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

by Kate Ellis

  Vera led the way into the back kitchen where the range was lit. It was stifling hot in there and, mingled with the odour of cooking stew, he could detect a faint smell of the sickroom. Mary was stretched out on the old chaise longue that had once graced the front parlour. They had acquired it third hand when they’d been setting up home and now the fabric was frayed and shiny with wear. She looked up as he walked in, a handkerchief held to her mouth. When she lowered it he saw it was stained with blood-streaked mucus.

  He hurried to her side and knelt on the quarry-tiled floor. ‘We should call the doctor.’

  ‘I don’t want a fuss,’ she said weakly. ‘And the cost … ’ Albert stood up, took Vera by the arm and shepherded her from the room. ‘Fetch the doctor. Now.’

  ‘But she said—’

  ‘Now.’

  He returned to Mary’s side and took her hand. In spite of everything that had happened she was still his wife and he felt responsible for what happened to her.

  Half an hour later the doctor arrived in his motor car, a spectacle guaranteed to bring the neighbours to their doorsteps. Dr Hughes was a large florid man in his fifties who carried a shabby bag and still wore a traditional frock coat that looked as if it dated from his days as a medical student. Albert knew he’d want paying as soon as he’d finished so he took some money from the tin on the sideboard in the parlour and returned to the kitchen to hear the doctor’s verdict.

  ‘What you need is rest and fresh air, Mrs Lincoln,’ Hughes announced with confidence. ‘I recommend a sanatorium in the countryside.’

  ‘How soon can you arrange it, Doctor?’

  Albert looked at his wife and saw panic in her eyes. ‘The cost, Albert … ’

  ‘You mustn’t worry about that.’

  He led the doctor into the hall and spoke in a whisper. ‘It’s tuberculosis, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The only remedy is plenty of fresh air. A cure can’t be guaranteed of course but … ’

  ‘I understand. But we must do whatever we can.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll call again when I’ve made the arrangements.’

  The doctor gave him a sympathetic look. Dr Hughes wasn’t renowned for his empathy so Albert knew the situation was bad and he experienced an unexpected pang of sadness.

  As soon as the doctor had gone Vera took charge, putting a kettle on the range to make beef tea for the invalid while Albert examined his pocket watch. He needed to call in at Scotland Yard. There were things he had to do.

  At that moment he heard a sharp rap on the door and Vera hurried to answer, tutting at this latest disturbance to her day. When she returned it was with a plump man with a small moustache that gave him the look of a prosperous rodent.

  He saw Mary push herself upright on her pillows and smooth her hair, her eyes eager as though she was greeting a lover. Vera too was simpering, something Albert had never witnessed before.

  When the man noticed Albert standing there, the obsequious smile vanished and was replaced by a nervous grin.

  ‘Mr Lincoln. How good to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.’ The man held out his hand and Albert noticed it was smooth, unmarred by any form of manual work. ‘Reverend Thomas Gillit. Your good lady attends my little meetings. I’m sure you’d find them a great comfort too … after your loss.’

  The man’s lips formed a slight smirk and he looked into Albert’s eyes as though he knew all his innermost secrets. For a split second Albert had a fleeting impression that he was referring to Flora but he knew Gillit meant Frederick and it was his own conscience that had brought Flora to the forefront of his mind. He tried hard to control the anger that was welling up inside him like bile. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t – and I’d be grateful if you’d stop encouraging this nonsense.’

  ‘I see you’re not a believer. But answer me this – how can hope be nonsense? If you came to one of our meetings … ’

  ‘Get out of my house.’

  ‘No, Albert. I want the reverend to stay.’ Mary collapsed in a fit of coughing and Vera rushed to her side.

  ‘If the lady wishes me to stay I’d be neglecting my duty if I was to leave, Mr Lincoln,’ Gillit said with a hint of triumph.

  ‘Please stay, Reverend,’ said Vera, gazing at the man like a lovesick schoolgirl.

