let alone hear her.”
“Are – are you saying that I’m the only one who can see and hear her? Are you – are you saying that she’s a ghost? But I don’t believe in ghosts!”
“Well, there you are,” said Anbolin, not used to having her limelight stolen in this way. “For some reason she’s communicating with you. You must have the power, man.” She wondered if it was about time she hung up her ouija board and retired.
“It’s a trick,” he said firmly, gathering all his failing courage. “Isn’t it?” He looked at them all hopefully. “Please say it’s a trick.”
Bernard answered for them all. “It’s no trick, Nigel. It seems you’re the chosen one today.”
“She’s telling you all to leave the room.”
Anbolin took over at this point. “How dare she! Does she want our help or not?”
The woman spoke again. Only Nigel Soames heard her.
“I haven’t been able to speak until now. I was able to materialise. They could see me, but I couldn’t communicate by speech. You have unlocked my tongue. I need to tell you and you alone what must be done.”
Her voice was thin and reedy, but Nigel could hear it all right. But he didn’t think he’d have the courage to stay in the room with her on his own.
“Can’t – can’t the others stay? They won’t interrupt. Will you?” He turned to the assembled company.
“You must ask them to leave. I want to tell you and you alone my story. I won’t talk otherwise.”
Nigel relayed this to the others. “Look, old man,” said Robbie, “You’re privileged. Don’t worry, we’ll be just outside the door if she attacks you with a meat cleaver or anything.” He was somewhat miffed that he hadn’t been the one to see and hear the ghost. This man, according to Bernard and Anbolin, didn’t even believe in ghosts. But on the other hand, he was relieved. Let someone else talk to these phantoms for a change.
When the room was cleared, Nigel was left facing the ghost. He had never felt so scared in all his life. She wasn’t frightening to look at, although she wore a scowl that could frighten the horses. She was remarkably pretty, however, which helped a bit.
“W-well, w-what can I do for you? H-how c-can I help?”
“You’re a vicar, aren’t you?” said Charmian Fentiman.
“I-I am – for my sins.”
“And they are many?”
“Er, not too many, I hope.”
“Very well. I thank you for being able to hear me. I have been gesturing to the man of the house for days, ever since he moved in with his wife. She can’t see me at all. But sometimes the man can see me, but no matter how much I try to speak to him, he can’t hear me.”
“I – I see. That must be very frustrating for you.”
Charmian gave the large vicar a wry smile. “You don’t know the half of it, vicar. I am trying to get justice for my dead husband. And justice must serve my dead brother-in-law too.”
Nigel Soames was sweating profusely now. Never, in all his born days, had he visualised himself chatting to a ghost. Yet here he was in that very situation. He had dismissed Roger Squires as an hysterical nutcase, but he had to eat his words now. Not only eat them, but cover them with tomato sauce and wash them down with a gallon of tea.
“B-but how do you think I can possibly help you do that?”
“My husband never murdered me. They hanged him, though. I was buried in our back garden so the police looked no further.”
“Yes, but I understand h
e confessed to killing you.”
“He was a silly, foolish man. So much in love with me he couldn’t see straight. He was so happy when I told him we were going to have a baby – then my brother-in-law let the cat out of the bag.”
Nigel scratched his fat head. “Cat? Out of the bag?”
“Yes. He told him that the baby probably wasn’t his, you see.”
“Ah – and was it?”
“Probably not. You see, we had been trying ever since we got married, but no joy. Th-then – well, someone else came along …”
“The sins of the flesh are never far from any of us,” said Nigel, always ready to deliver a sermon, even in extremis. This woman, even if she was pretty, was no better than she should be. So many of them weren’t, these days.
“My brother-in-law raped me – practically.”
Nigel Soames hadn’t expected that. “My dear lady, how dreadful. But you could have told the police. No blame would be attached to you if that were the case.”
“Please stop interrupting, vicar. My ectoplasm is getting weaker. I need to tell all before I completely dematerialise.”
“Er, right. Sorry.” Nigel forced himself to keep quiet, something he found very hard to do at the best of times.
“All would have been well if Robey hadn’t told my husband the baby probably wasn’t his. He didn’t tell him who the father probably was, though. When I threatened to tell my husband the truth, he became frightened. Frightened that Dan would then tell his wife. He didn’t much care for his wife – he was always being unfaithful to her – but she was rich – very rich. He didn’t want to lose his meal ticket.”
She paused. Nigel remained obediently quiet. He guessed what was coming, however.
“Yes, you are right,” she said with a smile. “It was he who strangled me to keep me quiet and it was he who buried me in the garden. But what he didn’t realise was –“ She paused again. Her voice was growing fainter.
Nigel strained his ears towards her fast diminishing figure.
“That his ring had fallen into the grave with me.”
“His ring?”
“Yes. Dan had an identical one. It had his initials on it.”
Nigel Soames stood up as Charmian finally vanished. A ring! With initials on it!
He opened the door and beckoned everyone inside. Anbolin was beside herself with envy, but managed to contain her frustration at not being the one to solve the mystery.
Later that evening, she was in the Feathers with Bernard and Robbie once again. Nigel Soames had gone home for a long lie down.
“That fat vicar is a turn up and no mistake,” she said, swallowing her port and lemon.
Bernard grinned. “Who would have believed it? Now he won’t be so dismissive of such things in the future.”
“Anyway, the thing is, we now know how to prove Danton’s innocence.”
“We do?” Bernard seemed to be missing a piece of the jigsaw.
Robbie tutted. “Oh, for goodness sake, man, the ring – the bloody ring.”
He was still on far from friendly terms with Bernard it would seem.
“Yes, I know about the ring. But just how do we use that as proof? We have to find it first.”
“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Anbolin. She eyed Robbie appraisingly. “You look like you’d be handy with a shovel, young man.”
