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

by Kate Ellis

  It was Esme who broke the awkward silence. ‘Show Monty that room, Father. Show him the animals.’

  The look of shock on Mallory’s face was unmistakable. ‘He doesn’t want to see that.’

  ‘Show him.’

  Monty waited while his father fetched the key from his study then he followed him past the kitchen in silence, unable to get Esme’s accusation out of his head. Perhaps he’d come back just in time to prevent a tragedy.

  Esme followed a few feet behind with Cook bringing up the rear. Mallory stopped and turned, looking at Cook. ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate for the whole world to see this.’

  ‘Why not, Father? We don’t have any secrets, do we?’

  Mallory’s expression was one of total defeat as he made his way across the stable yard. When they reached the room Esme propelled Monty inside.

  ‘I made it as a memorial to you,’ Mallory whispered as Monty stared in horror at the tableau. ‘It was my attempt at resurrection – bringing these creatures back to life … like I wanted to bring you back to life.’

  Monty closed his eyes tight. Even though the participants were animals, the twisted, broken bodies were all too real to him.

  He heard a crash and the sudden, ear-shattering noise made him jump. Things were being smashed around him and he crouched down, sweating, his hands clamped over his ears. He gave a howl. It was starting again: the gunfire; the cannons; the death.

  Then he felt an arm around his shoulders and heard Cook’s voice. ‘It’s all right, Master Monty. Open your eyes. It’s only your father.’

  It took a few moments for him to screw up the courage to do as she said and when he did he saw his father destroying his own handiwork, throwing the maimed animals against the wall with a violence that shocked even a man who’d witnessed the horrors of war. Mallory Ghent flailed about, hitting out at his creation as he wailed with pent-up grief.

  ‘He’s here, Father. He’s alive. There’s no need for this,’ Esme called out.

  Mallory Ghent fell to his knees on the dusty floor and wept, his body shaking, while Monty stood, frozen with shock. He saw Esme run past the destruction and pluck a jar off the shelf. He could see it was almost empty – and that its white label bore the word Arsenic.

  ‘See. This is what Father’s been doing. No wonder he’s behaving like this. He’s been found out.’

  But Mallory, oblivious to his daughter’s accusation, was still weeping when Cook took Monty by the arm and led him back to the kitchen making soothing noises. Monty had always been her favourite. When the telegram had arrived to say he’d been killed she’d mourned him as if he was her own.

  Still supporting Monty, she pushed open the kitchen door and to her surprise she saw Daisy standing by the pantry holding the jar of beef tea in one hand and a small phial of something that looked like sugar in the other.

  ‘What are you doing with that, Daisy. Put it down at once.’

  ‘The mistress is asking for it,’ came the swift reply.

  By now Monty had recovered sufficiently to notice the defiance in Daisy’s eyes. He rushed towards her and knocked the phial of white powder from her hand so that the thin glass smashed and the crystals spilled across the flagstone floor.

  Then he wept.

  Chapter 57

  Albert had heard of killers who lacked any human emotion but he’d rarely encountered one before. Killers usually wept or tried to justify their actions when they were finally caught. Even Flora had done that. But Charles Woodbead was as cold as a statue as he sat facing him in the small back room of the police station smoking his expensive brand of cigarettes.

  ‘You’ve been taking a great interest in Mrs Jane Ghent. Why was that?’

  ‘Jane and I go back a long way. We met in ’fourteen, a few months before war broke out. I was staying nearby in Wilmslow and we became … close. Jane was a passionate woman back then,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘And now her daughter’s taken her place.’

  ‘Esme, bless her, was just a means to an end. I wanted to get close to Jane again because I’m in possession of some … correspondence which might be embarrassing to a woman of her social standing. I need money and she was in a position to pay for my silence. And if she began to have second thoughts, I always had Esme as a bargaining tool. The silly girl would do anything I wanted.’

  He made it sound like an everyday business transaction and Albert fought the urge to punch him. ‘You were planning to blackmail Mrs Ghent.’