  Albert had had enough. He left the house, slamming the front door behind him. Mary had made her choice and he’d do his duty to her. Nothing more.

  An hour later he arrived at his office in Scotland Yard where Sam Poltimore greeted him like a long-lost friend. He felt his spirits lift even though the recent events at home still reverberated round his head; the three united against him as though he was a hostile outsider.

  ‘We’re missing you, sir,’ said Poltimore. ‘How’s it going up there?’

  Poltimore listened carefully while Albert brought him up to date with the investigation. Albert knew he’d miss his sergeant when he finally retired and he was tempted to ask him to return to Cheshire with him. But Sam Poltimore was an uxorious man who hated straying far from home. As far as he was concerned, Cheshire might as well be the Zambezi or the Antarctic.

  ‘I can’t imagine anybody killing a little baby like that,’ Sam said, genuinely upset. ‘You don’t think it’s the same bastard who killed that poor little kiddie back in ’fourteen?’

  ‘I’m not ruling anything out, Sam. I’d like to take a look at the Jimmy Rudyard files if I may. There might be something I missed at the time – a name that cropped up then that’s come up in this new case.’

  Without further comment Sam made a telephone call requesting that the Jimmy Rudyard file be brought to Inspector Lincoln’s office as soon as possible.

  When he’d replaced the receiver, Sam looked Albert in the eye. ‘I took that call from the prison chaplain in Manchester. Are you going to get in touch with him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sam.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d leave well alone.’

  Albert knew it was good advice, but he wondered if it was advice he’d be able to follow.

  Chapter 41

  Peter had been distant in class, more distant than usual if that was possible, and when the school day was over Gwen asked him to stay behind, telling him she needed to talk to him about his arithmetic homework. In reality she was anxious to find out what was on his mind. Sometimes she longed to take the boy in her arms, to reassure him that it was all right to make up stories and see things differently from other people. However she was his teacher and she knew it wasn’t her place.

  ‘Is something the matter, Peter?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘What were you doing on Monday afternoon when you weren’t at school? You weren’t ill, were you?’

  ‘I can’t say, Miss. It’s a secret.’ He gave her a sly look. ‘I’ve seen you kneeling by that posh grave, Miss. George Sedding. I’ve seen you put flowers on it and I’ve seen another lady come and throw them off. But I won’t tell no one.’

  ‘Then we’ve both got a secret to keep,’ she said, her heart beating so loudly she was sure he’d be able to hear it.

  Reluctant to leave it at that, she walked back with him to the cemetery lodge. When he said he’d see her tomorrow she assumed he’d go straight in but when she looked back over her shoulder she saw him flitting down the road, half walking, half running, with a determination that made her worry for him. If he’d become involved in something dangerous, her instinct was to keep him safe.

  She wanted to see where he was going so she decided to follow some way behind. After a while she realised he was heading for the Ridge, his hands in his pockets and his satchel still on his shoulders. He seemed so engrossed in his task, whatever it was, that she was sure he had no idea she was there.

  When he turned on to the path leading to the Ridge she hesitated, reluctant to be there alone, before telling herself that it was her duty to ensure Peter’s safety. His twin brother had died up there and, should Peter find himself in danger, she want
ed to be ready to come to his aid.

  She tracked him through the trees, wishing her footwear was sturdier, and watched him flit like a ghost through the dappled green gloom. He obviously knew where he was heading, which was more than she did, and she was suddenly afraid of losing sight of him and getting lost in that wild place. But it was too late to turn back now.

  Gwen watched him vanish through a gap in the rocks and when she followed she found herself in a passage leading to a circular amphitheatre with steep rock walls towering all around. She guessed it was a quarry, long disused, with greenery and moss growing on every rock face. Peter stopped in the centre and called out. ‘I’ve got it.’

  She pressed herself against the damp stone of the quarry entrance, trying to make herself invisible, and all of a sudden a figure emerged from nowhere: a man in a tattered army greatcoat with a trilby hat on his head.

