The Boy Who Lived with the Dead (Albert Lincoln Book 2)

by Kate Ellis

  Sitting in the passenger seat of the Alvis, she imagined how jealous her friends would be of her new-found sophistication if they saw her driving by. To her disappointment she saw nobody she knew but when they arrived at Ridgeside Lodge and she watched him pour the champagne, she experienced an excitement verging on joy. She had only ever drunk champagne during the day once before and that was at a cousin’s wedding so she’d been impressed when Sydney had a bottle standing ready in a silver ice bucket.

  As he poured expertly to prevent the erupting bubbles spilling over the edge of the glass, she compared him to her male contemporaries and found them wanting; those clean-cut boys who were so polite and eager to please.

  Sydney possessed an aura of excitement – even danger – and as he handed her the champagne glass his fingers touched hers and she felt an unfamiliar thrill passing through her body.

  ‘Come on, darling, relax. I’m not going to bite you.’

  Esme took a long sip of champagne, wrinkling her nose when the bubbles hit, before stretching out on the velvet sofa.

  ‘Do your parents know you’re here with me?’

  This was a question she hadn’t expected. ‘Where I go and who I see is none of their business. I’m a big girl now.’ She knew her last words held promise and they were meant to. She looked Sydney in the eye, challenging him to make a move.

  He was a good fifteen years older than her with a worldliness that added to his attraction. His body was lean and muscular and his black hair was slicked back to reveal a high forehead – an intelligent forehead, she told herself. His eyes were a piercing green and he had a habit of looking at her, direct and unblinking, that made her feel she was the sole focus of his attention … and that he could read her every thought. His only physical flaw was his injured foot which he dragged on the ground when he walked. He had been caught by a ricocheting bullet from the rifle of an enemy sniper, he told her, but he’d been lucky because two of his comrades had bought it.

  ‘You haven’t told your mother about us, have you?’

  ‘Why should I?’ She leaned forward, feigning indifference. ‘You don’t want me to take you home and introduce you to my parents do you? I wouldn’t have thought that was your style.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ he said quickly. ‘The last thing I want is to have to sit through afternoon tea with your boring parents.’ There was a short silence before he asked his next question, this time lowering his gaze to her legs. ‘At least I assume they’re boring. Tell me about them. Start with your mother.’

  ‘Why do you keep asking about her? I told you before – she’s not very interesting.’

  He put his glass down and leaned forward to kiss her on the lips, a kiss she returned. ‘Because I want to know everything about you. What’s she like? How does she fill her day?’ He hesitated. ‘Has she got a lover?’

  Esme was shocked by the final question but she was determined not to show it. ‘Of course not. She’s old.’

  ‘Not that old, surely.’

  For a long time Esme hadn’t given her mother much thought but Sydney’s questions focused her mind. ‘Mummy used to be fun – she liked pretty clothes and parties, that sort of thing – but since my brother was killed … It’s as if she died inside as well. I feel sorry for her in a way.’ She suddenly realised what she’d said. It wouldn’t do at all. ‘She’s turned into a frightful bore. Honestly.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Any woman who has such a gorgeous daughter can’t be all bad.’

  She hesitated before replying. ‘If you really want to meet her why don’t you come to the house tomorrow. My father won’t be there. He spends all day at the mill. And whenever he’s home in the evenings he disappears into his room by the stables. But nobody else is allowed to go in.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shrugged. ‘He says there are dangerous chemicals in there.’

  ‘What sort of chemicals?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Does your mother go out much?’

  ‘Hardly ever. And now she won’t have Patience around things will probably get worse.’

  ‘Do the police know what happened to her?’

  ‘I’ve heard they’re going to send someone up from Scotland Yard but I don’t know when he’ll arrive.’ She looked straight at him, a challenge in her eyes. ‘Will you come tomorrow? Are you brave enough to face my fearsome mama?’

  ‘It’s probably best if we leave it for another time,’ Sydney said quickly. ‘More champagne?’

  ‘Why not?’ She held out her glass and he poured with a steady hand.

  Chapter 10

  Sergeant Stark had arranged to meet Albert at the small railway station that served the village and as the train laboured away and the cloud of smoke from the engine cleared Albert saw him standing there, stiff in his high-collared serge uniform. As soon as Stark spotted him a businesslike smile of greeting appeared on his face as though he was pleased the man from Scotland Yard had arrived to lift the burden from his shoulders, even though their last encounter hadn’t ended in success.

  Albert hurried forward, his right hand outstretched, and he noticed Stark staring at his other hand which was hanging by his side. War had left the hand a reddened stump with only the thumb and forefinger remaining. His face too bore red, shiny scars, although his disfigurement was trivial compared to the terrible injuries suffered by many of his comrades. Stark had last seen him before conflict left its marks on his flesh and Albert saw a brief look of shock pass across his heavy features.

  ‘I’ve taken a room for you at the Station Hotel,’ Stark said, averting his gaze from Albert’s face. ‘It’s where you stayed before and you said it was comfortable. It has electric light now, I believe.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be satisfactory.’

