The Witches of Wandsworth

by Pat Herbert

  Suddenly he stood up, grabbed his coat and, as Rathbone was returning to the office, Craddock swung the younger man round, passing him his coat as he did so.

  “Come on, Rathbone. You and I are in need of a stiff drink,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “That Rowan woman’s ’ere again, Vicar,” announced Mrs Harper, standing at the door of Bernard’s study, hands on hips. She was out of breath. The stairs were getting a bit much for her these days, especially as it was the fourth time that morning she had had cause to climb them. “You know, she came ‘about the cat’ the other day.” Nancy said this in a way that showed her scepticism in no uncertain terms.

  Bernard was sitting by the unlit hearth, that very cat snoring happily on his lap. He gave it a stroke under its chin.

  “Oh dear,” he said, “I’m expecting Robbie any minute. We’d planned to take a picnic lunch to the park.”

  The sun was shining bravely outside the window, beckoning. It was a glorious spring day, a day not to be wasted sitting in a stuffy study writing sermons.

  “Don’t I know it, considering as ’ow I’ve been making the sandwiches all blessed morning.” She sniffed ominously.

  “Oh yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs Aitch. Did she say what she wanted this time?”

  “Didn’t ask ’er. Shall I send ’er packing?”

  “No, of course not. All my parishioners are welcome if they need me.”

  It wasn’t strictly true; like now, for instance. He hoped Elvira Rowan wouldn’t keep him too long.

  A few moments later, Elvira tapped softly on Bernard’s study door.

  “Hello, Miss Rowan,” he greeted her. “Please do come in.”

  He ushered her over to a chair and sat down opposite her.

  “Thank you …”

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you again so soon, Vicar,” Elvira began. “But I didn’t know who else I could tell.”

  “My dear, that’s what I’m here for. You can tell me all your troubles, and I will certainly help if I can. And God will always be on your side, don’t forget that.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” laughed Elvira mirthlessly. “According to the folks round here we’re wicked heathens. Witches stirring their cauldron, throwing in the entrails of frogs and bats and things.”

  “I don’t take any notice,” smiled Bernard, “and neither should you. I’ve already told my congregation to do the same. So, don’t worry, they’ll soon get tired of it.”

  “No, well, it’s easy for you to say,” said Elvira.

  “I know,” said Bernard, “but people are suspicious of people who aren’t quite like themselves, I suppose. One just has to try and ignore them and carry on. As long as you know you’re doing no harm, that’s the important thing.”

  Elvira took some comfort from this and even smiled a little. “The cat looks very well and contented,” she observed.

  Beelzebub looked up at his erstwhile mistress and yawned. There was a world of meaning in it. Bernard had removed the cat to open the door to his visitor, but it had leapt back on his lap directly when he had sat down again. He put the protesting feline down on the floor once more.

  “Off you go, Beelzebub. Go and see what Mrs Harper’s got for your dinner. A nice whiting head, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  The cat stalked out of the room, flicking its tail offensively as he did so.

  “I hope your sister isn’t missing him too much,” Bernard said.

  “I don’t think she’s in a position to miss anything right now,” said Elvira and, to Bernard’s horror, suddenly broke down in tears.

  He never got used to parishioners blubbing in front of him, but he usually had a hanky on hand for such eventualities. This time was no exception, and he passed her a bright red spotted one from his inside jacket pocket.

  “I’m sorry,” she wept, blowing her nose vigorously. “I was determined not to cry, but everything’s been such a trial lately.”

  “Please, take your time.”

  Elvira looked at the kindly young vicar through teary eyes and smiled again. “You’re very kind,” she said. After a moment, she continued, “You see, my sister’s had some sort of breakdown recently. We – er – we’ve lived in Appleby Cottage for more than thirty years, and it’s finally got to her.”

  “What? Living in the cottage? How do you mean?”

  “I thought of coming to see you sooner, but I kept putting it off.”

