The Corpse Wore Red

by Pat Herbert

She shrugged happily. “I was bored. I needed something to do. I’ve no need to work because my ex-husband is supporting me, but I want to contribute something to society.”

  “But why prison?” She hadn’t even chosen a women’s prison. “Why not hospital visiting? They surely deserve it more than criminals.”

  “Not such a challenge,” she said. “Besides, when people are ill, I’m not sure I’m the right person to be with. I can’t stand illness. I usually get impatient with them and tell them to snap out of it.” Robbie was taken aback. A woman who couldn’t stand illness wasn’t exactly the ideal doctor’s wife.

  “Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was…” Celia licked her fingers and screwed up the newspaper with the remains of her meal inside it.

  “Yes?”

  “I met that Howard Drake this morning.”

  “Howard Drake?”

  “Surely you’ve read about him in the papers or heard it on the wireless?”

  Howard Drake’s name again, he thought crossly. Why did everyone seem so interested in this man? Bernard had chewed his ear off about him only the other day and now Celia was doing the same. “He’s the man about to be hanged for murdering that pregnant girl,” he stated.

  “That’s right, and I’ve been visiting him.”

  “I see,” he said, not sure how to react to this news. “I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t like to think of you associating with people like that.”

  “Oh for goodness sake, Robbie,” said Celia, a little exasperated with him now. “I’ve already told you I can’t come to any harm. Besides, a lot of people think he’s innocent, and so do I now I’ve met him.”

  Robbie drank his tea without replying. It wasn’t so much the danger to Celia that was worrying him. He knew deep down it was the fact that the condemned man was young and handsome, and in a helpless situation. Women, in his experience, usually couldn’t resist that kind of combination, as it brought out the mothering instinct in them, and more besides.

  “I must go and talk to Bernie,” she was saying. “Howard told me he goes to St Stephen’s and knows him well. I’m sure Bernie’ll want to help prove his innocence. And so must you, Robbie.”

  Oh, must I? he thought. Must I, indeed?

  16th April 1957: Lewisham

  May Stubbs was a happy girl these days. Not only did she have a handsome boyfriend to show off to her friends, she had been promoted to catering company supervisor by her boss Paul Farrell. It seemed she had won out over the more attractive and popular Alice Troy on two counts, and she was very proud. In fact, when she studied herself in the mirror, she saw a completely different person these days. Her face was fuller and softer, her complexion healthier, her eyes dark and inviting. Even her acne had cleared up and her honey-coloured hair had been cut in a fashionable bob. She had even lost a bit of weight.

  Danny Blowers had whistled when he first saw her new hairdo. She was, he had said, a sight for sore eyes. He had followed her to London and rented a room two streets away from where she lived with her parents in Stockwell. He had got himself a job in a small local tobacconists and newsagents, so May was in no doubt he was planning to stay to be near her. She couldn’t believe her good fortune: a new job and a new boyfriend, all within the space of a few weeks.

  Today she was in Lewisham where she had made arrangements to meet Alice for coffee. She wasn’t exactly happy that she had to trek all the way over to meet her, but it was ever thus. She had always been at her friend’s beck and call, but with her promotion things were about to change. She thought this with satisfaction and smiled as she entered the café in Lewisham High Street where they had agreed to meet. Her smile soon faded when she saw Alice seated at a table looking thoroughly miserable and even a little scared. What on Earth was wrong? she wondered.

  She made her way over to her and seated herself opposite. “Hello,” she said. “Have you ordered the coffee yet?”

  “No,” said Alice. “I’ve only just arrived.”

  “Oh, right. I think I’ll have a bun too. I’m hungry.”

  The waitress came over to them at this point and took their order. Alice, who said she wasn’t hungry, declined the bun.

  “You all right, Ali?” said May with concern. “You look down in the dumps.”

  “Huh?” said Alice.

  “What’s the matter? Is it because I got promoted instead of you?”

  Alice stared at her. It was the first she’d heard of it. “You? Promoted?”

