The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  As soon as they reached Wenfield, Albert asked Sergeant Teague whether there were any letters for him. The sergeant produced a large envelope bearing a London postmark.

  Albert took it into his office and tore it open, impatiently scanning the contents. To his relief, the evidence was there: the handwriting on the letters found in the bottom of Rose Pretting’s wardrobe did not match that of Dr Ronald Kelly. In Mrs Greenbaum’s expert opinion, the letters had been written by Rose herself, slightly disguising her writing. Albert couldn’t help smiling as he returned the report to its envelope. Now all he had to do was make sure the jury believed in Mrs Greenbaum’s expertise.

  He checked his watch. It was too late to put the information before the court that day, so it would have to wait until tomorrow. But there was something else he could check in the meantime. He went to his office door and called to Teague to find him a magnifying glass. The sergeant looked puzzled but obliged without question. Once he’d gone, Albert made a detailed examination of the photograph he’d found at the Mabley Ridge cottage – the man who’d posed in the same Bold Street studio as Henry Billinge. And when he’d finished, he sat back in his seat, confident he now had the proof he needed.

  The couple he knew as the Ogdens were waiting in the cells and Albert saw no reason to delay the interview any longer. Half an hour later he was sitting opposite the woman in the claustrophobic room used to interview suspects. He’d been in that room before; he’d even faced the woman he’d loved across the same table when she’d been unmasked as a killer. The small windowless chamber held a lot of bitter memories, but at that moment he tried to forget them.

  He had the photograph from the Mabley Ridge cottage in his pocket and he placed it on the table in front of the woman. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It was found among your papers.’

  She gave a shrug.

  ‘This photograph was taken at a studio in Bold Street in Liverpool. That’s where you used to live.’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘My husband’s visited Liverpool on business, but I don’t know the city at all.’

  ‘And yet this photograph of a man was taken there and it was in your possession.’ He paused. ‘I’ve had a chance to study it in detail. The subject has a blemish on his right hand. Some sort of birthmark. It’s quite clear. The right hand of the dead man found naked and mutilated at the Devil’s Dancers bore an identical mark. The photograph is of that man. What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The maid, Mavis, told me about the birthmark Mr Jenkins had on his hand. Do I have to get her over here to identify the photograph – and identify you as the man’s wife and her previous employer?’

  Albert could tell the woman was searching frantically for a plausible answer. He folded his arms and leaned back, apparently relaxed. Eventually she spoke, the words flooding out.

  ‘How was I to know my husband had survived? I’d had a telegram from the War Office, telling me he was dead. I moved on with my life and married Alastair.’ She blushed. ‘Alastair and I had been … friends for a while when I received the news of Geoffrey’s death. We thought it would cause a scandal in Liverpool if I was seen to re-marry with such haste, so we came to Derbyshire where nobody knew us. Alastair had often visited the area as a child and said it was a lovely part of the world. Then a few weeks ago Geoffrey turned up out of the blue saying he’d survived but he’d lost his memory. I panicked. I’d claimed the insurance money and inherited all the money his father left him, and now I learned that I’d committed bigamy when I married Alastair. But honestly, Inspector, I had no idea he was still alive when we married. I swear I didn’t know until he turned up that evening. You have to believe me.’

  Albert looked her in the eye. ‘When Geoffrey was in hospital in Buxton he saw your photograph in a newspaper, along with Mr Ogden, who was a former employee at his father’s shipping company. Unlike your husband, Alastair Ogden hadn’t gone to war because of a health problem.’ He paused. ‘You were having an affair with him while your husband was away at the front. In my opinion, that’s pretty despicable behaviour.’

  ‘I was lonely.’

  ‘So were a lot of other women.’ Albert usually tried not to judge people but on this occasion he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Geoffrey had lost his memory but gradually he started to remember certain things about his former life – his house in Fulwood Park, for instance. He left hospital and set out to find you, and when he called at his old home the present tenant told him you’d moved to this area. Eventually he came to Wenfield where he was spotted by Alastair Ogden, who picked him up in his motor car. Ogden brought him home and the two of you decided to dispose of him.’