  “I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t confide in me,” offered Bernard, eaten up with curiosity.

  “It’s just that – er – ever since – well, I won’t go into that…” She paused. “I hope you won’t think me a stupid old woman for telling you this …”

  Bernard could only reassure her that he would think nothing of the kind; in fact, he had rather warmed to her. Stiff and unbending though she seemed to be, there was a kind of old world courtesy and exactness about her that he admired and even liked. He knew she wasn’t very popular with the locals, and he supposed he could understand why. She presented a forbidding front to the world but, as was so often the case, he felt sure it masked a softer, kinder interior.

  “The thing is, our cottage has been haunted for many, many years.”

  “Haunted, you say?”

  He was at once intrigued, as he knew Robbie would be, too. The good doctor was a firm believer in the supernatural and had a deep consuming interest in it. He was also psychic, something that Bernard wasn’t, at least not in the same way as his friend. But he didn’t dismiss such things out of hand, especially as Robbie had been able to contact and help the troubled spirits of two little Norwegian children several years ago. Also, their mutual friend, Dorothy Plunkett, was a well-respected professional medium. All in all, Bernard was inclined to believe Elvira’s assertion and, he suddenly realized, it also backed up something the old colonel had recently told him.

  “Yes. I know you’ll think I’m mad, and that you’ll tell me there’s no such thing as ghosts. But there are…” Elvira started to weep again.

  “My dear,” said Bernard, reaching out and patting her knee gently. “I do believe in them. At least, I’m sure there are things we mere mortals don’t fully understand. My friend, Dr MacTavish, is also a strong believer in the supernatural, you know.”

  Elvira looked pleased, as well as surprised. “Really? I like Dr MacTavish. He’s very kind. I didn’t know you two were friends.”

  “Oh yes. We are. In fact, he is due here any minute. We’re planning on taking a picnic to the park as it’s such a fine day.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. And here’s me keeping you. I could come back another time …”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it. You stay right where you are.”

  Elvira looked almost beautiful to Bernard now. She had a beatific smile on her face as if some terrible burden had suddenly been lifted from her and it was lighting up her fine features. Her almond-shaped grey eyes were gentle and her pale, but flawless, skin was slightly flushed now. Maybe her lips were a little too thin and her nose a little too long, but otherwise she looked very charming to Bernard at that moment. She must be in her sixties, he reckoned, but she looked a good deal younger somehow.

  “So,” he continued, “are you telling me your sister’s nerves have been affected by this haunting? It’s quite understandable, if so. And I’m sure you must be affected, too.”

  Elvira nodded. “I’ve got used to it over the years, but I think it’s been getting to Vessie much more lately. Especially now, with this awful murder …”

  “But why should it make any difference to how she feels about your ghost?”

  “Well, that’s just the point. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I know it won’t go any further.”

  Bernard mentally crossed his fingers, knowing that he would break Elvira’s trust the minute he met Robbie later on. “Go on,” he said.

  “You see … that poor girl came to see us on
the night she died. Well, it was the afternoon, actually…”

  “She came to see you? Did you know her, then?”

  “Well, no, not really. She only lived around the corner to us in Cherry Lane, and we’ve spoken on occasions to her parents. But the poor thing was pregnant, and she’d come to see if we had anything we could give her to help her get rid of it.”

  “Ah.” Bernard was beginning to understand, if not approve. “And did you give her anything?”

  “I shouldn’t be admitting this, really, but we only gave her one of our granny’s herbal remedies. It doesn’t really bring on a miscarriage, but it can do sometimes. We then told her to have a really hot bath and said she could use our bathroom if she wanted to. You see, she didn’t want to raise any suspicions at home by having a bath at a time she never had one.”

  Bernard wasn’t sure where this was going and wasn’t sure he wanted to listen to any more. Then suddenly Elvira stopped talking and stood up, almost as if she had realized for the first time just what she was saying: to a man of the cloth, of all people.

