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

by Kate Ellis

  He arrived at the station to find Stark behind the front desk. He looked up as Albert came in and reached below the desk to pull something out.

  ‘Someone from the hotel brought this down – came in the lunchtime post.’ He produced a brown envelope and handed it to Albert who recognised it as coming from Scotland Yard again. He wished his colleagues there would be more selective when it came to forwarding his post but he supposed they couldn’t know what was important and what wasn’t.

  He was aware of the sergeant watching him, eager to satisfy his curiosity, but Albert took the envelope into the office which was his for the duration and closed the door.

  The first letter he’d received from London that day had been anonymous and he feared this one would be too. His hands were shaking as he tore at the paper and when he drew out the letter inside he saw that the single sheet had been signed at the bottom by Sam Poltimore.

  Dear Inspector Lincoln,

  I thought you’d want to know that the prison chaplain at Strangeways has been in touch on the telephone. He asked for you and when I said you were unavailable he asked me to pass on a message that he’d like to speak to you in confidence and I said I’d let you know.

  He went on to give a brief account of developments in a couple of their cases before signing off.

  Hope the investigation is going well up North. Strange that it’s in the same village where that poor little lad was murdered in ’14. Any chance it’s the same culprit?

  Yours truly, Sam Poltimore (Sergeant)

  Albert dropped the letter on to the desk and stared at it. If the prison chaplain wanted to speak to him it could only be about Flora … or what had become of her child. Now the tantalising possibility was dangled in front of him he suddenly felt apprehensive. Whenever he’d made discreet enquiries before he’d hit a brick wall of bureaucracy and awkward questions, and he wasn’t sure what he’d say if he came face to face with the chaplain because the last thing he wanted to do was reveal his darkest secret to the world. On impulse he dropped the letter into the waste-paper basket. It was a problem he couldn’t face just now.

  Chapter 29

  Peter

  The Shadow Man shows me things. Birds’ nests and places where foxes hide with their cubs. He knows everything about the Ridge. He knows about the quarries and how the men used to haul the stone in carts down the cobbled paths. Sometimes he shouts at me to go away and leave him alone and he holds his head as though it’s hurting. I don’t like it when he does that and I asked him if he wanted Dr Michaels to come and see him but he used words me mam says are wicked; if I used those words she’d wash my mouth out with soap.

  I didn’t go back to school this afternoon ’cause I wanted to see the Shadow Man and take him some food ’cause he said he’s hungry. I told our Ernie to tell Miss Davies I was poorly. At Sunday School they say you shouldn’t tell lies but if I hadn’t I wouldn’t be able to go up to the Ridge and take the Shadow Man some of me mam’s cake and he’d be hungry and Jesus fed hungry people so I’m sure He won’t mind that I told a fib.

  When I reach his special place I stand and wait then he appears out of nowhere and I give him the cake all wrapped up in greaseproof paper. I took it from the larder and I know that’s stealing but he really needs it ’cause Mrs Pearce doesn’t leave food for him any more and he might starve to death.

  He’s wearing his big army coat even though the weather’s quite warm. And he’s wearing a hat like the one the inspector from London wears. It looks new and I wonder whether he bought it – or maybe he stole it from someone.

  He must be hungry ’cause he eats the cake so quick then he asks if I’ve got any more. When I say no he looks cross and I’m a bit scared.

  ‘Have you heard anything about the lady in the cemetery?’ he says. ‘Do the police know who killed her yet?’

  He speaks posh like a Cottontot and I want to ask him why but I don’t dare.

  ‘Did you know her then?’

  The Shadow Man doesn’t answer and he walks back to his cave. But when I try to follow him he shouts at me to go away.

  ‘Go home and don’t come here again. You’re a bloody nuisance.’

  I want to ask him what he was doing in the cemetery on the night the lady was killed but I don’t dare so I run all the way home.

  Chapter 30

  Peter Rudyard hadn’t turned up at school that afternoon. According to his brother he’d felt ill when he’d gone home at lunchtime but something about the way Ernie said it made Gwen Davies suspect this was a lie.