  Margaret Ogden didn’t bother with a denial. Instead she sat in silence with her head bowed.

  ‘It wasn’t the first time you’d killed to keep your secret, was it? Six months earlier you poisoned the Reverend Bell.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘That was Alastair. He panicked when the vicar came round saying he’d had a letter from my husband. I didn’t know how Geoffrey found out I was in the area, but he’d written to the vicar asking if I was living in his parish and enclosed a photograph of me on our wedding day; one that Geoffrey must have kept with him when he went to France. Mr Bell recognised it at once and came to see us. He said he hadn’t told anyone yet because it was his duty to respect confidences. But he told Alastair that unless we came clean he’d be obliged to inform the authorities.’

  ‘Why kill him?’

  ‘Alastair said we had no choice – the reverend was an honest man, we’d never be able to bribe him to keep quiet. And once he went to the authorities, not only would we have to give back the insurance money and the money I’d inherited that should have been Geoffrey’s, we would have been sent to prison for bigamy. If the truth came out, it would have ruined us.’

  ‘So you poisoned the vicar?’

  ‘No. I mean, Alastair did. I honestly didn’t know he’d done it. He didn’t tell me until afterwards, and I was horrified. You have to believe me.’

  ‘The vicar was given laudanum.’

  ‘I take it to help me sleep. Alastair told me he’d put some in the reverend’s whisky. When he left, it was beginning to affect him, but I tried to put it out of my mind. Alastair made sure he kept the letter and the photograph so there was no proof, and we hoped that was the end of the matter.’

  ‘Until your first husband turned up in Wenfield six months later. Did he recognise Alastair when he picked him up?’

  ‘He said he was sure he recognised him from somewhere and asked if he knew where I was, because he was looking for me. Alastair brought him home.’

  ‘And Geoffrey didn’t realise he was walking into a trap?’

  She bowed her head and Albert saw tears trickling down her cheeks.

  ‘It’s been a strain … living with what we’ve done.’

  ‘When Alastair brought him home, you told the maid to take time off to visit her sister. You didn’t want any witnesses to what you were about to do. What happened when you met Geoffrey?’

  ‘He just stood there as though he didn’t know what to say, but I could tell he’d recognised me. As the evening went on I realised how much he’d changed, not only in appearance but his whole manner. He was brusque, bad-tempered. Unpredictable. One moment he was trying to take my hand, the next holding his head and sobbing. I was afraid of what would happen if he found out Alastair and I were …’

  ‘War changes people. What did you do?’

  ‘We told Geoffrey he could stay while we worked out what to do. As far as Geoffrey was concerned, I was his wife and he expected me to look after him. He had a bath then he asked me to cut his hair. He said he’d been living rough for a few weeks while he was searching for me and he was tired of looking like a tramp. Then I gave him some of Alastair’s old clothes and once he was dressed he said he felt much better.’

  ‘You poisoned him.�
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  ‘He stayed with us about a week, but we realised we needed to deal with the situation. Geoffrey kept asking Alastair what he was doing there. I think he was starting to remember who he was. Alastair had worked at Geoffrey’s father’s firm, you see. That’s how we met. We both knew that if Geoffrey left the house he’d give the game away and ruin everything.’ Her eyes started to fill with tears of self-pity. ‘Alastair kept telling me that people go to prison for bigamy, but if Geoffrey was out of the way permanently then nobody need ever know and we’d be safe for ever. As far as the authorities were aware, Geoffrey was dead anyway. Alastair said that if I left them alone together he’d deal with the problem.’

  ‘So that’s what you did.’

  ‘I went up to bed and I thought they were having a drink together. I thought Alastair intended to buy him off.’

  ‘With money that was rightfully his?’

