by Pat Herbert
“To tell you the truth, Mrs Hardcastle, I’m worried about him. I’ve never said this to anyone, but I’m not sure I really trust him. I mean, I don’t really know what he’s capable of.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“Well,” Gunda put her hanky away and sipped at her fast-cooling tea. “It’s to do with that awful Dahl massacre. I was reading the newspaper, and I mentioned to him that the bodies of those poor farm children had been found. I thought he’d be pleased to hear it, like I was.”
“Yes?” Berthina poured her some more tea.
“Well, instead of being pleased, he seemed to get upset and – well, that’s all, really.” She paused.
Berthina didn’t say anything, but just waited. She felt sure Gunda was going to tell her more. She mustn’t break the spell now.
“He – he didn’t hit me then, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Gunda said at last. “But what he said worried me more than if he’d just hit me. I still can’t quite get it out of my head.”
“Well – what did he say?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just that the children must have been buried very deep for the police to have taken so long in finding them.”
“Why did that bother you?” Berthina was disappointed. It seemed like a very innocuous, not to say reasonable, thing to say in the circumstances.
“It’s just that I’d told him that the children’s bodies had been found in the wood – not that they had been buried.”
“Oh, yes, I see,” said Berthina slowly. “But I suppose it was a logical assumption to make, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so,” said Gunda grudgingly. “But there was something in his eyes that worried me. I can’t really explain it.”
Berthina began to think her task wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. She jumped right in. “Gunda, does Baldur have a tattoo on his arm?”
Gunda stared at her. “Er – a tattoo?”
“Yes – of a snake.”
“A snake?” Gunda looked thoughtful. “Yes, he’s got a tattoo – on his left arm. But it’s of a dragon, not a snake.”
London, March 1949
It had been three months since Dorothy had returned home to Exeter, and Bernard had begun to think he would never hear from her again. Then, one cold, windy March morning, Mrs Harper arrived in his study with the post, and she was smiling.
“’Ere’s the post, Vicar,” she said, putting it down on the desk. “And your prayers ’ave been answered at last.”
“What do you mean, Mrs Aitch?”
“There’s one with an Exeter postmark. Now who do we know in that part of the world?” Her eyes were twinkling mischievously.
Bernard’s heart gave a leap. “Give it to me, please, Mrs Aitch,” he said eagerly, trying to snatch it from her grasp. “You know full well it’s from Dorothy Plunkett.”
“Really?” she said in mock surprise. “Well, who’d ’ave thought it?”
Bernard opened the letter as soon as Mrs Harper had gone about her business. The reason for Dorothy’s communication soon became clear as he read. Her mother had died, and she was now having to console and look after her father. He sighed. There seemed very little chance she would be visiting him soon. Her letter concluded:
I know we didn’t part on very good terms, Bernard, dear. You made your feelings clear to me then and I still respect them, but I would love to hear all the news from Wandsworth sometime. I miss you.
Your loving friend,
Dorothy
He had tears in his eyes as he finished reading her letter. The main reason she had written now was to tell him about her mother’s death, of course, but she had touched on their own parting. He would write to her at once, offering his condolences. He would also try to hint that she had been wrong about his true feelings for her, even though he would find it hard to find the right words. At least, it would be easier to express himself in writing than face to face. All would be well between them yet.
As he rummaged around in his desk drawer for some writing paper, he heard the front door bell ring. A few seconds later, Robbie was in the room, prancing around in delight.
“I’ve had a letter from Dorothy, Bernie,” he cried, flourishing it at him.
“Really?” he replied. “Well, so have I. And I don’t know why you’re smiling, Robbie. After all, her mother’s just died.”
Robbie was sombre at once and sat down. “Sorry, Bernie. How insensitive you must think me. I only meant I was happy to hear from her at last.”
“Yes, me too,” smiled Bernard. “What does she say in yours?”
They swopped letters. Bernard skipped the sad news about her mother, eager to see any sign of the affection she had shown him in his own letter. He read her closing words:
I shall continue to stay here with father for as long as he needs me, of course, but I want to remain in touch with you and would welcome your news.
Love, Dorothy
Bernard was secretly pleased. Her letter to Robbie was warm and friendly enough, but she hadn’t gone into her own feelings like she had with him. And she’d signed herself, ‘love, Dorothy’, which was much more casual than ‘you’re loving friend’. On the whole, Bernard was well satisfied.
Bergen, March 1949
Baldur Hanssen sat in the local inn, sipping his lager and staring morosely into space. Having no work irked him and he felt like a caged tiger, sitting around all day waiting for he knew not what. Added to this, Gunda was becoming more and more distant with him. She was behaving towards him like Marianne had done, and this was adding to his misery. Well, he thought grimly, he hadn’t stood any nonsense from Marianne, and he wasn’t going to stand any from her, either.
Gunda had been fond of him at first, he was sure. He couldn’t understand why things had changed, although he had a sneaking feeling it was when they’d discussed the discovery of the Dahl children’s bodies. He’d made a big mistake, saying they had been ‘buried’, and had regretted it ever since. Still, it had been a reasonable assumption, and he’d thought he’d convinced her. After all, what else would you do with a couple of dead bodies in a wood? Hang them from a tree for anyone to find?
