The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  ‘Have you spoken to the landlord?’

  ‘Sergeant Teague has, sir. Mr Dawkins, the landlord, said Pretting left last night at closing time but there’d been no altercations. It was a quiet night, he said. No trouble.’

  ‘Was Pretting the type to have enemies?’

  ‘Not that Mr Dawkins knows of, sir. He’s never seen him arguing with anyone. Quite hail-fellow-well-met, he says.’

  This was all the local police needed when they had the Billinge case to deal with. Still, if this particular murder stemmed from drunken resentments, he hoped it wouldn’t be a case that required the expertise of Scotland Yard.

  ‘The sergeant’s out taking statements and Constable Wren’s gone to break the news to his wife,’ said the young man. ‘He’s going to ask her to make a formal identification.’

  ‘Good,’ said Albert. ‘I take it this poor chap’s fellow drinkers are going to make statements.’

  ‘Most of them’ll be at work at the moment, sir, but Sarge said we’ll catch them tonight in the Carty Arms.’

  Albert, hearing the abbreviation, wondered how Sir William would feel about the mangling of his family name. ‘So who’s he speaking to now?’

  ‘Retired clerk from the mill who was drinking with the victim last night.’

  ‘Is this man a suspect?’ he asked hopefully. If this was a settling of scores, local knowledge would probably win the day.

  ‘Not that I know of, sir. But I’m sure Sarge’ll have a few in mind,’ said the young man with a knowing smile.

  The telephone on Albert’s desk began to ring. It was Constable Wren calling from a telephone box.

  ‘Hello, is that Inspector Lincoln?’ he began, shouting into the mouthpiece so that Albert had to hold it a few inches from his ear.

  Once Albert had answered in the affirmative, the constable carried on. ‘You’ve been told about Bert Pretting?’

  ‘Yes, I heard as soon as I got back to the station. I believe Sergeant Teague’s dealing with the matter.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve asked Mrs Pretting to make a formal identification of the body and I thought you’d like to be there.’

  ‘Is that really necessary? Sounds like a local matter to me; can’t you and Teague deal with it? I’m here to investigate the Billinge case.’

  In the silence that followed, Albert could imagine the crestfallen look on Wren’s face. ‘It is a murder, sir. A stabbing. I thought you’d … I’m sure it’d reassure the widow if someone from Scotland Yard was present.’

  Albert examined his pocket watch. Half past two. He had plenty of time before Mrs Billinge arrived and he supposed there was a chance, albeit a very slim one, that this latest murder might be linked to the death of the man at the Devil’s Dancers. However, if it turned out to be a simple case of a drunken fight that had got out of hand, he would be able to leave the investigation to the locals.

  ‘Very well. I’ll come down to the mortuary.’

  ‘We’ll meet you there, sir.’

  Albert felt he had no choice if he was to keep the local force on his side. He looked up and saw that the youthful constable was still standing there to attention, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. He’d be too young to have been involved in the events of 1919, so this might be his first murder case.

  ‘What’s your name, Constable?’

  ‘Smith, sir. Daniel Smith.’

  ‘Well, Daniel Smith, it seems I’m needed at the hospital. Hold the fort here, will you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

  Albert set off, leaving Smith bristling with pride. At least he’d made one person happy that day. He trod the familiar route to the mortuary and found Wren waiting for him inside the entrance. With him was a small woman, not much more than five feet tall, with a slim, shapely figure. She was wearing a fashionable royal blue dress, low waisted with a hemline just on her knee, the outfit finished off by a pair of high-heeled patent leather shoes and a long string of white beads. Beneath her hat, her light brown hair was bobbed and straight, the latest fashion. He had seen women dressed similarly in London but somehow he hadn’t expected a clerk’s wife in Wenfield to be quite so stylish. She had a pretty face and her delicate features reminded him of a doll’s.