  ‘Blackmail’s not a pretty word, Inspector.’

  ‘Neither is murder. I think Patience Bailey discovered your true identity and you killed her so she couldn’t talk. You followed her to the cemetery where she’d arranged to meet her sister that night and you silenced her.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘The old lady who used to visit the cemetery to leave food for her dead son saw you so she had to be dealt with too. If you’d known where Monty Ghent was you would have killed him as well but he kept himself well hidden up on the Ridge. We now have Monty Ghent’s account of what he witnessed during the war so you might as well confess to your other crimes.’

  Albert looked at him expectantly and saw him stub his cigarette out with unexpected violence. ‘I didn’t kill those women. You have my word as an officer.’

  ‘An officer who shoots himself in the foot then kills two of his own men because they saw him do it.’ Albert stood up, sending his chair clattering behind him.

  ‘You can’t prove a thing.’

  Without a backwards glance, Albert limped from the room. Charles Woodbead made him sick.

  Chapter 58

  While Albert had been questioning Woodbead, Connie Jones, alias Dora Devereaux, had turned up at the station to ask if there was any news about her little Lance, as she called him. With everything else that had been happening Albert had almost forgotten about the missing baby but the more he thought about it, the more he suspected it might hold the answer to the whole case.

  Sergeant Stark was adamant that Monty Ghent should be handed over to the relevant authorities because he was a deserter – a coward. But Albert did his best to hide his irritation as he pointed out that, as Stark hadn’t actually fought in the war, he couldn’t know what unbearable pressures the soldiers had been under. Besides, he knew of many cases these days where such things were quietly forgotten; not an official amnesty as such but a case of least said soonest mended. The war had been over for almost two years – what would be gained by pursuing damaged men like Monty?

  ‘I won’t have Monty Ghent treated like a criminal,’ he told Stark firmly. ‘I’ve told him he can stay with his family. He’ll be safe enough there.’

  ‘But he’s got to be a suspect for these murders,’ Stark protested, his eyes gleaming with righteous indignation.

  ‘If we put all the suspects in this case in the cells, the place would be full.’

  Stark looked at him as though he’d just uttered words of treason and Albert suspected there’d be no more invitations to eat at the Stark house. Which was a pity, because Mrs Stark was such a good cook, but principles came before stomachs.

  Albert decided to return to the hotel to eat and rest before resuming the questioning of Charles Woodbead. The man was still denying his guilt but Albert knew that if a jury believed Monty’s testimony concerning the murders of the two hapless soldiers, then he’d probably hang. Even so, Albert wanted him to make a full confession – and to tell him why two innocent women had had to die.

  When he reached the hotel two letters were waiting for him at the reception desk. The first was from Vera; the usual bulletin on Mary’s health he was beginning to dread reading because the news was never good. The second letter was a plain brown envelope, addressed to him at Scotland Yard in sloping copperplate writing and forwarded on. He stuffed it into his pocket to read later.

  As a child his mother had always told him to get the most unpleasant thing out of the way first so he tore Vera’s letter open, onl
y to find that the situation had worsened. The doctor’s very worried about her, she wrote. And the Reverend Gillit says that she will soon be with little Frederick which is a great comfort to her.

  Albert was tempted to tear the letter into pieces. But he was sitting in the hotel lounge so he had no wish to draw attention to himself by making such a dramatic gesture. How dare Gillit put such ideas into her head? How dare he tell her to give up fighting for her life so she could be reunited with their son? Albert might not be much of a husband but he couldn’t face the thought of losing her like that – and the burden of guilt that would inevitably follow.

  He went up to his room where he sat on the bed and buried his head in his hands, trying to cry tears that wouldn’t come. All he saw when he closed his eyes was Flora: Flora smiling; Flora kissing him tenderly; Flora hanging dead in the execution chamber. Then he wept.