  ‘We’ve had electric light put in at the police station too … very modern,’ he added as though he hoped Albert would be impressed by this evidence of Northern sophistication.

  When Albert didn’t reply Stark picked up his suitcase; whether this was out of politeness or because the sergeant assumed he needed help because of his injured hand, Albert wasn’t sure. But he said nothing and allowed Stark to lead the way to the hotel which stood near to the station. Albert had been cooped up in a train compartment for hours and all he wanted was to unpack, wash and have something to eat.

  ‘My missus says would you like to come round for your dinner on Sunday,’ Stark said as though he’d read Albert’s mind.

  ‘That’s very kind of her.’

  ‘Half past twelve, after church if that’s all right with you.’

  Albert thanked him. The results of Mary’s recent halfhearted efforts at cooking had hardly been appetising and Albert recalled that Mrs Stark – Hetty – was a good, if unimaginative, cook. When he had been there in 1914 she had taken pity on the detective from London so far away from home and he’d often been invited to eat at the police house where her talkative nature had compensated for her husband’s frequent silences. He had enjoyed those hearty meals but then in those days he’d had a wife and a son and the world hadn’t been scarred by war. A lot had changed in the intervening years.

  When they reached the hotel Albert took his case to his room while Stark waited for him downstairs because they needed to talk about the investigation.

  To avoid being overheard by curious ears Albert knew it would be wise to conduct their conversation at the police station but he couldn’t resist asking questions on the way.

  ‘Tell me about the victim.’

  ‘She’s been identified by her employer’s husband as Patience Bailey.’

  ‘Employer?’

  ‘She was a war widow – lost her husband in France near the end of the war – and she was working as a paid companion to Mrs Ghent at Gramercy House; big place in its own grounds off the Ridge Road. The dead woman had a young baby but, according to Mr Ghent, she never talked about any other relatives.�
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  ‘No relatives at all?’

  ‘None she ever mentioned to the Ghents.’

  ‘Any followers?’

  ‘No sign of any men. That’s what her employers say anyway.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘According to everyone we’ve spoken to she was a quiet woman and a devoted mother. Mr and Mrs Ghent say she didn’t know anybody in the village apart from to pass the time of day, although my missus took pity on her and chatted to her if she ever saw her on her own in the tearoom. Said she seemed like a nice woman. Lonely life being a paid companion. You’re neither fish nor fowl.’

  ‘What about her background?’

  ‘She came from Manchester but the Ghents say she had no visitors and never mentioned anyone, although she sometimes left the village on her days off – caught the train but she never said where to. My missus asked her about her late husband and her family but she wasn’t very forthcoming. Seems she was a bit of an enigma.’ He paused and looked round, as though to make sure nobody was listening. ‘Between you and me, the sums don’t add up … with the baby. It’s only about seven months old and she told the Ghents her husband died at the end of the war – November nineteen eighteen. It’s September nineteen twenty now which means the little one was born in February, so he must have been conceived around April or May nineteen nineteen when her husband had already been dead six months.’

  Stark’s words hit Albert like a punch. But he couldn’t allow Stark to know the mention of the baby’s date of birth disturbed him so he fixed his eyes ahead and carried on walking. He had to put all thoughts of Flora and their child out of his mind.

  ‘So who was the father of Patience Bailey’s child?’ Albert forced himself to ask after a minute of silence.

  ‘That’s what we need to find out. That and where the little ’un is.’

  ‘Have you organised a search?’

  Stark nodded. ‘I’ve had men looking for him in the village and in farm outbuildings.’

  ‘What about the Ridge?’

  Stark’s face clouded. ‘If he’s up there I don’t hold out much hope. There’s all sorts of hidden mineworkings and quarries and caves and … ’

  He didn’t need to say more. The landscape of the Ridge contained all manner of perils. If somebody had taken the child up there its chances of survival were slim, although Albert couldn’t understand why someone would kill a mother and take her child if they didn’t intend to care for it, unless the killer intended to use it as a hostage, assuming the wealthy Ghents would pay up to ensure its safe return. Or was the child’s father – whoever he was – involved in some way? Had he killed his former lover and taken his son? It was a puzzle – as was the mother’s past life.

  Chapter 11

  Sergeant Stark had warned Gwen Davies that the man from Scotland Yard would be arriving that day and that he’d want to speak to her at some point. She’d found the body after all, or rather, Peter Rudyard had.

  Peter hadn’t been in school that day because, according to his sister Maud, he wasn’t well. But Maud wasn’t a good liar. Unlike her brother, Peter, she was an unimaginative child and Gwen knew she was holding something back.

  All sorts of possibilities ran through Gwen’s mind. What if Maud was trying to cover up the fact that Peter was missing? What if whoever had killed the woman imagined he was a witness who needed to be silenced? She felt uneasy about the boy’s absence so she made plans to call at the cemetery lodge on her way back to her lodgings. Surely nobody could criticise her for making sure her pupil was safe.

  At the end of the school day she was wiping the blackboard when she heard a man’s voice behind her. His accent was unfamiliar and he sounded almost apologetic.

