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

by Kate Ellis

  He’d felt sorry for Miss Fisher. In his opinion, her mother had been a poisonous woman who’d kept her daughter at her beck and call. He wondered whether Miss Fisher had managed to build a life of her own now the old woman was dead. Somehow he doubted it; the captive bird often clings to the security of its prison even when the cage door is opened.

  When they reached Miss Fisher’s front door he was tempted for a moment to ask Gwen if she’d like to eat with him at the hotel but he knew the suggestion was inappropriate. He was a married man, she was a single lady and this was a small village with eyes everywhere.

  He walked away without issuing the invitation, guiltily aware of the attraction he felt. Gwen Davies reminded him a little of Flora, although her hair was darker and her features sharper; she even reminded him somewhat of Mary in the days of their courtship, before their world collapsed. He plunged his hand into his jacket pocket and felt Mary’s letter there; a reminder of his duty. Last time he’d forgotten his duty he had paid a heavy price.

  On his return to the police station he found Sergeant Stark at his post behind the polished front desk. As soon as he saw Albert he stood to attention.

  ‘I need a couple of men up at the Ridge.’

  ‘We’re a bit short-handed, I’m afraid, sir.’

  Constable Mitchell emerged from a back office. ‘I’m happy to go up there, sir,’ he said. ‘Although they say there are caves up there so well hidden that nobody’s ever found them.’

  Mitchell was a tall young man with a shock of ginger hair. He looked as if he was barely out of school and Albert found himself wondering whether he’d managed to escape being sent to war. There was an innocence in the boy’s eyes which suggested to Albert that he hadn’t experienced the horrors of conflict. Perhaps the whole dreadful thing had been over before he could be sent to France.

  ‘I’ve just been up there with Peter Rudyard’s brother and his teacher and I’m sure that he would have called out if he’d heard us. But there’s always a chance he might have fallen.’ Albert did his best to keep the emotion he felt out of his voice. He needed to find the boy for his mother’s sake but he wasn’t sure where to start. Suddenly he felt helpless.

  ‘He might be trapped somewhere up there or … ’ The young constable didn’t have to finish his sentence. It was what they were all thinking. Peter could have taken a tumble and be lying lifeless at the bottom of some concealed pothole or ancient quarry, disused and hidden since the days of the Romans. There was a chance he would never be found.

  Albert retreated into his temporary office. Needing to think, he sat at the desk and closed his eyes as the memories of all his past failures flooded back unbidden. When he opened his eyes again he took his notebook from his pocket. He couldn’t wallow in self-pity if he was to catch Patience Bailey’s killer and find Peter Rudyard alive.

  He stared at his notebook, focusing on one name. Before she’d come to Mabley Ridge to work for Jane Ghent Patience Bailey had been companion to a lady in Didsbury: a Mrs Esther Schuman. It was a German name and Albert was surprised she hadn’t changed it when war broke out as so many others had done – including the Royal Family themselves.

  He returned to the front desk and asked Mitchell to telephone Didsbury Police Station and ask them what, if anything, they knew about Mrs Schuman. The answer came back sooner than expected. Mrs Esther Schuman was the widow of a respected cotton trader and she lived in a well-appointed villa in Belfield Road. Like many people in the area she was Jewish, he added, which meant that it would be best to call on her on Sunday rather than Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath. He promised to break the news to her and inform her of the inspector’s impending visit, for which Albert was grateful.

  Just as Albert ended the telephone call a boy entered the station and sidled up to the front desk. Albert recognised him at once as Peter Rudyard’s brother Ernest. A couple of years older than Peter, Ernest was tall for his age and gangling as a young colt. However he was considerably smaller than Sergeant Stark and he gazed up at the man who towered on the other side of the counter.

  ‘Me mam sent me. She says to tell you our Peter’s back. Our Jack found him walking back from the Ridge.’

  The station suddenly fell silent.

  ‘What was he doing up there? Didn’t he hear us calling him?’ It was Albert who asked the question and Ernest turned to look at him. There was wariness in his eyes which made Albert wonder whether the boy remembered him from his last time there six years before. After a quick calculation he concluded that Ernest would have been six back then; he remembered him as a lively, happy child who’d seemed unaware of the tragic events unfolding around him. But now he’d changed to suit his name, subdued and serious as though the truth had dawned on him in the intervening years.

  ‘He wouldn’t say, even when me dad said he’d take his belt to him.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him if you like,’ Albert said quickly.

  He saw scepticism on the boy’s face. This was the man who’d failed the family six years ago so anything he had to say was bound to be useless. Ernest turned and marched out of the front door. He’d delivered his message. His job was done.

  But Albert still wanted to know what Peter Rudyard had been up to during those lost hours spent on the Ridge.

  Chapter 20

  Peter

  I told the Shadow Man I had to be back before dark or they’d come looking for me. I thought he’d be cross but he wasn’t.

  When I asked him what his real name was he said it didn’t matter. He said he was a ghost but I don’t think he is. Ghosts don’t smell like he does – not that I’ve ever met a ghost before. I told him I’d seen him in the cemetery and he made me promise not to tell anyone ’cause some very bad people are after him. I asked him who they were but he said it was better if I didn’t know because they’d shoot him if they found him – or hang him, which was worse. I promised not to tell. Cross my heart and hope to die.