  Now that Charles Woodbead was in custody his excuses for not returning to London were running out. But he was reluctant to leave with so much business unfinished. When he’d come to Mabley Ridge he’d hoped to rectify the failure that had haunted him since that hot summer of 1914: his inability to solve the murder of Jimmy Rudyard. The truth was he felt as useless now as he had back then.

  However his last interview with Woodbead had given him a small glimmer of hope. He’d now established that Woodbead had been in the area in 1914 when he’d become Jane Ghent’s lover. The man was a heartless killer so it was quite possible that he’d disposed of Jimmy for some reason. Perhaps if the boy had seen him and Jane together and Woodbead thought he might betray them. He might have smothered the child to stop him making a fuss – or even for the sheer pleasure of killing. It would be a neat solution and one Albert intended to pursue.

  He heard a tap on his bedroom door and he wiped his face with his handkerchief before saying, ‘Come in.’

  It was a chambermaid, smart in her white apron and starched cap. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a lady wants to see you down in reception.’

  Stuffing the second, unopened letter into his pocket, he followed the girl down the grand main staircase and to his surprise he saw Gwen Davies sitting in a worn leather armchair near the door. She stood up when she saw him, nervously fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Miss Davies?’

  She sat down and looked around to check that nobody was within earshot. ‘It’s Peter.’

  ‘Again? You worry too much about that child.’

  Her eyes met his. ‘I think you have a soft spot for him yourself … after his brother’s murder.’

  Albert knew there was truth in her words. As soon as he’d seen Jimmy Rudyard’s twin he’d felt some responsibility for him, justified or not.

  ‘I know you can’t rely on everything he says but he said something strange at school when we were reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream. There’s a speech early on by Oberon which mentions a changeling and I asked the class if they knew what a changeling was. One of the boys gave the right answer then Peter put his hand up and said the Rudyards’ baby was a changeling – that he’d changed suddenly in appearance. His brother tried to stop him saying any more but Peter was in his own little world as usual.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Word has it that the baby we found buried wasn’t Patience Bailey’s Lancelot. What if … ?’

  Albert caught on quickly. ‘You’re sure he wasn’t making it up?’

  ‘I can’t be sure, but perhaps you should have another word with the Rudyards.’

  Albert was tempted to ignore her suggestion. He knew he wasn’t welcome in the Rudyard house but he was a policeman, used to intruding where he wasn’t wanted. And if his suspicions about Charles Woodbead proved correct, he might soon be able to tell the Rudyards that he’d finally brought Jimmy’s killer to justice.

  ‘Do you have a picture of the missing baby?’

  Albert kept a photograph given him by Connie Jones in his inside pocket. She’d paid for Patience to have it taken in a photographer’s studio and the child, clothed in fancy white frills, stared at the camera with wide innocent eyes; no doubt watching some imaginary birdie. He’d promised to return it to Connie as soon as he’d finished with it, although he hadn’t said when that would be. He took it out and studied it before handing it to Gwen.

  ‘Come to think of it, every time I’ve visited the cemetery lodge Mrs Rudyard’s been very careful to keep the baby out of sight,’ he said.

  ‘We can go now if you want,’ said Gwen. ‘You can demand to see the baby.’

  Going there on Peter’s word seemed foolhardy; yet recently the boy had been right about a number of important things. Nobody had believed him when he said he’d found Patience Bailey’s body but that had turned out to be true. And nobody had believed that the Shadow Man existed but he did.

  ‘It might be best if I come with you. Peter’ll talk to me.’

  ‘Very well. Wait for me here.’ He barked the words like an order and immediately regretted his abruptness. His experience with Flora had made him wary of any woman for whom he felt any spark of attraction. Perhaps he’d be like that for the rest of his life. Perhaps Flora had killed something in him as surely as she’d killed her victims.

  He went to his room to fetch his hat and his notebook, every stair providing a reminder of his injuries as he hobbled up the staircase. He returned to find Gwen waiting impatiently by the hotel’s front door and they walked down the High Street in silence because he couldn’t think of anything to say to her. With Vera’s letter still on his mind, he had no small talk. Everything else seemed insignificant in the face of death.

