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

by Kate Ellis

  After a few minutes he began to feel better so he climbed the stairs, clinging to the banister to steady himself. Once he reached the landing another, much steeper staircase to his right led upwards to the attic, a place of eternal twilight lit only by a tiny casement window.

  When he opened the door he was hit by the mingled smell of dust and mildew, but it was the only place private enough for his purposes. He flicked on the torch he kept by the door and made for the trunk at the far end of the room; the treasure chest that contained his deepest secrets. He paused for a while before lifting the lid which bore the initials CW in stencilled letters and when it creaked open he fell to his knees beside it.

  After placing his torch on a battered chest of drawers nearby he rummaged through the trunk’s shadowy contents. It was all in there: the evidence that would provide him with a good income and set him up for the future. He took out the letters and turned them over in his hands, gloating like a miser with his gold. It amused him to think of silly, innocent Esme falling for his stories … just as her mother had done before her.

  He took out another photograph, a group of soldiers this time, posed stiffly; a souvenir of their comradeship in the trenches. He looked at the faces in the torchlight, concentrating on the two men who hadn’t returned from France, not because of enemy action but because of what he’d done. They’d died shortly after he’d received the wound to his foot and their deaths had ensured nobody had ever discovered his deception. The chaos of war had provided a perfect cover for undetected wrongdoing and he’d been careful to cover his tracks. He kept telling himself he’d merely taken advantage of the situation, as he suspected many others had done; excusing his sins over and over again until he almost believed his own lies. He’d done what he’d done to survive and there was nothing wrong with survival.

  His fingers came into contact with cold unyielding metal and he couldn’t resist a smile as he drew the service revolver from the folds of cloth in the chest. He checked the bullets and found that they were all there, ready if they were needed.

  He replaced the weapon and touched the rough cloth of the greatcoat that had kept him warm in the trenches. He’d held on to it because he needed to feel the scratchy cloth; he needed to smell the terror and remember.

  If he forgot, he feared he might become a monster.

  It was time to act but he didn’t bother taking the Alvis to Gramercy House. It was too conspicuous and the element of surprise was everything.

  He smoked as he walked there, lighting each cigarette with the glowing stub of the last. Smoking aided concentration and he needed all his wits about him if he was to pull this off.

  He paused by the gates before making his way down the drive and when he reached the front door he ground the remnants of his cigarette beneath his shoe. When the door was answered by a young maid with an insolent manner he looked her in the eye.

  ‘I want to speak to Mrs Ghent. Tell her it’s an old friend.’

  ‘The mistress isn’t well. The doctor’s with her. You’ll have to come back.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Haven’t I seen you with Miss Esme? You met her at the gates in a motor car.’

  Sydney felt his fist clench and for a split second he was tempted to punch the girl’s face. But he forced himself to walk away.

  Chapter 33

  Albert rapped on the front door of Mrs Pearce’s little terraced house, glad for once that the noise had brought the neighbours out on to their front steps. Two women in crossover aprons stood, arms folded, watching the spectacle.

  ‘She’s not in,’ the thinner one said when he took a step back to look at the upstairs windows.

  Albert introduced himself but the women still regarded him with suspicion.

  ‘You’re from London,’ the bigger woman said accusingly. ‘Weren’t you here when the little Rudyard lad was found on the Ridge?’

  Albert didn’t answer. It wasn’t something he wanted to be reminded of.

  ‘Do you know where Mrs Pearce is?’

  It was the thin woman who spoke. ‘I told the young bobby who came she’s likely gone to her sister’s. And before you ask, no, I don’t know her name. All I know is she lives in Northwich.’ She sniffed. ‘If you ask me Joan Pearce hasn’t been right in the head since her lad went missing. Won’t speak to no one and leaves food for him in the graveyard, she does, poor soul.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Is there a way in round the back?’

  The woman looked at him as though he’d made an indecent suggestion and gave a small nod.

  ‘Can you show me?’

  The woman exchanged a look with her companion. ‘You’d best come round.’

  She led him to the back of the terrace into a wide alleyway with wooden gates each side leading to small backyards. He allowed the woman to walk ahead and she stopped at a gate less well kept than the rest. It was locked.

  ‘You can climb over the wall can’t you, lad?’

  It was a long time since Albert had been called ‘lad’ but in spite of his injured leg he managed to scramble up the brick wall and let himself down into the yard. First he looked in the coal house and the outside privy, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale urine, but could see nothing amiss.

  Then he noticed that the kitchen window appeared to be crawling with black dots: flies. After taking a deep breath he put his shoulder to the back door, which turned out to be unlocked, and when it gave way he stumbled into the kitchen, fighting to regain his balance.

  The woman was lying on the quarry-tiled floor, face down, her flesh discoloured and stinking. She’d been dead for some time and he shielded his nose and mouth with his sleeve as angry flies buzzed at his face.

  Then he noticed the dried blood crusted on the floor and around her neck. Her throat had been cut.

  Her coat had been flung over a chair and an empty wicker basket stood on the small kitchen table. Albert guessed that she’d deposited her offerings to her dead son and then returned home to meet her killer.