  “Yes. Pete told me yesterday when I went to collect my wages. As from next week, I’ll be giving you orders.” She said this lightly, hoping to make a joke of it. Alice wasn’t amused.

  “Well, I do think it’s a bit thick,” said Alice, as the waitress brought their coffee.

  “No buns left, I’m afraid,” she said. “Would you like a scone?”

  “Yes, anything. Make it two,” said May.

  When the waitress had gone, she continued: “Look, Ali, I’m sorry that you didn’t know, but I’m sure you’ll be promoted soon. After all, you haven’t worked there as long as me, have you?”

  “Only by a few weeks,” sniffed Alice. She was beginning to cry.

  “Oh, come on,” said May, reaching out a hand to her. “It’s nothing to cry about. Pete thinks the world of you. I’m sure you’ll get promoted soon.”

  “Don’t care,” said Alice, fishing in her bag for her handkerchief. “I’m not crying about that.”

  She paused as the waitress returned with a plate of scones, butter and jam.

  “Come on,” said May, “have a scone. They’re still warm. Cheer yourself up.”

  “Don’t want anything,” said Alice stubbornly.

  “Well, you’re good company, I must say. You ask me to meet you and all you can do is sulk. I’ve spent money on the fare and everything. I don’t know why I bothered.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll give you the fare, don’t worry.”

  “Look, it’s not the money, Ali. I don’t know what’s the matter with you. I thought we were going to have a nice time shopping, a bit of a laugh and all that. But you sit there all upset, and I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “I’m going to have a baby.” The silence that followed was deafening.

  “A baby?” said May at last.

  “Yes. That’s right. A baby.”

  May stopped chewing on her scone. Her appetite had left her suddenly. Poor Alice! “B-but how, w-when?”

  “I notice you don’t ask who’s the father.”

  “That was going to be my next question, though I presumed it was Pete.”

  “Pete? Why should you think that?”

  May shrugged. “Just thought you and he were, you know, having a bit of a thing, like.”

  “Not as far as I know,” said Alice.

  “Well, as I said, I know he likes you and I thought you liked him.”

  “Yes, well, it’s not his. It’s that man I met at Scarborough, you know, the one I – ”

  May held her hand up. “You don’t have to spell it out. But Alice, you only slept with him the once, didn’t you?”

  “It only takes the once,” said Alice.

  “Yes, well, you should have thought of that before.”

  “Fine friend you are,” sniffed Alice, beginning to cry again.

  “Sorry, Ali, but I don’t know what you expect me to do? Have you told him?”

  “Yes, I’ve told him.”

  “And…? Is he going to marry you?”

  “He’s married already!”

  “Oh, Ali. You could tell he was a married man. You only had to look at him.”

  “Makes no difference. He’s going to get a divorce.”

  “He is? Are you sure about that?”

  “Not yet,” said Alice with feeling. “But he will, I’ll make sure of it.”

  28th January 1958: Wandsworth

  “Can we have just one evening when we don’t talk about Celia, please?”

  Robbie glared at his friend, as Bernard poure
d him a generous measure of Glenfiddich whisky, a bottle he kept especially for him. It was eight o’clock in the evening and the curtains were drawn in the vicar’s study, the chessboard set up in readiness. Bernard always looked forward to these evenings spent with his friend, but lately he was getting bored with the topic of conversation.

  “Her name won’t even pass my lips, old boy,” said Robbie huffily. “I don’t wish to bore you.”

  Bernard, who knew Robbie would be unable to let many minutes pass without mentioning her name again, just smiled. “I’m sure you don’t, Robbie,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve got something interesting to talk to you about.”

  Robbie was really cross now. What could be more interesting than the endlessly fascinating subject of Celia Pargeter, even if she was a bit mad spending time with dangerous criminals? He swigged his whisky, watching his friend seat himself in his armchair with his sweet sherry. “Why is it that vicars always seem to drink sherry?” he said. Bernard was sure he didn’t know why vicars drank sherry and, as a topic of conversation, it wasn’t very original. He didn’t particularly like the drink anyway, but it was the only alcohol he could tolerate.