  ‘Miss Davies?’

  Gwen spun round, the board duster still in her hand. The man standing in the classroom doorway was tall with dark hair and a rugged face that would have been handsome were it not for the angry scarring running down one cheek from the edge of his eye to his jaw. He held his hat in his right hand but her eyes were drawn to his damaged left hand. She guessed that he’d sustained his wounds in the service of his country and if those were his only injuries he’d been luckier than many.

  ‘I’m Gwen Davies,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Inspector Lincoln – Albert Lincoln. Scotland Yard. I’m investigating the death of Patience Bailey and I understand you found her body.’

  She extended her hand and for a second or so he looked confused. Then he gathered his thoughts and deposited his hat on a nearby bookcase so that he was able to shake her hand and their eyes met for a brief moment.

  ‘Sergeant Stark told me you’d want to speak to me about … what we found in the cemetery.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘One of my pupils, Peter Rudyard, was with me. He lives in the cemetery lodge and he found the body in the morning but he didn’t tell me about it until school was over for the day.’

  ‘Why you and not his parents?’

  She smiled. ‘Peter’s – how shall I put it? – an imaginative child. He makes up stories. I’m not saying he tells lies as such because I’m sure he believes that most of what he says is the truth but other people tend to take what he says with a pinch of salt. It’s like that old story of the Boy who Cried Wolf. He tells so many tall tales that nobody takes what he says seriously, only one day it turns out he’s right.’

  ‘What made you believe Peter this time?’

  ‘There was something about the way he said it, as if he was genuinely frightened. Did you know that Peter’s twin brother was murdered before the war? I wasn’t here at the time but Mabley Ridge is a small community and people talk.’

  ‘Yes, I know about it,’ he said and Gwen saw a shadow pass across his face, as though the death of Peter’s brother had affected him personally. ‘Did you recognise the dead woman?’

  ‘I’ve seen her around in the village with her baby but I never spoke to her.’

  ‘She worked for a family called Ghent who live up on Ridge Lane. Are you acquainted with them at all?’

  ‘Dear me, no. The Cottontots, as they’re known round here, have nothing to do with the village school. My pupils come from the village proper; the little streets. The wealthy make other arrangements for their own children’s education.’

  She excused herself and disappeared through a small door beside the blackboard and when she emerged she was wearing her hat and carrying the battered leather briefcase her parents had given her when she first went to college to train as a teacher; a time before she became such a disappointment to them.

  ‘Would you mind if we talk while we walk?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll carry your bag if you’d like?’

  When she passed him her bag he looked surprised at its weight.

  ‘It’s full of books,’ she said. ‘I have a lot of arithmetic to mark this evening.’

  ‘I want to speak to Peter and it might help if you’re there as well. Would you mind very much?’

  He looked at her hopefully and she realised this could be the solution to her problem.

  ‘I don’t mind at all. In fact he hasn’t been in school today so I was planning to call in before I went back to my lodgings … just to make sure everything’s all right.’

  They walked out of the village towards the cemetery in silence, side by side. When they were halfway there Gwen asked the question that had been on her mind all day. ‘I’ve heard that Mrs Bailey’s baby’s missing. Do you think … do you think someone might have killed her for the child?’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘If someone was desperate for a child … if they’d lost their own … ’

  She knew she’d said too much because the inspector stared at her as though some dreadful curse had come upon him. Something about her words had hurt him and she wished she knew what she’d said that had been so wrong. She wondered whether she should tell him that the thought of the baby caused her pain too. But some things are best left uns
aid.

  Chapter 12

  The schoolmistress couldn’t have known that Albert had lost Frederick and then he’d gone on to lose the child Flora had given birth to. She wasn’t to know that the thought of his two losses caused a pain that was almost physical – as though some small, vicious creature was gnawing at his heart. She’d spoken in ignorance, that was all.

  When they reached the cemetery lodge he saw that the house hadn’t changed one iota since he’d last been there in 1914. It was built of red brick with Gothic architectural flourishes and stood beside a pair of impressive ornamental gates that remained open during daylight hours.

  Beyond the gates Albert could see the cemetery where the rich and poor of Mabley Ridge ended their earthly existence, kept pristine by the efforts of John Rudyard who also worked as a gardener in one of the big houses. Staring at the lodge, he felt the urge to run away. He’d failed the Rudyards all those years ago and the thought of having to face them again paralysed him with a mixture of embarrassment and fear.

  He wondered how the family would react when they saw him. Would Grace Rudyard spit in his face like she had before when he’d been forced to tell her that her son Jimmy’s killer had left no clue to his identity and that he had to return to London, his task left unfinished?

  He stood back as Gwen Davies knocked on the front door, imagining his embarrassment if she were to witness Grace Rudyard’s fury. But it was too late to change things now.

  When Grace answered the door Albert stayed in the background and allowed Gwen to do the talking. It took a special kind of courage to face a bereaved parent you’ve failed and Albert wasn’t sure whether he could summon that kind of bravery any more. There were times it was easier to face the aggression of an enemy in war than the pain of grief.