But he knew the seed of suspicion had been sown, and she had grown more and more wary of him as the days passed. It had become a vicious circle. The warier she became, the more cause he had to be angry and hit her.
He sighed and took a long draught of his lager. He had to make it last. He couldn’t afford a second pint these days.
What was he going to do about Gunda? He had even asked her to marry him but, when once she would have accepted without hesitation, she had more or less recoiled at the suggestion. She was sleeping on the very edge of their double bed now, too. He still wanted her, but he drew the line at taking her by force. There was no love in that.
And now there was something else to worry about. That morning, she had intimated that she would like him to leave. It was her house, so she had every right to tell him to go. But where was he to go? Back to living in one room until he found someone else? The prospect didn’t thrill him. Besides, he was comfortable where he was. He didn’t want to go anywhere else. He would have to drum this fact into her stupid head. If she didn’t like it, there were ways of making her like it.
Then there was the very real fear that she thought he might be a murderer. Yes, since that day when he’d blundered over the Dahl children’s discovery, the thought had been at the back of his mind all the time. What if she went to the police?
Whatever happened, he would have to stop her doing that.
Exeter, March 1949
Dorothy Plunkett sighed as she looked out of the window at the early spring daffodils and the postman trotting up the path. Was this all there was to be from now on? she wondered. Her life here in Exeter wasn’t exactly one long social whirl. Not that she would have had the heart, even if it was. Burying her mother had ripped the heart out of her.
She remembered her cloistered childhood. Her mothe
r had always been there for her and her sister; they had wanted for nothing. Her father had always been a more shadowy figure when she was growing up, but she recalled how pleased she and Emily were when he read them a bedtime story or took them to the park to play on the swings. He had been very handsome then, and they had worshipped him. Dorothy loved him so much and was glad to devote herself to looking after him now that his dear wife had gone. She prayed he would be spared to her for a few more years at least.
But what was there to look forward to? Practically every day she had sat at the living room window, looking out for the postman, hoping he would bring her a letter from Bernard, but she had waited in vain. She had wanted to write to him as soon as she had arrived back in Exeter, but her female pride had stood in the way. Wasn’t it the man who should make the running?
It was the sad death of her darling mother that had given her the excuse she needed to write to him. Now, she felt sure, Bernard would have to write back, if only to tell her he was sorry for her loss. She had also written to Robbie because she owed him that. He was a good friend, probably a better one than Bernard would ever be. But she loved Bernard, and she wished with every fibre of her being that she didn’t.
She ran to the door at the sound of the clatter of the letter box and picked up the post lying on the coconut matting.
“Is that the post?” her father called querulously from the kitchen, where he was making the breakfast.
“Yes, Dad,” she called back. “Only bills, I’m afraid.” But it wasn’t only bills. There was one handwritten letter postmarked ‘SW’. She prayed it was from Bernard and not Robbie. She tore open the envelope. Her prayers had been answered at last.
My dear Dorothy,
I was very sorry to hear that your mother has passed away, but at least her suffering is ended now and you can begin to rebuild your life. I hope your father continues well and that you have no concerns about his health at the moment. You need time to yourself, my dear.
Robbie sends his love too, and will write to you separately, no doubt. We are making progress on the fate of those poor Norwegian children and have got a positive identification of the killer – we think. I’ll let you know as soon as we have more news.
I would love to come and visit you one day, or maybe you can come and stay here when you can get away. Maybe we can go to the theatre or have a meal. I’m sure Robbie would love to join us, too. We’ll make a night of it and, hopefully, cheer you up in these dark days.
So, until we meet again, may God bless you.
Your loving friend,
Bernard
He had signed himself off in the same way she had. She had thought long and hard about how to end her letter to him: she didn’t want to appear too forward but, at the same time, she didn’t want to give him the impression that she didn’t have feelings for him. Now he had replied back in the same fashion: that, surely, was a good sign, except the rest of the letter gave the lie to it. He couldn’t have been more formal if he’d tried.
Tears were starting to form in her eyes, as her father called out that the breakfast was ready. As usual, it would be a plate of sizzling bacon and eggs, no mouthful of which she would be able to eat now.
London, April 1949
“Hi, Bernie,” said Robbie, as he swept into the vicarage study one bright spring morning. “I’ve just got news from Gilbert – it’s not good, I’m afraid.”
“Come and sit down, Robbie,” said Bernard. He was seated by his study fire, which was burning fitfully as the April weather, although bright, was still bitterly cold.
“It appears, according to Gilbert’s mother, that her cleaner’s husband is not the man.” Robbie sat down, putting his hands on his knees and staring into the fire with a morose expression on his face.
“Not the man?”
“No. Not the man. He’s got a tattoo, all right. On his left arm, apparently,” Robbie continued.
“Well then! Why do you think he’s not the man?” asked Bernard, puzzled.