  When they reached the cemetery lodge he hung back as Gwen knocked on the door. Dusk was starting to fall and he could see the flicker of gaslight in some of the windows.

  ‘What do you want now?’ Grace Rudyard said angrily as she opened the door. ‘Our Peter’s in bed and I’m not disturbing him for you or anyone else.’

  Albert stepped forward. ‘Sorry to bother you again, Mrs Rudyard, but somebody’s made a statement you can easily disprove. I’m sure you understand I’m obliged to check and then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  The woman looked suspicious. ‘What is it? What’s this … statement and who’s made it?’

  Albert ignored the question. Instead he asked if he could come in and Grace stood aside reluctantly as Albert and Gwen entered the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s your husband?’ said Albert.

  ‘Rose and Crown, where he usually is at this time. If you want him, that’s where you’ll find him.’

  ‘May I see your baby, Mrs Rudyard?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just to clear up a question that’s been bothering me.’ ‘He’s asleep and I’m not going to wake him up.’

  ‘I don’t need you to wake him. I just need to see him.’ Albert waited, confident that she’d refuse and wondering what he’d do when she did. He was quite unprepared when she began sobbing uncontrollably. The formidable woman had crumbled, leaving a vulnerable mother. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. ‘I’m sorry, Grace, but I really do need to see the baby.’ She waved an arm in the direction of the parlour door and Albert touched her shoulder as he passed her. Gwen followed, walking on tiptoe.

  The child lay in a battered pram, most likely used to convey each of the Rudyard children, even the twins who would have had to share its worn mattress. As Albert leaned over the sleeping baby he saw his own sleeping child. Frederick had always slept with his little arm above his head like that; he had made the same gentle snuffling noises, and Albert felt a sudden pain in his heart.

  He took Connie’s photograph from his pocket. There was no doubt about it: this baby was Lancelot, known as Lance.

  He returned to the kitchen where Grace Rudyard was sitting stiffly in a hard wooden chair staring at the range.

  ‘Tell me what happened, Grace,’ Albert said gently, drawing up a chair to sit beside her. Gwen was standing by the door, breath held, listen
ing.

  ‘I heard a noise so I went outside to see what it was. I thought it was a cat or a fox at first but it turned out it was a baby crying over near the wall. John was asleep but I couldn’t sleep … not after … ’

  ‘The baby we found buried – that was yours, wasn’t it?’ She started to cry again, wiping her face with Albert’s handkerchief which was now sodden with tears.

  ‘He died. John said not to call Dr Michaels ’cause it’d cost too much.’

  ‘When did he die?’

  ‘That day, while the others were out he took sick and it happened so fast.’ She glanced at Gwen, who’d bowed her head as though in respect for the dead child. ‘John buried him. Didn’t want to go to the expense of a funeral – said it wasn’t worth it for a baby.’

  The words struck Albert with horror but he knew poverty forced people to make harsh decisions. The Rudyards had a lot of mouths to feed.

  ‘So that night you found the baby crying in the cemetery?’

  ‘He was lying on one of the graves all wrapped up warm in a blanket. I thought someone had abandoned him – some girl who’d got herself into trouble most like. It seemed like it was meant … a baby to replace my little Harry. I never saw that dead woman, honestly. All I saw was the little one lying there near where John had buried my little Harry. I picked him up to comfort him and took him home. That’s the truth. It seemed like a miracle.’ Albert knew she wasn’t lying. Patience Bailey’s killer hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill the child she had with her. Only a monster would have done that.

  His superiors at Scotland Yard, some of them at least, would say he’d be neglecting his duty if he let Grace off so lightly. But the child had come to no harm and she had just lost her own baby so, in Albert’s opinion, she hadn’t been in her right mind on the night she’d found an apparently abandoned child so soon after losing her own. He remembered only too well how Mary had been when they’d lost Frederick; the last thing Grace Rudyard needed in her grief was to face the full force of the law. He waited for her sobs to subside before asking his next question.