  She ignored the question. ‘I came downstairs just as they were both leaving the house. Alastair said Geoffrey wasn’t feeling well so he was taking him to see Dr Kelly. Only he told me later that he’d given him a large dose of laudanum and led him to the Devil’s Dancers. He waited until he was dead then he made sure nobody could identify him.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘It’s not my fault. It was all his idea.’

  ‘What about Bert Pretting?’

  She looked up, her expression suddenly dark. ‘He was a horrible man. He called at the house one day saying he recognised me from Liverpool. When he’d worked in insurance he’d called at our house in Fulwood Park to see Geoffrey on business. I remembered that I hadn’t liked him then. He was cocky, full of himself. He had no respect.’

  ‘So you killed him too.’

  ‘He started demanding money to keep silent. He said he’d seen Geoffrey getting into Alastair’s motor car and he’d recognised him as my husband. Said that if Geoffrey was still alive then Alastair and I must be living in sin – or worse, committing bigamy. We paid him. What else could we do?’

  ‘The trouble with blackmailers is that they keep coming back for more. You had to put a stop to it.’

  She shook her head. ‘Can you really imagine me stabbing someone in an alleyway?’

  ‘I expect you got Alastair to do it. He seems to have done all your dirty work, Mrs Jenkins.’

  ‘Alastair was with me all that night.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘You’ll have to take my word for it.’

  Albert leapt to his feet, sending his chair skidding backwards with a loud scraping sound on the linoleum floor.

  ‘I wouldn’t take your word for anything.’

  He strode out of the room, no longer able to face the woman who’d been complicit in the murder of her innocent husband and the gentle Reverend Bell. He knew he was going to have to break the news to Mrs Bell and it was something he was dreading.

  He told Smith to return the woman to the cells. His next task would be to interview Alastair Ogden, but before he faced him he needed a break. He returned to the Black Horse where Mrs Jackson looked surprised when he asked for a brandy.

  ‘We’re not serving yet, Inspector. You should know that.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’

  Mrs Jackson gave him a conspiratorial smile and went behind the bar to pour the drink.

  ‘On the house, sir,’ she said as Albert delved into his pocket. ‘You look as though you need it.’

  Chapter 76

  Rose

  My barrister came to tell me he had good news. He had a telephone call from Inspector Lincoln to say that there’s new evidence. Something to do with a handwriting expert from London. He didn’t give me any details but he said the inspector would bring the evidence to him in time for the trial tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to say my prayers like I used to when I was younger – before I met Bert who told me that sort of thing was rubbish and I was stupid for doing it.

  How I wish I could speak to my darling Ronald, but when he stands beside me in the dock he won’t look at me.

  Soon, though, we’ll be free to live and love as we choose.

  Chapter 77

  Margaret Ogden blamed Alastair Ogden, and Alastair Ogden blamed Margaret Ogden. According to him, she was a woman who could poison without conscience. He claimed he’d tried to stop her but she’d been determined. Poison was a woman’s weapon, wasn’t it? That proved he was telling the truth. She should be the one who was due for an appointment with the hangman, not him.

  With each blaming the other, Albert had no choice but to charge them both and leave it to the court to decide who was lying. Yet, to his surprise, although Ogden admitted that Pretting had been demanding money in return for his silence – bleeding them white was how he put it – they both denied his murder. Albert was tempted to add Pretting’s murder to the charge sheet, but something stopped him. He would hold that one in reserve.

  As for the case against Rose Pretting and Ronald Kelly, Mrs Greenbaum’s evidence appeared to prove that Rose was a fantasist, a woman whose miserable marriage had caused her to take refuge in stories of romance. The letters had been written by Rose herself, disguising her handwriting slightly so she could make believe they were written by a lover. It looked as though Dr Kelly was guilty of little more than the crime of being handsome, single and sympathetic. Rose had projected her dreams onto him and he probably hadn’t even been aware of it.