  He shook her hand, holding it for slightly longer than necessary. ‘Mrs Pretting, I’m Inspector Lincoln. Scotland Yard. I’m sorry we have to meet under such circumstances.’ He looked at Wren, who gave him a small nod. ‘Are you ready to go in?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I want to get it over with.’

  Albert allowed Wren to lead the way to the tiled room where the body lay covered by a sheet, reminding him of the last time he’d been there when he’d viewed the mortal remains of the man everyone assumed to be Henry Billinge MP. He would be there again in a few hours’ time with Mrs Billinge and the prospect made him feel slightly sick.

  When the sheet was drawn back he heard Mrs Pretting gasp.

  ‘That’s him. That’s my husband Bert.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  She nodded and drew a delicate lace handkerchief from her sleeve. It looked expensive and it crossed Albert’s mind that Bert Pretting must have been well paid because his wife appeared to have a taste for the finer things in life.

  ‘What happens now?’ she asked with a hint of a sob.

  ‘The constable will walk you home.’

  Albert looked into her eyes, expecting to see glassy tears.

  But there were none there.

  Chapter 24

  Mrs Billinge’s train was on time and Albert watched it chug into the station in a cloud of steam. It pulled up beside the platform with a hiss and there was a banging of doors as the passengers alighted under the station master’s watchful gaze.

  The last person to emerge was a tall woman with a long but attractive face. She wore a well-cut coat with a fox-fur stole draped around her neck, the unfortunate creature’s face and paws still visible and its glass eyes glistening. Like Mrs Pretting before her, her shoes were patent leather, only these were no doubt the dearest London had to offer. Her cloche hat was also the pinnacle of fashion and she was younger than Albert had expected. Probably in her thirties. She had the confident manner often endowed by the security of wealth and he remembered Sir William saying she was the daughter of a baronet. He took a step forward and removed his hat.

  ‘Mrs Billinge?’

  ‘You must be Inspector Lincoln.’ She studied him, her eyes drawn to the scarring on his face, then to his left hand. ‘You were in the war. Our country owes so much to men like you. Heroes.’

  Albert wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d known many a lot braver than himself.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. And thank you for making the journey up here. I’ve booked you into the Black Horse. It’s very clean and comfortable and the food is plain but well cooked.’ He paused. ‘I’m staying there myself.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ she said with a hint of humour. Something in her manner told Albert that she wasn’t exactly grief-stricken at the loss of her husband.

  ‘I’ll take you there now and you can get settled in. Mrs Jackson, the landlady, says she’ll do everything in her power to make you comfortable.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  She allowed him to carry her crocodile-skin suitcase and he led her out of the station and up the road. As he passed the doctor’s house he averted his eyes, avoiding the memories that had been flooding into his head ever since his arrival in Wenfield. He was almost glad that he had the responsibility of escorting Mrs Billinge to distract him.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of asking Mrs Jackson to provide an evening meal. I hope that’s in order.’

  As there had been no invitation forthcoming from Tarnhey Court, Albert had seen no alternative, but he thought it best not to mention it.

  ‘I’m sure it will be,’ Mrs Billinge replied, much to Albert’s relief.

  ‘Do you know the Cartwrights? The people your husband was staying w
ith?’

  ‘I’ve never actually met them, although Sir William and I spoke once on the telephone after my husband went missing.’ There was something guarded about her answer, as though Cartwright was more than merely a parliamentary acquaintance of her husband’s who was a stranger to her.

  ‘I did wonder if you’d prefer to stay with them at Tarnhey Court,’ he said, curious about the lack of invitation from the man her husband had been staying with.

  ‘No.’

  The monosyllabic answer told him the subject was closed. ‘When do I see my husband?’

  For a moment he had the impression she was talking about the man as though he was still alive. ‘Tomorrow morning. I can be there if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you. That will be a comfort.’

  When they reached the Black Horse, Albert went on ahead to smooth things with Mrs Jackson, who came out and greeted her new guest with almost simpering sympathy. If there was anything Mrs Billinge needed she had only to ask, Albert heard her say as she led the newcomer upstairs to her room, the best the Black Horse had to offer.

