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

by Kate Ellis

  Esme hesitated for a few moments, unsure what to do. ‘Mother, what is it? What’s the matter? Is it something to do with Monty?’ she asked, her eyes on the photograph, wishing she could rip it from her mother’s grasp and take a look at it.

  Jane shook her head and tendrils of hair escaped their pins, giving her a wild look.

  ‘What’s that in your hand?’

  Before she knew it her mother sprang up, grabbed a gold cigarette lighter off the mantelpiece and set the photograph and note alight, throwing them into the grate where they shrivelled to grey ash.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘It’s better if you never know,’ Jane replied, sinking to her knees.

  Chapter 24

  Albert didn’t feel like returning to the hotel after his visit to Didsbury. He found his room claustrophobic and he couldn’t face the thought of sitting in the lounge pretending to read a newspaper. He needed to turn Esther Schuman’s revelations over in his mind. Patience Bailey must have known the Ghents’ late son Monty through her connection with Esther’s grandson, David Cohen, and he couldn’t help wondering why the Ghents hadn’t mentioned this when he’d spoken to them. Perhaps they hadn’t considered it important; or maybe there was another reason.

  He’d contacted the police station in Withington and the sergeant there had supplied him with a name. Some years ago there had been a chemist’s shop in the village run by a family called Jones. Albert’s spirits plummeted at the mention of the all-too-common name, fearing that tracing Patience’s family would take longer than he’d hoped. He pondered the problem for a while and concluded that her brother was probably his best hope. According to Esther Schuman he lived in Manchester and worked for the government so he was bound to find him eventually.

  Whenever he needed to think in London he went for a long walk, making for the Thames to stare into its dirty grey depths, oblivious to the bustle of the city around him. There was no river in Mabley Ridge but there was the Ridge itself.

  Before Jimmy Rudyard’s murder it used to be a popular playground for young local adventurers but these days its reputation kept children away. According to Sergeant Stark, only those bent on self-destruction ventured up there now. A number of suicides had either hanged themselves in the woods or thrown themselves off Oak Tree Edge into the chasm below. Nevertheless Albert felt a sudden longing to go up there alone to contemplate the case.

  When he arrived at the Ridge he took the path through the trees towards the stone circle. It was a path he’d trodden many times while he was investigating Jimmy Rudyard’s murder and the action was automatic.

  It took him a few minutes to walk there and when he reached the circle he stood in its centre and shut his eyes tight, wondering whether he’d imagined those faint voices in the breeze he’d heard during his last visit, distant and echoing as though they didn’t belong to this world.

  As he listened he thought he could hear them again but as soon as he opened his eyes the voices had gone. The brain could conjure all sorts of imaginings in a place like that, even bringing the dead back to life.

  It was a relief to walk away from the circle and follow an unfamiliar path through the woods. In his opinion the whole area should have been searched for the missing baby but Sergeant Stark and his colleagues had seemed reluctant to consider the possibility that its abductor had left it to die in such a wild location like some Spartan infant abandoned in the wilderness. He hoped the local police were right in thinking that nobody would be that cruel. Even so, as he walked he looked around, alert for anything unusual; seeking some hiding place where a small body could have been concealed.

  He took a narrow winding path which sloped steeply downwards and eventually found himself on the floor of what must have been a long-abandoned quarry. Cliffs of mossy rock rose on three sides, curtains of vegetation turning the small amphitheatre green in the dappled light filtering through the surrounding trees. The place smelled dank and he could hear water trickling somewhere, although he couldn’t see the source of the sound.

  All of a sudden he caught a flash of movement just out of his field of vision and when he turned his head he thought he saw a small figure, a child, vanishing into the rocks. He tried to follow but it had disappeared and he feared it had been a hallucination conjured by his overworked brain. A vision of Frederick perhaps – or Jimmy Rudyard. His head was aching and he shut his eyes, breathing in the scent of damp vegetation as reason told him that his guilt had made him mistake the shifting light for Jimmy’s small, sad ghost.

  He circled the quarry. The thick creepers hanging off the rock walls were cold and wet to his touch as he started to pull them aside. Then the blow came and he fell senseless to the ground.

  He had no idea how long he lay there but when he came to the damp had penetrated his clothes and chilled his body. The raw stump, all that remained of his left hand after the shell had exploded in the trench, throbbed with pain and the rest of his body felt numb, apart from his head that ached as though a thousand soldiers were doing drill inside his brain.

  He lay on the ground for a while, strange thoughts and visions flitting through his head. Flora was standing close to him, her face tilted towards his, inviting a kiss. Then she was lying on a bed reaching out to him and he experienced a sudden rush of desire, but with a great deal of effort he managed to block her out. Suddenly her face was replaced by that of Patience Bailey, distorted in death.

  When he forced himself to open his eyes he discovered that he was in the centre of the stone circle, in the very place Jimmy Rudyard had been found. His last memory was of being in the quarry unless perhaps that had been an illusion; that and the ghost child.

