by Kate Ellis
He had asked Peter what he remembered about the day his brother, Jimmy, died but the boy’s answer had been confused. Brief flashes of memory came back to him every so often and he had dreams so real that when he awoke he was certain of the truth … before that certainty faded as the day went on. While Monty doubted whether Peter was able to tell fact from imagination, he suspected there was a grain of truth in his stories. In Monty’s darkest hours he himself had had dreams and visions which had their roots in reality.
When they’d last met on the Ridge Peter told him how memories of his twin’s killer were coming back to him in vivid fragments and Monty was afraid that, in his innocence, the boy might blurt this out in the wrong place – or to the wrong person.
Peter had never revealed the killer’s name and Monty regretted that he hadn’t asked. If he knew who Peter was likely to accuse, at least he would know who to fear.
He was seized by a sudden urge to return to the Ridge, to sit in his old refuge and seek solace among the rocks and trees. There was a full moon so the way was clearly lit. And there was always the chance that Peter might have gone up there too.
Chapter 62
Dr Michaels made little attempt to hide his irritation when Gwen dragged him from the comfort of his armchair where he’d settled with a book and a glass of single malt, his reward for a hard day’s work. However, as soon as she told him about Miss Fisher’s injuries he scooped up his leather bag and hurried out, telling his wife he’d be back as soon as he could.
Once she’d let the doctor into her landlady’s house Gwen headed straight for the cemetery lodge and knocked softly on the door. The last thing she wanted to do was wake the baby and incur Grace Rudyard’s wrath.
She had one question to ask: was Peter there? When a subdued Grace Rudyard answered the door Gwen noticed that her eyes were red from crying. She waited on the doorstep while Grace checked upstairs and when the woman returned she appeared to be torn between worry and anger.
‘The little monkey must have sneaked out. His dad’ll take his belt to him when he gets back.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Gwen quickly. ‘I’ll go and look for him.’
All of a sudden Grace’s features softened. ‘Thank you, Miss. He’s a great worry to me, that lad.’
Their eyes met in understanding but Gwen had no time to waste. She half walked, half ran to the Station Hotel where she rushed to the reception desk and asked if Mr Lincoln was in. She needed to speak to him urgently.
She’d never seen the picture she’d found in Miss Fisher’s hallway before in her life and guessed that Peter had been to the house looking for her. And the word ‘boy’ uttered by Miss Fisher suggested he’d had something to do with what had happened to her; or at least witnessed it. Perhaps Peter had been attacked too, she thought with mounting panic. Perhaps he was wandering about somewhere frightened and hurt.
Amongst all the crazy things Peter had said to her recently, one phrase stuck in her mind; an earnest statement she’d dismissed as yet another of his vivid fantasies.
‘I saw a murderer, Miss. Honest, Miss, cross my heart and hope to die.’
Albert was in his pyjamas when he heard the knock on his bedroom door.
‘There’s a lady to see you in reception, sir. She says it’s urgent.’
Albert could hear the disapproval in the manager’s voice. As far as he was concerned a lady calling on a single man in his hotel at this time of night could only mean one thing.
Albert told him he’d be down presently before dressing in a hurry. As he donned his jacket he felt the unopened letter in his pocket, forgotten with everything that had happened that day. But there was no time to open it now so he dropped it on his bedside cabinet where it sat, tantalising. He hesitated, knowing that it would only take a second to slit it open, just to see if it contained anything that needed to be dealt with urgently. And there was always the possibility it was connected with the Mabley Ridge case.
He tore at the envelope and found a single sheet of paper inside covered with small, neat handwriting. At first he took it for a woman’s hand but the signature at the end told him it was from a Reverend Jonathan Hegg, Chaplain, and the address above the date was Strangeways Prison, Manchester.
He scanned the contents of the letter and after a protracted explanation as to why Hegg was writing, he came to the point.
I am not sure whether you received the message I left with your colleagues at Scotland Yard but, as I am obliged to go away for a fortnight, I thought it would be best to write to you.
The fact is that in the contemplative hours before her execution, the prisoner Flora Winsmore begged me to let you know what became of her child and I agreed, somewhat reluctantly. The child, a boy I understand, was found a good home by the vicar of Winsmore’s former parish, a Reverend Bell, and will, no doubt, be raised in blissful ignorance of his mother’s heinous crimes. Having discharged my duty to the unfortunate prisoner I assure you that I am, sir, yours sincerely.
Albert stared at the letter. He remembered Bell as a sympathetic man and he wondered whether to approach him or leave well alone. Perhaps it should be enough for him to know the child would be well cared for. Besides, at that moment he needed to find out what his female visitor wanted. People didn’t call on him at this hour unless the matter was urgent.
The chaplain’s words echoed in his mind as he descended the grand staircase but he forced himself to drag his thoughts back to the present. He’d been told his visitor was a lady and he suspected that the lady in question would be Gwen Davies. She’d been there at every twist and turn of this investigation, hovering on the periphery just like Flora had done eighteen months before.
She was waiting for him, perched on the edge of a leather chesterfield sofa, looking small and vulnerable against the large furniture. She rose to her feet as soon as she saw him, clutching her bag in front of her like a shield. She looked frightened.
