The Witches of Wandsworth

by Pat Herbert

  “It is something that I have to deal with, my dear,” she said at last. “It isn’t your problem.”

  “Well, if it’s a question of money – I will be happy to pay for someone to come and take a look. This cold must be coming from somewhere…”

  “I’ve already told you it’s not that easy,” Elvira snapped, then stopped herself. “Please don’t think I’m not grateful – but I couldn’t accept anything from you. After all, you’re a complete stranger.”

  “I’d like to think we could be friends.”

  So would I, thought Elvira, beginning to feel like crying at the suggestion that this lovely young woman wanted to be her friend. Her friend!

  Jeanne smiled. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

  “Because, well, I don’t think you can.” All the money in the world won’t rid this place of Rodney Purbright, she thought. “Anyway, you came to me for help in finding your father. You came to meet Vesna, too. Only all you found was me, her sister, Elvira.”

  “Elvira is a pretty name,” said Jeanne, touching her hand.

  Elvira withdrew it at once. This strange intimacy was unnerving her.

  “Th-thank you,” she said. Pretty it may be, but it didn’t really suit her. It never had.

  “I am sorry that your sister is dead, and that you didn’t like my father,” said Jeanne. “But I’m glad I’ve met you.”

  Elvira felt like crying again. All this interest in her was overwhelming. Everyone was being much too kind to her. She didn’t deserve it.

  “Can you tell me what happened to my father?” she heard Jeanne say.

  My sister shot him, and we buried him in the garden. How could she tell her that? Now was the time for Elvira to decide. She still could tell her the truth. If she did, her life would be over. On the plus side, a prison cell would be warmer than Appleby Cottage, but, on the minus, she’d lose the good opinion of this beautiful French woman who seemed to have taken a liking to her.

  “He died of a heart attack,” she said. “Over thirty years ago.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Elvira sat in the stone-cold cottage, watching the minutes tick by on the mantelpiece clock, beside which stood her beloved Spanish doll. It was half past seven in the evening, and her thoughts turned to Bernard.

  She had got to know the vicar’s habits during the two weeks she had acted as his housekeeper, and every evening at this time he had retired to his study to smoke his pipe. She resolved to go and see him, to try and explain what had happened when Helen Carstairs had come to her for help that night, and why she couldn’t go to the police about it. She had to make him understand somehow. Without betraying her sister, of course. That was the most important thing.

  

  “Well, dear, I hope you’re settled back home. I’m so sorry you didn’t see your way to accepting Dr MacTavish’s offer. He’s very upset, you know.”

  “I need to explain something to you, Vicar,” Elvira began, ignoring Robbie’s disappointment. “You need to know –”

  Bernard was intrigued straightaway. He was also a little worried. He remembered the last time she had confided in him which hadn’t been entirely resolved to his satisfaction. Did he really want to hear this next revelation? he wondered. He offered her a sherry and he joined her. It was about the time he usually had a glass, and he found he needed it at that moment.

  Elvira cleared her throat nervously. “You know I told you that Helen came to see us that evening – shortly before she was murdered?” She lifted her sherry glass to her mouth with a shaking hand.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, she came because she wanted something to help her get rid of her unborn child. And I gave her a powder and suggested she had a hot bath.”

  “Yes, yes, you told me all that, and I told you to go to the police.”

  “And I refused.”

  “And you refused.”

  “Well, what happened a bit later makes it very difficult. Difficult to go to the police, I mean. Also, I’d be betraying my sister’s trust. She made me promise – well, I won’t go into that.”

  Bernard finished his sherry and found he needed another. He resisted the temptation, however, suspecting he would need a clear head for what was to follow.

  “Helen went upstairs to take a bath like I told you,” Elvira continued after a few moments. “She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by bathing at home as they only bathed on Sundays. They would want to know what she was up to.”

  “The Carstairs only have baths on Sundays?” Bernard raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s not all that unusual, Vicar,” said Elvira, somewhat testily. “Many families can’t afford to bathe more than once a week. A good wash down does the trick most days. I do that myself.”

