After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery)

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  He took a cigarette from the box, put it on the table beside the sofa and indicated the vacant space. ‘Here you are.’

  He lit her cigarette and, lighting one himself, stood back with an encouraging smile.

  Betty Wingate sat down, crossed her legs, drew deeply on her cigarette and braced herself, her eyes defiant. ‘The thing is, Mr Haldean, although everyone says I let my imagination run away with me, I know what I saw in Signora Bianchi’s cottage.’

  Jack drew up a chair. ‘Miss Wingate,’ he said, his eyes bright, ‘you have my complete attention. Tell me what you saw.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It happened last Saturday …’

  It was getting dark as Betty Wingate alighted from the Portsmouth train at Whimbrell Heath that Saturday evening. She’d spent the afternoon in Hindhead, visiting Doris Beckett, a fellow ex-Rotherdean girl.

  Doris had been married for six months and, once she learned Betty was living in Whimbrell Heath, had begged her to come for the day to see her, her new house and her new husband. Doris couldn’t understand why Betty hadn’t been before, but it wasn’t as easy as Doris thought to abandon Aunt Maud. There always seemed to be some reason why she was needed at Whimbrell House. However, Aunt Maud had reluctantly spared her, and it had been a golden afternoon.

  She picked her way down the cobbled walkway by the side of the station and crossed the noisy little River Whimm by the wooden footbridge to Bridge Street, where a straggle of cottages marked the outskirts of the village.

  It was a chilly spring evening. In the distance, she could see the lights of the Brown Cow. Outside the pub, a group of five or six men, Luke Padbury and his friends, were laughing and talking loudly. Her heart sank. Padbury’s crowd shouted and wolf-whistled at any passing girl and Betty hated it.

  She certainly didn’t want to walk past them, so she turned down Greymare Lane, which ran round, rather than through, Whimbrell Heath. It was a longer way home, but at least there were no pubs on Greymare Lane. In fact there wasn’t much of anything on Greymare Lane. The occasional cottage was interspersed with fenced-in stretches of scrub and trees; the sun was close to the horizon now and the fast-darkening spring sky made the trees into clumps of rustling inky blackness.

  As the keen wind whipped round her, Betty shivered and half-wished she’d kept to Bridge Street, rather than choosing to walk along this dirt-track road on a muddy grass verge with a deep ditch beside her. This would be pretty enough in daylight, she supposed, with the branches meeting over the road, but it was dark under the trees and, she admitted to herself, just a little bit scary.

  ‘Like one that on a lonely road doth walk in fear and dread,’ she quoted to herself. Why on earth had that come to mind? Doris, of course. They’d laughed at the memory of Miss Fitzwilliam, their old English teacher, an intense woman with hair that was always escaping from a bun in an untidy straggle.

  Miss Fitzwilliam had taught them ‘The Ancient Mariner’. Betty had had to recite those lines in class. Almost despite herself, she couldn’t resist completing the verse drummed into her years ago. ‘And having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head. Because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread …’

  It was, under the encroaching trees, an unsettlingly appropriate piece of verse. She stepped off the soft grass of the verge and walked across a side road that ran onto Greymare Lane, almost expecting to hear footsteps behind her.

  For Pete’s sake, this was crazy! She’d be giving herself nightmares soon. There were no fiends, fearful or otherwise, and she was being silly.

  Prove it. Look behind you! The childish pantomime chant seemed like a dare. She got to the verge on the other side of the turning, took a deep breath, stopped and looked round.

  Nothing. Nothing at all, but the lonely road and the trees and, a little way off the road, among the trees, the darker bulk of a cottage. With a surge of relief she suddenly knew exactly where she was. This side road was Pollard Wynd.

  Pollard Wynd ran from Greymare Lane into the village proper, where there were shops, houses and people, and that cottage she could see through the trees was Signora Bianchi’s.

  She turned up Pollard Wynd. Partly to take her mind off how dark and lonely it was in the twilight and partly because she was genuinely intrigued, she thought about Signora Bianchi.

