The Corpse Wore Red

by Pat Herbert

  “Please, come in, Mrs Drake. Take a seat, won’t you?”

  She sank down gratefully into the well-worn armchair by the roaring fire. This was the chair usually containing his friend Robbie in the evenings when they liked to talk over a whisky or two, smoke their pipes, and generally put the world to rights. Robbie also liked to play chess, but Bernard invariably lost and, as a consequence, hated the game. Today, although the person in that chair was much prettier than Robbie, she certainly wasn’t happier.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Bernard kindly.

  “No, no thank you, vicar. I don’t want to take up too much of your time – I know you’re a busy man.”

  “I always have time for my parishioners whenever they need me. That’s what I’m here for. Let me get Mrs Aitch to make you some tea.”

  Although it was nearly time for his dinner, Bernard could see the poor woman had a lot to say, and a pot of tea would certainly be needed. Mrs Aitch would understand.

  It was obvious that she didn’t, but she made the tea anyway. If his dinner was ruined, that was his look out.

  “Now, Mrs Drake, how can I help you?”

  Flora sipped the hot tea, realising just how much she needed it. “I – I’m not sure you can, vicar. That’s why I’m afraid I’ll be wasting your time. But I just needed to talk to someone not…. not connected with the family, if you see what I mean. Someone who’s objective.”

  “It’s about your husband, I take it.”

  “Y-yes. You’ve obviously seen the papers. And the news on the wireless. It’s no secret.”

  Bernard didn’t know what to say. He sat down in his customary chair and reached for his pipe. “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “No – not at all. I like the smell of a pipe.”

  “A man should have a hobby, as someone once said,” said Bernard, at a lame attempt at humour.

  “Er, quite.” His humour was, naturally, lost on her. “I know my husband is innocent, vicar. He could never have killed that girl. He hasn’t got a nasty bone in his body. It’s not in him.”

  “The jury found him guilty,” said Bernard, stating a fact that Mrs Drake of course knew. He felt totally out of his depth.

  “Juries can be wrong! They’ve been wrong in the past. Look at Timothy Evans.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Bernard. “That was a miscarriage of justice, I agree.”

  “The evidence was all circumstantial. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I like you, Mrs Drake, and I like your husband too. I don’t really think he’s a murderer either. But I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “They’re going to hang him, vicar,” said Flora, suddenly bursting into tears. “He – he hasn’t even seen his child. He – he was only born last month.”

  Bernard felt even more sorry for her at hearing this. It should be a time of such joy, the birth of a baby. He couldn’t even congratulate her.

  “I want him to see his lovely boy,” she said, tears standing in her eyes. “You must save him. They’ll listen to you!”

  Bernard doubted that very much. He wasn’t even sure who ‘they’ were. He needed to talk to Robbie. Maybe he could suggest something. As he showed Mrs Drake out, he made a vow to do what he could for her and the baby. If Howard Drake was hanged, they would need all the help they could get.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, there was a tap on the vicarage back door that led straight into the kitchen and Nancy Harper’s domain. That lady was in the process of rolling out some short crust pastry, as Lucy Carter’s tear-stained face peered in through the side window.

  “You there, Nance?” she called, tapping again, anxious to be let in out of the miserable sleet that had started to fall. It was difficult to tell what looked more miserable – the sleet or her face. Nancy unlatched the door with a sigh. It was crying-on-shoulder time again, she could tell. Robbie’s housekeeper bent the vicar’s housekeeper’s ear at least once a week on average, usually about the failings of her employer. Nancy had heard it all over and over again and, as much as she liked Lucy, she was getting a little tired of giving her tea and sympathy.

  “Come in, come in,” said Nancy brusquely. “Let me finish this pie first. You can put the kettle on while I’m doing it. Make yourself useful.”

  Lucy dabbed her eyes and reached for the kettle. “Thanks, Nance.”

  Mrs Harper sniffed and smashed the rolling pin down on the inoffensive pastry.