  Bernard, who wallowed in gallons of hot soapy water every morning, was suitably chastened. “Of course. I understand. Do go on.”

  “Well, she hadn’t been up there very long when I heard a clatter in the kitchen. I went to see what it was, but all I saw was one of the drawers had been opened. I couldn’t remember opening it, but I suppose I must have done. Vessie, you see, hardly ever went into the kitchen. Not in those last few months.”

  She paused again. “I – I’m not sure whether to tell you more but, you see, that was when I felt this overpowering presence in the room.”

  “Presence?”

  “Yes, up until then only Vessie had felt it. The presence. Now I did. And I knew who it was.”

  “I – I’m not sure where this is all leading, Elvira,” said Bernard quietly. “Are you telling me that some sort of psychic event caused Helen’s death? I mean, there’s no refuting the actual cause, is there? A knife attack?”

  “Oh, no, that’s right. She was stabbed. But, well, I’m sorry to have to confess that the spirit of Vessie’s former fiancé was instrumental in what happened.”

  “How come?”

  “That’s all I have to say,” she finished. “That’s all.”

  “That’s very interesting,” said Bernard, clearly disappointed.

  He was in two minds whether to tell her about what the colonel had told him but decided against it.

  “It’s not easy to explain, Vicar. I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’m glad you did, but are you sure that’s all you can tell me?” he asked her.

  “That’s all I’m prepared to tell you at this stage,” she replied firmly. “Now, I mustn’t take up any more of your time.” She started to get up. “Oh, there’s just one other thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “I remember thinking at the time that Helen looked a lot like Vessie when she was young. I’d seen her around, of course, as she was growing up, as she only lived around the corner. The likeness wasn’t so apparent when she was a schoolgirl, but that night I could see how like the young Vessie she was.”

  “Your sister must have been very pretty, then,” Bernard observed, not sure why Elvira thought Helen’s likeness to Vesna was significant.

  “Oh, she was – very. It was horrible what happened to her – at the end. Vessie had always been so full of life, it was pitiful to see her decline like that.”

  Bernard nodded in sympathy as he accompanied her to the door.

  

  Elvira got back from visiting Bernard at around nine o’clock and went into the kitchen. Filling a saucepan with milk, she turned on the hob underneath it and sat and waited for it to boil. Her nightly ritual of cocoa and a good book in bed were calling to her. Bed was the only place in that Godforsaken cottage where she could get warm.

  While she waited, she thought over the events of the day. Who would have thought that pretty French woman would turn up like that? After years of no visitors, the most exotic person imaginable had arrived on her doorstep. She realized, of course, Jeanne Dupont hadn’t come to see her, but that didn’t detract from the pleasure of her visit. She still wasn’t quite sure if it had been a dream. But no, she had been real enough
. She was, in fact, Rodney Purbright’s daughter. Suddenly, she stood up.

  “Are you listening to me, Purbright?” she said out loud to the four walls. She took the precaution of turning down the gas under the milk. “Can’t you be pleased about seeing the daughter you never knew you had? And you’ve taken your revenge on Vessie and me. Isn’t that enough? Can’t you leave me in peace, now?”

  There was no reply. She hadn’t expected any. But she noticed the kitchen wasn’t quite so cold now.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sylvia Knox was feeling nervous as she rang Elvira’s doorbell. She had promised Henry she would get him some more headache powders and she was as good as her word. She thought about him languishing in that prison cell and sighed. It was too cruel. He wouldn’t harm a fly, that man. Many people found his manner off-putting. Those people would probably like to believe he was capable of such cruel acts, she knew, mainly because he wasn’t particularly prepossessing. But she knew he was innocent, only she couldn’t tell anyone because he wouldn’t let her.