  She couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling that something was wrong at the cemetery lodge. She’d always been wary of John and Grace Rudyard. John had developed a reputation for violence since he’d returned from the war, especially when he’d taken too much drink, and she was sure Grace thought of her as an interfering do-gooder who had no idea how the world of the Rudyards functioned. However she wanted to find out what was wrong with Peter because she feared he knew more about Patience Bailey’s death than he’d admitted.

  As soon as the school day was over she walked to the cemetery lodge and knocked on the door, her heart beating fast. She’d brought some books with her, tied together with string for ease of carrying, and when Grace Rudyard opened the door and stood blocking the way, arms folded, she held them in front of her like a shield.

  ‘May I speak to Peter please, Mrs Rudyard?’ She tried to smile, fearing it looked more like a grimace of pain. ‘Ernest told me he wasn’t well. I do hope he’s feeling better.’

  Grace Rudyard eyed the books and sniffed. Then she cleared her throat. ‘Peter’s not here.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I thought he was at school.’ She sniffed again. ‘He’ll be in big trouble when his dad finds out.’

  Gwen’s heart sank as she realised her intrusion had probably earned the lad a beating and she cursed her lack of forethought.

  ‘Can you give him these, please? He tells me he’s interested in wildlife and I promised I’d let him borrow them,’ she lied, holding out the books like an offering. ‘There’s a copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream here for him too. My class are going to start reading some Shakespeare and I thought Peter would enjoy it.’

  A slight smirk appeared on the woman’s face and she looked at the books with distaste as she took them, as though she feared they were contaminated.

  ‘Do you think Ernie or Maud might know where he is?’ ‘Doubt it. He’s a law unto himself is our Peter.’

  A baby started crying inside the house; Peter’s little brother making himself heard. But Gwen didn’t want to let Grace go just yet. ‘Aren’t you worried about him?’ ‘He’ll turn up. He did the same on Saturday, remember, and then he came strolling in like nothing had happened. I’ve given up worrying.’

  Gwen sensed that Grace was anxious to bring the conversation to a close. Peter’s absence would have sent most parents frantic with worry but his mother seemed unconcerned, which surprised her. After losing one twin to murder, she would have expected her to be more protective of the other.

  After she heard the front door of the lodge slam shut behind her, instead of returning to the road she took the path through the cemetery, walking between the graves and heading for the place where Patience Bailey’s body had been found. Instinctively she turned her head to make sure she wasn’t being watched from the lodge. When she saw no face in the window and no tell-tale movement of the faded curtains she carried on.

  She made her way to the edge of the cemetery, to the area by the wall that had been neglected by John Rudyard’s lawnmower, and looked around for some wild flowers to pick before realising it was too late in the season for the buttercups, tall daisies and poppies she usually gathered in a cheerful bunch; a tribute of sorts to the one she’d lost. All she could see was a pair of late roses blooming on a nearby bush and she picked them, scratching her hand as she did so but determined to ignore the pain.

  As she retraced her steps she noticed a
small patch of grass a few feet away that looked different from the ground around it. On closer inspection, it was clear that a rectangle of turf had been removed and then replaced, leaving a slight mound as though someone had buried an animal there in consecrated ground. A beloved pet, perhaps. She knew Peter liked to hold funerals for dead wildlife he found so she assumed it was the last resting place of some unfortunate bird or rodent until she remembered him saying how he liked to create elaborate little graves for the creatures he buried, edged with stones with a pious little cross made of sticks to mark the spot.

  She hadn’t time for speculation now. She walked past the site of Patience Bailey’s violent death, now a grave occupied by old Mrs Potts marked by a dome of bare soil and a heap of fading flowers, making for another grave nearby, an opulent affair with a sparkling marble headstone. Here she knelt on the damp earth to lay the roses she’d picked in the centre of the grave before kissing her fingers and running them over the black letters incised in the white marble.

  GEORGE SEDDING.