  The Shadow Man said King Arthur’s knights are hiding on the Ridge. I told him I’d seen one of them once but he said that couldn’t be right because they were fast asleep in a cave with their white horses and they wouldn’t wake up until their country needed them. I asked him where the cave was but he said it was a big secret and he’d found it by accident. I asked him to show me and he promised he would one day.

  I thought I’d be scared of the Shadow Man but I’m not, although I did get a bit scared when he started crying and rushed into the cave to hide from the bad people. I said they weren’t there but I don’t think he heard me. He sat in the corner shaking all over with his arms over his head and I didn’t know what to do.

  Then he seemed to get better and he asked me to get him some food but I said I didn’t know whether I can because me mam’ll notice if food goes missing. Then he said there are a lot of farms round about so he can steal food if he needs it. But my dad says stealing’s wrong so I said I’ll try my best to bring him something ’cause if the police catch you stealing they put you in prison.

  When I got home I kept my promise and never mentioned the Shadow Man but I told Mam about the sleeping knights and I said I’d spoken to our Jimmy’s ghost. But she started crying and Dad took his belt to me again.

  Chapter 21

  The previous evening Albert had toyed with the idea of visiting the cemetery lodge to make sure Peter Rudyard was all right and to ask him if he had anything more to say about the Shadow Man he claimed to have seen. In the end he decided against another encounter with the Rudyards. Peter had returned safe and well so for now he’d leave things be.

  He slept badly that night, tossing and turning in his bed, throwing off the eiderdown and blankets then scrabbling for them on the floor when he began to feel a chill in the northern air. He wondered how Mary was faring back in London and he hoped the Reverend Gillit hadn’t decided to take advantage of his absence to call more often. They managed on Albert’s wages but he hated the idea of wasting precious money on what he saw as Gillit’s fraudu
lent activities.

  A while ago he’d asked one of his colleagues to make discreet enquiries about the reverend. He’d come up with nothing – as well as being a charlatan the man was clever. He would have liked to put a stop to Gillit but he knew this would leave Mary with no source of comfort. Besides, he had no actual proof of any wrongdoing. The problem went round in his head half the night until he fell into a fitful slumber in the early hours.

  On Sunday morning he woke exhausted and at breakfast he gulped down a strong cup of tea to wake himself up before tackling his bacon and fried egg.

  Most of the businessmen who occupied the Station Hotel during the week had returned to their families so there was a dignified hush over the hotel’s dining room. Albert tried not to feel self-conscious as he ate in the reverent silence, under the gaze of a team of watchful waiters. Once he’d finished breakfast he took out his watch and saw that it was almost ten o’clock. He intended to go to church that morning, not from a desire for spiritual comfort but to take a good look at the assembled village because, in his experience, you could learn a lot about a community by observing how people interacted with their neighbours.

  He wondered whether Mrs Pearce would reappear at the service. Her absence was nagging away at the back of Albert’s mind. Why would a woman who left food for a son she believed was still alive suddenly stop and disappear? Unless that son had turned up, on the run from the authorities, and she’d gone away with him; somewhere neither of them were known.

  He put on his work suit and brushed his hair so that he looked presentable. Mabley Ridge was the sort of place where the wealthier ladies regarded a visit to church as a chance to show off their latest fashions, the fruits of their husbands’ business acumen, rather than an opportunity for prayer.

  He knew he’d see Abraham Stark in church. He remembered Stark from his last visit wearing his Sunday best and singing heartily with his wife by his side.

  As Albert walked down the street he passed a crowd of villagers on their way to church; the men in suits, the women wearing their best hats. A parade of cars, some driven by chauffeurs, purred down the road to park outside the parish church. Albert paused at the church gate, watching the passengers alight; the self-satisfied, prosperous couples eyeing their business rivals and doling out purse-lipped smiles: the Cottontots at prayer.

  The Ghents were among the last to arrive. Their car pulled up at five to eleven, driven by Mallory Ghent himself with his wife and daughter in the rear seat. As they made their way into the church their social inferiors stood aside to let them go ahead while Albert held back, watching with interest. Mrs Ghent, he noticed, didn’t look well. There was a distant, haunted look in her bloodshot eyes while the daughter, Esme, looked bored and restless as if she’d rather be somewhere else.

  Once inside the church Albert took a seat at the back, glad that there was no room next to the Starks a few rows in front or he’d have felt obliged to join them. From where he sat he had a good view of the congregation and the divide between the wealthy and their servants couldn’t have been more blatant if they’d been in the chapel of a great house. The Cottontots had their own pews at the front and from where he sat Albert had a good view of the Ghents, who were ignoring each other as though they were strangers, seated together by chance. He wondered whether Patience Bailey had attended church with them – or whether she’d sat in the back section of the nave with the servants and the villagers.

  It surprised him that the vicar made no mention of her murder and no prayers were offered for her or her family. It was as though Patience Bailey was somebody the village would rather forget.