  She rammed the doorbell again, this time with some anger. “Stupid man!” she thought. What a hypocrite. Quite happy to share her bed as long as no one found out. Went to church on Sunday and asked for forgiveness. ‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned.’ Isn’t that what the Catholics said to their priests, usually after committing some heinous act? She wouldn’t be surprised if Henry went over to Rome one of these fine days. If he lived that long.

  Elvira opened the door to her visitor with a scowl on her face. “Give me a chance, can’t you? I’ve only got one pair of legs, and I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Oh, sorry, love,” said Sylvia, contrite. She realized she shouldn’t be taking out her anger on this woman or, more accurately, on her doorbell. “I was thinking about something, and I got angry. I didn’t mean to ring again.”

  “Well, all right.” Elvira’s features softened slightly. “Do you want to come in? I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Mrs Knox followed Elvira into the kitchen. It was cool, but certainly not as cold as it had been. Elvira had even managed to shed one layer of clothing that morning. However, Sylvia shivered, as the temperature inside didn’t match the warmth of the day outside.

  “Sorry it’s so chilly in here,” said Elvira. “It’s rising damp.”

  She set out the cups and a plate of homemade biscuits on the kitchen table. Sylvia sat down and arranged the biscuits absent-mindedly.

  “Rising damp? But can’t you get something done about it? You shouldn’t have to put up with it. You’ll catch your death.”

  “It’s not as cold as it was,” Elvira told her. She poured out the tea.

  “What was it you wanted to see me about, Mrs Knox?” she asked.

  “Er, I need some headache powders.”

  “Do you suffer badly with them?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not for me – it’s for…” She hesitated. “Well, actually, it’s for Henry Carstairs. You supplied them to him before but, well, he can’t actually come and get them himself, as you probably know.”

  Elvira stared at her. “For him? But why are you coming for them and not Mrs Carstairs?”

  Sylvia Knox stirred her tea more times than strictly necessary while she thought rapidly.

  “He asked me yesterday when I went to visit him. I think his wife wasn’t due to see him until today, and he needed them as soon as possible.” She stopped. “So, I said I’d get them for him.”

  “I see. I didn’t know you were friendly with Mr Carstairs,” said Elvira, trying to hide her prurient curiosity as best she could.

  “Oh, we got to know each other quite well because Minnie and poor Helen were best friends at school.”

  “I see. Of course. I’ll go and make up the powders right away.”

  While she was gone, Sylvia stepped out through the French windows into the back garden. She felt the welcome sun on her as she walked slowly around, admiring the flowers and listening to the hum of bees. Why didn’t Elvira get something done about the damp in her cottage, she wondered. This place could be a little paradise, if it wasn’t so cold in there.

  

  As Elvira slowly mixed the powders for Henry Carstairs, she remembered the occasion when he had come to see her himself. She had seen, just by looking at him, that he was suffering badly. She remembered he had been rather severe in both looks and manner, as well as stiffly formal, but she had put all that down to the headaches. She remembered, too, how he had been of help to her that day.

  She smiled at the memory. It was one Sunday morning, about a year ago. Vesna was in the kitchen while Elvira was talking to him. She recalled thinking she must check on her as her sister wasn’t safe anywhere near gas or sharp kitchen implements. Suddenly, she had heard a scream. Rushing to the kitchen, she had seen her poor sister holding the carving knife with blood pouring from her hand.

  “What on Earth are you doing, Vessie?” she had cried. “I told you to leave the carving of the joint to me. I told you I’d only be a moment or two with Mr Carstairs.”

  “I’m not daft,” Vesna had yelled back at her. “I can carve a joint of beef. I’m not incapacitated.”

  “Well, you are now,” Elvira had declared, taking the knife from her injured hand. “Let’s run that cut under the cold tap. I don’t think it’s gone that deep.”

  While she had been pouring water over her sister’s wound, Henry had come into the kitchen. “Is there anything I can do? Is she all right?”

  “Who’s she? The cat’s mother?” Vesna had screamed at him. “Don’t talk as if I’m not here!”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Rowan,” Henry had been politeness itself. “Are you all right?”