  Albert went up to his own room to prepare for dinner, putting on a clean shirt as he’d be in the company of a lady. On his return he’d half expected Mrs Jackson to present him with another letter from Vera. When he was away she usually considered it her duty to keep him abreast of any news from home. But to his relief there’d been nothing waiting for him, which meant he could forget his domestic worries for that evening. If anything was wrong, Vera would be sure to let him know.

  People tended to eat early in Wenfield and Mrs Jackson had the meal ready by six fifteen sharp. Albert and Mrs Billinge shared a table. She had shed the coat and fox fur and was wearing an emerald green dress of elegant simplicity, the sort of simplicity that doesn’t come cheap. When the dinner arrived, she pushed the braised steak and onions around her plate with her fork as though it was some unfamiliar and exotic dish she wasn’t quite sure she’d like. Eventually she tasted a forkful, then another, until the plate was clean.

  They ate in silence but as soon as she’d finished Albert spoke. ‘You enjoyed that. Mrs Jackson will be pleased.’

  ‘I haven’t eaten anything like it since I was in the nursery with my nanny.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘There’s something very comforting about childhood tastes, don’t you think?’

  Albert’s childhood had been tough; bread and dripping – poor man’s fare. But he nodded in agreement.

  ‘You’re sure this man you found is my husband, aren’t you?’ The question was forthright, almost blunt.

  ‘He matches your husband’s description and we think he died around the time he went missing from Tarnhey Court.’ Albert looked into her eyes and saw no shock or grief there. ‘Sir William viewed the body but was unable to make a positive identification. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Save your sympathy, Inspector. My husband and I weren’t exactly close. I lead my life and he leads – led – his.’

  ‘You have children?’ Albert asked, surprised by her candour.

  She shook her head. ‘We were never blessed. Perhaps that’s why we grew apart.’

  At that moment Mrs Jackson bustled up to take the plates and inform them she had jam roly-poly and custard for afters. More comforting nursery food. Mrs Billinge gave a brittle smile and said that would be lovely.

  When the pudding came she ate heartily. ‘I wish my cook in London was as good as Mrs Jackson,’ she said once she’d finished. ‘She’s a dab hand when it comes to dinner parties, but sometimes I long for something … simpler.’

  Albert said nothing. Fancy cooking had never been in Mary’s culinary repertoire and she’d never really mastered the more basic offerings either. The thought of his wife hit him with a jolt.

  ‘Are you married, Inspector?’ Mrs Billinge asked, almost as though she’d read his thoughts.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘No.’ He couldn’t face explaining about Frederick and his other lost son, so a negative answer was easier.

  He considered it was time to bring the conversation round to murder before she probed any further. ‘Did your husband have any enemies?’

  ‘He was a Member of Parliament. I would say making political enemies goes with the job. He’s very much for lowering the voting age for women to twenty-one, and that doesn’t go down well in some quarters.’ She took a gold cigarette case from her handbag and offered one to Albert. He accepted gratefully and delved in his jacket pocket for his lighter. But she produced her own first, gold encrusted with diamonds and sapphires, and lit Albert’s cigarette before her own.

  ‘I’m not talking about the cut and thrust of debate. I meant enemies who might want to kill him.’

  ‘As I said before, we lead our separate lives,’ she said, inhaling the smoke and blowing it out slowly. ‘All I can say is that I’m not aware of anybody. Certainly nobody up here.’

  ‘Do you know anybody called Clara?’

  For a moment her expression froze. Then she took another drag on her cigarette, perfectly composed. ‘We had a maid called Clara. Pretty little thing.’

  ‘You say had. Is she no longer with you?’

  Mrs Billinge looked Albert in the eye. ‘I suspected she was sleeping with my husband, Inspector. I caught them whispering together.’

  ‘Just whispering?’

  ‘They looked as though they were sharing secrets – things they were keeping from me. As far as I was concerned, that was enough. I told him she had to go.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he’d deal with the matter and assured me I had nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You didn’t believe him?’