  He hoped Mrs Greenbaum’s expert evidence, together with the likelihood that the Ogdens had disposed of Bert Pretting because of his blackmail attempt, would be enough to see Rose and Kelly acquitted and released from custody the next day. However, it would depend on the judge and jury. In Albert’s experience, the justice system moved at the pace of a snail and could be unpredictable.

  He left the station without telling Teague where he was going and made his way back to the Black Horse. His fight with Stark on Oak Tree Edge had drained him of energy and he was desperate to return to his room and sleep, preferably after taking a bath to soothe his aching limbs.

  The green-tiled bathroom at the end of the upstairs corridor was shared with other guests, but there was nobody about so he ran the bath and relaxed in the warm water, eyes closed, thinking of the case. He hadn’t yet broken the news of the Ogdens’ arrest to Mrs Bell. She’d known her husband’s killers as a highly respectable couple; a pair she’d dined with at Tarnhey Court, which was bound to make the news even more shocking.

  But Mrs Bell would have to wait because first he had to attend court in Manchester to ensure Mrs Greenbaum’s evidence was heard. At least having so many things to occupy his mind stopped him brooding about the child he’d seen in Mabley Ridge – the boy with Flora’s eyes. He’d found his son at last and yet he had no idea what to do about the discovery.

  The water was growing cold, so he hauled himself out of the bathtub and reached for the towel, looking down at his scarred body and glad that the Jacksons hadn’t thought to provide a full-length mirror. His mangled leg ached as he dried himself and put on his clothes. The hot water had aggravated the sensitive flesh which stood out shiny and red. As he stared down at his injuries he felt a stab of despair. He’d almost been within touching distance of his lost son, the thing he’d dreamed about ever since he’d found out about the boy’s existence. It had seemed then that he had been given a chance, however small, of replacing his lost Frederick. But things were never that simple.

  He was unsure how Charlotte would react; she was the child’s mother now. Then there was Charlotte’s war hero husband. What would he think of a man who turned up out of the blue wanting a role in the boy’s life – carrying a reminder of the child’s unfortunate origins?

  He slept fitfully that night, Mrs Jackson’s sausage and mash, excellent though it was, lying heavy on his stomach. He had a nightmare about fighting Abraham Stark on Oak Tree Edge – a nightmare that ended in Albert plummeting to his death rather than the killer. He awoke suddenly with a looming sense of fear, as though he was in the presence of s
ome creeping unseen threat.

  When the morning came he dragged himself out of his twisted sheets, evidence of a restless night. He arrived downstairs to find that there was a new guest already tucking into his bacon and eggs. He didn’t look like the usual sort who visited the mills on business, and when Albert nodded to him the man stood up and walked across to his table.

  ‘You’re the Scotland Yard man, aren’t you? I understand you found Henry Billinge in a nice little love nest. Am I right?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  The man, young and florid in a checked suit, tapped the side of his nose. ‘I never reveal my sources. Am I right? I’d like to talk to the lady in question – hear her side of the story. In the interests of the public, of course. We need to know whether our politicians can be trusted, don’t we?’ He held out his hand. ‘Jerry Buckle, by the way. Manchester Clarion. Weren’t you the detective who arrested that Flora Winsmore back in 1919? I’m sure my readers would like the inside story of that particular case. Can we arrange an interview?’

  Albert ignored the question, but the man carried on. ‘And I hear you’ve charged someone with the murder of that tramp they found in the cave. Are you going to tell me who it is?’

  ‘The press’ll be informed in due course.’

  Albert stood up just as Mrs Jackson bustled in with his breakfast. ‘Sorry, Mrs Jackson. I’ve got to go.’

  He saw the look of disappointment on the reporter’s face but going hungry was preferable to enduring one minute more in his company. He made straight for the station where he rushed into his office and slumped in his seat, surprised that the encounter with the reporter had disturbed him so much. He was used to hard-faced journalists at Scotland Yard – Fleet Street was full of them. But something Buckle said had got to him. Perhaps it was the mention of Flora, a subject still as raw as the flesh on his injured leg.