  Showing no fear, Peter ran to him and opened up his satchel, producing a paper bag which the man snatched hungrily, pulling out its contents – bread and cheese by the look of it – and devouring it as though it was the first meal he’d had in years. She knew from the pictures Peter had shown her that this was the Shadow Man he’d spoken of so often, and this was her chance to clear up the mystery of his identity once and for all. On the other hand, in that isolated spot with no help nearby she feared she’d be at his mercy if things went wrong.

  As she took a step back her foot slid on some loose shale and the noise echoed through the quarry, reverberating off the stones. Peter and the stranger swung round to face her and when the man walked towards her slowly she saw to her horror that he had no face. In place of his features was the blank white of what looked like a handkerchief with two holes cut in for eyes. Then, to her relief, Peter put his hand on the man’s arm. ‘That’s Miss. She’s all right.’

  Gwen could hear her own heart thumping as she stared at the man with no face and she asked the first question that came into her head: ‘Who are you?’

  Chapter 42

  Albert had spent the night at home, listening to his wife coughing through the wall. Mary and her mother were sharing the bedroom which used to be theirs and Albert couldn’t help feeling excluded. Vera made it clear that he wasn’t wanted and that she thought him a failure as a husband. If Vera had her way Albert would no longer have the right to make any decisions about their future but he’d insisted that Mary should have the best treatment available. If she needed to go away, he’d pay for it somehow. He owed her that much.

  First thing the following morning he travelled back to Mabley Ridge, leaving Mary asleep and asking Vera to say his goodbyes for him. As the train sped north the blue sky gradually turned greyer and a few drops of rain hit the train window as they approached Manchester.

  After dropping off his bag at the hotel he made for the police station where he found the post-mortem reports waiting for him on his desk. He had to give Dr Michaels his due, he didn’t delay like some he’d dealt with over the course of his career. Then he supposed the medical profession had more suspicious deaths to deal with in London – although little Mabley Ridge seemed to be doing its best to catch up.

  With the deaths of Patience Bailey and Joan Pearce, he feared that a disturbed killer was at large in the area; a killer who could bury a woman alive and cut an elderly widow’s throat. From past experience he knew that the culprit would probably be someone who appeared quite harmless; someone’s neighbour or relative who was leading a hidden, darker life; perhaps someone wealthy and outwardly respectable. His mind turned to Mallory Ghent’s locked room and his frequent absences from home. Then there was Leonard Parms, who’d been seen visiting Dora Devereaux whose cottage happened to be opposite the cemetery; although he knew it was sheer prejudice that made him hope one of the village’s more prosperous residents would turn out to be responsible for the recent atrocities.

  It was more likely the solution was to be found in the heart of the village – or even up on the Ridge. Somebody had attacked him up there that day and he was as sure as he could be that it wasn’t children who were up there seeking adventure in that wild forbidden place. His assailant had been tall and strong – perhaps strong enough to bury a woman and her child.

  He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Then after a few moments he heard Stark’s voice.

  ‘Telephone call for you, sir. Withington Police Station. That’s near—’

  ‘I know where it is, Sergeant. Put it through if you please.’

  Albert waited a few seconds, his hand hovering over the receiver, and when the phone rang the sudden sound made him jump. Since the war loud noises had alarmed him and when he answered he was still shaking.

  ‘This is Constable Magson, Withington. You were asking about a family called Jones who used to have a chemist’s shop.’ The man’s accent was thick and he sounded as though he was nearing retirement.

  ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I remember the Joneses. Quiet family. Kept themselves to themselves as they say.’ There was a pause then Magson lowered his voice. ‘I hear one of the lasses has been murdered.’

  ‘Do you remember Patience?’

  ‘I do. Sweet little lass. Used to sit behind the counter with her mam after school.’

  ‘I’m trying to trace her relatives.’