Early Autumn, 1956
Robbie was indeed handy with a shovel but, as he explained to Anbolin, it wouldn’t be proof if they found the ring themselves and took it to the police. The police had to find it for themselves.
So it was that Roger Squires had his garden dug over thoroughly by the Tooting police in the quest to find the ring. When Bernard and Anbolin went to see Chief Inspector Neverholme with the latest developments in the Charmian Fentiman murder case, his heart sank well into his boots. Later it climbed back into its proper place when he heard how there was an initialled signet ring that had been buried along with the body and it was only waiting to be found. He phoned the Tooting constabulary at once and got the ball rolling.
Roger Squires watched as three burly policemen rolled up their sleeves and wielded their shovels. Good, he thought. The garden needs a good going over.
Anbolin and Bernard returned home to await developments.
Sitting in the kitchen with Mrs Harper, they told her all the news. It was very exciting, they said. Once the ring was found, a second miscarriage of justice could be proved.
It was Nancy Harper that pointed out a matter that, once aired, was blindingly obvious.
“All right,” she began, up to her elbows in flour, as she pummelled the pastry on the kitchen table. “If the ring’s found and it can be proved it’s this Robespierre bloke’s, then that means ’e killed ’er, don’t it?”
Anbolin smiled happily. “Of course, dear. Can I have a lick of your mixing bowl?”
Mrs Harper slapped her hand as it reached out for the spoon. “Naughty, naughty! Wait till the bleedin’ cake’s cooked, can’t you?”
Anbolin looked suitably chastened. “But I’m hungry,” she whined.
“I’ll do the elevenses in a minute, if you’ll ’ave a bit of patience,” said Nancy. “I’ve only got the one pair of ’ands.”
Bernard interrupted at this point. “You were saying, Mrs Aitch? About the proof that Robiespierre killed Mrs Fentiman?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, throwing more flour around the room, or at least that’s what it seemed like. She was trying to get it on the rolling pin, of course. “Won’t that throw a spanner in the works?”
“What do you mean?” Anbolin was still eyeing the cake mixture covetously.
“That, if it’s proved that this Robespierre geezer murdered his brother’s wife, then ’e needs to get reburied in the prison don’t ’e? I presume they’ve dug ’im up already and given ’im a Christian burial?”
Bernard hadn’t thought of that; nor had Anbolin. “Oh dear,” said Bernard, “that’s a point. Still, we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Mrs Aitch sniffed. “I could’ve told you all along to leave the blighter where ’e was. Stands to reason that, if ’is brother never killed ’er then ’e did. From all accounts ’e was a nasty bit of work, and who else was in the frame?” Had she been listening to too many police serials on the wireless, Bernard wondered, to use a phrase like ‘in the frame’? It didn’t sound right coming from her.
Anbolin glared at her. She would need a very big helping of dinner and pudding to put the stout housekeeper back in her good books today. “Anyone could have killed her,” she said. “It didn’t have to be Robespierre.”
Mrs Harper sniffed again. “No? Maybe not. Experience is that it’s usually someone close to the victim what does the murder. And if it wasn’t the ’usband, then it was likely to be some other relative or close friend. Therefore, it’s not an unreasonable assumption that the brother-in-law did it.”
“Which has proven to be the case,” said Bernard standing up. “Now we’ll leave you in peace, Mrs Aitch.”
He took Anbolin gently by the arm and led her out of the room. “You two will come to blows in a minute,” he said, as they climbed the stairs. “We might not get any elevenses if you annoy her too much.”
Anbolin, on hearing this, took the point.
Chief Inspector Neverholme, unlike Bernard and Anbolin, had given the question of Robespierre Fentiman’s burial some thought. If the man was proved to be guilty of the murder of his brother’s wife, then the man shouldn’t have been uprooted from the prison cemetery. He almost hoped that the ring wouldn’t be found, as it just added another complication he didn’t need. He’d had his fill of meddling vicars and clairvoyants, for a while at least. There were more urgent matters to contend with now, and his case load was getting bigger by the day. Murders and robberies were taking place all over the shop, and the Assistant Commissioner was breathing down his neck for results.
As he was thinking these thoughts and pic
king at a cheese and pickle sandwich, being the constituents of his meagre lunch, the phone broke the silence with a screech. He wished the bell on the thing wasn’t so loud. He had a headache, too, which was adding to his problems. It didn’t make much difference that the malaise was self-inflicted, after a more than heavy drinking session with one of his fellow officers the night before. Then his wife had thrown his congealed supper at him when he finally made it home. He sighed as he remembered the crash of the plate and the unappetising mess that was on it slide down the wall.
He grabbed the phone before it could ring more than once and growled into the receiver. “Neverholme.”
It was the news he was expecting, but hoping wouldn’t come quite so soon. After all, it was twenty years ago. Why rake up the past? What good could it do? He replaced the receiver and picked up his sandwich again. He took another mouthful, then threw the rest of it in the bin. His tea had gone cold too, and it was touch and go whether his wife would have cooked him anything to eat when he got home that evening. She had given him the silent treatment that morning, leaving him to make his own tea and burn the toast.
So, he thought to himself, up comes one brother and down goes the other one. Then he had a bright idea. Why not dig up Robespierre and put him in the spot vacated by Danton – and vice versa?
Early Autumn, 1956
October was turning out to be very wet. It was another rainy afternoon when Bernard and Robbie arrived at Beryl Mossop’s house in Bockhampton Road. Bernard had been invited to tea, and he had asked if he might bring along the local doctor to meet her. Beryl was only too pleased to meet Dr Robbie MacTavish whom she had heard so much about.
When Bernard had suggested to Robbie that he accompanied him to tea with Beryl Mossop, he had sulkily declined.