‘I think Peter Rudyard’s in trouble.’
Peter Rudyard again. He was beginning to think the teacher was obsessed with the boy. She had no children of her own so maybe she’d formed an attachment to a child whose vulnerability touched her heart.
‘What sort of trouble?’ he asked.
She explained about the events at her lodgings and her visit to the cemetery lodge before taking Peter’s crumpled sketch from her bag. Her hands shook as she handed it to him and he felt like reassuring her that if Peter Rudyard was in danger, he’d do his best to find him. But he couldn’t make promises like that. He’d failed before and it was possible he’d fail again.
‘How’s Miss Fisher?’
‘Dr Michaels is with her but I don’t know how badly hurt she is.’ She paused. ‘When I asked her what had happened she said, “Boy,” and that he’d pay for what he’s done.’ She paused as though she was reluctant to continue. ‘I’m frightened that Peter might have something to do with her injuries.’
‘Why would he attack Miss Fisher?’
‘It might have been an accident. Or if something scared him he might have lashed out.’
There was an uncertainty in her voice, as though she’d had reason in the past to suspect her landlady wasn’t the harmless spinster she appeared to be. Perhaps she’d sensed something deeper in the woman. Something darker.
‘The picture … what do you think it means?’
Gwen shook her head. ‘It’s not the usual thing he draws, and he told me yesterday that he’d seen a murderer. But surely if he’d seen who killed Mrs Bailey he would have said something before now.’
‘Have you any idea where he’d go?’
‘There’s only one other place I can think of and that’s the Ridge. Are you going to call on Sergeant Stark – get some men up there looking for him?’
Albert thought for a few moments. ‘No, I’ll let Stark enjoy his evening off duty. If Peter’s gone up to the Ridge it’s best if just the two of us go. If he’s near Oak Tree Edge and he sees a lot of policemen he migh
t take it into his head to run.’
He didn’t need to say any more. Oak Tree Edge was reputed to be haunted by the souls of those who’d chosen to end their lives by jumping off the precipice on to the rocks below. A cornered boy might run there in the darkness only for his broken body to be found below the Edge at first light. The situation needed to be handled gently.
‘I’ll borrow torches from the hotel,’ said Albert, looking round for the manager. ‘We should get up there now.’
Before they could set off they were interrupted by the arrival of a breathless Constable Mitchell.
‘Sir. Charles Woodbead’s escaped. I went to check his cell an hour ago and he’s vanished. The lock on that cell’s always been faulty,’ said Mitchell, red-faced.
‘Who decided to put him in there?’ Albert was trying his best to hide his anger. The small provincial station had failed and now a killer was out there somewhere in the night.
‘The sergeant’s been meaning to get it mended for ages but the cells are usually used for drunks sleeping it off or to provide the odd vagrant with a bed for the night so the job never seemed urgent.’ The young man sounded distraught, as though he felt the failure personally.
‘When was the cell last checked?’
‘At six when I picked up his dinner dishes. I told the sergeant he should be transferred somewhere safer but he said there wasn’t time and he’d get it done in the morning.’
‘Has anyone organised a search for him?’
‘I’m seeing to it, sir,’ the constable said proudly. ‘I sent someone round to the sergeant’s but there was nobody in. He’s off duty and I think he and his good lady go to a church meeting in Wilmslow on a Friday so … ’
‘Then there’s nothing we can do till morning. Woodbead hasn’t got transport so he won’t get far. Thank you, Constable.’
‘You didn’t tell him about Peter,’ Gwen said as Mitchell disappeared out of the front door.
‘I’ve already told you I don’t want the boy to see a lot of police in uniform and panic,’ Albert answered.
‘But if Woodbead’s the killer and he’s heading up to the Ridge too … ’
Albert put a reassuring hand on her sleeve. ‘We’ll just have to get there before him, won’t we?’
Chapter 63
Monty Ghent trudged up the road, his hands thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat. His family had done their best to welcome him but they couldn’t understand what he’d been through. They couldn’t know the horrors that came to him each night when he tried to sleep and he didn’t want his screams to disturb his mother because she’d been through enough already.
He knew that if he returned to his cave until he felt calmer, he might feel up to returning home. But he couldn’t get rid of the fear that he might have harmed Patience Bailey without being aware of it; that for a brief, terrible moment his damaged mind had told him the open grave was a trench and Patience was the enemy who had to be destroyed.
If only he could remember. If only he could banish the awful possibility of his own guilt.
The police had Charles Woodbead in custody but if anyone could manage to wriggle out of trouble it would be him. Woodbead was resourceful and Monty knew his own testimony might not be taken seriously because of his mental confusion … and because he’d be classed as a deserter, the worst form of coward. Also he knew his mother would be reluctant to accuse Woodbead of blackmail because that would mean admitting her own wrongdoings which, if they were made public at a trial, would undoubtedly result in social disgrace. Charles Woodbead was the kind who’d land in shit and come up smelling of roses.