  “I – I must go…”

  Bernard stood up too. He could tell she was regretting her visit. She had told him too much.

  Just then, Robbie burst into the room.

  “Hi, Bernie,” he cried cheerily. “Mrs Aitch told me to come on up. Oh, I’m sorry…”

  He stopped in his tracks as he saw the older Rowan sister standing in the middle of Bernard’s study.

  “I was just leaving,” she said, handing Bernard his now sodden hanky. “I – I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

  With that, she swept out of the room. Bernard turned to Robbie, who looked puzzled.

  “That’s one troubled lady, if I’m any judge,” he said. “What goes on?”

  “Let’s head for the park and make the most of this fine weather,” said Bernard quickly. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  

  Bernard, after munching through his fifth fish paste sandwich, took out the thermos flask from the hamper that Mrs Harper had carefully packed for them, and poured out the tea. He and Robbie had grabbed the only vacant bench in the park that afternoon, as the spring sunshine had given everyone the same idea as themselves.

  “Is there anything stronger in there?” asked Robbie.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” smiled Bernard, rummaging through the goodies in the hamper. “You know what Mrs Aitch thinks about strong liquor.”

  “Of course,” laughed Robbie. “I wasn’t really expecting anything.” Saying this, he fished in his jacket pocket and brought out a small silver flask. He tipped some of the contents into his tea. “Want some?” he asked, giving him a nudge.

  “Not for me,” said Bernard, quickly putting his hand over his cup. “You’re turning into an alcoholic, Robbie.” He wasn’t entirely joking.

  “Nonsense,” said his friend, as he screwed the cap back on the flask. “Just a little nip to keep out the cold.”

  “But it’s baking hot! It’s like June today,” Bernard pointed out, tucking into a wedge of angel cake.

  Robbie didn’t reply. Grinning, he put the flask back in his pocket.

  They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, watching the antics of the ducks and geese as the people fed them tit bits. Bernard enticed a particularly scrawny looking duck with a piece of cake.

  “Don’t encourage them, old boy,” pleaded Robbie. “We’ll have all the pigeons here in a minute.”

  As if on cue, at least a dozen of them descended at their feet, scrabbling for the poor duck’s morsel of angel cake.

  “Shoo!” shouted Bernard, waving his arms at them.

  This made them flap their wings in a fluster, but none of them flew away. Bernard tried to lure the poor duck with another piece of cake, but the bird knew when he was beaten and sadly waddled away.

  “What did I tell you, man?” said Robbie, brushing crumbs off his jacket. “Hurry up and finish eating and put the food away, otherwise they’ll never go. I can’t stand pigeons!”

  “They’re all God’s creatures,” remonstrated his friend mildly, starting to stack the hamper with the remains of their lunch.

  The sun continued to blaze down as the two men sat on, neither in any hurry to leave the park. Robbie’s evening surgery didn’t start till five, and Bernard’s evening service was at six. It was still only ten to three.

  “Come on, Bernie. Don’t keep me in suspense,” Robbie broke the silence at last. “What did Elvira Rowan want this morning? Don’t tell me she was on about that blasted cat again.”

  “No. It was quite disturbing, actually,” said Bernard thoughtfully. “She’s very worried about her sister. I think she might be going a bit senile, from what she was saying.”

  “Really? I think Vesna Rowan is one of my patients. Perhaps I should look in on her.”

  “I think that would be a good idea, although there’s another possible reason for her distress.”

  “Oh? And that is?”

  “Elvira told me that their cottage is haunted, has been for many years, apparently. She said her sister is at the end of her tether with it.”

  “Haunted, eh? Well, well. What makes them think that? What form does this haunting take?”

  “She didn’t say. But that’s not all she told me, and that was even more worrying.”

  Robbie was very intrigued now. “Do tell, Bernie.”

  “She said that Helen Carstairs came to see them the day she died.”