  Once the pie was in the oven and the tea poured out, there was nothing for it but to listen to Lucy’s latest tale of woe. “Well, what is it this time?” said Nancy, trying not to sound too harsh. Robbie’s housekeeper needed to assert herself a bit more; she was nothing but a doormat, in Nancy Harper’s opinion.

  “He’s taken this woman out to that new Italian restaurant in the High Street,” Lucy began. “Bold as brass she is. Came knocking at the door, said she’d wait for him. I never knew nothing about it, Nance. I’d cooked his dinner and everything. This woman tells me he’s expecting her. I made her wait in the waiting room. There weren’t any patients left and I’d turned off the fire so it was cold in there. Mind you, she’d turned it back on. The cheek of it!”

  “Calm down, Luce, for Gawd’s sake. Now, who is this woman?”

  “Blowed if I know. She drove up in a car. Drove herself. Whatever next!”

  “Well it’s not un’eard of for women to drive these days,” Nancy pointed out. “You can’t condemn ’er for that.”

  “No, well, it’s a bit lah-di-dah, though, isn’t it?”

  “That’s as maybe. It’s ’ow the other ’alf lives, or so I been told,” said Nancy.

  “Anyway, she sits herself down to wait for him,” Lucy continued. “So I leave her to it. Then he comes back and takes her straight out. I threw his dinner in the bin.”

  “Yeah, well I suppose you might as well if ’e’s eating out. What’s she like this latest one, then?”

  Lucy started to cry again.

  “Come on, Luce, you been ’ere many times before. Time you learned that your doc is never gonna make an honest woman out of yer.” Nancy passed a fresh handkerchief to her. “Drink yer tea, ducks. It’s getting cold.”

  Lucy blew her nose and took up the fast cooling tea. “I know you’re right, Nance, but what can I do? He only has to snap his fingers.”

  “Well, you’re the only one who can do anything about that, Luce. Come on, what’s this one like?”

  “Oh, I suppose you’d say she was attractive, if you like that sort thing.” She finished her tea, and bit on a custard cream. “Got airs and graces, she has. And as for the scent she was wearing – fair knocked me over it did.”

  “Don’t sound like she’ll go the distance,” said Nancy, pouring out some more tea and replenishing the biscuits. Lucy’s broken heart didn’t seem to have affected her appetite anyway. “She sounds a bit too flighty for the likes of ’im. I shouldn’t worry.”

  “It’s all very well for you to say, but I can tell he’s besotted with her.”

  “Yeah, well, rose-coloured whatsits and all that.” Nancy checked the oven. The pie was rising nicely. “Once the gilt’s worn off, you’ll see ’e’ll be sniffin’ round you again. If it were me I’d kick ’is backside into the middle of next week. More tea?”

  “Go on,” said Lucy, drying her eyes. “Maybe we can ask old Annie to read the tea leaves for me… if she’s still here.”

  “Still ’ere? ’Course she’s bloomin’ well still ’ere. Don’t wanna go ’ome, that one. Likes my grub too much.”

  Anbolin Amery-Judge did indeed like Mrs Harper’s ‘grub’ a bit too much. Now, in the third week of January, her Christmas visit was looking a little bit overstretched. Although she would never admit it, Nancy liked having her around, as did Bernard, so there seemed no real hurry to send her on her way.

  “I don’t think she reads tea leaves,” said Nancy, pouring more hot water into the teapot. “We could ask ’er, I s’pose.�
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  As she said this, a diminutive, plump figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hello, girls,” she greeted them. “Did I hear my name being taken in vain?”

  “Just wondered if you ever read the tea leaves,” said Nancy.

  “Me? Read tea leaves? Not likely. That’s for amateurs and charlatans. Same goes for the Tarot, before you ask.”

  She came over to the table and sat down between them. Nancy poured her a cup of tea and opened a new packet of biscuits. Anbolin put two in her mouth at once: it was big enough. “Why d’you want me to read tea leaves?” she said through a mouthful of crumbs, some of which landed on the table. She scooped them up quickly and put them back in her mouth.