  ‘The mam and dad are no longer with us, God rest their souls, but there were four children in all.’ There was another pause, longer this time. ‘Or rather three. One of them died in an accident when he were little. Drowned.’

  The words made Albert freeze. Any mention now of a young child’s death brought up images of Frederick in his mind: the small lifeless body; the unimaginable grief.

  ‘The Joneses used to live on Vicarage Road,’ Magson continued. ‘So I went to have a chat with an old neighbour of theirs. One of the lads in the station’s married to her daughter and she was only too glad to share a bit of gossip.’

  ‘Did she mention the brother’s accident?’ he asked.

  ‘It happened in Platt Fields Park lake but that’s all she knew. The family didn’t shout it from the rooftops if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I understand the brother works at Strangeways?’

  ‘So I’ve heard. I take it he’s been told.’

  Albert felt a pang of conscience. This should have been his priority as soon as David Cohen had told him where Joseph Jones could be found. ‘I’ve only just found out where he is and I’m about to telephone the governor to arrange a meeting,’ he said, thinking of the chaplain’s request to see him.

  ‘Someone’s got to break the news, but I don’t envy you.’

  ‘Was the other sister mentioned?’

  ‘Oh aye. Constance her name was but they used to call her Connie. She was a year younger than Patience and no better than she should be, according to my informant. Always wearing make-up and flirting with boys. She went away when the war started and I don’t think it was to do her bit. Word has it she went to live in London.’ From the way he said it she might as well have settled in Sodom or Gomorrah. ‘But no one round here’s any idea what became of her.’

  As soon as he’d finished talking to Magson Albert called Sam Poltimore at Scotland Yard and asked him to make enquiries about a Constance Jones who may or may not be in London. London was a big, impersonal place and Jones was a common name so unless Joseph knew how to get in touch with her, Constance might be destined to remain ignorant of her sister’s fate.

  He looked at his watch, relieved that it was too late now to venture into Manchester and seek out Joseph Jones at

  Strangeways Prison. It would have to wait until tomorrow. When tomorrow came he’d still be reluctant to go there and he toyed with the idea of sending someone else, Stark for instance, but he was in charge of the case so it was his place to interview the victim’s brother. Although he’d faced worse things in his life there was nothing he dreaded more than being so near to the place where Flora’s life had ended.

  Th
e chaplain who’d probably witnessed her death had asked to speak to him but his instincts told him he should stay well away.

  Chapter 43

  While it might be too late to visit the prison there was still time to see Barbara Nevin in Cheadle. If she was indeed the mother of little Lancelot, as David Cohen had implied, someone needed to tell her that her child was dead, along with the friend who was caring for him. Albert felt that someone should be him.

  On the advice of one of the constables he caught the train to a station not far from the village and walked the short distance into Cheadle, which was a pleasant village with an old stone church standing next to a pub and a long village street leading to a little green in front of a grand house and a tall literary institute. A notice on the green announced that it was soon to be the site of a new memorial to commemorate those who’d died during the war. Such memorials were springing up in many towns and villages and Albert wondered if the names carved on them would ever be forgotten in time. He would always remember his dead comrades and he, and many others, bore scars that would stay with them throughout their lives, be they long or short. But once his generation had gone he wondered whether people would prefer to forget, although he was sure of one thing – the horrors of that war would never be repeated, so maybe some good would come out of it all.

  Barbara lived a short distance from the High Street, in a small square of fine brick villas clustered around a central area of grass. Some boys were playing cricket there, lost in concentration, and Albert watched them for a while before approaching Barbara’s front door, gathering courage for what was to come.

  The door was answered by a waif-like maid who looked no more than sixteen and he was shown into a handsome front drawing room. Barbara’s family were clearly well-to-do and he wondered whether she and Monty Ghent would have married had he survived the war. Then again, like Flora, Barbara had worked as a voluntary nurse so perhaps she yearned for a career of her own rather a lifetime as somebody’s wife.