  Robbie had a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. He obviously didn’t want to hear the reason for vicars’ predilection for sherry. Why was it, thought Bernard, that beautiful women like Celia were able to reduce usually articulate and intelligent men to mumbling idiots?

  “I believe vicars have as an eclectic taste in alcoholic beverages as anyone else,” said Bernard. Well, he had asked the question, hadn’t he?

  “What, dear boy?” said Robbie, making an effort to rouse himself from his reverie. He didn’t even remember bringing up the subject of vicars drinking sherry in the first place. “I think you said just now you had something interesting to tell me,” he said, focusing his full attention on his friend now.

  Bernard could see that Robbie wasn’t really interested, but nevertheless processed to tell him about his and Anbolin’s visit to Ladywell cemetery, the strange reaction of the dog and the possible haunting of the grave of Alice Troy.

  “Perhaps Alice is trying to tell us something from beyond the grave,” Bernard continued. “The dog was beside himself. Annie couldn’t get anything, though. She’s getting past it, poor thing.”

  “Is she still staying here?” Robbie looked around the room as if he expected her to appear from behind the curtain or out of a cupboard.

  “Yes, she doesn’t seem to want to go home. I don’t mind. I like having her around. Reminds me of my granny who died when I was a child.”

  “Yes, she’s a dear old soul,” agreed Robbie. “I wish my granny had been a bit more like her.” The granny he remembered from his childhood had been something of a martinet, all angles and pince-nez. Not round and cuddly like Anbolin. “Anyway, I gather from all this you think Drake is innocent.” Robbie held out his whisky glass for a refill.

  “I don’t know. His wife’s convinced he’s innocent, as I think I mentioned the other day, though I suppose she would think so. Any other scenario doesn’t bear thinking about, especially with the new-born baby to consider.” He poured more whisky into Robbie’s glass. “On balance, I think Drake is innocent myself. I can’t really see him killing someone.”

  “You never know what someone is capable of, not really,” observed Robbie, reaching for his pipe in his top breast pocket.

  “No, I suppose not. And the girl was pregnant and threatening to tell his wife. That was the motive that was established, that and the fact he was seen leaving the girl’s bedsit not long before her dead body was discovered.”

  “Pretty damning evidence I’d say,” said Robbie.

  “So the jury thought,” said Bernard, “but I’m still not convinced.”

  “I don’t know what you can do to prove he didn’t do it, old boy. A stupid dog acting peculiar is hardly evidence.”

  “But you didn’t see the way he reacted. His owner said she’d taken him past the grave several times and he always reacted the same way, as if he was frightened out of his skin.”

  “That would hardly stand up in a court of law,” said Robbie. He puffed on his pipe for a few moments before speaking again. “At the risk of annoying you by mentioning her name, Celia told me she thought he was innocent too.”

  “Oh well, then, he must be. No contest.”

  Bernard’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on him, but Robbie chose to ignore it. “She visited him in prison.”

  “She did? I didn’t know she knew him.”

  “No. The silly girl has volunteered as a prison visitor.”

  “Very commendable.” Bernard’s opinion of Celia went up a few notches. Perhaps she wasn’t so self-centred, after all.

  “I don’t think she knows what she’s talking about,” said Robbie.

  “What? Your precious Celia not know what she’s talking about!” Bernard was amazed at this change in Robbie’s tune. “I thought she could do no wrong in your eyes.”

  “She’s still a woman, old boy. They don’t really understand things like the law.”

  “Really,” said Bernard. “I think there are lady barristers these days.”

  Robbie sniffed disdainfully. “Don’t suppose they’re much good, though.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake. I think women are much more intelligent than we give them credit for.”

  “Possibly some. But Celia’s wrong about Howard Drake. It’s an open and shut case.”

  “I want you to come and visit Alice’s grave with me. Maybe see if you can get anything,” said Bernard.

  “Look, because I’ve had a few psychic successes in the past doesn’t mean I know all the answers.”