“Because the bloody man’s tattoo is of a dragon, not a snake.”
Bernard’s puzzled frown cleared and was replaced almost at once by a wide smile. “Balderdash!” he exclaimed.
Robbie looked shocked. He had never heard his friend speak with such vehemence before. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Why on earth can’t you see it?”
“See what, man?”
“To the eyes of a child,” Bernard started to explain slowly, “a dragon could look very much like a snake. Especially if they didn’t get a close look at it.”
Robbie’s eyes widened. “By Jove, Bernie, you’re right! What an idiot I am.” He laughed happily. “So the cleaner’s husband is very much in the frame again.”
“I should say so,” said Bernard.
“We have him at last,” said Robbie, grinning.
But Bernard’s smile had faded now. “But we’re no further forward, really,” he said. “We don’t have a single witness that can verify he’s the killer. No court of law will be able to convict him on the evidence, knowing how it was arrived at.”
“Bugger!” was all Robbie could say. He didn’t even apologise for it, and Bernard didn’t blame him.
Bergen, April 1949
Baldur was now back at his lumberjack trade. Work had picked up again and he was out of the way for most of the day, for which Gunda was very thankful. The more she got to know the man who had moved in with her so promptly, the more she disliked and distrusted him. Still, at least he wasn’t a murderer. Apparently, the police were looking for someone with a snake tattoo on his arm, and Baldur’s was definitely a dragon. A windy, slimy-looking one, it’s true, but at least it had legs and was blowing fire out of its nostrils. Definitely a dragon.
They were both sitting at breakfast, and Baldur was leaning his elbows on the table, with his sleeves rolled up. She now had the opportunity to study the tattoo at close quarters, while he was engrossed in his newspaper and not paying her the slightest attention.
Since Berthina had asked her about the snake tattoo, she had been more worried than ever. When she had asked her why did she want to know, Berthina’s reply had been vague, and it hadn’t satisfied her at all. However, Gunda had got the very real impression that her employer knew more about the Dahl murders than she was letting on. Still, Baldur’s tattoo wasn’t a snake, so that was all right.
It was definitely a dragon. She screwed up her eyes and looked at it from various angles. It couldn’t be mistaken for a serpent, could it? If you only got a quick glance at it, perhaps it could. Its body was long and snake-like, and certainly a child could easily mistake it for either. Suddenly she was filled with fear. She was now more certain than of anything she had ever been in her life that the man sitting there at the breakfast table, her breakfast table in her house, was a cold-blooded killer.
She leapt up and grabbed his empty plate. “Have you finished?” she asked abruptly. “I need to get on. I have to go to Mrs Hardcastle’s this morning.”
“All right,” he grumbled, folding up his paper. “Give me a chance.”
At the kitchen sink, she held on to the taps and thought furiously. I want him out of my house now! she screamed silently. Now! He came up behind her and put his arms round her waist, slowly raising his big hairy hands up to her breasts. She slapped them away. “Don’t!” she cried. “Can’t you see I’m trying to wash up?”
“You never seem to want to have any fun these days,” he muttered, putting his hands back on her breasts with more force this time.
“Just let go or I’ll scream the place down,” she yelled, grabbing a knife from the draining board.
“Okay, okay!” said Baldur stepping back quickly. “Put that down, you stupid woman, before someone gets hurt.”
“Look, Baldur,” she said, as he backed off. She rested the knife back on the draining board, keeping it still within her grasp. “This isn’t working.”
“What, the knife? Does it need sharpening?”
>
“Don’t make out you don’t know what I mean,” she said, more calmly than she felt. “I mean our relationship isn’t working. I want you to leave my house. Today, please.”
Baldur glared at her but didn’t reply. The hard glint in his eyes was enough. If looks could kill …
“Did you hear what I said?” She moved her fingers towards the knife.
“I heard you,” he said in a low, threatening tone. “Oh yes, I heard you, all right.”
“Well, then, please, Baldur, I’m sorry, but I really want you to go.”
“And where am I to go, pray?” he asked, still menacingly. She noticed he was clenching and unclenching his fists.
“That’s up to you. Maybe some other stupid woman will take you on, if you’re lucky,” she said with brave sarcasm. “I just want you out of my house.”
“But I like it here,” he said, moving a pace towards her.
“I can’t help that,” she said quietly. Her hand was on the knife now. “I don’t want you here. You make me nervous. You hit me sometimes. I’m not sure I can trust you. Please, Baldur, don’t cause any trouble. Just go.”
“Why should I cause any trouble?” he asked. “It’s you who’s causing the trouble. I don’t want to go. I want to stay, and I’m going to stay. Got it?”
Gunda was panicking now. She had been living with an extremely dangerous man for almost six months, and she trembled at the thought of what might have happened to her; still might, she suddenly realised. She had to get rid of him somehow: now, at once.
She took a deep inward breath and told herself to calm down. Should she just leave it for now, go to work as usual, then call the police? Mrs Hardcastle had a phone, she was sure she would let her use it, especially in the circumstances.