  There was no doubt about it, the woman was a puzzle. Colin aside (it was a big aside!), she had to admit that Signora Bianchi was glamorous, charming, beautifully dressed and, apparently, had something that was referred to as ‘A Past’. ‘She calls herself a widow,’ Aunt Maud said icily, ‘and exactly why she’s come here is a complete mystery.’

  It was a mystery. Whimbrell Heath, a sprawling village on the verge of becoming a town, was being vigorously developed. It was less than an hour to London by train, and new houses, with all modern conveniences, such as bathrooms, electricity, gardens and tennis courts, were springing up like mushrooms. At the far end of the village what the builders called amenities, such as new shops and a golf course were planned. The Electric Theatre, which had catered to Whimbrell Heath’s cinema-going public since 1913, had changed its name to The Palace, with a new façade to match. There was even talk of a lido.

  There would be no mystery if Signora Bianchi lived amongst the newly arrived, but instead she lived in old Whimbrell Heath, in a pokey cottage amongst the fields at the end of Pollard Wynd.

  ‘There’s those who live on the wages of sin, Miss,’ said Mrs Cosby, the cook, who was of an Evangelical turn of mind. ‘I couldn’t rest easy in my bed, even if I did have fur coats and jewels, knowing how they’d been come by.’

  As a solicitor’s daughter, Betty had heard enough tales from the law-courts to give her a reasonable grounding in some of the wages of sin. How Signora Bianchi paid for her mouth-watering sable coat was her own affair, but her relationship with Colin was a different matter. He seemed to be enthralled by the woman.

  He’d been seen going in and out of her cottage at all sorts of odd times and yet refused point blank to speak about her. All he would say was that Signora Bianchi was misunderstood, the classic excuse of the besotted.

  With characteristic directness, Betty had asked Colin outright why Signora Bianchi had come to live in Whimbrell Heath. Was it, she asked, to be near him?

  Colin came as near to losing his temper as she’d ever known. It had come to something if a man couldn’t have a few friends without being subject to constant gossip. Just because a woman was good looking and didn’t see fit to tell everybody her business, everyone thought the worst and Betty was as bad as any of them. Signora Bianchi could live anywhere she chose without having to account for herself and that was that. Oh, and by the way, the gossip mongers could have some time off because Signora Bianchi was going away for a few days. They’d have to find someone else to pick on.

  Betty stopped by the front gate of Signora Bianchi’s cottage. It was lighter here, out of the shadow of the trees. It was a modest Victorian cottage with lead-paned windows and a tiny front garden, filled with the yellows and blues of spring. She could just about make out the colours in the last remnants of daylight. It would be dark inside the house. No wonder there was a light in the window …

  Light? Hold on a minute, what light? Colin had said Signora Bianchi was away, but there was a light, a moving light, an oil lamp at a guess, behind the red-curtained window. Betty felt a grim suspicion growing. Colin had said – made a point of saying, perhaps? – that Signora Bianchi was away. So who was in the cottage? Could it be Signora Bianchi? And could she be with Colin?

  Betty put her hand on the latch of the gate, then hesitated. Even if Colin and Signora Bianchi were in there, it really wasn’t any of her business.

  The light was steady now. Someone had put the lamp down.

  Something brushed against her leg and she gasped in fright. A plaintive meow sounded and Betty slumped in relief. A large tabby cat ran past her up the garden path to the front door. It sat on the step, t
urned its head to Betty, meowed again, then scratched at the door with another meow.

  That settled it. It was only neighbourly – wasn’t it? – for a passer-by to knock on the door and tell the householder that the cat wanted to come in. No one could object to that.

  Betty’s arguments didn’t actually convince her, but she was inquisitive enough to act, all the same. Without further ado, she unlatched the gate, walked up the path and knocked on the door.

  To cover her nervousness, she bent down and scratched the tabby’s head. The tabby purred loudly, then, in a move obviously born of long practice, rose up on its back legs, rattled the latch and pushed at the door with its front paws. The door creaked open a couple of inches and the cat vanished into the dark hallway.