Monty stumbled on and as soon as he reached the Ridge he plunged into the shelter of the trees where he experienced an overwhelming feeling of peace. This wild place had sheltered him from the world and he made his way into its heart. That damp cave had been his refuge and he needed it now.
He’d be safe there; safe from the wickedness in the world. Unless the horrors of war had turned him into a monster without him realising it. Unless he had killed without being able to help himself.
Charles Woodbead needed to get as far away as possible from Mabley Ridge and to do that he needed money. Even though he’d left the Alvis at Ridgeside Lodge he couldn’t risk going back because it would be the first place the police would look.
But there was one person who’d help him and that was Esme Ghent, who was bound to fall for any sob story he told her.
He’d never been on the run from the police before and he was surprised how exhilarated the new experience made him feel. He had always thrived on excitement and now he was running for his life it felt good – like the time he’d escaped the trenches.
As soon as he reached Gramercy House he ran down the drive towards the lighted windows, adrenalin coursing through his body. A while ago Esme had pointed out her room to him and he could see a light there behind the closed curtains. He was confident that she’d be sitting there, brooding about why he hadn’t been in touch, so as soon as he was near enough he scooped up a fistful of gravel from the ground and flung it upwards towards her window.
He heard the small stones hitting the glass and shot back into the cover of the bushes. When the front door opened slowly he’d expected to see Esme framed in the doorway but instead it was another familiar figure – one who would suit his purpose just as well.
He didn’t show himself at once because he wanted to be certain her husband wouldn’t suddenly appear behind her. When she came out on to the doorstep alone, hugging her loose cardigan around her thin frame to keep out the cold night air, he emerged from his hiding place.
‘Jane. Just the lady I need to see.’
She stepped back, hugging the cardigan tighter as though she wanted to make herself look small and insignificant. This wasn’t the Jane he once knew; the Jane who was up for all manner of adventures up on the Ridge while her husband was working hard at his mill. The woman in front of him was a new, timid, creature but he hoped this would make his task easier.
‘I need a favour, Jane.’
‘I don’t owe you anything.’
He grasped the uncertainty in her voice. ‘You can’t have forgotten our afternoons at that little flat I had in Wilmslow before the war. And those times on the Ridge. I told you I’d kept all your letters, didn’t I. I couldn’t bear to throw them away. Not when they bring back so many happy memories every time I read them.’
He was close to her now and he saw she’d turned pale. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve had a spot of trouble with my motor car so I need to borrow your husband’s. Is he here?’
For a second she looked as though she was weighing up whether to lie. Then she spoke. ‘He’s upstairs … in his room.’
‘And the motor?’
‘In the stables round the back.’
He could tell she was eager to get rid of him but he hadn’t finished with her yet. ‘I need money.’
‘If I give you some will you destroy the letters?’
‘If you like.’ He was so desperate at that moment that he would have agreed to anything.
There was a moment of hesitation before she told him to wait and shut the front door in his face. He took a step back and looked up in time to see Esme’s face at the window. As soon as she saw him she retreated and he wondered whether the spell he’d woven to trap her had finally been broken. However, if all went as planned, he’d soon escape to begin a new existence with a new identity and never return to Mabley Ridge again, so these two women would be out of his life forever.
After a few minutes the door opened again.
‘This is all I have,’ Jane said as she held out a sheaf of white banknotes. ‘Now go. I don’t want to see you again and neither does Esme.’ She hesitated. ‘Promise me you’ll destroy those letters,’ she said as he took the notes.
‘You have my word as an officer and a gentleman,’ he said, counting the money. He stuffed it in his pocket and smiled. ‘A kiss for old times’ sake, Jane
y?’
She slammed the door in his face again but at that moment he was feeling invincible so it had been worth a try.
When he reached the stables, he looked back at the house and saw a face at one of the attic windows; a small, pale face which wore the desperate look of a condemned prisoner. Esme had often talked about an insolent maidservant called Daisy but if this was her, there was nothing insolent about her expression now.
Unlike himself, she was just another loser in life’s lottery. He had the winning ticket. He knew who’d killed little Jimmy Rudyard back in 1914. The only problem was he doubted whether anybody would believe him.
Chapter 64
Gwen was overcome with relief when she saw Peter Rudyard.
‘I’ll take him home,’ she said to Albert as they both hurried to catch up with the boy who was marching along the road to the Ridge as though he had urgent business to attend to.
When they drew level with him Albert put his good hand on his shoulder and the boy stopped. In the moonlight Gwen saw terror on his face. Then after a split second his horror turned into relief when he realised the identity of his pursuers.
‘What are you doing here, Peter?’ said Gwen. ‘Your mother’s worried about you.’
Peter didn’t answer.
‘Were you at Miss Fisher’s earlier? Did you go there looking for me?’
‘I never did nothing. Honest.’
‘We never said you did,’ Albert said gently. ‘I’d like you to come to the police station and tell me exactly what happened tonight. There’s nothing to worry about.’
The look of panic reappeared on Peter’s face. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gwen. ‘The inspector’ll be with you.’ ‘That’s right.’ Albert turned to Gwen. ‘Miss Davies, if you go and see the Rudyards and tell them what’s happening, that’d be a great help.’