  “I want to know what to do about Dr MacTavish,” said Lucy, a couple of tears escaping down her rosy cheeks.

  “Do about him? In what way?” asked Anbolin, shoving two more custard creams into her mouth.

  “He – he keeps seeing other women,” said Lucy, “although he still – you know –”

  “I know?” Anbolin, who certainly knew the state of affairs between Robbie and Lucy, decided to tease her a little.

  Lucy squirmed. Nancy, seeing her friend’s discomfort, chipped in. “Come off it, Annie,” she said crossly. “You know what she means.”

  Anbolin smiled. Her cheeky face looked even cheekier. “Sorry, love,” she said to Lucy, patting her hand. “You don’t have to spell it out.”

  “Well, what can I do? Can you help me?”

  “I’m not a miracle worker, you know,” said Anbolin gently. “I’d give him the order of the boot, if I were you. Next time he comes creeping round you, tell him where to go.”

  “How can I do that? He employs me – not the other way round.”

  “You have the right to refuse – er, certain favours, whether you’re his employee or not,” said Anbolin reasonably. “You can be polite but firm.”

  “But I – I love him!” Lucy burst into tears.

  “Oh, for Gawd’s sake, Luce, get a hold of yourself, will yer?” said Nancy Harper, taking her pie out of the oven. It was done to a turn.

  16th March 1957: Scarborough

  Danny Blowers had the sort of cheeky face that most young girls fell for. A bonny Yorkshire lad, content to drift from job to job and consequently, from girl to girl. At present he was employed as casual kitchen staff at the Cumberland Hotel in Scarborough, a job he liked particularly as there were plenty of women passing through. That’s how he liked them. Temporary – the more temporary the better. Overnight stayers were especially attractive to him, as long as they weren’t with their husbands, of course.

  There were also the outside waitresses that turned up from time to time when there were business conferences on. He had noticed one particular waitress right from the start. A pretty brunette, full of herself, but lovely with it. Then there was her friend. She wasn’t so attractive, but looked quite nice too. She had a kind face, soft and gentle with full lips. He liked full lips, like the stars on the screen, especially his favourite, Diana Dors. He could never understand why blokes worked their socks off in city jobs all day, requiring brain work in confined spaces, when they could be enjoying their freedom doing what they liked when they liked. Okay, so some of the jobs he did were menial, but what did that matter? He liked working with his hands, especially as his brain wasn’t his best feature.

  He was waiting for Alice Troy to finish clearing up after the reception party for all those stuffed shirts. He hadn’t been on duty during the day, so he didn’t have an opportunity to introduce himself to her. He leaned up against the side door to the kitchen, waiting for her to come to the dustbins which she inevitably would before she finished.

  But it wasn’t the lovely Alice who was on bin duty that night. May Stubbs appeared instead, carrying a large sack which she carefully placed in one of the empty bins. As she turned, Danny stepped in front of her.

  He raised his felt cap jauntily to reveal a mop of curly brown hair. “Hello, flower,” he said with a winning smile. “What’s your name?”

  May, instantly in love, played it cool. “What’s it to you?” she said, trying to appear unconcerned, as if she was used to men accosting her. Was her luck changing at last? He was the handsomest boy she’d ever seen and that included Dirk Bogarde who she’d fallen in love with last week at the pictures.

  “Just like to know the names of all the pretty girls around here,” he said. He began to like the look of her even more now that he was closer to her. Her legs were a bit thick, and she was erring a little on the plump side, but otherwise she wasn’t at all bad. Not bad at all. She had lovely long eyelashes and her hair was a nice shade of honey blonde. No doubt the prettier one had got a better offer by now anyway.

  May touched her hair and blushed. Luckily it was dark so he couldn’t see her embarrassment. “You’re a cheeky one and no mistake,” she said, trying not to giggle. “It’s May if you want to know.”

  “May,” he said, considering how it sounded on his tongue. “Nice name.”