  As he looked down at her sad corpse he knew that this terrible act hadn’t been committed in anger. And he feared that whoever had ended this harmless woman’s life would kill again if he wasn’t stopped.

  Chapter 34

  When Albert returned to the hotel he took a bath but, try as he might, he couldn’t get rid of the stench of death and decay in his nostrils. He didn’t sleep well that night.

  Mrs Pearce’s body had been taken to the mortuary before her house was searched by a couple of constables under the direction of Sergeant Stark, although they’d found nothing that might help identify her killer. Dr Michaels had agreed with Albert’s initial impression that the dead woman’s throat had been cut, probably from behind causing a deep wound. It wouldn’t have taken her long to die.

  The next morning Albert sat at the breakfast table staring at the letter that had just arrived for him. It had a London postmark and had caught the last post the previous night.

  Even though it was addressed to him at the hotel, the handwriting on the envelope was unfamiliar. However, it hadn’t been forwarded from Scotland Yard so it was from someone who knew exactly where he was, which narrowed down the list of suspects. He tore the envelope open and took out a sheet of cheap lined notepaper.

  The address on the top was his own and one glance at the signature told him that it was from Mary’s mother, Vera.

  Mary isn’t well, it began after the usual salutation. She’s suffering with her chest something awful and is in bed with a frightful cough and she won’t eat.

  Since Frederick’s death his wife had suffered many bouts of illness and he’d often wondered whether it was a symptom of her grief. However, for Vera to write like this, the situation must be serious.

  I’m staying with her but you should come home, the letter continued. She needs you. It was signed Yours truly, Vera Benton (Mrs). In other circumstances the touch of formality would have made him smile but the letter’s message banished any thoughts of levity.

  As he ate his
bacon and eggs in the hushed hotel dining room he could almost see Vera’s face, set in her usual expression of disapproval. She’d blamed him for not being supportive enough when little Frederick had succumbed to the influenza that had consumed his small body and he could imagine her whispering poison into her daughter’s ear: if he hadn’t been so neglectful, if he hadn’t stayed late at Scotland Yard to work on the murder of a shopkeeper in Southwark and put his work before his family, Frederick might have reached the hospital sooner and survived. In truth he didn’t need Vera to blame him because he’d blamed himself often enough.

  He sometimes felt that the injuries he’d received in France had been a punishment – then, when his affair with Flora had ended in disaster, he’d wondered whether it was all part of a pattern. Perhaps he was destined to pay a heavy price for his sins.

  The letter dominated his thoughts as he pushed his empty, greasy plate to one side and sipped his tea until eventually he came up with a neat solution to his problem. Esther Schuman’s grandson, David Cohen, lived in London and Albert wanted to speak to him. Abraham Stark was capable of dealing with routine matters and carrying out his instructions so he was confident he could leave the investigation in the hands of the local police for a couple of days while he made enquiries further afield. Mrs Schuman had provided her grandson’s address in Bloomsbury so he could pay him a visit and then go home to see Mary.

  At eight o’clock he walked into the police station and was greeted by Sergeant Stark, who told him there’d been no developments overnight. When Albert told him that he was returning to London it was hard to read Stark’s thoughts, but Albert suspected he’d be relieved to be rid of the interfering detective from Scotland Yard for a while. The station in the small, normally law-abiding village was Stark’s kingdom and if Albert had been in his place he knew he’d resent the stranger who’d descended from London to take charge although, to give Stark his due, on both occasions Albert had been there he’d encountered nothing but co-operation. Perhaps Stark was a better man than he was.

  After asking one of the constables to look up the times of the trains, he sat down at his desk, only to be interrupted by a tapping on the door.

  ‘Lady to see you, sir,’ said a fresh-faced constable who ushered Gwen Davies into the room and retreated.

  Albert stood up, uncharacteristically flustered. Gwen suited the hat she’d chosen and her eyes sparkled despite the earliness of the hour. He felt the blood burning his cheeks as he invited her to sit.

  ‘I’m on my way to school,’ she said, slightly breathless. ‘But I wanted to see you. I was in the cemetery yesterday and I noticed something odd.’ Her voice tailed off as though she was having second thoughts about her visit. ‘It’s probably not important.’

  ‘What did you notice?’

  ‘It was a little mound in the grass as though the earth had been disturbed and the turf put back. I could be mistaken but … it wasn’t far from where that poor woman was found.’

  ‘What were you doing in the cemetery?’

  Her face reddened and she shifted in her seat. ‘I was … visiting the grave of someone I used to know.’

  Albert sensed her reticence so he didn’t press the matter, although he was curious to know what she was trying to hide. Gwen Davies didn’t seem to him like the sort of woman who harboured secrets, but he’d been wrong before.

  ‘You thought the earth had been dug deliberately?’

  She gave his question a few moments’ consideration before nodding slowly. ‘Yes, but as I said, I can’t be sure.’ She paused. ‘At first I thought it might have been one of Peter’s funerals.’

  Albert raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘He holds little funerals for dead birds and creatures he finds but he told me he always decorates the graves with stones and a cross. Look, perhaps I’m wasting your time.’