  “What? Do the police know?”

  “I don’t know. I was about to advise her to go to them when you barged in.” He gave his friend an old-fashioned look.

  “Sorry, I’m sure. But I wasn’t to know, was I?”

  Bernard shrugged. “No, of course not. Actually, I was quite glad you interrupted when you did. She was telling me stuff I didn’t really want to hear.”

  Robbie’s eyebrows shot up at this. “What sort of stuff?”

  “I don’t know whether I should tell even you, Robbie. What she told me was in the strictest confidence. I am a priest, remember?”

  “That’s never stopped you before. Anyway, you know it won’t go any further. But don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” Robbie seemed annoyed.

  “Okay, okay. You know I’m going to tell you, it’s just not very nice, that’s all.” He paused before continuing. “The poor girl went to them, hoping to get something to bring on a miscarriage.”

  “My God! I know the sisters are accused of being witches, but I didn’t know they were back street abortionists into the bargain! This throws an entirely different light on the matter, Bernie. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “But what should we do? We can’t go to the police. You know that.”

  “I always felt sorry for those sisters up to now. But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s abortion. Especially by people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

  Bernard smiled weakly at Robbie who had got up from the bench and was pacing up and down the path, trying to control his anger.

  “Those women have got to be stopped. They’re dangerous!”

  “I don’t think so, Robbie. Elvira told me they just gave her something herbal and said that it didn’t usually work anyway. She told Helen to have a hot bath as well.”

  “No doubt accompanied by a bottle of gin.”

  “She didn’t mention any gin…”

  “God, Bernie, these old wives’ tales! You’ll be telling me next they tried using a knitting needle!”

  Robbie was beside himself now.

  “Calm down, old chap,” said Bernard quietly. “People are looking. Elvira certainly never mentioned anything about a knitting needle. I got the impression she felt sorry for the girl and only wanted to help her out of her predicament.”

  Robbie slumped down beside him, his anger spent. “Well, one thing’s for certain, Bernie. We’ve got to persuade that woman to go to the police.”

  Bernard knew he had no a
lternative but to agree.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  So, Henry Carstairs was responsible for his murdered daughter’s pregnancy, was he? Craddock mulled this over as he swung his wreck of a Ford round a particularly sharp bend. Rathbone, by his side, was too busy hoping to stay alive to think too much about what they were about to do.

  They were on their way to arrest a man for incest and abuse of a minor. And that was just for starters. Craddock was sure he’d also got his man for Helen’s murder. Carstairs’ daughter’s pregnancy gave him a very good motive, a very good motive, indeed. If he could bring himself to rape his daughter, he would surely also be capable of murdering her.

  “I never liked or trusted that man, you know, Rathbone,” he said, veering round an articulated lorry that was illegally parked. This was done with much aplomb combined with a disregard for human life that was positively frightening. Rathbone held onto his seat, closed his eyes and prayed.

  It was with some relief that he stepped out of the car outside the Carstairs’ front door a few minutes later, closely followed by his daredevil chauffeur.

  The inspector tapped his size twelve boot impatiently on the polished red step, pressing the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately on his second ring and Mrs Carstairs stood before them, a shadow of her former self. The tragedy had taken its toll on her. Her hair seemed to have turned grey overnight, or maybe she hadn’t bothered with her roots.

  “Oh, hello, Inspector,” she said wearily. “Sergeant,” she acknowledged the younger man too. “Please come in.”

  “Is your husband at home?” asked Craddock as they followed her into the hall.

  “Yes. We’ve just finished supper. Please come through.”

  The two men exchanged wary glances as they followed her down the passage. They entered the room to see their quarry sitting in a comfortable fireside chair, the evening paper, open at the crossword, his little Jack Russell asleep at his slippered feet.

  “It’s the police again, dear,” she said.

  “Ah, good evening, gentlemen,” he said politely, standing up to greet them.