  20 JUNE 1870 – 4 NOVEMBER 1919.

  ALSO HIS SON, SAMUEL

  WHO DIED IN THE SERVICE

  OF HIS COUNTRY 15 MAY 1918.

  ETERNAL REST GRANT THEM, O LORD.

  She wiped her sleeve across her face, brushing away tears that had started to trickle down her cheeks. When she’d first met George Sedding in the library she’d thought him distant: tall, distinguished, immaculately dressed and much older than herself. But first impressions had deceived and soon she was escaping the farm to meet him whenever she had any free time. Because he was married theirs had been a clandestine love which had only added to the thrill and for those brief months she had known an intense happiness she’d never experienced before – until she was forced to leave the village and return to her family in Liverpool. As soon as her secret was discovered she was sent to her aunt in Wales and the lies everyone had told back then still made her blush with shame.

  By the time she returned to Mabley Ridge to be near to George again it was too late. Gossip had it that his death had been caused by the shock he suffered when his eighteen-year-old son Samuel was brought back from France to die of his wounds at a nearby military hospital, but she knew she’d never get to know the truth of the matter. His widow still lived in the big house on the outskirts of the village that Gwen had never been allowed to visit and, as far as she knew, the woman had been quite unaware of her existence. Even so, she feared that if Mrs Sedding ever looked into her eyes she’d guess her secret right away. George’s death had put a stop to what she’d been brought up to believe was a sin. And she knew there were many who’d say it had been a judgement on them both.

  She scrambled to her feet and stepped away from the grave, unable to believe George was down there buried beneath the earth, lying beside his son who’d been little more than a boy when he died; a boy determined not to miss out on the great adventure of war.

  Fighting back tears, she walked slowly back to the cemetery gates, watching the lodge in case any of the Rudyard family appeared. There was no sign of anyone – and no sign of Peter returning – but as she drew nearer she could hear a baby crying somewhere in the house, and hot tears began to run down her face.

  Chapter 31

  Albert sat in his office going through a pile of statements. His apparent diligence was a pretence because he’d been unable to concentrate on anything since receiving Sam Poltimore’s letter. After discarding the letter he’d had second thoughts and retrieved it from the waste-paper basket, stuffing it into the inside pocket of his jacket as though he hoped that by putting it out of sight the problem would go away. He glanced up at the office door with its etched glass top half, to make sure nobody was out there in the green tiled corridor to see him, before putting his head in his hands. He could feel the shiny scar tissue that ran down one side of his face smooth against his fingers. The war would never go away and neither would his memories of Wenfield.

  He heard a swift knock and when Sergeant Stark poked his head round the edge of the half-open door he looked up, feigning alertness.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I understand you visited that … er … actress.’

  ‘Yes, I spoke to Miss Devereaux. She was at the theatre at the time we think Patience Bailey died and she denies knowing her or her employer.’

  ‘Did you believe her, sir?’

  Albert thought for a few seconds. ‘No. I don’t think I did.’

  ‘One of the constables at Wilmslow went to see her show. He said she was very good.’ Stark edged into the room, shut the door behind him and lowered his voice. ‘He said he saw Mr Ghent there with a few other gentlemen.’

  This was hardly evidence. Albert needed more if he was to pursue Mallory Ghent as a suspect. ‘Anything else?’ ‘There’s been a break-in at a farm near the Ridge. Intruder helped himself to some food from the larder and a few bottles of ale.’

  ‘I can’t see what that has to do with our case.’

  ‘Could be a vagrant, sir. And if we’ve got that sort hanging about he has to be a suspect.’

  ‘There are a lot of poor unfortunates about who served their country only to be turned out with nowhere to go once the war was over, and I’m not inclined to make things worse for one of them by starting a manhunt with no evidence.’ Albert snapped the words, irritated at Stark’s assumptions. ‘You didn’t fight, did you?’

  The sergeant’s face reddened. ‘No, sir. Afraid not.’ ‘Anything else?’