  ‘You could never do that,’ Albert said quickly, immediately regretting his boldness. He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘As far as witnesses are concerned, I’d say you were the reliable sort.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as though she wasn’t sure how to take his clumsy compliment. ‘Peter wasn’t in school yesterday afternoon and when I called after school with some books for him he wasn’t at home.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘His mother didn’t know. She thought he was at school. I couldn’t help worrying but if he hadn’t returned home his parents would have reported it, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I’m sure they would.’

  Albert stood up. ‘I’d like to see that spot in the cemetery if you’d be good enough to show me.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? Unless you’re late for school.’

  ‘No. I’ve got plenty of time.’

  She hesitated for a few moments before leading the way out of the office. When Albert reached the front desk, he told Abraham Stark he was going to the cemetery and wouldn’t be long.

  As he was almost at the station entrance a constable appeared from a side room waving a sheet of paper. ‘Those train times you asked for, sir.’

  Albert took it from him and muttered his thanks. Gwen’s arrival had driven all thoughts of Mary from his mind; now, with this reminder of his return to London, the slight swell of optimism he’d felt with this possible fresh lead vanished like sun in a sky filled with clouds.

  Albert walked to the cemetery by Gwen’s side, watching as she nodded politely to the people she passed. Even though she’d only been there a short time, the schoolmistress was already a well-known figure in the life of Mabley Ridge. Then he remembered she’d worked on a nearby farm during the war years; one of many young women who’d volunteered to work the land to free men for military service. He wondered whether the grave she’d been visiting belonged to somebody she’d known from that time. It was none of his business but he was curious by nature.

  When they reached the cemetery gates Albert glanced automatically at the lodge, only to see that the door was shut and there was no sign of life behind the grubby lace curtains. Gwen walked on slightly ahead of him down the central path between the graves and tall memorials to the village’s wealthier inhabitants, some topped by weathered stone angels with wings spread wide staring down mournfully at the scene. His eyes were drawn as always to Jimmy Rudyard’s humbler memorial but he forced himself to look away.

  Gwen headed for the back of the cemetery and stopped in the shadow of a large yew tree where she pointed at a small hump of earth covered by a rectangle of turf which looked as though it had been dug up and replaced, leaving a fringe of bare soil around the edges. The more Albert studied it the more it looked to him like a tiny clandestine grave, recently dug and well concealed.

  ‘Shall I see if Mr Rudyard’s in?’ Gwen said with an audible lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘No. It’s best if I handle this. Will you go back to the police station and ask Sergeant Stark to arrange for someone to come with a spade?’

  She wavered for a second or two before hurrying away, half running, half walking back down the path towards the gates.

  He had an ominous feeling about the disturbed patch of ground Gwen had showed him because he knew that if the killer had buried the mother in the newly dug grave then it was likely the baby had met a similar fate. He tried to put the thought from his mind but the image of little Jimmy Rudyard kept flitting through his head.

  As he walked past the place where Patience Bailey had been found, he averted his eyes even though the grave looked completely different now that Mrs Potts had been laid to rest there. Instead he studied the headstones on the nearby graves, searching for any erected since Gwen had first arrived in Mabley Ridge to work the land, although he hardly liked to acknowledge what he was doing.

  One recent grave stood out; only a year old and marked by bright white marble as yet unstained by time and the northern weather. The name inscribed on the headstone was George Sedding; he’d died on the fourth of November 1919, almost a year after the war’s end. A couple o
f drooping roses lay on the marble chippings covering the tomb and Albert saw there was a note attached. He picked up the flowers and examined the note. There was no name, only a cryptic message: I will never go but I will always come to you and talk of Michelangelo. With all my dearest love. There was no signature.

  When he heard voices he returned to the spot near the wall and waited. Gwen was walking down the path towards him, dwarfed by Constable Mitchell who’d shown her into Albert’s presence earlier that morning. Mitchell glanced at her every now and then, a concerned look on his face as if he felt it his duty to protect her from any unpleasantness. He was carrying a spade across his body like a sceptre of office and Albert raised a hand in greeting as he waited for them to join him.

  ‘Perhaps Miss Davies should leave this to us,’ Albert said once the pair were within earshot.

  ‘No.’ The word was said with determination. ‘I’d like to stay if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I warn you this might not be pleasant.’

  She took a step backwards on to the path but she stood her ground so he didn’t argue.

  ‘Go on, Mitchell. Make a start. And be careful.’

  Mitchell sliced the turf off the top of the little mound, revealing the soil beneath, alive with worms. At Albert’s signal he started to dig and when the hole was about three feet deep Gwen Davies gave a little gasp.

  It was a small arm, mottled and filthy with soil.

  ‘Sir, shall I … ’

  Mitchell’s voice was shaking. But Albert told him to carry on – very carefully.

  It didn’t take him long to uncover the small body, discoloured by time and burial. It was a baby – around six months old, Albert guessed – and Albert’s first instinct was to take the little thing in his arms and protect it, even though it was beyond protection – beyond everything. It was dressed in what looked like a nightgown which must once have been white and a thick towelling nappy and its little hands were clenched above its head as if it was reposing in sleep. As far as Albert could see there were no signs of violence but it would be Dr Michaels’ job to tell him if he was right.