  “So you won’t come?”

  “Don’t see the point.”

  Bernard was shocked at his friend’s attitude. As a rule he was only too eager to use his psychic gifts when called upon. But, for some reason, he was determined to believe Howard Drake guilty of murder without even giving the matter any thought.

  “Oh well, if that’s what you think, perhaps we’d better just play chess,” said Bernard.

  16th April 1957: Stockwell

  May lost no time in calling in at the tobacconists where Danny worked to tell him the news about Alice. She tried hard to keep the note of triumph out of her voice, but it wasn’t easy. In her heart of hearts, she thought Alice deserved her fate, and it was a kind of nemesis for the way she had lorded it over her for so long. It was always Alice that got the best jobs when they went on assignments. Pete Farrell always favoured her because he was besotted with her. And Alice had played it up to the hilt, pretending she was keen on him, while looking around for a likely conquest in the shape of a rich and, preferably, handsome businessman. And there were many opportunities for her but, so far, she had never taken her dalliance further than mere flirting and come-on glances. Well, if she had come a cropper this time, it served her right.

  Danny, it seemed, felt differently. “The poor girl,” he said, as he handed a customer a packet of cigarettes and the Daily Chronicle. He rang up the cash and handed him his change. “Are you sure, May? Is she really going to have a baby?”

  The customer, although he had made his purchases, was taking a long time to leave the shop. Danny remained silent, waiting for him to go. The clang of the doorbell finally announced his departure. “Is she really?” he repeated.

  “She told me so and I believe her. You should have seen her, Danny. I never saw her so miserable.”

  “Poor girl,” he said again, straightening up the magazines on the counter. “Does Pete know?”

  “I don’t suppose so. Anyway, she told me it wasn’t his.”

  “Not his? A’m fair capped!” Sometimes Danny’s Yorkshire expressions puzzled May, being a Londoner, born and bred.

  “You’re what?”

  “Oh aye, ’appen you don’t know what I mean. A’m fair mithered with it all.”

  That wasn’t much clearer to May. “Would you mind speaking proper English? Do you mean you
’re shocked? If you are, why not say so?”

  “Yes. Shocked is the word.” Danny gave her a little mock salute.

  “I told her she was stupid to get herself in that condition. She should have been more careful. She thought the man wasn’t married. Can you believe that? She’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, is she?”

  “She’s nobbut a kid,” said Danny sadly. “What’s she going to do?”

  May shrugged. “Dunno. I suppose she’ll have to give up work soon. And she’ll have to tell her parents.”

  “What d’you think they’ll say?”

  The doorbell clanged at this point and an old woman hobbled in. “Ten Senior Service,” she croaked, “and a box of matches, sonny.”

  When she had hobbled out again, Danny came around the counter and took hold of May’s shoulders. “You and I, flower, need to be there for her. If her mam and da’ aren’t going to rally round, then we must.”

  “I don’t see what we can do, Danny.” May was beginning to wish she’d never told him now. She expected him to be shocked or ‘fair capped’ as he said and ready to give Alice a wide berth. She didn’t expect him to be so sympathetic. She wondered, deep down, whether he really preferred the pretty Alice to herself after all. Otherwise, why would he be so concerned?

  “We can do whatever she wants us to do, May,” he said. “She may want help with, you know, money like.”

  “Money? Why would she want money?”

  “Don’t be thick, May,” he said, leading her to the shop door.

  “Oh, you mean for an abortion, right?”

  “Of course. I don’t suppose she’s planning on actually having the kid.”

  May smirked. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, stepping outside into the street. It was starting to rain. “She says she’s going to marry the father.”

  “Marry him? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? That’s champion, then.”

  “You don’t really think he’ll divorce his wife to marry her, do you?”

  Danny shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.” He was surprised at his girlfriend’s attitude. It seemed to him that May, far from sympathising with Alice’s plight, was revelling in her friend’s misfortune. “But she shouldn’t rely on it. She’ll come a cropper if she persists wi’ that road,” he added wisely, if a little incomprehensibly.