  He levered himself up, wincing with the sharp pains that shot through his body, testing his limbs and fearing he’d created phantoms out of nothing so that he could no longer believe what his senses told him. Tears pricked his eyes as he began to wonder what had made him volunteer to return to Mabley Ridge when he could easily have sent somebody else. Unfinished business, perhaps; the hope that, even after so much time had passed, he’d be able to identify the killer of little Jimmy Rudyard and bring him to justice? At that moment that hope felt like vanity. He’d failed then and nothing had changed.

  He struggled to his feet, sick and disorientated, wishing he wasn’t alone there at the mercy of God knows what as the trees spun around him. He had the sensation of being watched and he suddenly felt afraid; the kind of fear he’d experienced when he knew enemy snipers were waiting ready to pick off any man unlucky enough to stray into their sights.

  As he stumbled drunkenly out of the shelter of the trees and along the wide path leading to the road, he raised his right hand to his head and realised his hat was missing. He felt something wet and sticky and when he looked at his hand he saw it was red with blood. A small white building came into sight: the tearooms that catered for those ladies from Mabley Ridge who ventured outside the confines of the village, particularly in the summer months. He hesitated for a few moments before staggering towards it like a storm-tossed boat making for port.

  Chapter 25

  When Gwen was living in Liverpool she’d often taken a stroll in Sefton Park with her sister on Sunday afternoons after church and dinner. Now years later when Sunday came round she was always eager to escape the confines of her lodgings, which increasingly felt like a prison furnished with chintz, china ornaments and antimacassars, although she’d never have dreamed of hurting Miss Fisher’s feelings by putting her thoughts into words.

  Miss Fisher was adamant that going near the Ridge was filled with risk, as though she imagined the place held more desperate criminals than the grim dockland courts of Gwen’s native Liverpool. Gwen was surprised that her landlady was showing such concern when most of the time she kept her distance. But she made a solemn promise not to venture off the main road, a promise she had no intention of keeping as she set off wearing her most comfortable boots.

  She needed to be alone. She needed to thi
nk about the letter she’d received from her sister the previous day. There had been no mistaking the coolness of Hannah’s words. I really would advise against visiting in your next half-term holidays, she’d said and later in the letter she’d even used the phrase upsetting influence which Gwen knew had come from the mouth of her brother-in-law, Gareth. She could just hear him saying them, pious and mealy-mouthed in his disapproval of his erring sister-in-law. Gwen had never liked Gareth and he’d barely been able to tolerate her after what happened.

  The walk up Ridge Lane seemed longer and steeper that day and Gwen’s legs had begun to ache by the time she neared the little white tearooms beside the gate leading to the Ridge path. Yielding to temptation she made for the door.

  The place was open and half-full of smartly dressed ladies – and the occasional gentleman – sipping from floral teacups and picking at dainty sandwiches and cakes. A table in the corner was free so she sat down and waited for the waitress to notice her and take her order. She was studying the menu when the door flew open, hitting the umbrella stand to the side of the entrance, and when she looked up she saw the inspector from London standing in the doorway, hatless, bleeding and dirty. She shifted in her seat, knowing that if he entered it would cause a stir.

  A horrified silence fell over the tearoom as he stood there looking round, as though he was searching for a familiar face. When he spotted her sitting alone in the corner he beckoned to her with his good hand and she was suddenly aware that everyone in the café was watching her, hoping perhaps she would do something to cause a fresh scandal; something to be gossiped over in the village for weeks to come. Trying to hide her confusion, she made her way over to the door to join him, her cheeks burning red as she noticed a hatchet-faced waitress in black scowling at her as though she suspected she was trying to leave without paying.

  The inspector dodged out of sight and when Gwen emerged from the doorway she felt him touch her arm.

  ‘I slipped in the quarry – fell and hit my head,’ he whispered, looking round.

  Gwen suspected he was lying but she imagined he had his reasons. ‘You should get that cut seen to. I’ll walk back to the village with you. We can call on Dr Michaels.’

  ‘There’s no need to bother him,’ he said quickly. ‘If you can just walk back to the hotel with me … ’

  They barely exchanged a word as they made their way down the hill towards the village and there was something in his manner that told her not to probe too deeply into what had really happened. As they walked in silence, she couldn’t help wondering whether there was somebody in Mabley Ridge who regarded him as an enemy; possibly a foe to be eliminated before he discovered some terrible truth.

  She’d always been told that she had too much imagination, she reminded herself – rather like Peter Rudyard.

  Chapter 26

  On Monday morning the pains that had prevented Jane Ghent from sleeping had subsided a little but she still felt weak and light-headed as she lay in bed clutching her stomach. Daisy had stayed up with her half the night, holding the bowl for her to be sick into, barely able to hide her disgust at the smell.

  Daisy had suggested it was something she’d eaten but she’d hardly had anything the previous day and she hoped Daisy wouldn’t pass on her suspicions to Cook, who could be a touchy woman at the best of times. Jane racked her brains, trying to think of anything she’d consumed that hadn’t been shared by the rest of the household. All she could think of was the beef tea that she always drank before she retired to bed. Cook kept the packet in the pantry and Jane wondered fleetingly whether somebody could have tampered with it. But the idea was foolish; as foolish as the worries she had about Mallory disappearing mysteriously into the old storeroom by the stables whenever he was home and his furtive meetings with their gardener, John Rudyard, who’d turn up from time to time carrying something in an old sack. The storeroom was always kept locked and Mallory had given strict instructions that nobody was to go near because it was unsafe, which Jane knew was a lie.