  During the sermon, which was lengthy and tedious, he took the opportunity to observe his fellow worshippers, scanning each face and wondering whether one of them was a murderer. He’d done exactly the same when Jimmy Rudyard had been killed, studying each face and wondering whether the pious facade concealed a killer’s soul. Sitting there now brought that memory back, sharp and painful.

  There was no sign of Mrs Pearce who, so he’d heard, was a regular. Neither was there any sign of the Rudyards. Then he remembered from his last stay that they patronised the Methodist chapel down the road. However, he spotted Gwen Davies in the centre of the church sitting next to her landlady, although the two women hardly looked at each other. Miss Fisher wore an elegant hat and a pair of pristine pale-blue gloves which she fidgeted with while casting looks at the Starks in the pew opposite as though she was longing to remonstrate with the sergeant about the police intrusion the previous evening. Eventually she settled down, paying close attention to her prayer book.

  Albert tried to catch Gwen’s eye but she was looking ahead, deep in thought as though something was troubling her, so instead he watched Mallory Ghent and noticed how uncomfortable he looked when the vicar mentioned the words ‘sin’ and ‘adultery’. Albert saw Ghent’s wife give him a sideways glance which seemed more guilty than accusatory while their daughter, Esme, studied her well-polished nails as the vicar spoke, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was there under sufferance and she had better things to do. The maid, Daisy, sat near the back, wearing an inscrutable expression and a smart hat which must have cost most of her wages.

  Sitting near the west door, Albert was able to be first out after the service and he was tempted to wait around to speak to Gwen, but the Starks had just emerged from the church porch, shaking hands with the vicar and exchanging pleasantries.

  As Albert stood outside the church waiting for them he was conscious of being an outsider; an alien observer of a foreign race. When the Starks eventually joined him the sergeant shook his hand firmly and Mrs Stark announced that ‘Sunday dinner will be ready presently.’

  When they arrived at the police house that was home to the Starks, Abraham Stark discarded his suit jacket, a concession to the warmth of the day and Mrs Stark busied herself basting the roast potatoes she’d prepared before church in anticipation of having company for dinner. A small, plump woman with a round face, she wore a shapeless blue dress beneath a crossover apron. She smiled a lot and seemed full of nervous energy, as though she feared inactivity.

  Albert couldn’t help noticing that, although she chattered away, she barely looked at her husband, but he’d long ago learned not to dig too deeply into other people’s marriages.

  Mrs Stark was still speaking and Albert wondered whether her husband found it easier to let her do the talking for both of them. Albert smiled and made noises of agreement from time to time because he guessed it was expected of him. It was only when she began to ask what they were doing to find the missing baby that his brain began to register what she was saying.

  ‘Is there still no sign of the little mite?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Everyone in the village has been spoken to and the search is being widened tomorrow.’

  ‘Let’s just pray nothing’s happened to him.’ She paused. ‘I must admit I felt sorry for Mrs Bailey.’

  ‘Your husband said you’d spoken to her once or twice.’ ‘That’s right. I saw her in the tearooms all on her own and I invited her here with the little one for a cup of tea. I’d just made some scones and she looked as if she could do with a bit of feeding up, if you know what I mean. Nice woman, she was. I told you, didn’t I, Abraham?’

  Stark nodded meekly.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘The baby mostly. She was friendly enough but reserved. I thought she might be shy and if we got to know each other better she might be more forthcoming. But she never got the chance, did she, poor lass,’ she said with a loud sniff. ‘There are some wicked people in the world.’

  ‘There are indeed,’ her husband said.

  ‘I saw her walking towards the Ridge with that poor little mite, you know. Pushing the pram she was.’

  ‘When was this?’ Albert asked.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago – that’s why I didn’t think it was important.’ There was a nervousness in her words. Albert had always assumed that s
he was the one who ruled the household but now he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Where did you see her?’

  ‘In Ridge Lane, between Gramercy House and the Ridge. I was on my way back from Jenner’s farm – I’d just bought some eggs from Mrs Jenner and I’d stayed for a cup of tea. Anyway, I would have stopped to chat but I don’t think she saw me. If you ask me, she had something on her mind and she wouldn’t have noticed if a military band had marched past.’

  ‘You think something was troubling her?’ Stark asked.

  His wife didn’t answer, but her words had given Albert something to think about.

  The dinner was good and by the time he’d finished, accepting second helpings out of politeness, he felt full and a little drowsy. However there was no time to relax after dinner because he’d arranged, through the police station in Didsbury, to pay Esther Schuman a visit to talk to her about her former companion. The constable at Didsbury had told him Mrs Schuman was looking forward to his visit – which seemed like a good omen. And he didn’t want to be late.

  He levered himself out of the comfortable armchair and thanked Mrs Stark profusely for the meal. The praise made her cheeks glow and she looked positively coy as she shook his hand, making him promise to come again.

  He looked into her eyes and saw anxiety there. Perhaps like Mary she too suffered from having a husband whose work deprived her of his companionship. Or perhaps she was blaming herself for not having been a better friend to Patience Bailey.