  She really did have to say something now. If Signora Bianchi came into the hall and found she’d apparently opened the door without invitation, she would have every right to be annoyed. She had to explain about the cat.

  ‘Signora Bianchi!’ Betty called, opening the creaking door. She could see a wedge of light spilling round the parlour door. ‘Signora Bianchi!’

  There was silence.

  ‘Signora Bianchi?’ Betty called again.

  The wedge of light abruptly disappeared.

  It was so unexpected, Betty felt a little jolt of fear. Why didn’t Signora Bianchi answer her? ‘Signora Bianchi,’ she called once more.

  Again there was silence.

  Betty swallowed. It couldn’t be burglars, could it? It seemed so unlikely at this end of Whimbrell Heath. What could there be worth stealing in a cottage? On the other hand, Signora Bianchi was such an unlikely person to have rented the cottage, someone might have decided to see what they could pick up.

  With the dim light from the open front door behind her, she walked to the parlour, knocked on the door, pushed it open and called, ‘Hello!’

  The door swung open and Betty stepped into the room.

  The room was pitch dark. There was an odd smell in the parlour, a smell that reminded her of hospitals. She stopped, and from somewhere in the darkness came a soft breath.

  She was suddenly very, very frightened.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called, her voice quavering.

  Again, she heard that soft breath.

  Betty gulped. It wouldn’t be so bad if she could see. She backed towards the door, fumbling in her bag for a box of matches. Her nerves made her clumsy. The matches spilled on the floor and she stooped down, groping on the floor to find one.

  She heard the creak of a floorboard and, nearly on the point of panic, found a match and managed to strike it on the floorboard.

  She held up the light. In its brief glare, she saw someone sitting on the sofa.

  The match went out.

  Betty fumbled for another match. ‘Who’s there?’ she called again as she ran her hands across the floor.

  Maybe it was Signora Bianchi on the sofa. Maybe Signora Bianchi had come home and been taken ill. Maybe she couldn’t speak, poor woman, and was waiting for someone to come to her aid. Maybe …

  Betty found another match, struck it, held it aloft and screamed.

  There was a woman on the sofa. In the brief flare of the match, Betty saw a face from a nightmare.

  The woman’s eyes were bulging, her face was mottled blue, her wide-open mouth was flecked with blood and her tongue protruded at a ghastly angle.

  Betty dropped the match and, in that same instant, knew there was someone behind her. A strong arm came round her shoulders and a sickly smelling cloth was clamped to her mouth.

  Betty struggled and tried to scream once more, frantically trying to break free of the clutching hands. The hands were strong, very strong. She wanted to fight, but her limbs felt as helpless as a rag doll’s and she couldn’t breathe …

  She awoke with panic coursing through her. She tried to move but her arms and legs felt leaden. There was a horrible taste in her mouth and her stomach heaved as if she was going to be sick.

  Fighting down the sensation, she scrunched her eyes shut and consciously lay still, her breath coming in little shallow gasps. She was lying on her side on the floor.

  Cautiously she opened her eyes again. The room was dark, but there was a faint patch of light from the curtained window. She reached out a hand and felt the knotted fringe of a rug.

  Something soft pushed against her hand. She gave an involuntary yelp of fear and started away. The soft something pushed against her again.

  She suddenly realised it was the cat and nearly laughed in relief. The sound came as a harsh croak. Her mouth was horribly dry and tasted foul.

  The cat rubbed itself along her, purring loudly. Betty rested her hand on the sofa for a moment before pushing herself unsteadily to her knees. With one hand on the wall, she managed to stand upright.

  She took a couple of faltering steps across the floor to where she knew the door was, and, with the cat wrapping itself around her legs, managed to get across the room, into the hall and into the kitchen.

  The kitchen curtains were drawn back and the scudding moonlight showed her the sink. Moments later she had reached the tap and was gulping water from her cupped hand.

  With the water came strength. She bowed her head, resting it on the cold stone of the sink, letting the splash of the water from the tap soothe her forehead. She gripped the sink, trying to think what to do.