  Her husband hadn’t been in to see why she wasn’t at breakfast and she wondered if he’d already set off for the station. It was the start of the working week so the mill would be in full production again. Although the profits kept her in luxury, Jane hated the place and had visited it only once in the course of her marriage. She’d found it deafening and dirty and she’d been afraid of the wiry women with bold stares who’d worked on the clattering looms, tending them constantly like needy infants.

  Another wave of pain engulfed her. Perhaps this was the next part of her punishment – the punishment that had started with Monty’s death.

  Daisy poked her head round the door. ‘How are you, ma’am?’

  Jane’s reply was a low groan.

  ‘Maybe I should telephone for Dr Michaels, ma’am,’ Daisy suggested, although she didn’t sound particularly concerned.

  ‘No, Daisy. You mustn’t bother him. Please,’ Jane managed to gasp before collapsing back on to her pillows. If this was her punishment it was something that had to be endured.

  The door shut, only to open again a minute later and when Jane opened her eyes she saw her daughter Esme standing by the bed looking at her with barely disguised distaste. Jane’s head was hazy but, even so, she realised how the room must smell to a spoiled young woman unused to the sick bed. Esme had been a little too young to do anything useful in the war like volunteering to nurse the wounded. Until she lost her elder brother her privileged life had shielded her from any form of suffering.

  ‘I told Daisy she should send for Dr Michaels,’ Esme said, backing away a little.

  ‘There’s no need for that. Can’t you stop her?’

  ‘Already done. He’s on his way.’

  ‘Is your father here?’ Jane managed to ask.

  ‘He left at half past eight.’ Esme turned to go.

  Jane dragged herself up on her pillows. She felt weak but this was important. ‘Esme.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know you’re seeing someone. Why won’t you bring him to meet us?’

  ‘Because who I see is none of your business.’

  ‘You’re my daughter. I need to protect you from … There are some bad men out there and … ’

  ‘Things have changed since the war, Mother. I’ll see who I want to see.’

  ‘Why won’t you tell me who he is? Why are you keeping him away from us?’

  Esme stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her, as another wave of pain gripped Jane’s stomach and the tears ran down her pale cheeks.

  Chapter 27

  Albert awoke on Monday morning with a headache. Gwen Davies had insisted on taking him to see Dr Michaels the previous evening and the doctor had cleaned and dressed his head wound, assuring him that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Because he’d lost consciousness, however, the doctor advised him to take it easy; advice Dr Michaels knew he’d most likely ignore.

  Gwen Davies’s ministrations had resurrected uncomfortable memories which had run through his head all night. When he eventually dropped into a fitful sleep, in the fleeting dreams that followed Gwen’s face changed into Flora’s and at first light he awoke suddenly, sweating and disorientated.

  When he’d fallen and hurt himself in Wenfield the previous year Flora had tended his wounds. Her expert hands had been so gentle and he’d had no way of knowing those hands could kill as well as heal. Something about Gwen reminded him uncomfortably of Flora; some indefinable quality of self-sufficiency blended with the impression that she was harbouring some kind of secret.

  He put a tentative hand up to feel the wound and was relieved to find the dressing still in place and that his pillow hadn’t been stained with blood.

  After he’d washed and dressed he forced himself to go down to the dining room for breakfast; as the man in charge of the investigation, he couldn’t be seen to turn up at the police station late. Besides, he needed sustenance for what he knew would be another long day.

  To his r
elief the dining room was quiet that morning and nobody stared at his white dressing. Since the war people had become used to seeing injuries and his newly acquired wound was trivial compared to most.

  A waitress, a skinny girl with a permanently worried expression, hurried up to his table. ‘There’s a letter arrived for you, sir.’

  She handed him a letter. It had a London postmark but he didn’t recognise the handwriting so he knew it wasn’t from Mary. He thanked the girl and as she scurried away he tore the envelope open.

  A sheet of paper fell out and he saw the Scotland Yard letterhead with the words This arrived addressed to you so I’m forwarding it on written in a neat hand and signed by one of his detective constables. He shook the envelope and a letter fell out, postmarked Wenfield; his heart began to pound as he ripped at the flimsy paper.

  How did she get away with it for so long? Who pulled the strings if not her lover?

  There was no signature and the words were printed, suggesting that the author wished to remain anonymous. He imagined it was somebody in Wenfield who had some connection to one of Flora’s victims, which meant there were a lot of possibilities to choose from. There would be many people in that village who longed for revenge; people who were furious that she’d got away with killing so many before she was caught. He’d thought that nobody knew they’d been lovers – now it seemed he was wrong.

  He screwed the letter up in his good hand, compressing it into a tight ball. He didn’t want to be reminded of Flora. As far as he was concerned she was gone, although he couldn’t feel the same about the son they’d had together. He often lay awake wondering whether the child was languishing in an orphanage somewhere or if it had been adopted by a loving family. The boy could be anywhere and Albert, his father, didn’t even know his name.