  Stark consulted his notebook. ‘A maid from one of the big houses near the cemetery says she’s seen a man go in there after dusk. She didn’t recognise him from the village.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘She said he wears a greatcoat whatever the weather – like officers wear, she says – so she thought he might be a soldier.’

  This caught Albert’s interest. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She said he was tall and scruffy. No hat. Probably youngish with long hair … like a tramp.’

  ‘Why didn’t the maid say this the first time anyone asked?’

  ‘She says she didn’t see him on the night Mrs Bailey died. Her lady and gentleman had people to dinner and she was too busy to look out of the window so she never thought to mention it.’

  ‘Has she seen him there since that night?’

  ‘She says not. But then she says she’s had too much to do to be looking out of windows.’ He hesitated. ‘She did say something odd. Probably not to be taken seriously.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘She said he didn’t seem to have a face.’

  Albert, who had dismissed the Shadow Man as the product of Peter’s overactive imagination, now wondered whether the maid’s soldier was the same man. Peter made up stories and lived in his own world, distanced from reality, but if his Shadow Man was real, Albert needed to know.

  ‘Did this man arrive before or after Mrs Pearce had been to leave her food?’

  ‘After, she said.’

  ‘Any word of Mrs Pearce?’

  ‘Still trying to trace her sister but no luck yet.’

  ‘Her son … is he definitely dead or was he missing in action?’

  ‘The second, I think, sir.’

  ‘Mrs Pearce has a husband?’

  ‘He died just before the war, not long after her daughter passed away. They said he died of grief and they were buried in the same grave. They say that’s why she leaves the food there … in the hope her lad’ll go there to pay his respects to his sister and his dad and find it.’

  ‘Is it possible this soldier the maid saw goes there to get the food? It’s always been gone by morning, has it?’

  ‘I believe so, sir,’ Stark said.

  ‘If Mrs Pearce’s son’s missing he might have deserted. He might be hiding out somewhere and his mother’s in on his secret. He can’t go home because he’s afraid of the authorities finding out so she helps him by leaving food at the family grave.’

  Stark looked at Albert as thou
gh he’d come up with a brilliant solution. ‘Then where is she? Why’s she gone missing?’

  ‘Because she’s with her son. They’ve gone off together to somewhere nobody knows them where they can start a new life with new identities. If we search Mrs Pearce’s house I think we’ll find she’s packed up and gone.’

  ‘In that case she’s aiding and abetting a deserter.’ Albert banged his fist on the table, making Stark jump. ‘If I’m right I say we leave them be. But someone should have another word with her neighbours.’ He hesitated for a few moments. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll go myself.’

  Chapter 32

  Sydney Rich had encouraged Esme to abandon her friends, the ones she described as dull, but now he was beginning to think this might have been a mistake.

  She was always demanding reassurances about their future that he wasn’t able to give, because the truth was she didn’t feature in his plans. However he wouldn’t end their relationship just yet, not until he decided to leave Mabley Ridge and move on. But before that happened he had unfinished business to attend to; business that would keep him in comfort for the foreseeable future.

  He slumped on to his sofa because his foot was hurting again, throbbing as though he had walked much too far in uncomfortable shoes. He never tried to hide his discomfort when he was with Esme because it reinforced the persona of the wounded war hero he’d adopted since his return to Blighty.

  He kicked off his shoe and massaged his instep until the ache subsided. Then he poured himself a Scotch, recalling a time when Esme’s mother had drunk it with him, sharing a glass up on the Ridge, laughing as they took it in turns to sip the fiery liquid – until the day the boy died and the drinking and the laughter stopped.

  Scotch had always been Sydney’s favoured tipple, his refuge in times of stress, and as he stood up his head started swimming so he steadied himself on the arm of the sofa. Scotch didn’t usually affect him like this but recently he’d been consuming rather a lot of it, along with the champagne and cocktails he’d shared with Esme. The way he saw it, he was doing the girl a favour by relieving the tedium of her Mabley Ridge existence. Now perhaps there was a price to pay for his excesses.