  It was cold in the kitchen, colder even than in the parlour. She bit back a cry as something flapped on the floor. The cat pounced and she realised the flapping thing was nothing more than the kitchen rug, stirring in the draught that swept across the floor.

  Giddy with relief, she raised her head and realised, with a little shock, that the kitchen door was open. Then she heard a sound that made her senses flare into terrified life.

  Someone was crunching up the path outside the kitchen door.

  With a whimper of terror, Betty flung herself out of the kitchen and into the hall, sheer panic swamping all thought and all sensation in blind terror. She scrambled to the front door, sobbing in relief as it opened.

  Minutes before she could hardly walk, yet now she ran, fear fuelling her muscles, hurtling herself down the path, along Pollard Wynd and back to the village, not seeing anything but the path in the moonlight.

  She must’ve been two hundred yards away from the cottage before her legs gave out. She managed to stagger a few more feet to a lamp-post and leaned against it, fighting for breath.

  It seemed to take ages for her mind to stop whirling. She knew she should get help. She should tell the police, but that meant Constable Shaw, and his cottage was up the hill at the far end of Whimbrell High Street. She simply couldn’t face the walk.

  A moving light briefly lit up the sky and, from somewhere out of sight, came the distant sound of a car engine, growing louder against the silence of the sleeping village streets.

  The headlights illuminated the stone of the houses at the top of the road. Summoning up her strength, Betty staggered into the road, waving for the car to stop.

  The car, an open tourer, pulled up to the kerb.

  ‘Betty?’ the driver called in astonishment. ‘Betty? What on earth are you doing here?’

  It was Colin Askern. He climbed out of the car and came towards her. ‘Betty, are you all right? What are you doing out alone at this time? It’s way past midnight. You ought to be at home.’

  Betty tried to speak, couldn’t, and, much to her distress, burst into floods of tears.

  Colin drew back in alarm. ‘What the devil’s happened?’

  Betty reached out her hand to him. ‘Colin! It was dreadful!’ Tears overwhelmed her again.

  Colin took her hand, then, after a moment of indecision, put his arm around her shoulders and took a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Here, use this. Tell me what’s happened.’ He gazed at her sharply. ‘Has someone attacked you?’

  Betty nodded and Colin, with startled apprehension, drew back again. ‘Look, perhaps you’d better tell th
em all about it at home. Get in the car. I’ll run you home.’

  ‘It’s murder!’ Betty gasped desperately. ‘Signora Bianchi.’

  ‘What?’ She saw his face, ghastly in the moonlight. He seized her shoulders. His thumbs pressed hard through her coat and she knew he was within an ace of shaking her. ‘Betty! What d’you mean? What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s Signora Bianchi,’ Betty said miserably. ‘I’ve just come from her cottage. She’s been murdered. She’s on the sofa in the parlour.’

  ‘No,’ said Colin, in a dazed voice. ‘No, she can’t have been. Get in the car, Betty,’ he said abruptly. ‘You wait here. I’ve got to see about this.’

  Exhausted, she gratefully allowed herself to be escorted to the car, where she sat slumped in the passenger seat.

  ‘Stay there,’ said Colin, taking a rubber torch from the driver’s door. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  Betty put her head back against the cool leather of the seat. She didn’t exactly fall asleep, but drifted into semi-wakefulness.

  She came to with a start when Colin climbed into the seat beside her. ‘Well?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said curtly, throwing the torch into the pocket on the door. ‘The cottage is locked up, tight as a drum, but I shone the torch through the windows. I could see the sofa in the parlour as plain as day and there’s nothing out of place. That damn cat gave me a dickens of a turn. It came clawing at my ankles when I was looking through the window, little beast.’

  ‘So you don’t know if there’s anything there or not?’

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ said Colin shortly, starting the car. ‘You’ve had a bad dream, Betty. That’s the only explanation. It beats me what you were doing in Signora Bianchi’s cottage in the first place.’

  ‘I saw a light,’ Betty said wearily. ‘I saw a light and then the cat opened the door.’

  Colin paused with his hand on the gear lever. ‘The cat opened the door? Betty, are you feeling all right? You’re not ill, are you?’