  ‘Would you?’ She took a long drag on her cigarette then stubbed it out.

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘No. She was gone from under my roof and that was my one concern. What the silly floozy did after that is none of my business.’

  Albert couldn’t leave the subject there. Sir William and this woman’s husband had been overheard arguing about someone called Clara and he needed to know the truth.

  ‘You must have some idea what became of her. Perhaps you wrote a reference for a future employer?’

  ‘I left that to my husband. By that time I couldn’t bear the sight of her and the only character I’d have given her would have been a truthful one: “Don’t trust this girl and whatever you do, don’t leave her alone with your husband.”’

  She stubbed her cigarette out in the glass ashtray with a violence Albert found surprising. Despite her claim that there was no love between her and Billinge, it seemed his infidelity had bothered her very much indeed. From her manner, he assumed the subject was closed, but it turned out he was mistaken.

  ‘I suspect one of his friends found a position for the little tart. I heard Henry speaking on the telephone to somebody he addressed as William, and I’m not ashamed to say that I listened in on the conversation. I was standing at the top of the stairs so Henry didn’t know I was there.’ A satisfied smile appeared on her lips. ‘He was talking about Clara and he said I was making waves, as he put it. When the call ended he seemed very pleased with himself, so I presumed the matter had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion.’

  ‘Do you think he might have been speaking to Sir William Cartwright?’

  ‘It’s possible. I know they’ve been friends for a while. But I’m sure there are a lot of Williams about.’

  Albert pondered this as he finished his cigarette. Sir William said he’d never heard the name Clara, but now it seemed he might have been lying. He had another question: ‘Your husband was wounded in the war?’

  ‘Yes. Ypres. He was brought back to Blighty and treated at a hospital in Lincolnshire. Then he went back.’

  ‘Did he have shrapnel in his arm?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes. His right arm – and his leg, although they managed to get that out. He always said he was lucky. Not like some.’

  ‘Are you
sure it wasn’t his left arm?’

  She took the gold case out again and lit another cigarette. Again Albert accepted one, but this time he was ready with his lighter.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I fancy a drink. Will you keep me company?’

  Albert needed company himself, so he led the way into the little snug Mrs Jackson reserved for guests, relieved that the men from the mill hadn’t commandeered the space. The Black Horse didn’t run to cocktails or fine wines and he thought the limited choice of drinks might present difficulties – until Mrs Billinge requested half a pint of the local beer.

  They spent the rest of the evening talking about London and her childhood in Cheshire. He asked her if she knew Mabley Ridge and she said she did. She’d been brought up near Wilmslow and had taken walks on the Ridge with her parents as a child. She had stood on Oak Tree Edge and gazed at the mills of Manchester in the grey and smoky distance. Albert listened in silence as her words conjured memories of the previous September. He was a good listener, which had often proved an advantage in his job. When she asked him to call her Anne he knew he’d gained her trust and he hoped she’d have more to tell him. Things she hadn’t liked to reveal to a stranger. She retired to bed at half past nine, saying the day had tired her. Albert ordered another pint and sat down alone to consider what he’d learned.

  The next morning he met Anne Billinge at breakfast and once more they shared a table.

  But when they arrived at the mortuary he was quite unprepared for the shock he was to receive.

  Chapter 25

  Anne Billinge looked down at the body and shuddered. ‘I don’t know who this man is, but he definitely isn’t my husband.’

  Albert caught Teague’s eye and saw that the sergeant looked as confused as he felt. They’d both been sure the man in the cave was the missing MP but now the certainties of their case had been shattered.

  If this wasn’t Billinge then presumably the MP was still out there somewhere, alive or dead. They’d already checked with the station master, who’d confirmed that he hadn’t caught a train out of Wenfield so an accident remained a strong possibility. If he’d gone walking and fallen down an old mine working, he might never be found; Albert was reluctant to mention this possibility to the man’s wife until they’d exhausted all other possibilities.