  24th January 1958: Lewisham

  Beattie Driver put the lead around her excited dog’s neck. She never managed to clip it on properly until she had given him a biscuit to distract him from the interesting fingers that were fiddling around his throat. Starveling also knew that lead, collar and fingers meant ‘walkies’ which caused him to jump up and down in ecstatic joy, making it even harder for her to attach his collar.

  Her dog, like most dogs, always loved his walks, no matter what the weather. Beattie, on the other hand, disliked walking at the best of times, her arthritis tending to make the experience difficult and painful. Today, she could see through the kitchen window, was one of those overcast, drizzly, sleety ones, the kind that made you feel practically suicidal by five o’clock in the evening. It was ten past five now and already dark. But Starveling needed his exercise, so she put on her hat, coat and scarf, remembering to take her gloves this time, and opened the front door.

  As it was cold and miserable, she thought she would just take him around the block and through the cemetery like she had done the day before. It would have to do for tonight. She would take him for a longer walk tomorrow morning, she promised, if it stopped sleeting by then.

  As they entered the cemetery gates, she recalled Starveling’s strange behaviour at the graveside of that young girl. Everything had been fine until they had come to her grave. When she read the inscription on the headstone, she remembered the sensation caused by the murder of Alice Troy a few months ago. She had gone straight home and fished out all her old newspapers which she never seemed to get around to throwing away. It hadn’t taken her long to find the reports she was looking for. She reread all the details of the murder and the subsequent trial of the accused with relish. It fascinated her, like all murders did. But seeing the girl’s grave somehow made this one more real for her, so she was twice as fascinated by it all. She was never happier than when sitting by the fire, Starveling at her feet, head buried in the latest Agatha Christie. But a real-life murder that had taken place just down the road in Catford, was much more interesting than anything Miss Marple could offer.

  Lost in thought, she headed down the path that led to the grave in question. It took some time before she realised her poor dog was howling beside her, tugging at his lead.

  “Oh, for goodness sake, boy,” she remonstrated. “What the matter with you? It’s just the grave of a poor girl who was murdered. Nothing to get upset about. She can’t hurt you, poor thing.”

  Starveling, being a dog, didn’t understand what she was saying. Instead, he howled even louder.

  “Oh, all right,” sighed Beattie. “We’re going. Just wanted to see the grave again.”

  Starveling, still a dog, didn’t understand that either. He just wanted to get as far away as possible from that graveside.

  ***

  Half an hour later, Beattie was back in front of the fire with her feet up. She had given Starveling a rub down with his favourite towel a
nd he was once again a contented canine. He rolled over in front of the fire to warm his tummy. His owner stretched out a stockinged foot and tickled him. He whined in pleasure.

  She picked up her library book and opened it at the embroidered bookmark her daughter had given her for her last birthday. It was so pretty and each time she opened a book and saw it there she thought of Rosie miles away in New Zealand, married with a family of her own. Two little boys, three and five-years old, neither of whom she had never seen. One day, she promised herself, she would visit them all. Her son-in-law had offered to send her the fare, but she couldn’t leave her dog, could she?

  She read about three paragraphs and found that Hercule Poirot wasn’t doing it for her this evening. For once, his ‘little grey cells’ were getting on her nerves. She put the book down and got up. She went over to the sideboard and opened the top drawer. Inside were the newspapers that she had been reading the night before.

  Sitting down again, she rifled through the papers, and studied the photograph of the man convicted of her murder. He looked so nice, so handsome. His eyes were soft and gentle, his mouth full and generous. How could someone who looked like that be capable of murder, she wondered. It didn’t look as if he had it in him. He was a married man, too. She could only imagine what his poor wife must be going through. He was going to be hanged. She read for a little while, still fascinated by all the details that had found their way into the press. Then she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. It was time for her evening cup of tea. She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  As it boiled, she thought about Howard Drake. There was no accounting for appearances, she supposed. She remembered a film she had seen several years ago which had starred baby-faced Richard Attenborough as a cold-blooded killer. He looked so innocent. Still, that was only a film, of course. When the tea was mashed, she brought the tray back to the fireside. She sipped it slowly, blowing on it to cool it down.