  “’Course I’m not all right! I’ve stabbed myself.”

  Elvira had apologized to Henry out of the side of her mouth. There had been no excuse for her sister’s rudeness, and she felt embarrassed as the man had only been trying to help. “Could you possibly carve the meat up for us?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Henry had replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

  Elvira finished preparing the powders and wrapped them up carefully. She was glad that her remedy was obviously doing him good. Henry wasn’t one of nature’s charmers, but neither was she. She sensed a kindred spirit when she thought of him.

  Sylvia was still in the back garden when she returned to the kitchen.

  “Here you are,” said Elvira, handing her a small packet. “I hope they help him. It must be awful being in prison. Especially suffering with headaches like he does.”

  Sylvia put the powders in her handbag and thanked her. “You are kind,” she said. “I mean, not just about the powders, but by not condemning Henry like most people have done.”

  “I believe in a person being innocent until proved not to be,” Elvira smiled.

  “Yes, that’s what I believe, too. Henry’s always been a good friend to me and Minnie, especially after Ted died. Anyway, dear, what do I owe you for the powders?”

  “Nothing. Just give them to him and wish him better from me. It’s the least I can do.”

  Sylvia had never really cared for Elvira Rowan, or her sister either. Like most people in the neighbourhood, she had always tended to steer clear of them. But, today, she came away from the cottage feeling more kindly disposed towards her. There had been something almost like kindness in Elvira’s eyes when she gave her the powders. No wicked witch would look at you like that, she thought.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Inspector Craddock wasn’t in a good mood. That wasn’t unusual, but today he seemed even more irascible than ever.

  “What’s up?” asked Rathbone resignedly. “Lost your pen again?”

  “My pen? No, no. It’s here – I think.” Craddock tapped the top pocket of his tweed jacket. “No, it’s my wife. She’s taken to leaving my meals in the oven until they burn. Even when I tell her I’ll be late and not to keep my dinner hot, she doesn’t listen. She says if I can’t get home at
a reasonable hour at least once a week, why should she bother to make sure my food’s eatable. This morning she asked for a divorce, blast her. And Terry’s been playing truant again, and the school is going to expel him. But, other than that, everything’s fine.”

  “Oh dear, sorry to hear, guv. But maybe this’ll cheer you up, or probably it won’t, but there’s a Reverend Palt – toe – something downstairs waiting to see you. And he’s brought that Rowan woman with him.”

  “So, I wonder…” Craddock seemed calmer now. “Is she going to change her story? She told us Helen Carstairs never visited her on the night she died.”

  “That’s right. It’s quite possible she’s here to retract her statement, guv. I mean, I believe Percy Banks saw what he saw. He struck me as an honest young man.”

  “Hmm, we’ll see,” said Craddock. “Better wheel ’em in, then.” He stood up. “No, better use the interview room. All official. If the woman has been lying to us, I’ll make sure she feels the full force of the law. I’m in that sort of a mood today.”

  Rathbone didn’t need telling that, but he only smiled, following his boss out of the office. Craddock’s bad temper was legendary at the station, usually brought on by his domestic troubles. Like today. Mrs Craddock threatened to divorce him at least once a week. One day, he supposed, she’d go through with it.

  

  Elvira had finally been persuaded by Bernard to tell the police the truth. She couldn’t live with the guilt anymore. She had told Bernard as much as she could, taking into account Vesna’s last wishes, but that hadn’t helped her conscience at all. Her only hope was to take full responsibility for giving Helen the powder that was supposed to bring on a miscarriage, even though it was her sister who had insisted on giving it to her. She had told Elvira to make it up for the young girl, despite knowing it was against the law. Whatever Vesna had done or not done, she was dead now and somewhere where she couldn’t be hurt anymore. But Elvira didn’t want people to think badly of her, not if she could help it. They had done worse things and got away with them, but this was something she could take responsibility for by herself.